The Color of Love – A Guest Post by Sharon Leslie Morgan

The Color of Love - By Sharon Leslie Morgan

Photo by JORGE LOPEZ on Unsplash

I’ve known Sharon for several years now after we were introduced by a mutual friend. Sharon and I both love history and genealogy, and she teaches me all the time about how to speaking the truth with love does not need to be either unkind or timid.  She is the creator of Our Black Ancestry, an AMAZING community of people looking for the stories of their black ancestors. It’s just $25 to become a member, so I hope you’ll consider doing that today. Now, enjoy Sharon’s powerful story. 

Just like everyone else, my family tree includes an assortment of characters from the unsavory to the sublime. The two I want to talk about are my grandmothers. Both were white women who married black men in the 1920s.

My father’s parents, Dora Federico and Bob Leslie, tied the knot in 1922. My mother’s parents, Jennie Waymoth and Louie Nicholson, followed suit in 1926. When they did so, miscegenation was illegal in 38 states. A “Racial Integrity Act” was on the books, which made it illegal for white people to marry anyone with “a single drop of Negro blood.” The Ku Klux Klan was on a rampage to protect white women from the “savage” lust of black men. The Red Summer of 1919 (a wave of race riots in dozens of cities throughout the North and South) was a recent memory and black people were being lynched in record numbers. It was not until 1967 that interracial marriages were allowed in all states.

Dora’s parents were Italian immigrants. Her father arrived in America in 1878. The proudest moment of his life was when he was granted citizenship in Mount Vernon, New York in 1897. The family moved to Chicago sometime before 1910 and he was dead when his daughter married my grandfather, a widower with three children. The Federico family thought Bob was a “dark Dago” because of his light brown skin and straight hair. When they found out differently, it didn’t stop them from helping the newlyweds get established in the bootlegging business, under the stewardship of Al Capone.

Dora, with whom I spent most of my summers, spent her later years working as a domestic for rich white people in Rockford, Illinois. Although she loved her employers (and I resented them for taking her away from me every day), she was not fond of white people in general. Later, when I read the history of Italians in America, it was easy to see why. Italians suffered extreme prejudice and violence at the hands of white, Anglo Saxon Protestants. They were restricted to low-income, low-class jobs and attacked for their Catholicism by the Ku Klux Klan. In 1891, eleven Italians were killed in New Orleans in one of the largest mass lynchings in American history.  During World War II, Italians thought to be loyal to their homeland were incarcerated in internment camps, just like the Japanese.

When Dora died in 1983, I was so distraught I spent three days locked in her bedroom, crying inconsolably. I met her Italian family for the first time at her funeral, when I was thirty-two years old.

Jennie Waymoth, on the other hand, was born into a family of Scots-Irish who came to America at an unknown date. She grew up in the small farming community of Sidell, Illinois and met Louie Nicholson in the Illinois Central train station in Chicago. He worked on a train. She waited tables in the station restaurant. After their marriage, her family pleaded with her to come home — for four years, through the births of her first two children, who looked white. When her third child emerged with a skin that matched his father’s , they declared her dead. In 1932, she went to visit her sister Sylvia (who also lived in Chicago) with all three of her young children in tow. Inseparable growing up, Jennie was stunned when her favored sibling derided her with “You better get away from my door. You know (my husband) doesn’t want any niggers in his house.”

When I found Jennie’s relatives online, we had many pleasant conversations as I shared the details of my grandmother’s life. My correspondent was happy to know she hadn’t died and agreed that I should visit. There was, however, a catch. I was informed: “My mother lives with us and still keeps the old ways. She would not want a black person sleeping in our house.” I felt what my grandmother must have felt that day on her sister’s stoop.

It takes a long time and a lot of lessons to learn what it means to be black and how one should relate to people who despise you. I am still on the learning curve. I once had a friend who described seeing a “colored” water fountain as a child. He really wanted to drink the water because he thought the spigot would spew a rainbow. Then there was my time in South Africa, a country that had recently been emancipated from the chains of apartheid. Many newly enfranchised people derided the dream of a “Rainbow Nation,” noting that rainbows do not have a band of black.

I was twelve years old in May 1963 when my grandmother Jennie dropped dead in front of me. I remember standing in the kitchen doorway watching her drink a glass of water. Gazing out of the window over the sink, she quenched her thirst, remarked “What a beautiful day,” and collapsed onto the floor – dead from massive heart attack. I was too stunned to even cry over the loss of one of my primary care givers.

