tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13042462502920415432024-02-13T15:35:58.801-06:00Delta Delta DeltaThank you for stopping by. Y'all come back, now.Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.comBlogger221125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-12512834256679472092024-02-13T14:16:00.002-06:002024-02-13T15:35:27.469-06:00This Is Not About Kelce, Swift, or Reid...It's About You<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><br /><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1OXIGp_7flnpWpWkAmN1o4TQZNcUQurS8jtJ5QF-oSMqZRHWAkO2BcPle-JmWU9NcFYPfqXr8-ftlcxyJ48xD2LGJvwp1c_NQ-UxzVdUGX312XSx3NeIjaE8U6Ouz2GtkNGtxDRZwS15f5CjYIoSbIy3tnkSzrDYpavHxIBRex-9dWisO4yvjQJdyARtZ/s1640/Untitled%20design.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="1640" height="362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1OXIGp_7flnpWpWkAmN1o4TQZNcUQurS8jtJ5QF-oSMqZRHWAkO2BcPle-JmWU9NcFYPfqXr8-ftlcxyJ48xD2LGJvwp1c_NQ-UxzVdUGX312XSx3NeIjaE8U6Ouz2GtkNGtxDRZwS15f5CjYIoSbIy3tnkSzrDYpavHxIBRex-9dWisO4yvjQJdyARtZ/w640-h362/Untitled%20design.png" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Social media is afire with the topic du jour, Travis Kelce's attack on Andy Reid during Super Bowl LVIII. And, as I am a person with precious few unexpressed opinions, I leapt into this fray with a fury.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I think Kelce was wrong. <i>Really </i>wrong. To confront one's head coach on a world stage with the level of disrespect he spewed was unprofessional, trashy, and downright scary. That sort of testosterone explosion can never be properly directed at your boss, much less a man thirty years your senior and a bit unsteady on his feet.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That's not really the subject here, though. It's this: have we lost the ability to have intelligent conversation in this country?</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As soon as Travis displayed every vein in his forehead and his mighty biceps of rage, the public started choosing sides and making assumptions.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If you thought Kelce was out of line, you were a conservative. If you dismissed his behavior as "just football", you were a liberal.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If you dared to voice concern for Taylor Swift in her relationship, you were hysterical and a (gasp!) feminist.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I realize political division is nothing new in this or any other country. I simply wish we weren't allowing it to soar to levels that don't require anyone to ponder their own opinion...one will be chosen for you by your "side."</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Soccer moms want you to know they've seen you ranting at your kids' games. Guys who've played football, some of them probably in leather helmets, want you to know this is simply the frustration of a player who wanted to win.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The problem is, I may have been frustrated on a sideline or two and even yelled. But not at my children's <i>coach</i>. And I've never played football or anything else requiring eye/hand coordination, but I've watched some stellar examples of athletic prowess and good sportsmanship get horribly frustrated and still play their games without attacking their coaches.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Reid shrugged it off. Sure he did, Kelce is a star player and regularly hosts Reid on his podcast. That doesn't make it right.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I would love to have seen Travis Kelce as an Alabama tight end confronting Nick Saban this way. Or as a Patriots tight end yelling in Bill Belichick's face. I'm pretty sure Vince Lombardi wouldn't approve of his namesake trophy being cradled by a player who created such a crass display during the Super Bowl.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So there. Classify me. I am neither Republican nor Democrat. I love Taylor Swift and everything she stands for as a woman and an artist. I love Travis Kelce and his podcast. I am super impressed by the Kansas City Chiefs, especially Patrick Mahomes. I want Taylor and Travis to live happily ever after.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But I'm not going to look the other way when someone makes an ass of himself in front of the entire world. Neither should you. </span><br /></p>Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-61175118806127295732022-06-30T16:51:00.000-05:002022-06-30T16:57:40.540-05:00A House Like That<p style="text-align: center;"> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAP1PplFD9v8JAMXxlx8-T_CjZZs4pCw6cpBUsPokpSjABE5a8r-aOEAvwSwZYUvlhmGczUB3ScElJIqqzlyABy4DEotBv9REW4oFc0E0upX-H9IKNpMpaayQ_uziJXxuwRBEw_EmR_rW_eeL_yXRtsHaGfS810vFXF1Qgf4cvqZ69LxFvBQwcObvJEg/s1640/A.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="1640" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAP1PplFD9v8JAMXxlx8-T_CjZZs4pCw6cpBUsPokpSjABE5a8r-aOEAvwSwZYUvlhmGczUB3ScElJIqqzlyABy4DEotBv9REW4oFc0E0upX-H9IKNpMpaayQ_uziJXxuwRBEw_EmR_rW_eeL_yXRtsHaGfS810vFXF1Qgf4cvqZ69LxFvBQwcObvJEg/w400-h225/A.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="im">I never disclose my age without absolutely having to, and then it’s grudgingly mumbled.</span></span></p><div dir="auto"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="im"><br /><div dir="auto">I’ll tell you why: I think we automatically classify people, consciously or otherwise, by this number.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div></span></span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-size: large;">If
I tell you my age, you’re immediately going to make some assumptions
about me: my musical taste (you’d likely be wrong), my favorite movies
and TV series (wrong again), all sorts of speculation about my personal
life and what it entails (or doesn’t).</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t want to know your number, either. I don’t want to formulate ideas about you based on that information.</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="im"><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">My
grandmother probably started all this. When she was in her nineties, in
a hospital bed, with a nurse clearly holding a chart containing all her
medical information…she would dutifully recite her full name when asked
but visibly halt before giving up her birth year.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">I know people who are very old in their thirties. I know people who run circles around me in their eighties.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">So
why would any of us consent to presenting a stranger a number that’s
going to cloister us with every other person born the same year?</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">I
know my doctor needs to know, but even that is damned annoying. I’m
convinced the Publix drive-through pharmacy lady asks me every time just
to torment me (all the others recognize me and skip it, but she
refuses).</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">I have a birthday coming up; it’s not a milestone or anything, just one more year.</div></span></span><div dir="auto"><span style="font-size: large;">And
when I stare at that new number, it’s going to be with gratitude for
every single one that preceded it, not angst over whatever changes it
might deliver.</span></div><div class="yj6qo ajU"><div aria-expanded="true" aria-label="Hide expanded content" class="ajR" data-tooltip="Hide expanded content" id=":p6" role="button" tabindex="0"><span style="font-size: large;"><img class="ajT" src="https://ssl.gstatic.com/ui/v1/icons/mail/images/cleardot.gif" /></span></div></div><div class="adL"><span class="im"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I once wrote a poem about aging:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></span><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: center;"><h1><b><span class="im"><div style="text-align: left;">I used to live in a house like that</div><div style="text-align: left;">All shiny and pretty and new</div><div style="text-align: left;">I gradually moved to this shabbier place</div><div style="text-align: left;">But I much prefer the view</div></span></b></h1></div><span class="im"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">You don’t have to tell anyone your number. Let your smile and your energy tell them all they need to make their calculations.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="im"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> </div></span></div><span class="im"><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-size: large;">Love from Delta.</span></div></span></div></div><p> </p>Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-32272481533155570112022-05-25T13:14:00.002-05:002022-05-25T13:18:08.941-05:00The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly<p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTjI1HSe99XGJj-ozmMjS9Zceql3HYtRIqlQuRBKjY7L9V8jHTpJSTdEhr8wcWdoCrRX1SqdpwPQfBT6KffRVHeKvZpZwVXLx3d_bVpvuJZBnQqB8R4EimdVVTqmbIOWgm7p5X4X7JWk1fgdQSyJMb3wf9YEMyFdCUzo5PAaVnOCG9_DbR34wyhsFJA/s1080/Untitled%20design(3).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTjI1HSe99XGJj-ozmMjS9Zceql3HYtRIqlQuRBKjY7L9V8jHTpJSTdEhr8wcWdoCrRX1SqdpwPQfBT6KffRVHeKvZpZwVXLx3d_bVpvuJZBnQqB8R4EimdVVTqmbIOWgm7p5X4X7JWk1fgdQSyJMb3wf9YEMyFdCUzo5PAaVnOCG9_DbR34wyhsFJA/w371-h371/Untitled%20design(3).png" width="371" /></a></div><p><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Meeting readers is, without reservation, the best part of my job. <br /><br /><br />They're usually members of a book club. They know everything, because they're extremely well-read. They are strongly opinionated. They've lived interesting lives; borne children, flown airplanes, researched neuroscience, grown flower gardens, and taught kindergartners how to tie their shoes.<br /><br />They know if you're wrong about lipstick shades in the 1940s. They've read everything from Goodnight Moon to Tolstoy to The Handmaid's Tale. <br /><br /><br />They are in New York and Ohio and Alabama and Alaska and California and Hawaii and Quebec.<br /><br />And they are invariably—<i><b>invariably</b></i>—nice people. Goodhearted, friendly, honorable. They give back to their communities. They watch out for the children of others. They hold doors open for the next person. They bake cookies for new neighbors.<br /><br />I cling to this in times like these, floundering in the tidal wave of sadness and outrage over the actions of a despicable human in Uvalde, Texas. As we shriek at each other about gun control, condemning this country and its history of losing innocents to madmen with weapons, about <b><i>what this world has come to</i></b>...let us not view the past through some sparkly, nostalgic haze. People have been cruel and brutal to each other since time began. Evil is nothing new.<br /><br />I don't claim to have the answers, but I know this: we, as a community, must watch and listen for signs of an impending disaster like Salvador Ramos. Time and time again, those intent on carrying out these hellish missions post about it on social media. They practically wave red flags to those around them. <br /><br />And we have to say something. We have to do something. We have to be proactive. We have to protect our children in every possible way.<br /><br />We have to stop teenagers from being able to buy assault rifles. This kid was eighteen and had legal access to firearms that virtually screamed public danger. How is that possible? At the very, <b><i>very </i></b>least, we should raise the age to twenty-five to purchase these kinds of weapons. <br /><br />Or stop the legal sale of them altogether, which is my preference.<br /><br />I'm not here to argue gun control legislation.<br /><br />I'm here asking everyone to pay closer attention to those who show potential to harm others. See something, say something. (And Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter are duty-bound to do the same.)<br /> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Mostly, I'm here to remind you evil people live in the shadows, a tiny fraction surrounded by the overwhelming light of good people. I know, I meet them every single week.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Love from Delta</span></span></p>Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-86345936702387983572022-01-21T09:24:00.009-06:002022-01-21T09:45:16.246-06:00I'm Not Even Thor About This<p> </p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfaXxaxxt5IaRELlKw2Nia3E-IPQsbEd1D0Me1fE1GKqcowX8M8UR5I3nYdX5A37HYKucdQBnO4-vUJ8YpP7Z7AKa25Ry-rkKSVKaSzDHrHyLaAY14ZGFFLbUiJyovPTVrgsNasw2XBpox4Kpu9sBozNh50_MBDhIyI4vNB-9w-vhuyfbq98oNVkCLpQ=s1920" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="1920" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfaXxaxxt5IaRELlKw2Nia3E-IPQsbEd1D0Me1fE1GKqcowX8M8UR5I3nYdX5A37HYKucdQBnO4-vUJ8YpP7Z7AKa25Ry-rkKSVKaSzDHrHyLaAY14ZGFFLbUiJyovPTVrgsNasw2XBpox4Kpu9sBozNh50_MBDhIyI4vNB-9w-vhuyfbq98oNVkCLpQ=w400-h286" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It was a strange day.</span></span></p><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div class="gmail_quote" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); width: 343px;"><div style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div class="gmail_quote" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); width: 343px;"></div></div></div></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">We made a quick trip to pick up a new cell phone and ended up spending almost four hours with a self-professed Norse Pagan and a “Bad Gay” who frequents Chick-Fil-A with his husband.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">The store doesn’t matter.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">What does is, I came into contact and lengthy discussion with two people I might otherwise not have spent half a business day with, trying to force a cell tower into submission.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">I’m changing their names to Tom and Bill for ease of use; their real names are much more colorful.