Water Gets Old

Aiken, is a beautiful little town in South Carolina. Its claim to fame is what the locals call the "bomb plant". I worked there and no, I don't glow. I spent 10 years of my life learning about radiation and nuclear waste and even met my husband there, well, kind of. It can be incredibly hot. I mean, steam rising up over a Carolina cotton field, yes, they still exist. I got lost next to a cotton field once, no cell phone, out in the middle of no where, every myth about the South playing in my head. You have seen Roots? I found my way home, a little shaken, but untouched by the things my mind had conjoured. Now, keep in mind, I'm not a Southern Girl. I'm a midwest transplant. I love the South and plan to return but for that moment in time, I was just "fixin" to learn a few things. Let me introduce you to Ms. Milhouse. Now, this, is a Southern Girl. She taught me about the South. Ms. Milhouse became my best friend in the South, as her family took me in as their own while I transplanted myself in the South. Ms. Milhouse, or LaDebra as I usually called her was and is an independent woman who knew how to handle her own. She even helped to take care of my dog, "Scary Cymone" , as she called her. Cymone was a yellow lab, who was afraid of her own shadow. My dog Cymone liked to sleep with me and once, tried to climb into LaDebra's bed. That did not work out to well! LaDebra taught me about the Chitlin Strut, a festival dedicated to chitlins. She and the women of her church would sit and clean chitlins for hours in preparation for this festival, held in November of each year in Salley, S.C. LaDebra also taught me about real hash. Until then, I had only seen hash out of a can. Little did I know, that hash in the South meant every part of the pig, from the rudda to the tudda. I remember my first pig picking. That whole pig, just staring at me, "go ahead, Cassie, just go up and pick off a piece." Uh, no, I'll pass, he still has a face. How about the time, when she and I sat on her porch, ready to go out for the evening and as we talked to our young men friends, something black came out of the brush from across the street and came winding it's way across the street to the porch. Without hesitation, one of the guys, without pausing in his conversation, pulls out a pistol and shoots a monster black snake as it slithered across the road. Who does that? My transplant was nearly complete. Sweet tea is the drink of the South and finally, something I love. But, I do not like water. But, for those who come over and want a cold glass of water, I kept a beautiful blue pitcher of water in my refrigerator. I met my husband Keith in the summer of summer of 1998 in Savannah Georgia. He loves water. Therefore, I made sure that I kept that water pitcher near the back of my refrigerator so it would be cold, just for him. Since I never drink the water, it was always available to him. He helped me fully sod the backyard of my condo, after I used an entire 15 pound bag of fescue grass to overseed the yard the first time! He needed a large glass of water after that! He helped me to paint the living room of the condo, prior to renting it, he needed water after that job. He was an avid softball player and each night after we came home from his game, I would pour him a glass of water from the blue pitcher. One day, he said to me, "Cassie, the water in your house taste different than other water." I was somewhat happy. Afterall, It should be special. He is the only one that has ever drank that water. I decided it was time to refresh that water. I took out the pitcher and opened the top. Oh My God! there was green fungus and things growing in this pitcher! I didn't know. Water gets old! Maybe next time, I'll serve sweet tea.

I Don't Have any Poor Stories.

I grew up in the suburbs. A small town called Plainfield Indiana. The town was 99.5% caucasian and then, there was my family. I always tell the story about not really knowing I was African American, Black, Negro, until I was seven years old. I was in a Brownie troupe. I was sitting with all the other little girls playing a game, called, guess who's missing, when it was my turn to leave the room. That's when I heard a little girl whisper, "don't tell the big thing about her, you know, she's black!" Oh my God, what, I am different than my friends, what? Why didn't somebody tell me? After my inital shock, I went on with my middle class life. There were no food stamps, no welfare checks, no public transportation. No one ever beat me and I didn't call my mother momma. I ate dinner on china at my grandmother's home, yes all of my relatives owned their own homes. I played volleyball, ran track, had baton lessons, gymnastics and the like. When I turned sixteen, I got my first car, a buick skylark, not the corvette I wanted, but it drove! I say all this to say, there seems to be a stigma if your African American and don't have a poor story to tell. There seems to always be a reference to how poor you were, who was poorer. Someone always asks remember when someone's mother hit them with a shoe, or when the rent didn't get paid. I believe those are definitely experiences, but not the only African American experience. Have you ever sat in the pew of an African American church service and heard the minister ask, Yall, remember, or, been in the midst of other African Americans and been excluded, when you could not relate to walking long distances, not having large Christmas celebrations or birthdays. When I'm in those congregations, I so want to yell out, no, I have no recollection! I say all of this to say, that the African American experience is a broad experience. It is not exclusive to just one experience. Why as African Americans do we allow members of our own race to paint us with one paint brush? Oh, yes, I have had my own African American experience, not quite a caucasian, but not accepted by many if my own race for many of my young adult years, I was not "black enough". No, I have no poor stories, unless you count my days in my college dorm room at Indiana University. I believe that some wear their plight through poverty like a badge of honor, a right if passage. Congratulations, you made it, but, does that make anyone else less deserving of their accomplishments? I don't want my African American children growing up ashamed because they have never experienced poverty and don't know the crowds of public transportation. But they do have a value system. A value system that can be taught no matter what your station in life. While in NYC, recently, my youngest tried to give a donation to every homeless person on the street. While other children often turn from children different than themselves, my oldest is the first to defend. My point, too much emphasis, even among a single race, to separate and distinguish. I don't have any poor stories, but I've got plenty of life stories. What's your life story?

