The Crab Chronicles

The Gift of Time

I never realized how lucky I was to have my mother for as long as I did, until I found myself sitting in my house in the summer of 2020 wishing I could go into her room and share some news with her, news I knew would delight her.

She was in my life from birth until June 2020, when I was 58 years old. She shared all my heartaches and triumphs. She cheered me on when I was down. She was my sounding board when I was wrestling with a problem.

She was always willing to give advice, but if I didn't want it, she would just listen.

We had moments when we didn't see eye to eye. Two women living in the same house for sixteen years meant there was bound to be friction, at times. The dustups never lasted long, though.

If I could have anything for Christmas, just one thing -- if that magic could happen -- I would love to have one day, or even one hour, with my beloved parents.

 

 

Time makes love pass. Love makes time pass.

Italian proverb

 

 

 

 

This is the first known photo of me, in Mom's pregnancy bump.

Above, the three of us around 1988

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Old age and the passage of time teach all things.

- Sophocles

If I could wave another magic wand, or make wishes come true, I would love to spend some time with my grandparents. Mom's parents were well-known to me, and much loved. Dad's parents died before I was born but my brother and I are named for them. I wish I had known them. Dad missed them his entire life, and talked about them often. It must have been terrible to lose both his parents before the age of thirty.

To my friends who are much younger, I want to say this: the greatest gift you can give your parents is the gift of time.

I spent much of this past year sorting through stuff that was accumulated over many years by me, my parents, and my kids. None of it was terribly valuable, but there were some fond memories around some of the things. Nonetheless, most of the things were sold or given away. Things start to become far less important as you get older. You begin to truly understand that you cannot take anything with you into the next life. A rich man and a poor man take up exactly the same space in a grave.

Objects have no souls. You cannot share a memory or a laugh with even the nicest shirt, or the shiniest piece of jewelry. A book cannot hold you when you cry. Even a big-ticket item like a car cannot comfort you when you're discouraged.

Over the years some of my friends have died. (Not many, thank God.) Many of my beloved aunts and uncles have died. I wish I had been more generous with my time. I wish I had talked to my friends, aunts, uncles and  parents more often. I wish I had never been the one to hang up the phone. I regret not asking them more questions about their lives. I regret not hearing more about what was in their hearts.

Don't make my mistakes.

Time is the MOST precious gift you can give anyone.

Maybe this Christmas is a tough one financially. I've faced many of those during my life.

Here's an idea. Write out gift certificates for someone you love and give them the gifts of two hours of your time, for a meal out, or just a visit. Wrap up the gift certificates in a nice box. Or just call your mom every week, or every few days. Or call your dad. 

Maybe your parents don't like to chat. That's OK. Take them for a walk, or a window shopping expedition. Cook with them. Play a board game. Rake leaves. Brush the dog. Put together a puzzle. Do something together.

Put down your phones. Skip the Tick Tok videos for a few hours. Quit texting your friends for two hours. Be really present when you're with your parents or someone you care about. Give that person your full attention. You will not regret it.

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

• T.S. Eliot

 

Thanksgiving Dinner for Non Cooks

I just realized that I made a Thanksgiving dinner that anyone could make, whether or not they like to cook. Seriously. I love to cook, but this year I wasn't in the mood. I also don't like turkey, so we rarely have it. At most, I might go to Honeybaked Ham and buy a couple of lbs. of sliced smoked turkey and make homemade dressing.

My brother couldn't come since he has to work tomorrow, and I don't have any family close by, so Thanksgiving was just me, my son Michael, and his roommate.

Mike and Landon came over about 1:30 and we had our meal. I had put a pork tenderloin in the oven early this morning and let it cook low and slow. There was orange juice in the bottom of the pan, then I had marinated the little roast in soy sauce, honey, and onion powder, with a lot of apricot preserves on top. Five hours at 300 degrees, with the pan covered. Really came out tender and flavorful, and not too sweet. Anyone could make this recipe. Seriously simple. [Note: if you prefer turkey, this is how my parents always cooked the bird and it was delicious: wash the bird, dry it, and salt it, then cover it in butter, wrap it in foil and bake it according to the package directions, occasionally basting. I prefer getting the slices of smoked turkey from Honeybaked Ham...]

