July 18, 2014

The 6 Things I Remember Forgetting

Hey, I know it’s summer and everything, but it’s getting late. Bedtime, kiddo. Georgia and I were watching Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. She had seen it before, so it wasn’t like she was missing out. We said bedtime prayers, and I kissed her goodnight.

The movie had sucked me in by that time and I wanted to know how everything would get sewed up in a tidy bow, so I went back to watching. It didn’t disappoint. I was entertained and nearly clapped as the credits rolled.

The next morning, I told Georgia what a clever movie it was. You watched the rest of it? Seriously, mom? Now I felt stupid. Well, yeah. I got hooked and wanted to see how it ended. She and Jamie exchanged looks.

Um, mom...you saw that movie already. At the movie theater. Don’t you remember?

Listen, my brain’s memory chip has been deleting a ton of low-priority information lately. But an entire movie? Like, a swath of time and place that I completely blanked out on? Between you and me, I still contend I did not see this movie before and will cling to that until my dying day; but really.


There are more than a few things I can remember forgetting.

1. That meeting.
All my colleagues’ offices were empty. Then a colleague dressed in “meeting” clothes appeared in a rush out of nowhere and greeted me with Just so you know: we’ll be meeting in Suite A instead of Suite B.
There was a meeting?

2. The hot dogs
As the Chef-in-Chief, I declared We’re gonna have Chicago Dog Night! and headed to the store for Chicago Dog Night stuff. Came home, unpacked the bags: potato salad, chips, bright green relish, old fashioned yellow mustard, cucumbers, sport peppers, pickle spears, poppyseed buns...
..but no hot dogs.

3. The dog’s leash
Charley-the-Shih-Tzu-Poo quizzically stared at me as I left for the day. Momma gave you your treat already. That’s all I can do, honey. I’ll be back soon...okay? Georgia and I piled in the car and I tossed my stuff in the passenger seat -- purse, phone, charger, lunch and…
the dog’s leash.

4. Deodorant
Did I put some on today? I think I did...but did I? Welp...can’t be too careful.
*leaves house wearing ten layers of Secret*

5. Any password
‘nuf said.

6. The name, drive and folder of any file saved and accessed more than four weeks ago.
And someone always needs it printed and copied in triplicate for the do or die meeting that’s happening in ten minutes.

...and I’m sure there are many, numerous other things that could be added to this list, but I just can’t, um...remember them right now.

July 7, 2014

Delayed Gratification

Call it a case of the Meandering Mondays or just go ahead and say I'm trying to kick a case of Writer's Block. Whatever you wanna call it, somehow I got stuck on banks. If you're old enough, you remember there was a time when people actually visited the lobby and talked to tellers. It usually happened Saturdays since banks closed at 5:00 weekdays, and most people were working and couldn't make it to the bank by that time. The banks were open on Saturdays, but only until noon; so everyone had to make it there before closing...and heaven forbid you had a kid in tow:

Through tall glass double doors and into the lobby, traffic’s noise gives way to The Most Beautiful Girl or some other muzak. Everything there soaks up sunshine – from the navy blue carpet, to personal banker desks flanking each wall, to the velvet ropes and signs that instruct Wait Here for the next available teller.

An intimidatingly tall oblongish table dominates the lobby’s center. On it are slips of neatly stacked paper resting next to pens that are attached by silver chains to the big table. One by one, customers approach the table, take a slip and pen, and scribble some kind of financial hieroglyph, crumple it up, take another and begin scribbling again.

The line of tellers stretches from wall to wall. Clad in polyester outfits matching the carpet’s navy blue, they count out loud…and that’s five, ten, fifteen, twenty… and each counted bill snaps against veneered countertops in rhythm to Knock Three Times.

Photo: Creative Commons Fly, Flickr
The velvet ropes where people obediently heed the instruction to Wait Here are heavy. Their metal ends clang a little when accidently shaken by nervous adult or purposely by a bored child. An anemic rendition of Afternoon Delight whines against the scribbling and the clanging.

