I do, I do....ohhhhh I do.....

Memories of a dark and birthday sort of night.....

I'm not much for fancy dinners.

Cake is good.

Hugs are good.

 

My favorite birthdays are the quiet ones that unfold into something unexpected.

 

One year I spent the entire day alone, no cards, no cake, no birthday wishes from anyone, it was just a quiet, normal Sunday. But that night....that night I had arranged to pick up my daughter from her across-the-state bike ride which had just ended that day. Her team bus would be dropping her off at an interstate rest area near our home town. At the appointed hour, I got out of my car as the big bus pulled into the rest area parking lot. From the bus poured a herd of sweaty and road-weary bikers. They'd just pedaled about 400 miles over the preceding week and it was right around 100 degrees outside.....at night. My daughter amongst them, dusty and dirty as the rest.

Not gonna sugar-coat it.

They'd been doin' a bit of post-ride drinkin. A few of those boys and girls were pretty tippy and it made me laugh. Once assembled on the blacktop right alongside the bus, the entire lot of them broke into a spirited.......albeit a slightly inebriated version....of Happy Birthday to Mama Debbie.

My daughter was dead-center. I collected about 30 hugs of varying styles and several of near frightening levels of enthusiasm. But I was "birthday'd" right proper, right then and there. That's for sure. And I was grinning big. I'll never, ever forget my rest-stop birthday.

 

A few years later I had yet another amazing summer-night birthday.

A really dear friend was in town. He lives far, far away and we keep in email, chat and text touch, but I just never, ever get to see him. We're not a dating thing. Not a romance thing. We're a really, really dear friend thing. That night he was only in town for a short while with plenty of people who wanted to spend time with him, too. But he came and spent my birthday evening with me.

We stood in line at Arby's for take-out sandwiches.

We found a park bench on the quiet, grassy banks of a small town pond.

And we sat there, miles away from the city. Miles away from real life.

We sat and we sat and we sat until the sun went down.

We shared stories. And we laughed.

It got chilly.

We got a blanket from the trunk of my car.

We wrapped up in it there on the bench and got really quiet.

You know how it is; how you can really tell how you're connected with a person by the way the two of you manage silence? It can be natural and sweet. Or it can be uncomfortably awkward.

That night we sat there and shared the most comfortable silence for the longest time as the moon rose over the water. It was freakishly perfect, like something out of a movie.

The water.

The moon.

The reflection.

Crickets chirping in the grass.

Breeze rattling in the nearby cornfields.

It was a like a magic picture someone was painting for my birthday.

We told more stories. And we laughed again and again.

Next morning he flew home.

We both love the memory of that good, good night.

 

Simple. Cheap. Unexpected. Memorable.

Perfect birthdays, both. The very best kind.

In search of...

 

 

Me and the Elevator Guy

So I worked for my small-town post office for a bunch of years. Twelve, maybe? I delivered mail on a rural route on days the regular carrier had off and I also worked as a clerk inside the post office when the regular clerk took some days off.

I remember a morning when I was working inside, sorting mail, working the tiny little front counter with a customer waiting area that couldn’t have been more than 80 square feet. It was such a tiny place. And of course, as you would expect, there were the obligatory notebooks filled-to-bursting with pages of “Most Wanted” sheets, with photos of criminals and their fingerprints. Yep, just like you’d expect.

Small town post offices are social places. The people who work there know everyone. Friends and neighbors come and go. The early morning parade pretty much repeats itself every day: local businesses pick up their mail, people stop in to mail letters before work; on check day all of the social security recipients call in and ask to have their mail held instead of delivered ~ they'd be in to pick up the check before lunch.

So I was working the front counter and, as was often the case, had a little bag of snacks tucked under the counter. On this particular day it was a bag of Cheetos. Probably not the best choice, but I was hungry and I probably stole it out of one of my kids sack lunches on my way out the door that morning long before they got up to get ready for school.

In walks a young-ish guy who works at the local grain elevator just across the road. He came to pick up the elevators mail just like he did many previous days. It was like a daily dance. He’d walk in, I would see him and head straight to the elevators mailbox. I’d pull the mail, hand it to him as I said, “Good morning!”, he’d take it from me, say, “Yes, ma’am” and he’d leave with the mail.  I had noted on more than one occasion how, in addition to his stellar country-boy manners,  he was quite a good-looking fella in a corn-weighing and grain-bin filling sort of way. Sparkly dark eyes, dark hair, farmer tan and even early in the morning he was always dusty and dirty. I kinda favor dusty and dirty guys. As much as a middle-aged married lady with three kids is allowed to enjoy such things in the context of sorting mail at the local post office, he was an early morning treat on which whatever hormones inside me were gasping for their last breathe, could nibble and get a momentary recharge. In turn, I am sure he looked at me in that very special “didn’t you graduate with my mom?” sorta way. It was a relationship that worked for both of us.

