The Late Arrival

A simple double-click of the mouse would open an email from a complete stranger in another state who I cyber stalked in hopes that he could tell me about my relatives.   Highly improbable.  But I double clicked anyway. It wasn’t as improbable as I thought.   Turns out that Murray – that’s his name – was more than willing to help me.   He’s done extensive research that included my family for a yet-to-be-published book because they were at the center of an incident in Pierce City, Missouri that changed the town forever. While I was very interested in the incident, I was more interested at the time in knowing what he knew about my family.   He understood and immediately filled me in on information about my great-grandfather: “Wiley worked at the lime kiln, where lime was dug up…He was a hardworking man.” Out of all the stones on ancestry.com and the myriad of rocks on Google, it seemed like I had found a gem. We’ve communicated since that time, and he’s...

Can you find the raw ruby in this picture?   Take a look; it’s right there.   Still don’t see it? It’s the one with the roundish, but jagged sort of edges. Maximize the photo if you still don’t see it.   Go ahead.   I’ll wait here.   Did you find it? Look again. It’ll be the one with rich-red hues. Okay, I lied: there’s no ruby - raw or cooked - in that picture. But searching for a gem in a sea of stones is kind of what it’s been like piecing my family tree together .   I knew my maternal ancestors were from a small Missouri town, and I even have a rough idea of their ages.   I used that information to conduct my search…and generated records for about eight billion people with the same last name from that same small town. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But there were a lot more than one or two. One of the records belonged to a person with a name that I had heard my mom and aunt mention numerous times while they were having conversat...

“I just love your gap!” A well-meaning person to whom I had just been introduced gushed the compliment. I was around twenty-three, and to tell you the truth, wasn’t even aware of this much-loved gap.   A nervous giggle escaped as I politely said “thank you.” Later on after dinner, I pulled out my mirrored compact to reapply my lipstick, but that was a ruse.   I was really checking to see if I indeed had a gap.   I did. I do .   In fact, just about everyone on mom’s side of the family has one.   It’s hereditary. Several years later, Jamie and I were a doting-dating-childless couple, strolling through the mall hand-in-hand. I tried on some jeans at a department store, and (quite uncharacteristically for me) did a little sexy model walk for him.   I posed, expecting a wolf-whistle or a “how you doin?’” Instead I got: Are you knock-kneed ?” Yes. Yes I am knock-kneed. First time I noticed it was in ballet class: the teacher told us to stand with our feet ...

Instead of the “usual” status updates (e.g. Look at the mac-n-cheese I made, or We're at the Jelly Belly factory, etc.), a Facebook friend of mine posts a Question of the Day.  I love the idea because not only is it a way to get to know each other better, but because it’s less Let me tell you about me and more I want to know more about you .   My friend’s question can be silly or serious, but it never fails to get my mind percolating.  Today’s question was: What was the best advice your mom ever gave you? ” Maybe its my way of keeping her alive, but I jump at any chance to talk about my mom, so the question was right up my alley. But she passed on so much wisdom in the 19 years I had with her, it was hard to decide. After a quick comb-through, it came to me: Tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone. Simple translation: Don’t drag your feet about finishing that project or your degree, or traveling if it’s your heart’s desire, or saying “I’m sorry” or “Thank you” o...

Once upon a time, long ago, I tried to be the Cool Chick. The unfortunate incident occurred during my mid-twenties, years before I had embraced my current Square Peg status. Here's what happened: As I was perched railside at my favorite watering hole gabbing with my bartender friend, a tall, handsome stranger sauntered in. Our eyes met. Locked. I swear angels were singing. Instead of following my usual Square Peg M.O. of giggling like a schoolgirl because a cute guy was actually checking me out, I decided to become: the Cool Chick. I coquettishly raised my drink in slo-mo, never breaking my bewitching gaze (I thought it was bewitching anyway) with this debonair stranger and proceeded to sip it. From the straw….because that’s what cool chicks do. I tilted my head ever so slightly to greet the teeny tiny cocktail straw, eyes still locked with his and… ...missed my mouth completely and instead poked the teeny tiny straw halfway up my right nostril. Needless to say, The Cool...

It was nine years and a few months ago, but I clearly remember telling my OB that we didn’t want to find out the sex of prenatal Georgia. We said that we didn’t have a preference. All we wanted was a healthy baby, and that was true.  But not completely. Deep down, I wanted a boy. Not because I envisioned a star athlete, but because girls are talkers.  Sometimes even lippy.  I just didn’t think I was up for the task.  Didn’t think I had the chops for it.  More than that, I had reflected on my experience as a boy-crazy black teen in a predominately white school:  I was “too black” for some white kids and “too white” for some of the black kids.  So, there was no dating in high school.  None . It did wonders for my self-esteem. Then I remembered being on the karaoke circuit back in the day (when I could stay awake past 10:00p) and having to tell deejays that, while I liked Aretha Franklin, my style was more Patsy Cline or ...

