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“Sweet Magnolias”

Part 3 of 7 Degrees of Mississippi

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She and I are struggling to remain friends…

A post shared by Karen Cannon (@karenpcannon) on

Every afternoon, just like the rest of the living world, I spend an hour or so aimlessly scrolling through all the social media outlets for the latest gossip, funny dance videos and cute kitten pics. But, God, that Man, always has a way of bringing me what I need. No matter how many times that happens, I am always amazed.

So, I had decided that every interesting and inspiring person was connected to the great state of Mississippi in some sort of way. Here I was scrolling through Instagram and an extraordinary painting caught my eye. I click on it and see my God-wink. For those of you that don’t know, a God-wink is when God gives you exactly what you need through what would seem like just a coincidence.

And there she was, my God-wink, Karen P. Cannon, “a Mississippi artist at heart who now lives and works in Delaware.” Her art is so exquisite, so full of character, of course she was within 7 degrees of Mississippi!

Karen grew up in Laurel with 3 sisters, living a picturesque, small-town childhood. They lived life surrounded by their entire family until Karen’s father accepted a new job and new adventure in Maryland as a television station sales manager. Within a couple months, the family was reunited and life began in a new world.

An artist is born, not made. This is evident, when Karen talks about her journey through the art world. “I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t interested in art. I got a set of pastels from my godmother when I was 5 or 6 and I remember feeling like a ‘real’ artist.” Since those first few pastels, Karen’s interest, style and technique have changed and evolved and grown. From her first official oil lessons with local Laurel artist, Jean Carter to whimsical to hyper-realism, Karen has explored all aspects of the art world unabashedly.

You can take the girl out of Mississippi, but you can’t take Mississippi out of the girl. Delaware is over 1000 miles away. There are several nearby beaches, some of America’s most famous cities are just a short drive away, including Philadelphia, Washington DC, and Baltimore. There is always something fascinating to do. But, “I do miss Mississippi. My latest collection is called, ‘Sweet Magnolias’, a direct reference to Mississippi. There is no place like it!”

And she is right. No matter where the road takes us, no matter how far away from home we go, just like the roots of the kudzu, our Mississippi roots take ahold of our hearts. Mississippi is not just a geographical dot on the map of the world. It is a state of being. You can leave, if you want. But you will always stagger back again.

Please, take a moment to relish in our beloved fellow Mississippian’s work. Show her the love that we have come to be known for. You can find her at: karenpcannonart.com, and on Instagram: @karenpcannon, and on Etsy: karenpcannonart.etsy.com.

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7 Degrees Of Mississippi

William Faulkner once said, “To understand the world, you must first understand a place like Mississippi.” No truer words have ever been spoken in regards to understanding our fellow human beings. People are strange, complicated, even contradictory at times. These character flaws are what makes each person so beautiful. And it is also what makes my beloved state such a unique, unapologetically mutinous part of history and culture that simultaneously pulls you in and pushes away.

Mississippians have never shied away from controversy and revels in rebellion. Our upbringing in the mist of struggling and growth, heritage and progression seeps into our soul, like the rain seeping into the fields, yielding a unique perspective on life. We, in turn, carry this perspective out into the world beyond our state lines and always seem to find that we are just a little different than the rest.

It is my theory that all the weird and wonderful people out there have a 7 degree separation from my beloved State. My new series of blogs will be called “7 Degrees of Mississippi”. In this series, I will talk to those people that you may pass on the street and think to yourself, ‘how in the world did they get here?’ Or you may have met someone and thought, ‘Wow! This person is totally different from anyone I’ve ever met!’ And, if that’s the case, I’m sure they have some ties to the Mighty Mississippi.

So, if you know of any wild and wonderful weirdos that you would like featured, please let me know! I’m searching the world over! Hope you enjoy!!

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Let ‘Em Love You

As most of you know, my mama was sick her entire life. Even her “best days” consisted of oxygen tanks, doctor’s consultations and medication. On one of her not-so good days, we were in the grocery store and a local lady came up to ask her how she was doing. We had just gotten word that she would have to undergo a small procedure in the upcoming days and were actually preparing for her hospital stay, making sure my sister and I had enough food and all. But when the sweet lady asked mama how she was doing, she looked her dead in the eyes and said, “I’m fine. We’re all doing good.”

