On a Roll (of Records)

In late August, one of the Facebook genealogy groups I’m a part of posted a notice to let members know that the genealogy Web site Ancestry was allowing access to its UK records for a few days.

This piqued my interest, because I knew my grandfather and one of his brothers (one of my great-uncles on the Campbell side) had gone to England in the 1950s. My grandfather eventually returned to Jamaica, but my great-uncle Collin stayed and lived there for about 30 years (he died in Wolverhampton in 1985).

Up to this point, I had some previous luck in finding an index for marriage registrations in Wolverhampton. It didn’t have an image of the actual index itself, but there was a listing for Collin and his wife (who I’ll discuss in the next post). I also located a very minimal listing for his death 30 years ago.

One evening when I had some time on my hands, I clicked on the link and signed into Ancestry.

For starters, I returned to the link for the marriage registration listing that I knew about. And this time, while there was no image for the actual marriage certificate, I could see two scanned images of the marriage registration index – one listing my great-uncle Collin’s name, one listing his wife’s – so I made copies for my records.

Then, I decided to do a cold search for Collin’s name, keeping in mind that I’d also have to use a variation of his name in case using the proper spelling didn’t work.

Well, well.

I found a couple of records of Collin’s arrival to the United States – one in 1944, and one in 1945. Both of them terminated in the US. But they were still interesting nonetheless.

The record from 1944 showed Collin arriving in New York in early June – which happened to be a couple of weeks or so after my great-great-uncle (Jonathan), who lived in New York, had died. Which I why I assumed he went to New York at that time.

Or, did he?

The 1945 record shows him arriving in Port Everglades, Florida. And in one of the columns, it says that the year before, he’d been in the state of Virginia — for six months.

This was surprising, but not a complete surprise. You see, my mom told me that when she was younger, my grandfather used to go to Florida to work as a migrant worker, picking citrus fruit. He’d work for a period of time, and when he got tired of it, he’d tell the employer he was sick, and then go home …

But not before taking his earnings and spending it on stylish new suits. He never sent any money for my grandmother, mom and aunt.

So when I saw the second record, I thought for a second, and considered the possibility that perhaps both my grandfather and great-uncle went up to the States to do migrant farm work. In fact, when I looked at the page with my particulars about my great-uncle, most of the people on that list were from Hanover parish.

But that still didn’t explain the information about Virginia … or the record from 1944.

Did Collin go to New York, and on his way back decide to stop in Virginia for six months? Or did he even make it up to New York?

I tried looking for a similar record for my grandfather, but couldn’t find anything that I could link to him with any certainty.

After more searching, I found not only a record for a flight from Kingston, Jamaica to New York, in 1954 — the year Collin went to England — I found the passenger record for the ship he took from New York to Southampton, England. Final destination: Wolverhampton.

I’m still a bit astounded I found as much as I did, really.

It’s just weird to know that someone I’ve never met – an uncle that I’ve only heard about in stories – is now the most documented of all my ancestors to date.

Go figure.

Advertisements

Who’s THIS Guy?

Several days before I arrived in Jamaica, my aunt (who’s currently staying with one of my cousins in the US) had her house in Montego Bay broken into.

It’s the first time my aunt’s house was ever broken into, in an area where this type of thing isn’t unusual. But whomever they were (and my aunt claims she knows who did it), they made a point of  leaving their mark.

Like, for example, taking her TV. And her refrigerator.

Earlier in my visit, Kaye and I dropped by the house to see the mess left behind. When we entered the front yard, there was a bottle of cooking oil lying in the grass.

Inside, a dining room chair sat at an awkward angle on the living room sofa — they’d used it to break a few slats of glass in the window looking out onto the verandah.

In her bedroom, drawers were pulled out and emptied. Various articles of clothing, undergarments and papers lay in a pile on the floor.

Fast forward a few days, and we’ve returned (with Uncle Eucline) to the house, because the welder and a couple of tradesmen are coming to (a) fix the bolt on the security gate that had been pried open during the robbery, and (b) fit the window overlooking the verandah with its own set of security bars.

Around the time we’re there, a woman from up the street stops by – her name’s Honey, and she’s a long-time family friend. (Apparently I met her when I was really young.)

As we sit inside the house to keep Kaye company while the tradesmen work, I grow bored and start wandering. I peer inside the kitchen. It’s much smaller than I remember (amazing how one’s memory makes everything bigger), and it’s dark.

