It was seven in the morning; I stopped the alarm clock before it sounded off. The sky was dark and the air cold, but a song from the robin that took resident in a tree outside my window helped me to get out of bed. I sat on the side of the bed for about 15 minutes. You’ve heard the saying, if any thing can happen, it will, well this morning, my old friend Murphy paid me a visit and spent the better part of the morning with me.
I hadn’t seen Murphy for a while, but there he was making my life a little more eventful than normal, and giving me a reason to slow down and pay attention to what I was doing. I learned from the past that when I don’t take that moment, Murphy stays with me all day, and not even a robin can cheer me up. I had a class this morning and the hour was close for me to leave and pick up my friend.
The class was off campus, and I needed to print a map to show me how to get to the temporary location. The second hand on the clock seemed to be moving faster than normal, and the address was not where I had put it. It was five until the hour – I needed to be walking out the door in 20 minutes. While I waited for the CPU to load the street software, I looked for the address. At last!
Because the spacebar sticks, I pounded on the key to separate words and numbers. I felt like pounding my head-I should have done this last night. The search said the address didn’t exist. What! I took a deep breathe, and pounded the address out again using the advance search tool. Finally, I had a map to print. Now print, I thought, looking at the clock again. Red is flashing on the printer. Error message: Printer head stuck. I had never seen that error message. I reset the printer and started again. At last, it was printing-yahoo!
While the printer was doing its thing, I went to the kitchen to make myself some coffee to take with me. When I returned to the CPU, I grabbed the map, my purse, and briefcase and headed for the garage. I forgot my keys. Back into the house I went. Where did I put them? In the bedroom, maybe in the jacket from Sunday?
I ran up the stairs listening to my husband tells me to slow down - that nothing was that important. Down the stairs, I ran with the keys.
I’m in the truck, and pulling out of the garage when I realize I had left my coffee in the bedroom when I went through my jacket for the keys. Out of the truck I went again. By the time I got back to the vehicle, I felt as if I had run a twenty-yard dash.
I closed the garage – Oh No! I forgot my watch! I found the keys to the front door and run up the stairs again to the bedroom. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, what is my problem. The world was not going to collapse if I’m late. I walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, kissed my husband, and told him he was right.
I was finally on the road—behind a school bus that was stopping at every other block. By the time I got to my friend’s house, I wasn’t for sure if I should wait in front of her building or near the garage. At any rate, I waited two minutes and my friend came out of the garage. She pulled up next to me.
Rolling the window down I asked, “It’s my time to drive or do you want to drive?”
“I’ll drive I don’t feel like parking the car again.”
“No problem.”
I gathered my things, and locked the car. As I got into her car, I noticed the truck’s window was down. Out I went to unlock the truck and close the window. I was so exhausted when I finally got to her car, I didn’t want to move.
Even with the map, we still got lost, but that’s okay because we were not late. The classroom was next to a lunchroom with a thin partition that separated the two rooms. I was sitting next to that partition, and missed most of the lecture because of the noise.
I said good-bye to Murphy, as he joined the crowd in the lunchroom, and we walked out of the building. I laughed at myself and thought when I got home - Murphy must have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
One Moment in a Day
One moment in a day is just one word on a page, and a day filled with moments is just an existence we share with the rest of the world. How we make these moments meaningful in our lives is what makes us the individuals we become. Why we make these moments meaningful is why we share this world with other things. Choose your moments well and life will be good to you.
Friday, March 5, 2010
A Wonderful Life
A wonderful life is mine today, so much different from yesterday
with peace of mind and freedom of spirit this I can truly say
that through the ups and downs I’ve seen, no fate was so disturbing
then to wake each day in fear of survival a life that’s undeserving
of any soul that lives on earth, where many the substance of giving
the gift to lift the bonds of despair with compassion, and an adequate living
in a world that’s not too kind to some, and for others a social obscenity
to ponder a world that’s unselfish in deed and aspires human dignity.
