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

The Day I Smoked Raggedy Ann – Part II of 2

by on ·Reminiscing

Fast forward about 23 years, and I am a recently divorced mother of two pre-school-aged children.

We live on an upper floor in a high-rise apartment building. It’s Saturday afternoon, and I am slow-cooking chicken and dumplings. The pot is on the stove’s back burner, and the burner is set on low.

I need to make a quick trip to the bathroom. But, before I go, I look through the doorless doorway between the kitchen and living room to see what my children are doing. They are sitting on the carpeted floor near the sofa. My daughter is playing house with her dolls, toy kitchen, and tea set. My son is busy coloring outside the lines in his picture book.

I steal away to the bathroom. It is about 20 feet straight down the hallway, past our two bedrooms directly opposite the kitchen. When the bathroom door is open, the mirror on the medicine cabinet above the sink provides a clear rear view of the kitchen.

Having been a mischievous child, I knew that even the most well-behaved children could get into anything in a split second. So, out of habit, whenever my children are not sleeping, I always open the bathroom door while washing my hands. I was soaping up when the scent of something burning caused me to look up in the mirror. And I froze. Flames were shooting from the wastebasket set against the kitchen wall about three feet from the stove. (This was a few years before city regulations mandated smoke alarms in apartment buildings.)

I dropped the soap in the sink and sprinted like Flo-Jo down the hallway to the kitchen. My son was standing trancelike inches away from the waste basket and staring at the flames. I hastily opened the door to the lower cabinet opposite the wastebasket. For a split second, my mind flashed back to the cremation of Raggedy Ann. I reached into the cabinet, grabbed a large pot, set it in the sink beneath the faucet, and filled it with water. As I poured the water into the wastebasket dousing the flames, I was thankful that there were only a few tin cans and scraps of paper in the trashcan before it was set afire.

After I was confident that the fire was out, I took my son’s hands, looked him over from head-to-toe and front-to-back, and was relieved that I didn’t see any burns on his skin or clothing. Then, I transformed into angry parent mode.

It took a few minutes of questioning and the “crazy mom” look before he admitted to doing what I suspected. After sticking a piece of paper in the flame beneath the pot, he panicked and threw the lit paper in the wastebasket. I kept silently thanking God that he didn’t toss the burning paper through the doorway and onto the carpet in the living room.

One would think that his punishment – sitting for a considerable time in his little yellow plastic kid’s chair would teach him a lesson. It didn’t.

About two years later, we were living in a different apartment building. My son and his sister were playing outside. As I called for them to come inside, the phone rang, so I told them to play in their bedroom until I got off what turned out to be a lengthy phone call with my best friend.

At some point, after they closed the door to their room, I smelled smoke. I was sitting on the bed, still talking on the phone, and I told my girlfriend I’d call her back.

I hurried to the kids’ room and flung open the door. The room was filled with smoke, but I didn’t see flames and couldn’t tell where the smoke was coming from. I dashed around the room, hurriedly looking inside the closet, in the dresser drawers, behind the curtains, and all around the room, the whole while yelling, “Where is the fire? Tell me where the fire is, now?”

In hindsight, I should have rushed the kids out of the apartment, but I didn’t see flames and wanted to find and extinguish the fire quickly. In the time it would have taken me to usher them outdoors and run back inside to locate the fire, it would have spread.

“The real trick in life is to turn hindsight into foresight that reveals insight.” Robin Sharma

“Dennis and Denise the Menace” stood there wearing the guilty face children display when they know they are in trouble. Finally, my son, the perpetrator of the crime, pointed to the mattress on one of their twin beds. I reached down and flipped the mattress up on its side. A small flame was slowly beginning to spread between the wooded frame of what looked like straw filler inside the bottom of the bed. Never in my life had I felt so afraid. I ran to the bathroom, grabbed a mop bucket, and half-filled it with water from the tub. I left the water running as I ran back and forth, pitching water on the burning area until it was drenched. Then, afraid that the fire might still be smoldering inside the mattress, I lowered the mattress and poured water on the topside, soaking it.

After some prodding, my son told me that he had found a cigarette lighter outside while they were playing. Since I was on the phone, he had crawled under his bed to play with it. Then, in a quivering voice, he told me (parodying a then popular TV commercial), “I just wanted to flick my Bic.”

“Where is the lighter?” I asked through clenched teeth. He stuck his hand in his pant pocket, pulled it back out, unfolded his fingers, and held the lighter toward me. I snatched it from his hand and said, “Don’t you know that you could have burned this place down? I’m gonna flick your Bic.”

