My Late Grandmother’s Gin Glass

my late grandmother's gin glass
perfect margarita in my late grandma’s gin glass

As the story goes, when I was a very little girl, I marched over to grandmother as she relaxed in her easy chair, and lifted her water glass off the side table. I took a sloppy, toddler swig. And then my face scrunched up at the betrayal as I announced “This isn’t water!”. My late grandmother was an alcoholic and the glass she kept beside her held gin.

These days, I regularly sit in an online gathering with a bunch of really knowledgeable theologians and try to absorb concepts and re-familarize myself with the vocabulary of academia. Each week we start by sharing where we’re at and what we’re drinking. When it’s my turn, I hoist my late grandmother’s gin glass in a toast as I announce my beverage of choice. It may fizzy water or or ginger ale, Perhaps a really nice single malt scotch. Maybe throwback Rusty Nail or perfect margarita. No gin so far.

And it doesn’t matter, because my late grandmother’s gin glass holds more than just a beverage.

I sorted a houseful of my grandparent’s lives a few years back. Creditors were calling and time was short, the house had to be fixed and and sold as quickly as possible.

The kitchen cupboards held only a few glasses, mismatched remainders of the sets that had dropped and shattered on the linoleum over the years. I found my late grandmother’s gin glass hidden way in the back. Lots of grandma’s things had been pushed to the back corners in the years after her death. Granddad’s favorite items migrated to the front of cupboards, drawers and closets while the memory of her quietly disappeared.

I hardly knew any of my extended family when I was young – we moved to the other side of the country and rarely traveled or visited family. Back then long distance calls were charged by the minute. On holidays we’d assembly line call relatives. We literally stood in a line, oldest to youngest, fidgeting awkwardly near the kitchen wall phone.  The script never changed. “Hi, this is [insert name]  Happy [insert holiday]  Here’s [insert next child’s name] Bye.” When the kids were done, dad had a turn, and then mom would reclaim the handset and shoo us away while she finished the “conversation”. No time or money for news or small talk, that could go in a letter.

I wonder if it was as excruciating for our distant family then as the memory is for me now?

In my teens I moved a few time zones over, to the one where all my grandparents lived. There was nonni and grandpa, my Italian grandparents. And grandpop Harold, my dad’s father. And grandma Paula and step-granddad Glenn. And we all got to know each other and be family. For that alone, I consider myself the luckiest of all six of us kids.

I’m in a liminal space these days. (guess I am picking up a bit of that academic-speak!). Not just returning to school, but attending seminary, answering this call, planning beyond career and into vocation. And I’m moving a thousand or so miles to do so, disrupting the rhythm of our life and our retirement plans and our vacations and our future.

And it all comes together in my late grandmother’s gin glass. It collects and combines and contains, in twelve little ounces,just what matters.

That glass holds love and gratitude, fear and pain and tragedy. Alcoholism, despair, regret swirl around with hope and joy and and faith join to fill my late grandma’s gin glass to the brim.

And judgement leaks out.

The car may packed to the gills, but there’s a spot for my late grandmother’s gin glass.

Salut!


I’m aware that the glass in question is a just a vintage old-fashioned glass. For decades she filled it with gin or vodka.  I prefer gin, so there you go.  Whatever I pour, I’ll be drinking it from my late grandmother’s gin glass.

 

 

 

Shattered – Mishelle Christene, Purple Ink and Fountain Pens

My friend.

Once, she lost a loved one.

We mourned, we cried, we laughed at the wrong things. Or maybe the right things.

She didn’t feel well.

We met and drank coffee  and Pepsi and solved the world’s problems and tried to sort our parenthood and wifeliness, and a good Christian life.

We prayed.

She got the diagnosis. I refused to believe.

We broke bread and cried a little and prayed a lot.

And I saw her strength, and her youth, and her  sweet soul.

And I accepted what the doctors said, but I knew she’d beat it.

Or so I convinced myself.

And we decided hat we’d concentrate on things more fun than the world’s problems.

And I went home and prayed some more.

She had surgery.  We chatted, we talked, she was tired and sore.

But feeling better every day.

We made plans to get together when she left the hospital.

And she got home from the hospital, but I couldn’t get over there, new job and all.

So we chatted some more.  And she was feeling better.

A little better every day.

So we decided I’d be taking her for coffee when she felt just a little bit better.