A wonderful life is mine today, so much different from yesterday
with each new day I impart on others, some comfort along their way
to appreciate the simple curiosities, the blessings so often neglected
when the vicissitudes of life can deny peace of mind to be reflected
in the balance of good and evil, and in the emptiness that gravitates
because life does not wait nor does life discriminate.
Take comfort in this I say, wealth is just an elaborate condition
for some to use to make a point, and for some to commission
that freedom of spirit emerges when we look within the soul
and find the good in everything, should be an unwavering goal,
to savor the simple wonders that life so graciously gives
and hope that you can show the same to someone else who lives.
with peace of mind and freedom of spirit this I can truly say
that through the ups and downs I’ve seen, no fate was so disturbing
then to wake each day in fear of survival a life that’s undeserving
of any soul that lives on earth, where many the substance of giving
the gift to lift the bonds of despair with compassion, and an adequate living
in a world that’s not too kind to some, and for others a social obscenity
to ponder a world that’s unselfish in deed and aspires human dignity.
A wonderful life is mine today, so much different from yesterday
with each new day I impart on others, some comfort along their way
to appreciate the simple curiosities, the blessings so often neglected
when the vicissitudes of life can deny peace of mind to be reflected
in the balance of good and evil, and in the emptiness that gravitates
because life does not wait nor does life discriminate.
Take comfort in this I say, wealth is just an elaborate condition
for some to use to make a point, and for some to commission
that freedom of spirit emerges when we look within the soul
and find the good in everything, should be an unwavering goal,
to savor the simple wonders that life so graciously gives
and hope that you can show the same to someone else who lives.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Who are you?
I’m 65 years old, and have worked with the older generation all my young adult life. When I became an older adult, I chaired a program that monitored the well-being of the elderly in my religious community. Normally I would see them weekly, but sometimes, I wouldn’t see anyone for months. If more than a month went by, I was amazed how much they aged since I last saw them. I never thought much about how fleeting one’s age can be until Mother Nature came knocking at my door.
Sitting at the doctor’s office with my 93 year old friend Irene, I would often complained about there not being enough time to do the things I needed to do. Irene would respond, “Wait ‘til you reach my age - time passes faster.” I never truly understood that until now.
Like magic, one night during my dormant hours, my body underwent a metamorphous. I woke up with noticeable jowls. When I got on the scale that evening, I was 5 pounds heavier from a soup and salad diet. A couple of months later as I was combing my hair, I realized I had a developed a double chin, and the scale that night read five more pounds.
When I first looked in the mirror I asked, “Who are you?” Then I asked the person looking back at me, if I had eaten something other than soup and salad, would my face have changed. “Sure it would have,” I said loudly and totally annoyed. Nowadays when I look into the mirror, I acknowledge that person even though I see someone I don’t recognize. It’s a different me, an older me.
Irene told me every seven years you change. I always thought this transformation was mental. For the past 56 years of my life, I had noticed a chance in my attitude, ideals and practices, with only minor modifications to my physical body. I rather took pride in looking younger than my age.
Lately though, I’ve taken notice of movie and media personalities that I grew up with over the years. There it was the double chin and that undeniable roundness that attacks the upper arms and middle section. I even had to redefine my bra size to include the bust line under my armpits that was never there before – I have yet to find a bra that will contain this new figure. Then there are the women in the stores, especially the ones I couldn’t tell how old they were- now I can. Youth has a wonderful profile.
I would like to conclude with two more thoughts. I often wondered why older women’s looked as if they had never wore makeup before, and why all those smaller sized clothes end up in boxes at the back of the closet. I told myself that one day I would wear them again, but the reality of it is I’ll never put them on again. Maybe next year, I’ll give the clothes to charity. As for the makeup, I have to admit I wear it more now than I did when I was younger, and pray I never lose my touch applying it. If I do, I will stop wearing it all together.
I wonder what shape my next body metamorphosis will experience. Will it be my last metamorphosis? Anticipating these changes, I’ve decided to slow down this physical body modification by walking more and snacking less. I must understanding when a young person passes me on the tracks it’s just an act of passing the torch. Also, when the young think I don’t get it, know that wisdom for them is yet to come. For me the most important and meaningful thing I can do for myself is accept, refine, and enjoy what’s given me.