2015-07-27 15.44.05I return to the living room, looking at a few photos upended by the break-in.

There’s a photo of my late grandfather as I remember him, sitting in profile on his verandah. There are other photos of my cousins at a much younger age.

I eventually enter my aunt’s bedroom. Other than the mess on the floor, it looks a bit sparse. I peer into her closet – which isn’t wide as it is a bit long – and see all the various objects – sheets, blankets, and I think a hat or two. It smells a bit musty.

I step out, and before I know it, I’m bent over, rummaging through the mess on the ground.

2015-07-27 16.10.58This woman keeps everything, I think to myself. Old immunization records, invoices of different types, and even the odd old photos of my cousins.

I open and close a couple of the empty drawers of my aunt’s dresser … and shoved in the corners of one of them, I come across a couple of dog-eared photos.

One of them was a photo of me at three and a half months old, apparently “blowing bubbles”, according to the description in my mom’s handwriting.

And then, there’s THIS one.

2015-07-27 16.10.28-2You have to understand, my family doesn’t have old black-and-white photos of immediate OR extended family members.

And the oldest photos I’ve ever seen were when I was in Jamaica 22 years ago, at my grandfather’s house. They were colourized portraits from the 1950s — one of him, and one with his wife (who’s also since passed away).

But this. I look into the face of the well-dressed young man in the picture – specifically his lips – and goosebumps go up my arm.

I have a very strong hunch I know exactly who this is, but there’s really only one person who might be able to tell me – and right now she’s in Toronto.

I really, REALLY want to put this photo in my purse. But given what’s been taken from this house already – and knowing how much my aunt like holding onto stuff – I resist the urge, snap an image on my phone and return it to its (undignified) home.

*************************************************************

I return home on July 28th, and visit my mother a few days later.

We’re in her living room chatting away, when I bring up finding the two photos … and that’s when I bring them up on my phone and show her.

Upon seeing the second photo, she gives a smile and says, “Yep. That’s my daddy.”

**************************************************************

My trip to Jamaica was a sweltering whirlwind. But I was glad I managed to do it and to see some of my family.

I still have questions. And who knows if I’ll ever get them answered. But it’s a start.

And if I’m lucky to visit Jamaica again, I hope I don’t wait so long next time, and that I get to see even more of my ancestral home and family.

*Photos taken are mine. Please don’t use without my permission. Not for commercial use.

A Little Fish, A Little Beach

Saturday, July 25th.

The last several days have been comparatively quiet – and hotter than I can ever remember.

On Thursday, I accompanied K on an assignment outside of town. She’s a teacher who’s well-known for her literacy training, and she was asked to give a special presentation to a group of local children and their parents. It was cool seeing her in her element, trying to engage the kids and parents and interacting with them. I could see why a lot of kids might want her as their teacher!

After, there were some games for the kids and parents, followed by refreshments. Unfortunately, the sinus problems that had been plaguing K the last couple of days (probably due to the heat) started taking their toll. When we eventually returned home, and she headed straight to bed.

Friday was a late start, but we braved the heat once again as my cousin ran more errands. Later in the day, we dropped by Uncle Eucline’s house again to visit for a bit, then headed up to Uncle Egton’s place for a second visit.

2015-07-24 18.19.29This time around, we actually spend enough time that I can snap some photos around his lovely property — and get eaten alive by mosquitoes in the process. (The one part of visiting Jamaica I always dread.)

We returned Uncle Eucline to his home, then drove to a seafood place for some fish.

2015-07-24 19.48.13When it came time to order, I asked for some escovitch – fried, well-seasoned, and spicy fish – with vegetables, breaded, fried bammy and rice.

K said that steamed fish would have been much better. And at first, I thought it was because she preferred healthy meals. But I understood better when I tried to separate the meat from the bones — it became a part-time job!

We order a second fish, but after eating the previous one, I barely made a dent. Full of food, we pack it up and leave.

*******************************************************

“K, it’s ten minutes to six.”

My cousin rolls over, and softly laughing. I think she wanted to sleep in, and was hoping that I’d want to do the same.

Nope.

I’ve been looking forward to this ever since she mentioned earlier in the week. Plus, K said she liked to go to the beach to swim early on Saturday mornings, before it got too hot.

