My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Threads of Kinship: Weaving Bonds Anew

by on ·Family, Genealogy

A few weeks ago, when Whoopi Goldberg said on The View, “Don’t let the crazies get you down,” her words struck a chord with me, resonating deeply amidst what seems to be an unending stream of political and social upheaval and chaos. While her advice rings true, I’ve found it far easier to acknowledge than embody, especially in a world of distractions and challenges. Yet, her sentiment serves as a gentle nudge for me to redirect my focus away from the relentless and stressful noise and toward pursuits that bring clarity and peace.

For me, this meant returning to a hobby that has long been a source of solace: genealogy. As I immersed myself in my trove of family records and documents, I stumbled upon a discovery that was both poignant and humbling—death certificates for two infants born to my great-grandparents, Nathan and Ida. Charles and Arthur, whose lives were heartbreakingly brief, passed away at just 9 months and 26 weeks old, respectively. Their names, etched into the fragile tapestry of our family’s history, remind me of the fleeting nature of life and the quiet legacy left by those we know only through records.

Genealogy often unveils bittersweet truths like these. Over the years, I’ve encountered other relatives who died in infancy, each revelation underscoring life’s delicate fragility. Yet this pursuit is not solely about uncovering sorrow but forging connections with those who came before us. Through their stories—woven into mine—I understand my identity and heritage more deeply. Just this morning, I discovered other previously unknown pieces of family information. The Internet is a God-send (I know some folks would adamantly disagree). Nevertheless, it saves me a lot of legwork and the need for frequent trips to the National Archives.

Genealogy feels essential, not just for personal discovery but also for preserving history amid a time when books are banned and historical narratives are being rewritten and erased.

In moments when the world feels fragmented, genealogy serves as both an anchor and a reminder of the intricate web of lives that shape our shared existence.

Speaking of genealogy, a few weeks ago, I was contacted by a distant relative who, I believe, came across my blog by chance. I’m so pleased that she reached out to me. Since I didn’t ask permission to use her name, I’ll only say that she is one of the daughters of Perch and Martha Williams. (Some of my older cousins may remember Perch Williams as well as I do.) Perch (birth name Ferdinand) was my mother’s first cousin, I believe, so I think that would make his children my cousins, second removed. I am unsure about the cousin lineup order, so I’ll say she’s a distant cousin. For me to try to break down cousins’ relationships in genealogy is like asking me to do calculus or algebra. Forget that!

According to the 1930s Federal US Census, Perch lived with his grandmother, Relia (I’ve also seen it spelled Rhea) Scott, and her husband, Joseph, when he was seven years old.

Fortunately, his daughter reaching out allowed us to connect yet another leaf on the family tree and reminisce about memories, as we look forward to creating new ones.

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The Family Tapestry: Weaving Stories That Endure

by on ·Family, The Writing Life
I took this snapshot of the family homestead in the days following my beloved grandmother’s passing. (Her friend, Miss Lou, is seated on the porch near the mourning wreath, with a hat covering her face.) Seeking to honor my grandma’s memory and keep her close, I transformed this image into a 30″ x 20″ poster shortly after making the photo. It is a window to happier times.

Some months ago, while rereading Legacy, I recognized opportunities for improvement. Although most of my research-based information was accurate, I identified some omissions that would have clarified more on specific points. This realization prompted me to request that Amazon reduce the initial price of the book. My hurried completion of that manuscript was primarily motivated by a desire to publish the book before my mother passed from a terminal illness. Unfortunately, time ran out, and though mother read portions of the draft, she never saw the finished work.

I’ve been considering writing Legacy II: The Next Generation for some time. Sadly, I regret the missed opportunities to gather meaningful oral histories from elders on both sides of my family. (However, given that my cousin, Velda, has extensively documented our paternal lineage, I will continue to concentrate on exploring my maternal ancestry.)

