Category: family life

  • the Civil War, old tapes, social media and crazy liberals

    the Civil War, old tapes, social media and crazy liberals


    As the race toward the 2024 election begins to heat up with Iowa caucuses in the rear view mirror, the New Hampshire primary next Tuesday,  I look more frequently at the map of the red states and blue states that make up our United States to wonder anew at Abraham Lincoln’s commitment to keep the country united as one. I understand the problem better for sure. I always wondered how brother fought brother on different sides during the Civil War. They were family first after all, right? Not so fast, my friend. A post I published in the summer of 2017 is a reminder of how messy families can be – particularly when we get together in cyberspace.

    My grandmother invented social media via the telephone party line we had in our little town as surely as Al Gore invented the internet. She relished listening in on other people’s conversations and delighted to repeat juicy gossip at her kitchen table… but please dear God, don’t ever mess with her family.

    This week I did something I almost never do. I responded on social media to a post made by a first cousin twice removed who has a world view that I have long ago accepted as different from mine. Most of the time I hide his offensive posts from my timeline and move on.

    I can’t bring myself to “un-friend” him because I truly love the little boy I remember visiting us in Richards so often with his grandmother who was my grandmother’s sister. But this week he posted that liberals must have a “mental illness” to think the way we do, and that struck a nerve for me.

    You see, I grew up during a time when being a homosexual was considered to be a mental illness. Think about how you would feel if you grew up believing that you had a secret mental illness and, if exposed, you could be institutionalized. Lock her up. Throw away the key. I heard an old tape begin to  play in my mind.

    Somehow our thread on Facebook took an unpleasant turn, as I already knew it would and we got into a discussion regarding a prevailing Muslim  belief in some places that gays should be killed. Unfortunately, one of my cousin’s friends chimed in with the following comment: “We knew someone many years ago that would probably want to buy a plane today, load them (gays and lesbians) up and drop them off over there (wherever Muslims live). I sure miss him.”

    Wow. I was transported to a conversation I had in the early 1990s with a client who sat in my office and said, “If it were up to me, I’d take all those queers and put them behind barbed wire in Kansas and tell them to stay there.” I didn’t respond then. The old tape was playing louder now.

    One of my mother’s most infamous quotes for me was that she wished all those gays would go back in the closet where they belonged. She would be happy to slam the door shut. The old tape was so loud now I could barely hear myself think.

    Luckily, I didn’t accept the old tapes as I don’t accept my cousin or his friend’s thinking about who I am today. I’ve spent my entire adult life working for equal treatment and fairness – my liberal social justice beliefs. In 1974 the American Psychiatric Association declassified homosexuality as a mental disorder. I was 28 years old. In 2017 at the age of 71, I am personally declassifying liberalism as a mental illness.

    I resolve to limit my social media interaction with my first cousin twice removed to Happy Birthday wishes. No need going up that blind alley again.

    I feel better already.

    *******************

    P.S. Sadly I have “un-friended” my cousin twice removed in the intervening years since 2017 because I had to get out of his kitchen. I couldn’t take the heat.

  • I hope you dance – a refrain

    I hope you dance – a refrain


    Two years ago on the 26th. of this month Molly Iris James was born to her parents Drew and Caroline, big sister Ella, and an assortment of extended family members who couldn’t believe their good fortune in welcoming the birth of a second baby girl to the village that would be her home. When I think of her second birthday in two weeks, the lyrics to the song “I Hope You Dance” by Tia Sillers and Mark Sanders float through my musical memories, a refrain from a previous post.

    I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,
    You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger,
    May you never take one single breath for granted,

    God forbid love ever leave you empty handed,


    I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,

    Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens,
    Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance,

    And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.

    I hope you dance… I hope you dance…

    I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance,
    Never settle for the path of least resistance,
    Livin’ might mean takin’ chances, but they’re worth takin’,
    Lovin’ might be a mistake, but it’s worth makin’,


    Don’t let some Hell bent heart leave you bitter,
    When you come close to sellin’ out reconsider,

    Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance,
    And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

    I hope you dance… I hope you dance.

    ****************

    For my 76th. birthday in April, 2022 Pretty took me and our two granddaughters to the zoo. She carried Molly in her car seat, diaper bag on her back, often carrying two year old Ella in her left arm while I tagged along with my two bionic knees. We had a small parade of our own. Please know I offered to rent a stroller when we entered, but Pretty said the line to rent one was too long to wait. There were two people ahead of me.

    The day was a memory maker, and Pretty deserves an award for creating a magical time for the four of us. I love these little girls to the moon and back.

    that day I hoped they both would dance…

    …and they do!

  • hail, hail – the gang’s all here – what the heck do we care now?

    hail, hail – the gang’s all here – what the heck do we care now?


    Sometimes a song won’t let go of you for reasons known only to the universe and your memories. I published this piece in March, 2018; but the song (first published in 1917) has been playing in my head again so I thought this post was worthy of a second look. What the heck do I care now – let me explain.

    Christmas memories seem strange on Good Friday, but then the mind often ignores time or at least is able to reconstruct its meandering corridors to bring buried secrets to the surface of consciousness.

