We think of our lives in different ways from ourselves and others like we think of our families in different places but never being too far away from what we may think of as home.
Everyone, on the other hand, acknowledges agreement on the cycle of life we believe in, and that circle we envision shows babies being born to parents who care for and protect their young until they are able to care for themselves, ready to leave to experience life on their own. In this life cycle we envision in our minds, parents will precede their children in death.
Sometimes that picture of a life cycle is cruelly interrupted by a parent’s loss of a child while they, the parents, survive. These parents walk through the valley of the shadow of death as the psalmist wrote in the 23rd Psalm in the Bible and yet I find the Psalm is incomplete for I have witnessed tragic losses that broke the life cycle we expected. Some of those parents who remained were very afraid for their children and themselves. They feared the Evil of Death while they lost their faith in the future.
Many years ago I wrote a poem about women who lose their children – some without warning, some after a short illness, some after an illness that lasted too long – but all out of our expected cycles of life.
Rainy Day Women
Their faces wear grief like blocks of stone.
Their eyes see, and their ears hear,
But they are in a separate place.
The roads they walk are backwards,
And their direction is aimless.
They are the mothers who have lost children.
They weep with no tears.
They mourn without ashes,
Their names are Sorrow and Emptiness.
How can we reach their separate place?
How can we touch the blind and deaf in their grief?
Our words are all we can offer.
Not for a minute, not for an hour, but for as long as they live.
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This post is dedicated to Francie Kleckley in memory of her daughter Kathryn.
Last night Pretty and I were watching a new comedy on Netflix when she suddenly sat up and said, tomorrow is the 9th. of February, our 24th. anniversary. This was huge because for twenty-three years Pretty had problems remembering the date. Bravo!
I usually began the reminder process in January every year with a conversation that followed along these lines. Pretty, you know we have an anniversary coming up in February. Oh yes, she would say. What day is it then? I asked. Time passed as the wheels turned. I could see them turning. Is it the 12th.? she finally guessed. No, I replied with outright disgust. It’s the 9th. Pretty said oh she knew it was either the 9th. or the 12th. but thought she always got it wrong so she went with the one she didn’t really think was right. Didn’t I say I saw the wheels turning? For twenty-three anniversaries, Pretty has never remembered the right date. I always remember because I have it written on my calendar, and I don’t consider that cheating. I consider it brilliant. (Was that a calendar I saw in Pretty’s lap last night? Hmm.)
Return with me to those thrilling days of yesteryear to meet Pretty who magically changed from being a close friend and confidante (before the spontaneous trip to Cancun pictured above in February, 2001) to a woman who was hotter than the salsa we had with dinner at La Destileria the first night we were there. And trust me, that salsa was hot.
Pretty was “out” in a conservative state in a tumultuous era. She was ahead of her time with her Bluestocking Bookstore in the Vista in Columbia before the Vista became cool. Her business closed after three years, but her contribution to the LGBTQ community was recognized and appreciated. She served on the original board of directors for the SC Gay and Lesbian Business Guild formed in 1993 and was the second president of that organization. Her passion for equality was the catalyst for an activist’s life, a passion she and I shared as friends over the decade that was the 1990s.
At the turn of the century, change was in the air. It was like everyone suddenly realized time was passing faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive and if Superman and Wonder Woman were unlikely to intervene in the chaos and/or uninspiring sameness of our lives, we needed to make radical changes ourselves.
Both Pretty and I were in long term lesbian relationships that experienced seismic shifts as the first year of the new century came to a close. Our partners began looking for love in other places. Pretty had the additional drama associated with making a home for a fifteen year old son who she adored, an athletically gifted teenager who was the quarterback of his high school football team and the starting pitcher for their baseball team. She mixed her real estate appointments in her new career as a realtor for The Hubbard Group with her tennis league schedules and her son’s games.
The trip to Cancun was the launching pad for the most adventurous ride of my life. I had no way of knowing then that the gorgeous intelligent intellectually inquisitive woman with the wonderful sense of humor who grew up in New Prospect, South Carolina would marry the woman from deep in the heart of Richards, Texas and that we would be together for the next twenty-four years sharing a life unimaginable to me as a child. Yet, here we are – still laughing at each other’s jokes, still loving, still standing. And yes, still eating Mexican food as often as our older appetites allow; but now with the additional delight of sharing fajitas and quesadillas with our growing family that makes our love richer, more joyful, more playful.
How do I love thee, Pretty? Let me count the ways, and let me begin with the spicy salsa you have always brought to our family life together for two decades plus now. On that first trip to Cancun, we walked along the beach in the moonlight and I said I would give anything to celebrate our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary together in 2026. Unbelievable. Inconceivable. That seemed like such a long, long time away then, especially since I was fifty-five years old and you were fourteen years younger. We’re almost there, but the years have passed faster than a speeding bullet, our love more powerful than a locomotive.
Happy 24th. Anniversary, Pretty. Let the good times roll.