Somewhere in the long line of customers fidgets a kid whose spine and legs threaten to wet noodle and drop them to the floor in fit of sheer boredom.

An available teller’s Next Please saves that kid (and parent too) from wet noodle fate. After the business transaction is transacted, the kid receives a sucker from the teller.

My childhood was filled with long, taxing lessons in delayed gratification like the weekly Saturday trip to the bank. I guess this generation’s kids of twenty-four-hour banking and ATM cards will have to learn the same lessons another way.

June 13, 2014

Thinking About Loving

Sometimes I think about it.

Sometimes it's a fleeting thought in the seconds before I drift off to sleep and glance at his arm around my middle and my brown hand resting on his not so brown arm. It always looks like a painting to me.
Simple and beautiful.

Sometimes it's the rare occasion when all three of us are captured in a candid picture. Our daughter between the two of us, making the picture look as if we're posing in graduating skin colors, from lightest (his), to medium (hers), to darkest (mine).
Her face, her skin a blend of both his and mine.

Sometimes he thinks about it when I'm oblivious. Like when I give him a little extra room at a checkout counter, but am still within his personal space, and the clerk helping him asks if she can help me. He lets her know that "uh...that's my wife" in a stern, sharp voice before I can answer.
He's my protector, a sensitive set of second eyes.

But most of the time, I don't think about it -- him being white, me being black and our daughter being both. 

What I do think about is the stuff that an average married with kids person thinks about: what am I gonna make for dinner, is the kid on the computer too much, when is that doctor's appointment, are we ever gonna get a date night, he could make dinner for once, and why for the love of pete are there towels all over the bathroom? I mean, REALLY?

See? Normal stuff. Normal. Married with kids. Stuff.

However, I will be thinking about our skin differences on purpose, albeit in a different way.

Today is Loving Day, so I'll be thinking about the Loving Verdict, handed down by the Supreme Court forty-seven years ago, which made it possible for couples who are of different skin colors to be couples. Just couples. Normal married with kids couples who can appreciate their differences, see themselves in their kids, and stand up for each other when they need to. Whether they ever figure out why towels are all over the bathroom is an entirely different blog post.

Thank you Mildred and Richard Loving.
Your verdict started a ripple effect that couples still feel today, even if they aren't thinking about it.

Happy Loving Day

June 7, 2014

Growing to "Dad"


I only called him “Dad” selectively, usually when I needed something. My friends marveled that I had the balls to call my dad by his first name. But it wasn’t an act of rebellion, my mom called him Percy and we just parroted what she said. He never seemed to mind.

It’s taken years to piece together who Percy really was – and how that same Percy intersected with Dad -- a title I instinctively started using only after the picture of who he was as a man, as a father, became clearer as I grew older.


“Shell-LEE!” I hear the smile in his voice as he bellows his pet name for me up the stairs on my birthday morning. I race from my bedroom to the top of the stairs. He’s standing at the base, a shadow pitched against sunlight behind him and balancing a faded blue Huffy 3-speed that was my ninth birthday present – a surprise.

It’s easy to hear his smile and see his broad white grin, a sharp contrast to his dark chocolate skin because Percy didn’t smile a lot. But I guess that day called for a smile.


My eyes blink away the crud of a hard sleep, and they open to see Percy sitting in the visitor’s chair stationed at the foot of the hospital bed. He’s dressed in an outdated brown polyester suit with an oversized collar and too short tie. It’s the uniform he dons for visiting the sick and shut-in – one of his duties as our church’s assistant pastor.

Technically, I’m a “sick” seventeen year-old, just a few weeks past high school graduation, and recuperating from the prior day’s breast reduction surgery.

I’m sure Percy knows about the surgery itself, but he’s old school at sixty-four years of age. You don’t talk about such things in mixed company. So we sit, making awkward small talk. We sit in silence until he opens his Bible, standard equipment for visiting the sick and shut in, and he asks me to read a passage from Psalms before he leaves. I finish reading. “Alright girl” he says as he kisses my cheek goodbye.


