L Parker Brown

Remembering Tina Turner, Superstar

by L Parker Brown on May 25, 2023·Entertainment, Memory Lane

When a light goes out on a beautiful life force, it is deeply upsetting. I am paraphrasing the words said today by Joy Behar on 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑉𝑖𝑒𝑤 as the show’s cohosts discussed the sad death yesterday of the phenomenal performer Tina Turner.

Like Joy, since yesterday, I am moved to near tears whenever I hear one of Tina’s songs playing. I thought it was just me. I want to thank Joy for helping me not feel like a weirdo as I associate the memories of many of Tina’s songs with different times in my life.

Like many boomers, I grew up listening to Ike and Tina Turner on the radio. When “The Ike and Tina Turner Revue” premiered at Washington, DC’s Howard Theater in February 1961, I was a “skinny legs and all” teenager, as Joe Tex would sing. I was also broke and asking my parents for money to go to a show, even though concert tickets were not nearly as costly as they are today; well, let’s just say that I couldn’t scrape up enough change to go see the live performance and leave it at that.

The next time the revue returned to Howard in September 1965, I was in high school and still couldn’t afford the price of admission. So although Tina Turner was performing just a stone’s throw from my home – I’m talking a few blocks, walking distance of about five minutes – it didn’t matter. I missed both shows. I was fortunate, however, to catch the couple’s performance on 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐸𝑑 𝑆𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑛 𝑆ℎ𝑜𝑤 in 1970. Still, I regret that I never saw them (especially Tina, in later years after she went solo) perform in person.

In 1984 when Tina broke out with Private Dance, I was so happy that she was back on the scene. I fell in love with that song, and her videos and Tina Turner shot right back to the top of my list of favorite female performers. Since yesterday, her album, Tina: All the Best, has become my playlist’s most frequently played album.

One of my favorite authors, the late Nora Ephron, wrote, “Above all be the heroine of your life, not the victim.” Tina’s refusal to be a victim and stay in a bad situation with her husband led her to rescue herself, and as a result, she became a world-renowned superstar and, for women everywhere, a shero.

Yesterday as a close friend and I were commiserating about Tina Turner, discussing books we’ve read by and about her and movies and documentaries we’ve seen, my friend lightened the moment when she said, “I hope Tina has earned a place in heaven because she sure lived through hell with Ike.”

Rest in peace Tina Turner, from your forever fans. You were an original and will be forever — the Queen.

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Missing: Have you Seen My Grandchild?

by L Parker Brown on April 26, 2023·Family, Parenting and Grandparenting

Journals serve several purposes. Among other things, I sometimes use mine to reflect on and heal memories. A case in point is the year when my two-year-old grandson went missing. That was the scariest day of my life. Like every parent whose child suddenly vanished, I lived my darkest fear. I envisioned missing child flyers with my baby’s face stapled on tree trunks, taped on store windows, and the Amber Alert system broadcasting citywide. The thought of my darling grandbaby frightened, alone, and defenseless in a world infested with child predators and other twisted evil-doers sickened me.

Although that unsettling event occurred over three decades ago, every time the memory of it resurfaces, as it often does, not only do I relive it, it sends a shiver down my spine as if it happened yesterday.

It was a late afternoon that spring day when my daughter, her two toddler sons, Ken and Donnie, aged one and two, and I walked to the mini-mall two blocks from my home. Like numerous other mini-malls in the city, the one in my neighborhood occupies about half a block and includes an aging market, dry cleaners, a nail salon, and four or five other frequently changing small businesses.

When we reached the mall, my daughter and I split up. She went to the market with the two little ones alongside her while I went to check out a recently opened Peoples Drug Store a few feet away. We agreed to meet outside the drugstore in five minutes. After browsing for a few minutes, I bought a few things and went back outside. My daughter was already waiting for me; Donnie was by her side.

Her eyes widened when she saw me, and I realized why after she asked me, “Ma, where’s Ken?”

“What? I thought he was with you,” I said.

“No,” She said. “I had Donnie; I thought you took Ken with you. He must have followed you.”

A knot began tightening in my stomach as fear gripped me like a vis.

She and I rushed back inside the stores we had just left. I searched aisle-by-aisle for Ken to no avail and then told myself that my daughter had surely located him in the market, so I headed there. When my daughter saw me approaching without Ken, panic spread across her face. Suddenly, we were experiencing every parent’s worse nightmare.

Usually, when we took the kids out, we always held their hands. But, that day, for whatever reason, after we crossed the street and reached the mini-mall, we let loose their hands, letting them walk alongside us, ignoring what every parent knows – or should know – full well that if you are not gripping your child’s hand, you’d better not blink.