Sitting at the doctor’s office with my 93 year old friend Irene, I would often complained about there not being enough time to do the things I needed to do. Irene would respond, “Wait ‘til you reach my age - time passes faster.” I never truly understood that until now.
Like magic, one night during my dormant hours, my body underwent a metamorphous. I woke up with noticeable jowls. When I got on the scale that evening, I was 5 pounds heavier from a soup and salad diet. A couple of months later as I was combing my hair, I realized I had a developed a double chin, and the scale that night read five more pounds.
When I first looked in the mirror I asked, “Who are you?” Then I asked the person looking back at me, if I had eaten something other than soup and salad, would my face have changed. “Sure it would have,” I said loudly and totally annoyed. Nowadays when I look into the mirror, I acknowledge that person even though I see someone I don’t recognize. It’s a different me, an older me.
Irene told me every seven years you change. I always thought this transformation was mental. For the past 56 years of my life, I had noticed a chance in my attitude, ideals and practices, with only minor modifications to my physical body. I rather took pride in looking younger than my age.
Lately though, I’ve taken notice of movie and media personalities that I grew up with over the years. There it was the double chin and that undeniable roundness that attacks the upper arms and middle section. I even had to redefine my bra size to include the bust line under my armpits that was never there before – I have yet to find a bra that will contain this new figure. Then there are the women in the stores, especially the ones I couldn’t tell how old they were- now I can. Youth has a wonderful profile.
I would like to conclude with two more thoughts. I often wondered why older women’s looked as if they had never wore makeup before, and why all those smaller sized clothes end up in boxes at the back of the closet. I told myself that one day I would wear them again, but the reality of it is I’ll never put them on again. Maybe next year, I’ll give the clothes to charity. As for the makeup, I have to admit I wear it more now than I did when I was younger, and pray I never lose my touch applying it. If I do, I will stop wearing it all together.
I wonder what shape my next body metamorphosis will experience. Will it be my last metamorphosis? Anticipating these changes, I’ve decided to slow down this physical body modification by walking more and snacking less. I must understanding when a young person passes me on the tracks it’s just an act of passing the torch. Also, when the young think I don’t get it, know that wisdom for them is yet to come. For me the most important and meaningful thing I can do for myself is accept, refine, and enjoy what’s given me.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Mindlessness
The name of my autobiography is Leaving a Voice. It is a culmination of my life through short episodes. Whether intentionally or unknowing, these events have led me to this point in my life.
Hitching a ride on my life’s journey is all the useless baggage that keeps certain events fresh in my mind. Regrettably, this baggage doesn’t trigger a complete account of the events as they occurred. Even though I can recall incidents that happened in my life, there are certain moments that are vague or absent. Sometimes there's a huge gap between the beginning of the incidents and the lesson learned at the end of the day.
The lapse of memory or gap in memory is the results of not living in the moment. Defined as a state of mindlessness, this condition can leave a writer searching to fill a void or complete an episode. Sometimes I question myself as to whether I really forgot what happened or if I was just preoccupied at the moment.
For example, I remember one episode during my high school years when our basketball team played an out-of-town game. With five minutes left in the competition, our team was down by three points. The referee called a jump ball between the opponent’s guard and me. Quickly I leaped up. Propelled by the momentum of the jump I stretched, spiked the ball, and landed crouched from the weight of gravity as the ball bounded into my hands.
I looked around. The crowd was silent, both teams stood without movement or words. Had I done something wrong? I turned to give the ball to the referee - too many steps. The ref blew his whistle. Charged with walking, the opponent got the ball and won the game.
With those thirty-five seconds came a lifetime of flashbacks and guilt, but the two hours after that incident vanished from my memory forever. I believe I had no thoughts because I never lived those moments. My thoughts were not in the present but in the past – the game play itself. So, things that happened to me or around me in those two hours passed without my mental knowledge.
Not every thing that happened that night stayed with me. After the incident, the next thing I remember was the ride home on the bus. The feeling of isolation, the profound embarrassment for making such a stupid mistake weighted heavily in my heart. I’ve lived every moment of that play from the time I leaped to reach the stars until my confusion at the end of the game every year of my life.