Anyway, on the days I worked it was just our routine, our dance; just the regular morning hi-and-bye. But this morning as he approached the counter it was ill-timed to my consuming a handful of Cheetos and as I reached across the counter to hand the elevators mail to him, I realized I had that yellow cheese-powder all over me. I laughed, “Oh shoot,” I said, “I’m sorry. Look at me, I’m a mess! You caught me eating Cheetos. I’ve got cheese all over my fingers.”

And without so much as blinking he just smiled, looked me straight in the eye and said, “I could lick it off yer fingers, if ya like.”

In that split second an invisible vaccum sucked every last molecule from my lungs while both of my knees simultaneously lost all sense of responsibility and went completely liquid. My body was, in effect, quivering on a knee base of Jello in such a way most folks would recognize it as a serious swoon. Serious. I nearly went down to the floor. Of course, that wouldn’t have been professional. So, ever the mature business woman, I nonchalantly…..as nonchalantly as a swooning female considering having her cheesy fingers licked clean by a young, dusty, sweaty elevator guy can be…..I nonchalantly groped for the counter with my free hand, pulled myself toward the wall and awkwardly leaned there with a look on my face that I hoped said, “I lean here every morning at this time, Mister.” instead of “I am soooooo paralyzed by the thought of you licking powdered cheese from my fingers right at this moment I think I shall surely die….”

I’m not sure, but I think I pulled it off. He didn’t scream, “Get the paddles, the old lady is down!”. Nope. He just winked at me and slid out the door with the mail. Well, I guess he walked out. I did most of the sliding…..straight back to the restroom where, if memory serves, I ran my head under cold water for 10 minutes. And I gave those cheesy fingers a darn good scrubbing, too.

I should mention also, the moment was immortalized in an especially meaningful way by the presence of my co-worker, a guy I’ve been buddies with since we were just kids. He was standing back from the counter, away from view. But I could hear him. Ohhhh I could hear him all right.

And that would’ve been that. End of story. Sweaty moment; embarrassing moment.

But it wasn’t.

A couple weeks later, instead of managing the front counter at the post office,  I was working as the rural route mail carrier on the most beautiful of blue-sky days. I remember that sky so well. You’ll understand why in a bit.

So, if we harken back to the original premise, I’ll note we are, once again, talking about the dusty, sweaty elevator guy with the dark eyes and, as is not unusual with most of the folks who worked in town, he also lived on my mail route as I delivered to just about everybody who lived out in the countryside in our zip code; over 500 families.

Yep. He lived out there. And on this particular morning  I noted there was a parcel I would be delivering to his address. It was oversize; something that would not fit in the mailbox. I would have to deliver it to the door. To. The. DOOR. As I stacked the parcel in the back of the Jeep with that morning’s mail I thought to myself….how embarrassing, I’m going to have to walk up to his door and knock on it after that whole cheese-powder episode……I knew he probably would not be home anyway, but in the miles leading up to his mailbox I troubled over it and finally thought, “Yknow what, Deb? You just pretend that never, ever happened. You just get OUT of the jeep and you walk UP to his door and you KNOCK and if he’s there you say hello and you hand him the parcel just as any professional would and you bid him a good day and you get back in your jeep: Job. Well. Done.

That was the plan.

All the miles leading up to his farmhouse, that was the plan. And that was the plan when I arrived. I pulled into the big gravel turn-around in front of his house, climbed out and grabbed the parcel from the back and turned to walk up the narrow old path leading to the back door of his house.

The door opened. There he was.

Standing in the doorway.

Smiling at me.

Wearing a towel.

That’s it. Yep. That’s all he was wearing. One big, hairy chest up top, two very hairy legs on the floor and a big, white towel wrapped around the middlin’ parts. Nothing but a towel. Well, I guess that’s not quite true. He was wearing a smile, too. OMG, the smile….don’t forget the smile.

So, as you can imagine, at this point I’m having flashbacks to the whole powdery cheese thing and how I lost complete control of all my senses. As I’m putting my car in park I’m promising myself I wouldn’t be letting that sort of thing happen again. I checked my fingers; no cheese. No problem.

