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

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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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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The Rhythm of the Stroke

by on ·Journaling/Writing

People who think it is easy to write a book need a serious reality check. I am not trying to discourage aspiring authors, but seasoned writers like Steven King, Nora Roberts, or the late Toni Morrison, who have what I call the gift of the pen would likely agree with me. Quasi-authors, as I refer to those who lack the time or skill to write but are financially able to hire a ghostwriter might also agree. If anyone asks me – no one has, but I’ll say it anyway – I think it is akin to cheating to print a person’s name on the cover as the author when someone else wrote the book. Celebrities are notorious for hiring ghostwriters, and numerous ghostwriters don’t mind remaining anonymous as long as they get paid. So the celebrity gets credited as the author and reaps the benefits from publication, the ghostwriter gets paid, and everybody is happy. Well, that is unless a ghostwriter decides to sue like Courtney Love’s ghostwriter did.

Three decades ago, I was offered the opportunity to ghostwrite a book. My mother even encouraged me to do it, but I didn’t take it seriously. Mistake. Big mistake. The book that I will not name was eventually published. Gosh darn!

According to an NPR article, So You Need a Celebrity Book. Who Ya Gonna Call? Ghostwriters, Madeleine Morel, a literary agent, estimates that at least 60 percent of the books on the nonfiction bestsellers list right now are ghostwritten.

Everybody has a story to tell, and many folks want their story told and sold in book form. It doesn’t matter if it’s a hardcover, an e-book, or an audible version as long as the book brings a financial return; who cares? Unfortunately, wishing and hoping won’t write it for you. It is probably easier for a beginning fisherman (or woman) to land a 30-pound bluefish with a lightweight pole than for a novice to write a book.

Because I persevered, I published my first book six years ago now I am working on a second. And speaking only for those who, like me, are fresh out of the gate, I’ll be among the first to tell you that writing a book doesn’t get any easier the more you do it. Unless you have someplace to seclude yourself away from all disturbances, interruptions will be your first nemesis. The phone, the doorbell, noises outside your window, the television playing in the background, and anyone who lives with you could be a potential interrupter to your train of thought.

Another thing I would tell would-be authors. Writing a book is more than typing words on paper. If you are going to produce a publishable product, then writing, researching, and editing is essential before you even think about sending your book to print.

My other nemeses are procrastination and its sister, writer’s block. When I am in their grip, my mind immediately flashes back to a poem that someone wrote in my high school autograph book at the end of my senior year — “Can’t think. Brain numb. Inspiration won’t come. Bad ink. Worse pen. Best wishes. Amen”

During unproductive times, I call on my muse to motivate me, or being the music lover I am; I hum a few lines from a song to stimulate my writing gene. Lately, I’ve been reiterating, “Get the rhythm of the stroke,” to encourage myself to avoid procrastinating and get with it. That is a phrase from the song Aqua Boogie, released in the late seventies by Parliament. Aqua Boogie was the short title for Aqua Boogie: A Psychoalphadiscobetabioaquadoloop. Whew! That’s a mouthful to say and a brain teaser to write.

Well, enough journaling. It’s time to get back to the rhythm of the stroke on the keyboard and work on the book.

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Extolling the Joy of Friendship

by on ·Aging, Friendship, School Days

Last night I received a wonderful surprise. I could have done a happy dance, but my bad knee wasn’t having it. The surprise was a phone call from my long-time best friend, Loretta. We are septuagenarians now, but we’ve known each other since we were young teenagers. Yeah, that long ago.

We have the same first name, although she nicknamed me Retsie when we were in high school. Nevertheless,  we called each other Sis back then, and still do. In our yesteryears, I knew her family members, and she knew mine. We have shared memories from our high school years, like the time when she and I got called to the principal’s office for circulating a petition demanding that students be allowed to wear sneakers to school (or tennis shoes as they were frequently called back then). That’s right, as shy as I was, that was my initial baby step toward social activism.

Loretta and I had a third “sister” in our clique while in high school, Valerie. I knew Valerie years before I met Loretta. Our friendship went back to grade school. It was through Valerie that I met another life-long friend, Phillip. Phil, as we call him, was a real-life friend before he became one of my Facebook friends.

Sadly, Valerie died in 2004. Anyone who has lost a close friend will know what I mean when I say it is like losing a family member. Over time, our losses may get easier. We learn to live with them, but the space a dear person held in our heart remains forever vacant.

After graduating from high school, time, distance, and life-stage transitions separated our trio, but Loretta, Valeria, and I remained in touch through phone calls and Christmas cards. On at least one or two occasions, I babysat Loretta’s children before having children of my own.

