Detour

The light shown down as I looked up from m single inclined chair. I couldn't speak, looking like Hannibal Lechter, I wondered, the taste of latex strong in my mouth, what the hell? How did I get here? I'm afraid that I will swallow my tongue. I've heard of people doing that you know. Have you ever arrived at a place in life and not understood how you arrived at your destination. It reminds me of that first impromptu speech in college speach class. The professor looks at the room, all eyes disengage and find something more interesting upon which to gaze. And then it happens, you hear your name, or was that Snoopy's teacher? As you grasp your seat and try to stand, a certain uneasy feeling comes over you, your tongue is bigger than your mouth and surely you cannot speak. That is the feeling I felt this morning. I felt a twinge of pain in the lower portion of my jaw as I worked a double shift Thursday night. Now, truthfully, the pain had been there all day. I had just finished my 20th tylenol and as the bottle sat empty on my desk, I imagined that somehow, the pain was all in my head. Yep, it was, all in my head. I made it through the presentation, locked my desk drawer and walked out into the night and set out on my journey home. Upon reaching my destination, I entered my bedroom, where I could finally acknowledge the pain which had lived inside my mouth all day, causing me to look even more sarcastically at some unsuspecting individuals throughout the day. No, it wasn't that question you asked, or that assignment you didn't complete, my mouth is throbbing and I want you to go away, but you just kept on talking. I opened a new bottle of tylenol and vowed to go to the dentist in the morning. Now, keep in mind, I'd rather go to an OBGYN appointment than a dentist. I always leave in pain from the dentist. At 8:30 AM, I arrived at my destination, the dentist. I was hoping for more laughing gas and a very minor procedure. And then, he said it, ROOT CANAL! In my mind, I began counting the cost, financial, pain and mental anguish. Let me explain, I have used all of my dental benefit and it is only May. The rest of the cost, is on me! The person who usually administers the laughing gas was not there today, mental anguish and then, I saw the needle, pain! Then, they place these things in my mouth that make it impossible for me to speak. I want to talk, I want to ask questions. I want to run. I don't run. I remain under the bright light, unable to talk, hoping for the end to come quickly. Finally, the end arrives. I am allowed to exit the chair. My mouth is numb, my hair a mess and it is pouring down raining. I don't know how I arrived at this destination. This was not my plan. I had planned to get up this morning and go into work and complete some additional work on a project. But, as luck would have it, I had a detour. I find that I do better when there is a GPS available with the detour. I was never very good at reading a map. I am trying to learn to be more flexible and how to work without a plan. Sometimes, you have to plan on the fly. Spontaniety is not my strong point, but life is a good teacher and I am becoming a life long learner.