That was the same year (six months later) when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated for reasons black people surmised had much to do with his championing of civil rights. In 1968, riots erupted after Rev. Martin Luther King was murdered by a white supremacist. I was a college student, trapped in the student administration building at the University of Illinois. When I heard the mayor announce a “shoot to kill” order, there was no doubt who it applied to: Me. A year later, I was an unwed mother, wondering how to raise a child in a world embittered by rancor and fear. There was a period in the 1970s when I could barely have a relationship with my surviving Mama Dora, having become profoundly and painfully aware of her whiteness. I am now ashamed of my reaction, but when all was said and done, I was totally turned off by white people – all of them. I did not want to acknowledge them as part of my family. I did not want to be friends with them. And I certainly would not have crossed the color bar to marry one. I could not comprehend how my grandfathers made that leap, coming as they did from birthplaces in Alabama and Mississippi.

Until recently, the story of my grandmothers was not part of my conversation; at least not within the context of race relations. As a child, I didn’t consciously think about what race they were; they were just my grandmothers. The segregated black community in which I grew up and into which my grandmothers were seamlessly adopted wrapped its arms around everyone. I eventually came to terms with the fact that I loved them both – dearly and unconditionally.

These days, my grandmothers are top of mind — maybe because I am now a grandmother myself, one with a burning desire to leave the world a better place. Resolution of the racial conundrum lies at the heart of that aspiration. That is why I embarked on a journey with a white man whose ancestors were the largest slave traders in US history and co-authored a book with him* to document an approach to racial healing.

My grandmothers left me with two cherished mementos. On my ring finger, I wear Dora’s diamonds. Some years after Dora’s death, Aunt Lottie climbed onto a step stool, dug into the deep recesses of a closet shelf, and handed me a wadded up ball of Kleenex. Inside were seven loose diamonds belonging to Mama Dora that I had set into a ring. Around my neck, I wear Jennie’s ivory cameo; one that has passed through many generations over 150 years. Both pieces of jewelry are reminders of a past I must deal with in order to embrace a future in which the paradox of love and acrimony has been resolved.

In an ideal world, race would be a mere descriptive, not a pejorative. As it stands, it informs a global construct that keeps one group of people (white) in power and another group (people of color) in submission. It is disproportionately destructive because it lies at the core of many other isms; influencing how people deal with gender, religious belief, and ability.

In thinking of my grandmothers, the classic Bill Withers song “Grandma’s Hands” comes to mind. I love this song that describes through metaphor the essence of one of the most dearly beloved in every family. Neither of my grandmothers “clapped in church on Sunday morning,” although both were believers in God. They didn’t play tambourines, though one cut a mean step on the dance floor. If their hands “use to ache sometime and swell,” I didn’t notice as they worked tirelessly, without complaint.

When I get to heaven, it will be those hands I seek, fully expecting Dora and Jennie to greet me in their loving arms for what will surely be a grand reunion.

 

 

Sharon Leslie Morgan is the founder, webmaster, and historian for OurBlackAncestry.com, a website devoted to African American genealogy. She is an expert in African American consumer marketing as well as a writer. A native of Chicago, she lived abroad for many years in the Caribbean, Europe, and Africa. She is the co-author, with Thomas DeWolf of Gather at the Table: The Healing Journey of a Daughter of Slavery and a Son of the Slave Trade*. Her first book, My Daddy Is A Cool Dude, was published in 1975 by The Dial Press and nominated for a Caldecott Medal. She is also the co-author of Real Women Cook: Building Healthy Communities with Recipes that Stir the Soul and of Paris in a Pot: Living a Dream in the City of Light*.

 

*These links are affiliate links, which means if you buy something after clicking on them, I get a small commission, which helps me pay the bills for hosting this site. So thank you.

Plantation Papers for Genealogical Research on Enslaved People

Plantation Papers for Genealogical Research on Enslaved People

My “tattoo” expresses just how I feel about the honor of doing this research

This past weekend, I had the total honor of presenting at the Ohio Genealogical Society Conference. . . the people there were so enthusiastic, and I loved all the conversations that happened around the space.