2015-07-25 07.07.27By the time we get our act together and get down to the small local beach — near Montego Bay’s “Hip Strip” — it’s close to 7:30. A bunch of people had the same idea — they’re already in the water.

We bathe, K runs into a couple of people she knows (fellow educators, I think), and she collects rocks for her garden, while tiny fish whiz past our ankles. After an hour, we’re back in K’s car, heading home.

Today, we had hoped to go to Negril, but things don’t work out. So as soon as we get home, K goes back to sleep, leaving me hang out around the house.

In addition to the mosquito bites starting to itch like crazy, I notice this crazy rash running down the right side of my neck to my right clavicle. I briefly panic, because I know that chikagunya is an issue down here. The last thing I need — on top of sweating non-stop — is to come down with a mosquito-borne illness. I’m hoping that it’s just a heat rash.

When K gets up, we head out for more errands. On our way down, we stop by this man’s house – he’s got a stand for selling jelly coconuts. Standing under the shade of one of the trees in his front yard, we pass a coconut back and forth to drink the water, then the coconut is chopped in half and the man hack makeshift “spoons” out of the outer shell so we can eat the jelly.

As we stand there, we find out the coconut jelly man actually lives in Canada part of the year – Montreal, to be exact. He’s been living there for 45 years! Go figure.

Later in the evening, I tag along with K to an evening meeting at her church.

The overhead fans aren’t working, and despite all the open doors, the air inside the sanctuary is hot and stuffy. The small choir pews we’re sitting in are so hard — there’s no cushioning whatsoever. If the intended effect is to make one sit at attention, it’s not working.

As the small group makes its way through its agenda, I’m fighting to stay awake (due to the heat) and K – still having sinus troubles – has quietly nodded off.  There were refreshments after, which perked me up, but I’m sure unsettled K a bit.

With that meeting done, it’s back home and just about time to sleep.

Sunday’s going to be a long day.

The Other Side of the Family

After leaving Aunt Milda, K and I drive to see another relative : my late father’s half-sister, Pat.

We pull up outside the gate of the house. It’s a large two-apartment building. The front yard is basically gravel, and several dogs of various sizes are either lying in the shade or roaming around.

K does NOT like dogs. By the looks of one of them in particular (a medium-sized, Rottweiler-looking SOB named Rex), I don’t blame her one iota.

Aunt Pat appears from the upper apartment. As she makes her way down the steps, she summons her two granddaughters to move the dogs to the back of the house so we can eventually come inside.

Pat opens the gate, comes to the car, and we exchange greetings.

“You look the same,” she says through the rolled-down car window. She immediately follows this up with, “Your belly’s getting fat,” and reaches into the car to run her hand over my belly, as if she’s smoothing out a wrinkle in my t-shirt.

I’m behaving today, so despite what I’m actually thinking, I let it slide.

Inside her apartment, we take a breather from the unrelenting heat.

She shares the apartment with my younger cousin — who’s at work when we visit — his wife and their two-year-old son. My older cousin – and his family live in the unit below. One of his daughters – who’s 13 – sits in one of the chairs at the far end of the living room, looking at me every so often.

My older cousin passes by the doorway for a moment to say hi, before disappearing again.

My aunt brings K and I up to speed on what she’s been dealing with. She mentions that she heard about the family research I’ve been doing (I guess my mother had asked her on my behalf, and I’d forgotten about it), but says she doesn’t really know much about her side of the family. She’s from a generation where relatives didn’t say much and, if you asked, told you to mind your own business.

She does give me a couple of scraps of information I wasn’t expecting – my grandmother’s middle name, where her father was from (St. Elizabeth parish), and she also suggests that the woman I’d been told was my father’s grandmother (with whom he was really close) may not have been his biological grandmother, but someone who looked after my grandmother.

(Did she mean, when my grandmother was a little girl? Or perhaps when she was pregnant with my father? It’s not clear.)

Aunt Pat mentions that my younger cousin has quite a collection of family photos, both originals and scanned images. She gets my older cousin’s daughter to fetch them so I can take a look.

A few of them are of my grandmother and her husband – taken when I was probably about 5 or 6 years old. Others include photos of my grandmother, aunt and cousins through the years — at social events, at church, at the boys’ weddings.

Pat says I can take some of them, if I want. I feel kind of weird about it – they are my cousin’s photos after all. But she insists that it’s okay. She even gets ahold of the photo collage my cousin’s put together, and removes a couple of photos for me to keep.