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"> </span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Tom, the Norse Pagan, has a lengthy ancestry traced to Charlemagne. He has an enormous knowledge of Norse mythology.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"> </span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">He does not approve of Chris Hemsworth and Tom Hiddleston in my beloved Marvel Cinematic Universe movies.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Not authentic. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">He is a Thor purist.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Bill is a laid-back nerd, who plays Pokémon like me (I am called ObiWanKenoBeth) and he coveted a recently-returned toy building set for World of Warcraft or Masters of the Universe or something like that. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">(My nerd-dom only extends so far, y’all.)</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">So, when Bill wasn’t looking, I bought it for him.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Because he was sweet and kind and spent four hours on the phone battling with invisible 5G overlords, so my husband’s phone might come to life.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">I loved these guys.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">I am grateful for life’s detours, which sit me next to Norse Pagans and Rebellious Gays for unexpected eons.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">I’m reminded we are all different, we all have something to say, and most of all: we all help each other.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">I hope Bill enjoys that Masters of the Pokémon Fortnite Warstuff building set, and always loves Chick-Fil-A as much as I do.</span></div></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">We all agreed they’re not homophobic and cook mighty fine sandwiches.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Most of all, Bill, Tom, Jay, and I found a forced half-day fun. We made it worthwhile and meaningful. We laughed together and understood one another better after our mutual confinement. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">And that, my friends, </span></span></div></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div class="gmail_quote" dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); width: 343px;"><div style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div class="gmail_quote" dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); width: 343px;"><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">is worth more</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">than any cell phone</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">could ever be.</span></div></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Love from Delta.</span></div><span style="color: #888888;"><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /></div></span></div></div></div></div></div>Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-81975126010013601092020-10-31T16:04:00.003-05:002020-10-31T16:07:09.477-05:00Power to the People<p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We lost electricity in my house in the wee hours of Thursday morning, abruptly and with no fanfare. The internet went first, because at 2:40 am Alexa noticed a loss of connectivity and automatically/cruelly/inexplicably turned on my bedside lamp, which was interrogation-room bright in my sleeping face. I stumbled through the house manually switching off lights the AI decided must dilate my exasperated pupils. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe it was warning me of the darkness to come. The precious light I take for granted soon disappeared, along with every modern appliance <b>and</b> running water, because our well has an electric pump.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Being powerless was an inconvenience for the first day or so. Now it's a massive grievance I carry like a battery-powered chip on my shoulder. I just drove a mile to hand wash a few pieces of clothing far past their socially acceptable expiration date, and they're hanging on deck chairs to dry. My husband brings in massive containers of water so we can scoop it into toilet tanks for a precious flush.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This would all be much worse if I weren't married to a generator guru, who has figured out a way to power all the super-necessary stuff like WiFi and Netflix. It's cool enough outside to keep me from being non-air-conditioned homicidal. (Florida and its hurricanes brought me close to the edge in ninety-five degree heat more than once. I thought I was escaping all that, but Zeta tracked me to the mountains of northeast Alabama.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I offered Mom popcorn last night and actually placed the bag in the microwave before realizing how futile my life is right now.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Alabama Power now says they expect to restore our electricity by 11:45 pm on November 5th, over one full week after this tropical storm blustered through our state. I am having a hard time with that. While I fully appreciate the hard work and dedication of countless people trying to restore power, I am less than delighted with their bosses and boss's bosses. The company has been non-responsive to me and all the friends I know who've tried to report outages or get updates, failing to keep their website and phone lines functional. Meanwhile, I'm driving daily under <b>three massive trees that are solely supported by power lines </b>near our house. Our neighbor's power pole is splintered like a shipwreck, its power lines a tangle of electrical kelp.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKuNiNNOJ6GULWKYPq3lq1Y2AMrcNn1oieKtb_Zxm526nZVYQUsWlvxvIoOYjiMzfAmB_0AuMze0RNVnNjiWt-o69qZk57w5svCjO_mWz0l-px1iC5__9wD6sJY-L2CVAdjfJVcxoGBfF4/s2048/trees+down.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1700" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKuNiNNOJ6GULWKYPq3lq1Y2AMrcNn1oieKtb_Zxm526nZVYQUsWlvxvIoOYjiMzfAmB_0AuMze0RNVnNjiWt-o69qZk57w5svCjO_mWz0l-px1iC5__9wD6sJY-L2CVAdjfJVcxoGBfF4/s320/trees+down.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;">I am clearly reliant on modern conveniences like flush toilets and whatnot, and grateful to my generator guru husband. He's that kind of guy: a (male) friend Jay once rescued when his Jeep broke down said he had the wheel off, a tent set up and something roasting on a spit by the roadside within ten minutes. If Alabama Power won't charge up to my downed power lines within a week, at least I have this guy on a white horse wielding extension cords and water jugs.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Love from Delta.</span></p>Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-27419769352095754532020-07-04T10:42:00.000-05:002020-07-04T10:42:02.164-05:00Colonials.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"COLONIAL"</span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's being spray-painted across a lot of statues these days, including but not limited to George Washington's. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">George
was, of course, the most anti-colonial of colonials. The men who fought
to liberate the colonies from British rule risked absolutely everything
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have ancestors who were among those men. On one branch of the family, brothers took different sides and the elder, a redcoat colonel, ended up preventing the execution of his captured rebel sibling (my many-times-great-grandfather). I am here by his grace, in this country, in this place and time, you might say. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In another branch of the family, my ancestors were apparently <b>true</b> colonials, loyal enough to the crown to flee to Canada and wait things out, sipping their tea and glancing down to see when it might be a good time to circle back. (It's interesting to ponder what might have happened had we <b>remained</b> British colonies.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Colonial" conjures images of smug Brits being carried on the backs of native women. (This wasn't uncommon in the colonies of the Empire. It's ugly, but it's history.) We were British colonies, and we carried a lot on our backs, metaphorically, until we got tired of it in 1776 and decided we could determine our own, better way of life for all.</span><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal,
that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights,
that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.</span></i></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Two hundred and forty-four years of the greatest experiment in human freedom is marked today. A country in which, for better or for worse, people of all colors and creeds and religions have come together to make their contributions to society. Make no mistake, they are some of the most glorious and diverse contributions in the history of the world.<b><br /></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A turbulent history gave birth to and developed The United States of America, and I still love her, warts and all. I love my friends and fellow Americans of all colors, and celebrate them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We are <b>together </b>on this journey, and we have come so very far. Many, many persons of color are among the most accomplished and successful of our country in 2020. We are truly grateful for that. <b> </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And, because the vast majority of Americans are goodhearted people, we want even better for every single one of us.<b> </b>We<b> are </b>an exceptional country. <b> </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">E</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">xcellence is the gradual result of always striving to do better, and we will do better. Two hundred and forty four years have taught us the lessons we need to know and remember. </span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The hopes and dreams our ancestors held for us are woven into those lessons. </span></b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Including my distant grandfather's, and I thank him for freedom and the opportunity to succeed in these beautiful United States of America.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Love from Delta. </span><br />
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-84457605836136981042020-05-27T21:42:00.002-05:002020-05-27T22:12:46.437-05:00Mrs. Storey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Let me tell you where my heart and mind wandered when I read about the murder of George Floyd.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> You can’t avoid a frank discussion of racism in America in the face of this horror. There is no telling yourself we have abandoned this hideous relic of the past, that dust and cobwebs grow on its antiquated surface. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Not when the rest of it is so violently displayed, fresh and bitter, in the form of a knee on the neck of a handcuffed man.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I don’t know what crime George Floyd was charged with. I haven’t investigated it, because nothing he could have done would merit this complete abandonment of human civility. Nothing could possibly counterbalance the sheer brutality of the Minneapolis police officer demonstrating his dominance over his captive, helpless prisoner.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> So, back to where this image leads me: to Annie Storey.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> When Mrs. Storey came to teach my sixth grade class in Weaver, Alabama, she did it at a time when black women didn’t teach white children in small towns. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> We were kids, oblivious to the challenges she must have faced until we considered them years later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> She was young and beautiful and so gifted at fascinating children with the solar system and European geography, we were spellbound. She was my favorite teacher. Many of my fellow students felt (and feel) the same.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> We loved her. We search for her to this day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Mrs. Storey wasn’t our African-American teacher. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> She wasn’t our black teacher. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> She was our captivating and wonderful teacher, who commanded our respect and admiration every day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Annie Storey never said one word about racism, about not judging people by their skin color, about any of the segregationist sentiment that dominated Alabama at the time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> She walked into our humble classroom every day in her fashionable A-line dresses, smiled at us with the warmth of that sun she showed us on the chart by the blackboard, and taught us we are all the same.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> So many years have passed. I remember her with love and enormous gratitude</span><span style="font-size: large;">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I've memorialized her in two books with a character, Lily, inspired by her beauty and dignity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> And I hope wherever she is, Annie Storey didn’t see what just happened in Minneapolis.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> It would break her heart.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Love from Delta. </span></div>