But mostly, I was thrilled to give a talk on my favorite topic: how to find out more information about our enslaved ancestors.  In this presentation, I focused on how to use plantation papers – i.e. collections of documents from the white slaveholder – as a way of finding genealogical, demographic, and personal information about people who were enslaved.

You can find the slides from my presentation here if you are interested.

And if you’ve used plantation documents to find information about your own family, I’d LOVE to hear what you’ve found and any tips you have to share about those resources.  Thanks.

 

I’m always eager to share this forum with you if you have a story to share, want to reach out and ask people for help, or have a topic about African American history or genealogy that you are passionate about. Please email me at andi_at_andilit.com, and we’ll get your words out to as many people as we can. Thanks. 

Great Grandmother’s Legacy by Charles F. Holman III

Great Grandmother's Legacy by Charles F. Holman III

Charles’ great grandmother, Lucille Holman.

Today, I am thrilled to welcome Charles Holman as he tells the powerful story of his great grandmother’s name and the way finding our stories is a communal endeavor.

Some ancestors gift you with a bequest when they pass on. We often think of this kind of thing as money, property, a cherished item, etc. But my Great Grandmother Lucille (Robertson/Robinson) Holman (1863 – 1932) left my family a hidden, valuable legacy which again revealed itself to me just yesterday afternoon.

More than 40 years ago I began to research my family tree. Like many African Americans I wanted to know where in Africa some of my ancestors originated. The late Alex Haley taught me to seek out any African words or names that might have been associated with ancestors for clues.

So my Dad and I approached my paternal grandfather, Charles Holman Sr., (1898 – 1987) and asked him what he knew. Initially unwilling to talk about the past, with some prodding Grandpa began to provide some details. He told us his mother, Lucille (Robertson) Holman had African ancestors and he thought her father had an African name which he pronounced as “Da-dash- shoe-wah”

Soon my Dad and I began to share what Grandpa had told us. A few years passed and in the summer of 1978 I mentioned this to my double cousin, the late Geneve (Holman) Jackson (1924 – 2014). Geneve told me flat out that we were wrong. Geneve told me in no uncertain terms that“Da-dash- shoe-wah” was actually my grandfather’s mother’s name.

What Geneve told me didn’t make sense to me at the time. I had heard my grandfather’s mother’s name was Lucy or Lucille Holman. How then could her name be “Da-dash- shoe-wah,” especially when we knew Grandpa's mother was not African but South Carolinian?

Although Geneve’s message didn’t make sense to me, I made a mental note and filed it away. A few years later in late 1986, I wrote to a linguist at the University of Ibadan in Nigeria to see if they could tell me about the name “Da-dash- shoe-wah.” Much to my delight, a reply arrived in January 1987. They told me they thought the name was a name given to girl children. They also told me the name was characteristic to an area in Nigeria in or near the northern part of its Bendel State.

Decades passed after I received this letter, and I never heard more until just yesterday on Facebook. Facebook has a series called “American Slavery,” and if you don’t subscribe to it, you definitely should. Anyway, yesterday the topic at “American Slavery” was naming customs during slavery. They stated that during slavery it was sometimes customary to give a child two names, one name that the slaveholder and everyone would know and a second “given name the child’s family selected and kept secret.”

When I saw this, what cousin Geneve had told me all those decades ago finally made sense, i.e. Lucy or Lucille was great grandmother’s public name, and “Da-dash- shoe-wah” was her secret African name known only to family members. Immediately, I wrote and thanked the authors of “American Slavery” for sharing this insight with me. But little did I expect that it would get evenbetter just a very short while later.

An African lady saw my note to American Slavery and responded the same day. The lady said the name “Da-dash- shoe-wah” was a popular one and actually spelled “Adeshuwa”. The lady also independently confirmed that the name was given to girl children. Even more importantly, the lady told me the significance of the name:

That means you hail from the Yoruba. They are in Western Nigeria. Adeshewa in Yoruba means the beauty of royalty. I am Igbo by the way, I just happen to be able to speak Yoruba. It could also mean she (Great Grandmother) was from Benin. They are also a mid-western tribe in Nigeria. The Yorubas originated from the Benin tribe. So she definitely hailed from Nigeria either way. God bless you.