Now that I’ve rapidly aged into the “senior discount” demographic (How fast time travels!), I’ve developed an almost obsessive fascination with preserving our family’s history. The anecdotes and tidbits I’ve saved throughout the years might be the genealogical gold mine that turns some future great-great-grandkid into the Alex (or Alexa) Haley of our family tree.

Even if it serves only to clarify family connections or provide entertainment at reunions or other gatherings, preserving family narratives and capturing fragments of our shared past feels worthy of bridging the gap between generations and keeping our family’s legacy alive.

As I write this, memories of past interactions involving some of my aunts and uncles resurface in my mind.

Aunt Anne’s Slot Strategy – Ah, the glittering world of slot machines – where dreams are made, and wallets are emptied faster than you can say “jackpot”! Some decades ago, I (a reformed slot machine enthusiast) was tagging along with my Aunt Anne in the casino (probably in Atlantic City).

Aunt Anne wasn’t just winning; she was making it rain so hard that I half expected to see Noah’s ark float into the lobby. Naturally, I had to know her secret. Was it a lucky rabbit’s foot? A deal with Lady Luck herself? Nope. Aunt Anne’s wisdom was more straightforward than pulling the lever on a one-armed bandit.

Her sage advice? “Go big kid or go home!” Okay, she didn’t say it quite that way, but she suggested simultaneously putting the maximum number of coins in the slot instead of playing it safe by inserting one or two coins per play as I had been doing. “If there are five coin slots, then play all five.” She said. (That was before buttons and touchscreens phased out handles, and the machines took cash instead of tickets.)

Now, my wallet usually screamed in terror at the thought of playing max coins instead of the minimum. I needed to make my “play” money last until it was time to go home, not blow it all in the first 30 minutes. But on those rare occasions when I had a little extra play money, I channeled my inner Aunt Anne, went all in, and sometimes got lucky. Boy oh boy, did those coins sing a sweeter tune! It was like upgrading from a French horn to a full orchestra.

Aunt Precious’ Skincare Wisdom – Aunt Precious and I were both visiting at Grandma Hattie’s and were about to head off to who-knows-where when I whined to Aunt Precious about my skin doing a complete 180 from teenage oil slick to desert landscape dry with age. Her advice? Nivea Creme. Talk about a miracle in a little blue tin! Not only did my parched skin drink it up like a cactus in a rainstorm, but throughout the years, strangers were stopping me to compliment my glow – probably wondering if I’d discovered the fountain of youth or just really good lighting.

Aunt Sarah (aka Sain) and Aunt Ida, my dynamic duo of favorite aunts! These ladies weren’t just relatives; they were my partners in crime, my go-to confidantes for all drama, and keepers of secrets (Okay, some secrets. We’ve all heard the gossip line warning, “You ain’t heard it from me. If it gets back to me, I’ll know who told. I’ll just say that sometimes my “secret” got back to me.)

But back to the sweet memories. Let’s start with Aunt Ida. She knew I enjoyed fishing and when I visited her, she would reel me in for the occasional fishing trip, usually at a nearby creek.

But her real talent? Being my personal New Year’s Eve alarm clock. Without fail, she’d ring my phone annually around midnight to wish me a Happy New Year. If I weren’t at home, her “Happy New Year, Lo!” greeting would be waiting on my answering machine. And did I say that she was the best hugger ever? Aunt Ida didn’t give a half-a** or side hug; she hugged so warmly you didn’t want her to let go.

Now, onto Aunt Sarah. Aside from being a beautiful soul inside and out, Sain was my makeup guru. While my mom was stuck in the “lipstick-only” era, Sain introduced the teenaged me to the wild world of mascara. Soon, I was applying eyeliner and lipstick like a pro.

For my Sweet 16 birthday, Sain gifted me a gold-plated chain-link bracelet with my name on it. Oh, how I adored that bracelet. Sadly, a few years ago, that bracelet pulled the ultimate disappearing act. It’s probably hiding somewhere with all those missing socks from the dryer.

