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

Browsing Category Nostalgia

Reminiscing About My Mom and Mother’s Day

by on ·Nostalgia

I always thought my mother was a beautiful black woman. Need I say that I use black relevant to her racial group, not her complexion, which was the color of coffee with cream.

Mother had beautiful teeth. Until the day she died, she had all of her natural pearly whites, minus one molar, and it was hardly noticeable in the back of her mouth. Still, she felt self-conscious and often told me she wished she had not told the dentist to pull that tooth years earlier. I don’t know why he didn’t fill it or do a root canal. From our conversations, I know that mother was strongly opposed to root canals, so if her dentist had told her that having one was the only option for saving her tooth, she likely would have refused.

Mother’s hair was her crowning glory, and she always took pride in it. Before age began to thin it, she had a beautiful thick, ebony-colored mane.

As much as I longed for hair like hers, I mostly envied her long, natural fingernails. She didn’t wear nail hardener or polish, yet she managed to grow lengthy attractive nails. When I’d ask her how she managed to have nails like that when mine rarely extended beyond my fingertips, she’d say, “I don’t know. They’ve always grown like that.”

Even beyond her middle-aged years, after birthing four children and being blessed with six grandchildren and some great grands, mother’s slender frame, high cheekbones, and piercing brown eyes still turned heads.

Decades ago, before her faith became the focus of her life and curtailed our occasional outings, mother and I would go places together, like shopping or to a movie, and we’d often be mistaken for sisters. One humid summer day, after an outing, seeking refuge from the heat, we grabbed a taxi back to her house and were glad to get one with air-conditioning. After we settled in, the driver looking admiringly at mom in the rear-view mirror, said, “Is the AC too cool for you and your sister?” Mother and I looked at each other and smiled before she replied, “It feels fine, and she’s my daughter, not my sister.” That led the gray-haired gentleman, who looked about 75, to display a wide gap-tooth grin and then start the black don’t crack conversation.

Unlike some of her sisters who went to college, my mother had only high school education, yet she was an intelligent, resourceful woman, a doting mother, and a good wife to my dad. She was also very generous, especially for her children, but otherwise shrewd with money. She could pinch a penny until it turned white.

Mom also had a green thumb. I think my siblings and I inherited our love for houseplants from my mom. When I was a youngster mother had plenty of potted plants lining the windowsill in the living room. My favorite was the beautiful purple passion. She also had a tall, resilient snake plant that sat in a large pot on the floor beside the armchair.

If mom ever had a mission, it was maintaining a clean house, and she insisted that her other three rambunctious children and I help keep it tidy.

Although she was a full-time homemaker when we children grew old enough to be somewhat responsible, mom started doing part-time what was called days’ work. And at one point, she worked as a cashier at Drug Fair on upper Connecticut Avenue.

I remember mom telling me many times about leaving that drugstore one evening during a fierce snowstorm. There were already inches of the white stuff on the ground when she walked outside. She said she waited at the bus stop forever for the DC Transit bus (renamed Metro in the 1970s) to arrive and bring her back across town. Never in her life, she said, had she ever been as cold. She thought she would freeze to death before the bus finally arrived. Dad was at home babysitting us four children. Our family didn’t have a car at the time, and even if dad had tried to drive through the storm with us kids, it would have been a dangerous undertaking.

As good mothers tend to do, our mother made sacrifices for her children; some were small, some were large, and occasionally she tried to do the impossible, like one Easter Sunday when I was around 8 or 9 years old. Mom was hot-combing my hair and getting us kids ready to go to Sunday School. After straightening my hair, as she was preparing to give me some curls, I began pleading with her, “Mom, make me Shirley Temple curls? Pleeease!”

My mother knew – but I refused to believe – that it would take an Easter miracle for her to transform my short, thin, kinky naps into golden coils like Shirley Temples.

Before she began curling, mother explained that my hair was too short for curls like that. It was only about three inches in length; it was not long enough, but it also wasn’t thick enough, and of course, the texture, well, you know. But in my naïve mind, my mother could do anything. Since I refused to hear what she was saying and kept whining that I wanted Shirley Temple curls, mother made an effort.