Soon.

And I waited for her to tell me to come on over, with beverages and purple ink that she probably already had in her stash anyways.

And I messaged, but she didn’t respond.

And then she died.

Just like that.

Shattered.

I still owed you a coffee my friend. 

Dammit.

 

lyrics and music for hymn god be with you till we meet again

God Be With You Till We Meet Again

lyrics and music for hymn god be with you till we meet again

Its no secret that I’ve been a hospice volunteer for over a decade now.  I continue to see my little piece of involvement in end of life care as a privilege and a gift.  I know that when my feelings change, it’ll be time to move on to something else. But I’m not there yet. Even after all these years, sometimes I experience a goosebumps moment.

Recently, I regularly spent time with a bedridden patient and sat with her while her husband got out of the house and ran a few errands.  He’d visit with me a bit, make sure she was settled, assure her he’d be back shortly.  Then he’d take off to take care of the little things that we don’t even think about.  Little things become a logistical issue when you’re a full-item caregiver.  While he was gone, she and I would visit until she tired, then she’d rest.  I’d stay close, within touching range, in her line of sight, and I’d read a book until he returned.  She always woke up when he returned.

One visit, while she was sleeping, he initiated a frank conversation about her death and his own life after she was gone.  He said he’d be okay if she just died in her sleep one night, and that their sons would be around to keep an eye on him.  And he promised me that he’d take care of himself, that he’d be okay.

The next week, while he was out, she spoke to me about how her husband and sons would manage without her. She said she knew they’d be heartbroken and lonely, but that it would be okay anyhow.  She told me she was finally going to see her son again – the one who’d died in a horrific accident decades ago.  She said she’d see me again, but neither of us said “next week”. She drifted off to sleep and I stayed by her side, holding her hand feeling bones and warmth and heartbeat beneath delicate skin .  Her eyes fluttered open as her husband returned from his appointment.  This tiny little bedridden woman flashed me to most brilliant smile then turned her gaze towards him.

We chatted for a bit, then my visit time ended and I prepared to leave. I leaned down over the hospital bed,  she and I shared a gentle hug.  I turned towards her husband, standing right there.  Instead of releasing me from our hug, he pulled me closer, over to her bed. He placed my hand on her shoulder.  He said we were going to sing together, God Be With You Till We Meet Again.  I’m sorry to admit I didn’t know the words.  So I hummed along and listened as she gathered enough breath to get a few of the lyrics out.  He, a man very near his ninth decade, sang with the voice of  youth.  He sang with strength, and sorrow, and utter faith and trust.  We ended the song with tears in our eyes, and we said goodbye.

Then, as he did every single week,  he asked if I’d taken a look at the literature he’d left for me.  Photos and testimonials and pamphlets for a miracle health product which had saved his life.  Yes, it was an amway product pitch, each and every visit. That  slightly awkward multi-level marketing opportunity provided us a transition from this confidential little life story back to the day-t0-day of the world around us.  Plus, you know, it was an amazing opportunity, too.

As I headed  towards my car, I heard the click of the deadbolt, just as I’d heard each and every week since I’d starting seeing these two.  In the car,  I paused before starting the ignition. I reminded myself that goodbyes are part of the deal when spending time with people who are dying.  I took a few breaths, gathered my composure, and mustered up some patience for the inevitable highway traffic I was about to face.  And I drove off.

Later, I contacted the hospice office and asked for an update on the patient’s condition.  I was told that her decline continued but there was no evidence that her passing was imminent.  Of course, we never can tell for certain, but there were no changes that would suggest she would die very soon.

But she knew.  And he knew.  And so did I.

We knew I’d never again enter that overheated room, where she liked the drapes closed  for privacy.  That I wouldn’t  hear about their farm, long since sold,  or sift through and admire photos of children and grandchildren.  I knew that I’d never again gently deflect his requests for me to share marketing materials with all my friends. We knew that we’d not have another opportunity to thank one another for the gift of our time together.

And she passed away, quietly, in her sleep.

Goodbye.

 

 

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Stick Figure of Tim

Tipping According to Tim

Stick Figure of Tipping TimUpdate on this this tipping post.