My strategy that morning, I think, was a good one. I made direct eye contact. What else could I do when the voice in my ear was chanting, “Don’t look at the towel. Don’t look at the towel. Don’t look at the towel.” Yep, you might go so far as to say my eyes were cemented to his, so much so that I doubt I ever blinked, not even once.  I kept my eyes locked on his, with a big GENERIC smile…..yes, I was VERY careful to keep it generic as opposed to coy or flirtatious or any of those other frightening words that might have crossed ones mind when there is a handsome, recently dusty and sweaty, hairy-chested man in a towel standing about 50 feet from you.

I was careful with my eyes lest they wander or betray my nervousness over the whole cheese thing and now, of course, this towel thing. I was so, so careful.

And that’s when it happened. I was almost to the front steps leading up the porch to where he stood when I stepped in a hole in his sidewalk. There was a big gap in the concrete and my foot found it. I went straight down……smiling, mind you!....straight down to the ground, face-planting into the sidewalk, rolling ever-so-gently on impact and landing flat on my back, looking up at 1) the beautiful blue sky and 2) the large parcel which I had managed to save from any sort of damage by cushioning the blow with my body and was now sitting on my stomach in the death-grip of my famous fingers. I would note later to my coworker the parcel was still in my hands when the rolling stopped. A moment of postal carrier pride.

At this point I had two choices: I could die. It would have been pretty easy. I’m pretty sure my blood pressure was peaking. I could just die right then and there. He’d come out, I would be dead, he’d call the volunteer fire department, they’d haul me away and I’d never have to try to ignore those big, dark eyes ever, ever again. The second choice, of course, was that I could roll over, get up and deliver. I rolled. The whole getting up thing was challenging. Once again my knees were not working, but this time because of the excruciating pain pulsing through them resulting from the chance meeting with concrete. Somehow I would manage. I knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

I chose a combination of the two. I died inside. Yes indeed, every teaspoon of dignity I had in me just shriveled up and died, right there on the spot. And yet, my lungs continued to expand, my heart continued to beat and I somehow managed to tear my eyes from that incredible blue sky and crawl to the steps where he was now standing. Of course, at the very same time he was quite chivalrously trying to help me up with one hand while continuing to hold the towel with the other. Somehow we managed to transfer the parcel, yet allow all regionalities beneath the towel to remain the mystery they should be….. and I limped back to the car. I think he said thank you. I am pretty sure I tried to speak but I don’t think anything came out.

Postal work had it’s moments.

And I stay away from Cheetos now.

 

 

Goodbyes

 

My mom and step-dad married when I was 13 years old.

I'd made it clear in the years since my parents divorce that I never, ever wanted my mom to marry again. Until she met Bob. Mom and my sister and I all fell in love with him.

We all "got married" a year later.

My baby sister was born a year after that.

 

 

Bob could kinda be a crabby guy.

As the years passed and I became an adult, it used to make me mad the weird ways in which my mom fussed over him: she'd get up in the wee hours every morning to make his lunch. She'd lay out his socks and underwear before he took his morning bath. She'd crawl into bed before him, lay on his side of the bed to warm up the sheets and then roll over onto the cold side when he came to bed.

 

Child of the 60's that I was, this sort of stuff kinda hacked me off.

The whole equal-rights thing that was marching down every major highway in America reminded me he could "certainly make his own damn lunch."

 

 

Mom told me one time, "There are so few things I can do just especially for him ~ I love doing those things because they make him feel special."

And I would huff a little huff and decide she was clueless about how women should be treated.

 

 

My folks were married in early 1967.

In 2008 my mom became ill and ended up in a hospital bed in the living room of the home in which I grew up. She would lie there, unable to so much as roll over on her own, for the next 6 years.

During that time my step-dad cared for her. He was nearing 90 years old and still tight as bark on a tree when it came to money, but he took good care of my mom.

Fed her. Bathed her. Made sure she had all her medicine every day, on time.

He made sure she was safe and warm.

 

In February of 2014 my step-dad had a stroke, sitting in the recliner right next to my mama's hospital bed. She was right there beside him and had not a clue what had happened. She was cozy and warm and slept through it. An ambulance took my step-dad away.

 

A week later, he was transferred to a hospice care facility.

Three days later we moved my mom to a care facility near our home.

They lay in their respective beds, on opposite sides of the city and we assured them both the other was being well taken care of. They never asked.

 

My sisters and I were with Bob when he died so peacefully we barely realized it had happened.