 

My mom made the best dressing in the world. (I wrote about it here.) I started to make dressing last night and realized I had no cornmeal in the apartment. I had bought stovetop stuffing, just to make it easier to make dressing. (Tearing up stale bread is my least-favorite part of making dressing.) But I could not make cornbread dressing without cornbread, so I just made Stovetop stuffing, two packages. I used chicken broth and a lot of extra butter and it turned out fairly tasty. [Yes, my mother is flipping over in her grave but hopefully next year I will have a bigger kitchen and I will remember to buy cornmeal...)

 

I was going to make a broccoli casserole and I realized that since I only have one oven, that was complicated. So I fixed the casserole but on the stove top. I thawed a package of frozen broccoli and steamed it. I made a sauce of cream of mushroom soup, mayo, butter, and parmesan cheese, with some extra garlic and onion powders. Mixed it in a bowl, then microwaved it a minute and mixed again. Super easy. Pour it over the broccoli. It was tasty. I unfortunately had not cooked enough broccoli but we each got a small helping. Then Michael asked if he could just finish it. I said sure. I thought he was going to lick the bowl. That's basically the broccoli casserole recipe except I used parmesan instead of grated cheddar because I didn't have any grated cheese, and had no Ritz crackers to put on top.

 

For dessert, I had ordered a coffee cake from Feridies and served that. Delicious -- most bought cakes are not great, but this cake was fantastic! (Highly recommend it if you are looking for gift ideas.) Landon just had three teeth filled and Michael is getting a crown on a tooth next week so the cake was a better idea than pecan pie. All the food I served today was soft and easily chewable. I will make a pecan pie at Christmas, when everyone can chew normally, hopefully.

 

After lunch we watched Red Notice on Netflix. Funny movie. Hope everyone has a safe and pleasant holiday weekend!

 

Buy Products Made in America

I know it's not Thanksgiving yet but I am already at least thinking about Christmas gift ideas. This holiday season, please strive to support small businesses here in America. With rampant inflation and ongoing issues with the supply chain, we all need to be mindful of the importance of supporting each other. I have several friends and acquaintances who own their own small businesses and I want to help them promote their products. I am a savvy buyer though, so I want to reassure you that I have actually purchased and used most of these products and I will vouch for their customer service and quality products.

I have written about my friend Jon Jackson's beautiful work at Comfort Farms, giving veterans a place to heal from the traumas of war and a way to regain their purpose in life. His approach to therapy is unique and amazing, and you can learn more here. There are lots of ways to help. If you are near Milledgeville, Georgia, you can go over in the summer and fall and purchase incredible produce and meats. You can also check out Farm Focused and purchase unique and well-made clothing that promotes the brand of Comfort Farms and other farms.

left, my mom wearing one of the awesome aprons made at Down South House and Home

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My friend Stacy Reece runs a wonderful business in Clarkston, Georgia, just a few minutes from me, Down South House and Home.  I have purchased many of her dishtowels, aprons, napkins, and other products and they are excellent quality as well as being clever and unique. I had a great time interviewing Stacy a few years ago for this blog, and you can read it here. Although most of her products are timeless, Stacy keeps up with trends. You can see her selection of masks here. Have a guy who is hard to buy for? Check out the humorous socks offered at Down South.

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If you are in the Atlanta area and you need a wedding cake or other special occasion cake, check out my friend Jenean's business, Carlton's Cakes. Jenean is a scientist as well as a baker and she has helped brides out by making gluten-free cakes, dairy-free cakes, and vegan cakes. Jenean's cakes are widely celebrated. She has won awards from The Knot and Jezebel magazine, and her cakes have even been found in movies!

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Feridies is a family-owned business out of Virginia that offers utterly delicious [and nutritious] products that I have purchased as gifts many times. A few years ago I interview Jane Riddick-Fries for this blog and really enjoyed learning about the delicious and unique products.

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I love products with a sense of humor. Check out Duke Cannon -- "Our products are tested by soldiers, not boy bands." I have ordered some of their products for Christmas gifts this year. (Don't tell my son or my brother...)

 

Other products:

I have purchased an used the wonderful products from Goat Milk Stuff over the years and always been impressed by their quality. It's a family-owned and run business.