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-38795052991407931282019-05-10T12:57:00.000-05:002019-05-10T12:57:33.269-05:00My Mother Is Beautiful.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It's something I've heard all my life: "Your mother is so pretty."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">There was a little boy in a department store who thought she looked like Eva Gabor. Might have been Zsa Zsa, but the kid was referencing Green Acres, I am pretty sure. I've heard Kim Novak suggested, too, and I personally think she's a little closer to target.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">She has delicate features and lovely skin and a smile that warms the coldest room like a roaring fireplace. She has sparkling brown eyes a suitor once proclaimed "like pools of black ink." (He was not a poet.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Her sartorial style is elegant and tasteful. She favors classics in beautiful colors and a vintage rhinestone brooch to sparkle alongside her.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><i>Her</i> sparkle wins. Every time.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">These are all lovely attributes, but they don't constitute my mom's beauty. There is so much more than meets the eye when you're talking about an entirely beautiful person.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">To see beyond, you'd have to know about the little girl in her Sunday School class years ago, who had perfectly serviceable parents of her own, but chose my mother to cling to constantly and regard as <i>hers</i>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Because she saw Mom's heart.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">You have to know about the ladybug houses she helped my Cousin Debi build, the adventures and projects she concocted to entertain an entire generation of my family.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">About her fried baloney sandwiches made especially for my Cousin Hal.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">About her incredible musicianship at a baby grand piano, and how she encouraged me to sing along even though cats have sounded better in midnight alleys.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">She can produce an oil painting of flowers so detailed and vivid, they've been proudly displayed in other people's homes for generations.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">She was about sixteen when she painted those roses.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">You have to see her completing a crossword puzzle containing words no normal person has ever heard.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In record time. In ink.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">You have to witness her love affair with books, which has translated into an astounding body of knowledge and a curiosity that is never sated.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Her lady in Publix who waits for her with a smile and a hug every time, or countless other people in countless other stores she frequents who light up when she walks in.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">They call her by name.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">They remember her because she's kind and they've witnessed that kindness over and over.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">She is an extraordinary grandmother who took our toddler son into a North Carolina creek daily to move rocks that probably didn't need moving, but it was their project. Together.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Her granddaughter remembers Gran taking her downstairs to her meticulously tended garden at night to pay a magical, candlelit visit to a frog.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And I remember my mom, reading Hiawatha to me at bedtime, holding my hand through every joyful and heartbreaking thing in my life, building me up, making me laugh, constantly teaching kindness, thoughtfulness, thank you notes, generosity, and graciousness. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">She is love, in one lovely package.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My mother is beautiful.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Yours is, too, whether she's by your side or in your heart.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Happy Mother's Day.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my all time favorite photos: My mother with her mother and a couple of questionable characters</td></tr>
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Love from Delta.</div>
Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-51558351628753584962018-11-06T17:31:00.000-06:002019-11-12T15:51:56.775-06:00A Tree Grows in Alabama<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">M</span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">y grandmother sat perched on the edge of her bed, smoothing her ivory chiffon skirt nervously. She looked like a porcelain doll, even at ninety-two. Lucile was the kind of woman who could wear head-to-toe lace-trimmed ivory anywhere but a funeral and look perfectly appropriate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Her childhood was one of utter poverty. Her mother was widowed at a very young age and left with eight children to feed. My grandmother married at fifteen and bore her first child at sixteen. She read voraciously and was one of the best-educated people I knew, despite leaving school after eighth grade. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">She was warm, loving and beautiful. Lucile was adored by us all, the heart of our family. As a toddler my mother would ask if I wanted to go to "Mama's." I didn't know about the apostrophe, so I called her Mamas all my life.<br /><br /> Mamas and Granddaddy were the center of the universe to their small grandchildren. We grew up pampered, encouraged, and assured of unconditional love. Granddaddy commissioned one of the first private in-ground swimming pools in the county for us to play in. He'd toss quarters into the deep end for us to dive and retrieve, a small fortune to us at the time. He would take me aside with a smile and hug me, whispering, "You're the best one I've got." I discovered later he did that with each grandchild, and loved him even more for it.<br /><br />They left Alabama upon retirement for a small Florida town. Granddaddy was a borderline diabetic, but he chose to ignore the diabetic part and cling to the borderline.<br /><br />We'd lost him to a heart attack many years before. It was my introduction to shattering loss, a time in my young life of utter confusion and despair. I stood outside and sobbed for an hour the night he died, asking God why he'd taken someone I loved so dearly. <br /><br />He was buried in Arcadia, Florida, and now his family was scattered across several other states. Mamas had made the painful decision to have his remains exhumed and returned to his Alabama hometown. She was planning a service to honor him all over again in a few weeks. As a result we were all thinking about the part he'd played in our lives more than usual.<br /><br />Today's mission—the one I couldn't bear to help with—was to locate a plot in the cemetery for Granddaddy with an adjacent one for Mamas. My grandmother planned a service for his reburial, and I was praying for the strength to help her through it in a few weeks.<br /><br />She was still in fairly good health, but her trips to the hospital were becoming more frequent. None of us could bear the thought of losing her. We lived in fear of pneumonia and broken hips.<br /><br />My mother poked her head into the room. "Are you ready, Mama?"<br /><br />Mamas nodded and I helped her to her feet, trying to contain my tears and act cheerful. She wasn't fooled. "It'll be hard, honey, but I'll be fine." She kissed my cheek and squeezed my hand before taking Mother's arm and heading for the door.<br /><br />I decided to clean house, my least favorite activity, to distract myself for the next few hours. I thought about the cemetery, wondering if they'd be able to find an acceptable space. I hoped my grandmother was feeling strong and faithful in her decision to bring Granddaddy home after almost thirty years. It was a very expensive and complicated process. Some people had openly questioned the idea, and she'd cried and prayed over it for months. Mamas had discussed her feelings with me several times. I'd encouraged her to follow her heart no matter what anyone said. It was to fall to me, the only grandchild able to attend, to represent all of my cousins that day. She wanted me to place a rose on his new grave as part of the ceremony. Burying Granddaddy again would be one of the saddest things I'd ever experience, but it was right to have him next to her for eternity.<br /><br />When the phone rang, my mother’s excitement made me throw the dust rag down and collapse into a chair to listen.<br /><br />“You would not believe what I’m looking at,” she said. “We stopped by the old house and the ginkgo biloba tree is huge and brilliant golden yellow. You can see it from a mile away.”<br /><br />I pictured the three-foot-tall twig I’d known as a small child, carefully surrounded by sturdy wire fencing and forbidden to grandchildren. Granddaddy had fussed over it constantly but we never saw a single ginkgo leaf I could recall. The tree was a running joke; something to kid him about. He never gave up trying to make it grow, and it never obliged.<br /><br />On a whim, Mother and Mamas had driven out of their way to visit the house my grandparents lived in during my childhood. The neighborhood we remembered was gone. Dilapidated houses remained with yards gone to seed. No children ran and played here; no one remained from the time we'd known and loved this as the warm, happy place we cherished in memory.<br /><br />"It's the one beautiful thing here, Beth. It's at least thirty feet tall, and so very pretty. Your granddad would be so thrilled. Think how he fussed over that silly twig every day." We laughed a little, remembering the constant joking over his tree obsession. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">We chatted for a minute about our memories of that place and how magical it was for all of us. Mom took a deep breath and said they needed to get to their appointment at the cemetery.<br /><br />"I love you, Mother. Give my love to Mamas. I'm so glad about Granddaddy's ginkgo."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I closed my eyes and pictured all the cousins arrayed on the steps of that house, we girls in ruffled Easter dresses with legs akimbo and most unladylike. I remembered the rare winter when the pool froze over and we "skated" across it in socks. The hours and hours we'd spent playing at my grandfather's desk, pretending we were businesspeople. The joy of gathering at the table to play hours of Rook, munching on popcorn Granddaddy popped atop the stove. Gathering pecans in the side yard, helping my grandmother water her beloved flowers. Every bit was as vivid as yesterday.<br /><br />Still, I was trying to catch the wisp of something long forgotten. The tree. Something about the tree. It had to have had some special significance, the way Granddaddy fussed over and protected it. It was a story I'd been told as a young girl, not fully understood or appreciated.<br /><br />Tears rolled down my face before I even realized I'd remembered.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Before I was born, my grandmother had thyroid cancer. Her future was uncertain at best and the family was terrified of losing her. Autumn was bleak. Mamas grew depressed and defeated, too weak to do anything but lie on the couch. My mother spent endless days caring for her, praying for a miracle and trying to make her smile.<br /><br />Mother still hates autumn to this day. She experiences it as a time when the world is dying, turning to dull brown and losing its summer joy. I have no doubt her feeling is rooted in that dark season so long ago.<br /><br />Emory University Hospital in Atlanta was my grandmother's best option for treatment. It lay two hours away, but Grandaddy took her back and forth several times a month. It was a grueling time for her; my mother told me Mamas had been offered little hope for a cure.<br /><br />In mid-November she saw the magnificent ginkgo biloba trees on the Emory campus burst into color. She was fascinated by the delicate fan-shaped leaves and their brilliant golden canopy. They transformed the plain landscape; they welcomed her each time to the doctors and nurses who worked so hard to heal her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Grandaddy noticed the light in her eyes when she looked at them. He did what any man in love with his wife would do, though it took him on a lengthy and difficult search in 1950's Alabama.<br /><br />Somehow he located a rare ginkgo and planted a tiny sapling for her, a symbol of his love for Lucile and his hope for their future together, right in that modest Alabama front yard. His proudest legacy—children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren—had scattered like fall leaves across the south and never beheld what became of his precious little fenced-in plant. We'd forgotten it, lost among the memories of family laughter and love.<br /><br />Granddaddy had lived in Florida for many years before he went home to God. He never saw the ginkgo biloba soar to its towering glory for the world to behold, but my grandmother did . . . at the perfect, breathtaking moment. And she knew without question she'd made the right choice to bring him home, to the place and the woman he'd always love.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Love from Delta.</span><br />
<a href="http://www.bethduke.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">www.bethduke.com </span></a></div>