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granddaughters Ella and Molly at Mexican restaurant
Before 7:00 a.m. last Wednesday, February 8th., 22 year old Amir Locke was sleeping soundly, wrapped in a comforter on a couch inside a Minneapolis apartment. A police bodycam video shows SWAT team police officers entering the apartment at that moment by quietly turning a key to unlock it, bursting through the doorway yelling Police! Search Warrant! One of the officers kicked the sofa where Locke was sleeping. Locke, a Black man, seemed to be startled and tried to sit up while holding a gun he had legally purchased for protection in his work as a driver for a food delivery service in the Minneapolis/St.Paul area. A few seconds later, Amir was shot and killed by policemen serving a no-knock warrant – but not for a warrant against Amir.
Sound familiar? It really should. Next month, March 13th., marks the two year anniversary of the murder of Breonna Taylor, the 26 year old Black woman killed by police in her own apartment in Louisville, Kentucky. Ms. Taylor was an Emergency Room tech for the University of Louisville Health. Three police officers fired 32 bullets in the early morning raid that killed Taylor, hitting her six times.
Jury selection has begun this week (two years after the fact) for Louisville Metro ex-police officer Brett Hankison on charges of wanton endangerment because he fired recklessly during the early morning raid into Taylor’s neighbor’s apartment where three people were inside. He also fired 10 shots into Taylor’s apartment, but his bullets were not the ones later identified as killing her.
No one has ever been charged in Breonna Taylor’s death.
Marisa Lati in an article in The Washington Post on February 03, 2022 writes “Ben Crump, an attorney for Taylor’s family, said the three felony counts of wanton endangerment against Hankison should be the lowest charges among many in the case. ‘The trial of Brett Hankison recalls the inconceivable lack of justice for Breonna Taylor,’ he said in a statement. ‘It is hard to comprehend that this is the only criminal trial to emerge from the botched no-knock raid that took her innocent life and subsequently shook the nation.’ ”
Reporting by Sara Burnett of the Associated Press on February 05th. states Amir Locke had recently filed paperwork to start his own music business and was leaving Minneapolis to move to Dallas next week to be closer to his mother. Locke’s family said he had no previous criminal record. Amir was born in the St. Paul suburb of Maplewood, grew up in the suburbs where he played basketball in middle school and tried out for the high school football team but a broken collar bone ended his athletic career. Music became his passion, he loved hip-hop and “speaking about the realities of what’s going on in the neighborhood,” according to Andre Locke, his father.
February is designated Black History Month, and the clouds that cover me today are for these two young people who should have been contributors to that history but whose names now become reminders of the ongoing lack of equal justice and systemic racism instead. Amir Locke. Breonna Taylor.
Hear their voices as Oprah explained the remarkable cover of Breonna Taylor for the September, 2020 issue of Oprah Magazine:
“For the first time in 20 years, @oprah has given up her O Magazine cover to honor Breonna Taylor. She says, Breonna Taylor. She was just like you. And like everyone who dies unexpectedly, she had plans. Plans for a future filled with responsibility and work and friends and laughter. Imagine if three unidentified men burst into your home while you were sleeping. And your partner fired a gun to protect you. And then mayhem. What I know for sure: We can’t be silent. We have to use whatever megaphone we have to cry for justice. And that is why Breonna Taylor is on the cover of O magazine. I cry for justice in her name…”
Today on this 08th. day of Black History Month I also cry for justice in Breonna Taylor’s and Amir Locke’s names, two young people who made history for the wrong reasons but whose legacy will forever be linked to the struggles for justice for all Black people everywhere. Say their names.
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Stay safe, stay sane, get vaccinated, get boosted and please stay tuned.
“Sport is unpredictable. I kept remembering how many times I lost here like 2012 [5 hours, 53 minutes in five sets to Novak Djokovic] and 2017 [Roger Federer in five sets]. I was not ready for these battles, but today was the day I gave everything.” (Press conference in Melbourne following Rafael Nadal’s victory at the 2022 Australian Open)
Down the first two sets in the best three of five against the second seed twenty-five-year-old Daniil Medvedev, the thirty-five-year-old Nadal who was seeded sixth in the tournament said following the match that his win in this year’s final at the Australian Open was the greatest comeback of his career. I say amen, Brother Tennis Man. For five hours and twenty-four minutes, you gave everything.
Pretty asked me Saturday night if I planned to watch the men’s singles final beginning at 3:30 a.m. Sunday, and I replied no, I think I’ll just record it. Pretty looked surprised since I watched the women’s final at that mad hour Saturday morning and had watched Rafa’s previous six matches to get to the final. No one, including me, was surprised with Aussie Ash Barty’s win over American tennis player Danielle Collins in straight sets in the women’s singles final. I enjoyed the match, but I had no intense feelings about the outcome.