It was a Thursday.

A week later mom went the same way: peacefully, surrounded by her girls.

 

My favorite memory of my folks is the day Bob left mom in my sister and I's care to accompany one of the WWII veterans Honor Flights to Washington DC. He leaned over her hospital bed to check on her one more time before he left her for the first time they'd been separated for more than a few hours....for years. "Mama, I'll be home soon." he told her.

"Daddy," she said as she reached up and touched his arm, "Are you wearing an undershirt today? I don't want you to get cold."

 

Still fussing after all those years.

And finally I understood. 

 

Our final picture with the man who loved my mama.

Strong hands that belonged to a man who went from bachelor to husband and step-dad of two in one quick ceremony in front of a few family members and friends. He loved us as his own and I'll always be grateful for those loving hands.

 

 

Living with Charlie

 

 The dog did it.

What do you mean??

The dog did what?

 

(Charlie: I was sleeping. I don't know what she's talking about.) 

 



 

Ohhhhhhh noooo......CHARLIE!

Did you do this??????

 

Nooo.....no I don't think I did.

No. I didn't do that.

 

 

 

Ok, all right.

I did. But I didn't mean to.

I'm very, very sorry.

Very.

 

And I won't ever do it again.

Probably.

Well, it would be unlikely.

But while we are on the subject of our activities while you are at work........

 I probably should mention......

 

 

 

And that's our life.

Life with my Charlie.

Road Map

Savannah-Sweet Nights

Bill

 

I met a guitar picker over a year ago on a night he’ll never remember. I went out to hear my daughters band play, it was a tough crowd, a bad night and he was a guy who walked up to her after it was all over, told her not to sweat it and just gave her that “been there, done that, they’re assholes” pat on the back from a guy who really, truly has. A road dog with some miles on him lifted my daughter up that night. How could I not notice.

So what would your story look like if you knew in your heart you were born to create music? You weren’t always sure why or what purpose it was supposed to serve, you just knew the music was in your head and you had to accommodate it.  Along the way it cost you plenty, yet the higher the cost, the more you knew it was the right thing; it was what you had to do.

Your story might look like this guitar picker. I caught up with him a few months later and now we're friends. I've learned he’s a country boy who didn’t fit in as a kid until his size and speed caught the attention of coaches who handed him a football; he shot up the popularity charts with a bullet, from nobody to somebody in 1000 rushed yards of a high school season. I’m pretty sure all the cheering felt great to a small-town kid after all those awkward years, even better when the recruiters started chasing him.

He hasn’t told me, but I know he was already hearing the music in his head when he went off to college on a football scholarship, because school didn’t work out. Not here, not there, not anywhere and he tried a few. He came home to his garage band, got married, had some kids and started to pay closer attention to the music he’d heard in his head all his life.

Some artists are born to create. When they’re not creating those big ol’ feelings from way back when, the ones that tell a guy he just doesn’t fit in, loom big and mean. There is no ball to throw, there are no tackles to make. It’s just you, your words and your music and the dream that one day the world will listen. So you play. You write and you sing and you play because that’s how you chase those old demons away. You make someone smile. You get them to sing along. They dance. They buy you a drink, stick a five in the jar and say “thanks, man.” You’re back on the field and the crowds are cheering again.

From the view up in the cheap seats, the benefits of making it big in the music industry are pretty compelling. There’s the money, of course. The attention. The cheering crowds. At the core, there’s the recognition that what you’ve done all your life with this gift…this passion you’ve been given…matters. To someone. To anyone.  To an artist born to create, the dream of a world which embraces your art is a bright star worth chasing. That your words, that your songs….could mean something to someone, could change them, could bless them, help them, feed their souls or encourage them to be better; such are the dreams of an artist born to make music.

Along the way the roads you’ve traveled, the people you’ve met, the mistakes you’ve made….make you wiser and you start sharing little bits and pieces of yourself with younger people. Even while you’re still on your journey, you listen to their music and you pat their backs because you know what it’s like to have dreams. You know what it’s like to take your heart and soul and lay it bare in front of tonight’s audience, not knowing whether they’ll applaud you or throw beer.

Enter my daughter. Enter my friend the guitar picker. Her story is just beginning. His continues and I am pretty sure I know what he would tell her if she asked.

How many times do you pick up a pencil and write it all down? How many nights will you take your six-string girl out of the truck and court her for tips? How long does a hometown kid keep chasing a dream?

He'd tell her you keep on keeping on doing that thing you do until the lights go out and the music in your head stops.