Mistress of Disguises

Who are we really? I've spent the better part of the past week pondering, who I really am. Who do I want others to see and who do I reveal to myself each and everyday, when I close my door and pull the shades? There's the public me, the private me, the working side of me. The mommy me, the wifey me and many in between. My God, I feel like Sybil. Some of my disguises were challenged this week, as I faced what I'll call a minor health scare. You see, I thought I had pulled a muscle from an extensive shopping and sight seeing trip in NYC. However upon further analysis, it was a blood clot. Well, how do you disguise a noticable limp? How do you disguise being unable go to work? How do you disguise actually needing someone else, your spouse to give injections twice daily to manage the blood clot? My no nonsense, tough exterior disguise was being forcibly removed! I pride myself on being able to be self sufficient. This week, I learned to be interdependent. Maybe I don't have to be in disguise all of the time. Maybe, to be vunerable is acceptable. I want to teach my girls to be strong and independent women. Maybe, they can do it without a disguise

Talents

"Ancient church buildings are a money pit for their ministers and congregations. Repairs are a constant and costly concern. The vicar of Kirkheaton Parish Church, near Huddersfield, in the north of England found himself in this situation; with an old, inefficient building, which no longer served the needs of his congregation and the wider community. Radical, lateral thinking was required, and the Reverend Richard Steel was the man for the situation.

 Needing to raise a massive £375,000 to update the kitchen, office and toilet facilities, replace the flooring and substitute comfortable chairs for wooden pews, he set about mobilising the parishioners. And not averse to putting his hand in his own pocket, he withdrew around £500 of his own money, and handed out £10 shares to fifty of his most regular church attendees, with the suggestion that they find creative ways to make his investment grow. Citing the parable of the talents, Reverend Steel sent each of them out to follow the Biblical example, to show a good profit on their £10.

And how it worked! People were inspired and their inventiveness kicked in big-time. One person bought canvas and did a series of paintings, which were exhibited in a local gallery and sold for lots of money. Another set up a dog-walking business, and yet another made ‘posh’ cakes and sandwiches and staged a garden party. Now  they are well on the way to reaching their target, and their vicar has the satisfaction of knowing that what was good 2.000 years ago is still applicable today, and by having faith in his flock and his God, what seemed an impossible problem has all but been resolved."

Penny from across the pond

Spiritual Girl

II didn't attend a church service today and to many who consider themselves religious, that was probably not a good use of my time. But for me, I find myself usually underwhelmed by many a church service. Not due to the message. But due to the confusion over what is merely tradition and what is Biblical. What is religion and what is spiritual. No where does it say Biblically, that I must attend church every Sunday, but let a person miss a Sunday, oh my! How about how many times per week, you must walk through the doors, is God taking attendance or judging? No, but, guess who is? I believe that we often place too many constraints and rules on religion! Rules that are no where in the Bible. Who are we to judge. The Bible is rather simple, but religion makes it so very complicated. Jesus walked with the common man and the thief on the cross went to heaven with Him, no classes, no complicated additional tasks. Now, I'm not saying there shouldn't be other options available. I am saying, the only requirement to get into heaven is to believe in Jesus and that he died for for your sins.Maybe I write this due to a great deal of personal experience this year with individuals whose walk didn't match their talk. Who was so busy trying to remove the speck out of my eye, that they missed the log in their own. While they quoted scripture to me, their own life was a complete hypocrisy. So, maybe this year has re-enforced my spiritual side and non-religious side. Spirituality has encompassed my personal relationship with God, while, religion encompasses someone elses rules and traditions about God. When I sit in any church pew, I'm not thinking about Baptist, Methodist, Catholic,etc. I'm thinking of God, and my relationship.

Shoes Issues

I had the opportunity to see the exhibit, Shoe Obsession at the Fashion Institute in NYC, this past week and it made me think. What is my shoe Obsession and what does it say about me? My 9 year old daughter and I visited Macys in New York, where they have a shoe store with its own zip code and an express elevator that goes directly to the shoes! We held the Christian Louboutin red bottom shoes, with a tear in our eye! Now, what does that say? I buy a pair of shoes or boots every other week. My shoes speak to me! They are housed in my boutique like closet, where they can be viewed like works of art. Stillettos, flats, boots, red, yellow, classic black, every color, every style! And yet, depending on my mood, my frame of mind, my shoes may tell the story! A little sexy, see the 5 inch stripper shoe in pink! How about that business meeting, see the satin black pump in the corner. I think my shoe obsession says that I wear my issues on my feet!

Friends from High School

It was suggested that we post about friendships this month.  I have three groups of friends from high school.  I graduated in 1961 from Parkville Sr. High School in Parkville, MD. 

One of those groups I have know the members since sixth grade, two of them went to the same church I did, went to Luther league, and Girl Scouts with me.  One of the ladies has been my best friend since sixth grade.  All of us did things as couples until one of the husbands died.  Now only the women get together every few months since one of us lives in a retirement community in another state about an hours drive away.

In another group there are four of us, now know as "4ever Friends".  We try to get together monthly.  We eat our or in.  We play Mexican train dominoes together every chance we get.  We even took the dominoes on a cruise we all went on together with our husbands.  We have traveled together to some of our children's weddings that were out of state.  We were in Hilton Head Island last November when we met Jackie who became a friend in an instant. 

The final group is the reunion committee.  We had so much fun getting together to plan our 50th reunion that no one wanted to stop meeting.  Now we meet quarterly to eat and talk. 

We have met other members of our class who are amazed that we have stayed in close contact with members of our class all this time.  Each of these friends from high school has enriched my life and the life of my family.  My children call my best friend, Aunt.  Our husbands have become friends, too.  We vacationed with some of them.  A few of them are also in my Red Hatters Group, too.

As far as I am concerned, they will continue to be my friends until the day I die.  Thank God for such wonderful, fun loving, supporting friends.