That was the last fire-starter incident in our home, and I hope that the childhood pyromania gene in our lineage fizzled out.

One of the cutest Flick Your Bic commercials.

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The Day I Smoked Raggedy Ann – Part I of 2

by on ·Reminiscing

When I say I smoked Raggedy Ann, I didn’t go out and shoot someone with that nickname. However, I did unintentionally kill my doll.

It happened when I was about four or five years old. The only reason I remember this story like it happened yesterday is that my mom repeatedly told it to me while I was growing up.

When the incident occurred, our family lived in a two-story duplex apartment in LeDroit Park. I was a clingy preschooler; my younger sister was a toddler, and my Raggedy Ann doll was my favorite toy and best friend. So, I don’t know why I did what I did to her.

One day, while dad was at work, Mom turned on the oven to preheat it for a cake she was making. I watched her mix the ingredients, anxiously waiting for her to pour the batter into the pan so that I could have the bowl. (Yes, back in the day, kids ate the raw cake batter left in the bowl and licked the spoon, too.)

Mom needed to go upstairs to check on my baby sister, who was napping. So, she led me into the living room, sat me on the sofa, and turned on our old small screen, black and white TV, tuning it to Howdy Doody. “You sit there with Raggedy Ann and watch TV, and I’ll be right back.” She said.

Moments after she goes upstairs, I slide off the sofa and stroll into the kitchen, hugging Raggedy Ann in one arm. I may have dipped a finger in the cake batter and tasted it before walking over to the stove. Our old-fashioned gas stove did not have a window on the oven door nor a light inside. I open the oven door. The heat forces me to take a step back. I toss Raggedy Ann on the bottom rack, shut the door and go back to watching Howdy Doody.

After a few minutes, mother comes running down the stairs and into the kitchen. I jump up from the sofa and run behind her. Seeing smoke gushing from the oven, she begins screaming in a panic. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

She turns off the stove, and after gently pushing me away from the stove and behind her, she opens the oven door. Heavy smoke wafts out of the oven. When mom sees Raggedy Ann smoking, she grabs a knife from the sink, plunges the blade into the doll’s torso, and, holding the handle of the impaled knife, lifts the smoldering doll out of the stove and drops it into the sink. Then she turns on the water, full blast.

While mother is rushing around the apartment, opening the front and back doors and windows to let the smoke out, I stand teary-eyed in front of the sink, looking at Raggedy Ann. Except for the singed red yarn hair on her head, Raggedy is nearly unrecognizable. The blue dress, white apron, and red and white striped stocking are all as black as the eyes that are no longer distinguishable on her previously pale face. Finally, after lecturing me on why never to touch the stove again, mother removed the soaked doll from the sink and discarded her outside in the trash can.

I don’t why I put Raggedy Ann in the oven. It certainly didn’t occur to me that my action would result in my best friend being burned, stabbed, and drowned. Talk about overkill.

Or maybe we should talk about a sense of déjà Vu.

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Hold the Beef: Plant-Based Food vs. Meat

by on ·Food, Plant-Based Food vs. Meat

I’ve been trying to eat more healthful foods for years, mainly by consuming less meat and adding more fruits and veggies. When I began the quest to eat less animal flesh (It sounds nasty when put that way, doesn’t it?), I gave up red meat. Okay, not entirely; I cheat now and then when a steak beckons to me. But I cut back significantly on the red stuff and began eating more chicken, turkey, and fish. Although I occasionally get tired of poultry and seafood, they are my primary substitutes for roast beef, hamburgers, and pork, especially pork chops (smothered in onions and gravy with brown rice and green peas on the side). Mmm, mmm, good.

While doing my best to adhere to my decision to stick with plant-based staples, I discovered and cooked some delicious vegetarian and vegan meals. Last week I prepared a small broccoli, cauliflower, and cheese casserole from a recipe I found online. Loved it! Since my significant other declares he will be a carnivore until his dying day, he didn’t even taste my delicious B&C casserole, but I didn’t mind—more for me. I finished the whole thing in a few days and enjoyed every morsel.

Still savoring the broccoli casserole success, I decided to try my hands at another vegetarian meal – homemade chili. Some folks consider chili ideal for cold winter days. I love good, homemade chili anytime, any season. For years, I made chili using ground beef. About a decade ago, I began substituting ground turkey. When I made chili a couple of days ago, I switched to tofu.

