Ms. Margaret of Cassville

Family stories passed from one generation to another are sometimes the only way that one generation of a family becomes real and tangible to succeeding generations. In our family, the prime storyteller was my grandfather. He would always respond to the request, "Tell me a story." To my child's mind, he told great stories, stories I in turn, many years later, told my children. Sometimes they listened , mostly they filed the information away into some mental file called "momma's stories." One day when my daughter was in sixth grade....."momma's stories" became real. She came flying in from school with a question.......

"Did my grandmother really shoot up a Ku Klux Klan meeting?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"From Liz (a kid on the next street whose family came from my home town in the Big Sandy Valley)."

"No, my mother did not shoot up a Klan meeting.."

"Liz's mother said her mother told her....."

"Her mother has the story a little mixed up but that's probably not her fault....


The Old ones came out of Virginia after the end of the Civil War......probably around 1869. My great-grandfather's father had taken him out for a walk one day to talk seriously about the future. The older man was worried. He was growing older...in his middle sixties....and his creeping age concerned him greatly.

"You and your family need to head west. You have to keep my grandchildren safe. If I die tomorrow...you lose your home and everything you have worked for....the others will never let you keep the farm or anything else...because you are a black man. ..

William Henry (according to his son) was outfitted with a wagon, a team, and the basic tools he would need to work a farm and enough funds to help buy property. The family packed their basic belongings in the wagon and prepared to head across the mountains.

The farm that they settled was in a small town once called Cassville. The family managed to buy enough acreage to support everyone as long as everyone was willing to work. (Almost a century and half later...part of that small farm is still family owned.) Cassville was and is the setting for this story......

A time arrived when William Henry and his sons had to be away from the farm for two to three days. Miss Margaret would be at home with the women and children of the family. The women could and would see to the farm chores with the help of the older children. Before he left, William Henry loaded the two ancient shotguns with bird shot and put them in a safe place not accessible to children. The men of the family then left to take care of their business. The team pulled the wagon down the holler, through the town and on to the main road and away the menfolk went.

Certain men of the town watched the family's men leave. It was obvious that they would not be returning before dark so the men of the town decided that after dark would be a good time to sneak up on the pasture field hill under three huge walnut trees to build a bonfire and drink white lightning otherwise known as moonshine. To cover up their activities, town men passed the word that there would be a Ku Klux Klan meeting that night at the head of "Nigger Holler."

The women of the town were not fools and there was no Klan in the town. By barefoot grapevine..someone's children were sent from house to house with a message to be passed on to Miss Margaret. When the message got to the family farm..Miss Margaret hatched her own plan. The women would finish all the chores and give the appearance of closing up the house for the night. Miss Margaret and one of her daughters-in-law would take advantage of a clear moonlit night and climb the pasture field hill through the woods. They planned to hide under the hard shell hickory tree on the ridge slightly above the three black walnut trees.

Their vantage point gave them a clear view of the happenings below. The town men gathered , lit their fire and passed the whiskey jugs around. Miss Margaret and her daughter in law watched,listened and waited until the moon began to make its appearance and the town men were very drunk. She then propped the first gun against a tree branch and aimed for the center of the fire. KABOOM....she fired...the burning cinders exploded out from the fire. The drunks were caught by surprise and ran around knocking cinders off each other. Miss Margaret took the second gun and aimed into the middle of the gathering. KABOOM! The drunk men bolted down the hill toward town...screaming...yelling...and cursing.

The next day, Miss Margaret took her basket of eggs and butter to sell in town. As she walked through town...women came out of their houses to make purchases and someone whispered that the women were forming a Women's Christian Temperance Union that very week and had she heard.....some of the men had gotten drunk last night, shot each other up and were over at Dr. York's house getting birdshot picked out of their skin? Would she have more butter and eggs to sell next week?

The WCTU was formed at the Methodist Church, the Klan never appeared in Cassville again and Miss Margaret sold a lot of butter and eggs.

Excuses, Ironies and Noise Incorporated!

"The computer is fun to play with but why should I learn to do anything else with it?

"School is not important...I'm going to put in my application at the (automobile) plant on Monday!

"What do you mean..I'm not graduating with my class? You didn't teach me anything (of course I have skipped your class since October)! Just give me my makeup work, I'll have it in on Monday...

"What do you mean...copying my term paper word for word from the internet is an automatic F?

"I'll put my cell phone up as soon as I text the answers to your test to my friend across the room...

"The answers on both our papers are the same...there is no way I could have flunked..wait a minute...the questions are different...that's not fair!

"Why should my son have an F...It doesn't matter that he was late to class every day of the semester...so what if he was only there ten minutes a day...of course I got your message on my answering machine..I didn't have time to call you back...

"Yeah, I signed for your syllabus with the class requirements...but I didn't think my kid had to do all that stuff...that's a lot of work....

"I don't care if final exams are next week and its the end of the semester.....our family is going on vacation to Florida...can't you schedule the tests some other time?

"You black teachers don't know anything..you don't have any education...everyone knows black people are dumb (from a "black" parent)....

"I want my child transferred to a white teacher 'cause everybody knows these black teachers are ignorant (from a white parent).....

"All it says is that I have to take the class, it didn't say I have to pass the class!

"I don't care if my daughter is the top student in Honors Spanish IV. She is dropping the class and going to work ......she doesn't need to know a foreign language..she needs to help me pay the bills!

"Yeah...I'm going to engineering school but this is my senior year...I'm dropping Mr. Jones' calculus class...he gives too much homework and I need to have some fun..besides I haven't done any work and I have a failing interim and that will mess up my Grade Point Average...and I'm number 1 in my class...!

"How do you know this student is high on drugs....he comes from a fine family...no I have no idea how a five foot tall, 120 pound male child could throw an oak sudent desk weighing close to 40 pounds the 35 foot length of your classroom and make a dent in the wall.......or why he then fell on the floor and started having convulsions...
(from an elderly principal who skipped the in-service on PCP and its affects on young teenagers....never saw this kid again...he is still in the state hospital...)

"You can'd flunk me just because my homework is written in four different handwritings!"

"My son can't be skipping school...I just dropped him off at the front door...You say you can see him from the window and he is walking away from school...the mounted police officer is walking him back to school...you must be mistaken...hold on a minute, I have another call....I apologize, the police just called me...they picked my kid up walking down the alley behind the school..."

"I know we laid you off on Wednesday...but we don't have anyone else with the right certification to teach your class....so can you come in on Monday (and every day until the end of the semester)!"

"We can't order any more textbooks...your textbook is out of print...I have no idea how you are supposed to teach a class of forty students when they have no books!"

"I'm not going to get upset because my daughter stole your extra textbook off your desk...it wasn't the teacher's edition...that's the book I told her to take..I don't care if it was a personal copy and you paid for it...."

"I know I changed your teaching schedule without asking you, changed your room and gave it to another teacher, cost you the extra pay for chairmanship of the department I moved you out of, overloaded your classes, but I don't understand why you are retiring!"

As the principal unlocks my door (in the middle of class) and asks why I sent a female student home (because her red thong underwear was showing above the waist of her too-tight jeans) "I don't see anything wrong with how she is dressed!"

As the same principal stomps into my classroom during my planning period...glares at the 20 seniors who came in an hour early to finish their homework..."What class is this...why are they out of control!" I pull my glasses down on my nose in imitation of my father, "I't senior study hall and none of them have a class this hour and neither do I!" The principal rapidly back pedals out of the room and disappears down the hall. The seniors finish their homework and keep on talking.

Time passes and I move on.

Brother, I Fixed Your Cigarettes!

My only brother was a generation ahead of me...so much so that when his army commanding officer told him that his mother had had a baby (me) he was ready to argue that the senior officer must have it wrong, surely his sister, who was a year younger than he, had had a baby. I'm pretty sure he was rather shocked when he got home from World War II and there was a toddler walking around the house. Not too long after that, my two year old self got even with him for dissing me. How did I do that? I remember it well....

World War II and its aftermath was a time of world turmoil...not only in the battle zones but also on the home front. My newly widowed father traded his ration coupons for women's stockings for (canned) milk coupons to feed the baby (me). Hill folk have always figured a way to work through hard times. The history books talked about people planting "victory gardens" and I remember asking how these "victory gardens" were different from every day gardens which everyone in the neighborhood planted? I don;t remember getting an answer but then, I really didn't need one. I know, I'm digressing from my story.

Tobacco was rationed during war times and i don't really remember it being too plentiful after the war was ended. At any rate, when my brothr came home he had developed a smoking habit...manufactured cigarettes...not roll your own like many folks did. Think I remember a camel on the package that he kept sitting in the window of his bedroom. On this particuoar day, Daddy had a new rifle and he and my brother were sitting on the garden steps taking target practice against the bull bats that used to flock over for hours. I had been sent in the house and told to stay,. Daddy was not to be disobeyed so I was in the house trying to find a window to watch from. If I sat on my brother's bed, I could see them perfectly, so there I was...watching...and then...I spotted that carton of cigarettes and a large empty ash tray. Very carefully, I opened each pack of cigarettes and then...each cigarette and carefully piled all that tobacco in the ash tray..until all the cigarettes were gone.

Much later, I remember telling Harry, "Brother, I fixed your cigarettes!" The only thing that saved me that day is that Daddy picked me up and carried me the 150 feet down the hill to my grandmother. Daddy didn't smoke cigarettes....he would occasionally light the tip of a cigar...chew the other end flat and throw the whole thing away...so I doubt if he was that upset....but my brother was angry for a long, long time.

Because You Can????????