Valerie and I lost contact for a few years but reconnected in 2001. During that time, she persuaded me to attend our 35th high school reunion. I was happy that we spent that time together. Sadly, Valerie died of breast cancer the week before Christmas, 2004.

The last time that Loretta and I saw each other was at Valerie’s funeral. We vowed then to maintain closer contact, but our life journeys intervened again. About ten years ago, I misplaced Loretta’s phone number and lost touch with her. Still, I thought of her often and prayed that she was well and that we would reconnect.

When cell phones became popular, I wasn’t one of those people who gave up my landline and I kept the same number for over 40 years. Fortunately, Loretta, kept that number, too, and the answer to my prayer came when she called me last night. Reunited, we reminisced, laughed, and carried on like high schoolers. We also plan to get together in the near future.

Anyone who has a lifelong best friend understands the joy of growing together over the years with someone who knows you almost as well as you know yourself. What beats having a close friend who knows your early history? High School. Dating and boyfriends. Marriages. Children. Divorces. Some friendships are short-lived; others last a lifetime. But, there is nothing like having a lifelong best friend and confidant with whom you can have candid conversations and who knows your thoughts on most issues even before you express them. A friend who understands your moods, who shares your low spells and the high points. A friend who knows your flaws and accepts your imperfections without being judgmental. A friend who, after a disagreement, has no problem saying, “I’m sorry” or “I was wrong.” A friend who moves on without carrying grudges. I have and have had friends like that.

Unfortunately, like most people my age, I mourn the loss of many dear friends – male and female – who have preceded me in death, and I appreciate every day that I can spend time with those friends who are still around.

As author Edna Buchanon says, “Friends are the family we choose for ourselves.”

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Entertaining Deep Thoughts

by on ·Food for Thought, Opinion, The Way I See It

“Quiet people have the loudest minds.” Stephen Hawking.

I read somewhere that the typical Pisces is extremely introspective. Don’t I know it. My brain seems to always be on hyperdrive, even when I’m sleeping in dreamland.

I contemplate everything. It baffles me that people spend hundreds of dollars on cut-out jeans simply because they are fashionable. And I wonder why birthdays are counted in years instead of days; especially since a day can sometimes seem like a lifetime. I humorously consider that someone who turns 50 on their birthday would be 18250 days old. Then, I imagine trying to fit those figures on a line on a form with only enough space for three digits.

Often my philosophy wavers between believing in predestination and the idea that we are all autonomous beings fueled by self-determination.

Some people ascribe to the doctrine that a Higher Power foreordains everything and that the script of our life is assigned when we are born. As we age, we think that we can control our destiny when we may not. What if we only believe that we have free will because part of the master plan is to let us think that we do?

Consider the epigraph The Appointment in Samarra. Are we always where we are supposed to be at any given time?

Another example. Say that a man is running late for an appointment. He rushes out of the building and anxiously tries to flag a taxi. A cab stops a couple of feet away from him. As he begins walking toward it, another man who had just approached the scene rudely rushes past the first man and hurries into the cab. The driver pulls off and proceeds on the green light into the intersection and is broadsided by a box truck that has run the light. Both the cab driver and passenger are badly injured. Was it predestination that the man from who the cab was stolen avoided the accident?

If someone commits suicide, was it predestined that the person would die that way, or was their free will, their intent to take control, the determining factor in when and how death would occur? Relevant to death, was euthanasia proponent Dr. Jack Kevorkian, an assigned architect of good or a force of evil? Everything is relative, isn’t it?

Do things unfurl in life the way they are supposed to, or is everything happenstance? Are our hopes, dreams, and plans already inbred or assigned to us before we are born, and do we merely follow the script once we are here?

I frequently consider how our thoughts, words, and actions, good or bad, sometimes have extensive reach. The things we say or do can benefit or harm others, often without our knowledge, subsequently a domino effect.

In these contemporary times, it seems that everything and everyone is interrelated far and wide. For example, random hookups that result in childbirths, artificial inseminations, and surrogacies make blood ties far-reaching. Consequently, brothers and sisters, cousins, and other blood relatives can unknowingly develop a physical or sexual love connection without knowing that they are related.

Occasionally, I entertain the idea that we, all of humankind, are on a universal chessboard. Depending on our social and economic status in life, we are the kings, queens, bishops, rooks, and pawns that provide entertainment for the omnipotent powers that be.

Sometimes I am inclined to agree with Shakespeare. Were he alive to paraphrase a line that he gave to Hamlet, he might say of my perpetual curiosity, “The lady doth overthink too much, methinks.”

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