We decided to split up and look for Ken, going in opposite directions along the sidewalk. My daughter walked north, gently pulling Donnie along. I went south. My heart was racing. The street was uncrowded, making it easier to spot and study any small child I saw walking alone or accompanied by an adult. I glanced in the doorways of the few buildings on the block, returned to the mini-mall parking lot, and peered between the parked cars. And even though I figured it was a long shot that Ken had crossed the busy avenue, I looked to the other side of the street. He had to be on this block, I told myself. Fear was gripping me, so I could barely walk.

Suddenly frantic, I was about to tell my daughter that we should call the police when squealing tires made me freeze in place. I was afraid to look in the direction of the sound, but when I did, I was relieved to see a car driven by an impatient driver racing through the intersection to beat the light.

Seconds later, when I looked forward again, I spotted my precious little small fry. I don’t know where he came from, but Ken suddenly stood near the blue USPS mailbox a few feet away as if he dropped from the sky. With his back to me, he turned his head left and right, looking for us or perhaps trying to decide how to get home. A couple of pedestrians side-stepped him as he strolled toward the intersection.

“Ken!” I called him. He didn’t look back but maintained a snail’s pace as he moved toward the curb. As I hurried toward him, I looked at the traffic light facing us and was glad it was red. But, of course, traffic lights don’t mean a thing to a child who has never been outside alone and doesn’t know how to cross the street.

“Ken!” I shouted louder. He turned around just as I reached out and grabbed his arm. Although I didn’t intend to frighten him, it was obvious that I did. The little fellow’s big brown wide eyes welled with tears, and although he appeared to relax when he realized it was me, he gave me a pouty look. I was so glad to see him that I felt like doing a happy dance, but I didn’t. Instead, I picked him up, hugged him tightly, and whispered, “Thank you, Jesus!” as I stood him back on his feet.

Then, Ken muttered the heartbreaking words I will never forget, “Grandma, you lost me.”

“I’m so sorry, Ken. We didn’t mean to lose you.” I said.

I stooped and hugged him again as an elderly woman with a cane walked around us, and my daughter, who had been near the other end of the block when she heard me calling Ken, had joined us. She hugged her baby too.

As careful as we had always been with the children, I know my daughter promised herself, as I did, to be extra vigilant from then on. We never wanted to relive that horrifying experience again.

Ken is a grown man now and says he only remembers that day because he’s heard about it so many times. Whenever he visits me, and I start telling someone else about that frightful event, he playfully rolls his eyes as if to say, “Here we go again.”

I’m glad we can all laugh about it now because Ken’s story could have had a different and tragic ending.

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Unlocking Dreams and Recollections

by L Parker Brown on April 7, 2023·Dreams

Sometimes I have the weirdest dreams, like the one the other night. That was more aptly a nightmare, and it reminded me of a book I read as a teen where machines suddenly come to life and begin attacking humans. An unseen force turns televisions, laundry machines, and other appliances on and off. Kitchen knives go airborne and fling across the room before embedding in the wall while dishes crash to the floor. Vehicles drive into buildings as people, terrified by the chaos, run and hide. I wish I could remember the name of that book. I believe it was written by either Stephen King or Dean Koonz. I read that when I was into sci-fi, horror movies, and scary books. I’m not anymore. My dreams must not know that.

In many of my dreams, I see dead people. Deceased loved ones occasionally visit me as I sleep. Those visions often reflect previous real-life interactions with departed friends and family members. Sometimes they occur on different nights; other times, it is the same night with kaleidoscopic shifting scenes. Mother and I sit at the dining room table, enthusiastically battling on the Scrabble board. * * * It’s early morning on the 4^th of July, and Dad and I are at the wharf. He is buying a bushel of crabs for our family get-together later that day. * * * Aunt Ida and I are fishing at the mill pond. I am overjoyed because I just caught a tiny fish but puzzled because she tells me I should throw it back. * * * Sain and I are in her kitchen fixing a breakfast of country sausages and eggs. Biscuits are baking in the oven. I am laughing at one of her jokes.

Once, Uncle Allen showed up in my dream. It was the first and the only time I dreamt about him since he died 13 years ago. He and dad (always active sports fans) are alternately cheering and cussing while watching a baseball game on TV.

About a week ago, just before I awakened at dawn, my friend Susan appeared in my dream for a split second. Her nicely coifed red hair framed a serene pearly face. She displayed a radiant smile but didn’t say anything. And in a flash, she was gone. I immediately awoke and, as I often do, tried to interpret the dream.

Dream experts say, “It’s generally accepted that dreams represent a collection of thoughts, struggles, emotions, events, people, places and symbols relevant to the dreamer in some way.”