Writing my autobiography has made me aware of the mindless task I do every day. I believe this mindlessness is why I sometimes forget why I walked into a room. I’ve concluded that if I wish to incorporate my later years in my memoirs, it would be a good idea to live the rest of my life in the moment and enjoy its presence. These wakeful moments helps weave the strings of my life, and my complete thoughts of them.
2/11/2010 8:31:17 PM
Mindlessness
Hitching a ride on my life’s journey is all the useless baggage that keeps certain events fresh in my mind. Regrettably, this baggage doesn’t trigger a complete account of the events as they occurred. Even though I can recall incidents that happened in my life, there are certain moments that are vague or absent. Sometimes there's a huge gap between the beginning of the incidents and the lesson learned at the end of the day.
The lapse of memory or gap in memory is the results of not living in the moment. Defined as a state of mindlessness, this condition can leave a writer searching to fill a void or complete an episode. Sometimes I question myself as to whether I really forgot what happened or if I was just preoccupied at the moment.
For example, I remember one episode during my high school years when our basketball team played an out-of-town game. With five minutes left in the competition, our team was down by three points. The referee called a jump ball between the opponent’s guard and me. Quickly I leaped up. Propelled by the momentum of the jump I stretched, spiked the ball, and landed crouched from the weight of gravity as the ball bounded into my hands.
I looked around. The crowd was silent, both teams stood without movement or words. Had I done something wrong? I turned to give the ball to the referee - too many steps. The ref blew his whistle. Charged with walking, the opponent got the ball and won the game.
With those thirty-five seconds came a lifetime of flashbacks and guilt, but the two hours after that incident vanished from my memory forever. I believe I had no thoughts because I never lived those moments. My thoughts were not in the present but in the past – the game play itself. So, things that happened to me or around me in those two hours passed without my mental knowledge.
Not every thing that happened that night stayed with me. After the incident, the next thing I remember was the ride home on the bus. The feeling of isolation, the profound embarrassment for making such a stupid mistake weighted heavily in my heart. I’ve lived every moment of that play from the time I leaped to reach the stars until my confusion at the end of the game every year of my life.
Writing my autobiography has made me aware of the mindless task I do every day. I believe this mindlessness is why I sometimes forget why I walked into a room. I’ve concluded that if I wish to incorporate my later years in my memoirs, it would be a good idea to live the rest of my life in the moment and enjoy its presence. These wakeful moments helps weave the strings of my life, and my complete thoughts of them.
2/11/2010 8:31:17 PM
Mindlessness
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Just Don't Know...
Merging onto the highway, I jacked up the music. I found comfort in that.
As I drive at a decent fast speed, I’m thinking about my fantasy manuscript and maybe I will be able to finish the outline with everything in its place. I just don’t know where to go from there.
As I pulled into the driveway, hunger bit my stomach. I wanted to keep what I was feeling alive for just one more hour but the hunger would not release me…..
As I drive at a decent fast speed, I’m thinking about my fantasy manuscript and maybe I will be able to finish the outline with everything in its place. I just don’t know where to go from there.
As I pulled into the driveway, hunger bit my stomach. I wanted to keep what I was feeling alive for just one more hour but the hunger would not release me…..
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Christmas Spirits
Gathering my pen and paper, I went to the kitchen table to compose a letter to send with our cards this year. The last time I didn’t feel like sending cards - I had lost so many friends and family, my heart was not in it. This time I couldn’t get started because I didn’t seem to have the spirit.
Since Halloween, I remember walking through the stores listening to Christmas music, seeing Christmas decorations, and poinsettias all over the place. It just made me want to go baa-humbug. What about the cranberry sauce and Thanksgiving Day? What about being grateful for what we have! Oh well - it just started me off in the wrong direction, which is probably why my spirits were low. Nevertheless, I figured sometime before December 31, 2009 I will kick myself for not sending the cards and letters.
