Taken September 23, 2017
10/19/2016 12:02 pm ET via @HuffingtonPost
Throughout the course of mankind women and girls have been subject to the pressure of social messages instructing and reinforcing them as to how to “do” their gender, and as to how to be real, or true women. These ideals are then repeated or reproduced through their enactments and learned by successive generations with slight modifications accommodating for changes in the times, or namely the economy and politics. Simply put—the ideals of true womanhood are formed, reinforced, and passed down through generations of women.
Society’s expectations of women in regard to feeding, infertility, childbearing, particularly as social attitudes and technologies have changed.
I’ve been hard at work publishing all of my sister Heather’s genealogy research that she’s been completing over the last several years, focused mainly on our Hilton lineage.
Meanwhile, the Baxley’s come from the Anglo-Saxon tribes that ruled over Britain, and are from Sussex and Buckingham where they’ve held a family seat from early times.
Then he told me that one of my relatives lived locally in San Diego, Superior Court Judge Robert Baxley, or “Bax” as friends called him (see bracelet on the cover of “The Lifeguards, A Reminiscence of West Coast Beaches in the 1950’s” by Robert C. Baxley). Yes, “called” as in past tense. I’m once again heart broken to learn I won’t meet another legendary human on this earth.
However, I hope his friends will help me out.
Who knew I was coming home? Continue reading
Momma used to sing to me, “Angie baby, you’re a special lady….”
Jon Wurster, drummer for Superchunk, and the Mountain Goats on Helen Reddy’s “Angie Baby”
“Possibly the most frightening song ever written. It’s the story of this girl, Angie, who’s described as ‘a little touched.’ She lives in her own imagination, and she’s listening to this rock station all the time. And then this creepy guy who’s been lurking outside of her house comes over and convinces her to let him hang out with her. But the music is so loud that he’s thrown off his game and he’s disoriented. And as she turns the radio down, he gets physically smaller, and he’s sucked into the radio. Then the scariest line ever is ‘never to be found.’ He’s in there forever! I think as a child, that’s what scared me the most. Like, Cannibal Corpse and Slayer, bands like that, they sing about being mutilated and butchered – but I don’t think any of their songs are as scary as a song with the idea of being shrunken down and sucked into a radio for eternity.”
Video by John Wilson, Fine Art Films, for The Sonny & Cher Show.
Allen Eugene Rodman, Kirkwood Police Officer, passed away on Saturday, October 31, 2015 in St. Louis, Missouri. Allen was buried in Woodland Cemetery in Van Wert, Ohio.
He was the beloved of Jessica Marie Dacus, the son and first born of Wanda Carolyn and the late Graydon Rodman, and a loving father of Michal l’Lena and Evan Elijah Rodman, and to Christopher and Shelby.
Allen will be missed by his only brother, Burton Lowell Rodman, his family and his mother.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there; I did not die.
And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin’
And you can’t remember for the best of yer thinking
If that was you in the dream that was screaming
Our red Jetta had a scratch.
I found a grand “Child Abuse Sucks” sticker, black-and-white which I figured would look great on red, and decided to cover the scratch with the sticker.
Today we came out to our car to find someone apparently thinks Child Abuse doesn’t Suck?
Guess I need a new plan for covering this scratch.
Oh! Breathe Not His Name
by Thomas Moore (1779–1852)
OH! breathe not his name,—let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o’er his head.
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
The Baxley & Glass families of Charlotte, North Carolina
have been family friends for generations.
Darryl “expounds upon Angela’s virtues a little”
“Angela is personable, beautiful, loving, joyful, spiritual-minded, brilliant, playful, serious about important things, sociable, likable, engaging, charming, studious, always thirsting for knowledge, one of the best friends a person can have, and she’s committed to ‘us’.
Angela is a designer in the tech world, I am a consultant in the business tech world. She loves people, family, and culture, like me. She loves to travel and experience other cultures, like me. She’s anxious for the end of this bad system and being a part of God’s new one, like me. She hates all the cruel injustices of this world, like me. She wants to make life a little better for people, like me. She loves the Bible, like me. She believes in the enjoyment of life, like me. She loves the ocean and the beach, like me. She’s also weird and slightly off, like me. All in all, we’re a pretty good fit. 🙂 Good thing since we are becoming “one flesh.'”
Angela on Darryl
“I just asked for the guy version of me.”
HERBERT LOWELL SCHAADT, 78, of Fort Wayne, passed away on Thursday, June 13, 2013, at Visiting Nurse Hospice Home.