After we left the store, I had to confront my mama about lying to the sweet lady. “Why did you tell her you were fine when you clearly aren’t?” What she told me stayed with me for the rest of my life. “She doesn’t wanna hear my problems. Most people don’t really care that much. They’re just being polite. The one’s that really care don’t have to ask how I’m doing.”

I realized that she was probably right. Most people don’t really care about others outside their circle. I carried that with me and began to live my life with that one specific line in the back of my head from that moment on; ‘Most people don’t really care that much.’ Unfortunately, now I see that this was wrong. This was an injustice to myself, as I built a wall around my heart; and I passed that ill advice on to my own children. I can see the walls they’ve built around themselves now and it tears me apart to see what I’ve done to them.

For years and years, I prided myself on the fact that I had 2 REAL friends and my Aunt Tammy in my life and that was all I needed. I actually bragged about it. It wasn’t until one of those REAL friends, Eden, died suddenly and shook my world that my outlook changed. After she died, I was completely lost. I was angry with God for taking one of the few sources of joy that I had in my life away from me. I was the most lonely I had ever been. I was 4 hours away from the other two people I counted on; and I was the saddest I had ever been in my life.

For months I went through life on “auto-pilot” mode; just doing what I had to get through the day; and I would cry myself to sleep. It wasn’t until one day when a girl I worked with forced her way through that wall that I had built so long ago, that life began to change for me. Kristy Scobee had worked with me for a long time. We talked every day at work, and she knew I was struggling. She could see the hurt in my eyes and reached out to help. She told me that I needed to do something fun and get my mind off things. She suggested I hang out with a friend. “I had a friend and she died,” was my reply. But she wouldn’t give up.

“Let other people be your friend. Let me be your friend. Lets go do something,” she urged. We went to Roller Derby and our friendship blossomed instantly. I became more open and willing to give pieces of my heart away. The little crack in my wall she broke through grew wider and wider. Now I consider Kristy and Laura May (my other co-worker at that time) two of my most special friends. Years later, I feel confident enough in their sincere love for me to call on them whenever I need to.

Let other people be your friend. Let me be your friend. Kristy probably doesn’t even remember that conversation. But it was profound advice for me. I understood why my mother didn’t let people in. She was sick. She was dying. Building a wall around her heart was a survival mechanism. She couldn’t take the strain of allowing someone to get close and get hurt. It worked for her. And when the children and I were in such a toxic environment, it worked for us too. Don’t let people in, they will only let you down because most people don’t really care. That was how we lived our lives.

Once I opened my heart to the world, things changed drastically for me. I found that when you approach people (even perfect strangers on the street) with openness and genuine love, they too tend to break down their own walls. It’s a beautiful thing to have an intimate and honest conversation with a complete stranger.

I love my mama with all my heart. She taught me strength and dignity in the face of the storms life brings. But she was wrong that day at the grocery store. And for years after that, I was wrong and I robbed my children of alot of love. Now, I think most people do care. Most people are good and genuinely care about others. The problem is just those damn walls we’ve all built to protect our hearts from being broken. If we could learn to let some of those walls down just a little; and let others try to be our friend; maybe there wouldn’t be so much anger in the world today. Maybe we could learn from one another, hear each others’ pain, and help heal just like Kristy and Laura helped me years ago.

Will your heart get broken? Will people still disappoint you? Of course they will. My hearts been broken and disappointed many times since I let my wall down. People are still human. Life is still hard. People will make mistakes. They will hurt you. Life will bring you sorrow. But by approaching life with love and offering forgiveness to those that seek it, I’ve learned that I can heal a lot quicker and build new relationships in the process. One of my favorite lines from Steel Magnolias is this, “I would rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.” The same goes for an open heart. That little love is so much better than a lifetime of building walls.

Someone recently told me he “has more hate than love”. His walls are high and his heart is still mending. Years of living his life with the mentality that most people don’t really care has helped him survive life; but it has hardened his heart to the point that he is in the exact situation I was years ago. Every night I pray to God to heal his heart and help him let others love him. There are people out there that love him, if he will just let them. But it will take a lot of prayers and forgiveness for those walls to come back down.

