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Guess What Day It Is

Guess what day it is? I sound like the hump day camel, don’t I? Well, it’s my birthday, so I can be giggly if I want to.

Yesterday, my neighbor baked me a pineapple cake to die for. (Yes, Word Police, I know that sentence ended in a preposition, but this is my party.)  Aside from being grammatically incorrect, to die for was also probably a poor choice of words considering that I am on the downside of the hill. Nevertheless, I ate a slice, and that cake was delicious. Thank you, Hazel.

If I place a single candle on the remaining cake, then make a wish and blow out the candle, my wish would be for world peace.

Where has the time gone? I feel like the years have passed like falling dominoes. Wasn’t it just yesterday when I was only ten wishing I was a teenager, and then 18 wishing I was 21? And along the way from then to now, I kept wishing – to be a wife, a mother, a social activist, a published author. Finally, at some point in time – not dictated by me, but assigned by the Higher Power who controls all – I achieved all of those earlier goals and then some. I have a few other things on my bucket list, and I hope to realize those ambitions before running out of tiles.

I’m not and have never been materialistic. Simple things in life make me happy. Knowing that my loved ones and friends are safe. A comfortable home. A good book. A tasty cup of coffee. I thank God every day that I awake to see another sunrise.

I often think about what I’d tell my younger self when she wished to be grown. I’d tell her . . .

  • You will always encounter naysayers throughout life. But, don’t be discouraged by their negativity. When they tell you that you can’t accomplish something, continue to pursue your dream and prove them wrong.
  • The world is filled with disgruntled people who will lash out at every opportunity about everything and anything instead of counting their blessings. Don’t let their unhappiness disturb your peace.
  • Keep in mind that there is no level playing field, and life is not fair. There are slopes, potholes, and other hindrances along the way waiting to trip you up. When you fall, and sometimes you will, rise up with even more determination. And let your mantra be the words of Nelson Mandela, “Do not judge me by my successes, judge me by how many times I fell down and got back up again.”
  • Don’t yield to racists who will stereotype and try to define you and then claim that you have a victim mentality. Define yourself. Show them that you descend from warriors. You are a survivor.

I have numerous other life lessons that I’ve learned and want to share with you, little girl, but I’ll save those for some other time. Meanwhile, keep in mind the words of Nikki Giovanni, “I really don’t think life is about the I-could-have-beens. Life is only about the I-tried-to-do. I don’t mind the failure, but I can’t imagine that I’d forgive myself if I didn’t try.”

It’s your day — enjoy it!

 

 

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Yoga, High Lunging to a Happy Place

This morning was the first time in a long while that I performed the entire 60-minute yoga exercise routine that I once practiced regularly. I was proud of myself.

I’ve enjoyed doing yoga poses since a close friend sparked my interest in 2006 after gifting me with The Complete Guide to Yoga by Judy Smith, Doriel Hall, and Bel Gibbs. That book encouraged me to learn and practice yoga poses. So I did it regularly for several years. And although I eventually slacked off from my routine, I never ultimately gave up the practice.

This morning’s exercise was even more enjoyable because I didn’t miss a beat. Downward dog. Tree pose. Warrior. Oh yeah! It felt like I was back in the period when I was practicing three to four times a week. My memory did not let me down. Instant recall. Nailed it!

I wasn’t impressed in the early 1960s when yoga became a big deal in the U.S. I thought it was just another organization designed to draw naïve participants into a cult. After all, the sixties and seventies produced some of the most infamous cults in history. Jim Jones’ Jonestown, Charles Manson, the Branch Davidians, and Heaven’s Gate come to mind.

Some people consider yoga a non-Christian belief system or see it as a cult-type religion and condemn it without prudence. I beg to differ. If one considers it to be a cult with brainwashing tactics that alienate members from their family and friends, then, as I see it, some standard religious organizations fall into the cult category. The downside of reckless or irresponsible thinking is that it prevents us from expanding our knowledge about something before condemning it with hair-trigger speed.

Over the years, I’ve educated myself about yoga by reading books and studying videos on the subject. One of the books I enjoyed was Deepak Chopra’s The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success. Among the numerous educational videos that I use, at least half a dozen are produced by Peggy Cappy. Still, I’m sure that yoga experts would say that books and videos only skim the surface, and that’s okay—different strokes.

As far as yoga being rooted in spirituality, I guess that is a matter of individual interpretation. Regardless, I omit the chanting, rituals for unblocking chakras, and other practices that I find discomforting. Instead, I practice and enjoy yoga’s gentle flow and restorative poses, and breathing exercises. I find the poses for stretching and strengthening muscles extremely beneficial (especially at my age), and meditation is so relaxing.