Now let me see, a man is caught carrying an assault rifle at an appearance by the President of the United States and he is still walking around freely? A news organization has films of other civilians carrying guns at an appearance by the President of the United States? They are all walking around freely? THERE IS SOMETHING GRAVELY WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE!

In 1963, there was a man in Texas carrying a rifle during an appearance by the President of the United States. That rifle carrier shot and killed the President of the United States. Why? Because he could? That infamous day in history still sticks in my mind and it always will. I was alone in the newspaper office that day. Because of my college class schedule, I reported to the newspaper office at shortly after 11:30. Officially, the office was closed but in order to get my scheduled work hours completed, I went in that day during the lunch break. The office and print shop were quiet...everyone else had gone to lunch. I had story notes to work on and in the quiet of the office, I could stare at the typewriter, get my thoughts together and write. I remember the phone ringing and I thinking it may have been my editor, W. Foster "Pap" Adams, I answered the phone. The voice on the other end of the line asked what I had heard about Dallas...that some one had said the President had been shot, All I could say was that I didn't know for sure and since I was the only person in the office, I could check but as soon as the next person came in, I would call back and let them know.

I remember thinkinbg that this couuldn't be true...shooting a President didn't happen in a civilized world..after all this was 1963...not 1865...people didn't do such crazy stuff...did they? I called my roommate and asked her to bring the portable radio when she left our dormitory room on her way to class. I remember Marguerite arguing with me...she was listening to the news. I remember telling her that it was my damn radio and it had batteries in it...to just bring it when she came by the newspaper office since she had to pass that building on her way to class.

By the time I actually had the radio..it was obviously true,,,not only had someone shot the President of the United States...someone had killed the President of the United States. The news was confirmed and I like many young people (and some not so young people) across the nation was in a state of shock. How could this be? If "they" could shoot and kill John Fitzgerald Kennedy in broad, open, daylight in Dallas, Texas, in front of a crowd.....were any of us safe...anywhere...anyhow? Students banded together in small groups...we desperately needed the proximity of one another...that proximity gave us the illusion of safety,,,maybe we could protect one another,,,more reasonably..we felt an illusory safety in numbers.

That day and every day until John Kennedy was laid to rest in Arlington Cemetery...we clung to each other and to our mentors..our teachers,,,our elder friends. None of us wanted to be alone...we stayed in our small groups..we grieved the loss of innocence,,,the anguish of reality hit hard. Little did we realize that this was only the first of three asassinations that would disrupt our illusion of safety over the next five years.

The governmental powers assured us that our president would be safe..that he would be protected and that we would not experience such a calamity again. I think I actually believed that until it was announced that Lyndon B. Johnson would speak the the University of Kentucky in the spring. Since I had never seen a sitting president, I wanted to attend this speech. Our newspaper went through all the pre scribed steps to get appropriate credentials for me (according to a two page letter from the U.S. Secret Service). The day arrived and I dressed (professionally) to catch the bus from Berea to Lexington. Since I would be catching the last bus in that evening, I grabbed my jeans and a sweat shirt, rolled them up military style (like my brother had taught me) and placed them in my handtooled leather shoulder bag that my father had given me. My camera (that precious Argus C-3 that I had purchased from a photographer friend) was put atop my clothes and locked in my bag. Off I went to the UK field house...to the appropriate press entrance...where I pulled out my credentials...expecting to be searched or at least checked in by the Secret Service. NOBODY checked me in...nobody searched my purse...all I did was walk in. (That's right - I walked in unchallenged, unverified, unchecked and I walked out steaming mad!) I don't remember what President Johnson said that day but I remember telling "Pap" Addams that there was no way I would write a story on the speech but I had plenty to say. That was my first editorial and he gave be my precious by-line....focused pointedly on what I considered a total lack of security surrounding the President of the United States!

Here we are today in the 21st Century. Lunatics are irresponsibly carrying guns and assault weapons near where our PRESIDENT is speaking and they are not arrested...not stopped...allowed to go on about their lunatic way! The 44th President of the United States is a black man and whether a threat is real or merely implied doesn't make a damn bit of difference, Don't hand me that garbage about the Constitutional right to carry a weapon. My father was a gun collector, my brother was a gun collector, I was taught to handle a gun when I was quite young. I don't need to brag about my competence with a weapon and I don't need to carry a weapon in a public place (Of course, I am a black woman...I would have been thrown under the jail house if I had been caught publicly with a weapon.... permit or no permit!) What happened to responsibility,rational thought, and common sense? Why buy the excuse..."because I can!" Many individuals in black communities have had guns stripped from them but these other people can carry guns around our PRESIDENT and nothing is done? There is obviously a disconnect here.

Lets get my position clearly defined. For years I was the gun owner in my house. My father gave me my first gun when I was single and lived in a northern Ohio city. One night some would be thief tried to break in my house. This person was not successful for two reasons. The strong, solid wood door was double bolted and there was a set of sharp teeth barking loudly on the other side of the door.....which imjediately resulted in all the lights in the house being turned on. Immediately...breaking in that house was too risky. The next day I drove home and picked up a shotgun and shells loaded with buckshot. If ever I was forced to load and shoot that gun, the intruder would probably still be alive but in a great deal of pain as the shot was picked out of his torso in the emergency room! There are other factors here that must be considered. Did I know how to use the gun? Yes, and that was a lesson learned from the respnsible adults in my childhood. REMEMBER...THAT GUN IS NOT A TOY! Later in life, when my children were small and I was on the highway between the East Coast and home in the mountains, there was a weapon in my vehicle...a loaded one that I could get to if necessary. Did I know how to use that weapon? NEVER POINT A GUN AT ANOTHER HUMAN BEING UNLESS YOU INTEND TO USE IT! The last gun I owned, I kept for sentimental reasons...it was my father's and since I am now old...he no longeer lives except in memory. The key to gun ownership is RESPONSIBILITY.

I do not think carrying an assault weapon in a crowd, in an urban area is responsible ownership. Personally unless one is a weapons dealer (or an assassin), why own a weapon that is designed to kill other human beings? Why would any sane individual carry a weapon to a political rally? The implied threat is so obvious that a child would run screaming and given the history of the last sixty years in this country, I would be leaving promptly. If I have to carry a weapon to a political rally to feel safe....I don't need to be there and neither does any other rational person. GUNS ARE NOT TOYS nor are they justification for bragging rights. There is a huge difference between sportsmen who own hunting weapons or folk who keep a secured gun to protect the safety of their home and these lamebrains who play "dare me" with their "because I can" excuses. "Methinks something is rotten in Denmark" oh,oh....I mean Arizona!

The Family of Man

Our family is of mixed blood and I choose not to get into a discussion of just how “mixed” we are. That ultimately does not matter, We are who we are. The defining word is FAMILY and if you are murky of thought enough to step on the toes of one of my family members, I just may have to step back on yours (on your foot, not on your family members)! That is the essence of family .... we all hang together for survival purposes or we hang separately and do not survive. It seems to me that this credo is also a significant part of the foundation that underscores the United States of America. There is a viciousness of spirit afoot in these political times that frankly exemplifies a callousness of spirit …an inability to be in the least sensitive to the feelings of others, an inability to exhibit anything other than the ultimate selfishness, a totally ego driven monologue!

Homeless people ( and that could easily be you or me or almost anyone we know) are being arrested for being on the streets of many cities and yet, they have no place to go, One of my sons watched a police car (from a nearby small town) pull into the city and immediately pull over to the curb. From the bar separated back seat, a thin man with his pitiful belongings contained in a (what was once) an olive green military rucksack was put out of the car. The policeman executed an illegal u-turn and returned in the direction of his community of origin. His former passenger stood for a moment on the city sidewalk and then finally picked up his rucksack and trudged off in the general direction of one of the local homeless shelters. If he was hungry, he dare not be caught asking for food..if so…he would be arrested for illegal vagrancy in that particular urban jurisdiction. If he had no verifiable address, he could not even ask for food stamps or even a survival welfare payment…what could he do? This old fellow with the rucksack was not as lucky as the elderly man who stopped me one day as I came out of Arby’s in the down town area (of the same city) and asked, oh so quietly, if I had enough money to get him something to eat. Luckily on that day, I had a twenty in my jeans pocket which I handed to my son with the request that whatever the elder man wanted, would be purchased. To my surprise, the elder asked for only a child’s meal. Quietly I told him that he would have anything he wanted that he did not have to take the cheapest meal on the menu. Very gently he replied that this was all he needed…that he really couldn’t eat any more. He got his food, my son and I went our way as the elder man went his way. I have never seen him since that day but I often find myself wondering about him and wondering if I could have done more. He could so easily have been a member of my family or anyone else’s family. He belonged to someone...somewhere.

During the Great Depression ... a lone man came down the holler (hollow to you non Appalachians) to my grandparents house. He walked along the creek through the pasture and crossed the bridge between the hen house and the smoke house , then knocked on the kitchen door. My grandparents opened the door, invited him in and asked if he was hungry. They fed him from the family’s food that day and seated him at the kitchen table. He had only one other request. He’d noticed that the family had a barn and a hayloft. He had been sick for several days as he rode the freight train and he was tired. Could he sleep in the hay loft that night? It would be warm and safe and spring nights in the mountains can be cold. The grandparents agreed that this would be no problem and did he need a blanket or two. He stayed several days and nights but ... just never seemed to get any better. Finally, one fateful morning when Grampa went to carry him food, he found that the stranger had died during the night. The family elders gathered together and decided that they would treat him as a member of the family and if this being so…if ever a family member was lost and broke and far from home…maybe someone else would take them in. The old ones went to the top of the mountain to the family cemetery and dug his grave. They gathered everyone together to speak Words over the stranger and laid him in the ground near the great-grandparents. As a child, I often asked Granny who this stranger was. Her only reply was that they had never asked his name…they only knew that he needed help and they were willing to help. Every Decoration Day of my childhood Granny made sure that flowers were put on the stranger’s grave just like on the graves of the rest of the family.