Living in Belzoni, Mississippi, you can always count on a couple things to happen at any kind of gathering (whether it be a formal party or just Sunday lunch at Papas aka The Varsity: 1)Pat Pearson is going to have the latest gossip at all times (even about you sometimes), 2) There’s a good chance BJ Hawkins will break into song no matter where you are and 3)Brookie Duett will probably show up with his suspenders on. Today, the town of Belzoni had to say goodbye to Brookie. No function around here will ever be the same. As I was sitting there in the crowded funeral home, squeezing in with people of every race and social status, I saw how beautiful it is when people break those walls down. Love was in every heart for just a short time to honor the man who’s suspenders had become a town landmark.

As I go to sleep tonight, I will pray for that little boy’s heart that has more hate than love. And I will pray that Jennifer, Savell and Dewayne will pull down their walls just a little and let people love them- because I genuinely feel that most people do care. You’ve just gotta let them.

In honor of my sweet friend Jennifer- who refuses to let me do her laundry because she tries to be so strong and stoic (but accepts my cookies) I am including my easy peanut butter cookie recipe that I know at least puts a few cracks in the walls built around the Duett’s. Keep them in your prayers. Let your walls down. Approach one another with love. And find that most of this world does truly care.

Peanut Butter Cookies:

  • 1 cup smooth peanut butter
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 1 egg
  • Mix, spoon and heat at 350 degrees for about 6 minutes (until they are barely brown on the bottom and still soft)


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Who’s Gonna Clean The Kitchen

Everyone knows I love to cook for my family and friends. After all, discovering my love of cooking inspired this blog. It brings me much joy to cater to them. It’s a small gesture of love for me. When they are being extra sweet to me, I bake them cookies or cook their favorite casserole. But, when they piss me off, they get a frozen pizza and I get a bottle of wine. What can I say, it be’s that way sometimes.

I love to cook. But what I don’t love is cleaning the kitchen afterwards. It seems like this is the same with everything in life. We love the good stuff in life, relish in its deliciousness; but don’t want to get our hands dirty cleaning up the mess. I include myself in this scenario. As I’m griping to myself, loading up the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, collecting half-empty glasses from around the house, I have to remind myself that this is the price I have to pay for being blessed with such love. I’m no saint, so I am also simultaneously reminding myself that killing your family is frowned upon, orange is not my color, and I’m not tough enough to start my own prison gang.

We are a selfish and self-centered society. We want the good job without the essays and tests. We want the money without putting in the elbow grease. We want the roses without being pricked by a couple thorns. We want!! We Want! We Want! And, with each scenario, we are trying to get it without putting in the work.

Of course, everyone is deserving a little catering to from time to time. Everyone is worthy of a strawberry cobbler-kind -of-day without having to do the dishes afterwards. But, we must remember that there are days when we will have to clean the kitchen! And, some days we may not get dessert at all. That’s just how life is. We can get all we want, but it won’t be free. And, anything worth having, calls for a little (or a lot) of work.

You receive what you reflect. If you spend your life just chowing down all the greatness life has sent you without cleaning up your mess, you will eventually wind up fat and bloated in a life full of mess, with nothing new to offer you. If you take the time to appreciate each gift, bite-by-bite, put in the work, care for it and clean it up, you will find that with each “meal” life has granted you, you’ve accumulated ingredients to create “meals” you never even imagined. Life can bring a lot of messes your way, but if you dig in there and clean it up, you will find that among the crumbs, life also leaves you the tools you need for the future.

I guess each day we need to decide what role we will play in the kitchen of life. Are we gonna be the cook, catering to those we love? Are we gonna sit at the table and enjoy the meal given to us? Are we gonna leave an empty plate and bread crumbs for someone else to clean up? Or, are we gonna appreciate the day, roll up our sleeves and put in some work for a better tomorrow?

Today is Sunday. This is usually my favorite day to sit around my house, play in my yard and cook a big meal for my family. Today I will be the cook. Because everyone is being lazy, I will also clean the kitchen. But, tomorrow the girls will be rolling up their sleeves and putting in a little work because I will make sure that one day they will be able to manage a kitchen of their own without sitting at someone else’s table.

Today’s recipe is a strawberry cobbler that my sweet cousin, Margaret was kind enough to share. Even though she leaves in Arkansas and we only see each other at funerals and weddings, she’s got that Aderholt-girl stubborn spirit and can do make a good meal out of any mess life leaves her. It’s a quick and easy dessert to share with those you love to gather around the table.