I often joke about looking forward to my senior years because when you're a senior, you can get away with everything because: "you're old."  Like my dad. He was driving someplace and just decided to turn left. Out of the blue. No blinker. No courtesy "Sorry-I-forgot-to-blinker" wave to the poor soul behind us. Nothing. He just up and turned left. I said "Um...you really oughta use your blinker." And in that old southern man tone of his, he fanned me off and said "Girl, I'M OLD !" Evidently old people don't have to blinker. Guess I missed that lesson in driver's ed. Then there was the gentleman with whom I chatted on a cruise. He mentioned being a WWII vet and I told that him my dad was also a WWII vet. He started reminiscing about the segregated troops, and offered an apology for using the term "black." He said he preferred saying "colored" because it doesn't sound bad like black does. Don't crin...

I go to church because I want something. I want to feel “full” by the time the hour’s over and I want to exit those doors with something I can chomp on throughout the week. Something to carry me through the weirdo challenges that life throws at me during Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,  Friday and Saturday. And of course, to tell, sing and meditate my thank you to God for getting me through the previous week. So, like any other Sunday, I went. And I got fed. But I didn’t think the food would have me praying a schizophrenic prayer. The topic was “Forgiveness” and how forgiveness and forgiving is our most critical need as humans.  The Mayo Clinic even has studies to prove it.  As the pastor talked about how when we hold on to old hurts, old words and deeds, they take root and rupture the foundation of our lives I sat. Ears pricked, but I was, admittedly, a tad smug. Seriously...I’ve let old hurts go and my life is pretty peachy. But then he said...

Sometimes I don’t understand Jamie, and sometimes he doesn’t understand me.   It’s not an indictment of our marriage, it’s more of a man/woman thing.   The two sexes are wired so differently that it’s been said men are from Mars and women are from Venus. I think the game of Football proves it. Mental Wiring Remember playing with the neighbor kids and there was always one kid who made additional rules up as they went along and by the end of the game, no one understood anything except the kid who made up the rules? Wasn’t the Rule-Maker-Upper usually a Martian? I think that most Rule-Maker-Uppers grow up to be this guy: Martians are wired to not only be this guy; but they’re also wired to listen to and understand guys like this.   A Venusian, on the other hand, can’t get through this twenty-seven second clip without banging her head on a table.   (At least this Venusian can’t) They can, however, remember a pediatrician’s phone number, ...

February's here. It's the shortest month of the year and it's designated to recognize all of black people's contributions to America. Shortest month of the year. All of black people's contributions . Ummmm...How do the historical contributions of an entire people get crammed into 28 days? (or 29 days, since this is a Leap Year) Is it obsolete? Granted, Black History Month came about because of Carter Woodson's desire to see recognition of what black people had done to build the country and build pride in a discriminated people group. But that was way back before voting rights, desegregation and all of the other civil rights stuff.  It made sense. For that time. Given the fact that so many boundaries have been crossed, is a singular month still needed to highlight one group? And what about the other people groups that have a made an historical impact on America? I don't know...maybe we still need it.  At the risk of outing my ignorance a...

The television's volume was at Old Man Levels all the while I made dinner, which shouldn't be a big deal; but it is when you live in a small house whose living room is in close proximity to the kitchen.  And when making dinner is the first thing you do upon crossing the threshold after an eight-hour day, it's really a big deal. An even bigger deal when two people are talking to you over the television, which is now screaming, about two different topics. At the same time. While you make dinner. But I pushed through it because I'm a trooper. Who am I kidding; I pushed through the screaming television, the chorus of conversation and even occasional dog barking and got dinner simmering/baking or however I was cooking whatever I was cooking because I had to potty. And I also had to free myself from the man made constraint that we women call a bra. Finally I was freed, unencumbered and in comfy clothes (go ahead & call me George Costanza ). The momentary relief was en...

No pontificating. No bloviating Just this from my nine year old daughter. "Mom, I just don't understand kids.  They...they...just follow.  They're like sheep." Group Think. Third grade is about the time when that stuff starts to emerge, so I guess it's normal...but not for Georgia. She's a square peg like her mother, and she finds it frustrating. And very confusing. It relieves me to a certain extent, because I'd rather this kind of "sheepishness" be her confusion -- not her aspiration.

Working for a nonprofit has many upsides, not in the least is knowing that, in some infinitesimal way I'm helping people who are living with hunger, homelessness, domestic violence, substance abuse and a whole host of other challenges.  Everyone is vulnerable to crises like these; and I feel blessed that our family hasn't fallen off the edge.  Knowing that I'm blessed: definitely an upside. But there's a downside to this nonprofit work too. Wallowing daily through the seas of stats about people -- including kids -- going hungry and being homeless and abused and drug-addicted can leave me with a certain darkness that crouches just beneath the surface.  And near enough to the surface to do this: I was talking to someone who works with homeless people the other night. In mid-conversation, I found myself getting glassy-eyed [this was supposed to have been a professional conversation!] The darkness was so close to the surface that all it took for a tear to eke out was t...