The wealth of our family has always been in one another…not in dollars and coins. Granny was a giant at 4 feet 11 inches and her teachings have come down through the generations. Probably the most important lesson she taught us was to be civil with one another, to never deliberately try to inflict hurt (physical or emotional) on each other or on any other human being. That lady had no tolerance for bigotry (and she had very good reasons) or for intolerance. We didn’t have to agree with one another but we did have to think, to reason, to be civil with one another because after all, “God Doesn’t like UGLY!”

Arguments are not won by distorting the truth or by lying. You don’t spread rumor or innuendo and you don’t threaten bodily harm on one another. Another statement Granny used to say was “You are your brother’s keeper!” I never realized how unique her perceptions were and as a child I probably never valued her teachings as much as I do now. I am tired of these people who will not reach out a hand to help others, who think they are too good to help the homeless, or people without health insurance, or the poverty stricken mother with small children, or even the immigrant family who came to this country seeking a better life. Seems like I want to remind these folk that unless you are a person descended from the Native American standing on the shore watching the ships arrive…we are all immigrants illegal or legal! Did anyone’s ancestors ask the Native American for permission to settle here? I thought not!

Sick and Tired of Being Sick and Tired!

These are my last comments on the Gates incident and the title above expresses my most heart felt sentiments. Unlike my president who thinks that bringing the principals into a face to face discussion of what happened in Cambridge, MA, I no longer believe that there will be positive results from that conversation. The after incident brouhaha has illustrated even more divisions in our society than I would have wanted to believe. The racial split is too obvious, the class split is a little more sheltered from site and the cops versus "them" (whoever "them" may be), is the most disturbing and infuriating.

Some time ago, shortly after my husband and I had bought our first home, a neighborhood kid (a 13 year old with an extensive juvenile record) broke into the house with three other youngsters. When they were unable to steal the stereo system that my husband had so carefully put together over a period of years, the kids grabbed newspaper, placed it in the middle of the bed and started a fire. Unfortunately for the juvies, a veteran Toledo detective had spotted the kids breaking in the house. As he sat in his car, he checked out home ownership and figured out what was going on. He watched the juveniles come out of the house (carrying nothing because they couldn't untangle the stereo system wires which were carefully taped together) and spotted smoke coming from the second floor. He radioed the fire department (which luckily was two blocks away) and because of his vigilance, the house was saved from total destruction. His professionalism saved our first house from total destruction. The next day, he and one other officer presented picture of several young men and simply asked if we knew any of them. I identified all four quite easily...they were neighborhood kids....who saw me almost every day. In spite of the fact that a detective had caught them in the act, not a single one of those kids ever came to trial because someone in the legal system identified them as "poor misguided, misunderstood miscreants." That officer did his job, the legal system did not. Do I identify hims as a bad cop or a racist? No, I do not. We thanked him for doing his job (much to his embarassment) but we had no complaints.

I was young and naive in those days. I actually believed police were supposed to "protect and serve" and that they were present to protect the boundaries of common decency in our neighborhoods. Of course, I knew about Bull Connors and his water hoses. What young adult of the civil rights era did now know about racist, bad cops? The turmoil of the 60's in a sence led to a quieter time in the 70's when we were trying to sort out the lessons we had learned from those teachable moments.It was ten years later when I ran into a cop that not only lied but was willing to write the lie in his report and go to court and swear to his lie. That time I was pulled over in a speed trap on US 52 in southern Ohio. When I went to court, I managed to proved my innocence. For appearing in court, I was fined seven dollars in court cost and the so-called speeding ticket was torn up. (I have always figured that the court costs were charged because I argued with the judge which had nothing to do with the cop.) That particular cop may or may not have been a racist but...he was definitely a liar. The speed trap incident bothered me for a long time because one of my best friends from childhood was the daughter of the police chief in the small West Virginia town where I grew up. I did not want to believe that a cop could be so unethical...it wasn't supposed to happen.

Before my daughter was born, her father and I went to a friend's house for dinner. He and his wife lived in an apartment near the University of Toledo and we had been friends for quite some time...in fact, we had gone to their wedding. As we putt-putted to our home inthe Old West End in our 70 VW beetle, two Toledo cops pulled us over. I am sure they both caught my schoolteacher glare as I asked why we had been stopped. They asked if we had come from the university area and when we answered yes, they indicated that there had been a robbery in that area a few minutes before and the thieves had absconded in a VW beetle. They then (politley) asked if they could search the car. I shrugged my shoulders and told them to go ahead. Our trunk was filled with miscellaneous stuff from my old apartment. I sat there and watched them pull everything out piece by piece. Let's face it, thieves do not bother with area rugs and assorted books and dishes. After they were satisfied that we were not the thieves, they apologized and started to leave until I folded my arms and suggested that since they had taken everything out of my trunk, they should put everything back! They looked kind of sheepish but they did as I asked. Because they were white and I was black, should I call them racists? No...there was no reason to go that route...they were simply doing their job.

I relate these incidents to simply say...every contact a black person has with a police officer is not negative. After all our neighbor, who was then our local police chief, shared our grief when our son died. He could have cared less that he was white and we were black. He was simply our neighbor (and no this is not a small town, it is a small city). Would I call him a racist? NO, not unless I want to sound like a fool and that is what I would be.

However, on Martin Luther King day nearly six years ago, I ran into a cop who was not only a racist, he was definitely profiling and he was a liar. Without going into any details, his lies tripped him up. The more he tried to explain himself (after the fact) the more his inconsistencies tripped him up. (Does this sound familiar?)
I will not go into details except to say that when a person puts on that badge and picks up that gun, that person needs to understand not only himself/herself but the people he (or she) comes into contact with on a daily basis. The officer that truly understands his/her community and the people in that community, the better a police person he or she will be. That officer is to be respected. The officer who is ego-involved, who misrepresents the truth on a police report, who is on a power trip, who does not respect the cultures within the community, who lets his contempt for people of different (religion, race, culture, life-experience) show does not need to wear the badge...ever. I really don't care if the cop is male, female, black, white, pink, purple or polkadotted, gay or straight. Defending the mistakes of a fellow cop when you know that a mistake was made..contributes to a negative view of all who wear the badge (and the black female cop with her vitriolic defense of an error
in judgment as well as the black male cop who did the same needs to examine her/his relationship with the greater community of minorities). Do me and the rest of us old black folk...STAY OUT OF OUR NEIGHBORHOODS....you don't have the life experience to understand what we see amd have seen in the last forty plus years of our adult lives.

Why Can't We Communicate?

The brouhaha about Dr. Gates continues into the third day and I find myself answering the question, “Why are we so far apart? Why do we disagree so much on the reactions of both man?” Before we can answer the questions as to why the divergent viewpoints, there is a more critical question….WHO are the disagreeing parties?

Several years ago I was standing in the hall way of the high school where I worked until my retirement. Since it was my so called “free period” (translation –I wasn’t scheduled to teach) I was monitoring the hall. The white (and I use this racial description merely to establish parameters) kid coming down the hall was probably a freshman, he obviously hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet . Since the young man wasn’t one of the habitual hall walkers, I stood quietly against the wall and waited for him to come closer. About that time, the principal, a tall black (again I am establishing parameters) man, bolted out of his office door and in the manner of large school principals confronted with too man children in the hall, immediately started yelling at the kid.

“Why are you in the hall? Where are you supposed to me? Where is your pass? Why aren’t you looking me in the eyes?” At that point I came off the wall, raised my voice a notch and in a tone of urgency, “Mr. Williams, I need to see you a moment…NOW.” Since I rarely raise my voice, the principal caught the fact that I needed an immediate action so his next comment to the kid in the hall was, “You wait right here, I need to see this teacher.”

Very quietly I spoke to the principal. “Stop yelling at that student, You have scared him to death. He is NOT disrespecting you or your authority…he is trying his best to be respectful ….and polite!” Now that I had his attention, I could continue. “You are asking him to look you in the eyes and if he does, that is extreme disrespect!”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand….?”

“This kid is Appalachian and well bred Appalachian children never look an adult in the eyes, especially one who is chastising them. If a kid makes that mistake, they expect to be backhanded and I do mean backhanded immediately!” I waited a second for my message to sink in…then continued, “I know……because my four foot eleven inch (Appalachian) grandmother would already have used her left hand on my face!” The principal looked at me and then asked, “Are you serious?” I nodded and said quietly, “As serious as a massive heart attack.” The principal looked at me questioningly and I nodded in the affirmative.

Mr. Williams wheeled around and turned back to the kid, “Come on my man and walk with me for a few minutes. I need to go in the cafeteria and get something to eat…..I didn’t eat breakfast this morning. Now, you sit right here and wait for me.” The tall man went back into the kitchen and came back with his coffee, a milk, an orange juice and two sausage and egg sandwiches. He kept one sandwich and the coffee and gave the rest to the kid. “Sit here with me a minute while we eat and then, I’ll walk you back to class. You are not in trouble. Whose class are you supposed to be in…don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” The instance had moved from a “he’s picking on me” scenario to a male bonding routine and the anger on both sides had been diffused. Because the principal trusted my judgment, I had been able to intervene in a situation which could have had very negative results. Because the adult male was listening and trying to bridge the gap between two cultures, he had gained the student’s respect and trust, a trust that would continue until the student left school…because that kid knew he could ask to see “Mr. Williams” if there was a problem and the man would listen (and not overreact).

