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Ugly Feet

FEET Sepia toneIt’s the time of year when women like to show off their pretty feet. That is women who have pretty feet. Let me be the first to tell you that I’m not one of them. My feet are so ugly that they would make a podiatrist recoil. And, if ever there is a TV show featuring the world’s ugliest feet, I will go toe-to-toe to convince you that I am a shoe-in to win first place.

There might be some saving grace for my right foot, but the left one puts its counterpart to shame. Lefty has a bunion that looks like a swollen golf ball, and it has a hammer toe to boot. The toe next to the hammer has a small bump. And though the middle toe has no defects, the one beside the pinkie has twin corns but the littlest piggy has none.

When I was a child, my mom, like most moms do, would take me shoe shopping and have me try on the shoes while in the store. She would press down and around the toe area to see if I had wiggle room and then tell me to walk around. If I assured her that the shoes felt “Good.” and she was satisfied that my feet had adequate space, she would buy the pair. But occasionally, a day or two later while wearing those cute shoes, my dogs would start yelping. It was as if the shoes had magically decreased a size after we brought them home.

When I became an employed young adult, living on a shoestring budget, I still, occasionally and inadvertently, bought ill-fitting shoes, mainly because I liked the style. One thing overlooked for years was that I had wide feet. The cute narrow shoes that I favored, especially the pointy ones, often scrunched my toes. My feet are a testament to years of wearing uncomfortable shoes.

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Page from a Police Officer’s Journal (A Poem)

(This poem was submitted by Guest Blogger, N. Justus)

Crime Scene Chalk Mark

It may seem to some that we are killing all the black men.

Picking them off like flies, then using alibis,

Saying “I thought I drew my Taser,” but grabbed my gun instead

And shot him in the back.

Well, he shouldn’t have run for his life.

While I had my knee on his head he should have played dead

Instead of talking about “I can’t breathe.”

“Nigger, please,” I wanted to say, but my mike was on

And some dyke riding by on a bike was recording everything on her cell phone.

Caught on camera. Damn. Damn!

Why don’t they just leave us alone to do our deed?

No need to feed it to the media or put it on YouTube.

Saying cops gone wild. That’s putting it mildly.

We’re just helping you out ‘cause you killing each other anyhow.

Making it look like we’re so bad. How sad is that?

You know it ain’t true. We just do what we do.

Just like some of you.

What slavery failed to do

What the Klan couldn’t too

YOU are destroying you.

Thug life. White wife.

Homicide. Prison bride.

No matter how you color the story

It all boils down to Black Genocide.

And one day it will be bye, bye baby

black race gone.

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Intermission

Big Bucket Of Popcorn. Isolated On A WhiteThe joy of having a blog is the freedom to write about whatever you want to write. And if your life doesn’t interfere with the process, forcing you to direct your time and energy elsewhere, you can write as often as you like. Unless, occasionally, there is an intermission.

Regular readers of this site will notice that I haven’t posted anything in a few months. (Thank you for missing me.) Rest assured that I am still here and still working. I’m just temporarily sidetracked by other things.

Currently, one of those things is a book I’m writing. It’s a memoir of sorts. If I am learning anything during this process, it is that no other piece of writing requires one to be so self-revealing as a memoir. It’s like exposing yourself naked to the world. That is if you are to be honest. Being honest doesn’t mean that you have to reveal everything. You can be honest and still hold back. If it is too embarrassing or too painful to air dirty laundry, you can either rewash it to remove the stains or throw it out. Choice is a wonderful thing.

Another lesson that I am learning from my latest undertaking is that writing a memoir dredges up long-suppressed thoughts and emotions, like when my husband and I divorced back in the early 1970s. I remained friendly with his parents who lived in another state although I rarely saw them. Sometime around 1975 my father-in-law phoned and asked me to bring the children for a visit since he had not seen them in a few years. I boarded the train with my two children and took the four-hour ride to Far Rockaway, New York, and we all spent an enjoyable weekend together. Three months later my father-in-law was dead of a heart attack. I was glad I had made the trip. I interjected that bit of information because it reveals one of the heartfelt memories resurrected while working on the book.