I am going to blatantly self-promote here, so please don't hate me. My book Singing to the Cows is a collection of essays written by my mom about her life and her humor and wisdom are evident on every page. If you need a gift for someone 75+ years old, I guarantee they will enjoy the book. If you like to cook but more importantly hear stories about recipes, check out What's for Dinner, Mom?

The Office of Long Ago

I started a new job recently, working from home at my own computer, and it has provoked me into a fascinating reminiscence about how much things have changed since I started my professional life after I finished paralegal school.

To People Now Under 35, Yo Dog: It's a different world now. So kids, if you make it past 50 years old, you will probably find yourself occasionally sitting outside your home, thinking back, into the past, before flying cars and virtual families and vegan hotels.

Looking back is a Rite of Passage -- Google that.

I was once young [really] and I well remember my mother telling me about what it was like to work at Sears here in Atlanta when she was young -- the ginormous old store on Ponce de Leon, back in the early 1950's. I couldn't believe she would have to wear high heels and either a skirt or dress just to work in a department store. She said by the end of her shift her feet would be killing her. No kidding. She also wore a girdle, and stockings, styled her hair and wore full makeup. Salesladies had to look proper and ladylike, y'all. (I thought the entire scenario sounded hideously stressful.) Then she had to wait until leaving the store before she could wear loafers and walk or ride the bus home.

When I finished my program at The National Center for Paralegal Training and had to start interviewing for jobs my mother had to buy me an interview suit. One always wore a suit, pantyhose, heels, and full hair and makeup. 

See the photo at left, here? This was made a few years after I started working but I could have worn that to a job interview. I was just out at lunch with the family though, so I felt free to push up the sleeves of my blazer which wouldn't have happened in a job interview.

Fashion wasn't the only thing that was different.

Right -- me in paralegal school, with a 1980's perm. All my roommates persuaded me to go to a fancy salon in Buckhead and pay a ridiculous price to get a perm, and sit outside sipping white wine while it made my already curly hair even more curly. I thought I was something else. When I got home to Knoxville and went with my mom to a hair appointment with the man who had been cutting my hair since I was a child I had to endure a scolding from my stylist, who was like a second father to me and made me cry.

BTW has anyone else ever thought it ironic that such a thing is called a "permanent" when it's so NOT actually permanent? You have to get another one every six months or so.

I started working at a very traditional law firm in Knoxville right after paralegal school. There was one other paralegal at the firm and she was afraid I had been hired to replace her so she refused to help me with anything. I found it very puzzling. I didn't find out about her fears until about a year after I started, when she was still employed and confessed to me as to why she had been so mean. Fortunately, the secretaries and young lawyers felt sorry for me and pretty much took me in hand and helped me learn.

Here's how it was back then:

I didn't get my own office right away. I got a desk in a corner of an ancient secretary's office.

I had no computer and not even a typewriter. I used a handheld dictaphone and the secretaries typed my work for me when they had time.

I had to get permission from the office manager to send a fax.

I had rarely ever used a copier and I remember standing at the massive copier making copies for hours. It didn't collate or staple.

Paralegals had to sometimes Bates stamp documents. Now it's done by computer. Then, it was done with a handheld machine that made one's hand hurt miserably after about an hour.

I was often asked to "run this down to the courthouse and file it" when the college kid who was the runner wasn't there. I kept tennis shoes at my desk so I could cover the four blocks to the courthouse swiftly. (Now everything is filed electronically, on the court's website.)

I was often asked to do a lot of things paralegals are not asked to do now, for instance: make coffee for the attorneys, go out and pick up lunch for everyone in a deposition, pick up my boss from the car dealership and take him to work, pick up the attorney's dry cleaning, clean up the conference room, answer the phone when the receptionist was out sick, drive to some far-off county to file something, etc.

I didn't mind doing anything that got me away from my desk, actually.

In my first few years as a paralegal I was referred to as "Kiddo," "Honey," "Deebaby," "Girl," "My gal," etc. It never bothered me. One attorney referred to me jokingly as "my parasexual" which actually did annoy me, but he was always teasing everyone so nobody paid any attention to him.

