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

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New Year Rising

by on ·Blogging, General, Journaling/Writing, Lifestyle and Culture

Wham! And just like that, we have crossed the threshold of 2022. Bearded Father Time handed to Baby New Year much of the same baggage from ’21:  The pandemic. Gun violence. And the incivility of ill-mannered politicians, athletes, and other malcontents

Author Anne Lamott in her book Dusk, Night, Dawn, suggests, “We summon humor to amend ghastly behavior and dismal ongoing reality.”

What Anne is saying is, “Chill!” I like her attitude. But everything doesn’t work for everybody. Some people are born with the gift of gab, other folks have an innate sense of humor. On the other hand, I am usually unfunny and can rarely tell a joke without blowing the punchline.

By the way, since this is a new year, and I hope to welcome new readers, let me tell you newbies a little about myself and Potpourri101. Potpourri is my online journal. Unlike a private journal, there is a limit to how much personal information I disclose in my public journal. I know folks like to read juicy stuff and get a full course meal, but I’m only serving hors d’oeuvres on this site. Because even Simple Simon knows that the writings on a blog are immortal, they will outlive the author and be around for as long as the Internet exists.

I’ve been composing poems and short stories since I was a child. I am 12 years a blogger (not to be confused with 12 years a slave unless you count low-wage earning jobs I held while employed in corporate America). I am also a published author. I would love to be on the New York Times Best Seller list one day, but since I’ve got more years behind me than in front of me, I may not live long enough to write the great American novel. That’s the small stuff that I don’t sweat because the reality is that we are all terminal.

Still, who knows, some of the books that I have in progress may one day be published posthumously. That brings me to an interesting tidbit about authors. It is common knowledge that many famous authors were alcoholics. Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams, Ernest Hemingway, Edgar Allen Poe, Patricia Highsmith (author of The Talented Mr. Ripley), and Carson McCullers (The Heart is a Lonely Hunter), and that’s not even half of them. Since I don’t drink alcohol, perhaps teetotalism stalled my writing career. Nah! Caffeine is my addiction of choice despite the clever quip written by a possibly alcoholic anonymous author, “Step aside coffee. This is a job for alcohol.”

Many of my close friends will tell you that I am ambitious, opinionated, competitive, and transparent. What you see is what you get. Speaking of friends and associates, I believe it’s mostly true – you know, that saying about birds of a feather. But, of course, sometimes odd birds sneak into the flock the way the FBI infiltrated the Black Panther Party during the Sixties. Still, subversion aside, we tend to associate with people whose character and interests mimic our own.

People tend to think that I am an extrovert, to the contrary, I am very much an introvert, and I guard my privacy like the secret service protects the White House. I even prefer being around plants and domesticated animals to people. Strange bird, huh?

Unlike some baby boomers my age, I love computers and enjoy other contemporary devices like tablets, iPods, and iPhones. Speaking of cell phones, I prefer text to talk. Texting seems much more time-efficient than having a discussion comprising more filler phrases than meaningful conversation. I especially like the talk-to-text feature, except when I speak too fast and don’t enunciate clearly. Then, the message can be entirely different from what I intended to say.

Another thing that annoys me about texting is group text messages. That’s when a sender sends a text message simultaneously to multiple parties. Most of us have received one of them at some time or another. I am no fan of group texts because every time someone responds to the original message, the entire group receives the reply instead of just the sender. I find that so annoying, especially when I am busy writing or trying to sleep.

Group text messages remind me of when folks used to send chain letters. Remember those? Someone would send snail mail letters to several people with the instruction that each recipient make copies and send them to others. I never complied.

I am very competitive. I enjoy playing word games online, especially Puzzly Word, Words with Friends, and board games like Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit. I also enjoy stimulating conversations with open-minded people who discuss fact-based topics and don’t base their arguments solely on conjecture and prejudgment. I respect other people’s personal opinions but have no patience for foolishness.

I like to dabble in political and social activism, but I am not the die-hard type to sit at the lunch counter while agitators pour catsup on my heard. I am a peace-lover, and I appreciate the sacrifices made by those protesters during the civil rights era, but non-violence has its limit.

When I was a timid, early adolescent little girl, growing up in the projects, I was taught that you don’t start a fight, but you don’t let another kid chase you into the house either. If someone hits you, you hit them back. I knew that if words came to blows, I had better knock the grit out of whoever I was fighting (draw first blood Rocky would say) because it was likely that if I didn’t come off swinging hard, I’d get my skinny butt beat. Strangely, I can recall being in only four fistfights during my youth and with whom; they were three girls and one boy on different days.

We were all in the same age group and attended the same school, and I remember their names. Teresa, Sandra, Patricia, and Ricky. They all lived in the neighborhood, but they had a reputation for starting trouble, unlike me. At one time or another, I fought with each of them, only once and that ended our rivalry. In those days, kids mainly fought with their hands. Socking. Scratching. Kicking. Biting. Sadly, today the cowards settle the score with guns.