Next week I’m attending  a seminar on defining racism. Should be interesting because: 1) I’ve been living in the skin I’m in for nearly 43 years and I’d like to hear about any advancements on the topic; and 2) back in college, some class I took defined racism as movement, advancement or otherwise being prevented and/or restricted based upon race .  Embedded in the definition was that racism took two parties – someone in power (the racist) and someone whose rights were being violated. So according to that definition, racism is an action , not an attitude . One is a disabling trespass while the other is prejudice . I tend to agree. It’s my belief that Martin Luther King and the thousands of civil rights fighters stood up against racism . They stood up against actions that prevented people from the pursuit of happiness – whether that meant voting, drinking from a common bubbler, or not ending up as Strange Fruit on a Poplar tree when all they wanted to do was g...

To think that providence would take a child from his mother while she prays, is appalling  Who told us we'd be rescued?  What has changed and why should we be saved from nightmares?  We're asking why this happens to us who have died to live, it's unfair  This is what it means to be held  How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life  And you survive This is an excerpt from the song I listened to on the ride home from work. It’s a pretty song, very melodic and “singable” as my mother would say. But today the lyrics hit me especially hard after yesterday’s news about the drowning of a young man. His dad happens to have a pretty high-profile job in the community and Twitter was buzzing with well-wishes, prayers and condolences for this young man’s family. Rightfully so. I thought about how terrible, how nightmarish this must be for his parents. Then my thoughts turned again to the young man who was a victim of homicide in one of ...

She was sitting on the sofa this morning, contentedly watching Kick Buttowski as I finished up my primping and scraping together low-cal soup and a piece of fruit for lunch. I hope you've got your coat ready to go. She popped up and raced in her room to get it. Came back and plopped back down again. Well, I hope you've picked up those socks I saw on your bedroom floor. (I knew they were still there from when I told her to pick them up the night before) Rolled eyes. Popped up again. Back in a flash. Plopped back down. So, there aren't any clothes down that should be folded or hung up, right?  (Saw them on her shelf, still there from when I told her to fold/hang them yesterday afternoon) Sighed. Rolled eyes. Popped. Back. Plopped. Sighed again. Then we argued about her not wearing a thin nylon jogging jacket with her frog winter hat and gloves to school. (Seriously, she looked like a psychotic pink amphibian.) It wasn't the coat, the socks and not ev...

Sure I've railed about the annual onrush of diet plans and unbelievable celebrity endorsements, but I'm not bitter. Okay, I lied. I'm bitter. Or jealous. Or a combination of the two. Or just plain freaked out because, at this point, the only things that look semi-acceptable on me anymore are stretchy pants and empire waist blouses. The thought of Pajama Jeans has even entered my mind. So like a zillion other people, I've decided that 2012 will be the year that I lose the weight I wanted to lose last year.  And the year before that. On January 2, I dusted off the long-dormant Wii Fit and fired it up. It proceeded to tell me in its own snarky way that it had been a long time since it "saw" me. I cussed at it.  On the inside of course. Then I let it weigh me. Yeah.  That. It's now been seven days of eating like I should, eschewing the stuff that I know is bad, throwing in a little movement for good measure and logging everythi...

This month, I’m taking the NaBloPoMo Challenge .   The challenge is to write every day for the month of January in your personal blog, which is a great exercise for me as someone who’s new to personal blogging.   Each day writing prompts are provided, and you post something in your blog. Today’s prompt is: What is the hardest part about a beginning?   As the reigning queen of procrastination, my first inkling is to write a post long enough to rival War and Peace…tomorrow, of course. Today’s local newspaper featured an article about Milwaukee ’s fifth homicide in the first five days of the year . 5 people in 5 days: that’s one family per day suddenly, violently losing someone they love.   Today’s casualty was a sixteen year old boy.   I looked at his picture and my stomach churned, because I thought of how horrific it will be for his family and his friends to see him lifeless on the day of the funeral.   I don’t know whether he had history of problems, ...

Broken mirrors, black cats, spilled salt and other superstitious don’t faze me.   Broken mirror? Someone’s going to end up with a teeny glass shard stuck in a bunion. Nothing peroxide and tweezers can’t handle.   Black cat? Heeere, kitty, kitty… Spilled salt?   Meh. But then again, there is my left eye. It blinks and functions just like its partner on the right, but sometimes…it twitches . Oooh!   Gives you shivers just thinking about it, doesn’t it? If you felt no shivers, it’s probably because you didn’t grow up with a mother who, despite being a sane and balanced person, would let an eye twitch – a left eye twitch -- rock her world.   For her, the Left Eye Twitch was a portent of The It. The It was sure to cause the Twitchee to become deeply grieved or vexed with frustration in the very near future. How she came to believe it, I’ll never know. Yet here I am at forty-two years old, and when my left eye twitches or tics, I can’t help but think o...