The office Christmas party, at the two firms I worked for in Knoxville, consisted of the secretaries and paralegals making a big feast and serving it to everyone in the biggest firm conference room. Attorneys paid for turkey and ham. When everyone was finished eating we could leave for the day, as long as the conference room was spotlessly clean. I was just happy to get the afternoon off to go home and sleep off the food coma.

 

After I had been a paralegal for about a year my father came by my office one day -- we worked in the same building and he knew all the attorneys I worked for -- and slapped a paper down. "That's your registration to take the LSAT," he said. [The LSAT is the entrance exam for law school.]

We had never discussed me going to law school. Ever.

"You want me to go to law school?" I said, startled.

"I know you can get into UT. I know people at the law school. I'll pay all your expenses, so you can concentrate on school," he said, smiling. I was an honors student in college. He knew I could ace law school if I made the effort.

"But Dad, I don't want to be a lawyer."

I had actually pondered the idea, but decided against it because 1) reading case law is really boring to me and 2) young lawyers work 50-80 hours a week, for years, and have no social life. I wanted to get married and have a baby I could actually raise instead of handing the child to a nanny or daycare. I should have explained all that to Dad, but I didn't, not then anyway.

I'll never forget the look of disappointment on his face, though.

I've never regretted that decision. Law school is very challenging and you really need to be committed to it in order to succeed. I had my mind on too many other things to make that kind of commitment in my 20's, and in my 30's I was too intent on finding a husband to be able to go back to school successfully.

I found out years later that my father had turned down a full scholarship to Emory Law School after he finished his master's in business. He chose to go into the Army instead. He wanted to be an officer and would have made a fine one except he failed the entrance exam to officer's candidate school. He swore my mother to secrecy about the law school scholarship. She kept her promise until he was dead.

In hindsight, I wish he had told me about it because it would have made it easier for me to understand why he was so intent on me being a lawyer.

I also found out just a few years before my mother died that when she was young she had wanted to be a lawyer, but her uncle (a lawyer in Macon) told her parents it would be a waste of time, since she would just quit being a lawyer as soon as she got married and had children. They persuaded her to give up the idea and be a teacher. She would have been an excellent lawyer. It was very rare then for a woman to go to law school, unfortunately.

Anyway, things work out as they should in my life. I firmly believe that.

I also appreciate the fact that I can do paralegal work at home, wearing pajamas 95% of the time. No more suits or pantyhose!

Hallelujah.

Sharing Family Lore

I spent a good bit of time this week putting together a Powerpoint about my father's parents and their descendants. I enjoyed doing it. I have a ton of old photos on my computer, and I know a lot of stories. Powerpoints are a great way to share stories and photos. Once they become really large Google converts them to a link, which makes sharing much easier.

What prompted me to do it was that I shared the handkerchief story with one of my first cousins and she had never heard the story.

That got me to thinking.

My parents told me lots of anecdotes and stories about Dad's parents because they died before I was born, and Mom and Dad wanted me to know about them. I loved hearing about them. To me, they were the grandparents in the paintings. My uncle Lewis Thompson did oil portraits of both of them, using photos, in the late 1950's. Those portraits hung in the living room of our home, for years. It was a revelation to me to realize that my cousins, the children of my father's two brothers, were not told all the stories that I was told. I got to thinking, how will future generations hold on to these stories?

I enjoy creating Powerpoints, so I spent hours putting together a Powerpoint about Thompson and Cordelia, and their three sons, and the subsequent generations.

A hundred years from now I hope one of the descendants of Thompson and Cordelia [pictured at left] will have access to this Powerpoint and be interested in learning about their ancestors who lived in the late 19th and 20th centuries. We are so blessed to have the ability to put together these Powerpoints and save them.

Right, a wonderful photo showing my parents and Dad's two brothers and their families. My parents are at the far left. Mom was pregnant with my older brother. Of the four small children pictured, they are all now in their 60's and only two of them have children, but that's fine. The children and grandchildren are hopefully the ones who will preserve the family photos and lore.

I also did Powerpoints about each of my parents, and about my maternal grandparents.

If I had a Powerpoint -- or even just a photo album -- about my ancestors I would treasure it. I know so little about the generations beyond my grandparents.