Aunt Doris was no ordinary seamstress—she was a fabric virtuoso with an enchanted sewing machine! As a wide-eyed preteen, I spent a few nights with Aunt Doris and Uncle Earl, alongside my cousins Michael and Rhonda during summer break. The recollection of the breathtaking apricot swing dress adorned with intricate printed patterns my aunt made for me during that visit remains forever etched in my mind. (If memory serves, it was the same weekend their puppy tragically met its end after leaving the yard and wandering onto the country roadway, leaving us children devastated.) But returning to the brighter recollection, Aunt Doris could sew creations like no other.

A few years ago, I wrote a letter to Aunt Doris, reminiscing about the dress and reiterating how much joy it brought me while it fit. Her puzzling reply? “What dress?” While Aunt Doris’ recollection may be hazy, in my mind’s eye, I can still see that exquisite dress and myself twirling in it until I outgrew it.

Uncle Wheeler (Buddy)—I could write so many wonderful things about my beloved uncle, but I’ve already exceeded my word count, so I will have to save that for a future post.

Memories resemble those cherished family recipes the older women knew but never wrote down or passed on. I’m sure all my cousins have their treasure trove of “remember when” to share, but these particular gems are mine. They are etched permanently in my brain and might find their way into Legacy II.

To my frustration, several writing projects have been simmering for some time, but any author will confirm that composing a blog post is far less daunting than crafting a book. It’s comparable to threading a needle or delivering a ten-pound infant after hours of labor.

“We are shaped first by family and then by the rest of the world.” – Anna von Gogh

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My Opinion: Unrequested, Unfiltered, and Unapologetically Candid

by on ·Lifestyle and Culture

Nations across the globe are glued to their screens, captivated by the most riveting reality show ever televised, featuring a cast of hardline conservatives as its stars. The only souls not anxiously awaiting a divine twist in this tale of woe are those card-carrying members of the “My Political Hero Can Do No Wrong” fan club. Yet, I suspect even some of these die-hard supporters are secretly crossing their fingers, hoping they don’t get caught in the mire. (Some already have.)

Who among us, having reached the age of wisdom, isn’t familiar with the folly of letting a fox into the hen house? Alas, the cunning fox has infiltrated, and a pack of wolves is standing guard. The high-and-mighty are wreaking havoc, turning everything topsy-turvy – save for their own plush lives – while breeding a quagmire that’ll require eons to set right. All the while, they’re maintaining those tax breaks and financial safeguards for the wealthy elites.

If left unchecked, before long, these devious creatures will be trying to convince the masses that water is dry and fire doesn’t burn. But far be it for me to let logic interfere with a captivating political illusion. Please tune in next time when we’ll be regaled with tales of how the sky is green and gravity is nothing more than a left-wing conspiracy.

Sometimes, it seems that the apocalyptic events in Revelation are unfolding faster than Amazon Prime deliveries. I can’t help but wonder where the hands on the symbolic Doomsday Clock are positioned. At last check, according to the BAS, it was 89 seconds to midnight. The Clock may apply specifically to technology, but I’m considering a quote commonly attributed to Albert Einstein, “Everything is relative.”

Shifting gears closer to home.

Doctors can be annoying, especially to a new patient. Those of us who have been around the block a few times know that — despite their training and medical degree — they don’t know as much as they want us to think they know. Some operate under the principle of “fake it ’til you make it.” Understandably, they don’t have all the answers, but few will admit it. For over twenty-five years, I had an excellent doctor. If she didn’t see an answer to my (often numerous) questions about whatever was ailing me at the time, she’d say something like, “I don’t know, but we’re going to see what we can find out.” I greatly respected her for that, and I was devastated when she retired a year before the COVID-19 Pandemic, and I had to find another PCP. (I’ve been through three so far.)