What happened in Dr. Gates situation was a little more complicated. Any black man and many other men of minority cultures understood exactly what happened (without further explanation) and the extreme out of context disrespect shown by the Cambridge cop. Sadly it appears that the cop either does not know what he did wrong or does not care! Ironically when the chief of police says that his officer had actually taught a class on “racial profiling” at the police academy…..the majority of black men around me reacted with “Sure, he did. He probably taught them how to profile!” Sad but true.

My family lives in a small mid-western city. A few years ago we had a chemical accident in our town, an accident that required the town to be evacuated because of excessive smoke and fumes. My husband and I had been out in our neighborhood, about three or four blocks from home when the smoke began to cover the sky. We turned the car around and headed home. When we came to the four-way stop down the street, a police car pulled up behind us. In my rear view mirror, I watched the cop on his radio and said to my husband…”There’s a cop behind us and he is running our license plates. Don’t look back, let’s see what happens.” I knew the second the cop got a reply because he suddenly peeled out and made a sudden left hand turn into the next alley….which took him away from us. That officer had common sense enough to check facts before he did something with negative results.

If Crowley had backed out of the situation and apologized to Dr. Gates as soon as he verified his identity, the incident would not have escalated into the national news. Instead Crowley’s ego went into power trip overdrive. Why do I come to this conclusion?
1. Age difference – A 60 year old college professor who is in his own
house expects to be treated with respect, not with Gestapo tactics
and threats. Any cop coming to my door had best stand on my stoop
and wait until he is (or isn’t) invited in and if he hasn’t had time to
go through the amenities, his explanations should be prompt and
logical.

2. If this cop is such an expert on racial profiling (and I doubt he is) ,
He should have immediately understood how his posturing and presence would appear to Dr. Gates. The fact that he didn’t is cultural unawareness (remember the “he’s not looking me in the eyes..” response of the principal).

3. Testosterone overdrive- (or I’m gonna show this nigger who’s boss)!
At this point Crowley knew (or should have known) he had overstepped his bounds but he was hell bent on being “in charge.” The minute Dr. Gates asked for a name and badge number (which is his right), Crowley knew (or should have known) the situation had been reversed. Instead testosterone overdrive escalated (again, I’m gonna show this nigger who’s boss).

4. FOP support- Oh come on! Do you really think any union is going to
admit publicly that one of its members screwed up? As a former union steward and board member, I know better. The private communication might be “How could you do something so stupid?” but publicly, the union is probably not going to criticize its member. However, this situation is very dicey, the union is walking a very thin line.

5. I also have to say, this. The “I tried to save Reggie Lewis” excuse
sounds too much like the “some of my best friends are black (white, pink, purple and/or polka dotted)” cliché. Frankly, if these people of different ethnicities and cultures were your friends, you would know better than to deliberately take actions which would be offensive to them.

My final reaction has to be that racism and a lot of other “isms” are “as American as apple pie.” This country is supposed to be a melting pot of cultures, languages , and peoples. Too often we focus on the ways that we are alike and tend to forget that the ways we are different are just as important. Whether you choose to be a teacher, a preacher, a police officer, a social worker or whatever…..understanding the different cultures and languages that make up this country are endemic to the success of you job.

The English as a Second Language teacher who had Moslem students copying phrases from an English language Bible was just as (culturally) wrong as she could be and couldn’t figure out why the children’s parents were angry. After all, she didn’t do anything wrong! REALLY! Think about it!

In His Own Home!

Here we are, in the year 2009. We have lived through a myriad of experiences from blatant segregation to an on the surface much more free America and yet..and yet …it is the same old, same old face of racist behavior that rises and bites us like the coiled serpent it has always been.

Several states away, a fellow black Appalachian comes home from an overseas business trip. He is tired and probably looking forward to the peace and quiet of his home, the comfort of his favorite chair or the comfortable spot in his bed which translates to a restful time before he has to face the re-emergence of his daily work. Now he is confronted with a weather warped front door. His key snaps the lock open but the door will not budge. I can only imagine the profane comments running through his head as he drops his luggage on the front stoop of his house, grabs his cane and stalks to the back door, accompanied by the driver who ferried him home form the airport. Again, he applies his key and the door opens. Thank heavens, he is back on his own turf, in his own house. Now comes the struggle to get his traveling luggage inside. In frustration he stomps to the front door and with the help of the man who helped get his luggage inside, he finally manages to force the front door open. At that point, he thanks the driver for his assistance, perhaps offers the obligatory tip and reaches for the phone to call the people responsible for the maintenance of his home. Probably the only thought in his head is to get someone there to fix the door…a issue that needs to be settled before much needed rest and down time can be addressed.

As he talks on the phone, a stranger’s voice addresses him, What idiot can this be in his house? Who would dare just walk in? He turns and then here stands some cop in his house, What the hell! Instead of identifying himself, this intruder demands the identify of the homeowner. Now, he must rummage in his pockets for the driver’s license, for his work I.D. because this upstart youngster wears a uniform with a badge. Aha!, there is the required documentation complete with photo and address. But the stranger is still yapping like a puppy. The elder man returns the request, ‘Who are you and what is your badge number?” The yapping puppy walks away without giving the required information. The elder man’s temper rises at this total lack of respect and he walks toward the door…raising his voice…again asking for the identifying data. Like a yapping puppy, the cop turns and threatens the elder. OH NO! THAT IS NOT DONE…in our hills, in our community, in our own homes. The elder knows he is no criminal, no outcast of society, no suspicious person out of his appropriate surroundings. At that point confrontation was inevitable and the battle was joined.

The ensuing confrontation between Dr. Henry Louis Gates and this quasi control freak cop hits the newspapers and the internet and the shouting begins, There probably isn’t a black person of middle age in America who didn’t understand the scenario of what happened in Cambridge, Massachusetts. We didn’t have to be there because all of us have either had or know someone who has had, a confrontation with a culturally ignorant, insensitive individual hiding behind a badge and a gun. Because my hair is gray and I am on the downhill slide of 100 years, am I supposed to be afraid of a cop’s uniform? Forget that, it is not happening. It didn’t happen in my first 50 years and it is not happening now. All cops are not power crazed individuals or even racists but life has taught me that a significant percentage of people with deep psychological issues in relating to minority individuals gravitate to that profession. Hiding behind badge and gun allows these people to suspend common sense and act upon the wild fantasies of their bigotry. Sometimes they survive for years and then, luckily, for the rest of us there are some who are tripped up by their bigotry and false perceptions of their fellow man. Those are the cops who get fired for their aberrant behavior. Unfortunately, not enough of those individuals are weeded out. In the 21st century there are a whole lot of Bull Connors types still out there.

The bogus apology coming from the Cambridge Police Department ( in my opinion) needs to be tossed out the with bathwater. I sincerely hope that Dr. Gates takes the whole issue to court!

Writer's Block 101 - Random Thoughts

The lady's name was Emily Ann Smith and she was my long ago teacher. For the past times she was a true non-conformist, for these times she would be a quiet feminist, a true paragon of competence. She pushed, she prodded, she demanded, and I don't think I was ready for the lessons she forced upon me. Today I am greatful that she was exactly who she was. Today I handed myself the excuse that I have writer's block and in the background of my mind I can hear her snort of absolute disapproval along with the forceful statement, "There is no such THING!" Among the words I do not say is that writer's block adds up to a person's inability to pop in the ear plugs and lock the door so that no person and no thing can interrupt the thoughts rushing through a concious mind as quickly or more quickly than fingers can hit the computer keyboard!

Today is supposed to be a rainy day but that promise has not come to fruition yet. The clouds are gray and hazy but there is little wind and no sign of falling moisture ...yet. Perhaps I should invoke the old wives tale and take my Honda to the car wash. Then rain would surely come and my vehicle would fall apart in shock simply because I washed it. My arthritic joints are complaining but I don't have either the time or the inclination to listen to creaks and such. From her Facebook entry, I see that my niece was out last night with her sorority sisters enjoying an evening with other young single women in a city that is too full of women and empty of any significant number of upstanding, forthright, eligible men. I spent four years in that city as a young single woman and then took the advice my eventual mother-in-law offered...it was time to get out of there. My mother-in-law was right...it was time. Instead of writing, thinking and growing....in that city it was much too easy to get caught up in the day to day drama of other people's issues and mor importantly...simple survival issues. There are always the physical and mental survival issues of pay the rent, buy food, occasionally shop for whatever strikes one's fancy and oh yes, what is LIFE all about. Those are perfect issues for the young but now that I have passed through those years..they deserve only a passing thought and the encouraging comment of ..."Have fun!"

Aha! A cloud parted and now the sun is peeping through with its strong shot of bright light. Now the day is no longer as oppressive as its beginnings. There are times when I think that is why GOD created sunshine and its opposite rain. That creation of opposites gives mankind a strong burst of hope along the pathway of what is always the unknown future! On the other hand, some of my best days, days when the words are flowing together and the ideas form effortlessly come on rainy days and have since I was a very young writer, I can remember sitting on my grandmother's back porch with the precious beat up red typewriter that my uncle had brought home to me...tapping away. I was never a great typist and I'm still not the best. Uncle Carter used to laugh at me and say that my mind flew faster than my fingers. I truly think that he was probably right...esecia;;y when I look at some of the typos that I make even with my computer keyboard. Uncle Tom would not believe the computer that his little red typewriter has changed into and Uncle Carter would certainly say thet "Sis still can't type very well!" and he would be right. They both would than laugh and say...but she is still writing. Uncle Jack, the youngest uncle, is probably chiming in with "But when is she going to finish writing the family story?" The final comment would be Daddy's...."Isn't it time you got back to work and quite blaming Writer's Block?" And when my father asked that question, one eyebrow would be raised as he waited for my next word or action.