At this time of the year, I'll send over ninety plus cards and letters to a wonderful group of people, who in some way have touched our lives. Unfortunately, because of my senior schedule, which keeps me busier than I was when I worked, I don’t get the opportunity to communicate via phone or visits, as I should. You see, as a child growing up at my grandmother’s house, families were close and friends were closer. They were a community of communicators. All I had to do was walk out on the front porch and say hello, or walk around the block and see my classmates. There was always someone there to help you out if you needed it. It was a community of caring people, who gave Thanksgiving more importance than Halloween. I miss those days, but as time marches on, so does the society I live in.
Although the year has found some of us short on some things, or tightening our belt on others, this year has offered some positive opportunities. It has caused people to slow down and look at what they have. Some have become appreciative of the good will of others and thankful for the loved ones in their lives. Some have created traditions that will generate once again attitudes cherished as a child. Later that night I watched, 'How the Grinch stole Christmas.' At the end of the movie, the Grinch realized that Christmas doesn’t come from packages, boxes, bags, or poinsettias all over the place. Christmas doesn’t come from a store - but means a little bit more - Christmas will always come as long as we have friends to lift our spirits. Merry Christmas spirits!
Since Halloween, I remember walking through the stores listening to Christmas music, seeing Christmas decorations, and poinsettias all over the place. It just made me want to go baa-humbug. What about the cranberry sauce and Thanksgiving Day? What about being grateful for what we have! Oh well - it just started me off in the wrong direction, which is probably why my spirits were low. Nevertheless, I figured sometime before December 31, 2009 I will kick myself for not sending the cards and letters.
At this time of the year, I'll send over ninety plus cards and letters to a wonderful group of people, who in some way have touched our lives. Unfortunately, because of my senior schedule, which keeps me busier than I was when I worked, I don’t get the opportunity to communicate via phone or visits, as I should. You see, as a child growing up at my grandmother’s house, families were close and friends were closer. They were a community of communicators. All I had to do was walk out on the front porch and say hello, or walk around the block and see my classmates. There was always someone there to help you out if you needed it. It was a community of caring people, who gave Thanksgiving more importance than Halloween. I miss those days, but as time marches on, so does the society I live in.
Although the year has found some of us short on some things, or tightening our belt on others, this year has offered some positive opportunities. It has caused people to slow down and look at what they have. Some have become appreciative of the good will of others and thankful for the loved ones in their lives. Some have created traditions that will generate once again attitudes cherished as a child. Later that night I watched, 'How the Grinch stole Christmas.' At the end of the movie, the Grinch realized that Christmas doesn’t come from packages, boxes, bags, or poinsettias all over the place. Christmas doesn’t come from a store - but means a little bit more - Christmas will always come as long as we have friends to lift our spirits. Merry Christmas spirits!
Get a Survey or Get a Lawyer
Introduced to me recently was a new problem that has been around for a long time. I share a property line with two people, Beth who lives next to me and Joe who lives behind me and Beth. Joe moved into the neighborhood 10 years ago. Last week Joe accused Beth, who built her house over 50 years ago, of having her bushes on his land. She was frightened to the point of tears, and disturbed that Joe would try to take her land. Joe had claimed squatter’s rights.
I’ve left out a lot of stuff to get to the meat of the situation, especially this concept of squatter’s rights. To believe this entitlement exists nowadays blows my mind! Yes, squatter’s rights or adverse possession is still a law in the U.S. of A. It seems after so many years Joe, or anyone for that matter, can claim your land as his or her own. The length of time for this acquisition is 7 years, but in Illinois, I believe it takes 20 years before someone can claim your land. Think about it, if you let someone put a garden on, or run a pipe through your property and they use that land continuously for 20 years, they can claim that land as their own regardless of the size of the plot.
We complaint and have opinions about many thing, but when it comes to property that we paid big bucks for - especially in real estate taxes - it’s becomes more than a complaint or opinion. We become the victim of a rape.
I’m especially concern for the elderly who have no one to help them with this type of invasion. Beth is fortunate because she has a son. Beth’s son phoned Joe about the situation and gave him a warning. Beth also wrote Joe a letter and sent it registered. Essentially, she informed Joe to get a survey or get a lawyer. Way to go Beth! What would you do if someone claimed squatter’s rights on your land?