 

 

 

 

A good day might weave from loose to tight

A bad one unfold from dark to light

With corners and wrinkles and loose ends that dangle,

I must iron and smooth and work to untangle.

 

And it's just easier....

so much easier

......if I've started with a little peace in the morning.

 

 

Peaceful Sunday.

A little water. A little sunshine.

A big stick.

Smiling. Can you see it?

There is so much peace to be found in the simplest of pleasures.

A warm lake. A mossy boat ramp. A happy dog.

I'd like to thank Gunny for today's lakeside moments. He is a beautiful boy whose story has a happy ending. He was found cold and shivering on the side of a highway very late one night this winter. He was a trained hunting dog, knew a full compliment of commands and was well-behaved and obedient. 

Gunny had an obvious need for some serious medical care. There was a tumor. A big one. Months later, surgery completed and a success ~ he's a beloved pal to my son; a faithful jogging and fishing buddy. A ground-sniffing, nose-pointing chaser of deer.

Lover of great big sticks tossed into the lake.

Life. It's just better with a dog.

It's Cold.

 

It is cold. It is. 7 degrees, according to my phone.

To be honest, I don't have to go outdoors today.

I know it's easy enough to sit inside and talk about how

it's not so bad outside. A little snow? So what?

A little bit of wind? So what.

 I know, I know.

It's not so bad ...from the inside looking out.

 

In a room where the heat is cranked.

And the chocolate is hot.

And I'm under a blanket.

 

 

With a fat cat snuggled up to keep my belly warm.
Really, now. This weather isn't so bad.

 

If, however, anyone in the neighborhood is in the mood to whine,

take a wander around and see what it's like elsewhere.

 

Denali National Park in Alaska  7F degrees

  Winnipeg Manitoba  -17F degrees

Yakutsk Sibera  -24F degrees

Ulaanbaatar Mongolia  -15F degrees

Nuuk Greenland  23F (Balmy!!!)

Reykjavik Iceland  30F (!!??)

 

It's colder here than Greenland? Than Iceland?

Ok, neighbors. Go ahead and whine.

Pull up those socks, wrap a scarf around your neck,

coax an unsuspecting cat onto your lap and snuggle in.

 

If you live in Florida or Maui or Grand Cayman and

you want to momentarily share our winter magic, stuff your shirt full of

ice cubes and stare at this for a bit:

 

 

 (Do you feel like sledding yet?)

 

Speaking of Siberia (were we???) for which I have a lingering fascination and curiosity, this morning I came across a great article published in The Independent (UK) a few years back.

Here is an excerpt from a nice piece written by the young author's mini-vacation in Siberia. It's great! See the link following this exceprt for the full text of his experience.

Very interesting, well worth a few minutes read.

 

 by Shaun Walker, Moscow Correspondent for +The Independent (UK)

 

So, before venturing outdoors in Yakutsk for the first time, I have decided to don a suitcase's worth of clothes to protect me against the cold. Starting from the feet and working up, I'm wearing: a pair of cotton socks, with a pair of thermal socks over them; a pair of ankle-high Gore-Tex boots; a set of thermal long-johns; a pair of jeans; a thermal undershirt (a present from a worried family member); a long-sleeved T-shirt; a tight-fitting cashmere jumper; a fleece; a padded winter coat with hood; a thin pair of woollen gloves (so that when I take the outer pair off to take photographs I won't expose naked flesh); a pair of gloves made of wool and Thinsulate; a wool scarf; and a woolly football hat.

Lumbering from my hotel room like the Michelin Man, and already breaking into a sweat due to the hotel's industrial heating system, I decide that I'm ready to face everything Yakutsk has to throw at me. I stride purposefully out of the hotel door and... well... it really isn't that bad. The small oblong of my face that is naked to the elements definitely registers the cold air, but on the whole, it feels fine; pleasant, even. As long as you're dressed right, I think, this isn't too bad.

Within a few minutes, however, the icy weather begins to assert itself forcefully. The first place to suffer is the exposed skin on my face, which begins to sting, and then experience shooting pains, before going numb, which is apparently dangerous, because it means blood flow to the skin has stopped. Then the cold penetrates the double layer of gloves and sets to work on chilling my fingers.

The woolly hat and padded hood are no match for minus 43C (-45F) either, and my ears begin to sting. Next to succumb are the legs. Finally, I find myself with severe pain all across my body and have to return indoors. I look at my watch. I have been outside for 13 minutes.

