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

Posts Written By L Parker Brown

Singing Auld “Lame” Syne

by on ·Book Lovers, General, Holidays

In five days and 8 hours from now, the clock will strike 12. The timepiece on all things digital will roll over to 2022. Broadcast stations will switch from playing What are you doing New Year’s, New Year’s Eve? to Auld Lang Syne. And I’ll be doing the same darn thing I did last New Year’s Eve –sitting at home cursing COVID.

Do you ever wonder why when you have the choice of going out someplace and choose not to go, you’re okay with your decision, but when things beyond your control restrict you from going out, it pisses you off? That’s my dilemma again this year.

So I know where I’ll likely be on New Year’s Eve. At home, wearing lounge PJs. And since my Boo and I are teetotalers, we will open a bottle of sparkling cider, toast to the upcoming year with the hope that it will be free of COVID and all of its variants, and watch the ball drop on CNN. And while the Times Square crowd is singing Auld Lang Syne, I’ll be singing Auld Lame Syne thanks to COVID.

I know what I won’t be doing. I won’t be making Resolutions. I never do. Lightbulb moment! I could do some creative writing. Do I sense eye-rolling? Maybe I’ll write about books I’ve read this year. At least two dozen of them were completed. Others failed to hold my interest and were set aside.

That’s it. Maybe I’ll write the revelations of a bookworm and explain that I prefer reading non-fiction but have accumulated a variety of genres in my library — hardcovers and audibles — over the years.

I’ll share that the best book I read this year was Perfect Peace by Daniel Black. I agree with Goodreads description of it as “The heartbreaking portrait of a large, rural southern family’s attempt to grapple with their mother’s desperate decision to make her newborn son into the daughter she will never have.”

Last night, I finished Breath:  The Science of a Lost Art by James Nestor. In short, that book describes how breathing affects our body and how controlled breathing can help eliminate some illnesses and other physical ailments. I imagine that cynics reading this are satirically thinking, “If we don’t breathe, we die; end of story.”

Months ago, when I first heard about Breath, I had the same thought. After reading it, I discovered that it was way beyond my expectations. I’m not going to promote the book, nor will I devalue it. But I will say that I found it to be thought-provoking.

As much as I enjoy a good book, I admire the people who write them.

As every novice knows, if you want to become a pro, you must associate with and learn from them. I feel fortunate to count among my dearest friends authors like Alexander Reed Lajoux. She has written and co-written a slew of books available on Amazon, and she was kind enough to write the forward for Legacy.

Another friend and a former employer, publisher LaVern Gill gave me my first chance to write regular columns in her award-winning weekly newspaper. She too has books to her credit including, “African American Women in Congress,” published in 1997.

I will forever treasure the copy she gave me with the following inscription. To Loretta. How wonderful it is to have a friend like you, a writer with good and great ideas, a wonderful compassion for words and a gift for crafting those words in such a way as to give life and meaning. The best to you and keep writing & writing & writing. Love, LaVerne. 

 

Years ago, I suppose I was a groupie. I chased authors at every opportunity and got a few copies of my books signed, like Bloods, a national bestseller about Black servicemen in the Vietnam War. Not only did I take off half-day from my job to go to author Wallace Terry’s book signing at the Dr. Martin Luther King Library, but some years later, I worked on a job across the hall from one of Terry’s daughters. She was as amiable as her dad. Talk about a small world.

One year, decades ago, I got an autograph from Nikki Giovanni. I had been a huge fan of hers since I read her first poems and even named my newborn daughter after her. On separate occasions, I met esteemed author and photographer Gordan Parks and playwright August Wilson. Little did any of those literary geniuses know that while we were meeting and greeting each other with a firm shake, I was hoping that I could siphon some of their writing intellect.

It looks like that’s what I’ll be doing this New Year’s Eve — reading, maybe a little writing, and much reminiscing about pre-COVID years.

In the meantime, I am wishing for all of my readers, happiness, health, joy, and love in 2022.

Happy New Year!!!

 

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What Would You Do?

by on ·General, Strange Happenings

Have you ever experienced something that haunts you for hours or days?  For example, around 6:45 this morning, I was in my bedroom getting dressed to go to an appointment when I thought I heard a child calling for his mom outside my open window. Maybe it was a child and his mother passing by and the kid was toddling far behind her, I thought. But then, as I was pulling my blouse over my head, I heard the voice shouting. “Mom!”

Why I wondered, would a child be outside this time of morning and calling for his mom? Was he alone and lost? Where was his mom? My first instinct was to throw on a coat, go get the child, bring him inside and call the police.

As I hesitated, he called again. “Mom.”