So it turns out all these decades later, Geneve must have been right – in fact two independent African sources confirm what Geneve said. But even more important than simply proving Geneve right, by her very name, Great Grandmother has left me a legacy, and all of her descendants, the priceless knowledge, unknown to most African Americans, that we share a bondwith Nigeria because it is one of our ancestral homelands.

Great Grandmother’s legacy is also corroborated by DNA analyses indicating that approximately 15% of my ancestry comes from Nigeria and the Yoruba tribe, both mentioned by the lady at Facebook just yesterday afternoon. Indeed, even science acknowledges that Great Grandmother’s legacy rings true for me and all of her descendants today and down through the generations yet to come.

 

Archival Genealogy and Finding Our Ancestors

Genealogy, Archives, and Finding Our PeopleIn a few weeks, I have the honor of presenting about archival genealogy at the Ohio Genealogical Society Conference in Sanduski, OH.  I’m really excited about this, and not just because the society has the great acronym, OGS, which makes me think I’m going to be on some new version of Star Trek.

At the conference, I’m presenting twice: once on how to use ArchiveGrid to find your people and once on how to scour collections of plantations papers to locate enslaved people. Both presentations will be useful for folks researching African American history, or at least that’s my aim. While these techniques can, of course, help people researching anyone through archival documents, my aim – in any presentation I do of this nature – is to foreground the stories and experiences of African American people.

A Story about Helping My White Brothers and Sisters Understand the Challenges

A few years ago, I had the honor of discussing my book The Slaves Have Names with a local book club. We were talking about the people enslaved at the Bremo plantations, but then, as is often the case with a group of people who are interested in history, the conversation switched to how I did my research, a topic I discuss a lot in the book. We talked about genealogy, about how difficult it is to find information on ancestors, especially when those ancestors were enslaved. I talked about the hours of research I put in, and then one woman said, “But all genealogy is difficult. Mine was.”

I took a deep breath and looked this well-intentioned white woman in the eye and said, “I’m sure it was, but at least you have information to find. If you were enslaved, you were likely not allowed to be literate so could not keep written records of your own family. You were also not always able to know dates or even be aware of who your own parents were – or what their full names were.  Slavery intentionally disrupted families, and very few people of European descent have that same struggle.”

She glazed over a bit in the midst of my response. I hope, somehow, she heard me.

So when I present at OGS, I hope my African American brothers and sisters will be in the room because I hope what I share will be helpful to us all. But I also hope my European American brothers and sisters attend too. My work here is to speak the truth to them, my white skin to theirs in the hopes that they can hear me.

If you’d like more information about the Ohio Genealogical Society Conference and if you’d like to attend, you can find that here – http://www.ogsconference.org/. If you do attend, be sure to let me know. I’d love to see you. 

 

Researching Enslaved People Through Plantation Papers

Researching Enslaved People Through Plantation Papers

the ghost of history lies down beside me,

rolls over, pins me beneath a heavy arm.

— from “Pilgrimage” by Natasha Tretheway

On Fridays, I tuck myself into one of the most special places I know, one of the places that rest quietly beneath the ivory towers, which I now realize are not ivory just because they are consider precious but because of how very white most of them still are. Still, when I descend into the Special Collections Library at the University of Virginia, I feel like I’m walking the spiral stairs into a sacred place, where the records of enslaved people nestle tight against those of Thomas Jefferson and James Madison.

When I’m there, I make a point of calling those two men, TJ and Jimmy Mad.  It’s all about equalizing our perspective of history as I see it.

My research right now is focused on the people who were enslaved at Bracketts Farm in Louisa County, Virginia.  I am charged, by the foundation that manages the farm, to locate the names, occupations, and family connections of the people that were enslaved by the Watson family for a period of approximately 70 years.

The Search

The boxes are heavy, cut from green cardboard that is acid-free and sturdy.  Inside, brown, acid-free folders are arranged by date and labeled, by hand in pencil, with a general description: “notes, receipts, and accounts – 1837”, or “Sally Watson to David Watson – n.d.”

The great tragedy is that I am most likely to find references to enslaved people in the financial papers – in the account and cash books, in the receipts, in the records from Jack, the enslaved shoemaker’s shop.  Occasionally, I read a letter and see someone mentioned – Charlotte, whose daughter Mary is very ill, is noted in a letter from the farm mistress to the master – but these are rare mentions.  Their obscurity belies the intimacy in which the enslaved and the enslavers spent their days.