 

Read the full text of Shaun's fascinating article about his mini-vacation in Siberia here

 

Time for another cup of hot chocolate.

And perhaps another pair of socks.

 

 

 

Morning Drive

 

Lines of the season.

Stark and strong against the backdrop of winter.

 

 

 

  

  

   

  

 

 

Foggy Winter Morning

 

With only the slightest traces of snow from our pre-Christmas storm remaining, yesterdays landscape was wrapped in a shroud of fog and warm temperatures.

 

It could have been spring.

 

 

 

 

 

The weatherman warns us, ".....don't put your winter coat away just yet. Tomorrow is coming....and have I got a surprise for you."

 

 

It's a Group Project

This weeks home improvement project began with a trip to the

Habitat for Humanity ReStore. Nearly as dear to my heart as Goodwill Second Hand Stores

when it comes to aisles and aisles of can't-live-without goodies at prices that make the little

DIY hamster in my gut start scrambling furiously, I love the way the inventory is constantly changing.

It only makes sense to stop in twice a week.

Three times, maybe.

 

I mean, what if we missed something on Tuesday that'll be gone by Thursday?

Carpet squares? Boxes of Tile? Bricks! Landscape timbers! Beveled-edge mirrors!

So off we go. And not alone.

 

 

Ever hopeful, the supreme optimist ~ someone waits patiently in the car in

hopes that Habitat also carries doggie treats.

 

They do not.

 

 

He forgives and supervises Project O' The Day.

 

 

Which includes slapping around a whole bunch of paint.

 

 

And wearing just about as much.

 

Some of us paint. Some of us supervise. Some of us (of the feline persuasion) run around outside

chasing mice in the yard. Tough work, if you're called to it.

 

 

Eventually, collectively ~ we rest.

Dairy break! Our favorite kind.

 

Brrrrrrrr

I don't need a thermostat.
The math is simple.
Fat cat on register + cold bathroom floor = icy winter morning.

Studio Saturday

 

Saturday afternoon with a couple of guitars, a few microphones, a friend or three and some sweet, sweet harmony. All this in a little recording studio tucked nicely into a basement.

Thus.....The Spacement 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just in case someone got a sore throat....

 

 

Layer upon layer up layer, it just kept getting better.

 

 

 

Can't wait to hear the final mix.

Meanwhile, it's fun to watch their first videos from months back when they first started writing and performing together.

 

 

 

 

Momentary Return to Elegance

Some of us remember the days.

 

Ladies wore white gloves and carried embroidered handkerchiefs to church on Sunday.
I never much cared for dress-up myself; all my dresses were itchy.
But my memories of elegant and properly dressed church ladies are sweet.

 

+NPR 's Linda Holmes writes in grand perspective of the 2013 Inaugural Ball she attended as a journalist. Oh the elegance of it all! Check out her excellent I-was-there accounting of the event ~ and be SURE sure to click on the photo in the article that shows her glamorous view of the evening.

Read her wonderful essay here:

 
Linda Holmes Monkeysee 

Big Wheel

 

Flip me a vowel, Vanna-girl.

Keeping Down the Weeds

My mom and dad went to college in Florida. Bible college.

It was the early 1950's.

 

Mom told me the story of how my father ~ then a young seminary student ~ chastised her in the back aisle of a small-town drug store when she leaned over a fountain to get a drink of water. "Stop! That's the colored's water fountain!!" he had hissed at her, grabbing her arm.

 

She said it was the first time she ever saw hatred in his eyes.



 

I grew up surrounded by people who disliked other races.

They also disliked Catholics and gypsies and lawyers.

But mostly they hated negroes.

 

It sounds funny to even use that word but to put their feelings into proper context it's the closest I care to use instead of the real "N" word I heard all my life.

 

Seeds of hate. Seeds of fear. Seeds of distrust.

I was surrounded by people who tossed those seeds into the young and fertile ground of my friends and my siblings and my cousins minds just like a farm wife scatters tiny lettuce seeds into the dirt every spring.

Lucky for me, my mom knew something about gardens.

She knew those were weed seeds and she believed in the power of the hoe.

And hoe she did. Hoe, hoe, hoe.

For every hateful seed sewn into my little mind's garden she relentlessly hacked away at that fertile ground with her hoe. Where hate was pressed into my mind to grow, she loosened the soil and buried even the remote possibility of it's growth with ideas of love and stories of trust.

 

Faithful to what she believed in, wanting to pass on something better to her children, she tended my garden and love grew.

 

Thanks mom.