On a pop quiz, I couldn’t name or explain all of the various kinds of yoga for a million bucks. And although I never tried to memorize them, two, Hatha and Bikram come immediately to mind.

I enjoy doing yoga. And I so relished this morning’s session that I still feel a natural high this afternoon. My daily mantra is – Start each day with a grateful heart and do what makes you happy. Yoga takes me to a happy place.

Namaste!

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Sister, Sister

“I smile because you’re my sister. I laugh because there’s nothing you can do about it!” Anonymous

 

Ida Staton White & Mildred Staton Parker

It’s funny how, at the oddest time, a long-suppressed memory will creep out of the gray matter in my head and then rewind and replay like an old movie.

This morning, I awoke near dawn and was lying in bed trying to decide whether to get up right away or stay there for a while and catch a few more zzzs when, out of the blue, I remembered a humorous incident that occurred years ago. It involved my Aunt Ida, my mother, and me.

I must have been around seven or eight years old at the time. My family was visiting my maternal grandma’s farm down south, as we did on occasional weekends or frequently during school break.

The memory is as vivid as if it happened yesterday.

I remember that it was a beautiful morning. One of my mother’s sisters, Ida, my mother, and I were in grandma’s vegetable garden, gathering veggies for that day’s dinner. Aunt Ida was wearing a long-sleeved, light blue shirt and faded blue jeans. Mother wore khakis and a lightweight dark-colored jacket over a green short-sleeved blouse. Because the dew was still on the ground, mother and Aunt Ida had put on old galoshes to protect their shoes from the droplets. I didn’t have galoshes and was aware of the dampness seeping into my sneakers. It amazes me how I can remember details of something that occurred years ago, but ask me about something that happened yesterday, and I draw a blank.

The garden was enclosed in what I believe was a chicken wire fence to prevent deer and other animals from eating the crops. Mother was at one end of the plot pulling a few cucumbers. Aunt Ida and I were a few feet away at the opposite end. Auntie was identifying for this naïve city girl some of the other veggies growing there when my eyes scanned the next row and landed on an elongated, curly green thing, about a foot long and half-inch thick. I starred and it for a few seconds, and my childhood imagination kicked in.

“Aunt Ida,” I whispered, drawing her attention, “Look, there’s a snake.” Aunt Ida followed my pointing finger to the object on the ground, briefly observed it, and then cracked a smile. Having been born and raised on the farm, she immediately recognized it for what it was or, in this case, what it wasn’t.

“It’s not a snake,” she laughed as she reached over the crop and picked up the slightly curvy bright green thing. “It’s just a piece of vine,” she said. Then, she glanced at mother, who had her back to us and was leaning forward, perhaps deciding on whether or not to pull up some veggies.

I am smiling now as I recall what happened next. Aunt Ida asked if I wanted to play a trick on my mom, and I nodded yes. Of course, innocent me had no idea what was about to unfold.

She handed me the piece of vine and positioned it in my hand to hold one end of it with the tips of my index finger and thumb. Next, she told me to put my hand behind my back and then walk over to my mother, stand before her and say, “Mom, look what we found,” and then bring my arm around in front of me.

Obedient and unsuspecting, I did as I was instructed. When I was a few feet in front of my mom, she lifted her head to look at me and said, “What’s up, Lo?”

I noticed that Aunt Ida, who had quietly walked up and was standing a few feet behind mom, was smirking like she was about to bust a gasket.

“Muh, (that’s what my siblings and I called our mom) look what Aunt Ida and I found.” I immediately moved my arm around in front of me and extended it toward mom. The curly green vine swayed in the breeze. Mom let out a scream and began hop-scotching away from me while yelling, “PUT THAT DOWN.” Aunt Ida was howling with laughter. Mom was screaming, jumping all over the place, and yelling, “Put that snake down.” I dropped the vine and slowly backed-pedaled. Some years later, I would wonder if grandma had been standing at the kitchen window enjoying the comedic drama as it unfolded.

Unbeknownst to me at the time but well known to Aunt Ida, my mother was scared to death of snakes.

“Bootsie (that was the nickname mother’s siblings called her), it’s not a snake. It’s only a vine,” Auntie said to mother to calm her down. Mother angrily scolded her, “That’s not funny, Ida.”

Aunt Ida could not stop laughing. Mother could not stop fuming. And I just stood there thinking, “Oh- oh. I’m in big trouble.” But I wasn’t because Aunt Ida rightfully took the blame and fessed up that it was all her idea.

Mother and Aunt Ida would laugh about that event over the years. Today the two sisters are with my grandparents and some of their other siblings together in eternity. And until I join them, I will always smile at pleasant memory like this one when they resurface.

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New Year Rising

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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Stuffing Memories

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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