Do you have family photos and/or stories to share? Consider doing a Powerpoint. Someday, your descendants will thank you.

A Relic from World War I

In 1917 a young man from Georgia is far from home, getting ready to head to the battlefield in France and do his part. He stops in Paris and tries to find some small gift to send home to his mother. He wanders through shops filled with expensive perfumes and smaller items, but he doesn't have much money for luxury goods. Finally, he finds an inexpensive handkerchief in a small shop, and

he buys it, and pays to have it mailed home, to a small farm in Dooly County, and his weary widowed mother who is still raising children.

Above is that handkerchief.

I now have this modest little item and it's one of my most cherished possessions. I do not have anything else that was bought by my grandfather Algernon Thompson (who died before my birth) and I certainly don't have anything that was owned by his mother, my great grandmother Annie Lewis Thompson.

I treasure this little handkerchief.

It is falling apart. I gently lifted it out of the box and it split at every seam. However, the embroidery threads are still vivid, as you can see, and the lace is intact.

I left the photo large on purpose, so you can see the handkerchief and appreciate it.

I doubt anyone would offer me much money for it, even a museum of fabrics, but to me it is priceless.

When I touch it, I am linked to my grandfather, and linked to his mother. I am literally linked to them, through this modest piece of cloth.

I find that profoundly moving.

This is part of why I find History so fascinating.

I cannot imagine what it must have been like to live on a farm in South Georgia between 1888 and 1904. I cannot imagine a home without electricity or indoor plumbing. I cannot imagine having to quit school and go to work, so my mother and my 7 younger siblings can stay together, and keep the land. Yet, such was the life of my grandfather, Algernon Lewis Thompson. He spent many years working and sending money home to his mother, and many years as a professional soldier, delaying marriage until his mother and siblings were able to manage for themselves. 

Thompson is pictured at right, in the lower left-hand corner. My father looked a LOT like Thompson.

 

at left, Dad as a young man with me and my brother, about 1962

 

 

The lady who raised my grandfather was always referred to as "Annie Lou Lewis Thompson" but in doing some research I found that her name was actually Augustine Lougene Lewis. Her mother was Gabrielle Scarborough. So from her, I have French ancestry, undoubtedly. I know there are French ancestors on the Henderson side, too.

I loved learning French in high school. My ancestors in heaven must have been tickled.

Below, Annie Thompson, known to Dad and her grandchildren as "Little Granny."

I can touch the handkerchief her loving son sent to her more than a hundred years ago. We are connected through more than blood. I look forward to meeting her, and my grandfather, one day, in heaven.

 

Revising History to Reflect Wishful Thinking

I remember watching a news story several years ago about the musical Hamilton and feeling really uncomfortable with how it was cast. Black actors portraying aristocrats that socialized with Alexander Hamilton? It just didn't happen.

I am not alone in my feelings on this. As this article points out,

"The performance drew plenty of skeptics. Then-Daily Show host Jon Stewart, in a segment that has aged like asbestos, roundly mocked Miranda and the other poets of color featured in the event, snarking, “You’ve been dissed, disrespected, disenfranchised, but ’dis? Is kind of ridiculous.”

Hamilton went on to break box-office records but it attracted a lot of criticism, too.

Here's a little reminder: In that day and time (the late 18th century) most African Americans were either enslaved. If they were free, they typically worked at very modest jobs like maids or perhaps tradespeople like blacksmiths or seamstresses or farm workers. There was no black aristocracy, except perhaps in New Orleans.

The sort of revisionist history seen in Hamilton or the newer Netflix series Hollywood is really inaccurate and it bothers me on a lot of levels.

Now, I am the child of two parents who liked history and read a lot of history. My father was an avid and voracious reader and a 5 lb. tome about the life of Winston Churchill or George S. Patton was a gift he would delve into immediately after opening.

I was taught to revere history at an early age.

While in the car, we always pulled over to read those historic markers by the side of the road. Dad always took us to Civil War battlefields and any sort of naval vessel the public could tour. We watched movies set in historical time periods. I loved to read biographies of famous women like Eleanor Roosevelt and Clara Barton.

Now that I am a writer, I am diligent about doing my research and trying to portray accurately what life was like in the recent past or the distant past. I did a lot of research for my novel Heart of My Own Heart.