The Nadal/Medvedev match was a horse of a different color. My love for Rafa has grown over the past twenty years along with the increased coverage of televised “live” tennis tournaments. I like his passion for playing each point regardless of the score, the work ethic he brings to preparation, the respect he has for his opponents, his own love of sport in general and tennis in particular. I even find his obsessive compulsive behavior entertaining. Whenever I had the opportunity to watch Nadal play on television, I took advantage of it. So when Pretty asked me if I was getting up to watch the final at 3:30 a.m., she thought I would say yes.
Uncharacteristically I said no, I don’t think so. Too much was on the line in this match for Nadal. He was tied in the race for men’s Grand Slam singles tennis wins with Roger Federer and Novak Djokovic at 20 each. History was hanging in the balance in the AO final for him. He had only won the Australian title once in his twenty year career – in 2009 when he defeated Federer in five sets. That was one win in seventeen tries. Not a great track record down under. Plus I knew Rafa had been plagued for the past six months with surgery and rehab on his left foot that was always a problem for him so he had limited preparation for this tournament. In addition, Rafa had tested positive for Covid in December, been very sick for two days and wondered what effect the virus would have on his stamina. I believed it would take a miracle for him to win against Medvedev, and I honestly didn’t want to see it “live.” My nerves would be jangling, I thought. That’s why I said no when Pretty asked me if I was going to get up at 3:30 a.m. Sunday.
But of course, I woke up at 4:30 a.m. wondering about the match. Curiosity got the best of me, and I staggered into the den to click on ESPN. As I feared, Nadal had lost the first set 2-6; but as the second set began, I saw something in the way he was competing that appeared more forceful than I had hoped. I was hooked, but he lost the second set in a tiebreak that was, oh so close.
Mind over matter. The spirit must be willing for the flesh to suffer as Nadal often says his uncle Toni Nadal taught him from the age of three when he began learning to play tennis on the island of Mallorca in Spain. Uncle Toni’s training has been reinforeced by Carlos Moya who is Nadal’s team captain, the leader of a small group of friends on his team that supported Rafa as he transcended tennis history to become the first man to win twenty-one Grand Slam Titles in singles at the 2022 Australian Open. It was Nadal’s version of the Mallorca Miracle in the final three sets – a clinic in determination, persistence, and brilliant problem solving under immense pressure. Billie Jean King says pressure is a privilege and if she’s right, no one is more privileged than Rafa Nadal was in the last three sets of the AO final.
2-6, 6-7, 6-4, 6-4, 7-5 was the score when the last gong sounded for Medvedev who had competed like the champion he is in the long, grueling match that pitted the two men like sweaty prize fighters in a boxing ring instead of the Rod Laver Arena with a seating capacity of 14,000+ fans that were overwhelmingly supporting Nadal. The Aussies love their tennis – Nadal is a favorite – the crowd was pulling for Rafa. Poor Daniil who Rafa said afterwards “always has been nice to me.”
“I’m so tired I can’t even celebrate,” Nadal said to the reporters at his press conference following his victory. He had to ease down in the chair provided for him to sit and answer questions about the match and his future.
“I know no one expected me to win…but the support of the crowd helped me…I understand what 21 means, and I feel honored. Of course it means very much to me…my love for the game, my passion for it, my working spirit to play a beautiful sport that makes me happy. I know I have fewer chances to win so I stay more in the moment now than looking toward the future…”
Alana Holmberg for The New York Times
I was never a very good tennis player when I was a member of the tennis team in high school but I enjoyed playing for fun in college and the years beyond. My serve and volleying days are over, but my passion for the game lives on. Thank goodness for the magic of the fuzzy images of the small screens that became larger ones in high definition in my lifetime. I’m grateful to have lived in the golden age of the Big Three men plus a diverse collection of women legends over the past six decades that includes Billie Jean King, Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova, and the Williams Sisters (Serena and Venus – not Pretty and Darlene).
I said farewell to the 2022 Australian Open this past weekend – Pretty is hopeful the clay court season starts soon and that The Tennis Channel will have better coverage for me than ESPN did for the summer down under.
Rafa Nadal at the Australian Open in 2012
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Stay safe, stay sane, get vaccinated, get boosted and please stay tuned.
Ella holds Mollywhile Pretty and I swoon over them
Molly Iris James was born Wednesday, January 26th., at 1:42 p.m. She weighed 7 lbs. 4 oz. and is 20.4 inches long. Ella loves her “Lolly.” Pretty and I love them both.
Before Ella was born 2 years ago, my doctor told me having a grandchild would add 10 years to my life so last week when I was in his office I asked him what would 2 granddaughters do? He looked at me and asked how old are you now? When I said 75, he said without blinking, “15.” I’m good with that.
Whether 10 or 15 years, 10 or 15 months – I’m thankful for experiencing the joy of our family with Pretty. Unbelievable joy, indescribable happiness we can share together. It’s been good for the soul – a gift from the Great Spirit.
Today while Molly napped, Ella pretended to be me. Hilarious.
What did you do today, Naynay?
I watched tennis on tv
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Stay safe, stay sane, please get vaccinated and boosted, and stay tuned.
I'll Call It Like I See It 
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