I’ve got tipping down pat at home, but I’ve recently spent some time in Europe.   Friends who live here said you pay what your’e charged, you don’t have to worry about doing math in your head, tax and tip are included.  Easy, right?  Not.  So my friends, some who have traveled far more extensively than me, said of course you have to tip, just only 10%.  Then, when I asked politely, I was told by locals that only Americans tip.  Of course they’ll not say no, but really, it isn’t necessary.  To top it off, I am handed a restaurant tab that say, in bold “service not included”.  So, am I to tip and expect quiet sniggering behind my back?  Or am I to pay the exact amount and risk being cheap?  Or… a possible solution, how about pretending I don’t know the local currency and having the round up to the nearest whatever?  Yes, I have seen some do this.  Creative, I suppose.  Instead of being tightfisted or American (why should that even be an issue?), I’m just not very smart.   Hmm.

 

Husband and I pretty much agree to disagree when it comes to tipping. He’s old school – 15%, a dollar a bag, etc.  In contrast, I’ve worked for tips and tend to be (possibly) overly-generous.  Ask my barista.  It is unlikely we’ll ever be on the same page, but there are worse things a marriage can suffer.

And…here’s Tim to the rescue.  His blog is a romp to read, plus he has stick figures.  And charts.  I love charts.  So, now we all know where we fall on the tipping spectrum. At least based on a relatively small survey of New Yorkers a couple of years back.  Thanks, Tim, for doing the heavy lifting.

Here’s the link: Wait But Why on Tipping

Seashore Shawl

Noblesville, Yarn, and My Seashore Shawl

Seashore ShawlOn a recent trip, I found myself in the delightful town of  Noblesville Indiana, with plans to meet some friends for lunch at Rosie’s Place.   Someday I want to live in a town like Noblesville, a quiet suburb just northeast of Indianapolis. As I walked to lunch I couldn’t help but notice the courthouse that anchored downtown Noblesville –  backed against the White River and  surrounded by shops and businesses which then gave way to homes built before I was born.  Perfect.

I’d done my research ahead of time, and found not only the lovely diner where we’d meet, but a yarn store that looked quite promising.  So, of course, I made a point to arrive a little early to check out  Black Sheep Yarn and Fiber Arts,  housed in a beautiful old Victorian conveniently right next to public parking.  Which cost twenty-five cents an hour. Twenty Five Cents an Hour.

 

So I found this Freia yarn I hadn’t seen before.  It caught my attention and I’ll tell you why .  First, the name was Freia*.  Freia is an old Nordic name., lso spelled Freyja, Freja, and Freya.  It means “lady” and is the name of the goddess of love, beauty, war and death in Norse mythology.  Freya also happens to be the name of one of my sisters. And, in my lifetime, I’ve met very few people blessed with that moniker.  I’ve heard it has recently become popular in Great Britain – I’ll be keeping my eyes and ears open on my next trip across the pond.  In any case, so the name caught my attention.  And the color ways… oh my!  Well, and then as I looked more closely – this yarn is merino/silk and well worth a quick fondle.  I was enamored.  In any case, this delightful little skein made it into my bag, the back of my car, and after a more than a few hundred miles, onto my needles at home.  And you can see the results – my Seashore Shawl.  I’m pleased with the results, I received a couple of compliments, and, well, life is pretty good.

 

* For more information about Freia Fibers, check out their site: Freia Fibers.  But be warned – that delicious merino/silk is not available online, but only through a limited number of retailers.  I’ve put in a request at my LYS and the owner tells me she’s on the waiting list.  Fingers crossed.

parsley growing in my garden

Parsley

parsley-in-bedParsley!  Who would think this humble herb would have such strong attachment to my Italian heritage?

It is early spring,  cold and damp enough to require extra layers. One of those sun-barely-up mornings that calls me to wander the yard and see whats up.  I’m in my jammies and bare feet, against every ounce of my common sense adultness.  All around me is tinged a warm sort of pink from the rising sun.  No cars, no planes, no music or doorbells or conversations, just an occasional twitter or tweet, the kind that birds make.  Emergence and rebirth, the scent of damp earth, a scampering bunny escaping the threat of me… this time of year a survey of my city-lot size domain of green brings peace, stillness, a calm.  Steam swirled up from my coffee cup, my only source of warmth. It’d be a short exploration.