Muddy Paws and Uncut Claws

For all practical purposes, he was from the wrong side of the tracks. He had no papers, no pedigree. He didn't come from the right kind of family. He had no fancy bowl and ate table scraps every night, that's right, he was, dare I say it, he was a mutt. What has happened to the dog that many of us knew in childhood? The dog that ate real chicken bones and went outside without a rain coat? Where is that dog who rescued Timmy from the well? I have had about 8 relationships in my life that have been life changing. The kind of relationships that are filled with secrets that aren't shared, love and laughter. As a child, there is nothing like having a best friend. Now, if that best friend can play catch, and lick your face occassionally, that's even better. The first best friend I remember was Ashes, or as my sister called him, Asses. You see, she had a little speach problem and renamed the dog Asses. Anyway. Ashes was by all accounts, a mutt. He was dirty gray in color, shaggy but loyal. Ashes was kept mostly, on a long chain in our yard until we let him loose to play. Each day, we would go get him and play and play. I would give him fresh water in a large mop bucket. I still remember the night, when somehow, his chain got wrapped around the carport and sounded to us like robbers were going to break in at any moment. Three little children and their mother sat huddled up, listening to something scratching along the carport, as the rain dripped down outside the window. Finally, we had no choice, someone had to look outside. We knew, we were goners. That's when we saw it, the dog, stuck on the porch, his chain tangled around one of the poles. We weren't being robbed, unless we were beng dognapped! Afterall, that dog was valueable. Next, there was Good old Trusty. Trusty was an Irish Setter. Trusty was a little more energetic. He needed your full attention. One day, I came home from school and my dad told me that Trusty had gone to live on a farm. This would become a frequent place of visitation for various animals at my house. However, Trusty must not have liked the farm. Trusty kept coming back from the farm. No matter how often he got returned to "the farm", he always returned. Until, one day, he didn't. Enter Noah, Bo, Drake Robinson. Noah was my dog. Yes, my dog. A mutt for all seasons. I can't explain Noah, except, I named him for a Doctor off of General hospital and gave him my last name. Noah was special. He started out as an outside dog. However, one day during a bad storm, Noah got struck by lightening. All of the hair on his tail came out and his tail resembled that of an oppossum. From that day forward, Noah became a house dog. Sleeping next to my bed. Now, that tail scared most people. It was about 2 feet long and hairless. Noah wagged it with pride, sometimes striking those within close range. Noah was my best friend, we shared everything, including reading the novel, Anne of Green Gables. There's no judgement in a dog. No look of disapproval, no questions, no unappreciation. The dog just takes you as you are, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health. Reminds me of another situation. Well, I digress. I remember when Noah got sick. He layed by my bed, trying to hang on. Ultimately, he went outside and layed in the family garden. I could not get him to come inside. He just kept going back to the garden. Finally, he died in that garden. My best childhood friend. He had been with me through my coughs and colds, my teenage crushes and then watched as I went off to college. In the garden, where he had played state fair, with my sister and I every year after the fair. Noah left so many memories, beautiful memories. A dog knows when it is their time to go. They don't fight it and they don't try to burden their human companions. Noah began teaching me lessons about dying. He taught me not to fear death, because, it is final. However, dying is to be feared. The dying process can be long and linger on. Princess and Midnight were to come next and those two were a pair. I was in college when these two lived in our house, so, not so many memories of these two, but, I do recall that Princess was mean. She would bite you. I think both of these dogs ultimately went to live on the farm. I don't know who has this farm. It must be crawling with animals. Maybe it will be on the next episode of Animal Hoarders. After being out of college and working for year, I decided to pack up and move to South Carolina. Upon arriving, I needed a dog. I went to the humane society and I got Cymonne. Cymonne was a Yellow Lab. She had been returned to the shelter numerous times and was a very skiddish dog. She and I were made for each other. Cymonne would wait for me each and everyday in my tiny South Carolina apartment, slowly chewing the wallpaper off of the walls in the kitchen. She had severe anxiety issues. After she finished the wallpaper, she began to eat the tile from the floor. She seemed to have a cast iron stomach. I tried to calm her anxiety, by leaving a small televison on each and everyday. The television only proved one thing, Cymonne loved television, especially, the soap operas. Cymonne just didn't like to be left alone. She ate the mattress on the bed, she ate the answering machine cord, the tile on the floor the leather around the door locks in the car. You name it, if I left her alone, she ate it. Anxiety is a disorder that many of my two legged friends also understand. In humans, we often try to mask the anxiety. We medicate through prescribed medications, over the counter drugs, alcohol, you name it, but the dogs, they must handle their anxiety in other ways. Or do they? Cymone was eventually prescribed her own anxiety medication which returns me to my original thought, what happened to the dogs of the past? Anxiety medication for dogs? Rain boots, clothing, beds, liposuction, speciality food. Are these dogs? Cymonne continued on with me on my South Carolina journey and even gained a new friend when I got married. Enter, Spade, the black cocker spaniel, belonging to my husband Keith. Spade, was a third generation cocker spaniel. How so, you ask. Well, Keith has named every one of his last three cocker spaniels Spade for the last 20 years. Anyway, I met Spade in Georgia, living in Keith's backyard, a little worse for the wear and definitely a dog. Keith says that I turned Spade into a pet. Our first meeting, I gave Spade a steak and we were fast friends. Fast forward and understand that Spade was very over protective of me and would bite anyone coming close. We always warned people, "Don't try to touch him, or give him a command, he will bite you!" There were a few skeptics. Well, a fool and his finger tips will soon part. One night, as Keith and I slept, the lightening flashed like a Kodak moment on the red carpet over and over again through the night. The thunder was so loud, you would think a concert was playing outside. And then it happened. Suddenly, A loud crashing sound, accompanied by a large black figure jumping over our bed. Keith sat up quickly, grabbing the figure and screaming, "get out, get out". Keith began punching and then, I realized it was the dog, Spade, afraid of the storm. There was no stopping both of them. Spade began to growl, Keith in a dead sleep, was going to beat the intruder to death and I was caught in the middle, a sure and certain death. I screamed, Keith, Keith, it's the dog, stop, stop, it's Spade, he's afraid. The next thing I saw, was Spade, flying through the air, like a trapeze artist in the circus. Spade wimpered, Keith woke up and I thanked Jesus for my life. Both Spade and Cymonne moved to Kentucky with us after the wedding and lived to be very old dogs. Cymonne lived to be 16 and Spade, I swear, was 20 when he left this earth. In 2006, enter Fluffy Puff! The Jack Russell Terrier, with boundless energy. Fluffy has a raincoat, wears a Coach collar, sleeps in a bed and eats special food. Fluffy has no idea what it is like to live outside and has a birthday party every year. I think Fluffy can talk. He waits by the stove most days, hoping that his dinner is being prepared. He has his own stuffed animals that he brings to storytime with the children. He dresses up for Halloween and patiently waits for his Christmas gift each year. He's never rescued Tiimmy from a well, or worked with Cruella De Ville, but, he's mine and he does have papers and even if he didn't he'd still be my best friend.