A few folks who I know have told me, while frowning and scrunching up their face, that they don’t like tofu. Some admit they’ve never tried it, but they know they don’t like it. A couple of weeks ago, my daughter-in-law (a recently converted vegetarian) and I were discussing plant-based foods. She expressed her distaste for tofu, saying it is too soft and watery to use for almost any meal she prepares.

Although I experimented with tofu long ago and also found it tasteless, mushy, and nearly intolerable, I decided to give the bean curd another try. Back on the Internet, I went for another recipe. The half-dozen cookbooks I brought at various times over the years are collecting dust in my bookcase. I tried some recipes from those books but only found a few that I liked. Even Patty LaBelle’s cookbooks didn’t hold many recipes that appealed to me. (No offense, Patty. I’ve loved you for decades, ever since I first heard you and The Pips sing “Midnight Train to Georgia.” Woo Woo.) Let me get back on track. (Pun intended.)

So, I made the tofu chili, which was absolutely, positively delicious. Anyone who has eaten tofu knows that plain tofu doesn’t have much taste. However, it absorbs the flavors of seasonings, marinades, and nearly anything it is cooked in, including tomato sauce used in making chili. I am not exaggerating when I say that I couldn’t taste any difference between the tofu chili from the turkey chili. There was only one little problem: I added too much ground cayenne pepper, or maybe it was the chili powder. I’m one of those cooks who seldom bother to measure most of the contents in a recipe. Instead, I’ll estimate a half-teaspoon of this or a tablespoon of that, and into the mixture, it goes. The ingredients in my tofu chili, in addition to the tofu (extra firm) and a variety of spices, included diced green bell pepper, onions, sliced mushrooms, tomato sauce, and kidney beans.

As I said, my chili would have been perfect, except that I added too much cayenne pepper or chili powder. One, or the combination of those two ingredients, set my mouth on fire. I mean, the burn was on. I had tears running down my face and steam coming out of my ears, but by guzzling lots of water, I put out the fire. Aside from that, my chili was delicious. I must tell my daughter-in-law.

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Thought-to-Text Software, You’re Lying!

by on ·Food for Thought, Technology, The Writing Life

Last night, during one of my occasional insomnia episodes, I wrote an entire novel in about 20 minutes. Anyone who has struggled to write anything worth reading will tell you that sometimes composing a single concise paragraph can cause brain strain. So imagine writing an entire novel while lying in bed. I know it sounds hard to believe, but I did that last night. I was proud of my creation. I imagined a best seller. Okay, maybe a best seller is a stretch. I’d settle for making the shortlist for the First Novel Award.

Before the naysayers start shaking their heads, let me clarify.

Some people count sheep to try and force themselves to doze off; I write stories. The novel I created last night was in my head. I considered jumping out of bed, rushing to the computer, and trying to recreate the tale, but I knew from experience that the masterpiece would vanish before I could pull the chair to the desk and sit down. I’m sure of this because it has happened to me more times than I can remember.

Like Tony Morrison and other noted authors I’ve studied, I do my most productive writing in the middle of the night. So, sometimes I climb out of bed around 3 AM, go to the computer, and begin pecking on the keyboard like a mad woman. The goal is to get my thoughts saved before they vanish because I know I’d be fooling myself if I waited until morning, thinking I would remember every detail.

So last night, I got an idea as my conceived novel was dissipating into my subconsciousness. It was more like wishful thinking. What if – I thought, considering all of the fancy technological devices that do everything from responding to voice commands, “Alexa, play Mozart,” to robotic vacuuming our floors – there was a device that responded to thought commands? For instance, take last night, when that remarkable story created itself in my head; how nice would it have been if I could have used telepathy to send that novel to a device on the nightstand that would record my thoughts? Then, in the morning, I could set the gadget next to my computer, push transcribe, and have those thoughts reproduced onto my computer screen.

It would work similarly to voice-to-text software that is already available. So why not thought-to-text (TTT software, or better yet, let’s call it Ms. T software)? What a help that would be for writers. We would merely need to compose in our heads whatever we want to write, be it a poem, article, or novel, and send those thoughts to Ms. T. When we are ready, Ms. T will transcribe those thoughts into language, send them to a computer file, and Walla!

Instead of manually typing the words dictated by the device, we would issue a voice command, “Transcribe.” Initially, folks like me who are fascinated by technology might want to sit in front of the monitor and watch as our story transcribes word-by-word, line-by-line onto the screen, giving us a finished manuscript in minutes instead of hours or years. Then, of course, we might have to go back and clean up the document, proofread and edit it just like we do with voice-to-text software. Voice-to-text or speech recognition software turns spoken words into written words. It’s pretty neat. I use it occasionally, especially if I’m in a hurry to produce a typed document because, like the average Jill, I speak faster than I type.

