Bilaeva

Anyone ever heard or heard of Silbo Gomero, the whistling language of the Canary Islands? I thought I knew a thing or two about obscure languages but was fascinated to discover this on a BBC radio programme. Apparently a shouting voice doesn't carry across the valleys of the volcanic island of La Gomera, but whistling travels over 2 miles. So to avoid schlepping up and down the mountains to get a message to their neighbours, the Gomeros just whistled. Have a listen.

Lucy was telling me yesterday about how Jonathan has been glued to the Olympics coverage non-stop since the games began last Saturday. And she says, "You know Great Britain is no.3 in the medals table" and I quite simply didn't believe her. I insisted that was nonsense until I checked BBC news online and we were indeed number 3 with totally unprecendented haul of 13 gold medals. I was delighted (everyone in the office was informed) but I figured it couldn't last, not now that the athletics competitions have begun.

So imagine my surprise when I checked this morning to see how far we'd slipped, only to discover we'd won TWO MORE !

Look at that. We're only 10 behind the USA. If it won't for that Phelps kid, we'd almost be tied!

My great grandmother Moina Ducie O'Brien was an heiress. She was the genuine article, wealthy, cultured, genteel, and, as grandma Rosalba put it, "had expensive tastes". Following a decline in fortunes, Moina and husband Alfred moved with their three daughters from Montana - where the family fortune in copper had been made - to Connecticut in the mid-1920's. In searching for a new home, Moina found a beautiful and historic 18th century house that she wanted "in the worst way". Unfortunately because of its age, the doorways were only 5'8". Grandpa Al, who Dad and Stephen have to thank for being tall, put his put his foot down declaring "I'm not living in that house". So Moina had to settle for something a little more modern in the town of Ansonia, CT until they moved to the leafy Queens suburb of Jackson Heights in 1932.

Great uncle Elmer Pehrson and Aunt Evelyn Ducie Pehrson lived briefly in Manhattan in the 1950's. Elmer, an expert in mining economics (google him and find some really interesting publications), after years of traveling the world for the US government assessing mineral deposits, had taken a teaching position at Columbia University. The politics of academia soon drove him away, but for two years they lived at the rather ritzy address of Sixth Avenue and 57th St, in the same building as none other than Louis Armstrong. Grandma and Aunt Debbie came to visit one year and met Mr Armstrong in the elevator, where he presented Debbie with a Hershey bar.

Dad says that years later when our family visited them in their last home in Washington DC, Evelyn produced a collection of exotic hats and trimmings from an old Afghani trunk and danced around the room in them. He says that even then, after sixty years of marriage, Elmer was clearly still besotted with his spirited and Bohemian bride.

Even though Michael and I aren't hitched, his brothers Jeff and Stephen, as well as being two of my oldest friends in New York, the last two years have felt like brothers-in-law to me. So it was a right old bummer to have to say cheerio to Jeff and Caitlin yesterday as they packed up and departed for Chicago.
And we managed to cheer Michael up a bit.

I've been in New York for nearly five years now and I've made some splendid friends in that time. I've watched some of them get married like Liesel and Adam, some like Kelly have moved on to new places, and Jeff and Caitlin have done both.

Some days I feel a bit like the Scarecrow, stood fixed at the crossroads watching everyone else come and go. Although I'm not quite ready to hop off my post and march to the Emerald City because the more I think about leaving New York, the more I want to stay. It's really weird. Perhaps I should try that reversable psychology thing. Or perhaps I should stop worrying about it. How about I leg it to Ireland. Emerald Isle/Emerald City, it's close enough. And I quite fancy Barcelona. And Rio. And Sardinia.

You probably know or remember the famous and historical Trinity Church, at the top of Wall St. I see, if not pass, it every day. Aunt Mary (my grandma's younger sister) was an active member of their congregation, attending church there and participating in many of their community programmes.

I've only been inside on Halloween an old silent film of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, with an old style accompaniment on the church organ. I wonder if we sat in the same pew.

If you've read the post below (Stephen?!), you'll know I got a chance to wring some information out of Dad while he was visiting last week. In an effort to educate my siblings about their forefathers, I shall be posting one tidbit a day.

Grandpa Warren Bovee loved basketball. He liked to play the game and watch it on television. He joined the Church along with Dad and Grandma in 1957 and I had always thought that they hadn't been very active (he wasn't endowed before he died). However, it turns out that his passion for basketball was put to good use and he served as the Stake Athletic Director for several years.