Time Served

In the criminal justice system, "time served" describes a sentence where the defendant is credited immediately after the guilty verdict with time spent in remand awaiting trial. This terminology made me think, what if your crime was simply one of choosing the wrong relationship? Whether it be a friendship, marriage, or some other relationship, is there credit for time served? The benefit of time served, is the time you have to think. The time you have to ponder and ask yourself to what extent are you responsible for the crime, or the actions that led up to the crime. For, it truly is a crime to spend an extended time in a relationship that has a past that was unproductive, a present that is toxic and a future that non-existent to everyone. Everyone, except the stories you have made up in your head, trying to become unconscience to the reality of of what your head has known forever, but your heart refused to believe. I've always believed that people only treat you the way you allow them to treat you. And, if you remain in any type of relationship or situation, you have to ask yourself, what are you getting out of that situation that keeps you in that situation. I have watched many women remain in relationships, marriages, etc., for financial reasons, emotional security and for the sake of the children. It's easy to judge and say what we would or would not do in such a situation. Howver, what I do know, these situations are never like television and the simplicity in which they are played out does not exist. I have watched shows like the Bachelor and Say Yes to the Dress and I want to watch another show, I'll title it, Run, do not walk, Run. I say that to say, do not allow the allure of the dress and the sparkle of the ring, cause you to make a decision that will cause you to have an extended stay. I recall a decision that I almost made, but I thought better. I was engaged and was planning a wedding. However, everytime I thought about walking down the aisle, I saw myself turning and running down the aisle and out of the door. I was excited about the wedding, and how it would look, but, I could not see myself marrying this individual. I gathered my courage, wrote a letter and attached the engagement ring to the letter and handed it to him after dinner one evening. For me, that was one of the best decisions I ever made. The end of a friendship, the beginning of my freedom. I remember the meal, medium well steak, roasted vegetables and a lovely martini. He drove a white Porsche and I a black Rx7. My heart was torn, what would happen from this point forward? My head knew the answer. I liken it to walking the green mile, when your head surely knows what's at the end of journey, but your heart, hopes a stay will be granted. But there would be no stay. My head won out and right there, in the restaurant parking lot, that relationship ended. Now sometimes, the time served is even more difficult to calculate. There are those relationships that have been a part of us since childhood and the time served there can be hard time. There are often tumultous relationships that have existed for years. As a member of a family unit, many of us will try over and over again to rescue a family member, often to our own detriment. Addictions are often rationalized away by family members as a means of coping with displaced guilt, shame and fear. What if your decision to separate yourself from the toxic relationship, causes you to be the one ostrasized from the family? What if, what you recognize as truth, others tell you is fiction? What if, you recognized the strength in your decision to recognize your time served with this person and move on with your life. No longer allowing them to take up space in your life. No longer allowing them to make you a prisoner in your own life. Your Free! I've had time to think. I think I have spent way too much time, waiting on someone else to give me credit for time served. This 9x9 cell is just the product of my mind. I have limited myself to what I have believed certain relationships have wanted me to be, not realizing that no one can define what their not entitled. How can one human being, define another human being? Now, let's all be honest with ourselves. What relationships are defining you? Is it the "Golden" Handcuffs of Corporate America?, the ties that bind a family, the silver and gold of a friendship, that isn't really functioning? I think my time served is about to end and who knows, maybe I'll get credit for good behavior!

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