Strawberry Cobbler

Ingredients: 2 qt strawberries 1 egg 1 cup All-Purpose flour 2 tsp baking powder 1/2 tsp salt 1 cup sugar 1 stick butter 4 oz cream cheese 1 cup milk

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Melt butter and pour into 9×13. In a small bowl, mix together the egg, flour, sugar, milk, baking powder and salt. Pour directly over the butter in the baking dish, but do not stir. Add the strawberries, arranging in a single layer as much as possible. Sprinkle cream cheese pieces over strawberries. Place in preheated over and bake for 45 minutes or until top is golden brown and edges are bubbling.

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John Frank’s Story


“The score, ladies and gentlemen, is tied at the bottom of the ninth. We have two outs. It all comes down to our local hero, John Frank McKenzie. Can he get us a home run and save the championship title? The answer remains to be seen.”

“Good morning, sugar pie!” John Frank’s mom wrapped her arms under his and pulled him up. She already had his clothes laid out. ‘I hate purple. I always did.’ “Now, momma has a 9:00 o’clock perm to do this morning before the wedding today, so we gotta hurry, okay? Lift your arms up and I’ll put your clothes on you. That purple looks so good on you. Now there, lay back and let me change your diaper.” ‘God, what is going on? I don’t understand!’ His breathing increased and he began to shake his head back and forth. ‘Get the hell off me momma! Why are you doing this?’ “Now, now, calm down! Baby, I just don’t understand why you insist on fighting me every single morning. You know you have to get dressed. You know I’ve got to work. So, please, just cooperate with me! Please!!”

She hated to yell at him, but sometimes she just couldn’t help it. It had been a year since the accident and he seemed to be getting worse than better. He fought her when she dressed him, fed him and bathed him. She tried to be patient with him; but she was growing more tired everyday. She finally got him dressed and put him in the wheelchair; and only now did he calm down. If he had a choice, he would live in that damn chair. As soon as she unlocked the screen door, he was out. She would see him riding around town throughout the day, passing in front of the beauty shop at least a hundred times. She didn’t have to worry about him in Cornwell, Mississippi. In this town, everyone looked out for him. He was their fallen hero. She knew they wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

John Frank looked up at the sky. ‘Are you this blue and beautiful for the rest of the world; or just for me?’ he asked. He started down the street. He was only a block from down town and everyday, he made his rounds, seeing familiar faces that he could never quite place and talking to people who once knew but could no longer remember. “Hey Mrs. Lloyd, where’s Miranda?” he stuttered. Mrs. Lloyd was working in her prized flower garden trying to get the weeding finished before the Delta heat and humidity took over. “Good morning, hun. Miranda’s working down at the pharmacy this summer, remember?” Everyday he asked about his old high school sweetheart and everyday the answer was the same, only John Frank didn’t know it. ‘Poor thing’ she thought as he continued on down the street. ‘What a shame.’

‘Why didn’t Miranda tell me she was working at the pharmacy? I’m sure I talked to her last night.’ He had no idea who he spoke with last night or any other night for that matter. A red bird flew pass his wheelchair and settled on a branch of the oak tree on the corner of Main and Sunflower. John Frank stopped rolling and locked eyes with the bird. The bird seemed to be speaking to him with only his eyes. Not a chirp was made from the bird and not a breath was taken from John Frank. The two, like long-lost soul mates, just stared into each other’s eyes. ‘Red, red. I think that color is red.’ After a while, the red bird flew away and John Frank started back down the street, towards the pharmacy.

‘Why am I going here, again?’ Maybe it would come back to him when he got there, he hoped. “John Frank! Hey, man, how ya doing?” Michael called out from across the street. John Frank smiled back. He knew this guy from somewhere, but he just couldn’t place him. Michael crossed the street and was now standing in front of him. Tears came to his eyes now every time he saw his best friend. How could God let this happen? John Frank just stared at him with a blank look on his face. His mind began to wander.

‘You know what would be cool? If we were blood brothers. Come on, let’s do it.’ John Frank went first. He always went first at everything. That was one of the reasons Michael loved him so much. He took his pocket knife out and ran it down the center of his thumb. There was a burning sensation, then blood oozed down the side of his hand. He took a lick and tasted it in his mouth. ‘Now you.’ He handed the bloodied knife to Michael. “Don’t be a wus.” After minutes of just staring at him, this is what John Frank finally had to say to Michael. “Um, what, John Frank?” Now he realized why he hated to run into John Frank. It was always so frustrating trying to carry on a normal conversation with him. Again, John Frank just stared, settling back into the trance he now spent so much time in. Michael began to fidget. “Well, good seeing ya, man, but I gotta run.” With that, Michael crossed the street and made his escape and John Frank rolled on down the street.