I scan lists of purchases – nails, fabric, rum – hoping to see the name of one of the waggoners, who took the wheat to the mill or carried the money from the master to the shop keeper.

I flip page after page of accounts and watch for the names I’m coming to know like my own family’s – Randol, Reuben, Marinda, Manuel.  The master is buying chickens from some people, paying others for their work in the tobacco harvest.  An overly optimistic look at these purchases might think he was preparing them to buy their freedom.  I’ve not yet (and don’t expect I will) found one record where someone here purchases their freedom.

Sometimes my skin lights up with anticipation when I see a list of names. Here, finally, more names.  But that happiness quickly tarnishes when I remind myself that the list exists because these people are being willed to children, shifted around based on their relative value.

I read:

Forester, 80 years old, worth nothing

Leanthy, Old and worth nothing

I know, I recognize the dismissal of the old as burden more than gift of wisdom – sometimes these records say these older or infirm people are “worth less than nothing” – but to have it written out, laid into the page against valuations of young, able-bodied men as being worth $500  . . . or a blacksmith worth $600 because of his trade and ability to make his master money – this inscription carves the wound of my heart around slavery even deeper.

The Prayer

I pray as I look, not that my heart will be protected, but that I will see with honesty and not gloss over what I witness and that my heart will stay strong enough for this day’s work.

I pray for the people whose lives I am seeking to recover, for the flesh and bones and beauty and pain is captured, now, only in these fragments of fragile paper.

I pray for their descendants, for the ones searching and for the ones who able to search.  I give thanks for their fortitude, for their wisdom.

I do not know how I came to have this calling, this heavy calling that I treasure more than anything else I do with my time.  But I say prayer of thanks for the mantel of this vocation and another prayer that I may have just a dose of the perseverance that these people displayed to survive the dismal, abominable days of enslavement.

 

Louisa County Roots

If you have ties back to Louisa County, Virginia, I’d love to hear from you.  I am part of a team, organized by the Louisa County Historical Society, that has as our ambitious goal to research as many of the enslaved communities in the county as possible and to make our findings public and searchable.  We are also hoping to work with property owners to help preserve slave cemeteries and burial grounds.

So far, some of the surnames we have found include: 

  • Ragland
  • Quarles
  • Morris
  • Watson
  • Bunch
  • Holmes/Homes
  • Johnson
  • Tinsley
  • Jefferson
  • Hawkins
  • Carter
  • Hill
  • Barbour
  • Stewart
  • Mitchell
  • Marshall
  • Desper

I hope we might be able to work together to put together more of the stories of these incredible people. 

Lowcountry Africana – A Go-To History and Genealogy Site

Lowcountry Africana - Resources on African American Genealogy in SC, FL, GAOne of my favorite websites is Lowcountry Africana. The site, run by the amazing Toni Carrier, is dedicated to sharing resources for exploring the genealogy of people from the U.S. Lowcountry of South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida.

Their resources include primary source plantation records from that area. In these records, people may find references to their enslaved ancestors’ names and occupations; they may find family listings; and they may find notes about where their ancestors came from or went to.

Lowcountry Africana also has a rich research library , where individuals can find guides on how to begin doing their family genealogy, tips on doing this research, and links to the Freedman’s Bureau records and other archival collections that can be particular useful for researching African American people.

Plus, the site runs its own blog, as well as blogs about research in SC, GA, and FL, all of which are worth looking to for up-to-date research information and stories.

The way I keep up with ALL of the great things that the folks at Lowcountry Africana are doing is to follow their Facebook page.  It’s chock full of links to their own research, resources from other researchers, and fascinating and important stories that are not always shared elsewhere.

If you’re looking to do research in GA, FL, or SC, you won’t want to overlook the resources at Lowcountry Africana.

I Found Out I Was Black, And I’m Still White

I found out I was black, and I'm still white

Photo by Yamon Figurs via Unsplash

A few years ago, I found out I was black.  For most black folks, their blackness would have been self-evident, part of who they were from the moment they were born.  But for me, this girl in a white body, who had always identified as white – or more correctly had not consciously identified as anything since so much of American society sees whiteness as normative, not racialized – this information was new, a new way of seeing myself, of understanding who I was in a world.