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-71242671750676819372018-09-26T11:02:00.000-05:002018-09-26T14:12:36.146-05:00When a Food Network Star Goes into a Black Hole<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I like to bake, to get lost in the artistry of cakes or macarons, but cooking...not so much. What I <b><i>do </i></b>enjoy is watching other people cook. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The right people.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have binge watched almost every season of Food Network Star for this reason. The cooking tips are fabulous, the personalities captivating, and nervous breakdowns more pleasing because they're not my own. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Food Network knows what they're doing here: parade a bunch of innocent, fresh-faced, talented chefs in front of viewers. Frame them as the culinary genius, the best on camera, the stupid one, the arrogant one...every reality show stereotype you can conjure. Spice with cool judges like Giada </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">De Laurentiis</span> and chef-stud Bobby Flay. Mix well and bake for umpteen episodes, carefully scooping out the burnt bits. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Serve up a new Food Network celebrity on a silver platter, garnished with a tv show deal and cookbook publicity. Think: Guy Fieri. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It's a win-win for obvious reasons, like the American Idol franchise was for 19 Entertainment and Fox Television Network: bring some talented people out of obscurity, let the country fall in love with them, choose a winner and </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st"><i>voilà </i>(bam!).</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">You just created a new on-air personality, guaranteed viewers, a show concept, maybe an aisle or two of merchandise that will create bigger lines at the local Walmart. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">Except.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">Except for the ones viewers fall in love with that simply <i>(whoosh)</i> disappear. The stars that are sucked into a black hole.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">I developed an emotional connection to Justin Warner over the last two days. He's a culinary Mozart, a wunderkind who appeals both to my inner nerd and quirky-people-lover. Fascinating to behold onscreen, he created dishes from fish bones and bat wings (that may be only a slight exaggeration) that looked and tasted fabulous. He made a modern Caesar Salad with a gelatinous mass that sorta melted over warm greens.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">Genius.</span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Justin Warner</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">And he was fun to watch. Genuine, witty, dry as a week-old pancake on the beach. I loved him. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">Everybody loved him. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">He won Season 8, and was to have a new series of his own produced by Alton Brown (my cerebral celebrity chef crush).</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">He went off into a black hole (Black Forest?) instead. You can find no way to watch the mysterious one-hour special he starred in before he vanished.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">Word is, he appears in a fairly obscure internet-only series of little video clips titled "Foodie Call." </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">Big props for the title, but who has time for that?</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">Viewers who got all invested and weepy are left to wonder: what the hell went wrong? Why isn't Justin, a self-proclaimed food rebel, starring in an actual Food Network series in my tv every single week with episodes like <i>Rebel with Hot Crab Claws</i>? </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">There's another one, though it's easier to understand: Season 10's Lenny McNab, a "cowboy chef" who aww-shucks-ed his way into the hearts of millions and won with his easygoing personality and stunning food talent.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">Until discovery of his old social media posts that would make Harvey Weinstein blush. He apparently even insulted the overrated but beloved Pioneer Woman. (See: Walmart, Aisle 16).</span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Lenny McNab, reputedly in a black hole near Pluto</span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">Then there are people you love who didn't do a damn thing wrong, deserved to win, and would eclipse that pioneer lady back onto the prairie. Birmingham, Alabama's own Martie Duncan is brilliant. Not only a talented chef, she specializes in parties and fun and laughter and all the things entertaining is meant to be. She represented my home state with grace, beauty and intelligence. Martie should be in my living room on a regularly scheduled Food Network basis, making me feel like I have a caterer, decorator and bartender on speed dial.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">She says she can do that, and I don't doubt it for one second.</span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Birmingham's own Martie Duncan</span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">Just stop it, Food Network. Stop creating stars and banishing them to another galaxy. Viewers like me want more</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">—much more</span><span class="st"><span class="st">—of fan favorites like Justin Warner and Martie Duncan.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st"><span class="st">Lenny McNab...well, you can keep him orbiting out there with Pluto. Anything less would cause the little kitchen on the prairie grief, and no one wants that.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st"><span class="st">Love from Delta.</span></span></span></div>
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-47439421521802699222018-09-10T19:28:00.000-05:002018-09-10T20:06:10.106-05:00We.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Quick, name the most mundane thing you can.<br />
I'll help. It's folding laundry.<br />
That's what I was doing that morning, sitting on the bed surrounded by faded towels and washcloths. The children were at school.<br />
Matt Lauer still had hair, and he was droning on about nothing of interest.<br />
Until.<br />
Until he and Katie started talking about a plane hitting the World Trade Center Tower in New York City, a place so far removed from my consciousness at that moment, it didn't really sink in.<br />
Stuff happens. A plane went astray. <br />
But Matt kept referring to it. Katie started looking less perky and more concerned.<br />
I called my husband at work, because he's a pilot and he knows stuff. "How the hell could air traffic control mess up enough to send a small plane into a building in New York City?"<br />
He basically said that made no sense.<br />
Maybe a pilot had a heart attack or something. It was almost 9:00, and I told him I'd call back if I heard more.<br />
I had absolutely no concept of the kick to my heart that would be delivered in about seven more minutes, as the second plane struck and we all, collectively, lost our innocence.<br />
The single person we became as we watched the towers collapse, the Pentagon attacked. When we, as one, cried because some very brave people thwarted the fourth sky-bombing by forcing their own jet airplane into the barren fields of Shanksville, Pennsylvania, population 245.<br />
Synonymous now with courage and defiance.<br />
Let's roll.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>We.</b></span><br />
We, as one, looked into the skies in fear, knowing aircraft were grounded and dreading the sight of one.<br />
We did that for months, long after flights resumed, furtive glances for anything evil lurking in the fluffy white clouds.<br />
We had nightmares.<br />
We held our children closer, longer, and were moved to tears as we did.<br />
We mourned, we raged, we were united in our grief.<br />
How utterly heartbreaking it is to consider that unity was only created in tragedy, and we've lost it.<br />
Except for September 11th, when a ghost of America as One, ephemeral and shimmering, is briefly glimpsed.<br />
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Love from Delta.</div>
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-48107145945677383912018-09-05T09:41:00.001-05:002022-08-28T16:41:12.224-05:00The South 101: Everything You Should Know About Banana Pudding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif" style="font-size: x-large;">Write a blog post, they say. </span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif" style="font-size: x-large;">Make it connected to your new book's characters. </span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif" style="font-size: x-large;">Make it captivating.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: large;">Okay. Nothing is more captivating than the words "banana" and "pudding" together.</span></span></b></div>
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<span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: large;">There may be controversy about a few things in The South, but we are in complete accord about banana pudding. Your Aunt Mary Nell brings it to every gathering. Your relations muster some whenever a family has someone in the hospital or loses a loved one.</span></span></div>
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<span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: large;">And in IT ALL COMES BACK TO YOU, Violet and Ronni both adore it. That may not be mentioned in the book, but they do. Trust me, it's a foregone conclusion.</span></span></div>
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<span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: large;">There are people who will tell you banana pudding originated in the North. Those people are lying. Now it's true, they had bananas when bananas were a luxury for Southerners, but they did unspeakable things with them. Like this.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">What is HAPPENING here?</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif" style="font-size: large;">Lord.</span><br />
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<span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">In 1921, </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">(we refer to this as "The Industrial Wafer Revolution"), a Mrs. Kerley in Indiana or Illinois or one of those I-states contributed a recipe for a banana pudding with Vanilla Wafers to a newspaper, while a Mrs. Smith invented a banana pudding with Vanilla Wafers for </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">the<i> </i>Atlanta Women's Club cookbook, <i>Pastries, Puddings, and Dumplings</i>. And that is a cookbook title after my own heart.</span></span><br />
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<li><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Y'all hush. They weren't called Nilla Wafers until later.</span></span></span></li>
<li><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mrs. Smith's recipe was way better, bless Mrs. Kerley's heart.</span></span></span></li>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, in the 1940s The National Biscuit Company (apparently the U.S. was still British enough to call what are clearly cookies "biscuits") published the now-classic recipe on the side of its Vanilla Wafers box, the whole shebang, with one metric ton of wafers, a creamy custard to cradle the bananas lovingly, and a meringue slathered all over the top. Serve it hot or cold. Earn the eternal affection of your family.</span></span></span><br />
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<span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: large;">This is how it's done, folks, and I guarantee you, Violet would've eaten plenty of this in 1940s Alabama and Ronni is <b>still</b> eating it somewhere.</span></span><br />
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</span> <span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: large;">As for me, I'm a heretic. I like my banana pudding the way my mom and my daughter prepare it (you notice I'm not doing the heavy lifting here): not baked, with chilled pudding.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: large;">Here is the most fabulously exciting part of this blog post...my friend Marianne and I are going to the NATIONAL BANANA PUDDING FESTIVAL next month. Yes, this is a thing. Be very jealous, because they have a Puddin' Path, this glorious gift from God where you pay $5 and taste a plethora of pudding.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span class="st">Grab a hankie—you may have to dab the corners of your mouth</span><span class="st">—the featured flavors this year include: Moon Pie Banana Puddin', White Chocolate & Caramel Banana Puddin', Puddin' and Pearls Banana Puddin', Caramel Cheesecake Banana Puddin', Eagle Brand Banana Puddin', and many more.</span></span></span><br />
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</span> <span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span class="st" style="font-size: large;">None of these flavors are heretical. They would only be heretical in an I-state (just kidding, y'all).</span></span></span><br />
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</span> <span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span class="st"><span style="font-size: large;">I fully expect to see some version of Ronni there, and I know Violet will be at the banana pudding festival in spirit. She'd have loved it, and probably would've been crowned Puddin' Princess (I made that up, but they should have one).</span> </span></span></span><br />
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<span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span class="st" style="font-size: large;">You can follow this link to the Puddin' Path </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><span class="st"><span class="st" style="font-size: large;">Meet Violet and Ronni here, in IT ALL COMES BACK TO YOU (click the pic)</span></span></span></span></div>
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-17487439385375267742016-08-26T12:37:00.000-05:002016-08-27T12:45:19.070-05:00A Feather's Not a Bird<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>I'm going down to Florence, gonna wear a pretty dress</i><br />