We’re given some guineps to take when we go – and we leave … eventually.

Milda Speaks.

I don’t see Milda at first, because the adult care nurse is trying to wake her up.

As K and I file into the room, we see this tiny woman, startled out of her morning nap, slowly sit up, blinking and and trying to get her bearings.

So this is the infamous Aunt Milda, I think, my mind shuffling through all the things – for better or for worse – that I’ve heard about this lady.

Aside from her wee, skinny frame, she’s dressed in a patterned housedress and a beige head-tie. She puts her hand on her forehead and pulls it upward, as if the gesture helps her to see more clearly.

We tell her our names, and who we are, by way of our mothers’ pet names.  It takes about several tries back and forth, but we think she eventually gets it. (As she tells us a bit later, she’s hard of hearing — but that tends to happen when you’re her age.)

I give her a scarf that my mom sent for her as a gift. She can’t use it in this heat, but hopefully she’ll make good use of it when the evenings get cooler.

I suddenly kind of lose my nerve and my brain briefly goes blank. What on earth do I ask her? Where do I start?

K kind of prompts me to start — we haven’t got all day — so I sort of stammer out my first question about her siblings …

The conversation’s not completely linear, but when Milda says something I recognize, I start jotting things down.

I ask (awkwardly) about Ellen and where she lived in Canada, and Milda mentions Montreal – she doesn’t mention any other place in our conversation – and that she died years ago. (This isn’t news to me.)

My cousin listening to my great-aunt.
My cousin listening to my great-aunt.

She mentions there were four sisters — which I presume includes Ellen and herself — and gives me the names of the others, who she says died in 1934 and 1936. (Close enough.)

She says Ellen returned to Jamaica in 1938, and that she actually had tried to send for Milda to come to Canada, but things didn’t pan out.* Her big sister suggested instead that she try going to live with her Uncle Jon in the United States. Sadly, that path never materialized either, as he died, and his widow returned to Jamaica.

Milda then mentions the names of her aunt — the sister of my great-grandmother, Jane Ann Clarke, who I’d found in records last November —  and another uncle, whose names I’d discovered around the same time, but couldn’t be too sure of … until now.  That’s one great-great-aunt and two great-great-uncles**!

She also reveals something else. In a low, almost mischievous tone, she proudly proclaims her age, and that she hasn’t told anyone – she’s not even sure her own children know how old she is! She says her 100th birthday will be next March.

After that, the conversation turns away from talk of family that’s passed, and she chatters about life in the home — how independent she is (and how she hopes to stay that way), perhaps even complaining about things, but she seems so happy as she speaks, it’s hard to tell.

She talks about the food and snacks she gets – I’m assuming they’re not exactly up to snuff – and K asks her what she would like Milda to bring her the next time she visits.

Without so much as batting an eyelash, she says, “I would really like some Kentucky Fried Chicken — it’s nice.” (I think it takes everything for either of us not to completely crack up.)

Before either of us forget, I snap a few photos on my smartphone. I can’t come all this way and not get a picture of the woman I’ve waited months to see!

When we ask, she pauses and — putting her hand to her forehead — says no … not until she can put on her wig. We smooth talk her into taking a photo just as she is, and voila.

2015-07-22 14.11.28I’m not sure how much time we spend there, but Milda chats for a very long time. K silently asks me whether we should go, and I say yes (a little reluctantly).

I leave with my cousin with a lot of unanswered questions.

I still don’t know why Ellen left, what kinds of things she might have seen living in Canada, or when she died (other than “many years ago”).

But I hope (selfishly) that if Milda’s lived for this long, that she gets to live another year – I’d like to see her reach 100, and I’d like to see her again.

Now that we know where she is (for the time being), I hope that my relatives drop in from time to time to check up on her.

(Photos are mine. Please do not use without permission.)


*THIS is new information.

**I’ve actually found three great-great uncles through records. Even though Milda didn’t mention the third – and oldest – by name, confirming the others lets me safely assume that he’s also from the Clarke branch of the family.

Searching For “The Lady”

2015-07-22 10.34.06

Wednesday, July 22nd.

I’m so tired from the day before, I sleep in until 9. I get up and apologize to K for oversleeping. She dismisses my apology, saying she understands.

Breakfast is a big plate of ackee, saltfish, roasted breadfruit, dumplings and banana (which didn’t have that taste I dislike) — filling and absolutely delicious!