Physicians are adept at using complex medical terminology, and their educated guesses are practiced with such authority that their diagnoses become self-fulfilling prophecies (hopefully good ones!). Let’s be honest: occasionally, our doctor is just as lost as we are when trying to figure out what ails us based on what we tell them are our symptoms. And because time constraints imposed by insurance companies limit the time they can spend with a patient, they either refer us to another doctor, usually a specialist, or adhere to the unofficial motto of Dr. Makeaguess and write a prescription, “When in doubt, pill them out!”

Humor aside, I try to avoid bringing race into everything, but our world makes that nearly impossible. So, while I’m spouting off about doctors and the medical profession, I want to make my readers aware of a New York Times bestseller, “Legacy: A Black Physician Reckons with Racism in Medicine.” It’s a compelling work authored by Dr. R. Uche Blackstock, a prominent Black physician and healthcare equity advocate. In this insightful book, Dr. Blackstock delves into the pervasive issue of racism within the medical field, shedding light on the disparities in treatment between Black patients and their white counterparts.

Dr. Blackstock draws from her extensive experience and research to illustrate how systemic racism manifests in healthcare settings, affecting the quality of care received by Black patients. She provides a critical examination of the biases, both conscious and unconscious, that persist in medical practices and institutions. It’s a worthwhile read.

Then there is Artificial Intelligence (AI).

As I see it, AI is like a comedian with perfect memory but terrible timing. The other day, as I was doing some research on Google, the following message suddenly appeared on my monitor: “Verifying that you are a human.” The words vanished as quickly as they had arrived, leaving me startled. What??? It felt like a moment straight out of a sci-fi flick. “What next?” I wondered. Will people using personal computers have to blow on the screen or snap their fingers to prove that we are living, breathing human beings?

And just HOW did the site verify my humanness? I didn’t do anything to comply, although I did blink in awe when the message appeared on the screen. Perhaps blinking was the required response. LOL. I wasn’t asked to enter a username and password or answer a ridiculous secret question like, “Why do round pizzas come in square boxes?” I wasn’t prompted to enter a CAPTCHA (Sounds like, but not to be confused with gotcha!) Anyone using a computer has encountered CAPTCHA at some time or another. It prompts the computer user to solve a simple mathematical problem like 3+4= or type a few distorted letters to prove they are humans.

I realize that AI is here to stay, but I’m not a fan. In fact, I’m about as sick and tired of hearing about it as I am of listening to prerecorded messages answering my calls to businesses with, “Press 1 for English. Following that will be a series of ridiculous commands to press this and that number until I’ve run through the entire decimal system twice, only to be told, “No one is available now to take your call.” Aarrgghh!!! By the way, forget pressing zero to reach a live person. They’ve gotten wise to that and nixed it.

I’ve done enough venting for now. Time to let my keyboard cool down before it melts!

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The Holy Order of Being Ghosted and Ghosting

by on ·Lifestyle and Culture

Would you believe your ambitious blogger has been MIA because her muse decided to take an unauthorized extended vacation? (I think Ms. Muse is on sabbatical, still trying to recover from last November 5.) Nevertheless, without even sending a postcard! POOF! She vanished like my willpower does when I enter an all-you-can-eat buffet!

So, nearly three weeks have passed, and my New Year’s blog post remains in “pending” status – until today. During my “drought” amidst my stagnation, a comforting thought emerged: When faced with the challenge of the blank page, grab a rich caffè mocha and lose yourself in the pages of a good book.

Thus, I’ve been swimming in my home library like Diana Nyad treads water in the Atlantic. Oh, the places books will take you. They are not mere bound volumes of paper and ink but portals to a vast world. Books are the ultimate transformer; they can slip one into the skin of any character. Become a superwoman or a wicked witch! They’re like little magic carpets that whisk you away faster than you can say, “Beam me up, Scotty, (so I can search for that darn muse!)”

It is a sad tragedy that my offspring somehow failed to inherit my bookworm genes. Neither of them is a voracious reader like I am. So, sometimes, I imagine with horror that my precious collection will end up in a landfill after I kick the bucket. Perish that thought. Hopefully, my book babies will find new homes through the charitable organizations I’ve been supporting.