Okay! Okay! I get the message. It's time to get to back work!

Independence Day!

For the first time in my life, I can face Independence Day with a different attitude. Of course, I will do the traditional things, fire the grill, barbecue the chicken and/or pork chops, make the macaroni salad, think about going to the next town to watch fireworks, go up to the farm market on the hill and get some fresh melon...that's right, I said WATERMELON and if I decide to sit on my front steps and eat the melon...that is exactly what I am going to do. After all, this is the age I thought I would never see and my elder family knew they'd never see...a black family...the first family of the USA... is in the White House. No, it's not the Age of Aquarius but it is the Age of Change and we have already seen some giant steps.

The word Independence is very interesting. Check out Roget's Thesaurus , the old one not the new edition. Surprisingly it says....pride,nationhood,voluntariness, self-control, self-determination, self-help, rallying device, neutrality, nonpartisanism, wealth, and finally, unrelatedness! No wonder we have trouble figuring out just what a day so named should mean to all of us. Very simply, Independence Day means so much and so little. On the eve of that day I find myself thinking that for the first time in my life, I feel a little more free to be me, grandmother, mother, wife, cousin, community elder. Why? I can look forward now to more infinite possibilities for those young people who follow in my footsteps. The phrase, "It will never happen because.... you're black, you're latino, you're appalachian...whatever" , can creep out of our working vocabulary into obsolescence.
There is a sliver of light in the walls that once formed our ghettos of the mind and that sliver will grow until it explodes with the force of fireworks for future generations.

We have much to celebrate this Independence Day but before we can celebrate, all of us need to think about which definition is the most relevant to ourselves, our lives and our posterity. When we have made that decision, let the fireworks begin!

Primal Scream

I heard from a young friend that she is once again looking for a teaching job. That news makes me want to cry because she is a mathematics teacher (and a damn good one). Why is she looking for work instead of work looking for her? After all she is one of the few individuals who have earned National Certification which should make her highly desirable if life worked the way it is supposed to. POLITICS! Let me elaborate.

Publicly school administrators swear that they want the best teachers for students, they want people who set high academic standards, they want students to be challenged to learn. Truthfully, that is far from what the majority of school administrators want. The majority want automatons who toe the political line, who rock no boats and who will kiss the appropriate behind when ordered to do so. Does my statement sound harsh? It is a harsh criticism, believe me and it is sad that after three generations of my family have taught...I feel obligated to tell the next approaching generation...NO, NO, a thousand times NO, stay out of public education, keep your children out of public schools and if you must teach find a private school. Before you sign that instructional contract, investigate the school and its record very carefully. Teach in a charter school...No don't teach there either because it is a rehash of the public school system with all its inherent problems.

Are you angry now? Good! You need to be angry...very angry. Sabotaging the education of the next generation is a very convenient way of controlling the population of our country. If the next generation becomes non-thinking, non-curious, non-concerned, the powerbrokers of our times can call all the shots--politically and socially! Children must be challenged to think, to reason, to be well informed, and to be concerned with the welfare of their fellow man. When they reach the age of reason (which seems to come earlier with each succeeding generation) they must be capable of problem solving. They must not be discouraged from learning..they must find joy in learning. They must be creative and their creativity must be encouraged and supported.

I have a friend, another hillbilly like me. He doesn't have a college education but he is one of the most intelligent men I know. He understands internal combustion engines better than most engineers. I have pulled my car into his garage. All my textbook learning taught me was that something about my automobile was not functioning correctly. From listening to the engine as I pulled in..he would tell me exactly what was wrong and then very patiently, he would show me. To my knowledge he has never given me wrong information. Over the years I have had one student who was as interested in engines and showed signs of being as knowledgeable if he received the right training, exposure, and mentoring. What my friend could teach this young man is invaluable but there is no way within the confines of most public school systems where the two men (one older , one younger) could meet. The young man will never be a mathematical whiz or write a perfect essay, and the only time he paid any attention to Shakespeare was after I discussed the "Do you thumb your nose at me sir?" from Romeo and Juliet but he knows enough about the applications of metric wrenches to survive and succeed in his chosen profession. Under the so-called modifications of No Child Left Behind, I would not have been free to teach Shakespeare in depth or make the connection with the older mechanic (who didn't have a master's degree and wasn't licensed as a teacher).

Then there was the year my school (the building...not the district as a whole) decided to buy five computers (for 1600 students). That was in the days when a desktop machine was still expensive but I called a man I knew who could put those computers together for us. The bill was paid, the computers arrived but the district refused to order ANY software. That's right, that is what I said...no software. I went out at lunch time and raided the demonstration software that someone I knew owned. As lunch ended, I was installing the software on the computers. Between the demonstration software and software purchased from computer flea markets, our inner city students had comparable software to suburban schools.
But, still, there were only five computers for 1600 students. By upgrades and updates, those five computers were still operating in my classroom when I left in 2005 even though they were nearly ten years old. By then there were a lot more computers in the building and a lot fewer students. The reality is that the students in my inner city school had the right to have the best learning tools in this technologically advancing world. They often didn't have the best but senior admnistration had fancy offices in air conditioned buildings. The air conditioning in my building was by Wal Mart and they were called fans.

Then there was the year I ran out of textbooks (10-12 year old out of print textbooks as verified by the teacher's manual I still have in my garage). I was at least 30-35 books short and had to resort to illegally copying pages to teach one class until I ran into an acquaintance who worked for a major book company. I remember him looking at me as if I was crazy and asking me how many books I was short. That conversation was on Thursday and on Monday...a huge box arrived at school addressed to me. I had a classroom set of brand new books (and no bill)! Thanks to that generous salesman and company..I survived another five years before the district found enough money to buy new textbooks. In the meantime, the district school board bought a new administration building!

Then there was a friend who taught an advanced math class...a class for any student who wanted to study the sciences or engineering as a career. My friend was very demanding in the classroom and had extremely high expectations of his students. Then there was the student whose parent was very active in the Parent organization. He felt like he shouldn't have to do the work and boy did he raise HELL until he was allowed to drop the class and administration transferred my friend to the alternative school. Political pressure...no way...even the so-called union wouldn't defend my friend. He hired a lawyer and the next year was back in his classroom. )By the way...at least one of his former students from the next class graduated from MIT with honors and has worked (quite successfully) for Microsoft for several years.

Enough war stories, My young friend, the math teacher is a top notch instructor. She takes no shortcuts, she holds tutoring sessions after school and rarely leaves her classroom before 5 p.m. She expects her students to arrive on time prepared to work and she expects their home work to be done. She demands order in her classroom and she gives 110% every day but...even now in December, she has no regular job. To me it seems that there is something basically wrong with this picture. What do you think?

In the Neighborhood, Days and Weeks After

The peach brandy I brought home from the destruction of the corner liquor store sat in my picture window for a long long time. It was not in a place of honor, it was not a souvenir, it was only a reminder....of some of the darkest days that I have ever seen before or since. The artificial bonding that took place in the apartment building was just that an artificial response to to an unforeseen and uncontrollable external threat. Martial law (and the media and the government would gloss over its occurrence for two generations) did not make any of us feel protected...it made us feel threatened...threatened in a way that racist demonstrations, water hoses, KKK lynchings, police beatings, cops running amok, had never done. Facing a machine gun...not in a time of war...in your own neighborhood; recognizing that so called "law and order" had not protected Martin Luther King and a few weeks later did not protect Robert F. Kennedy, was an earth shattering, life changing occurrence.

All of us were required personally and as a group to 1) face our own mortality, 2)face the depth of frustration and anger that permeates the black community, 3) face the inability of the government to handle the extremes of convergent human emotion, 4)face the limits of our idealism and our view of a perfect world and 5) face our overriding humanity as we faced an uncertain and out of control future. When an individual is 20 something this mindset is very unsettling. In simple terms, where do we go from here?

When I returned to my classroom, I was welcomed by my students who for the most part had been worried about me. They knew (in general) where I lived and in theory how close the riots had been to me, I was glad to see them for a much and less different reason...they represented a return to "normal" life or in other terms, "life as it should be." Truly there is never a return to normal because horrific events affect all of us. Change is constant, change can not be controlled by any one person, it is controlled by the actions of all human beings...negatively or positively.

One of my students, whom I will call Rick, had questions for me. Would I be honest with him? His father had owned a business in the middle of one of the areas virtually destroyed by the rioters. He also owned some apartment buildings near my neighborhood. When Rick mentioned the business his father owned, I realized I knew of the business by reputation. That reputation had been neither good or bad, it was simply a business in a declining neighborhood. Then he asked me about the apartment buildings near my neighborhood and my heart sank. I knew those buildings...I knew some people who lived rhere. The dilemma was huge for me. I might not know anything negative about the business on the other side of town but I did know more then enough about the apartment buildings. How could I answer him? Finally I told him that I would prefer that he do his own research...take the bus over and check things out for himself.

After he left my classroom, I began to worry because I knew what he would find out and I found myself wondering if I should have sent him to 14th Street. His safety was not the issue, I knew he would not be bothered in broad open daylight but....his disillusionment with his father's management inaction could have been devastating. My lingering question rises from two different points of view. The son was 17 years old, a rising senior in high school. As his teacher, I had gained his trust...I would answer any question my students asked as honestly and truthfully as I could and they knew that. From that viewpoint, Rick deserved an answer.