    One of my favorite Christmas gifts when I was a child growing up in Richards, Texas in rural Grimes County was not one I received but one  I gave to my maternal grandmother Louise whose name I shortened to Dude when I was unable to pronounce Louise. Louise became “Dude-ese,” then simply Dude.

    I was two years old when my dad, mother and I moved into my grandmother’s small Sears Roebuck designed house in Richards in 1948. We lived in that little house with her for eleven Christmases, and each Christmas she gave me two new pairs of underwear she bought from the general store where she clerked six days a week from 8 in the morning until 6 in the evening with an hour for lunch. Two new pairs of underwear wrapped in last year’s red paper she carefully saved, used again and again, tied with a gold string and a tiny tag signed in her scrawling handwriting Lots of love, Dude.

    The Christmas before we moved away from Richards I bought Dude a present at Mr. McAfee’s drug store from money I saved from my allowance. I had never bought her a gift before and was so excited about my purchase: a door chime that played Hail, Hail – the Gang’s All Here. I hadn’t told anyone about my gift, so imagine the look on Dude’s face when she opened it. Just what she needed, she said, and had me believing it.

    Dude had been 50 years old when we moved in with her and was 61 when we moved away to a town 70 miles from Richards leaving her with a disabled adult son, no transportation since she never learned to drive, and very little income. My family came back to visit her every two weeks; whenever the front door opened we were welcomed with the chimes playing hail, hail – the gang’s all here, what the heck do we care? On those weekends her gang was there.

    I was totally unaware of what loneliness combined with the loss of laughter and love must have been for her the other days and nights of her life at that time because I was, after all, a self-absorbed teenager whose only experience with loneliness was self-imposed and transitory. I was never at a loss for laughter.

    By the time I graduated from high school, my grandmother’s life had the beginnings of her roller coaster battle with depression that would plague her for the rest of her days – a war really – on battlegrounds she fought in doctors’ offices and hospitals,  fought sometimes with medicines, sometimes without medicines, sometimes with electroshock therapy.

    My visits to see her became less frequent when I went away to college, and I remember being surprised on one of those visits to discover the door chimes no longer played when I opened the front door. Surprised, but totally unaware of the significance. Her gang was no longer there.

    This morning I was taking a shower and for some reason the shower song du jour was Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here which brought the Christmas memories of my grandmother’s door chime pouring over me like the hot water that rinsed my hair. Dude was the first woman to love me unconditionally with all her heart. I hope wherever she is today her gang is there, too because I want her to be surrounded with the love she gave each of us in the little Sears Roebuck home in Richards.

    Dude (1898 -1972)

    ********************

    Slava Ukraini. For the children.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • the mystery of the unknown children

    the mystery of the unknown children


    The children in these photos had significance to my mother who lost interest in her family history somewhere along the road to losing her memories. Pretty and I found these pictures among hundreds of them dumped haphazardly in boxes in my mom’s garage when we were cleaning out her house to move her from her home in Rosenberg to a memory care facility in Houston in 2007. I could identify most of the people in her large collection, but I am clueless on these children whose photos had no names anywhere. I love these photos for the times and places they represent, but what wouldn’t I give to know who they were and what their relationship was to my mom.

    who is this little girl framed by flowers?

    she had five identical pictures of this little boy

    but no name on any of them

    this little girl seemed happy with being photographed

    these two little girls didn’t look happy at all

    Blackburn Photography took this formal portait –

    still in photography business in Houston today

    The moral of this story (if there is one): ask questions today of the ancient ones in your family if you want to avoid unsolved mysteries in your future. Starting the new year is a good time to begin. My Uncle Marion might have said “discover more in 2024.” I say go for it.

    *****************

    Slava Ukraini. For the children.

  • my motivation is tomorrow

    my motivation is tomorrow


    I am celebrating two twenty-three year anniversaries in 2024: the first and most important one will be on a specific day in February (the 9th.) because that was the day my life with Pretty began; the second anniversary has no specific date, but 2001 was also the year Rafa Nadal became a professional tennis player who captured my admiration and affection throughout his lengthy career. I admit to shedding a few tears this morning as I watched him wave to the crowds in Brisbane, Queensland, Australia following his 3-set loss to Australian Jordan Thompson in the quarterfinals of the Brisbane International tournament which I expect he knew was his last hurrah with the crowds in the stands there.

    The New Indian Express June 03, 2017

    Nadal’s passion for perfection in the game of tennis has been a thrilling journey that has entertained millions of fans around the world. His humility regardless of outcomes in the battles on the tennis courts has been a unique indication of the character that makes him a role model for professional athletes in any sport.

    Just one day at a time, right? Rafa, Pretty and I have been together for nearly a third of my life, and I will miss watching the dynamic Spanish tennis player whose motivation has always been to make tomorrow better with the illusion he was going to get better that day. I believe Pretty and I will continue to share his dream one day at a time with each passing year we are fortunate enough to be together.

    All of us can make 2024 a better tomorrow if we meet each day with an expectation that there is an opportunity, there is the possibility of doing better than we did the day before.

    I will close with the words I’ve heard Rafa say countless times during the on court interviews following his wins in a match, “thank you, thank you very much.”