But enough about my future literary estate planning! Let me turn to the matter at hand.

What to write about for my first post of the New Year? I considered climbing back up the family tree, but the last time I did that, I shook the branches too hard, and some leaves flew off and got bent out of shape. As I understand it, some of those leaves are still smoldering, like California wildfires.

So, while trying not to be the devil’s advocate, I’ve decided to be my own muse and explore a less volatile subject. And, speaking of the devil.

As one frequently grappling with profound questions about faith, I find myself at a crossroads between traditional religious beliefs and personal spiritual exploration.

My journey began in childhood when I walked into the living room one evening as my parents were watching a news report about the violence against civil rights workers. I innocently questioned the existence of evil in a world governed by an all-powerful God and asked my mother, “If God is all-knowing and powerful, why doesn’t he just wipe out the evil forces?”

She looked at me like I’d been playing hooky from Sunday school and then said, “We don’t question God,” which left me unsatisfied and curious about why we couldn’t seek answers from a divine parent.

As an adult, I still witness the prevalence of wickedness worldwide, which seems to have intensified since my youth. This observation leads me to revisit my earlier question with renewed urgency. Why can’t we question God and receive clear, unambiguous answers about the evilness in the world? (I ask the questions but don’t get comprehensible answers.)

I suspect others harbor similar doubts but are hesitant to express them, perhaps fearing divine judgment for merely entertaining the question. Yet, if God is truly omniscient, wouldn’t He already know our thoughts?

My spiritual journey has led me away from organized religion and towards a more personal, direct relationship with the divine. That’s why I identify as spiritual rather than religious, a stance some may dismiss as disingenuous. However, I find this approach authentic – striving to embody Christian values of compassion and humility in my daily life without adhering to rigid doctrines or rituals.

For the past few decades, I’ve chosen not to attend church, rejecting the notion of being a “part-time Christian” or a “Sunday Saint, Monday Sinner.” I acknowledge the complexity of faith, recognizing that one can feel blessed while still experiencing stress and doubt. The popular saying, “If you pray, why worry? And if you worry, why pray?” highlights the tension between faith and human nature.

While I believe in the power of prayer, I also grapple with the contradictions inherent in religious texts and teachings. Some might find my approach to Christianity as quasi-Christian or even agnostic. Nevertheless, I focus on living out the core teachings of Jesus Christ – treating others with kindness and respect – rather than strictly adhering to all Biblical scriptures, which – as I see it, are often contradictory and confusing. The spiritual path allows me to feel less hypocritical while navigating the complexities of faith.

Another reason I’ve chosen to distance myself from organized religion is due to its tendency to draw sharp boundaries and claim exclusive truth. I’ve witnessed the divisive potential of religious organizations, even within families. Instead, I embrace a more inclusive view, respecting various names and concepts of the divine across different faiths. Whatever you want to call your Omnipotent One – God, Jesus, Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah, it’s all good.

My spiritual journey is continuous questioning, personal growth, and a commitment to living ethically and following the Golden Rule. As I seek the answers, I remain open to exploring life’s profound questions while striving to embody the values of compassion and humility in my interactions with others.

As we enter 2025, may God’s presence guide our every step and fill our hearts with hope, peace, and purpose. May His love surround us, His wisdom illuminate our path, and His strength sustain us through every challenge in the next four years and thereafter.

 

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Friendship: The Greatest Gift Under the Tree

by on ·Christmas, Friends and Friendship

I’ve been blessed with several close friendships, though some of these cherished companions have since departed. Beverly, one of my dearest friends, passed away four years ago. Although she was 14 years my senior, she was my unwavering support—what today’s youth might call a “BFF” or “ride or die.”

Bev, as I affectionately called her, and I met in 1978 through Parents Without Partners, a support group. We immediately shared an extraordinary connection and unbreakable bond.