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<i>I'll sit on top the magic wall with the voices in my head</i></div>
<i>Then we'll drive on through to Memphis, past the strongest shores<br />And on to Arkansas just to touch the crumbled soul</i></div>
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<i>A feather's not a bird<br />The rain is not the sea<br />A stone is not a mountain<br />But a river runs through me</i><br />
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- Rosanne Cash, "A Feather's Not a Bird"</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom Hendrix</td></tr>
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Johnny Cash's daughter wrote at least part of that song sitting where I did yesterday, in Tom Hendrix's driveway. We were surrounded by one of the most astonishing things I've ever seen<span class="_Tgc">—several million pounds of rock formed into an eternal memorial to Tom's great-great-grandmother.</span></div>
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<span class="_Tgc">And it's easy to see why. No one could visit Tom's Wall without being profoundly moved. I cried more than once listening to him tell </span><span class="_Tgc">Te-lah-nay's story. She was a Yuchi Indian, an eighteen-year-old forced from her home to walk the Trail of Tears to what we now know as Oklahoma. And </span>Te-lah-nay did what no other of the thousands who were brutally "relocated" managed.</div>
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She walked back to Florence, Alabama. It took her five years to reach the place where the woman in the river sang to her, where she could be at peace, where she belonged.</div>
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She was a medicine woman who boiled willow bark for "head trouble." Her journal is probably the most precious thing Tom owns. He grew up listening to his grandmother tell the stories of Te-lah-nay's life and to the song of the river. He knew he had to do something to honor her memory.</div>
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He was talking to an elder in the Yuchi Tribe about it when he was told, "All things shall pass. Only the stones will remain."<br />
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So Tom did what pretty much no one else could imagine doing: he spent thirty-five years of his life constructing a wall of Tennesee River rocks. Thousands and thousands of them. One for each step his great-great-grandmother took to and from Oklahoma.<br />
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<span class="_Tgc">People call it a "magic wall" and I guess that's right.</span></div>
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<span class="_Tgc">Florence, Alabama is a beautiful city on the mighty Tennessee River. Stately homes dot the bluffs high above the water. The University of North Alabama sits on the edge of a vibrant downtown where college kids chase Pokemon and meet for pizza and beer. Upscale shops and fancy restaurants are all around if you can afford more than Ramen Noodles. I loved staying there.</span></div>
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<span class="_Tgc">But miles away from all that, bounded by deceased corn stalks and masses of leafy vegetable crops I couldn't identify, I found what is officially known as the </span>Wichahpi Commemorative Stone Wall. It beckoned from <span class="_Tgc">a lot heavily shaded by trees that have seen hundreds of years.</span></div>
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<span class="_Tgc">Much better though, I found Tom Hendrix.</span></div>
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<span class="_Tgc">Tom's eighty-seven. His voice is gentle but commanding, each syllable carefully enunciated in an educated and clear manner. His eyes and cheekbones testify to his Yuchi heritage. He almost never pauses</span><span class="_Tgc">—the man is a born storyteller</span><span class="_Tgc">—and he's one of those people who clearly love people. It was a huge privilege to have him to myself for an hour.</span><br />
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<span class="_Tgc">We almost lost him. He was in a bad car accident recently and is obviously still in pain. That doesn't dim his enthusiasm for his massive project and the ancestor he honors one bit.</span><br />
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<span class="_Tgc">It's a woman's place, he told me. The wall and its benches and small amphitheater and prayer circle are all about the spirits of grandmothers, mothers and daughters. There's a special section that evokes grandmothers and I cried when I saw it, remembering my own.</span><br />
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<span class="_Tgc">It's a strangely peaceful and calm, tranquil spot. Even on an Alabama August day, the trees provided cool shade and I walked the length of the wall, trailing my fingers here and there on its surface and feeling generations of love and memory.</span><br />
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<span class="_Tgc">People all over the world know about Tom and his wall. They send special rocks to be carefully placed in a section he set aside for them. One looks like a glittery "girl whale." One is said to be a source of fertility. He put it in a place it can't be accidentally touched, and he swears a forty-nine year old woman held it and delivered a baby a year later. Fossilized wood, mastodon teeth and a turtle. There's a meteorite he had me pick up, small and unbelievably heavy.</span><br />
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<span class="_Tgc">But this place is about light and love and peace. I'm so grateful I got to visit it and the remarkable man who created it all.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is where it all started...</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Prayer Circle<span class="_Tgc">—Tom says a few local ministers come here to prepare sermons.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtxwbcS5w4rAJDcLzVgEUDpNfHpnz6CqFeqNgNX9i0HYWjsmlnBtF21fc9-Bq6FQKq1kUMY72HhyphenhyphenRs4i3inHXtcCKFi2-o7KXGYRYmw9GJ7ODuH2LCOaGG1Idnbk6FCgaMfKCKt112TRJB/s1600/tomswallwhalefish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtxwbcS5w4rAJDcLzVgEUDpNfHpnz6CqFeqNgNX9i0HYWjsmlnBtF21fc9-Bq6FQKq1kUMY72HhyphenhyphenRs4i3inHXtcCKFi2-o7KXGYRYmw9GJ7ODuH2LCOaGG1Idnbk6FCgaMfKCKt112TRJB/s320/tomswallwhalefish.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glittery girl whale with lipstick, one of many offerings from around the world. More follow...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXvwZBuJS7Oql6PNiTrrTvoXLJNWeqyQxa98Lx6d_0YsKiI9BUjmxGJLU0p3q3jNkLNaFSS8IjfL2ODqK5vLOi5hLeKFrkDpy8ZBOPEfrjX4Ga_zW2L9uVVC6t1gFBrmvYGZv6NyEpX6XL/s1600/tomswallrockart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXvwZBuJS7Oql6PNiTrrTvoXLJNWeqyQxa98Lx6d_0YsKiI9BUjmxGJLU0p3q3jNkLNaFSS8IjfL2ODqK5vLOi5hLeKFrkDpy8ZBOPEfrjX4Ga_zW2L9uVVC6t1gFBrmvYGZv6NyEpX6XL/s320/tomswallrockart.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Design from Te-lah-nay's journal; the artist who recreated it in stone signed it at lower right as "Man Who Falls Off Horses."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirazhQGqo0WbTdXvBeXJmSsIgMign7AMCgTqGibSK7ejwpf_e0g2_SFz6UWtGeTvJgw9UPScF4U608rw1JByw1_pZm0h3fXnoEG3sTLF7mtWiQ5B571gPz1V4-4OmCMo57X8ngWhWC_PmH/s1600/tomswallpinkrock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirazhQGqo0WbTdXvBeXJmSsIgMign7AMCgTqGibSK7ejwpf_e0g2_SFz6UWtGeTvJgw9UPScF4U608rw1JByw1_pZm0h3fXnoEG3sTLF7mtWiQ5B571gPz1V4-4OmCMo57X8ngWhWC_PmH/s320/tomswallpinkrock.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gYLeWzB5fzKE4WFx7oT-jxVltr0qvX_we7tcOailQvHDoTupmGNSooTq8nMyKK9Lm-ILKjjaXpVOwkvo6qHFWzlE7rk-rl_b_fsSn8MwElbkrHflOS_aY57mtVIfNYC6iHDyDcUVcIUz/s1600/tomswallmeteorite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gYLeWzB5fzKE4WFx7oT-jxVltr0qvX_we7tcOailQvHDoTupmGNSooTq8nMyKK9Lm-ILKjjaXpVOwkvo6qHFWzlE7rk-rl_b_fsSn8MwElbkrHflOS_aY57mtVIfNYC6iHDyDcUVcIUz/s320/tomswallmeteorite.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meteorite</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDZQC1J22lTUvtlqCIc_ubX_7nGCh-KEXOAMElw9oX4zOqC0VfnHVTjyBvDmsSkiUrThD9KP3jXcLqJowRycoVHROONTkXL5fISbpfzhJof-XeyMxPD9QMJflz7_ci8yLTsfIfRbz-0GU/s1600/tomswallfossils3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDZQC1J22lTUvtlqCIc_ubX_7nGCh-KEXOAMElw9oX4zOqC0VfnHVTjyBvDmsSkiUrThD9KP3jXcLqJowRycoVHROONTkXL5fISbpfzhJof-XeyMxPD9QMJflz7_ci8yLTsfIfRbz-0GU/s320/tomswallfossils3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the ocean, and lightning-fused sand</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBLg56Hy55lL7w4jb-j5OvflAof8PMK2GZ8k9O52WWy1OCMQ028fei-X9qHrFHJ3F7SLiHUJ0heUaVu01mYYEEA2u5ynCAIL4zyF_JhVa4XuUy0ypNFJR08jh-JFECJrZSy7LKLCv3IUmn/s1600/tomswallfossilizedwood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBLg56Hy55lL7w4jb-j5OvflAof8PMK2GZ8k9O52WWy1OCMQ028fei-X9qHrFHJ3F7SLiHUJ0heUaVu01mYYEEA2u5ynCAIL4zyF_JhVa4XuUy0ypNFJR08jh-JFECJrZSy7LKLCv3IUmn/s320/tomswallfossilizedwood.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVIcTc4O1M4wqglRJ1xYBhXB0Chqo2lQCQS7j0aIjRNhAUSwZRxC3npy3bbFmMOZkSoz4D_tXSyLCntPV61wskMf8zQF2pGDapFTNSgK8y0xVLvseC0Ez3khMmQE7e6rZnfAszHM5DP5bd/s1600/tomswallfossilizedwood1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVIcTc4O1M4wqglRJ1xYBhXB0Chqo2lQCQS7j0aIjRNhAUSwZRxC3npy3bbFmMOZkSoz4D_tXSyLCntPV61wskMf8zQF2pGDapFTNSgK8y0xVLvseC0Ez3khMmQE7e6rZnfAszHM5DP5bd/s320/tomswallfossilizedwood1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fossilized wood</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRuX8DZdTsJZzpKK5op0lXfefNcAqFs8sPp_sNfhvIo1gBqp1soN3JbvvrwnXuWXvLXP5DfG9hCJIAmSXCh8Sb_CI39zLXRA7n0cEvGD8FEwQP_TiaKepEU3Wbm3BUxiDPxNi-ds5f0zK/s1600/tomswallfertilityrock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRuX8DZdTsJZzpKK5op0lXfefNcAqFs8sPp_sNfhvIo1gBqp1soN3JbvvrwnXuWXvLXP5DfG9hCJIAmSXCh8Sb_CI39zLXRA7n0cEvGD8FEwQP_TiaKepEU3Wbm3BUxiDPxNi-ds5f0zK/s320/tomswallfertilityrock.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Fertility Rock (no, I didn't)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiERGseKobWClqnVGf-A2hWMSTiw-yquTQ_vu0kJz6iG6LGr107l1Q_Vv2ZxeoY7_kaxsKdeBzzyZ0ub5A2X-LEwDqeLosn2hhiBHnlqSE0JeAO7T6tC12CkpBe3Qybe0iMP8neDHoA2YCo/s1600/tomswall+mastadonteeth.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiERGseKobWClqnVGf-A2hWMSTiw-yquTQ_vu0kJz6iG6LGr107l1Q_Vv2ZxeoY7_kaxsKdeBzzyZ0ub5A2X-LEwDqeLosn2hhiBHnlqSE0JeAO7T6tC12CkpBe3Qybe0iMP8neDHoA2YCo/s320/tomswall+mastadonteeth.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOHjtnAIct8789WocrvanuQvX2GNhvjWwvf5bPWqn2BQPkWbDbXt-6ohF3EuKChJRE8jaQwEJVEocIYTMdiexqTZ5hCrz1OYItEAt2mOwNEOiMYu_qezpO6BP8y2dSycetSd2Fj4nsY2Yi/s1600/tomswall+fossilized+turtle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOHjtnAIct8789WocrvanuQvX2GNhvjWwvf5bPWqn2BQPkWbDbXt-6ohF3EuKChJRE8jaQwEJVEocIYTMdiexqTZ5hCrz1OYItEAt2mOwNEOiMYu_qezpO6BP8y2dSycetSd2Fj4nsY2Yi/s320/tomswall+fossilized+turtle.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fossilized turtle!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span class="_Tgc"> </span>Te-lah-nay means "Woman with the Dancing Eyes." Tom's got 'em.</li>
<li>About "wichahpi": Charlie Two Moons, a respected spiritual leader, told Tom, "The wall does not belong to you, Brother Tom. It belongs to all people.
You are just the keeper. I will tell you that it is wichahpi, which
means 'like the stars'. When they come, some will ask, 'Why does it
bend, and why is it higher and wider in some places than in others?'
Tell them it is like your great-great-grandmother's journey, and their
journey through life: it is never straight."</li>
<li>"Indian" is the word Tom uses most often rather than "Native American", so I did here.</li>
<li>Tom has written a book about Te-lah-nay's journey titled "If The Legends Fade." For more information about the book and its author, please see: <a href="http://www.ifthelegendsfade.com/" target="_blank">www.ifthelegendsfade.com</a>. </li>
<li>Here is a link to Rosanne Cash's beautiful song, which I loved way before I knew its connection to Tom's Wall: <a href="https://youtu.be/v5PzW1ZkGlI">https://youtu.be/v5PzW1ZkGlI</a></li>
</ul>
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<br />
<br />
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Love from Delta. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<span class="_Tgc"></span></div>
</div>
Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-80055679584359240632015-07-08T19:55:00.000-05:002015-07-08T19:55:38.255-05:00Steel: An Excerpt from Delaney's People<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVdcNgPGaG-XVCkRK66wOGsurtovtPt8P7z8N-V5tsp7Fbv8LJ51YlHLN2z2df9TDseOYWYzus8OpFOEHGaQSUhW5o7E1Rzf9Z4mQQPndeX0t8MNGJ92gsPS8MySrDqkg43LUILRpOXdd/s1600/faded+sword.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVdcNgPGaG-XVCkRK66wOGsurtovtPt8P7z8N-V5tsp7Fbv8LJ51YlHLN2z2df9TDseOYWYzus8OpFOEHGaQSUhW5o7E1Rzf9Z4mQQPndeX0t8MNGJ92gsPS8MySrDqkg43LUILRpOXdd/s320/faded+sword.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 100%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> </b><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Steel</b></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></span><div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 100%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">(Tom’s
Great-Great Grandfather’s Sword)</span></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 100%;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></span><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="ko7804"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="j0fp2"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="we.g0"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="we.g1"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="ledi0"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="ledi1"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="ie:r0"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="ie:r1"></a> <span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span>
will tell you of my experiences; the ones remembered, the ones not
spent in dark closets and attics and once, in a barn filled with hay.