Hamilton and Hollywood are trying to cast more actors of color in key roles and level the playing field in terms of job opportunities. I understand that motivation and I applaud the idea, just not the execution of it. The system has long been biased and it needed to change. I just don't think the way history is being rewritten is a good thing.

Imagine you are a child (not knowing much about American History) and you see Hamilton. It appears as though he had peers who were African American. They seemed to sing hip hop. You will come away thinking that the portrayals in Hamilton are accurate. Perhaps you watch the series Bridgerton, which also has black actors portraying members of the British nobility in the 18th century -- and it's completely inaccurate. How does that feel later on when you learn in school that Hamilton and Bridgerton ignored actual history, and most of your ancestors were likely slaves or laborers or farmers?

Hollywood is an interesting series but it portrays a lot of somewhat graphic sex and no child should be watching it, but if they are, they are getting a similarly inaccurate vision of Hollywood in the late 1940's, early 1950's. It was almost impossible for even very talented non-white actors and actresses to get good roles and the recognition they deserved. That's really unfortunate but it is how things were back then. For instance, Hattie McDaniel won an Oscar for her role in Gone With the Wind but couldn't sit in the auditorium with her peers, due to racism.

In Hollywood, the series, a movie is made that features a black actress, written by a black screenwriter, and it breaks box office records and wins a slew of awards. That's a nice fantasy, but it's doubtful that would have been the outcome even if a studio had dared to try that. Also, it's a slap in the face to people who lived through those segregated, racist times.

Here's a disturbing thought. The implication is that if a studio had just cast a beautiful black actress in a lead role and taken a chance, all would have been well. There's no way of knowing that. It's easy to look back and say of industry executives back then You weren't brave enough to buck convention and just go for it -- but hindsight is 20/20. We shouldn't judge people living during a time it's hard for us to fathom. Black people who went against the mainstream were often beaten or lynched. White people who tried to change the status quo were also often targets of the KKK. That's a terrible truth but it's the truth. It didn't happen only in the south, either.

You could make the argument that all of history is inaccurate. It's always written by the winners. History must be portrayed as accurately as possible, however, in my opinion.

I feel strongly that entertainments should not portray history the way we would have liked for it to be. Future generations shouldn't be confused by a well-meaning but highly inaccurate depiction of historical facts and events. We owe it to subsequent generations to show how it really WAS, the good and the bad. To do anything else is dishonorable and just wrong, in my opinion.

One final thought...

Sydney Poitier actually broke the color barrier in the early 1950's, the first person of color starring in movies popular with all audiences. We should study his life and learn and be inspired by it.

Cycling Through

Everyone is talking about the 20th anniversary of 9/11 and it's good to look back on that day, and take stock, but that's not all I want to do here.

I officially sold my house today. The closing was this afternoon. When I reflect on how my life has changed since 2001, I realize that the different phases of my life seem to all go in twenty year cycles. Today marks the beginning of a new cycle, at about 19 years since the last turning point, but close enough.

Twenty years ago I was working as a paralegal at a local company, in their legal department, and I still liked to get on an airplane occasionally and travel. It never occurred to me anyone would want to take my nail file out of my checked bag, or throw away a jar of peanut butter in my backpack, because of terrorism.

I was driving into work and I heard on the radio that a plane had hit one of the World Trade Center buildings. I figured the pilot must have had a heart attack, or be really drunk, to do something so wacky.

A few hours later I drove home in shock, wondering if the world was coming to an end. My mother had lived through the Cuban Missile Crisis and she had told me on the phone, in an icy calm voice, to go to the bank and pull out cash, as much as possible, and to fill up the car with gas, and buy bottled water. Mom believed in being prepared for any emergency. She kept enough canned food in her pantry to live on for a couple of weeks.

It never even occurred to me on that mild fall day in 2001 that the world had changed profoundly, and the next twenty years of my life would be incredibly busy, and completely different from the years that had gone before.

I decided to give up the Husband Hunt and become a mom on my own, after I went to Russia to sing Handel's Messiah in January 2003. A short time later my mom and I decided to share a house so she could help me raise my daughter. We bought our house together in early 2005.