Then, it’s out of the house and on the road. Today’s objective: finding our great-aunt Milda.

We know she’s in a nursing home (or “adult care” home, as they’re called down here) in the community of Mount Salem, which is just outside Montego Bay proper. We don’t know the name – just that there are a couple of homes, and she’s in one of them.

After stopping several times to ask for directions, we finally pull up in front of one. Looking beyond the front gate, we see a few people sitting out on the long “porch”.  To be honest, the place doesn’t look very home-y.

The gate’s a bit hard to open, and it doesn’t open very wide, but we manage to squeeze through. We approach a guy sitting at a desk just inside the building, give Milda’s name and ask if she’s there. He says no – apparently she had been there last year, but had been moved. They don’t know where she’s gone.

I’m not immediately discouraged. But I can literally see K’s shoulders slump. She’s already frustrated.

The prospect of searching for a nonagenarian in this sweltering heat isn’t appealing in the least. But we have to find her.

And, as we’re about to find out, there are more than two adult care homes in Mount Salem.

We’re directed to another one farther down on the same street. As soon as we pull up in front of it, I take one look at what lies behind the gates and know there’s no way Milda is here.

There are a couple of residents in sitting in wheelchairs. One of them looks like he’s barely awake. A young woman is sprawled out, stomach down, on a run-down couch.

Having heard about my great-aunt’s reputation for complaining, I know she wouldn’t put up with a place like this.  But still, we try.

We approach a worker standing in a nearby doorway and ask for our aunt. She says she doesn’t know and suggests we check with the front “office”, which was a closed door just behind us.

After knocking several times, the door opens a sliver. K asks the woman behind the door if our aunt is there. She says there are no Campbells there, and closes the door.

We’re walking back towards the front gate, when the worker gestures for us to come back. She says there are two other nursing homes a couple of streets over that we could try.

Back in the car, K calls our uncle to see if he knows the name of the adult care home where Milda’s living. He calls back several minutes later with the answer.

We pull up in front of the gate at home number 3. My t-shirt is starting to cling to my back, so I’m truly hoping this is the place.

The nurse in charge confirms that Milda is there, brings us inside and finds us places to sit while we wait. We’re under the impression that perhaps they’ll bring Milda out.

But 10 minutes pass. Then 15. Then 20 …

I look around. One resident keeps trying to wander into the kitchen. Another sits slack-jawed in a chair on the other side of the room. A little boy — around two years old — runs in and out of the house.

There’s a woman sitting adjacent to me. I presume she’s visiting her relative, who’s barely awake and sitting in the couch across from me.

She tells him she has to get to the bank and needs him to sign something. He’s practically comatose. She puts a pen into his immobile hand, wraps hers around it and literally guides it along the bank form.

I turn to K, and she suggests that perhaps Milda’s sleeping and that we should return later.

I’m reluctantly agree. What can we do? She’s sleeping, and we can’t sit here all day.

When the nurse re-appears, we tell her this.

“Oh!” she says. “I’m so sorry – I thought you were here to visit with her,” referring to the lady who basically just forged her relative’s signature. We shake our heads.

“This has been a complete misunderstanding. Please let me offer my apologies. I’ll take you to her,” she says.

But isn’t she’s SLEEPING? I’m thinking …

But we’re up on our feet. The nurse walks over to a room just off the main sitting area and opens the door …

(Photo taken above is mine. Please do not use without permission.)

Touchdown in Jamaica

Tuesday, July 21st.

Sangster International Airport.

I’ve been standing in the very long customs lineup for about a half-hour. It’s still relatively cool in the airport, so that’s a small mercy.

I chat with a man standing behind me. He’s Jamaican-born, for sure, but currently lives in Virginia. As we inch closer to the front of the line, he catches the eye of the customs officers at one of the kiosks. She’s apparently his cousin.

She unfastens the cordon to let him out of line and over to the nearest kiosk. He looks at me, and I nod — I get it. He’s got an in. But just before I turn to face the person in front of me, there’s some hesitation, and with some fleeting (non-verbal) reluctance, she does me a solid and lets me line-jump, too. He gives his cousin some money for the favour.

After exchanging some currency and finding my suitcase, I finally exit.

Outside, it’s a zoo. Taxi drivers trying to get business, people trying to collect their relatives. I scan the crowd and can’t see anyone I recognize. My cousin K spots me first and gets my attention. Thank goodness!