There was no destination for him. He had no idea where he was going, so he just kept rolling. He looked across the street at the pharmacy. For some reason, he wanted to go in. He turned his wheelchair to the left and headed for the door. Johnny slammed on the brakes, coming to a screeching halt, his horn blowing hard. “That damn crazy ass kid. Someone’s gonna kill that damn fruit cake one day. He just needs to be locked away in the damn nut house.” John Frank never looked up. Something at the pharmacy was calling him; only he couldn’t understand what it was. Henry, who had worked at the pharmacy for the past three summers, noticed John Frank coming up after hearing the commotion outside. He held the door open for him. Miranda stood behind the counter. When John Frank rolled in, the room fell silent and dark. The only light she could see was in his face. Her heart began to flutter and she bit down on her bottom lip.

Her bottom lip was red and swollen, she had gnawed on it for so long. She couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. “I think I want to break up, John Frank. Maybe just for the summer. I care about you a lot, but I just think we should be able to see other people this summer.” Tears were streaming down both their faces.

“Hey, John Frank. How ya been?” He stared at her. The room grew smaller. ‘I’m gonna marry you one day, Miranda. Just wait and see. One of these days I’m gonna make you my wife. I don’t want to see anyone else; but if you do, I guess I can’t stop you. Call me when you realize that I’m the one for you and I’ll be there.’ “John Frank, I said, ‘How are you doing?’” Nothing. Miranda continued to bite down on her lip. “Well,” she cleared her throat, “you look well. Just as handsome as ever.” The tension grew. Then a glimpse of realization came across John Frank’s eyes. He looked down at the ground and sighed. He turned his wheelchair around and headed out the door.

All eyes were on Miranda, now. “Can I take my break now?” Her bottom lip was on the edge of bleeding. “Sure.” the pharmacist said. He knew how she felt. He had had a true love once, too. And, just like Miranda, he had lost her. Betty watched from the beauty shop’s front window, tears streaking her make up. Everyday her son went out seeking his one true love only to get his heart broken every time. She couldn’t understand what went on inside his mind, why he continued to torture himself this way. She waved to him as he rolled pass her; but he didn’t acknowledge her.

John Frank rolled around the corner to Magnolia Street, where the restaurant held all the action this Saturday morning. Amber was running from table to table, making sure the table cloths were starched and ironed to perfection and name cards were in place. John Frank parked his wheel chair at the table up front just as he had every day. “So, you sure are going through a lot of trouble for this reception. Are you sure it’s worth all the time and effort you putting in it? I mean, are you sure you getting paid enough? I don’t want you to get taken advantage of or nothing like that.” Cindy was Amber’s best friend and by far the nosiest person in the county. Amber wouldn’t give an inch. “I assure you, dear, I never get taken advantage of, not by nobody. John Frank, honey, I didn’t see you coming in. I’ll have your sandwich right out. Just been busy getting ready for the big wedding reception this afternoon. You better hurry up and get back home so your momma can get you ready to go. I know everyone’s gonna be expecting you.” John Frank never said a word. He just sat in silence, slowing eating his grilled cheese sandwich, sipping Amber’s famous mint julep tea and listening to the conversations people held around him.

It was amazing how they would say anything about anyone without fear of being overheard. They acted as if John Frank was deaf. Throughout his lunch, John Frank heard the farmers’ wives talking about who was cheating on whom, who had an abortion in Jackson, who was pregnant and who was going bankrupt. They probably wouldn’t have said as much in front of a three year old child; but, in front of John Frank, they had no problem gossiping.

After finishing off the last of his sandwich, John Frank moved toward the door. “I’ll put it on your charge account, hun. Have a good day! Now, hurry on home and get ready for that wedding, hear?” Amber called out as she stood in the doorway and watched John Frank head for the dollar store. A car passed on the street with the windows rolled down and the radio blaring. “Every Rose Has Its Thorns” by Poison was pouring out into the street. John Frank stopped his wheelchair.

“Every rose has its thorns, just like every night has its dawns…” Miranda sang along to the radio as they sat in the car. They were parked at the witch’s cove on the river side of the levee-their favorite hide-a-way from the rest of the world. John Frank leaned in a kissed her softly before she could sing any more. She pulled back and looking into his eyes. “I want tonight to be the night,” she whispered, “Go to the dollar store before it closes.” With a slight grin, he started the car back up and headed back into town.