I didn't know when I met the tiny little girl in the orphanage in 2003 that she was 11 years old. I thought she was about 7. I had asked God for a miracle a few months before. I wanted to be a mother, but I couldn't see how it was ever going to happen. Alesia was the answer.

My choir wasn't even scheduled to sing at her orphanage. It was a last-minute thing, after one of our concerts canceled. What would my life be like if I had never gone to that orphanage? I don't want to think about it.

A couple of years later, I adopted my son Michael, from Kazakhstan. He was 10. I had a long layover in Frankfurt when I was bringing him home and Michael and I were both scrutinized meticulously. Michael was "wanded." My laptop was "tested." The Germans are serious about security.

Michael is missing his right hand, due to a frostbite accident when he was five years old. It barely slows him down, though. He now works as a cook in a restaurant, something most people who don't understand limb differences would never foresee.

I never thought I'd try to raise two special needs kids. (Alesia has an auditory processing disorder.) They were just kids. You don't love a child less just because they have issues. All kids have issues, it's just not always obvious what they are until you get to know them. 

We have had so many happy times here in this old house in northeast Atlanta. It's only a few minutes away from the condo where I lived as a singleton for years.

Now my kids are grown and my mom passed away last year. I keep looking around the house and seeing them here, though. I see my kids playing a game on the dining room table, or riding bikes down the street.

I see Mom eating breakfast in the kitchen, and watching TV.

I see my brother coming in on holidays to be with us.

I see my friends visiting, and having long chats with them in the kitchen or the family room.

The events of twenty years ago marked a distinct division in my life. The phase I just finished was what I will probably come to think of as the Caretaking Years. It was a welcome relief after the tumultuous Husband Hunting Years. The last few years, seeing my mom's health go downhill, were really hard, though.

Now that my house is sold, I will be in an apartment for a year or so while I regroup and decide what to do next and where to do it. I have loved living in Atlanta, but if I can find a good job working from home, I might relocate. The Atlanta traffic is a nightmare. We passed a car on fire heading home after the closing. Yikes. The tall buildings, fire, and smoke were eerily reminiscent of that day twenty years ago, but on a much smaller scale, of course.

I hope and pray our country never goes through anything like a 9/11 attack again. I hope and pray our leaders help us avoid that nightmare.

I also hope the next phase of my life, the next twenty years, will be a peaceful and creative time. I am planning two more novels, once life settles down again.

I hope my kids prosper. I hope I might have a grandchild or two to spoil, one day. I will tell my grandchild about 9/11, and about meeting a little girl in an orphanage, and about living in a blue house, in a lovely and peaceful neighborhood, during the Caretaking Years...

 

Practicing What You Preach

Do you love everybody? I mean EVERYBODY? If you call yourself a Christian, do you pick and choose who to love? If so, you don't really get the point.

Some of the most selfless, kind, truly good-hearted people I know are not Christian but they embody the kind of love I think we're all supposed to show one another.

A guy I know on Facebook who is a friend of a friend (not somebody I used to hang out with years ago) posted that he loves everybody -- rich/poor, old/young, black/white etc. I noticed he left out any mention of LGBT folks. I was tempted to drop a comment and ask him if he loves them too, but I didn't want to get into one of those endless Facebook comment wars that never change anybody's mind about anything.

I am always amazed by people who call themselves Christians and say they love everybody but they don't really mean it. They mean they love those they think are not in their immediate circle but probably worthy of the agape kind of love. [Definition: Within Christianity, agape is considered to be the love originating from God or Christ for humankind.]

I don't recall anywhere in the bible where is says we're supposed to love only certain groups of people. Not in the New Testament, anyway.

1 John 2:9-10 says it plainly:

"Anyone who claims to be in the light but hates a brother or sister is still in the darkness. Anyone who loves their brother and sister lives in the light, and there is nothing in them to make them stumble."

1John 4:8 says it too:

"Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love."

I don't want to get into a big debate about the bible. Even the most conservative Christians will usually admit there are parts of the bible not really relevant to today -- which is why they aren't running around wearing robes and sandals, with long beards. Most agree slavery is not okay and Paul's exhortation to slaves to obey their masters is not relevant. However, they choose to vilify gay people and claim those parts of the bible typically used to condemn homosexuality are utterly relevant. I think there is clearly a bias there, and it's a very ugly one.