The things I whispered into the dreams of those who examined me,
gingerly turning me over and over, as if I were fragile. I am
anything but fragile.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /> I was forged in
Prussia, white hot and then, cold blue. Thrust into the hands of a
boy, a boy who wept at night; fat tears splashing. He did not want to
go to war. I never heard his name.<br /> </span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> Sheathed at the side of his horse; he used his gun, never me. When
the horse collapsed, bleeding, the older boy grabbed me and ran. He
sat in the tent hours later, running his finger back and forth along
my blade, a gesture of love. “Look what I got,” he bragged to his
friends. I was his prize; the finest object he'd owned in his short
life. He would not let them touch me.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
This boy, the older one, was experienced. The first day, he ran me
through the lung of a twenty-year-old private from Akron, Ohio.
Pulled hard, tugging, to free me from the cold earth. Sliced another,
older man nearly in two. Back in the tent, he told the others, “I
killed five Yankees.” They were never men or boys. They were
Yankees. And, it was two. He killed two in that battle.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></span><div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="e5dt0"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="e5dt1"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="v4w20"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="v4w21"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="kmu.0"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="kmu.1"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="evre0"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="evre1"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="ipie0"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="ipie1"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="ko7803"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="jx9i0"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="jx9i1"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="feps1"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="feps2"></a>
There
were more and more in later days, though. The boy was good; he had a
feel for balancing my weight, the correct stance, the right hold. He
was fast, too. His name was Josiah.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /> We
moved mostly at night, hooves flashing in the moonlight. The boy was
hungry. The boy was tired. He kept me close at hand; I was his truest
friend.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /> At Bentonville, he was shot in
the arm, a searing pain that brought him to his knees. He dropped me
suddenly, but picked me back up with his left hand, running as fast
as he could. Always running.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /> We went home
to Hillabee, Alabama. By the time the boy's infection cleared, the
war was over. The boy was bitter. He was secretly convinced he could
have helped the South win if he had not been hurt. Mostly, the boy
was hungry, and he was so very tired. He packed me away in a trunk,
his ragged uniform on top. I was moved to a barn, forgotten amid
tools in the loft.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /> In 1916, Josiah was a
very old man. He wore me at his side, in a new hand-tooled leather
sheath, to the Confederate Veterans' Reunion in Birmingham. He told
old-man stories, patting me with pride in his trembling voice. He
wept old-man tears. They pinned a souvenir medal on his chest; took a
photograph. Afterward, I went back into the trunk, carefully placed
by the hands of his wife. I was left alone in an attic this
time.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /> Many years later, I was removed
with murderous intent, handled for twenty minutes, turned over and
over by an angry man. I was moved to a small, dusty closet. The
uniform, my constant companion, was gone. I was forgotten again.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
I was discovered a decade later by a sobbing woman. She stopped
crying and wiped the dust from the leather, curious. She did not
remove me from the sheath; she seemed afraid. I was carried into the
living room and placed on a table for her husband to see. He pulled
away the leather. He was excited. He told her, “I think this was my
great-grandfather's sword. My great-grandfather rode with Forrest.”
He was right on the first count. On the second, he was incorrect. He
would never be able to find out for sure. It became the truth.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
His name was Thomas. He took me to another house where I was stored
away yet again, though wrapped in soft cotton. I was an object of
pride, a treasure, a jewel in his hands. He showed me once, carefully
cradled, to his young son. He told him of the Cause, “The war was
not about slavery and its cruelty. My people were poor farmers who
never owned human beings; they fought because they believed in their
freedom. The war was about taxes and the right of each state to
govern itself. The South was invaded by northerners who wanted to
dominate our economy. And they sure did after the so-called Civil
War.” He said, in closing, “My great-great-grandfather fought
with this sword at his side and served with the famous general,
Nathan Bedford Forrest.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></span><div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> The
little boy, wide-eyed, asked, “Was it ever used to kill people?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></span>
</div>
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Thomas
said, “I don’t know for sure, but I would expect so. This sword
will belong to you someday.” The boy nodded solemnly, touching my
blade shyly, cautiously, before I was replaced in the cotton-lined
box.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /> Thomas examined me on the kitchen
table every Confederate Memorial Day, making sure there was no rust,
no damage. He wondered what the war had been like. He tried to hear
the cannons. He tried to imagine the killing, the pain. He tried to
imagine how Josiah felt, so very young.</span></span></div>
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The boy, Tom, appeared next as a man of thirty-eight. I was cleaned
and polished, hung over his mantel, gleaming in the firelight. That
night, he called his son, Tommy, into the room. “What do you think
what it was like, when your great-great-great-grandfather fought in
the war? Could you imagine carrying this heavy thing from place to
place, tired and cold and wet in the rain? Your ancestor, Josiah
Edward Robinson, was injured and had to come back early because he
was unable to fight anymore. Josiah's place had a big white farmhouse
and several pecan trees around it. My daddy, your grandfather,
visited it when he was very young.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> A
crumbled chimney stands sentinel.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /> I was
taken down occasionally; carefully, respectfully, slowly lowered into
someone's waiting hands. They ran their fingers along, tentatively,
lightly. Sometimes they wondered how sharp my blade really was, how
many I killed, if they would have been man enough to fight in that
terrible war.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /> All the while, I was
whispering.</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Excerpted from <i>Delaney's People: A Novel in Small Stories</i></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b><i> </i><i> </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>©</b>Beth Duke</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">All rights reserved<br />May not be reproduced without author's permission</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Love from Delta.</span></span></div>
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-16016561906374785772015-07-01T12:45:00.000-05:002015-07-01T13:17:56.986-05:00Let's Not Erase History. Here's a Start...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Yesterday, an accomplished author with Alabama roots attempted to convince me that all monuments, all statues, all memorials to the Confederacy should be removed from public view. When I vehemently disagreed, he (rhetorically) took his ball and went home by unfriending me on Facebook.<br />
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That's too bad, because I'd like him to see the history lesson I'm offering in return for his. It's one he didn't see in textbooks, nor did any of us.<br />
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Most are familiar with Union General William Tecumseh Sherman and his infamous march through Georgia. Less known is the fact that Sherman saved his most savage assault for South Carolina, the first to secede and his ultimate target. His aide-de-camp, Major George Nichols, published a book about this campaign and Sherman's contempt for the people of South Carolina. He referred to them as "the scum, the lower dregs of civilization. They are not Americans; they are merely South Carolinians."<br />
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Nichols said, "Searches for hidden valuables by Union soldiers were 'one of the pleasant excitements of our march.'"<br />
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Federal officer James Connolly wrote to his wife that halfway through the march he was "perfectly sickened by the frightful devastation our army was spreading on every hand." He reported how most houses (private residences) were first plundered and then burned, and women, children and old men were turned out into the mud and rain.<br />
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Arson and plundering were far from the only outrages committed against the civilian population. Historian Jacqueline Campbell wrote that African-Americans, especially female ones, were often the victims of mistreatment by Union soldiers, and their officers were aware of these offenses. Black women, Campbell noted, were viewed by white soldiers as "the legitimate prey of lust."<br />
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Author William Simms described the rape of black women by the soldiers, then their mistreatment of white women and even the dead:<br />
"The poor Negroes were terribly victimized by their assailants, many of them...being left in a condition little short of death. Regiments, in successive relays, subjected scores of these poor women to the torture of their embraces. In several cases, newly made graves were opened, the coffins taken out, broken open in search of buried treasure, and the corpses left exposed."<br />
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A Mr. McCarter of Columbia recorded similar atrocities, how "frightened Negro women sought protection and places of refuge against the lustful soldiery." He added "the bodies of several females were found stripped naked with only such marks of violence upon them as would indicate the most detestable of crimes."<br />
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A Columbia physician, Daniel Trezevant, recorded several horrible instances of rape, one at a house where Federal soldiers seized Mrs. Thomas B. Clarkson and "forced her to the floor for the purpose of sensual enjoyment. She resisted and held up her infant as a plea for their sparing her. The soldiers relented, but took her maid instead and in Mrs. Clarkson's presence raped her."<br />
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There were countless instances of pillaging, burning and rape in Sherman's wake. Reverend William Lord was the rector of the Episcopal church in Winnsboro, S. C., and the townspeople sent him as an emissary to General Sherman. He met with some of his officers, who conveyed his plea for mercy: Winnsboro contained no cotton held in storage and sheltered only helpless women and children. He asked that the army on its march not be permitted to burn and pillage it.<br />
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Sherman's reply was, "Burn and pillage be damned! My soldiers may do as they please!"<br />
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In response to the idea that Confederate statues be removed lest they offend the eye, I submit that we obliterate any shrine to Sherman, starting with this one in New York. It certainly offends me.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"If the party could thrust its hand into the past and say of this or that event, <em>it never happened—</em>that,
surely, was more terrifying than mere torture or death. ... And if all
others accepted the lie which the Party imposed—if all records told the
same tale—then the lie passed into history and became truth."</span><br />
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- George Orwell, <i>1984 </i></div>
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Love from Delta.</div>
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-60905930268563504352015-06-29T13:43:00.000-05:002015-06-29T13:43:39.555-05:00Let The People Choose<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I heard from a friend today, a beautiful woman named Roz whom I respect and admire. She is an African-American teacher in Florida; I came to know her when my daughter was one of her students years ago. I adore Roz, and my daughter does, too.<br />
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She said a lot of thoughtful things about the Confederate flag controversy, and ended with this: "<span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$text0:0">I'm yearning for a symbol of unity."</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$text0:0">So am I.</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$text0:0">Because I've been outspoken about the flag, I believe some have looked askance at my motives. The flag, to me, represents The South in general and honors my ancestors who sought to defend their homes and families. Nothing more, nothing less. I think that makes me misunderstood. </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$text0:0">To clarify:</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$text0:0">Being born and raised in Alabama</span></span></span></span></span></span><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".2.1:4:1:$comment10207319509205573_10207344471149606:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$text0:0">—an Alabama freshly scarred and healing from the Civil Rights Movement</span></span></span></span></span></span>—meant I was exposed to racism early on. I believe this can either engender racism or, as is the case with me, make a person adamantly determined to head as far in the opposite direction as possible. It disgusted me. My children can tell you they were brought up to be respectful of all people and never, <i>ever</i> to utter a racial slur. Never.<br />
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As an adult I've been all over the country, and I sincerely believe the best relationships between black and white are found in Alabama. I have African-American friends who feel the same way. Maybe it's because we've endured so much side by side; we have been part of each other for so many years. The most virulent, burn-your-ears and burn-your-heart racist I've ever known hails from a New England state.<br />
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My point is: don't assign characteristics to anyone based on geography, folks.<br />
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Meanwhile, back in Alabama:<br />