Susan was one of my close Facebook friends. Contrary to what some people may think, all Facebook friendships are not superficial. In addition to Susan, I’ve made some genuine friendships on the site. Susan and I were introduced by Mary, another mutual friend, in January 2014. Perhaps because we were all writers, we bonded immediately. Sadly, we lost Mary in 2016.

Susan and I were writing books when we met; my first, her second. As I struggled with my initial draft, she generously gave me solicited advice and then celebrated with me after Legacy was published. We discussed the chapter I wrote about having met Stokely Carmichael (original name of Kwame Ture) when he was a student at Howard University. (For years during my childhood, my family lived short blocks away from Howard University.) “I am a year younger than Stokely would have been had he lived,” she said. Susan enjoyed telling me about some of her and her late husband’s activist days and travel adventures. I found them quite entertaining.

An avid reader, Susan has 67 reviews of various books on Goodreads.com, including one she voluntarily wrote about my book. (“Goodreads is the world’s largest site for readers and book recommendations.”)

The morning after I dreamed about Susan, I went to my computer and reread some of the correspondences we had exchanged over the years. Those included numerous emails and instant messages on Facebook. We even traded a few phone calls. Then, indicative of the bond we formed, after joyfully sharing the news that she had finalized the first draft of her second book, she sent me some chapters to critique.

In late 2019, Susan expressed how excited she was to be planning a move to another apartment. One of her emails contained an attachment depicting photos of two beautiful vintage African figurines she had acquired during her travels. She said she located them while packing and had not decided whether to keep or sell them.

A year earlier, Susan had talked about flying here from her home in Los Angeles to visit the recently opened National Museum of African American History at the Smithsonian. Unfortunately, her visit was an ill-timed one for me, and we missed an opportunity to meet in person.

Then, suddenly, our almost daily contact stopped for several days. I kept writing Susan but got no response. “What’s up, Susan?” I wrote. “Are you okay?”

One day I received a short email from her saying she had suddenly taken ill. “It came on out of the blue, and it is bad,” she said. “It seems to be some kind of flu.” She said she was in hospice care and would write me again when she felt better.

In December 2019, I received an email from Susan’s sister. After identifying herself, she said, “I’m sorry to tell you that my sister died suddenly following a brief illness. I know that she thought a lot of you.” She said Susan had asked her to contact certain friends if she did not make it. That was one month before the CDC reported the first case of COVID-19 in the U.S. I often wonder….

Dream expert Dr. Joshua Black says this about dreams, “The most positive dreams are the ones in which the deceased offers comfort through words or actions, or dreams in which the dreamer sees them, healthy and happy.”

The toughest part about dreaming about someone we care about – be it kin or friend – is waking up to remember that person is gone. True friendships cross color lines, unite cultures, and help people realize they are more alike than different.

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That’s Just Me

by L Parker Brown on March 19, 2023·Blogging, Daylight Savings Time, Fashions, Friendships

Experts recommend that bloggers post a minimum of one-to-three times a week. I find that laughable. One-to-three times a month is more my speed. Some resourceful bloggers post daily. God bless ‘em!

As everyone knows, few things leave you more vulnerable than exposing yourself to public scrutiny. Being the author of an online journal certainly does that. Bloggers are known to be opinionated, and the cost of speaking our minds sometimes draws criticism, which means it helps to have a thick skin, a touch of chutzpah, or both. Nevertheless, we must still be wary of many things, including naming names or saying anything that might set off a wackadoodle or two in this crazy world (and it doesn’t take much).

That said, I’m trying to step up my game and post more frequently. If you think that is easy to do, slap yourself – twice. Bloggers may be opinionated, but putting our thoughts out for the world to see is not something a wise person does indiscriminately for numerous reasons. And if you need to analyze that statement, then slap yourself again.

So, for my regular readers who are wondering why this is my second post to pop up in your email box within a few days, consider it explained.

Some of you can relate to this: I struggled to make it through last week, but I did it! Every year Daylight Savings Time (DST) throws me off-kilter. This year is no different. It’s a week since DST began, and my episodes of suddenly nodding off and deliberately napping throughout the day have finally subsided. It’s bad enough that I rarely get the recommended amount of sleep. I can’t remember the last time I slept 7-to-8 hours a night.

A day or two after DST required that we move clocks ahead one hour, I heard Whoopi (on The View) and other television personalities lament the annual time change. One doesn’t have to be a specialist to realize that something strange happens to many of us during the twice-a-year time change. The fall-back change isn’t as bad as the spring-forward. I don’t know about anyone else, but the latter screws up my body and mind, beginning on the Monday after and for the days following. I can’t drink enough coffee to avoid frequently yawning and nodding off like a drug addict.