I’ve left out a lot of stuff to get to the meat of the situation, especially this concept of squatter’s rights. To believe this entitlement exists nowadays blows my mind! Yes, squatter’s rights or adverse possession is still a law in the U.S. of A. It seems after so many years Joe, or anyone for that matter, can claim your land as his or her own. The length of time for this acquisition is 7 years, but in Illinois, I believe it takes 20 years before someone can claim your land. Think about it, if you let someone put a garden on, or run a pipe through your property and they use that land continuously for 20 years, they can claim that land as their own regardless of the size of the plot.
We complaint and have opinions about many thing, but when it comes to property that we paid big bucks for - especially in real estate taxes - it’s becomes more than a complaint or opinion. We become the victim of a rape.
I’m especially concern for the elderly who have no one to help them with this type of invasion. Beth is fortunate because she has a son. Beth’s son phoned Joe about the situation and gave him a warning. Beth also wrote Joe a letter and sent it registered. Essentially, she informed Joe to get a survey or get a lawyer. Way to go Beth! What would you do if someone claimed squatter’s rights on your land?
The Deer
While I was riding to the Senior Center yesterday, I often pass by a Forest Preserve Park. I was enjoying my favorite song written by Sugarland on the radio, when I saw a fawn on the road – dead - and lying in my lane. Quickly, I swayed to keep from hitting the animal. Immediately I turned off the radio. I felt sadness and an overwhelming compassion for the creature lying there killed needlessly.
Today, as I passed the Forest Preserve Park on my way to the Center, I looked for the spot where the fawn had laid on the road. There was no blood anywhere, nothing to remind me of deer. I felt calm, and an emotional relief. Quoting an over-used cliché, “it was out of sight and out of mind.” For the past 24 hours, I had experienced some cosmic vibration of empathy even though I had nothing to do with the death of the fawn.
At the end of the Forest Preserve Park is an opening and an entrance to the parking lot where people park their cars and do whatever they do. At this entrance, one-half a mile from where the fawn had died, was a large deer. I slowed my car down. At first, the doe looked like a statue, but then she stretched her neck and looked about the area. Hoisting one front leg in the air, the doe’s body language was one of anxiety. My thought was that the doe was looking for the fawn. As I continued down the road, I felt empty inside and then I felt distressed.
Why don’t I feel that way about fish?
Today, as I passed the Forest Preserve Park on my way to the Center, I looked for the spot where the fawn had laid on the road. There was no blood anywhere, nothing to remind me of deer. I felt calm, and an emotional relief. Quoting an over-used cliché, “it was out of sight and out of mind.” For the past 24 hours, I had experienced some cosmic vibration of empathy even though I had nothing to do with the death of the fawn.
At the end of the Forest Preserve Park is an opening and an entrance to the parking lot where people park their cars and do whatever they do. At this entrance, one-half a mile from where the fawn had died, was a large deer. I slowed my car down. At first, the doe looked like a statue, but then she stretched her neck and looked about the area. Hoisting one front leg in the air, the doe’s body language was one of anxiety. My thought was that the doe was looking for the fawn. As I continued down the road, I felt empty inside and then I felt distressed.
Why don’t I feel that way about fish?
Among the Stars
In my future, I will live among the stars and the earth will be my moon.
I will trade my flower gardens for equations that will plot my path from galaxy to galaxy.
Everything will be relative to each other as I travel through space; visiting other plants where stars dance around its sphere.
I will create stars, and understand the physics of the design in the universe.
For to know what is, is to ponder beyond one’s own thought; stretching the mind's eye to other places in our universe of endless darkness.
This static universe of energy, this dark energy within us that permeates our life form, will give a new awareness to old ways of thinking of our endurance with the rest of the universe.
My existence is just a grain of sand surrounded by millions of other grains of sand somewhere.
Therefore, I do not cling to my presence mode of life.
No sorrow will dampen my eyes.
My dreams are bigger than what I know in this life. As I grow in understanding my role in all things, my future becomes clear and inviting.