I muted the TV, dimmed the lamp, walked to the window, and cautiously opened the blinds, enough so that I could peek through them but be unseen. There he was, standing outside the locked wrought iron gate securing our complex, about 40 feet from my window, facing in my direction.

I studied him as he called for his mother again. He didn’t say anything else, just that one word — mom. And although he sounded like a small child, the young man looked to be about 15. He was tall and thin, about 5 foot 8, weighing around 110 pounds. He was wearing a shiny, black jacket that was partially zipped but opened enough near the top so that I could see that he was wearing a white, round-neck shirt beneath it.

The temperature displayed in the bottom right corner of my TV screen showed a chilly 46 degrees, so I was surprised that the teen was wearing black shorts, or perhaps he had his pants legs rolled up above his knees as some teenage guys do. I couldn’t be sure. Nevertheless, I could see his bare skin from his knees down to the top of the black socks that were extending to his mid-calves. He also had on black sneakers. I couldn’t see his face clearly in the pre-dawn hour, but judging by his near white—but not quite – complexion, he appeared to be Latino or Asian, and he had coal-black straight hair with sort of a ragged bowl cut.

As I stood looking at him and trying to decide what to do, he called out again for his mom. Should I call the police and tell them a lost or confused teenager is outside my window calling for his mom. But that might mean I’d have to wait – Lord knows how long – for them to arrive, and then I’d be late for my appointment.

“Mom!”

Was mom the only word of English that he knew?

I told myself I’d need to remember what he was wearing, in case later that day an Amber alert was broadcast for a young teen fitting his description.

I left the window for a few minutes to continue getting ready to leave. When I went back to the window and looked out, the boy was gone. Although I could not see him, I knew that he was still on the block, perhaps further down the street, because, occasionally, I would hear him calling for his mom from a distance. I finished getting dressed, put on my shoes and jacket, and went outside to look for him. I cautiously stayed inside the gate, but I did not see him. After a few seconds, I went back inside and then heard him again. “Mom.”

It was haunting.

I’ve lived in the city all of my life, so suspicion has become part of my nature. I wondered if it was a setup. Was someone using him as a decoy to lure an adult to his aid so they could rob the person or do something worse? We cannot be too careful these days. It’s the world we live in. Few people are to be trusted, and things are not always as they seem.

“Mom.”

This is weird, I thought. I looked out of the window and there he was again, back near my window and about to step off of the curb in front of an approaching car. The driver came to a stop as the teen kept walking as if he was in a trance. I continued to watch the boy as he reached the other side of the street. He began to walk south, and I rushed from the northernmost window to the window on the east side and watched until he walked out of my line of sight.

Questions flooded my mind. Did he see someone down the street that he knew or who knew him? Did he suddenly remember where he lives? Where did he come from, and how did he end up in this neighborhood? Is there an AMBER alert out for him? Does he have autism? Where does he live?

I began to hurry to get myself together, so I would not be late for my appointment. Minutes later, I called UBER, put on my jacket, and walked outside. From inside the fence, I looked up and down both sides of the street, but I did not see or hear the strange young man. I looked around again before climbing into the UBER.

At the end of the day, I still could not forget him.

I hope that he is okay. I hope that he found his mom or she located him. If he were a small child, I would probably have thrown caution to the wind and immediately gone outside to assist him or at least called the police. But I heeded my intuition because he appeared to be in his teens. Unfortunately, the times in which we live make it difficult to trust anyone. I know that adult criminals have been known to use children as bait for potential crime victims.

I feel in my heart that I should have helped him, but life has taught me – don’t trust anyone unless they have earned your trust. And always, ALWAYS follow your intuition.

What would you have done?

 

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Stuffing Memories

by on ·Holidays, Lifestyle and Culture, Nostalgia, Thanksgiving Day

I see Thanksgiving as a food-centered day where family and friends eagerly get together for a satisfying meal, a good time, and to engage in pleasant conversations. Even in families where the members are cordial but not close, you might make it through the day without creating ill will if you keep religion, politics, and social issues out of the conversation. I admit those happen to be some of my favorite topics, but I discuss them at the appropriate time and place. Nothing kills an appetite like a bad conversation.

There are some safe subjects to discuss during mealtime. For instance, you could talk about movies and TV, or music. I like to talk about books and writing. (Do I hear groans?) Or, you could have a roundtable  “what are you thankful for” session. That would likely work better in a small group of, say, six or seven people instead of a conference room size table with a dozen or more guests. But even that question has the potential to spark flames. I’m going to use fictitious names here to make a point. Any resemblance to people you might know is strictly coincidental.

Widowed Aunt Wilomena might say, “I’m thankful for getting the stimulus checks,” only to have alcoholic Uncle Nelson, who has already downed several gin and tonics counter with, “Well, I didn’t get mine. Those damned idiots in DC don’t know what they heck they are doing.”