Born April 26, 1935, in Willshire, Ohio, Herb was a son of the late Dorothy Fritz ＆ Edward Schaadt.
- Allen Eugene Rodman
- Burton Lowell Rodman
- Angela Marié Niblick Baxley Glass
- Sandra Nicole Knapp
- Heather Reneé Niblick Baxley Puckett
- Matthew Gabriél Niblick Baxley
- Erin Estellé Baxley Hagar
and 13 great-grandchildren
- Luc Andrew Rodman
- Nathaniel Marc Rodman
- Madelynn Grace Rodman
- Hannah Marie Knapp
- Tyler Jayce Roberts
- Michal l’Lena Rodman
- Brittany Leann Hagar
- Katie Danielle Hagar
- Evan Elijah Rodman
- Hailey Estellé Hagar
- Mackenzie Leigh Puckett
- Hannah Nicole Hagar
- Jackson David Puckett
- (Addison Rae Knapp)
- (Charlotte Avery Baxley)
He was also preceded in death by his son, Randy; and brothers, Richard and Raymond.
Service is 2 p.m. Monday, June 17, 2013, with viewing two hours prior to the service, at Dooley Funeral Home, 202 W. River St., Antwerp, Ohio. He will be laid to rest at Maumee Cemetery. Memorials to Hospice Home.
Condolences and fond memories may be shared at www.dooleyfuneralhome.com.
Published in Fort Wayne Newspapers on June 15, 2013
Life is infinitely stranger than anything the mind could invent.
— Sir Aurthur Conan Doyle
I couldn’t invent the story of my life if I tried, it’s hard enough figuring out how to write it. Life has been non-stop and I just can’t seem to figure out how I’d ever explain it all — I imagine with the tools now I can basically rig up a wedding photo montage with music introducing the couple style experience if I could just compile all the images (curate them) and add the details like the music, atmospheric settings, etc, and if technology could only get as good as the ideal—it being fully recorded for full sensorial experience upon playback, upon editing.
“Unlikely adventures require unlikely tools.” — Mr. Magorium
Randy Lowell Schaadt, 55, of Fort Wayne, passed away Friday, September 21, 2012 at his sister’s residence in Antwerp, Ohio.
Randy, known by his three sisters as “Bubby“, asks that you watch his collection of family photos (on Flickr, above) with the accompanying track “GOODBYE” (below, on SoundCloud) as a slideshow… Angela suggests playing the video (further below, on YouTube) on low volume over the soundtrack as you watch the slideshow, too.
Randy was born in Van Wert, Ohio on August 31, 1957, the son of Laura “Katy” (Hilton) and Herbert Schaadt of Fort Wayne.
He will be sadly missed by his parents and sisters, Wanda Rodman of Antwerp, Arlene (Melvin) Baxley of Statesville, NC & Audrey Knapp of Hobe Sound, Florida.
When I was younger, my family was good friends with the Glass family. I’ll never forget when Darryl came back from Peru with his beautiful Angela.
Her name, like mine, was Angela Marie/a—except in Peru the girls were all named Maria and then a different middle name, so technically she was Maria Angela, and referred to as Angela: I adored her.
Darryl and Angela married, and had Adrian and Jamie.
Jamie died in a very tragic family accident at three and a half years old.
“The most unnatural death is that of a child before the parent.”
It started with opening facebook to a post Patrick Terry had just put up:
“That’s all I wanted, something special,
Something sacred in your eyes,
For just one moment, to be bold and naked
At your side”
I wondered for a moment at who wrote it as I gestured over the comment notifications, coming to one from a name I know from my oldest memories, Rosalee.
Rosalee Matt was a great artist, he had his Lincoln Life uniform on. I hope Arlene saved some of his work, it was amazing.
Angela Baxley Hey Rosalee—unfortunately I don’t think we have anything left of his. It seems each piece one by one met by some untimely demise along the way. I’m most heart broken over the one he painted specifically for me. If you do come across anything of his, including reproductions, Heather and I would love to collect whatever we can.
Pam That’s you, Heather—in his expression!
Lisa Is that the hat that they gave your brother in December? The one of your Dad’s!
Heather You know—I don’t know. I’ll hafta ask Momma. That would make it that much more special!
Lisa Yes it would.
Heather It certainly does look like it!
Lisa That’s what I thought. I think it was Wonda was tagged, ended up being your pics. So I was checking them out again. But it’s time since your trip home. When I looked at this one I was like OMG I think that is the hat!