John Frank closed his eyes and began to hum as he rolled toward the dollar store, a slight smile on his face. He looked up and saw his aunt. Still humming, he went up to her. She began to talk. He could see her lips moving; but couldn’t hear what she was saying. He kept humming. He looked up at the sky. ‘Are you that blue and beautiful for the rest of the world or just for me?’ “…for the wedding…” she continued. ‘Red. I think that color was red.’ He looked back up and she was getting in her car to go. ‘What did she say?’ She was waiting for some kind of reply. “Yes ma’am.” He began to roll on down the street.

She had said something about a wedding, but what? Who was getting married? ‘I’m gonna marry you one day. I’m gonna make you my wife.’ ‘Every rose has its thorns…’ ‘I want tonight to be the night…’ What was he doing here on side of the street? He had to go. He had to get dressed. He was getting married to his one true love today.

Lion And Lamb

I know the lamb; the lion led me to him.

While the lion licks the blood of his latest prey

The lamb gently sleeps, curled like a child.

I know the lion, the lamb cannot make me forget.

But its velvet skin makes the scars fade quickly.

I know the lamb, the lion didn’t scare him away.

His loud roar, though full of anger, is really harmless.

While the lamb screams its high pitched bleat.

I know the lion, for without him there is no lamb.

The lion begets the lamb; the lamb hinders the lion.

The violence needed the lion; peace brought the lamb.

I know the lion that resides within me; stealth and quiet

Ready for an ambush, the lion that saved me.

That’s why I love the lamb, vulnerable, soft, and kind.

The Angel’s Dilemma: Love and Duty

Time to go, she simply states, nothing more

The man, confused, looks into her eyes

She’s cute, petite, nothing like the lore

But once they eyes lock, he quickly realizes

Why she is here and what this visit is for.

Her face is soft, he always imagined someone dark

But here she sits beside him, almost beguiling

Perched on the bar stool, like a little lark.

So he takes one last drink for the road

Realizing that the time has come, it’s his mark.

And so it goes day after dreadful day

She finds them, as their time has come

To help them cross over and on their way.

There’s never alot of discussion

Afterall, there isn’t much left to say

One look in her eyes and the answer comes

And their bodies will turn back to clay.

This is her job, assigned to her long ago

She’s never known anything more

Never known friend, love or foe

She simply finds those that are chosen

Those assigned to her to cushion the blow

Until the day she found him, lying there

Under the clear starry night sky

Praying to the God they both shared

Asking for nothing for himself

Only for those for which he cared

He prayed for their happiness and heart

But She knew he wouldn’t be spared

She watched him all day and night

Searching for why God chose him

But she couldn’t find the reason why

She saw in him only pure love and benevolence

Not a selfish thought in sight

Though she knew it wasn’t her job to question

And she knew what she had to do

The time had come for the cession

Of his body and for him to descend

Into another world beyond possession

She did not want to take him away

For she knew what that would do

To a world already so dark and gray

But she had received her instructions

And she knew what she had to say

But for just a few more moments longer

She would allow him to stay

So she followed him around his tiny world

Just lingering back a few steps behind

Smiling as she watched him twirl

When he thought no one was watching

And feeling a ting of jealousy within

When he noticed the pretty girls

She had never had such a feeling

In fact no feelings at all

She was just here to serve her duty

She never really had any other dealings

With those she carried across

She wasn’t there for their healing

She was just there for thing only

That’s the way it had always been

But lately she had been feeling lonely

And wanted to do something more

Something she could touch, something homely

She watched as a butterfly landed

On his shoulder, feeling so safe

He didn’t flinch, was still in the moment

Giving it time to rest, and catch its breath

Gathering its strength so as to not be stranded

Weak and tired, while he was its safety net.

She was amazed and touched by his grace

And the tenderness of his soul made her eyes wet

With tears of happiness, gratitude and renewed faith

In a world she had deemed as doomed long ago.

When she looked at his smile, she saw no hate

Only pure, unequivocal love meshed with a kindness

So genuine, so knew she had found her mate.

But how could she love something so human

And look him in those clear blue eyes

When doing so would dim his soul so lumin

And his beauty would be nevermore.