I will trade my flower gardens for equations that will plot my path from galaxy to galaxy.
Everything will be relative to each other as I travel through space; visiting other plants where stars dance around its sphere.
I will create stars, and understand the physics of the design in the universe.
For to know what is, is to ponder beyond one’s own thought; stretching the mind's eye to other places in our universe of endless darkness.
This static universe of energy, this dark energy within us that permeates our life form, will give a new awareness to old ways of thinking of our endurance with the rest of the universe.
My existence is just a grain of sand surrounded by millions of other grains of sand somewhere.
Therefore, I do not cling to my presence mode of life.
No sorrow will dampen my eyes.
My dreams are bigger than what I know in this life. As I grow in understanding my role in all things, my future becomes clear and inviting.
Fishin' Rods and Tea Pots*
When the picture of President Obama with his maternal grandparents reached the media, it stirred memories of my grandmother but not my grandfather. All I knew about him was his name. I began to question the reasons why there were no memories of my maternal or paternal grandfathers.
Historians agreed that an African-American man was the breadwinner of his family during the turn of the twentieth century. Most fathers worked beyond retirement age. This kept him outside the family circle, missing the best years with his children. The face of this man scored with fear and fatigue was evidence of his love. If he survives to old age, his reward was seeing his legacy through his grandchildren.
I never met Grandpa James. A picture, which hung over the doorway to the main bedroom, was the only evidence I had that he existed. My cousins told me when Grandpa James retired he was never home. However, when they did see Grandpa at home, he was always asleep. My cousins were dramatic with their depiction of our grandfather, even cruel sometimes. As grandmother explained to me, this caused my cousins to forget the kindness and compassion of the man. I imagine that for grandpa to sit around the house with the kids threatened his masculinity. To avoid this situation, I believe he retreated to the world of fellow retirees. Places where old men sat around at barbershops and courthouses talking politics most of the day. I was young when I went to live with my paternal grandmother Momee.
Grandpa James had long since died and Momee became the head of household for my cousins and me. She nurtured our souls, kindled our spirits, and from her strength we developed wisdom and perseverance. She was the glue that kept the family together and its oral history alive. As for my father Lawrence, I never saw him much. The most vivid memory I have of my father was on my 10th birthday when he joined me for a cup of tea from the tea set he had just given me. I loved my father and believed his absence was because of his work, and regrettably, his absence dominated the life he would share with me.
My father told me he knew little about his father, yet he felt an obligation to connection with me. It was from my father I learned the reason there were no stories about Grandpa James. The role of the father was to provide the food that was on the table every day, and the roof that sheltered and protected the family. He was the provider, not the nurturer; that was mother’s duty, and for the era in which my parents and grandparents lived, this made sense.
Grandparenting didn’t happen for all families in the same way. Some families struggled, as they adhered to old ways and attitudes of family life. Grandmothers became surrogate mothers to their grandchildren, and grandfathers disappeared, for whatever reason, from the family circle. As it was for my mother’s father, the male role model continued to be lacking for some families. No names, no pictures on the wall of their existence; they were a phantom of a man.
When changes in government laws began to regulate hiring practices of companies, the doors of opportunity for African-Americans opened. It was a time of growth for my people. It was a time to think beyond the cotton fields. Extended families moved away from the safety of their neighborhoods. Fathers looked for better careers and job training. Women sought professions other than cooks, laundresses, and housekeepers. It was a time when men began to show accountability in the household.
When I joined the world of married people, this family transformation was a reality. In our household, my husband Calvin and I were both breadwinners, and shared the responsibility of raising our children Keith and Britney. As my father aged, I became his caregiver and in return, my father became a grandfather to my children. Possible retirement communities and trips abroad were ideas I shared with friends during group excursions to the gym. I would settle for Daycare centers and fast food restaurants replacing me as a grandparent. Calvin, on the other hand, would spend time stringing fishing rods with Keith or passing a teapot to Britney. These priceless moments would be ideal for talking about his life and family history.