As I wandered into my rain-soaked garden I  saw determined parsley plants pushing up through the mud.  This year, they’ve beat they’ve managed to beat the chives and the daffodils.  Determined little plants!  Back in the day, my Italian grandmother, Nonni, grew  parsley.  She was in California, so her garden had bundles of green year-round.  They grew in a long bed that followed the fence delineating property boundaries.  On the other side, the Gaspars had concrete, but my grandparents yard was green everywhere.  The parsley shared space with lilies of the valley.  Wow, I wish I’d have a high definition camera back then.  Or any camera, for that matter.  I think I was six, and of course preserving what was plain old normal at Nonni and Grandpa’s never crossed my mind.  Now, decades later, I can still see, smell, feel that little tiny piece of my past.

Back then, the only parsley everyone else knew about was that curly stuff. It usually showed up on a restaurant plate next to the baked potato.  And nobody ever ate it, ever!

But my Nonni grew flat-leaf parsley from seed she’d brought from Roccamonfina. That parsley came across the Atlantic in steerage, tucked away in a little packet just like the ones that held future tomato and zucchini and pepper plants.  Nonni nurtured and pampered and encouraged those little seeds into a small but productive garden in the tiny lot they shared with several families Methuen.  Then they made it over to Lawrence, again a small city lot, hardly enough sun, but they grew and ate every year, and saved seeds for the next season.  Finally, a big move to sunny southern California.  Oh my, the garden flourished!  Grandpa was retired by then, and he would spend half his days puttering, trimming his roses, plucking tomato beetles, shooing the chickens, trimming the lawn. Grandpa had a green thumb.

Nonni would hand me the shears and scoot me out, the screen door banging behind me.   And I would  snip parsley, just a little from each plant, not too much, so more would grow back for next time. I’d come back into the house with an armful of fragrant greenery.  Then I’d help her mince and mash that parsley with salt and lots of garlic, making a pungent paste. It would seem to take forever to come together into the absolutely smooth consistency Nonni required.  Later, my mother would be express her horror that  Nonni had let a youngster handle a sharp knife.  That perfectly smooth paste would go into Nonni’s braciole. I still dream about that rolled steak and the cooked-all-day sauce that went with it.

Our Italian heritage is more than name, language, history.  We find our culture and our past in the simplest of things sometimes, and some of our strongest connections come at random… like walking through a rain-soaked herb garden just after dawn on an early spring morning.

What, Me? Committed?  About Those Resolutions…..

What, Me? Committed? About Those Resolutions…..

2015_16So I took several posts to share my plans for the New Year.  My resolutions, if you will.  Then I sort of fell off the virtual earth.  Been awfully quiet around here, I know.  So, after taking a peek back at what I said, I think it is only fair to share what I actually did.  Here we go.

I’ll start right away with That Temperature Scarf.  I’ll admit I did get a bit behind.  I used my most recent road trip as an excuse.  Who wants to haul 8 balls of yarn around?  In any case, I found a great website, wunderground.  It’s a weather site, and the fun part is that people who have home weather stations can post all kinds of weather-related activity.  So, I found one right near my house, and, funny world that we live in, I actually know the folks who are sharing their data.  She’s a talented (read: published) novelist and they have two super-smart sons.  Daughter used to play tennis with the older one, back in the day.  But I digress.  I printed up a blank calendar, and, from their weather station, I jot down the high and low temperature for each day. Since each day is only two short rows of knitting (it is a scarf, after all), I sit down every week or two and get the needles going. Since it was so cold, I decided to make a daily low scarf.  Perhaps later I’ll make another for high temps.  I’m pleased to say not only is January complete, but based on one month’s worth of stitches, it looks like my scarf-of-lows will be a bit long, but not freakishly so.

Good for me!

Now, let’s talk about Taming the Paper.  I’m proud to say my kitchen counter is clear, the shredder is busy and I fill my recycle bin each week.  I do have a couple of paper projects to finish. I need to send that registration paperwork for Rosy the Therapy Dog (and AKC Canine Good Citizen!).

paperworks needs to be done- stack of papers, folders and envelops

A bunch of bill-paying is set to automatic now, wish I’d done that ages ago.  Taxes are nearly done, FAFSA will be finished right after Uncle’s stuff gets e-filed.  What is FAFSA, you say?  Lucky you!  Someday when your offspring head off to college, you’ll know the pleasure and pain of FAFSA.  Simply put, FAFSA is an annual online entry of a bunch of information you’ve already shared with the IRS.  Your child(ren) don’t get any financial aid if FAFSA isn’t done.  Magazine piles are gone – yay me!  Why am I still getting magazines?  Oh well, they’ll all expire eventually.  I’m using all the time I’m saving to plan a big trip.  Anyone have good hints on cheap car rentals in Europe?