As a young black woman who had dealt with Civil Rights issues....I knew what Rick would find out...his father was a fairly typical slum lord of the times. He collected the rent and put nothing back into the maintenance of his buildings. I had visited a former student who lived in one of his rental units and had seen massive holes in the walls..not holes caused from a fist through the wall...but holes caused by water leaking form one floor to the next. The quarrel was not with the son but it did lie somewhere in the chain of responsibility with the father, directly or indirectly. My former student, the tenant, deserved an answer. As for me...I had placed myself in the middle of what could be a perfect storm!

The next day, Rick came back to see me. The look of determination on his face was chiseled in stone. What ever had happened...his mind was made up. "You knew, didn't you?" I nodded my head. "Why didn't you tell me?" The only answer I could give him was that he needed to know for himself...not from the mouth of a third party. He looked at me and finally said, "I took pictures and then I went home and developed them. Then I had a long conversation with my Dad." I was scared for him....I had no idea what his father would say. Rick watched my reaction for a couple of minutes before continuing his story. 'My Dad is giving me the buildings and I am moving in next weekend!"

To say I was shocked would be a grave understatement. Over the summer and the following year, even more surprises were coming. Rick moved in and promptly called a tenant's meeting. He introduced himself and announced that he now owned these three buildings and that he had moved in. He then announced the firing of the so-called resident management person and asked each tenant to list all maintenance issues within their units. Then he asked for volunteers to help fix the issues. From what I heard from people I knew who lived in his buildings, enough people were willing to help especially after they saw Rick get to work. Word traveled that the landlord had moved in and he might be young but he played no games.

The grocery store that sold spoiled meat was the first tenant to be evicted. The rumor flew through the neighborhood that the landlord had called the health department and stood watching while ALL the spoiled groceries were thrown out! What I do know is that another grocery store opened in the cleaner space and I didn't hear about any more spoiled food. A year later when I drove by the buildings shortly before I left D.C. for an out of state job, the buildings were freshly painted and the exteriors were definitely cleaned up. After I left D.C, I do not know what happened to Rick but he left me with heightened hopes for the future. When an 18 year-old from a privileged background was willing to take a stand against his own father...I could see a glimmer of sunshine.

History books do not tell this part of the story...the positive awakening that affected people such as Rick (no, that is not his real name). History books tell us that the revival of the burned out areas took a long, long time. The human (people) aspect is ignored or skipped altogether perhaps because the truths behind the riots were not pretty and did not fit the picture that we call the American Dream. Even today ...41 years later...there is no measurable attempt to analyze these truths.

I offer no answers but I urge the current generation of young adults to remember that we are indeed our brothers' keepers. We can not control the crazies that kill good people rather than change their insane ways but we can extend a helping hand to our neighbors

In the Neighborhood, Midnight between Day 2 and 3

The women returned to the apartment building. We needed to talk, our emotions were on edge. We hadn't looted, we hadn't burned, but each one of us had returned carrying a bottle of alcohol from the looted liquor store. The random comments we tossed around were mirrored reflections of both our confusion and our innermost thoughts.....

"Can you believe this...the cops and the National Guard?"

"Wonder if they live in the neighborhood?"

"At least they left Manny's alone.."

"That's because the fellows were there...maybe"

"The fellows couldn't have stopped that mob if they had really wanted to bust out Manny's.."

"I don't like this martial law nonsense...do you really think they would have shot us?"

"Hell yes, they would have shot us...we're BLACK and they think all of us are looting.."

"The guy on the corner got busted because he has such a nasty attitude...plus he overcharges on everything... he and doing right are not acquainted..."

"Why do you think 14th Street got burned out? Almost everybody I know shopped there. Couple of those businesses were black-owned."

"You ever been in that grocery store at 14th and Clifton? The meat in there is spoiled rotten...you can smell it from the doorway..."

"You know...I heard they truck in that bad meat from the suburban stores...our store is not like that..."

"Course our store isn't, we pay more rent than the folks in the apartments at 14th and Clifton..."

"There's more white people in this neighborhood...the only white people on Clifton are those two guys who teach at Cardozo....those Peace Corps teachers..."

"How long is this shit going to last...if I don't go to work, I don't get paid..."

"You and everybody else..."

"Are the fellows back yet?"

"Don't think they are coming til morning..Somebody else might try hitting Manny's..."


"With Dr. King dead,,,,who's gonna' lead the Movement?"

"You got through to your folks yet...I can't get a call outside the area"

"You got an extra pillow...and a blanket...I'm not staying in that apartment by myself..I'm sleeping here til Baby gets back..."



We all stayed in one apartment that night.

In the Neighborhood, Day 2 and 3 - 48-72 Hours

Martin Luther King was dead. The people had, in frustration and anger,lost control, rioted , looted and burned. Washington, D. C. was under martial law with a 24 hour curfew. Here we were.... a generation that had sat in, gone on freedom rides, marched in the company of hundreds and thousands of people, integrated schools, worked in voter registration drives, listened to the speeches of Stokely Carmichael(Kwame Toure) and the music of Nina Simone (Mississippi Goddam) and found ourselves encouraged by the words and wisdom of Dr. King and now...in the blink of an eye everything had changed.

We looked through our apartment windows and the only traffic we could see on nearby streets were military vehicles. This was America? A jeep patrols our streets---a soldier in uniform drives, a cop in uniform sits in the jump seat and in the back seat is another soldier with a mounted machine gun! A loudspeaker blares...."This city is under martial law, do not come out of your houses, any person seen on the street will be arrested.." over and over again. We look at each other...there is nothing to say...we are in shock...never in our lives have we been subjected to such blanket hostile, prison like confinement. Little freedoms like taking a morning cup of coffee out the door of your apartment building and sitting on the stone bench to the right of the entrance in the poarking lot that you pay rent for each month and less than ten minutes later...the infernal jeep turns into the parking lot with the loudspeaker blaring and the bullhorn blares again "...do not come out of your houses..." We go back inside and stand in the lobby of our apartment building looking at the street. There really is nothing to say that we all aren't thinking,
in the space of forty eight hours we have lost one of the greatest men of our times to a bullet without conscience and we have lost a significant amount of our so-called personal inalienable rights. The phones don't work so there is no contact beyond the immediate building. Television news tells you no more than you already know. The consensus from everyone in the building is that THIS IS SCARY AS HELL!

Throughout the day we wander through the apartment building...visiting apartment to apartment..just to have some company...just to make sure that our surrogate family is still intact. If one of us has food, we all have food, if one of us has shelter, we all have shelter. None of us want to be alone...the prospect is too frightening. We feel as if our security, our sense of safety has been stripped from us and a great sense of helplessness surrounds us. As the day lengthens, the women cling to one group but the men are getting restless.....they are feeling threatened....unable to protect their homes, families, turf from danger that can only be identified as "THEM."

Rob finally gets a phone call from his boss at the liquor store. Can he get up to the store and see if it is okay? Four or five of the fellows decide that as soon as it gets dark, they will go. After all...the store is barely two blocks away and it is possible to get there through the alleys which are not being patrolled. Besides the Jewish family that owns the store has been known to cash our checks....lend us money (without interest) near the end of the month and provide an emergency job on occasion. That's how Rob got his job when his wife was off her government job on maternity leave and they needed food and formula money. If the people decide to riot and loot again...someone has to protect those who protect us! Up to this time the trouble had been no closer than the business district on 14th Street but who knows what will happen when it is dark outside? After all there is a grocery store on Columbia Road and no matter how many armed jeeps patrol the streets...human eyes can still spot headlights and street lights do not survive bricks!

The women exchange looks and decide the men are not going alone. We will cut through different alleys to see what is happening. The men go early because Rob has a key to the store. We wait a while, put on some dark clothes and head to Columbia Road. We decide to forget the alleys and just walk up the street. There is a house with wide steps near Columbia Road....in clear view of the store where the guys are keeping watch. We sit on the steps and tell the fellow that rents the house to go inside and keep his mouth shut. I guess he was intimidated by six women sitting on his steps because he went back inside. We waited...not exactly sure what we were waiting on...talked quietly and watched the streets. It was nearly midnight when we heard men coming from the 16th Street side...men who made absolutely no attempt at being quiet. They were going to hit the liquor store. The five fellows from our building, opened the door to the store and looked out...then they walked out to meet the newcomers. "No, you guys are not going to hit this liquor store! The folks that own this store are good to us and they are part of our neighborhood, some of us work here and there is no way we are going to let you do this. If you have to have booze, try the store across the street! He doesn't like us, doesn't cash our checks, only lets one of us in the store at a time and we could care less what happens to him!" Five black men stood solidly in front of a Jewish owned liquor store that night and the mob moved on...across Columbia Road.

We six women sat and watched as the mob broke the plate glass store front and went into the corner liquor store. Within less than ten minutes...two police cruisers pulled up and shone their spotlights in the store. They ordered the mob out under penalty of arrest and a trip to Lorton. As soon as the mob dispersed...the cops looked around...did not spot us sitting on the steps and...they went into the liquor store and started carrying out boxes of booze until the National Guard showed up with their jeeps and ordered them out! Oh no, this story is not over...women are invisible you know. As soon as the cops drove off...the National Guard went in and finished the job of cleaning out the liquor store. Then one of them spotted us and demanded that we go home. We yelled back that we were home and it was too hot to be in without a fan or some way to keep cool. After all..we were only women. Two of the guardsmen walked over to us and gave each one of us a bottle. Other than that, they left us alone and drove off.

When we heard glass breaking ast the grocery store, we decided it was time to go home. We left and headed to our building. This was the first day of martial law and the second day of life without MLK.