Although the book is a long-term project that is occupying much of my time, I don’t mind. The fact is that I love to write, and grasp every opportunity. I credit my experience writing  for a local newspaper, years ago, with keeping me eager to accept challenges and untroubled by negative criticism.  Lucky for me – and to the chagrin of some folks – my tendency to be opinionated and my sense of humor remain intact.

Some people live to travel and party, the nerd in me lives to read and write. I thank God everyday for my writing skills and count my blessings like a gambler counts chips. This blog is one of those blessings.

We’ll connect again when I put up my next post. Right now, I’ve got to get back to work. In the meantime, contemplate the eloquent words of novelist, Margaret Laurence, who wrote, “When I say work I only mean writing.  Everything else is just odd jobs.”

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Ratting Out the Gym Rats

Portrait of a wistful overweight man sitting on floor with exerc

Dear Fellow Gym Rats:  I am ratting you out. For those unfamiliar with the jargon, I’m not talking about the four-legged, garbage seeking rodents that creep around the city and slither into people’s homes or other environments. It’s you human spoilsports who frequent fitness centers who I am taking to task. Okay, perhaps spoilsport is too harsh a term, because some of you are simply unaware that there is a need for gym etiquette. So, let me convey this message in a kinder, gentler manner.

I belong to a 4900 square feet, two story fitness center. It’s large enough so that patrons don’t feel crowded, but small enough to encourage congeniality. Most of the regulars who workout there, in the early morning hours when I am present, are generally friendly. Upon arriving you politely greet the receptionist, “Good Morning” as you sign in, and then you nod or wave to other gym warriors as you proceed to the locker room, one of the machines, or the weight station.

In contrast, there are the infrequent patrons who purchase a day pass, or hold membership, but only visit the gym occasionally. You seldom acknowledge anyone and avoid making eye contact. Perhaps you were not taught that it is polite to speak upon entering a room. Whatever pumps your iron.  Whether you are a regular member or a periodic drop-in, I imagine that Miss Manners would agree that we should mind our p’s and q’s even at the gym.

Conveniently stored on a small table outside the manager’s office are paper towels and a spray bottle of sanitizer for disinfecting equipment and protecting patrons. Because I dislike placing my hands on sweaty handgrips, I wear weight lifting gloves. That not only prevents my own palms from getting sweaty, it also helps me avoid getting calluses. Still, after I finish using a machine, I wipe it down. And because I know that when exercising, I sweat like a guilty defendant facing Judge Judy, before I sit or recline on one of the workout benches, I place a small towel beneath me. Moisture-wicking athletic wear may be cute, but it has its limits.

Loud grunting – whether you are lifting weights or doing a boot camp routine – is another no-no. Exerting extra effort obviously takes all the strength that you can muster, but try to avoid grunting like you are having wild sex. It is distracting to those of us who suppress our groans by biting our bottom lip until it bleeds. Just kidding about the lip biting, but tone it down guys.

Now some of you will think that this next gripe results from female envy; suspicious women tend to think that way. Believe me, that isn’t the case. When a size eight woman, dressed in itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny-bikini type workout gear, unrolls an exercise mat and strategically places it near the center of the room to ensure that everyone present sees her stretching and exaggerating yoga poses, it becomes more than a distraction. It is an issue that makes it obvious why some gyms have a dress code.

Then, there is the slacker. Good intentions aside, he or she enters the gym, exercises for about five minutes, and then spends the rest of the hour sitting motionless on one of the machines or someplace else, while playing games on a cell phone or perhaps daydreaming about the next Big Mac. I kid you not, I’ve seen this.

Most thoughtless are the inconsiderate people who place their water bottle, towel, or other personal items on an unoccupied machine near the one that they are using. I once had to ask a woman to move her purse and jacket off of the Stairmaster so that I could use it. She complied and apologized, but dang! why should I have to ask? If you don’t want to store your personal items in the lockers – which the gym provides at no additional cost – then leave them in your car or find someplace else to store them, not on an unused machine.  And keep track of your stuff. I once found a set of car keys in the bottle holder on my favorite treadmill. When I asked around, whether anyone had misplaced their keys, a grateful young lady came rushing over to claim them. There are a few more things that I could add to the list, but I think I will leave it to my cohorts to include some of their peeves in the comment section below.