Alleged devout Christian, Cousin Vivian, who tells anyone who will listen that she is saved, makes a religious effort to defuse a potentially volatile situation by quickly interjecting. “I am thankful for my generous family.” That raises a few eyebrows as nearly every adult at the table from who Vivian has borrowed money, over past years but never repaid, (that would be most of them), start shifting in their chairs, clearing their throat, and purposely holding their tongue.

Unfortunately, because political correctness now runs amuck in society, almost any subject is potentially explosive. So, proceed with caution. And if you, like I, have friends who, let’s say, are persons of non-color, hope that they will think – twice – before innocently setting off a potential firebomb.

Twenty-something-year-old Cousin Malcolm’s recently proclaimed fiancée, Becky, who most of those present are meeting for the first time, impulsively chimes in, “Well, I’m thankful for Black Lives Matter.”

Some folks who are slicing their meat, stop mid-stroke and start cutting their eyes, play with the food on their plate, or quickly begin stuffing their mouth as smiling Becky waits for a response that finally brings a subdued “Um-hum” or two.

Race matters should probably be number one on the list of touchy topics to avoid during Thanksgiving gatherings, especially in a mixed-race group. It’s best to save the cayenne pepper hot topics for another time and place. Surely, we all know the old saying about good intentions. Yes, that one – that implies that sometimes there are unintended consequences to good intentions.

On that note, I’ll leave things right there and, specific to the subject of this post, reflect on what I am thankful for – many things. But more than anything, I am grateful for the memories created by Thanksgiving’s past.

I deeply miss Thanksgiving dinners at my parents’ house with immediate family members when I was a young child and as an adult with our children and spouses. But those occasions when my family spent Thanksgiving down south at my grandma’s (Maw, we called her) farmhouse were the most unforgettable and enjoyable times of my life.

That long holiday weekend was one of the few occasions during the year when I got to see a number of my aunts, uncles, and cousins all together in one place. Of course, the only thing better than mingling with my extended family during those times was sitting down to enjoy the Thanksgiving Day meal. Thinking about it even now makes my mouth water and my triggered imagination take control.

I am standing in Maw’s kitchen watching my mom and aunties bustling around, helping Maw prepare a feast. The kitchen is lit with an appetizing aroma, including the smell of the turkey and ham that took turns roasting in the oven. A huge pot of collard greens harvested fresh from Maw’s garden is blowing off steam on the stovetop. Delicious, complimenting side dishes crowd the table. Corn shaved from the cob. Baked macaroni and cheese. Homemade cornbread, stuffing, and hush puppies. The last things to go into the oven are homemade rolls. Hardly anything came from a box or can including the fruit in the sweet potato and apple pies baked earlier in the day. I don’t know how all of those scrumptious dishes fit on the table, but the cooks made it work.

In my mind – once upon a time down south – Thanksgiving was a magical event that I will never forget. For those memories and beautiful experiences, I am thankful.

Wishing all of my readers a delicious, memorable, and Happy Thanksgiving (and those who don’t observe it – have a wonderful day anyway.)

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Unscrambling the Mystery of the Chirping Eggs

by on ·Food for Thought, General, Humor

When I was a child, I would listen with earnest to hear if my bowl of Rice Krispies would snap, crackle, and pop as the TV commercial claimed. As an adult, I’m still curious about usual sounds, and I find the stories associated with some of them amusing. For example, my cousin, Vanessa, told me about an interesting event a couple of days ago.

She said that her daughter, Destiny, removed a few raw eggs from the refrigerator and was preparing to boil them for breakfast when the eggs began making a chirping sound loud enough to be heard throughout the room. They both freaked out.

I’ve never heard chirping from previously refrigerated eggs like I told Vanessa, but hardly anything surprises me anymore. I had no reason to doubt her, so I sat on the edge of my seat, waiting for a dramatic finish to the story. I thought – if Vanessa tells me that they covered the eggs with a warm towel and within minutes little chicks hatched from them, I’ll tell her to video the chicks and contact CNN immediately. But alas, no such drama happened.

Her resourceful daughter consulted the ultimate practical problem solver, Google. It turns out that it is not uncommon for raw eggs to chirp when there is air escaping from them.

Still, that didn’t stop me from imagining what might have happened if those eggs had hatched. Although I wasn’t there with them, we all would have been jumping up and down and pulling out our hair as if we’d entered the Twilight Zone. That vision cracked me up. Pun intended.

News crews would be scrambling to get to their home, and after being assured that mother and daughter did not whisk up a tale, each station would try to be the first to break the story. No yolking. Another pun. (I couldn’t resist.)

