So, how many New Yorkers does it take to screw in a lightbulb? One million and three. One person says it needs changing--in writing, in triplicate, one person uses two tanks of gas (petrol), running around to the shops to find a light bulb that's on sale--and who winds up spending ten times as much as if he or she went to the store 'round the corner, and the other million to scream, bitch and moan about how much it costs for the electricity and the gas, and the lightbulb--oh, and how much it costs to have, about a year later, some poor, underpaid schmuck screw the dang thing in.

I have a definate love/hate relationship with New York state. I'm immensly proud of my NY heritage (on my late mum's side), which goes back over 300 years. At the same time, I hate most New Yorkers--they have no repect for their state, their neighbourhoods or each other, for the most part, and have no grasp of basic manners. They are often impatient, thoughtless, rude and grasping--and sometimes downright mean-spirted. I speak from 47 years of experience.

Now, that's not to say there's no nice New Yorkers--gosh, there are. And they can be awfully nice. However, these pockets of "niceness" are getting fewer and further inbetween.

I am not so naive as to think things may be better elsewhere, but truly, if I had the wherewithal, I would get the hell out of this burg and move to the UK permanatly. (sorry, can't spell tonight)

My late mum, June, spent some 30 years researching the family tree. The oldest family grave in Albany Rural Cemetary, near my childhood home, dates to the late 1700's. I think that was Stephen Featherly, but can't remember. I remember, mum made great progress, strugging through the complexities of an American pedigree. She had hit a few bumps and snags and dead-ends, but accumulated reams of hand-written notes (many of which I still have, but am not brave enough--nor well enough, at the mo'--to shift through). I haven't the funds to hire a professional genealogist, so in their boxes those notes shall stay, until I reach the day when I shall be less daunted.

There was one ancestor that sorely vexed my mum. This person is buried on a early 20th century plot in Albany rural, with my great-granddad and such.

Mum tried and tried, but could never find the connection to the person buried there and her family. She always referred to her as "that MacLeod woman"--apparently our one and only Scottish ancestor (maybe).

Ah well. Since I am virtually the last direct descendant, I strongly suspect that when I die, sis (who's adopted and has no special feelings in regard to familial relationships) will merely dump everything she doesn't want herself, in the roll off dumpster in the rear car park of my building, or wherever. I suppose it doesn't matter. I'd throw it out myself, to be quite honest, but I simply haven't the heart to. I was the one who drove mum to all the places she did her research at, and help and encouraged her to resume her hobby, during her long battle with kidney failure. To dump those papers in the rubbish bin, seems almost like sacriledge to me--yet, I doubt that I will ever have the funds or, quite frankly, be well enough, to do anything with it, on my own. And, it is taking up space.

Well, sentimentality is what keeps us collecting things and visiting museums and saving photos of relatives we never knew.

Didn't sleep a wink last night. Managed 4 hours late this morning, so I'm dead tired now. So, what? Some days you're the bug, and some days you're the windscreen. Such is life.