Slathering on Royal Crown Hair Dressing and using a stovetop burner to heat the curling iron, mother began parting my hair and creating skinny curls about the thickness and half the length of small link sausages. When she finished, I rushed to look in the bathroom mirror and then dropped my smile.

Mother had laid down some neat and pretty black curls sideways on my head, but it looked nothing like Shirley Temples. Despite shaking my head hard enough to rattle my brain and give myself a concussion, I was even more disturbed that my short, stiff curls remained immobile. They would not shake or bounce like little miss curly top’s golden, voluminous tresses.

Over the years, mother and I often laughed about my Shirley Temple Easter wish.

That was decades before TV programs featured any little black girls. (Even Buckwheat, on The Little Rascals, was a boy playing a girl.) There were undoubtedly no girls like Lyric Ross (who plays Deja on This is Us) who debuted on the program proudly and boldly wearing a short afro and inspiring black girls in their formative years to embrace their natural hair.

Over the years, Scrabble became my mother and my favorite pastime. Both of us were, and I remain, fiercely competitive. Sometimes on the weekend, we would stay up past midnight battling it out on the Scrabble board. How I miss those times. How I miss my mom. So many memories. Not enough pages or time to write about all of them.

To my readers whose mother, like mine, has passed on, treasure your memories with her.

And to all of you who are moms yourself, Happy Mother’s Day!

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Sister, Sister

by on ·Brothers and Sisters, Lifestyle and Culture, Nostalgia

“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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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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Keeping the Merry in Christmas

by on ·Holidays, Lifestyle and Culture, Nostalgia

While radio and television programs are broadcasting Yuletide carols and reminding us to be jolly, COVID is sucking the merry out of Christmas. That sad reality is the reason why this usual glass-half-full optimist is fighting the pandemic blues. I am not alone. I know this because many of my friends tell me that they feel it, too. We compare our symptoms. Short tempers and long-lasting anxiety. Mood swings from hopeful to hopeless. And the WTF (where’s the food) all we can eat syndrome.

Since the pandemic began ten months ago, it has dragged on from season-to-season, and the set of new rules to live by has become old. We’ve all got the instructions memorized. Wear a mask. Practice social distancing. Avoid large gatherings. Socializing with family and friends at birthday parties, reunions, holiday get-togethers, even weddings, and funerals is a no-no. I imagine that some employees are not too happy that this year’s Christmas office parties are zooming. Who doesn’t feel like screaming, “WHAT THE ELF? ENOUGH ALREADY!”

As an (often mild-mannered) spiritual person, I wonder if the global pandemic is a Biblical prophecy and punishment is being levied on humankind for our sinfulness. I suppose that atheists and scientists would dispute that statement; it is an ever-lasting argument. So, I’m going back to talking about Christmas. Foremost, December 25 is a day held in reverence. It also happens to be my cousin Jo Jo’s birthday (a shout-out to you, Cuz), and for wide-eyed children everywhere, it is the day when Santa Claus makes their day.

Unlike Scrooge, I don’t need spirits to show me Christmases past, present, and future. I remember, and I envision.

In my mind’s eye, I am about seven-years-old. My mom and my siblings, and I are cheerfully jockeying around the live Christmas tree in the living room. Dad is seated on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, clutching a Kool cigarette between the index and middle finger of his right hand. He is all into watching a John Wayne western on the old black and white TV set as I am into hanging my made-in-school decorations on the tree. Occasionally horizontal line interference forces dad to leave the sofa and walk over to the TV. He sticks his cigarette between his lips, takes a long drag, and then removes it, exhaling a puff of white smoke before tightening a small piece of aluminum foil that is wrapped around the tip of the rabbit ear antenna. The picture clears up and dad returns to the sofa. As he is sitting down, he glances toward the tree at our handiwork and nods approvingly. We continue hanging decorations. Simple ornaments created with Popsicle sticks, Elmer’s glue, pipe cleaners, colored beads, and a red and green chain garland made from construction paper share space on the spiny branches alongside store-bought string lights, shiny, fragile bulbs, and long strands of silver tensile. Some years, we add tiny candy canes – and then we wait. Christmas morning is only days away.