She was just like the fictional man of tin

She wanted a heart, to love, to touch, to be

But that was not to be her fate

HE long ago gave her this destiny

She was the angel HE sent down to lead

Those he selected to just cross over

She was to question not; just do the deed.

What stirred inside her was brand new

She had never questioned this before

But as she watched him bath in the dew

She questioned it all without apology

She wanted to look into his eyes of dark blue

And hold his hand inside hers

She wanted to kiss his lips of rosy pink

And twirl with him in the blades of grass

Though these she knew she should not to think

She wanted to question it all over again

Why GOD, why choose him, me or anyone

To cross the threshold and walk to death

Into the dark, when they aren’t even done

With all they can offer and achieve

Without so much as a warning their times come?

Why subject me to such a life so desolate

Without love, or touch or even conversation

I’ve never felt love; why I’ve never felt even hate.

The only beauty I see is from afar

And only happiness I’ve gotten as of late

Is only through observation, never actually felt.

I want to touch his skin, even go on a date

Do all the things I’ve seen others do ’round here

All the adventures they get to have

And share Without any consequential fear

I want to shed the tears, dance in the grass

Soak up the dew, stare at the sky so clear

Basking In a sweetly unknowing naivety

I want to experience the laughter

Bellowing from the depths of my belly

And share a silly inside joke

I want a man to say I love you daily

And to kiss me on the porch stoop

Before taking off to his job.

I want to be part of a friend group

And make jokes for them to laugh at

Then comfort them with a bowl of soup

When feeling under the weather

I want a connection with a lover

That starts and ends each day with me

I want to run to him for cover

When life gets to be too much

To share adventures with and discover

That YOU made him just for me to hold

All the parts of my body and heart

God, I am telling you now, for the first time,

I want not just anyone or anything

I want him God to be with me

Give him to me God, I beg of you

I’ve asked for nothing til today

This is something I deserve

There was no rhyme, no reason

Just a plain chaotic outburst

But GOD stood still, silent and subdued

Just letting HIS child vent her feelings

Calmly, gently, not angered, not crude

HE took his angels hand in HIS

And gently, careful not to be rude

God reminded his broken little angel

Of all this beautiful life she had viewed

And how she felt it all, touched it all, had it all

Though maybe not in the way she had wanted

But still she had to all, every time HE called

For her to come down and help him bring

Another Chosen one home safely and forestalled

I love you my sweet child, so I shared it

I shared it all with you every day

The good, the bad, the tears, the grit

I shared the beauty of this world

While also protecting you from its pits

For in that world, love always comes with a price

But love through ME, comes without a cost

MY love is the only one so pure

That you will never have a fear of lost

You may not hold his hand; but MINE

Is the hand that can hold the most.

My silly little angel, you sound like them

Chasing sunsets, butterflies and waterfalls

Constantly measuring, comparing, wanting him

Always questioning the cut, clarity and shine

Without even appreciating the gem

I give you the rainbows to love each color

But you only worry about the dim of the storms

Instead of relishing in the winter white

You are too busy craving the warm

Do you not see what I have shown you

You must view all sides to see the whole form.

This is the gift I have given you day after day

You have seen the beauty and ugly

Yet here you stand before me to state

That this is not enough to fulfill thee

Therefore my decision should sway?

Like a scolded child, she stood in silence

And though she felt some shame

Her heart still clung in defiance

To the hope HIS mind would change

And that HE would grant compliance

To her wishes, even if just for today.

I know I am being ungrateful father

Acting like some awful spoiled child

But his smile makes me a mauther

And I just want him to be mine

I don’t mean to be such a bother

But I just had to ask

ODE TO ELEANOR

It’s the cheeks for me

I say as I show her photo

But it’s much more than that

It’s what she makes me see

It’s what I now know

But it’s much more than that

It’s her ice-cream smeared lips

And her little baby laughs

But it’s much more than that

It’s the way she loves her mama

And how she looks at her dad

But it’s much more than that

It’s how she nuzzles your neck

And her little fat toes

But it’s much more than that

It’s how she healed all our pain

With her very first breath

How she made every hurt worth it

If with her you get another day

It’s the joy she brings

To a world darkened by hate

And how you know she loves you

And how you make her feel safe

It’s dancing with her in the grass

And how you just want to stay

To watch the rain fall down

And see the clouds go away

It’s the power she holds in those eyes

And her little childish play

And how content she is

To lay in your arms all day

It’s the love she has awakened in us

And the words we cannot say

But it’s much more than that.