Maybe, my concept of thought-to-voice software is far-fetched. But, if nothing else, it is a strong plot for a sci-fi novel.

I am a never-say-never, nothing is impossible kind of person. And considering the speed and innovativeness of today’s tech geniuses, I would not be surprised if, during my lifetime, someone didn’t invent a thought-to-text device. Think about it; law enforcement officers might be able to do away with lie detectors. But, unfortunately, like every other well-intended invention, Ms. T could spell trouble in the wrong hands. However, for honorable people, what a boon it would be!

Who knows, perhaps a brilliant and beautiful mind is already working on a TTT program.

“Truth is not only stranger than fiction, it is more interesting.” – William Randolph Hearst

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The Gift: Contemplating the Black Doll, White Doll

by on ·Food for Thought, Lifestyle and Culture, Race Matters

“Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.” ― C.G. Jung

In this Sunday’s Washington Post Magazine, Damon Young wrote a column titled, “Someone gave our daughter a White doll. How do we, um, “disappear” it?” Young’s column is published weekly on the inside back cover of the magazine in the space previously utilized by Gene Weingarten, a former syndicated humor columnist for the paper.

Young, a noted journalist, has written for numerous newspapers and other publications and is also the author of What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Blacker: A Memoir in Essays. In addition, he is the winner or nominee of several awards, including the NAACP Image Award. He has earned his props.

Since Young began publishing his (humorous?) perspective columns in The Washington Post Magazine, I’ve read many of them. One that impressed me, entitled “The Whitest thing I’ve ever seen,” was about the infamous Will Smith slap at the Oscars.

The column in today’s paper flashed me back to an afternoon decades ago, sometime in the mid-1980s. One of my former employers, Harper (Note: I am using pseudonyms for my employer and all of his family members) and his wife had invited me to their home to visit with his adult daughter, Sandy, and her first child, a daughter Ashley. If I remember correctly, Baby Ashley was around three or four months old.

Sandy’s husband, Nick, may have been there too, but I don’t remember seeing him. I had an excellent relationship with these people and had met Sandy on a few occasions before when she had visited her dad from her home on the West Coast.

I could go on about the genuine friendship I had with this family. I liked them a lot, and I feel those feelings were reciprocal, but I want to cut to the chase and reveal how this ties in with Young’s column.

Before visiting the Harper’s home that day, I had contemplated what gift to buy for the baby. I figured that perhaps baby showers and the couple’s friends had already brought numerous presents for Ashley. However, I wanted to give her something unique, so that’s what I got.

After I gave Sandy the nicely store-wrapped gift box during my visit, she opened it to discover a beautiful black baby doll for Ashley.

Some people might question my gift choice, but I saw it this way. Although Sandy and her husband are white, I felt they would have no problem with the black doll. (For my readers who may not have noticed from some of my previous posts, I’m a black woman. Now, back to the topic.) I usually bought black dolls for my daughter but wasn’t bothered when she was gifted white dolls (as she sometimes was). My cousin, Andre, had even sent her a Cabbage Patch doll when he was in the military and stationed in Germany. I still have that doll in my home.

If I were right in thinking that Sandy and her husband were as open-minded and socially conscious as Sandy’s dad, then I knew they would see nothing wrong with diversifying their daughter’s doll collection.

Sandy thanked me and expressed her appreciation. Several months later, I don’t remember whether Sandy sent me a note or if her dad delivered the message, but Sandy wanted me to know how much the child was enjoying her doll. Ashley is a grown woman now, and the doll — I don’t know what became of her.

After reading Young’s column this morning, I was a bit irritated and had some serious cognitive dissonance going on. I was questioning my gift choice all those years ago while at the same time feeling disturbed by Young’s reaction to his daughter’s white doll.

I saw no harm in my choice for Ashley’s doll collection, which I figured would likely grow as she would. But talk about second-guessing a done deal. Young’s column had me wondering if my idea had not been good despite how it seemed at the time. After I left the get-together, did the Harper family react the same way the Youngs had toward the white doll? Did they contemplate what to do with the black doll? My gut feeling says no.

Click on the link to read Young’s column, “Someone gave our daughter a White doll. How do we, um, “disappear” it?” And, since I am always curious to know what my readers think, I’d appreciate your comments on this post.

 

 

 

 

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