I am an advocate for the underprivileged and downtrodden. I have empathy and tolerance for the needy, not the greedy. Greedy, selfish people are my nemesis.

Well, enough about me. All things considered, 2022 is the most remarkable year ever, considering that as I write this, we are only 16 hours into the new year.

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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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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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Trapped in the Elevator

by on ·General

Last month, I got stuck in an elevator. I remember the precise date as Friday, April 30, because that was the date of my appointment with a new doctor. There is nothing worse than having your long-time primary care physician abruptly close her private practice and integrate with a medical group located at a hospital. Then, shortly after that, she retires, abandoning her former patients, leaving us at the new facility without so much as a “See ya.”

Having lost “the best” doctor I ever had, I inherited a physician who I didn’t select and didn’t particularly like. And dissatisfied with the operations of the medical group in general, I located another doctor on my own and made an appointment. Pardon my digressive rant; I’m still upset about that forced transition and will revisit the topic another day. But now, I will return to the elevator episode.

The new doc’s office is on the 4th floor of a small, four-story medical building (not a hospital) with a single elevator. So far, I like him better than the other guy.

When my appointment ends, I summon the elevator, step inside, and push the button for the first floor after the doors close. The elevator could hold four people comfortably, six in a crunch, but I am pleased to be the lone rider. I watch the panel showing the floors as the car begins descending 3 – 2 – 1, and then step forward, waiting for the doors to open. Nothing happens. I press the “Open” button. Still, nothing happens. I press the open button again, then briefly press the red alarm button and wait. The thought of prying open the doors crosses my mind, but I know that I do not have the strength to do that, so I angrily slam my fist against them. “Open!” I command. “Ouch! Is anyone out there?” I shout.

The narrow hallway on the ground floor extends about 30 feet from the lobby door, past a single elevator and a stairwell. I remember this because upon entering the building, I noticed that the wall at the end of the hallway, opposite the entrance, has a beautiful landscape mural on it.

“Hello!” I holler. “I’m stuck in here. Is anyone there?”

Hearing no one, I scan the panel looking for an emergency phone or push-to-talk button. I don’t see either, so I push the alarm button again and listen. Not a sound other than my labored breathing. Surely, someone hears the darn alarm. I think.

I begin to feel panic rising like a tidal wave. My body alternates between cold sweat and hot flashes. Calm down. I tell myself. I start doing Pranayama, deep yoga breathing and even try to use humor to help me relax. I’m in a medical building; what better place to hyperventilate.

Anxiety soon overtakes my positive thinking, and I press the alarm button again, wait a few seconds, and then repeat the process. Now I’ve got big-time attitude. I lean on the button for several seconds like a determined telemarketer rings my phone. And then, I shout. “Someone get me out of here.”

The light above my head flickers. I bite my bottom lip and try to erase elevator scenes from horror movies and prank videos that flash in my mind like a PowerPoint presentation.

Has everyone left the building but Elvis? I wonder. Of course not, because most people would take the elevator down to the lobby, I reason. What if people are pushing the button for the elevator and wondering why it doesn’t come to their floor? Surely, someone hears the alarm. And then, my imagination takes over. I am lying on my side on the floor. Both feet are propped against the side of the car. I wedge my fingers into the space between the door panels and, while pushing with my feet, begin pulling the doors apart with all my might. I soon dismiss the crazy thought and look up to see if there is a camera in the car. I don’t see one, but I think if there is a camera, they will know that I’m trapped and send someone to get me out of here. Then, did I feel the elevator jerk?

The door opens about half an inch. I breathe a sigh of relief, stand in front of the doors and prepare to exit. But the doors don’t open any further. Moving forward, I lean my face close enough to the gap to see if I can spot anyone, but not so close that the doors will snag my nose and lips if they suddenly close. I don’t see a soul. Dare I place my fingers in the space and try to pull the doors open? Nah. What if my fingers get crushed? As I reach toward the alarm bell, the doors fling open, and I rush out of there like the devil is chasing me. While exiting the building, I pass a security officer entering the facility. He is accompanying a stooped-over elderly lady using a walker and shuffling along at a snail’s pace. That explains why he didn’t hear the alarm; I tell myself. He was outside.

That was the first, and hopefully the last time I get stuck in an elevator.

A couple of days ago, a friend I told about my incident said that he had the same misfortune. While my confinement had lasted about 8 minutes (it seemed much longer), he said that he was trapped for over an hour. He was working late that night. There was no one else in the 12-story office building. He tried everything he could think of to force open the doors or get the elevator moving before using the emergency telephone to summon help. Men don’t yield to defeat as quickly as some women. It’s the machismo factor.

He said that when the elevator began moving, it suddenly dropped two floors before stopping again. Then, he said, knowing that help was on the way, he sat down and waited. He was trapped for nearly 90 minutes before the building engineer and others arrived and freed him.

Had our experiences been reversed, I’d have been a basket case claustrophobic by the time help arrived.

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