So far, so good!

Those Genealogy Files.  Well, I’d kind of vowed to go through and remove errors and get everything organized and beautiful.  I made some progress, I really did!  I’ve got an indexed list of everybody and another list of all the things that need rechecking.  I’ve added a bunch of photos to dead people’s profiles.  I made it through a major genealogical panic when it looked like my software was going kaput, and found a solution and rode out that storm with only a few chewed fingernails.  I’ve backed up and got caught up on correspondence.

But the occasional search is just way too tempting.  And how can you deny me the pleasure of finding treasures like this?   I mean, honestly, this is just too fascinating to let go.  The_Escanaba_Daily_Press__Escanaba__MI__4_May_1948__Tue__death_of_Helen_Duprie_at_age_36I’m not exactly sure who she is, but I’m almost certain she’s related to my great-grandfather.  This clipping is from 1948.
So, not only must I find some time to figure out exactly who she is, but I must, must do a little digging and see if they found out why she died after eating a hamburger.  Did she choke?  Was she poisoned?  Did the counter clerk hit her over the head with a brick for non-payment?  Seriously, this merits attention.  Then I’ll get right back to organizing and cleaning my genealogy files, I promise.

Now, about that long list of Random Resolutions.  There were twenty of them.  I won’t bore you with every detail, but I have managed to keep on top of 18 of them.  I even scheduled the damn mammogram.  It is so very difficult to not yell at the tv, what with this being an election year, but I’m trying.  I’d say 50% success on that one.  I’ve blown it completely on baking cookies more often.  In my defense, however, I’ve been getting my fanny to the gym and just snagged a treadmill.  Why would I bake cookies when I’m working so hard to remove the sweets deposited on my hips?  I will make a batch soon, and it will go straight in a box to be sent to Daughter at college.  My plants are watered, I knit and write and read nearly every day, and I watch His shows without whining too much.  And I’m giving that forgive thing a great effort.  I’d say mostly a win on Resolutions 2016.

Granted, it is only February.  I may have to revisit this in a couple of months.

 

More from Random Resolutions, The Genealogy Files

More from Random Resolutions, The Genealogy Files

1925 Adolfo Petteruti 7 - Version 2
Grandpa’s Vaudeville Days

I’ve been gathering my family genealogy information for about two decades now.  Pell-mell and random, but there must be some semblance of an accurate family history in there somewhere. Another Random Resolution – to organized my piles of paper and electronic genealogy files and to verify that they’re accurate.  I’m not going to hunt very many new leads until I get all of what I have in order.

Big plans for 2016! Wish me luck.

So this far-more-knowledgeable-than-I-am genealogist out of Australia posted 27 Golden Rules of Genealogy.  Here is the link: 27 Golden Rules of Genealogy  Below, I’ve copied some of the text and added comments from me, a long-time but still beginner very disorganized family historian.

 