In the Neighborhood, Day 1 - 24 Hours

That day was one of those moments in an a lifetime that never should be forgotten mostly because the history books will never tell the truth. I was there and the things I saw, heard and experienced during April 4-5, 1968 and for several days afterward deserve to be retold by one who listened, saw and lived through those days.

On the evening of April 4, I remember leaving my part time job and running to the bus stop a little after 9 p.m. and being surprised that I actually was able to find a seat. In the far distance I heard sirens and fire trucks...not so unusual in Washington, D.C. The store where I worked my second job was just off Capitol Hill and not too far from the neighborhood that was undergoing the 60's version of Urban Renewal except we more accurately called it... Negro Removal. The sirens and the sound of emergency vehicles made me curious and I remember looking through the bus window while idly wondering what could possibly be going on. I wouldn't know what had happened until I walked into my apartment door and my roommate told me that Dr. King had been assassinated in Memphis! She then idly added that the radio said folks were rioting on 13th Street N.W.

I had been in Detroit visiting Marilyn just before the riots started at 12th and Grand River so the riot news didn't bother me as much as the news about the death of Dr. King. Soon the neighbors began ringing the doorbell. All of us were graduate students at Howard University so we had sort of adopted each other as extended family. We had also lived through the assassination of John F. Kennedy, a man we had such high hopes for. The death of M.L. King was like losing a close family member...a beloved older cousin or uncle....so we banded together just like all families do when death strikes unexpectedly and horribly. We watched the news, we listened to the radio, and we talked into the night. By the next morning...the local news were still discussing the assassination but they did say ....that the riots were over so.... every one got up and went to work.

The riots were NOT over. By noon..it was apparent that fires had been set because the smoke was hanging over Northwest D.C. One of my co-workers came to my classroom to tell me her husband was coming from Virginia to get her and did I want to go home with them because the riots were close to where I lived. I refused her offer but promised that if I felt in danger, I would catch the bus to Arlington. She left the building. Shortly thereafter..school was dismissed and again I caught the bus to my apartment off Adams Mill Road. Everyone on the bus was talking about the riots. Was I afraid? No, I wasn't...but I was curious and while riding home and listening to the various conversations surrounding me...I decided to go and see for myself....AND...take my camera..that trusty Argus C-3 that I had managed to buy from a photographer friend when I was an undergraduate.

As soon as I got home, I rushed to the bedroom to put on my jeans and a sweat shirt. My room mate demanded to know where I was going and I told her..I was headed to 13th or 14th and Park Road to see for myself exactly what was going on. Her next question was blurted out, "Wasn't I afraid?" I shook my head no and reminded her that I had worked in the area since 1965 and lived in the area since early 1967. Since I didn't have a car, folks were used to seeing me....at Cardozo High School, in the shopping district, at Wings and Things...lots of places. Like any city neighborhood...you might not know names but you recognized faces you saw regularly.
Besides, I thought to myself, if folks were really rioting...what would be threatening about another black face?

Finally, I relented and told her to stick her (straightened) shoulder length hair under a faucet and pick it out. There was no way I was going in the middle of the neighborhood with someone who looked out of place. After all...we were still in the Civil Rights era and Afrocentric hair styles raised no eyebrows and caused no undue attention. The humidity in D.C. solved that problem for me....my hair was never straight! I do remember having to tell her why she needed the Afro and why she couldn't go out looking like "Miss Social Worker." Finally we were ready and my camera was loaded. We left the aopartment and walked up to Columbia Road...and ran into a youngster of maybe 12 or 13 years. He was carrying an armload of dress shirts...good dress shirts. He wallked up to usa and said, "Here Sister, take these...I don't want them and I have to go back!" Here we were two grown women standing on the sidewalk..holding probably 30 men's shirts. In shock, my roommate looked at me and asked, "What are we going to do with this?" I remember thinking...we'd better take them home...because getting caught with an armload of stolen shirts would probably hjave gotten me fired. We went back to the apartment.

Once more we started out toward 14th Street. The smoke was getting heavier to the point where the sun could not be seen (if it was out.....I really don't remember). The shopping area had been destroyed...windows were broken, people were walking back and forth across the street ...walking in and out of stores..picking up anything they wanted or thought they wanted. No vehicles moved on a normally busy street...just people...carrying whatever. I snapped pictures, here, there, over there and was fine until I snapped a picture of a line of D.C. cops standing there..not moving, not saying anything, just standing. One swung his billy club and started toward me demanding my camera and threatening to arrest us. I snapped his picture and kept on walking backwards. I set no fires, I looted no stores and I would be damned if a cop was going to arrest me for taking pictures...besides, I still had my Kentucky Press Association identification card...so he couldn'y say I wasn't legal.

My roommate was having a panic attack so we left 14th street and started across the neighborhood toward 7th Street (Georgia Avenue) and U street. By the time we got there, we were confronted with a combination line of D.C. cops and National Guardsmen (I guess) in riot gear. Never in my entire life had I seen such a massive force of men. There they stood, shoulder to shoulder to shoulder in an unbroken line along U Street as far as I could see. I walked toward the line and found myself facing an impassive soldier who , speaking out of the corner of his mouth, said, "You young ladies need to go home NOW...GET OFF THESE STREETS! The orders have been given, at 5:00...we are going to cloear these streets and anyone we catch still out here is going to Lorton (a federal prison in nearby Virginia).."

It was time to go and we headed home..walking down U Street to 18th..then up 18th Street to Columbia Road. By 5:00 we are back in the apartment. April 5th, 1968
in the neighborhood came to an end, almost...because Martial Law had been declared and a curfew was in effect. Imagine my surprise at 10 p.m. when someone pounded on the door. I looked out through the peephole and there stood my brother in full Army uniform! I opended the door and in he came. "How did you get here? I thought there was a curfew?"

"Of course there is a curfew but what idiot in his right mind would question an Army Lt. Colonel? After all, who in blue blazes(a rephrase of a more colorful statement) do you think is enforcing the curfew? Daddy called, he says he can't get through and he figured out that you live right in the middle of this mess. I am supposed to find out if you are all right!" What could I say? Even my brother couldn't argue with a 73 year old parent. I assured him that I was just fine, loaded up the men's shirts that the kid had dumped on us, put them in a garbage bag and handed them to my brother. He glared at me, took the garbage bag and announced that he was going home, he'd call Daddy and I had better keep my behind in the apartment because he was not coming back into the District if I got myself in trouble. He left and I went to bed. The first 24 hours had ended.

Home, Sweet Home

Went out to get groceries from the car and

discovered that there was a visitor knocking

at the door (not literally) but he was standing there looking at me as if explanations were in order. He and his mate had moved into the top of one of the trees down by the creek. If one looked carefully when the wind was blowing, the walls of their cozy home could be seen.

On this particular day, our visitor showed no fear, no alarm. He (or she) sat by the side of the driveway and looked at me while I stood in the driveway looking back. That was almost two years ago and the Falcon family still live here. Monday afternoon, the two of them were soaring and dipping above the tall trees across the street. Then one of their offspring joined in the fun gliding and soaring, occasionally diving groundward only to soar again.

It's nice to know that birds of prey (and other wildlife)are making a comeback in the great Mid-West. The irony is that our home is actually in a city, a small city but it is a city. That same day while the next door neighbor was off riding with Rolling Thunder (the veterans' motorcycle group), Mama Groundhog (or woodchuck as some would call her) was checking out his yard along with two of her babies. She was startled by a car passing on the street and hurriedly retreated to the side of my neighbor's house only to come back to the front lawn a couple of minutes later. Unfortunately, the camera was in the house and not nearby.

Just before dark, the neighborhood doe will be out with her yearling fawns. I have seen only those three this year . I am sure that they bed down somewhere near the creek because they stroll through the yard quite often. I worry though, they have lost their fear of cars and have already figured out that Moe and Ceasar, the dogs, though they are barking are securely in the house and pose no threat to the well being of visiting deer.

The squirrels are making pests of themselves. When I walked to the care yesterday, I kicked a chewed up green peach from the walkway. I knew squirrels loved the buckeyes, hickory nuts and walnuts that grow in the yard and I have long suspected that no tulips bloomed the last two years because some creature had eaten the bulbs. Could that be a squirrel...namely the one I caught sitting in the top of the peach tree with a green fruit in his paws? I wonder???? All I know for sure is that it wasn't the albino squirrel that at first glance I mistook for a skunk say two weeks ago when I walked the dogs early in the morning.

jmp, 5/59/09

I'm a What???????

The news today is very thought provoking. All of a sudden because she identifies with not only her gender but also who she is culturally, Sonia Sotomayor is a racist, a bigot, etc? There are some crazy people in this world who defy logic and reason with every breath they draw and every spurious so-called argument that rolls from their lips.

I am a woman. That statement alone gives me sisterhood with a significant portion of the world's population. I have given birth to children and that gives me sisterhood with another portion of the world's population. There is not a person on this earth who was born male who has more than theoretical knowledge of the experience of a woman's pregnancy and subsequent childbirth. No matter how empathetic a male person is, if he hasn't physically carried a child and given birth, he does not know what the experience is!

I have lost two children. Their father has lost two children. Both of us share feelings with other parents who have lost children. That loss is a highly charged, intense pain that takes years (if ever) to go away. There is no measuring stick to numerically chart the hurt in a scientific way. The pain is not gender specific, it is parent specific and there is another case of "if you haven't been there, you don't really know!"