Sometimes we would spend hours on the phone, often chatting late into the evening, knowing that we both had to go to work the following day. Our friendship, spanning decades, saw us transition from young adults with young children to grandmothers, yet we maintained the enthusiasm of teenagers in our conversations.

As divorced women, we found solace in sharing and discussing various aspects of our lives. We regaled each other with stories of clubbing, house parties, and concerts. Our shared love for R&B music was a frequent topic and we supported each other through the trials of raising children as single parents.

Above all, our conversations often revolved around our romantic pursuits, and we shared the ups and downs of our dating lives. Bev gave me some of the best advice I ever received. Our friendship was a testament to the power of connection, transcending time, and life’s many changes.

Growing up, my life was markedly different from Bev’s. While I experienced a relatively sheltered upbringing, Bev’s childhood was fraught with challenges. Tragedy struck early when her mother died while she was a young girl, and her father’s absence led to the separation of Bev and her siblings into various foster homes.

Bev often confided in me about the mistreatment she endured in her last foster placement. Even though she lived in Washington, DC, as a black child in a white household during the Jim Crow era, she faced significant hardships. She frequently reminded me, “They were only interested in the monthly stipend, not my well-being.” The vivid horror stories she shared still linger in my memory. Eventually, unable to endure the situation any longer, Bev ran away.

That decision forced Bev to become self-reliant at a young age, and she developed an impressive repertoire of street smarts. We often joked that while she had attended conventional schools, her real education came from the School of Hard Knocks, culminating in a degree from TLU (Tough Luck University.)

Bev and I shared a connection that some might describe as serendipitous. I, however, believe our paths crossing was an act of divine intervention; her presence became a lifeline for me. Our bond was extraordinary, often manifesting in uncontrollable bouts of laughter that left us gasping for air, tears streaming down our faces. Yet, our relationship ran deeper than mere mirth; we stood by each other through life’s storms, offering unwavering support during our darkest hours.

When Bev’s only son, twenty-something-year-old Kenneth, was tragically shot and killed in the 1980s, I immediately rushed across town to be by her side. Similarly, in the spring of 2001, when I unexpectedly lost a loving boyfriend following a surgical procedure, Bev was there to comfort me. Our friendship was characterized by these and other shared experiences of laughter and tears, spanning many years.

Beverly is always on my mind, but her memory becomes especially poignant twice a year, on her birthday, February 2nd, and at Christmastime. We often shared laughs about her unique birthday. I’d tease her, saying, “Imagine sharing your birthday with a groundhog predicting the weather. And if luck isn’t on your side, you might find yourself in a time loop, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.” She’d chuckle and reply, “Sometimes, it does feel like I’m living the same day repeatedly.”

Bev, cherished Christmas with the unbridled enthusiasm of a child. She always gushed over what she said were the unique Christmas Cards I sent her. During the holidays, our phone calls were frequently accompanied by the melodious strains of yuletide classics playing softly in the background. We shared a fondness for CD compilations like “Soul Christmas” by various artists and our absolute favorite, “The Temptations Sing Christmas.”

This past week’s televised broadcast of a special, “A Motown Christmas,” stirred up nostalgic memories, transporting me back to times shared with Bev.

My friend’s passing left an indelible mark on my heart, as is often the case when we lose those closest to us. However, her memory remains a constant presence, a bittersweet reminder of the guidance and the joy she brought into my life. I yearn for our shared laughter, our nostalgic “Remember when…” conversations, and her uncanny ability to brighten even my darkest days with her encouraging words.

In honor of Bev, I’ll paraphrase a profound saying that resonates deeply with me: Some individuals enter our lives with a specific purpose—be it to impart a crucial lesson or to bestow upon us the blessing of joy and positive experiences. They depart once their mission is accomplished, leaving us forever changed by their presence.

Bev is gone but will never be forgotten. “Merry Heavenly Christmas, Bev.”

And to all my blog readers, thank you for reading me throughout the years. I love you. “Merry Christmas, and may your New Year be filled with blessings.”

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