Angela Wow. That makes me so happy. I’ve always hated Matthew hasn’t had anything of his. It seems so unfair they never met—they look just alike. It’s so hard to see my father stuck at the same age as my brother. We’ve all grown older than he has now.
If you have any artwork by the artist Matthew Raymond Niblick (1958-1983), this is my father. Please contact me via email@example.com.
This morning via Twitter I was alerted to the Facebook “Other” inbox—others also being made aware that there might be messages missed… I went to check and there was a message from a nun in Wisconsin responding to this post. She had written in February:
A friend of mine is doing research on the paintings in the back of St. Michael Church, in Dane, Wis… I know that these were painted by Matthew Niblik as they are signed..
He painted these pictures when our church was new…1975. One of St. Michael sending Lucifer to hell, one of Our Lady of Guadalupe and one of our school and church.
I remember he had a sister who is a sister of St. Agnes…Sister Lael.
Not sure if this helps you.
longtime teacher at St. Michael…now Blessed Trinity School.
I’m hoping to they’ll be able to send digital photos — so exciting to really get to see artwork of his we’ve never seen!
I’ve been told that I was Daddy’s girl. I’m not quite sure if that means he adored me, or that I preferred him over my mother—the concept is difficult knowing how critical my relationship with my mother is to me, but then again, perhaps that’s because the first best friend I lost was actually my father?
I took my love, I took it down
I climbed a mountain and I turned around
After he died, I was taught that one day, I could see him again in a resurrection in a paradise earth where we could live forever, together. As long as I made it there myself.
And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills
‘Til the landslide brought me down
Today was a special day for me, one of reconnection. I experienced my nervous system exploding where it felt like my nerves were crawling, struggling against the skin on my face for release from capitivty in my body.
Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love?
I wasn’t raised to believe that he’s in heaven, looking down on me. My mother sat me on the back stoop on Reid Street and explained how he was no longer, and that he would go back to the earth—crumbling a leaf in her hand demonstrating how life deteriorates, ashes, dust. It was March, in Indiana.
Can the child within my heart rise above?
I’ve struggled—”would he be proud of me?”—my whole life to live.
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
I have. I will. I am.
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
He would be proud of me.
Well, I’ve been afraid of changing
‘Cause I’ve built my life around you
I don’t know how to breath, and I don’t know how to feel emotion—my nerves are deadened, a life lived in conflict.
But time makes you bolder
I guess today was the day I came to terms with my life.
Even children get older
My sisters had babies, and they are growing up without me.
And I’m getting older, too
And so is my mother.
Oh, take my love, take it down
Oh, climb a mountain and turn around
I wonder if my mother will hold true to this torture our whole lives.
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
Well, the landslide will bring it down
I had my father for 42 months, and the days of my birth and his death.
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills…
Well, the landslide will bring it down
I wish I could know my mother.
Oh, the landslide’ll bring it down.
You must cross the busy street to get there
There isn’t a clear path really
Where we cross there is no light
And it seems just too far to find just one Continue reading
In the morning light he stands silhouetted against the kitchen window’s gaze. Trees are a near image of black and white the backdrop behind him. They have grown there of dinner’s waste disposed of in pots of soil to late reap trees of plum and lemon, dates, and tomato vines, melons sprouts that will never grow pregnant into their confined space, and a new sprout yet to be determined as orange or lemon, but he knows that it is citrus.
As he pours the water (word for just before boiling) into the pot the gas flame flames licking at the sky stretching great feats of distance, three and four inches high unbridled flame. Tea and toast and little cookies. He watered the plants and there is a slow cascade of water dripping that blends into the choirs music wafting through the kitchen that seems just all to fitting for a Sunday morning. He discusses living in the shadow of the Roman Catholic Church and wonders why the Pope doesn’t save lives instead of souls.
He plays the harmonic on the toes of one foot—no, it’s the pan flute—on all ten toes to Mozart’s K622.
Of water disturbed
Path gouged in depths
Of raging darkest blues
And once serenest greens
A momentary trail
Of where he has gone
A small dark room
Cool stone walls
On tiled floor her feet move
Fluidity of movement
Leg to thigh
Hip to breast
Arm to neck
By the cicada
In the corner
A haunted dance
The fan vacillates
Antiqued metal stirs the air
Its grace never touching
The sweat upon her face
The music fading
The melody that was
Walls of burnt caramel with bookcases holding treasured and worn volumes of poetry, Dorothy Parker, textbooks of youth and scholar, biology and war, movies in black and white, and dust covered CD jewel cases. A desk faces the window—a tall and double width window—out of which a pale sheer flutters through as the wind inhales causing it to move about as a woman’s dress tangled about the knees giving hint to life’s source.