Rich greens meld together in a wide stripe through the car window as we whir down the interstate on our way to Selma, Alabama. My first road trip with Percy, and it’ll be my first time meeting his side of the family.

Even though it’s been years since his last visit, he knows the way. This is home, familiar ground, and soon the usually silent Percy gives way to an unfamiliar, reminiscing one. A remembrance here, a long pause there, punctuated by a laugh tinged with sadness and longing.

“…and I had to give my puppy away. That was my puppy.”

He’s in mid-conversation with himself, I guess, and I ask to be in on this conversation in progress. He explains that his mother, my grandmother, was a domestic for a family. He and a boy from that family grew up as best buddies. 

One day, Percy’s family dog had puppies and he picked one to raise all by himself and he did just that. He was proud of this one accomplishment, this one meager thing he could call his own. Months later, his friend – who he now called “Sir” because they had both turned thirteen - wanted that puppy.

It was the Jim Crow South. He gave the puppy to his friend.

There’s no smile or tinged laugh in his voice as he tells the story.

He’s seventy-five. I’m twenty-eight.


Oversized lucite glasses comfortably rest on my nose, protecting eyebrows to cheekbones. A few steps through a fluorescent-lit hallway, through another doorway and then to the left is darkness. My eyes adjust to the darkness and cauldrons of red embers brimming with a bubbling, boiling sulfur smelling something situated five or six feet apart from each other are revealed.

I’m on a foundry tour for a work-related thing. I’m thirty.

It is a least ninety degrees in this space where the cauldrons’ glow reveal high, blackened ceilings. Every now and then, a gust of Wisconsin winter air cuts through the open door and hot blackness, providing relief from the heat even as it blasts minute bits of slag onto my cheek. The men tending each cauldron move mechanically, indistinguishable and interchangeable, one from the other.

Another gust. More slag dust. I wince and think This is hell.” Then I’m caught by a wave of awe and sympathy for the interchangeable, indistinguishable guys for whom this is a work-until-you-retire job.

“Percy did this. Dad did this. Every day. Every day for thirty years” my mind whispers. I remember the inside of his forearms, paler than the rest of his chocolate colored skin because the only light they got was the gleam from factory cauldrons.

I remember asking him about those freckles flecking each forearm. Smile in his voice, he’d explain they weren’t freckles: they were bits of molten iron he poured in a different factory that had splashed up and embedded there. Forever.

I catch the lump in my throat as I remember and wonder if I ever said thank you for spending thirty years in hell. Deep down, I know I didn’t.


“Hey Girl!” Percy greets me with a good-natured cackle. The familiar smile is in his voice. “Hi Dad” I say and introduce him to the guy that is now my husband. I ask how he’s doing and he kvetches about the hospital food. My future husband and I sit in the visitors’ chairs stationed at the foot of his bed. He asks about my BFF and I tell him she’s married with kids. He grins that same grin from my ninth birthday.

He asks how two of the deacons from church are doing, and I gently remind him that he remembers they died – one five years ago and one two years ago. He nods and sighs an embarrassed smile.

Dementia. He’s a few months shy of seventy-nine. I’m thirty-one.


Percy comes to me in a dream a few weeks after he dies, and he’s got that same broad grin. I ask “Dad…what’s it like in Heaven?” Taking both of my hands in his and smiling, Percy says “I cannot tell you that.” His laugh borders on a giggle now – something I’d never seen him do in this life – like he knows about a surprise party and is bursting to spill the news.

A few weeks later, I find out that I’m carrying his grandchild.


I don’t know if Percy knew our daughter was on the way. I’ll never know if he knew that I was grateful for all his sacrifices and I still don’t know what it’s like in Heaven. The only thing of which I’m sure of is that Percy – my Dad – was a good guy with a beautiful smile that you could hear when he called you by name.