  • Don’t expect to find your whole tree online.
    • If you do, it almost certainly has piles of inaccuracies.  I’m still trying to sort out the two nearly identical families of 11 or 12 kids, four generations back, that are apparently not actually the same families.  Wot?
  • In fact if you find information online, don’t assume it is accurate.
    • See above.  This is why I am going to go through all my stacks of paper and files.  I got caught up early on when all that great information became available online, and I accepted and downloaded way too many files without checking them.  My OCD self (CDO for those of you who get that) hates that my family history is probably riddled with errors and lovely stories that have no actual merit.  What?  I’m not the great-great-great grandchild of the lost czar?  How did that happen?
  • Don’t show living people in your online tree unless you have it hidden and Private.
    • Do I even have to say anything here?  Well, maybe that I can go back and make the people who’ve died visible now.
  • Don’t take information or photographs from others and not give anything back.
    • Common courtesy, right?  Such short supply of that, these days.
  • Don’t expect that you can do it ALL for free.
    • My Ancestry subscription has been worth every penny.
  • Don’t be a name-collector. Look for the stories that MAKE the people.
    • Just like world history, names and dates are just plain boring, if there isn’t some real life behind them.
  • Don’t believe everything on a Birth, Marriage or Death certificate.
    • Not everyone is honest when they fill out forms.   I found out not too long ago that the father on a birth certificate had actually adopted the baby, and had been nowhere in the vicinity when conception occurred.
  • Don’t give up if you hit a brickwall. Take a look at it from a different direction.
    • Yeah.  I’m so very guilty of that.  Perhaps this year I’ll find the tools I need to smash the biggest ones.
  • Don’t write on a chart in pen until you are 100% sure of the details.
    • Pen?  Are you kidding?  Hello, graphite!
  • Don’t assume that if you can’t find the data you’re looking for on a website, that it doesn’t exist. Especially if that website infers that it would be there. Not everything is indexed or digitised yet.
    • And check back again later.  I’ve found searches that turned up empty provide all kinds of stuff just a few months later.  Somebody somewhere is ensuring that everything ever printed will someday be digitized.  I suppose I should thank them.
  • Don’t be afraid to ask for help. There are plenty of people willing to guide you on your genealogy journey.
    • I’ve been a loner all these years.  Time to start finding some communities.  Plus, best to get the stories from those remaining relatives before they’re gone.
  • Don’t forget to write your OWN history. Afterall you know your own life history better than anyone else.
    • Guilty.

 

  • Always start from yourself and work backwards.
    • Okay, I did do that.
  • Get organised: both on your computer and your paperwork.
    • Did I mention this is my goal for 2016?  I’ve found some resources that I sincerely hope will keep e on track.
  • Join a genealogy group or society. The more you mingle with other researchers the more you’ll learn.
    • Perhaps if I can find the time.  I know there is a group that meets here in town once a month.
  • Do your homework and learn the social history of the area your ancestors came from.
    • Fascinating the things you can find out.  I’ve known the names of the (former) villages my Italian relatives came from since I was a little girl.  I only learned, accidentally that they’re all on the edge of the Pompeii crater.  Seems kind of a fascinating thing to have overlooked.
  • Honour family members wishes when they give you (or let you copy) photos, stories and other information. Not everyone is happy for it to be online.
    • Ummm… back to that common courtesy thing, right?
  • Learn to expect name and date variants. EVERY family has name variants.
    • Boy Howdy, this is true!
  • When filling in a pedigree chart, the male line is always on the top with his wife’s details in the box below.
    • Okay, I could step up to the sexism soapbox, but it has to be one or the other, so why get worked up over it?
  • Be consistent in the way you record your data.
    • Yup – that is back to the whole Big Organization of 2016.  When I started it was paper and pencil and postage stamps.  Now all is digital.  Lets get this stuff integrated.
  • Verify everything with at least two separate sources for each piece of information.
    • Did I mention something about a big project this year?  This is a key component.
  • Back up your files at least once a month and have a copy OFF of your computer, and preferrably a copy at a different location.
    • I’ve got backups that are as old as my last entries.  And my computer has redundant backups on hard drives and in a cloud or two.  But not everything is on paper.  Man, better invest in a few ink cartridges.
  • Expect surprises. It is truly amazing what you’ll find out about your family.
    • The guy who supposedly died, but then (maybe) turned up a few miles away with a different wife and family?  I kid you not, these little gems are so much fun to chew on.  That one is going to be fun.
  • Use ethics when you do find out shocking tales about a family member. Not all stories need to be aired to everyone.
    • Very possibly applicable to the item directly before this one.  But we’ll have to see… if true, a couple of generations are already dead and maybe I have some really cool cousins.
  • Visit as many living relatives as possible to get their stories now. Often family stories have some truth in them. But don’t believe them till verified.
    • I used to get so frustrated when relatives didn’t want to share.  They came here to escape hard things and who wants to talk about that?  But every now and then I’ll find a subject that sparks stories.  Don’t waste your time on this one -people pass away and take all kinds of wonderful antectdotes with them.  I didn’t know my grandma was called “Sarge” (long story) until a family gathering at her funeral.  Oh, what I would give to hear her side of the story!
  • If a document exists, read it. Every detail that is written on it.
    • You’d be amazed at the connections you might find.
  • Learn to record your sources of where (or who) you obtained information from. The sooner you start doing this, the better. And later you’ll be thankful that you took the time to note it now.
    • Then you won’t be going through this massive fix-my-past-mistakes project like me.