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The preceding page is from my forthcoming book, A Whistling Tea Kettle and Other Sounds of Life. If you would like to be notified when the book is available, please provide your email address by clicking this button

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Watching Mother Die from Behind an Emotional Firewall

Rose on the tombstoneAt my mother’s funeral service a few weeks ago, I read a tribute to her which I wrote. Some remarks from the tribute are referenced in this post. In the days after the service, several people told me what a good job I’d done with the tribute and how nice it was.  Considering the occasion, I aimed to do the right thing. But what many people didn’t know was that – although I always loved my mother – I had been mourning her loss for years before her demise.

Although her Anglo-Saxon name – Mildred – means gentle strength, my mother was an incredibly strong-willed and self-sufficient woman.  She was also more controlling than a drill sergeant indoctrinating new recruits. Mother ran a tight ship. Not only were her offspring required to abide by the “my house, my rules” dictate that many parents – rightfully so – impose on their children, we also had to contend with a mother who was very strict and sometimes overbearing.

I recall an occasion during my adolescence when mother was upset with me about something. I honestly don’t remember what it was. Probably something that I wanted to do that she wouldn’t allow. Or perhaps it was something that I did that I shouldn’t have. Nevertheless, I was moping over whatever was bothering me and mother was trying to get me to talk about it. I refused. I just sat there on the sofa beside her, teary eyes lowered, saying nothing.

“Why won’t you talk to me when something is bothering you?” mother asked in her typical demanding tone.

When I mustered up the nerve to answer I replied, “Because you always talk like you are fussing, and I don’t want to be fussed at.”

“That’s just the way I talk,” she said in a manner that I perceived to be serious attitude, causing me to again revert to silence.

Mother had a quick wit and an even quicker temper. It didn’t matter who you were, she would not hesitate to give you a take-no-prisoners tongue lashing when she felt it was warranted. So rather than risk drawing her wrath I kept my emotional distance. When I recall past conversations with my siblings, I think that perhaps mother never knew how to talk with her children on a level that did not alienate us.

Granted the teenage years are a time when most teens find it difficult to communicate with their parents, unfortunately sometimes that lack of communication extends into adulthood. And since mother was not one to pull punches, when she and I had tense conversations, out of respect, the best I could do was bob and weave to deflect the verbal blows, or erect an emotional firewall. Over the years, the latter became my refuge.

During the last month of mother’s life, my sister and I took turns spending alternate weeks at mother’s home – bringing her meals, meds, and tending to her other needs. It was a difficult period, but it allowed my mother and me to spend more time together than we had shared in years.

In spite of the fact that — prior to her illness — we talked on the phone nearly every day; unfortunately our busy and dissimilar lifestyles barred us from spending much face-time together.

Mother was the daughter of a Southern Baptist minister and she had been raised in the Christian faith. Sometime during the mid-1970s, she joined the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Her conversion not only changed our family dynamics, it splintered our family unit. Gatherings at Thanksgiving, Christmas time and other holidays, and even the exchange of birthday greetings were curtailed and eventually ended.

During the final days of her life, mother’s voice grew gradually weaker until even her whispers could not be understood. I recall one day, as I sat beside her bed, she murmured, “Why can’t I talk?” Although I suspected that the lung cancer had spread to her throat, I just slowly shook my head side-to-side implying that I didn’t know.

Like any dutiful daughter who assumes the role of caregiver, I did what I could to make my mother comfortable in her last days, even to the extent of neglecting my own obligations and putting my life on hold.

The short weeks during mother’s hospice, allowed she and I to spend time together, to share some laughter and a few brief, but long overdue, lighthearted conversations. And although there were many things that I wanted to say to her, when someone is on her deathbed is not the time to bring up and rehash bygone discord. Therefore, many things that I would like to have discussed calmly with my mother before she died were left unsaid.

When I was growing up – and even as an adult – mother and I had several conversations about religion and family.  We even discussed cults, especially in the days following the Jonestown massacre. Yet, the time ultimately came when I perceived that mother did not heed her own advice. In that regard, the thing that I regret most that I never had a chance to say to my mother is this:  We should never allow people – or institutions — to speak to us so loudly that we cannot hear ourselves – or to command us to such loyalty that we lose ourselves.

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The preceding page is from my forthcoming book, A Whistling Tea Kettle and Other Sounds of Life. If you would like to be notified when the book is available, please provide your email by clicking this button

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