The desk has space for one to sit and spans nearly as wide as the room, much longer than a bed might be. Papers and books, and documentations of authenticity are strewn, but neatly, across. All are centered about the chair which faces the window of flirting blue reminiscent of clouds.
Against the only other wall with space not adorned by books—volumes and volumes of books in mixed language and genre—is a red couch. The couch is of modern style and pulls out into a bed in a way which seems unique, though this is really nothing altogether new.
Old jazz music plays—a pianist who played with Miles Davis.
It smells of rosemary and fennel and of roasting aubergines.
Against the back wall, opposite the window, is one framed photograph. Black and white, matted against creamy white, in a thin wooden frame. A table of elegant men and women are frozen in a moment. The woman in the right corner stares out with clearest eyes of glass, just as la Fornarina. She wears a hat. To the other end sits a mother, though not yet realized. She looks out of the photo from the slight turn of her face. In between, men are locked in various states of unaware being, one looking at the camera, the others simply arranged in a Caravaggio construction of the Last Supper. The photo is placed high on the wall—positioned for the tall, dark and handsome Italian man who lives here. Or is he Spanish?
Sometimes, even he’s not certain.
My education has been, as with most things in my life, a bit unusual. Continue reading
“JOIN a band of ink-stained writer-adventurers for a month of concentrated exercise and conversation in and about the Eternal City. This is Rome from a generalist’s perspective: history and geography, art and architecture, language and literature, the color and vagary and flavor of daily life all constellate in the writer’s notebook. Following in the footsteps of those poets, painters, saints and soldiers who for some two and a half millennia have traveled where all roads lead, we’ll sack the city word by cobble, in conversation, practice, and stride.”
Of note, Rick, or Professore Kenny is a recipient of the MacArthur Fellowship “Genius Award”.
Here’s a link to my photo album for this trip. Will be updated daily or so. Check back often for updates! Ciao!
It’s eleven o’clock, and I’m just thinking. I just watched a movie which in the end showed what true friendship is about. (Brokedown Palace) I can’t help but think about my friends, or the one’s I had. Life is so different now. So far from what it used to be. According to the rules I grew up by, I don’t deserve my friends, and I’ll never talk to them again, according to the way I live.
My parents don’t believe I’ll ever “make it back”. I guess I’ve just proved them right. The life I used to know is just gone. I don’t remember it. I don’t remember how it feels. I’m crying now. I guess because I know what it feels like to admit to it.
Driving home the other night I thought about how alone in this world I am. I put the one person I feel a connection with on a plane, and realized that was the one person. Funny thing is I can’t say that I’m lonely necessarily. I’m just here. I’m just living. I do what I have to do, day by day. Live how life is there to be lived. I find enough to wake up to the next morning.
It’s weird – Not remembering. Not being able to touch the past. I can’t long for it. I can’t look back and reminisce. It’s just gone. If anyone out there is listening, don’t be hurt. It’s like my dad. I miss him so dearly, although I never knew him.
Looking back, I can’t help but wonder what choices I could have made that would have so drastically altered my life. what if my dad had never died? What if I had never made the mistakes I did with my “first love”? What if I had never met or married Brad? What if I had never given up?
Maybe I don’t stop to cry because I refuse to believe the story I have to tell. How could I have ever had this happen, all the things in my life? What did I do to ever deserve this?
I was captured in a moment today when I heard “Still the One” on the radio. That was supposed to be Brad’s and my song, in a silly backwards way. What do I even say to that? What do I say to the past four years of my life? What do I say to sitting around and taking it, until my spirit and heart was crushed? Why did I ever believe I should be so strong? Why didn’t I give up in the right place?
I don’t wish for anything – I don’t have a vision in my head of the way I wish things were. I’m here, and I’m fine. I’m alive and that’s enough. I just have a story to tell that I wouldn’t even believe myself.
So how freely to I vent my soul to the world? To those who don’t know me, or the ones who know the most? Do I tell you all the stories, and hope that no one is listening? Do I find strength in coming to terms with the sadness some turn their eyes from?
So many do not feel it is their place to know what goes on inside a marriage. What went on is my only solace for where I am. With that here’s my words, a story from a night – July 29, 1999. Continue reading