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My favorite teacher of all time was black. (I believe that's the term she'd prefer.) I learned so much from Mrs. Storey, and never realized what she must've endured outside our sixth grade classroom. I only knew she was pretty and smart and kind. The character Lily in my books was greatly inspired by my love of that woman. Long after Lily was written but prior to <i>Delaney's People</i>'s publication, I met a wonderful lady named Melinda who is also black (again, her term) and one of the most delightful people I've had the opportunity to discuss the world with. We get our hair done at the same salon. Melinda caused me to run home and edit most of Lily's dialogue and give it new authenticity. Much of what Lily says and does—for better or for worse—comes directly from Melinda. She's proud of that and loves when I tell people.<br />
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So, Roz, I don't know what symbol can unite us, unless it's this one:<br />
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It's a good place to start, in memory of nine innocents senselessly slaughtered.</div>
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As far as the Confederate flag is concerned, I believe each state should allow its citizens to vote whether it should be displayed on capitol property. In Montgomery, ours flew not over the Capitol but at a memorial on state ground. Governor Bentley ordered the flags removed, and I believe the people should get to make the choice whether they go back up. </div>
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I can't speak for South Carolina, still reeling from the massacre in Emanuel AME Church. </div>
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I know this: I believe absolutely in states' rights, as my forefathers did. Let the people decide and they will own their choices. There will be unrest as long as they feel disenfranchised by politicians holding a finger to the wind. </div>
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We need to find our way together, side by side.</div>
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Love from Delta.</div>
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-34154299927681219972015-01-04T16:14:00.000-06:002015-01-04T16:14:27.603-06:00For Pepper<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She was a fluffy gray ball about the size of my fist, with enough hiss and spit to run off all the other kittens in the shelter.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"She loves people, but won't tolerate other cats," they explained.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">After watching her sixteen-ounces-of-fire-breathing-dragon display, I was amazed to have her climb up my sleeve and lick my face. She purred gently, steadily, convincingly: the message was clearly <i>Take me home, you are mine. And I will kill any cats that annoy you, too.</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A 2001 Christmas surprise for Jason and Savannah, she spent a couple of days at the shelter's veterinarian's office before coming home. While there she contracted an upper respiratory bug that made her spend most of her early days with us huddled in her litter box, where she seemed to feel safe. Our vet checked her out and said she'd be fine, but possibly had a dry-eye condition that would require a million dollars or so in ophthalmic ointment over the course of her life. I decided to wait and see if maybe she'd outgrow it.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Her coat looked like it had been sprinkled with pepper; the naming was easy. Pepper became our beloved pet, with gloriously normal, no-cost eyes and an enormous affection for her family and chasing the little lizards Florida presents to amuse its cat population.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We found lots of disconnected lizard tails, frantically switching back and forth.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Pepper was devoted to us, the four humans in the Duke family, but ran under the nearest bed when anyone else approached the house. She seemed to want to limit her social sphere to us and the kingdom of tiny reptiles she ruled. Many visitors questioned whether we actually owned a cat; she was a gray phantom without menace. Our dear neighbor Beth Monette occasionally fed and watched over her when we left town, and Pepper chose her for Favorite Alternate Human. They bonded, but no one else was allowed into her feline heart of hearts.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She tolerated Beau the Maltepoo when he joined the family in 2004, and offered him occasional affection. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">After years of indoor life, Pepper moved to the Alabama countryside and found herself among giant chickens and a Labrador Retriever. It brought about an amazing transformation. While she still loved to be carried around the yard like a baby, surveying it all from a lofty perch, she also became the huntress she was born to be. She'd disappear into the neighbor's pasture and return with a mouse or vole clenched in her jaws. The chickens gave her a wary wide berth, and so did the Lab. Exploring outdoors made her confident and she was less prone to hiding from people.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She blossomed here.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">After Jason graduated college and moved to Georgia, Pepper went to live with him. I loved seeing her when I visited there, and he brought her home often. She was hell on the cardboard box transport he had in the early days, chewing right through to express her displeasure.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I think she liked coming here and loving on us, despite the hated car trips. I did my best to spoil her.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Several months ago Pepper began to show signs of declining health. Jason was told it could be an infection, or it might be bone cancer. We gave her antibiotics and hoped for the best.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She began to waste away before our eyes. Nothing helped.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Over Thanksgiving I found myself stroking her fur and telling her the story of how she adopted us, tears splashing onto the bed where she lay purring and listening intently.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She loved that story.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yesterday, with the help and support of his wonderful sister Savannah, Jason took Pepper to the vet for a final goodbye.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm still crying.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You were a sweet, fun, loyal, affectionate cat, Pepper. Thank you for choosing us. Thank you for loving us.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Love from Delta.</span><br />
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-86837443610484889222014-10-03T12:13:00.000-05:002014-10-03T18:14:55.943-05:00Ebolaphobia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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One lousy Liberian liar has delivered the deadly and dreaded Ebola virus to the United States.<br />
That's all it took.<br />
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The CDC says it's been preparing for this scenario since March, which is awesome...except they appear to have been caught with their hazmat pants down.<br />
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Crews dispatched to decontaminate the least popular apartment complex in America couldn't do their job, as they had no authorization to transport material removed from the scene.<br />
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Gee, you'd think someone would've seen that coming, maybe even back in March.<br />
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The CDC waited until recently to distribute instructions on handling Ebola victims to U. S. funeral homes. They insist it's simply routine, kinda like instructing funeral homes how to deal with zombies or space aliens.<br />
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Anonymous Texas Nurse and hospital staff should be hiding out and hanging their heads in shame about now, after sending a patient from Ebola's West African hotbed home with antibiotics for what was dismissed as a relatively minor viral infection. That's right<span class="st">—antibiotics for a viral infection. Colossal oversight and wrong medication, too. </span><br />
<span class="st">Perhaps the CDC should've prepared for gross incompetence in the very healthcare system they keep reassuring us will contain any threat of widespread contagion.</span><br />
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<span class="st">I admit to a fascination with these events as well as a medium-ish level of Ebolaphobia. Richard Preston's <i>The Hot Zone</i> introduced me to hemorrhagic horror back in 1994</span><span class="st">—something I hoped to keep a vague concept quarantined in a corner of my mind</span><span class="st">. (It's a great book. I do not recommend reading it right now unless you have industrial-strength anxiety medication.)</span><br />
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<span class="st">I cannot understand why airlines are still traveling to and from Liberia and its neighbors, risking transport of a deadly virus. The CDC has no satisfactory answer. Questioning passengers is ineffective, as Mr. Duncan demonstrated. People lie. Screening for Ebola symptoms is ludicrous, as the disease has an incubation period of up to three weeks. How many more human bio-bombs are planes going to deliver?</span><br />
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<span class="st">The longer the virus spreads through the human population, the better chance it has of mutating into something far more easily contracted.</span><br />
<span class="st">We have to lock this thing down.</span><br />
<span class="st">Nigeria did just that, very effectively, and I sure hope the U. S. is capable of following suit. Our leadership is not inspiring much confidence.</span><br />
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<span class="st">Love from Delta.</span></div>
Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-90862313402577038182014-08-12T14:32:00.000-05:002014-08-12T15:05:15.600-05:00Goodbye, Robin Williams.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I loved Robin Williams. You did, too. But unless you breathe in more rarefied celebrity air than I, you did not know him. He entertained us, inspired us, influenced us . . . but did not attend our weddings, birthday parties, or stop by at suppertime. I am in no position to comment on his mental health.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">You aren't, either.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">When a celebrity dies of suicide, particularly after years of publicized drug and/or alcohol addiction, there's a predictable clarion call for better mental health care and substance abuse treatment. It lasts about three or four days. Then we resume our lives and make occasional, wistful mention of the lost soul and his or her immense talent. We muddle through the world with a little less light to guide our paths.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />I cannot imagine what better mental health services and addiction treatment could have been available to a person of Robin Williams' means. I don't think "we" could have "saved" him with our love. I'm going to say it out loud: he did a cruel and selfish thing. I pray for his family and close friends. I pray for those struggling as he did on a daily basis, who manage to persevere despite pain and darkness. And I pray his death might inspire someone to seek help before destroying the lives of those around him or her.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Because suicide did not "free" Robin Williams.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">He eliminated himself and left his loved ones to struggle with guilt, grief, and anguish. That's the reality.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i></i>G. K. Chesterton said, “The man who kills a man, kills a man. The man who
kills himself, kills all men; as far as he is concerned he wipes out the
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Our world will never be the same.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Love from Delta.</span></div>
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-12234563431096940132014-05-19T17:24:00.000-05:002014-05-19T17:24:41.865-05:00Loudly Clanging Belles Take a Toll<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just hangin' out by the fence</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">southern belle <i><span style="font-size: small;">noun</span></i> </span><span class="pr">\<span class="unicode">ˈ</span>sə-<u>th</u>ərn </span><span class="pr">bel\ : a woman from the Southern United States who personifies beauty, gracious hospitality and refined manners</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="pr">I've seen dyed-in-the-cotton Southern belles at the tender age of five and the squishy age of ninety-five. The prissiness swims in our collective gene pool; the dedication to make-up, hair, fingernails, clothes, shoes and monograms is bound in polished strands of DNA.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="pr">After biting a Southern belle, a mosquito will immediately check itself in a mirror.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="pr">I know some. I'm related to some. Most days, my own Southern belle tendencies lead to excessive primping. It can be tedious, fixing up to walk to the mailbox.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="pr">I encountered a different type of belle today: The Walmart Belle. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">T<span class="pr">he Walmart belle I spotted was slathered in foundation that may or may not have had Alabama red clay in the ingredient list. Her eyeshadow could have inspired Crayola to send a scouting team. The mascara? Black, heavy, and clinging to an impressive pair of false lashes. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="pr"><span class="pr">Southern belles chime softly and charm well. They are polite to a fault.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="pr"><span class="pr">Walmart belles clang loudly and run over your foot without a backward glance. </span> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="pr">She is not to be confused with your typical Walmartian. Most of <i>them</i>, I'm convinced, are oblivious to their appearance or in some state of psychosis.They're on innocuous errands, maybe there to communicate with the mother ship.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="pr">The Walmart belle knows what she looks like</span><span class="pr"><i>—</i>she spent three hours getting ready</span><span class="pr"><i>—</i>and is apparently there to be seen and appreciated. In the absence of an employee to scream at, she chooses to communicate with her family by bellowing long-distance.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="pr"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="pr">If you spot one, protect your elegant shoe. Those carts are heavy and can leave tread marks.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="pr">Love from Delta.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="pr"> </span></span> </div>
Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-17056854563929855412013-12-31T13:04:00.000-06:002013-12-31T13:06:49.666-06:00Thoughts for 2014...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I do not make New Year's resolutions. Like everyone else, I think deep thoughts about the things I'll try to change in accordance with the calendar. It's less stressful than taking ironclad vows.<br />
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I am going to try to come to terms with the fact my eyebrows are never going to look like Anastasia of Beverly Hills does them unless Anastasia happens to pass through Delta, Alabama and stop for directions. If that happens, you can expect her to be locked in my basement and forced into working her magic on me.<br />
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This means spending much less time with a super-magnifying mirror and tweezers in direct sunlight, which is a Stupid Beth Trick <i>to start with</i>. I'm pretty sure I mess up and create new, traumatic flaws rather than accomplish good with this habit.<br />
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I'm going to try to disregard the echoing Litany of Southern Womanhood: <i>Don't you leave the house without doing your makeup</i>. This year I attended a luncheon in the home of a beautiful woman who greeted me by saying, "Oh, lord<i>—</i>I was so busy getting things ready, I forgot to do my eyes." This is so silly . . . as silly as hearing myself tell my daughter, "Yes, I'm putting on lip gloss. It's what I do when I don't know what to do." (I was lost on the way to a state park.)<br />
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Also on the list: embrace the fact I love pizza, but it must be the carrot at the end of my exercise stick.<br />
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Meditation, Pilates, yoga, long walks. More of that stuff.<br />
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Fewer selfies, more selfless attitude. That one's very important.<br />
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Remain as grateful at all times as possible<i>—</i>especially in prayer<i></i><i>.</i><br />
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Write, write, write . . . even if it's coming out wrong, wrong, wrong.<br />
<i> </i><br />
My rose-colored glasses will remain firmly in place, and I'll continue to see the best in everyone and every situation. I will laugh at myself even if I'd prefer to kick myself. I will find a way to make someone smile whenever I get the chance. I will attempt to keep my foot far from my mouth, especially when firing off a heated response.<br />
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I wish you joy, health and peace in 2014.<br />
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Love from Delta.<br />
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<i> </i> <br />
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-84977694803267071962013-11-15T20:55:00.000-06:002013-11-15T20:55:39.507-06:00The Very Beautiful Parker Memorial Baptist Church<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The church of my childhood was spartan, with punishing Puritanical wood pews and no musical instruments. Maybe that's why I've had a lifelong fascination with elaborate churches and cathedrals. I've seen majestic stained glass and soaring flying buttresses in Europe; I've been humbled by the beauty of <a href="http://life.sewanee.edu/believe/all-saints-chapel" target="_blank">All Saints Chapel</a> at Sewanee, The University of the South.<br />
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As long as I can remember, I've longed to see inside the historic <a href="http://www.parkermemorial.com/" target="_blank">Parker Memorial Baptist Church</a> in my hometown of Anniston, Alabama. I've been gazing wistfully at its imposing architecture, wondering at the splendor to be found within.<br />
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Today, I <i>finally</i> had my chance. My wonderful friend Kathy Weiser, a lifelong member, offered me a personal tour. It was everything I'd imagined and more<em>—</em>including a breathtaking Louis Comfort Tiffany window!<em></em><br />
<br /><span class="font_7">A brief history: On July 3, 1887, forty-five believers, most of
them members from First Baptist Church in West Anniston, organized the
Second Baptist Church in the Opera House on Noble.</span><br />
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<span class="font_7"> </span><span class="font_7">Dr. G. A. Nunnally of Eufaula was called as pastor and property was
purchased on the corner of Quintard and Twelfth Street. The name of the
church was changed to Twelfth Street Baptist. Duncan C. Parker, 13 year old son of Duncan T. Parker, died March
26, 1889. Cornelia Parker, organist of Twelfth Street Baptist Church and
wife of Mr. Parker, died three weeks later. As a memorial to his wife
and son, Mr. Parker offered to pay for a new sanctuary. The church soon
changed its name to Parker Memorial Baptist Church.</span><br />
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<span class="font_7">The Parker Memorial of today recently underwent a four million dollar renovation. Take a look:</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tiffany!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Many thanks to Kathy, and</div>
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Love from Delta.</div>
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-68633087036619400992013-08-28T12:26:00.000-05:002013-08-28T12:33:40.474-05:00Hers Was A Curious Makeup<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In the words of a certain Springsteen song, I'm sick of sitting 'round here trying to write this book. Therefore, you're getting a blog about a subject I've been pondering lately: makeup. Cosmetics. The stuff we put on our faces (and maybe other parts).</div>
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The United States is the biggest cosmetic market in the world, with an estimated annual revenue of about 54.89 billion U.S. dollars. You can't turn on a television or open a magazine without being lured by promises of a prettier, younger, brighter, more appealing, worthy-of-public-viewing face. Hope in a jar is a very salable product. Debbie Boone keeps crooning at me about a Lifestyle Lift. I kinda wish she'd stop.</div>
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As a traditional Southern woman, I admit it. The <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">cliché applies</span></span></span>—I won't walk to the mailbox without makeup. This is especially true for me, as my mail waits in a public post office. I've had an older male cousin remark on how a woman should always have her hair and makeup done for the grocery store or any other non-hidden environs, because she might encounter someone helpful in her career. Can't be seen looking less than your best. (Yes, I resented that a bit.)</div>
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During this morning's regimen I pondered how other women might feel. Do you put on makeup for yourself, or others? How long does it take you? Is your objective confidence, beauty, sexiness? Are you happier with or without it? Is it a chore, or is it fun?</div>
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I have days when I wonder if I'm doing the whole thing right. I recently attempted to correct this by submitting to a Bobbi Brown saleslady/makeup pro/painter of women. I muttered excuses and left the counter in horror when she finished, as I looked like the afternoon's designated mall clown. It took me ten minutes of swiping stuff off in a ladies' room to reenter the public domain.</div>
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One lady tells me she has "at home eyebrows" and "public eyebrows." I find this both amusing and sad.</div>
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My grandfather used to tell me, "Pretty is as pretty does." Does that maxim apply without lipstick and an eyelash curler?</div>
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Possible responses to "Why are you wearing makeup?":</div>
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Because I didn't have time for plastic surgery.</div>
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Because I feel naked without it.</div>
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Because all the other women are.</div>
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It was my morning art project.</div>
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I do not want to frighten small children. </div>
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Because I made the mistake of spending an hour with the Kardashians again.</div>
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What about it, ladies? I'd love to hear your thoughts. I'm going to fix my face and ponder the subject.<br />
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Here's what Miranda thinks: </div>
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Love from Delta.</div>
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-59131660652287535942013-08-25T17:06:00.000-05:002013-08-25T17:11:11.326-05:00Maybe Chivalry Just Has a Fever<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My latest book has me shuffling back and forth between men pitching woo in 1947 and 2012 and considering the differences. I wasn't around for the post-war woo, but I suspect it was courtlier and more chivalrous than what we see these days.<br />
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Don't get me wrong: I love being a modern woman. I would not erase one hundred years of progress for those of us blessed with two x chromosomes . . . not for all the leather jackets gallantly tossed over mud puddles in the world.<br />
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It is heartening, however, to see some traditions continue. Men walking on the traffic side of the street to protect their ladies, for one.<br />
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I am not my grandmother, who would stand stock-still for ten minutes beside a car door waiting for a gentleman to open it<b>—</b>but I'm happy to have a door opened for me whenever possible.<br />
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If there is a snake or spider nearby, I'm going to require a white knight bearing sword or heel.<br />
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I think most women are comforted knowing there are men out there they can call on in times of need. My husband is that kind of guy; always dependable in a crisis (if you can get him to answer his cell phone). For those times he's unavailable, I can turn to what I think of as "the men in my village." They're friends of mine, relatives, friends of my husband's, husbands of girlfriends . . . we all have them, ladies. I am grateful for the men in my village.<br />
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Chivalrous men, your mama raised you right. We thank you. <br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span class="bqQuoteLink">"I
often think a lot of women's attraction to vampires is based on the
fact that vampires come from centuries ago, from eras of chivalry and
courtly virtues.</span>"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="bodybold"><span class="bqQuoteLink">"I heard that chivalry was dead, but I think it's just got a bad flu."</span><br />
<span class="bodybold">~Meg Ryan</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="bodybold"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="bodybold"><span class="bqQuoteLink">"If
you're walking with your lady on the sidewalk, I still like to see a
man walking street-side, to protect the lady from traffic. I grew up
with that, and I hate to see something like that get lost. I still like
to see that a man opens the door. I like those touches of chivalry that
are fast disappearing."</span><br />
<span class="bodybold">~Betty White</span>
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<span class="bodybold"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Love from Delta. </span></span></div>
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304246250292041543.post-47401330666116184062013-08-20T14:22:00.001-05:002013-08-20T17:46:45.739-05:00There Are People In Your Life . . .<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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. . . who are always there when you need them. They show up on your doorstep when your baby daughter is a day or two old, bearing a roasted chicken, green beans, salad, and an heirloom-recipe apple pie.<br />
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When you get distracted in your new car and smack into a van bearing a rolled-up carpet—the vehicular equivalent of colliding with the business end of a log truck—they're by your side with comforting words for you and handy translation of your incoherent babble for the police.<br />
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When necessary, they hold your hand . . . even over the phone. <br />
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I have known Mark and Marianne Barnebey for more years than I admit to wandering this earth. Today is their thirtieth wedding anniversary—a testament to love, devotion and two fabulous senses of humor. While I was not present for their wedding, I've seen the photos and heard the stories. God has smiled on them in many ways.<br />
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This is their firstborn, Matthew. Matt is one of the finest people I know; an aspiring race car driver and all-around Good Guy. He was the kind of kid who walked out of "Remember the Titans" saying he liked the movie except for the cursing. I believe that was one "damn" inserted for dramatic purposes. The point is: Matt's mama and daddy set a great example, and he lives it. <br />
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Christopher spent a good deal of time in my house, and is equally terrific. He's a talented, accomplished chef and tons of fun to be around. Legendary childhood Chris stories include a time I extracted a staple from his head—Marianne was away and he wouldn't let Mark do it—and an incident in which he spilled hot soup on his head. He's much better in the kitchen now.<br />
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Beautiful daughter Emily has brought them joy, fun and laughter. I have loved spending time with her, too.</div>
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Cherished friends provide too many memories to list; Marianne standing atop a restaurant table, resplendent in red after winning her first City Council election . . . New Year's Eve parties with endless laughter . . . countless plates of nachos at The Boiler Room . . . fundraisers and events where we danced until the wee hours of the morning . . . shared time with our parents and my grandmother . . . hurricane parties . . . hugs, tears and smiles.</div>
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Congratulations to two of my favorite people on thirty wonderful years. I'm grateful to have been along for the ride, and look forward to thirty more.</div>
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Love from Delta.</div>
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Beth Duke, Author of Delaney's People, Don't Shoot Your Mule, It All Comes Back to You, and Tapestryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02461053485414797544noreply@blogger.com0