I admire Michele Obama’s mother for helping with her grandchildren. It adds stability to the family circle. She can share family stories with the girls as my grandmother did with me. However, in my case, I want to enjoy my grandchildren’s visits on the weekends and holidays, and when the gathering is over, they can go home and sleep in their own beds. Calvin, on the other hand, wants to enjoy every moment with his grandkids, but most of all Calvin enjoys being a role model for our son. I have no memories of my paternal or maternal grandfathers because they weren’t there to leave any memories. However, for my grandchildren, I’m going to make sure they know their grandfather.
*Note this piece is creative nonfiction; true with fictional highlights.
Historians agreed that an African-American man was the breadwinner of his family during the turn of the twentieth century. Most fathers worked beyond retirement age. This kept him outside the family circle, missing the best years with his children. The face of this man scored with fear and fatigue was evidence of his love. If he survives to old age, his reward was seeing his legacy through his grandchildren.
I never met Grandpa James. A picture, which hung over the doorway to the main bedroom, was the only evidence I had that he existed. My cousins told me when Grandpa James retired he was never home. However, when they did see Grandpa at home, he was always asleep. My cousins were dramatic with their depiction of our grandfather, even cruel sometimes. As grandmother explained to me, this caused my cousins to forget the kindness and compassion of the man. I imagine that for grandpa to sit around the house with the kids threatened his masculinity. To avoid this situation, I believe he retreated to the world of fellow retirees. Places where old men sat around at barbershops and courthouses talking politics most of the day. I was young when I went to live with my paternal grandmother Momee.
Grandpa James had long since died and Momee became the head of household for my cousins and me. She nurtured our souls, kindled our spirits, and from her strength we developed wisdom and perseverance. She was the glue that kept the family together and its oral history alive. As for my father Lawrence, I never saw him much. The most vivid memory I have of my father was on my 10th birthday when he joined me for a cup of tea from the tea set he had just given me. I loved my father and believed his absence was because of his work, and regrettably, his absence dominated the life he would share with me.
My father told me he knew little about his father, yet he felt an obligation to connection with me. It was from my father I learned the reason there were no stories about Grandpa James. The role of the father was to provide the food that was on the table every day, and the roof that sheltered and protected the family. He was the provider, not the nurturer; that was mother’s duty, and for the era in which my parents and grandparents lived, this made sense.
Grandparenting didn’t happen for all families in the same way. Some families struggled, as they adhered to old ways and attitudes of family life. Grandmothers became surrogate mothers to their grandchildren, and grandfathers disappeared, for whatever reason, from the family circle. As it was for my mother’s father, the male role model continued to be lacking for some families. No names, no pictures on the wall of their existence; they were a phantom of a man.
When changes in government laws began to regulate hiring practices of companies, the doors of opportunity for African-Americans opened. It was a time of growth for my people. It was a time to think beyond the cotton fields. Extended families moved away from the safety of their neighborhoods. Fathers looked for better careers and job training. Women sought professions other than cooks, laundresses, and housekeepers. It was a time when men began to show accountability in the household.
When I joined the world of married people, this family transformation was a reality. In our household, my husband Calvin and I were both breadwinners, and shared the responsibility of raising our children Keith and Britney. As my father aged, I became his caregiver and in return, my father became a grandfather to my children. Possible retirement communities and trips abroad were ideas I shared with friends during group excursions to the gym. I would settle for Daycare centers and fast food restaurants replacing me as a grandparent. Calvin, on the other hand, would spend time stringing fishing rods with Keith or passing a teapot to Britney. These priceless moments would be ideal for talking about his life and family history.
I admire Michele Obama’s mother for helping with her grandchildren. It adds stability to the family circle. She can share family stories with the girls as my grandmother did with me. However, in my case, I want to enjoy my grandchildren’s visits on the weekends and holidays, and when the gathering is over, they can go home and sleep in their own beds. Calvin, on the other hand, wants to enjoy every moment with his grandkids, but most of all Calvin enjoys being a role model for our son. I have no memories of my paternal or maternal grandfathers because they weren’t there to leave any memories. However, for my grandchildren, I’m going to make sure they know their grandfather.
*Note this piece is creative nonfiction; true with fictional highlights.
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