None of us choose our sexual orientation. We are born how we are born. Period. Some might argue that bisexuals get to choose, but even that, I would argue, is not entirely fair.

I have a young family member who has lost most of his former "friends" because he is in a same-sex relationship. All his former friends condemn him because he isn't loving who they think he should love. He is not gay. He is bisexual. He fell in love with his partner based on his humanity, not his gender. Even if my friend were gay, would that make it okay to ostracize him because he loves differently?

We are all born bisexual, according to Kinsey. Maybe with some folks it's 99% vs. 1% but it's still there. Most reasonable adults will admit they have, at some point, been attracted to a person of the same gender.

I have a friend whose husband passed away this summer and he is in deep mourning. They were together more than twenty years. As soon as they could, they married. They loved each other deeply. I cannot see why that is bad in any way.

I have a friend from childhood who has been with her partner more than forty years, and they raised a son together, very successfully. I admire their long relationship and solid, happy marriage.

Whether my young bisexual friend chooses to stay with his same-sex partner or eventually chooses a female partner, it doesn't matter to me. He is one of the most loving and beautiful guys I know, always willing to go the extra mile for someone else. He and his partner also go to church every Sunday, read the bible, and do their best to show love to everyone they encounter. I know many so-called "Christians" who are not nearly as kind and generous and loving.

Saying you are are Christian and then refusing to even acknowledge your friends, relatives, and neighbors who are members of the LGBTQ community isn't the loving thing to do. It isn't following what I believe is the most fundamental message in the bible:

LOVE ONE ANOTHER

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only love can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." - Martin Luther King, Jr.

Packing Up Memories

After a long summer of house showings, it looks like my house has finally sold and I will be moving on, in a few weeks. It's a bittersweet process. I raised my children here. I nursed my mom through her final days here. I have lived in this house longer than any other place in my entire life.

Sixteen years.

In May of 2005 Mom had sold her house in Augusta and I was in the process of selling my condo in Tucker, and we found this house. It's pictured below, behind the trees. We had looked and looked, and had a hard time locating a house with a big bedroom and private bathroom on the ground floor. We liked the schools in this area. I had adopted Alesia in 2004 and I wanted her to live in a home with a yard. I already knew I was going to adopt another child, and I loved playing outside as a child, so I wanted that for my kids.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In addition to the perfect room for Mom, this house checked a lot of boxes. Big yard. Lots of trees. Room for a garden. Walking distance to the elementary and middle schools. Lots of families on the street. Pool and tennis courts a short walk away.

My neighbors have been the absolute best neighbors in the world.

When I have been sick or hospitalized, they have been there. When Mother has been sick, they have been there. I called my neighbor Jenean one day, frantic, because Mom had fallen and was refusing to go to the hospital. Mike wasn't answering his phone. I couldn't figure out how to keep Mom at home and take care of her properly. Jenean brought food. Another neighbor bought me a potty chair for her. Another neighbor walked Lola for me.

One neighbor paid my kids to walk his dogs, so they could get a little exercise and have a little spending money.

Another neighbor suggested a tennis coach for my son, and he was soon happily taking lessons and loving the sport.

Neighbors have quietly helped me decorate for Halloween, have left gift cards in the mailbox, have mulched my flower beds when I didn't have the time or money.

I will miss the house terribly, but I will miss the neighbors and neighborhood more. Even though I live in big bad ATLANTA -- at least that's my address -- I really think of myself as a Tuckerite. Tucker, Georgia, is a small town, like many small towns. Main Street. Super Walmart. Small businesses galore. A great farmer's market. A Mom and Pop meat market with great takeout food [Tucker Meat Market]. They do fireworks downtown every July 4th. They decorate main street at Christmas. I am on the community Facebook group frequently [Tucker Town Talk] because I can find out who to call to fix my fridge, or replace my spark plugs, or babysit my dog, very quickly.

I plan to stay in this area, where I feel part of a vibrant small town community. I am hunting for a new place, and packing up my stuff.

 

I will take with me a million memories. They don't stay with the house. They are carried with me always, in my heart...