Being on the receiving end of racist (sexist) behavior in this country (or any other) is a very dehumanizing experience. I remember well being told that I would not be considered from an editorial job on a newspaper because after all "that is a job for a man." I remember an insurance company which wrote the policy on a car bought in my name, paid for out of my bank account, licensed in my name, driven only by me.....was re-written in my husband's name three weeks after we married! That may surprise some of you younger people but in fact, this did happen although it is not likely now. I know a former husband and wife team of engineers who once worked for a major defense contractor. The husband was forced out of his job ...not because of professional incompetence but because he was a black man in a position to supervise a non-black work group. The woman was kept on but not in a supervisory position... her job was to train (but not supervise) her husband's replacement. Those experiences in the workplace or in life influence your viewpoint on work, and life.
Your understanding of what goes on in the "real world" is shaped by your life experiences. Of course, if you have never experienced racist or sexist attacks on your person, if you have always lived in an isolated, insulated world attacks that happen to other people are trivialized and you want to protect your isolated, insulated life experience.

I am also reminded of an elderly substitute teacher I worked with several years ago. She came from a very wealthy family had inherited megabucks but had married a man of modest means and loose fists. Finally, she managed to divorce him but since she had never worked during the marriage, he got ALL the money and she was left impoverished (in spite of the fact that the majority of money was hers from the start)! I'm sure that this lady's ex-husband would have considered losing access to her money to be quite unjust only because she had the nerve to divorce him. Was this justice! Of course not but it was reality.

I do not know Sonia Sotomayor but I have lived long enough to know that life experiences should not be minimalized and discarded. History can not be thrown away becaue it carries over and affects the present. Even the Bible tells us that the sins of the fathers will be visited on the sons. These "men" who have attacked her have never walked in her shoes and never will. The most important questions to be asked her as she progresses to the Supreme Court are how her life experiences have affected her definiition of justice and fairness!

I wish her well as do others in my generation who have experienced racism and sexism, overt and covert, and who have survived. True, we have seen some changes but we also know that those changes were slow to come and hard to keep.


jmp/5/58/09

Hillbillies Are Who We Are!

"You're no hillbilly!" That's a phrase I have heard many times mostly in the context of a snide, negative, derogatory slam. One day I even looked up the term in my trusty Encarta dictionary. That definition was so insulting, biased, and off the wall that I reached for my Roget's Original Thesaurus (the old one that is almost impossible to find anymore). That definition was infinitely more acceptable but still not quite precise enough for me. In a graduate school creative writing seminar a few years ago, I was asked to state my cultural origins and how that affected my writing. My answer was simple, I AM BLACK APPALACHIAN!

Every member of the seminar wanted to challenge my personal assessment. They couldn't hear the Appalachian dialect in my speech (that's because the seminar participants didn't really know what to listen for). There were no black people in Appalachia! I would love to have been an observer in a classroom at Kent State University when a certain professor of African-American studies made that particular pronouncement in front of my daughter. By the time she had to repeat her answer to a professor of ethnic studies at a major southern university, she could name ancestors back to the late 18th Century. Whether she recognized it or not, the fact was that Dori could immediately refute the often misstated fact that black people do not know the history of our families. We know more that we usually talk about...someone in our family or extended family knows.

Our family's Appalachian heritage began in Virginia around the time of the Revolutionary War. My mother's great-great grandfather settled in the Shenandoah Valley at the end of that war on land originally surveyed by George Washington. His life could not have been easy, he had to farm the land to support his family. His son, my mother's great grandfather also farmed the land. There is no record (in the Virginia historical archives) that I have been able to find that says he ever owned a slave (or married for that fact) but there is a record that he filed papers insuring the freedom (from slavery) of his only son, my greatgrandfather.

According my grandfather, the family lived and worked together for many years until shortly after the end of the Civil War. The old man called his son in and said simply , "I'm getting older and soon I will die. I don't want to send you away but it is time for you to take your family and leave here. This is your home but the rest of my family will never let you keep it when I'm gone." The son was apparently given a wagon, mules, farm tools, and a sum of money to buy land across the mountains. My great grandfather, his wife and five of their six children left Virginia. My best guess is that they followed what became known as the Midland Trail across West Virginia. My brother's research said that the family spent a year working somewhere along the St. Mary's River in West Virginia before they travel on to where our family lived on the Kentucky-West Virginia border. The family homeplace where my mother and her siblings were all born was actually the second piece of property the family owned in West Virginia.

Again, the family farmed the homeplace. William Henry, my great grandfather, built his home at the head of the holler (yes, I said holler, not hollow) where the family lived. He also built a schoolhouse and gathered his (black) neighbors together to hire a teacher. He was determined that his family would have an education (maybe because he had to sneak across the mountain to a Quaker lady who taught him to read the Bible!) That schoolhouse had as its first teacher, my grandmother, Mary, and as the last teacher my mother, Elsie. Each succeeding generation inherited fortitude, willingness to work hard, educational direction and a desire for a better life from the elders. We also inherited a strong sense of family. Today we are scattered across the country and involved in all kinds of professions and endeavors. Some are business people, doctors, lawyers, artists, musicians, teachers, construction/building trades workers, military, government workers, scientists...etc.

Oh yes, all of us are of Appalachian heritage. If that makes us hillbillies...so be it! We are who we are.

Sunday Morning Memories

Sunday morning! Got to get up early before the family is afoot. Slip down the stairs, cut through the kitchen and out the back door. Whistle for the dog and she comes running from her cozy nest of straw beneath the tool shed. Scratch her neck and behind her floppy ears as I watch her dance expectantly..waiting to see what I have hidden in my pocket. Do I in fact have something..of course...she smells the dog biscuits I bought at Ailiff's store yesterday.


"You coming back soon?" comes the voice of my father from the back door. I nod a yes answer and then quietly add, "Going to walk across the hill to the Billups Gap, then walk back to town across Water Tower Hill until I get to Moore's pine woods. Probably will stop to see if the wild strawberry patches are still there." The old man tosses a woven peck basket to me. The unspoken message is clear. If there are any strawberries left in my favorite patches, bring some back!

Off I go with Brandy the beagle following close behind. I carry a tall walking stick..not to help me climb the hills...to use as a weapon if I should come across an unfriendly snake...two legged or no legged. Brandy runs from place to place sniffing the ground, When she catches the spoor of a rabbitt, her tail wags back and forth and she looks to me for permission to track the animal. " No girl, not today. Today is a day to go walking...not hunting." I breath deeply. The air smells clean and fresh. Off in the far distance, there is the smell of a skunk...barely touching the air. I follow the dirt road to the shortcut between the sides of the switchback and then take the deer path to the top of the mountain.

The old schoolhouse still stands but the windows are broken out and the padlock on the door has been busted off. One of the student privies behind the school house has been knocked over but the other one still stands. I cut through the damp broom sage to the gate of the cemetery where generations of my family sleep in eternal peace. My mother lies here under the cedar tree that my father and I had planted. I notice that it has grown tall and now shades half her grave. Down the hill and slightly to the left of where my mother lies are the resting places of my great-grandparents, the former slaves who moved the family from western Virginia to the West Virginia/Kentucky border. They are surrounded by other relatives whose names I barely know.

Brandy sits down and looks at me as if to say, "Aren't we going any farther, is this the end of our walk?" Again, I scratch her ears and turn toward the gate. We walk back toward the schoolhouse and the dirt road that parallels the fence. The trail is familiar, the road is old but passable. Few vehicles travel this road, few people even know it exists. The families that originally homesteaded this area have died out and moved on. The Census says Cassville has 700-800 people but most of us who grew up here figure the count was taken on a Sunday when the relatives from out of town were visiting. On top of the ridge that turns toward the Billups Gap, the dirt road shifts from yellow clay to a mixture of clay and sand. The surrounding land is flat now and for many years, since my childhood, has been used to grow hay. The old hay barn is still standing in the middle of the field. My friends and I used to meet there on Sunday afternoon, jump in the hay, throw hay at each other and play hide and seek. If I close my eyes and invoke the memories, I can still hear our playful laughter echoing through the hills. Those days are gone now and thre Gap is silent except for the birdsong of the cardinals and the bob whites.

My visit to the Gap is over and I head to the western part of the ridge and Water Tower Hill. The deer paths make walking fairly easy and Brandy constantly sniffs different places. She never strays far from me and I do not deviate from the trail until I get to the edge of Moore's pine forest. Twice in my childhood, the Moore family had sold timber from their land..but the trees have regrown since the last time they were cut. I am glad that the pines are still there. There is something very refreshing about the smell of pine needles and pine resin . I remember my grandmother telling me that the air in the pine woods was good for people with lung problems. I suppose that this is true but on the other hand, I lived all my young life on the edge of this forest. Finally I find the path that leads down the mountain toward my uncle's alfalfa field.
The wild strawberry patches are at the foot of the mountain about fifty feet from the edge of the pine forest near the site of Miss Virginia Moore's old house. There I will stop and pick enough berries to fill my peck basket. If I can't fill the basket here, there is another patch across the creek from the alfalfa field. I have never told anyone where my secret patches are and I am happy to find them still loaded with fruit although I am not happy to see the three foot long black snake slithering down the creek bank. Brandy barks at the snake from the safety of my side The critter ignores both of us.

Church bells are ringing now. First comes the Methodist church only to be answered by the peal of the Baptist church a half block down the street. By the time their bells are silent, the Methodist church on the Kentucky side of the river begins to play its chimes. By the time the chimes start, I am walking back in my father's door with a full basket of berries. The walking stick leans against the branches of the holly tree and the dog is drinking water from the rain barrel. Thirty minutes later, my 70 VW beetle is headed north on US 23 toward the Ohio River. Sunday mornng is in motion and I have to be at work in northern Ohio the next day.