I learned that a bill is pending in congress to make Daylight Savings Time permanent. So this is one time I hope that legislators, if necessary, will vote across party lines and support a law that would eliminate the twice-yearly time change.

* * *

Have fashion designers run out of ideas? I see styles trending back to those big, ugly shoulder pads in women’s clothing. I didn’t like them when they were stylish in the eighties, and I don’t like them now. Back then, I cut out some of those monstrosities from my blazers and blouses. Need I say that in some cases, that did not go well?

Nevertheless, if I were to buy something with shoulder pads now, which I would not, I’d remove them again. I have no problem with my tops revealing the natural slope of my shoulders. That’s just me. You all know what I always say, “Different strokes.”

* * *

Some people go out of their way to make friends. I’m not one of them. However, ask anyone who knows me well, and they’ll likely tell you I am friendly once you get to know me. I’m just not what I’d call a people person. (That sounds contradictory, doesn’t it?) I’m not inclined to walk over and introduce myself to someone at a social function or welcome a new neighbor to the hood with a gift basket of cookies or teacakes. I’d also be suspicious if a potential neighbor did that for me. I’ve probably watched too many episodes of Fear Thy Neighbor on the ID channel. But lest I am misunderstood, let me tell you that I have cultivated many genuine friendships over the years, including other bloggers.

Speaking of friendships. Here’s a question for the court of public opinion. Say you come home and find on your voicemail a message from a platonic friend whom you’ve known for several years. Then, you two fell out nearly a decade ago over an argument concerning a particular obnoxious politician. (Need I name names? LOL) The phone message left says, in short, “Hi. This is (I won’t reveal his name either). I’m just calling to see how you are doing. You can call me back (and he leaves his number unchanged from the one I already have in an old address book).

What would you do? Act as if nothing happened and return the call, resuming the friendship as it previously was, with periodic emails and phone calls, or would you ignore the message, and move on, leaving the acquaintance in the yesteryears (while in your mind wishing the former friend well)? I chose to do the latter, and that’s just me. What would you do?

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Blowing Leaves off Family Trees

by L Parker Brown on March 17, 2023·Family, Genealogy

“We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows.”

– Robert Frost, The Secret Sits

Ancestry.com is breaking up families, according to a segment today on The View. The cohosts discussed a case where a son requested a DNA kit from Ancestry.com and learned from the results that his dad is not his father. Instead, it turns out his father’s brother and his mom had an affair (the mom admitted it), and the man the boy thought was his uncle is his father. Upon hearing that, I felt like doing what one of the cohosts did: shout out to the uncle in my Maury Povich voice, “You are the baby’s daddy!” (LOL. I couldn’t resist.)

Revelations from Ancestry.com and enthusiastic genealogists everywhere expose secrets and blow more leaves off family trees than an F3 tornado.

All families have secrets. There are no exceptions; the rich, the famous, the poor, and the unknown have skeletons in the closet, and even pulverized bones sometimes yield secrets.

Years ago, when I took it upon myself to become the family genealogist, I began digging into my immediate and extended family history. I searched archival and other public records and solicited narratives from family members, who trusted me and divulged information on the condition that I bury it (and not in the pages of a book). Some of my sources are now deceased. Some writers would say that once the source dies, all bets are off. I’m not one of those.This sleuth unearthed revelations about a rape, a near-fatal abortion (not the rape victim), an ill-conceived and nearly disastrous intercontinental romance, out-of-wedlock births, and shotgun weddings. Decades ago, when morality and ethics were reverenced, some of those events were scandalous; today, many would not raise an eyebrow.

Unfortunately – or fortunately – depending on how you view it, all of our lives are an open book today, in many ways, thanks to Google. Who hasn’t done or experienced something we regret and hoped to conceal? It doesn’t matter whether the act occurred when we were young and dumb or old and foolish. In every family, remnants contributing to “the history of us” are everywhere. Even wrongdoings and foolish deeds that are not necessarily secretive await discovery. History can be covered up but not erased. It is stored in someone’s memory, logged in a journal, or tucked like a metaphorical note in a bottle waiting to be plucked from the ocean of time.

A family genealogist will inevitably come across some zits that are not secrets but are well-known truths, seldom discussed because they are embarrassing or unpleasant.

Just as there are two sides to every family, paternal and maternal, there are secrets aplenty. History. Herstory. Our stories.

Over the years, I’ve learned that before sharing “a secret,” one should think twice about the profound words of Benjamin Franklin, “Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.”

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