I’ve yet to have first-hand experience with chirping eggs. (I don’t want to either.) But I’ve grown used to hearing various unusual sounds in my home. I wish that I could unhear some of them

There is a harmony of intermittent sounds that are unnerving and downright annoying. Most occur in the middle of the night.

I hear hammering on the metal pipes behind the wall and suspect that poltergeists are causing the disturbance. The wind blows the Venetian blinds through the open window and bangs them against the sill, waking me with a start. The random pop of a closed plastic water bottle on the nightstand, a running toilet, or leaky faucet – drip, drip, dripping are all nerve-wracking. But of all the annoying household noises  – groans, creaks, buzzing, gurgling, hissing, skittering, and humming there is one exasperating sound that beats the others.

It is the fantasy Gremlins that live inside my pillow. No matter how I punch, turn over, or fold my pillow, I can hear them. Think about the high-pitched squeal heard when an inflated balloon is loosely tied or the lip on a balloon is stretched, allowing the air to escape as the balloon deflates. That’s the sound I hear inside my pillow some nights. No, it isn’t Tinnitus. That’s been ruled out. When the pillow Gremlins get too annoying, I’ll put in earplugs or earbuds and let a book or music on my iPod lull me to sleep. I understand that feathery pillows are the worse noise makers, but mine is a memory pillow. Go figure.

Unexplainable noises are attributable to so many things. For example, I’ve learned that stray electrical signals caused by Smart TVs, electric wall clocks, and other devices can emit a low-frequency constant hum. But I don’t find any of those as interesting as chirping eggs.

So much for the things that scramble our nerves in the morning or go bump in the night.

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The Rhythm of the Stroke

by on ·Journaling/Writing

People who think it is easy to write a book need a serious reality check. I am not trying to discourage aspiring authors, but seasoned writers like Steven King, Nora Roberts, or the late Toni Morrison, who have what I call the gift of the pen would likely agree with me. Quasi-authors, as I refer to those who lack the time or skill to write but are financially able to hire a ghostwriter might also agree. If anyone asks me – no one has, but I’ll say it anyway – I think it is akin to cheating to print a person’s name on the cover as the author when someone else wrote the book. Celebrities are notorious for hiring ghostwriters, and numerous ghostwriters don’t mind remaining anonymous as long as they get paid. So the celebrity gets credited as the author and reaps the benefits from publication, the ghostwriter gets paid, and everybody is happy. Well, that is unless a ghostwriter decides to sue like Courtney Love’s ghostwriter did.

Three decades ago, I was offered the opportunity to ghostwrite a book. My mother even encouraged me to do it, but I didn’t take it seriously. Mistake. Big mistake. The book that I will not name was eventually published. Gosh darn!

According to an NPR article, So You Need a Celebrity Book. Who Ya Gonna Call? Ghostwriters, Madeleine Morel, a literary agent, estimates that at least 60 percent of the books on the nonfiction bestsellers list right now are ghostwritten.

Everybody has a story to tell, and many folks want their story told and sold in book form. It doesn’t matter if it’s a hardcover, an e-book, or an audible version as long as the book brings a financial return; who cares? Unfortunately, wishing and hoping won’t write it for you. It is probably easier for a beginning fisherman (or woman) to land a 30-pound bluefish with a lightweight pole than for a novice to write a book.

Because I persevered, I published my first book six years ago now I am working on a second. And speaking only for those who, like me, are fresh out of the gate, I’ll be among the first to tell you that writing a book doesn’t get any easier the more you do it. Unless you have someplace to seclude yourself away from all disturbances, interruptions will be your first nemesis. The phone, the doorbell, noises outside your window, the television playing in the background, and anyone who lives with you could be a potential interrupter to your train of thought.

Another thing I would tell would-be authors. Writing a book is more than typing words on paper. If you are going to produce a publishable product, then writing, researching, and editing is essential before you even think about sending your book to print.

My other nemeses are procrastination and its sister, writer’s block. When I am in their grip, my mind immediately flashes back to a poem that someone wrote in my high school autograph book at the end of my senior year — “Can’t think. Brain numb. Inspiration won’t come. Bad ink. Worse pen. Best wishes. Amen”

During unproductive times, I call on my muse to motivate me, or being the music lover I am; I hum a few lines from a song to stimulate my writing gene. Lately, I’ve been reiterating, “Get the rhythm of the stroke,” to encourage myself to avoid procrastinating and get with it. That is a phrase from the song Aqua Boogie, released in the late seventies by Parliament. Aqua Boogie was the short title for Aqua Boogie: A Psychoalphadiscobetabioaquadoloop. Whew! That’s a mouthful to say and a brain teaser to write.

Well, enough journaling. It’s time to get back to the rhythm of the stroke on the keyboard and work on the book.

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