A lot’s changed in the 22 years since my previous trip. For starters, my cousin can now drive! (She’s had a licence for several years, but has only been driving since January.) So she’ll be putting on quite a few kilometres during my short week here.

First stop on the itinerary is our uncle Eucline’s house in the neighbourhood of Flanker. He’s lived there for many years. It’s been known in the past for being a bit of a rough place, but it’s gotten better.

K parks outside the front gate. We call his name and knock on the door. No answer. Folks across the street tell us he went into town, so we’ll have to check back later.

We then drive to another neighbourhood, where her older sister (my cousin living in Milwaukee) is building a house.

Right now, the site’s a concrete foundation (above ground – there’s no basement) with a flight of steps. Rebar is sticking out everywhere.

Behind the structure, a young, shirtless guy is standing in the doorway of a makeshift plywood shelter, chatting away on his cell phone. He calls himself Feather (which sounds like “Fedda” to my untrained Canadian ear). He’s picked a bunch of fruit, some of which K buys.

We walk next door to say hi to someone my mother apparently knows. K yells through the locked gate. The woman eventually answers from just inside the house … but she can’t come out. She’s apparently house-sitting while the rest of the family is away — seems that no one’s really supposed to know that no one’s at home, lest someone try to break in.

Next, K drives us over to the neighbourhood of Ironshore, where my Uncle Egton lives.

I’ve forgotten how big and colourful some of these houses are. Not that I’ve never seen mansions before (from a moving car), but some of them are breathtaking.

We turn onto the unpaved “road” that leads uphill to my uncle Egton’s house. At the top, K stops in front of the huge gate and calls out. He eventually emerges, walking slowly, aided by a cane (not from old age – he served in the British military and was shot in Ireland in the early 1970s) and opens the gate.

As K attempts to reverse park, I gaze at my uncle. He’s wearing glasses, but no shirt (because of the heat). I’m looking for any sort of recognition. He seems to be scowling, but it’s likely because of the sun’s glare.

I’m not sure he recognizes me.

We lock the car and walk over. We say hello. I get a good look at my uncle, smile, and give him a hug. I’m not sure what he might be thinking. Maybe that’s a good thing.

We walk through the house and out to the back porch. It’s enclosed with a white geometrically-patterned iron gate, and faces his empty in-ground pool. The interior paint job is chipped and faded. Beyond the pool and chain-linked fence, there’s a fantastic view of the water. Homes of various sizes dot the hillside.

Egton’s still the same quiet guy I vaguely remember from two decades ago, and is very pleasant. While we chat, I mention that I’m also in Jamaica to see Aunt Milda and do some family research.

I think that gets his attention. He smiles, and says that he’s been thinking about doing a family tree for some time. He also says that Aunt Milda isn’t necessarily the nicest person, that she likes to cuss people out.

K chimes in, saying she has a fiery personality. In fact, because of her reputation, K refers to her as “the lady”.

Also? Unlike my mom, Uncle Egton’s technologically inclined — he has two cell phones and a tablet! I get his contact information and promise to keep in touch.

We leave and drive back to Uncle Eucline’s house. This time he’s home, and I get a big hug from him. He’s still the same – but with one exception

Where’s the rest of you?” I ask. He’s lost a LOT of weight. K and Uncle Eucline laugh.

We all chat for a bit, and I take a few photos. I give him my mom’s gifts: a short-sleeved shirt, and a little outfit for his 8-month-old grandson.

After the visit, we stop for patties, then it’s over to my cousin’s home, in the neighbourhood of Irwin. It’s a very cute house, on a corner lot.

I don’t know how I wasn’t sweaty from all the moving around. But less than 10 minutes after walking through her front door, I just start sweating – profusely. It’s as if my pores just give way.

K makes me a cup of tea, and invites me to sit out on her front porch, where there’s a bit of a nice breeze.

But not for long. We’re out the door again, because it’s discount night at the movies. There’s a line at the multiplex, but we manage to get in and catch (three-quarters of) the new Terminator movie — complete with intermission.

By the time we leave the theatre and go over to a local fast-food joint for some jerk chicken, I can’t stop yawning. I’m ready to sleeeeeep.

K skillfully drives us home in the dark, and I’m all too happy to call it a night.

Tomorrow, we’ll try to track down Aunt Milda.

We’ll see what happens.