It was also something I could forget, put aside, take up when it served me.  I never pulled a Rachel Dolezol, thank goodness, always being sure to say I identify – and am identified – as white, but I still can pick up this black identity when it suits me and shelve it when it doesn’t because it doesn’t reside in my body.

No one touches my hair when I’m out in public.  We don’t do that to white women.

I’m still praying, thinking, working, talking, listening through what it means to be a woman whose ancestors were black, whose ancestors “passed” and became white, whose ancestors chose whiteness – for what I can only know to be powerful, necessary, safety-filled reasons – and so chose that identity for her.  I will probably be building up and tearing down these ideas for the rest of my life.  I’m okay with that.

How could I not be okay with carrying the weight of questions when I only carry blackness for the strength and gift that it is? I don’t carry the weight of the segregation, the oppression, the dismissal. I don’t carry it with the stereotypes about intellect or athletic prowess. I don’t carry it with the assumption of criminality or promiscuity. I don’t carry it with any of the awfulness of things that come from other people and are laid against black bodies.

So today, in my own white body that courses with the blood of courageous, flawed, gorgeous black men and women, I speak loud this question – Fellow white people, what burden are you laying against our black brothers and sisters? What prejudices? What assumptions? What misguided responsibility for racism are we placing on their backs?  

And will you join me in shifting all of that weight onto our own bodies? Will you stand with me as we accept the fact of racism as OURS to mend? Will you let your black brothers and sisters lean into you with their burdens, let them slide some of that heaviness onto your shoulders?  Will you? 

I hope so, I pray so because when we white people shoulder this burden, when we lift it onto our own white-clad bodies, we can sometimes put it aside.  That’s not possible for our friends who walk in brown, yellow, black, or red skin. . . Not ever.

It wasn’t possible for my ancestors, and so they took up whiteness as their shield. The least I can do now is put my own body out as a shield for those who do not, could not have that choice.

I honor, respect, even understand my ancestors’ choice.  But what a shame they had to make it.

 

AAHGS National Conference – Atlanta, GA

AAGHS National Conference in Atlanta, GALast year, I had the honor of speaking at the Afro-American Historical and Genealogical Society (AAHGS) Conference in Richmond.  The day was rich with talks and conversations that ranged from a lecture about the false division between history and genealogy to conversations about how to use oral histories in writing about historical events.  I highly recommend the conference to anyone who is working or interested in this research.

I don’t know about you, but I find this work to really challenging in terms of the information abut also in terms of the emotional weight of this research.  It’s not an easy thing to dig into the legacy of oppression for hours on end.  This conference – and others like it – help all of us who do this work with the support of others. It’s like we are linking arms and standing together to read, learn, and share the interwoven story of African American people.

This year, the AAHGS Conference will be in Atlanta, Georgia on October 13-16, and the theme of the conference is:

The Ancestors on My Mind: Discovering our Ancestors, Our History, and Ourselves, TOGETHER. 

I won’t be able to attend this year, but I hope to get notes from some of my friends and stay up-to-date on the books written by presenters.

You can get more information about the conference by visiting the conference page on the AAHGS website.  They are still looking for presenters, and conference registration is now open.  

Each year, the conference grows, as it should, so I encourage you to attend – and even to submit a proposal – if you’re interested.  I’ll be there in spirit with you.

Beginning Your Genealogical Journey

Beginning Your Genealogical JourneyIf you are like me, you find the work of researching ancestors to be immense and sometimes quite overwhelming, especially if you’re just starting out.  In some ways, there is so MUCH information – wills, plantation archives, census lists, family histories, etc – and in others, especially if your ancestors were enslaved, there is so little information.  It’s hard to know where to begin.

Today, I spent a few minutes at the site watching a film with my friend Angela Walton-Raji, who is the creator of the African-Native American Genealogy Blog.  If you are looking to start some genealogical research, this is an excellent introduction. Angela stresses the importance of documenting information, following a careful process of reviewing data, and some of the first steps you can take on your genealogical journey. Plus, her full video series will walk you through the key steps for your genealogy research process.

If you appreciate the insights Angela offers here, I recommend you subscribe to her YouTube channel and also tune in for her African Roots Podcast.

And be sure to share this page with anyone you know who might find Angela’s tips helpful.

If you find what you read here at Our Folks’ Tales to be useful or engaging, I hope you will join our mailing list to get regular updates.  You can do so in the right-hand column of this page.  Thank you.