During the evenings leading up to the big day, mother sometimes lets us stay up past our 8 o’clock bedtime to watch televised seasonal specials about Frosty the Snowman, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and Old St. Nick. On Christmas Eve, she doesn’t need to tell us to turn-in. We eagerly hurry to bed because we know that the next day will be magical when we awake. In the morning, the joy and laughter of enchanted children fill the air as we gush over the gifts that Santa left under the tree. Our family’s meager income prevented us, four kids, from getting many presents. And often Santa didn’t bring us precisely what we asked for, but we always got a few things each, and for that, we were thankful. Mother’s lessons of expressing gratitude for everything were not lost on me even to this day.

The sweet scent of fresh pine needles lingers in our apartment for days, and it seems to take forever before every stubborn spike that lodged in the rug or slipped into a crack in the aging wood floor bordering the carpet has is gone.

In the postwar era, many parents observed – and children believed in – the long-standing tradition of Santa Clause. Some of today’s contemporary parents feel that deceiving children about Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and other fictional characters hinder a  trusting relationship with their children. So, they don’t adhere to any of the rituals that created beautiful, lifelong memories for their grandparents and parents.

Christmas wasn’t the only day that held magic. I was a curious child. Whenever I would shed a tooth, I would place it under my pillow before going to sleep. The next morning I would wonder and sometimes ask mother how the tooth fairy could lift my pillow and replace my tooth with a shiny coin, usually a nickel or dime, without waking me. Mother played along, leading me to believe that she was as perplexed as I was. I treasure those memories, and I think that mother enjoyed the games as much as we children did.

I know that it is the parent’s prerogative when it comes to observing traditions with their children. Still, I’d bet four calling birds that some of the same parents who say that they don’t want to lie to their children about imaginary characters don’t hesitate to fib to them about other things when it serves their purpose. As I see it, our parents fooling us with myths about the Tooth Fairy, Santa, and the Easter Bunny may have been telling us lies, but they were good lies.

Sometimes, when I am stressed and longing for a temporary respite from everyday living’s harsh realities, reflecting on traditions involving make-believe activities that my family observed during my childhood makes me happy.

Christmas present is eight days away. I doubt if many folks would disagree with me when I say that the best stocking stuffer all of us could receive would be a miraculous, immediate, and complete disappearance of COVID. I’m not promoting fake news, I know it’s not a reality, but nevertheless, that’s my wish for this Christmas.

My visualization for Christmas future, 2021, and all years after that is for love, brotherhood, joy, and peace in the world. That, along with good health, is my wish for my readers and all of humankind.

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and may God bless you all!

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Aging Like Fine Wine

by on ·Aging, Birthdays, Gratitude, Nostalgia

I see it. There, on the horizon. Another birthday approaching in a couple of days.

God rest your soul, B.B.King, but this septuagenarian won’t need to play your upbeat Happy Birthday Blues song to lift my spirits. I’m good. My plan for B-Day is to express my gratitude to God for the blessing of seeing another birthday and then I’ll take a moment to reflect on my birthday’s past.

I’ve had some ho-hum birthdays when I did nothing to acknowledge the occasion except maybe draw a smiley face on my daily flip calendar and then turn the page. I also had some memorable birthdays like when my beau at the time treated me to a concert, dinner, or some other memorable event. (Eugene, I don’t know if you are reading this or if you are even aware that I have an online journal, but if you are, I want you to know that I still remember when you took me to a small supper club. Unbeknownst to me at the time, you slipped the waitress a note to give to the club host. The host then announced from the stage that it was my birthday and pointed to our table. The clubgoers turned toward us and sang Happy Birthday to me. It was a beautiful gesture, and I don’t know why I felt embarrassed, but I did. I just wanted to dissolve into a heap of chocolate in my chair faster than the ice melting in our drinks. But as you see, your thoughtfulness left a lasting impression because I still remember that unforgettable birthday evening.)

My earliest memorable birthday was my 16th. That was the only time I ever had a birthday party. It wasn’t a budget-busting gala like some contemporary parents provide for their 16-year-old daughters. Mine was a small event. I remember the round cake bought from Posin’s Bakery. It had “Happy Birthday Sweet 16” written on top in pink and yellow icing, encircled by 16 candles.

Along with the cake, we enjoyed Neapolitan ice cream, potato chips, and a few other party snacks.  The several friends who I invited, my siblings, and I celebrated the event in the basement of our family home, while my parents courteously remained upstairs.

We danced beneath pre-strung crepe decorations to the stack of 45 RPMs, which I had prearranged next to my dad’s record player. The lineup included many of my favorite tunes:  How Sweet It Is by Marvin Gaye; Bettye Everett & Jerry Butler ‘s Let It Be Me; My Guy by Mary Wells; Baby Love by the Supremes; and You’ve Lost that Lovin Feelin by the blue-eyed soul duo, The Righteous Brothers. That was when music was music and not just a compilation of noise, grunts, and offensive language.

I, like other Boomers, grew up in The Vietnam War era when gas cost 30 cents per gallon, a loaf of bread was 21 cents, and a US Postage Stamp, 5 cents. The Beatles were taking the world and America by storm. I owned at least two of their singles; A Hard Days Night and She Loves You (yeah, yeah, yeah).

A talented young boxer by the name of Cassius Clay (he later changed his name to Muhammed Ali) won the boxing world heavyweight championship from Sonny Liston. The Civil Rights Act was signed into law, and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr received the Nobel Peace Prize, but that didn’t stop creative artists like The Last Poets and Gil Scott Heron from rapping politically charged lyrics about revolution.

Most pertinent to this lifelong Washingtonian was when the District of Columbia residents gained the right to vote in a presidential election for the first time. I remember that my dad was so proud to cast his first ballot. I don’t think he ever missed voting during a single election after that.

So many birthdays, so much history.

Although listening to music was one of my favorite pastimes then (and it still is), when I could scrape together enough money, I enjoyed attending shows at The Howard Theater, usually with my best friend, Cookie. She and I laughed ourselves silly while witnessing the antics of rising star comedians like Flip Wilson, Moms Mabley, and Richard Pryor. Back then, theater seats were available on a first-come basis. Cookie and I would rush to get to the Howard an hour before the box office opened so that we would be the first patrons standing in line to buy tickets. After purchasing them, we would race to the front of the auditorium and grab seats on the front row. When the screening of the movie previews and a serial film was over it was showtime. We would scream and act-a-fool (as the old folks would say it) during live performances by musical entertainers like Chuck Jackson, The Temptations, The Four Tops, The Supremes, The Marvelettes and so many others.

Sometimes I spent Saturday afternoons at the Sylvan Theater. If I wasn’t with Cookie, I went along with my parents and siblings. We enjoyed films like Imitation of Life, Sounder, and A Fistful of Dollars. By the time Blaxploitation films emerged, I was a bonafide movieholic and going to other movie houses in the city. I squirmed through films like Melvin Van Peebles’s Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song and cried at the end of Cooley High. (The latter remains one of my favorite films.)

So many birthdays. So many memories.

I’ve aged like fine wine. Over the years, the mature me has expanded my interests to include social activism and politics. Before writing these memories, I couldn’t resist digging up some birthday trivial and I found this. According to the MyBirthdayNinja site, in my previous life (for those who believe in such), I was a publisher and scribbler of ancient inscriptions. (Isn’t that interesting?)

No, you won’t hear me singing any birthday blues, because I see every birthday as a journey. Another landmark. I will treasure every year and enjoy every mile because on each B-Day that I am blessed to be above ground; I will be older than yesterday, but younger than tomorrow.

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