A Thousand Deaths

I didn’t mourn your death

I mourned the life you’d reject

I mourned the humor you lost

I mourned the intellect it cost

You died a thousand small deaths

before you took your last breath

One long continuous exhale year after year

All life squeezed out, expunged by fear

Flashes of spit, blood smeared, voices raised

Arms twisted, veins tied off, eyes crazed

I proceed with life, though I know you follow

You sit in the corner watching, shrouded in shadow

I watched the blue as it faded from your eyes

Searching for any small sign of life

I stood in the hall, watching from the door

As you writhed in pain on the floor

Arms flailing, your body twisting and contorting

Mouth wide open, screaming, wanting more

Every morning mustering up just enough strength

Just to push in a little more death into your skin

For years I was forced to watch helplessly and listen

To your heartbeat, to your shallow breath

To your withdrawal, hate-filled berating

And that final call for your next of kin.

This Is Me

I used to dream about being Wonder Woman. I wore my costume everyday.

I chased the horizon, running barefoot through the cotton fields my pawpaw tended.

I snuggled in the tractor tires and basked in the sun on hot summer days.

I set out on my bike each day and created my own world.

I wondered down turn rows, exploring the woods, hunting for hidden treasures without fear.

This is me.

I love the strange and different and they love me.

I seek adventures more than I do love.

I love a few but I love fiercely.

Others’ happiness makes me happy.

I love poetry, nature, and lazy Sunday mornings.

I love Eleanor’s smile and her nuzzling my neck.

I’ve lost many; and always emotionally prepare myself to lose everyone I love.

This is me.

I have more guilt than pride; but regret nothing.

I’m tired; but restless; happy but not content.

I don’t yet know who I am supposed to be; but love who I am right now.

I don’t fear dying; but want to grow old for Eleanor.

I saved myself.

Riding Naked: Celebrating 50 Years of Adventure and Loss

With every milestone in my life, I immediately think of my mama. I may be a 50-year-old grandmother now; but I will always be just a little girl needing her mama. I don’t think that’ll ever fade away.  I lost my mom when I was 20; so, she missed a lot of my milestones.  Then again, she was only 37 years old herself. So she missed a lot of milestones of her own.  She never got to watch her children get married. She never got to meet her grandchildren or great-grandchild. She never lived beyond the “Dirty Thirties;” so, there was never a 40th birthday party or 50th.

I remember turning 37 and realizing that there was still so much life to live; and just how young my mom was when she passed. That year, I tried to live boldly. I rode the scariest ride at the fair just to remind myself I was alive. You look to your mother as a blueprint for the future, and without her past 37, I didn’t know what life beyond that looked like. I’ve been winging it ever since. Every time something significant happens, I think of her. I wonder if she would’ve done it the same way. I long for her advice—or just a sign that I’m doing okay.

My next thoughts go to my friends. I’ve had the honor to give eulogies for my 2 best friends’ funerals in my 50 years, and frankly, that’s 2 too many. That’s something for people in their 80s to do; not someone my age. I was grateful to do one last thing for them and their families—but I would’ve much rather shared these milestones with them in person.

Eden never even made it to 37 before she died. I remember sitting with Vickey afterward and promising each other that we would make the most out of life from here on out. We would make more of an effort to see each other and not allow life’s stupid obstacles get in the way of us enjoying and living our lives to the fullest. And we did make more of an effort. We did get together more; and laughed louder and appreciated our friendship more. The last time I saw her, we were making plans to go on a trip together-just us girls- as soon as we could both find time off. We hugged in my kitchen, and I watched from the window as she drove away. About 6 weeks later she was gone too.

I did what I know she would’ve wanted me to do. I mustered up the strength to put on another black dress and honored her beautiful soul.

But her death changed me for good.

As I followed behind the hearse; I kept thinking of the trips we had talked about; all the plans we were trying to make, but never actually got to see it come to fruition. I left the cemetery; threw my backpack and hammock in the car and was out of town 20 minutes later. As they lowered her casket in the ground, the tears that flowed weren’t just because I knew how much we would all miss my friend; it was also for life we didn’t get to live. We had always joked that we would get old and live together like the Goldin Girls, eating cake at midnight, talking about the “good old days.”  And now that was all stripped away.

Like a parent scolding His child, God held me by the chin and forced me to look up, open my eyes see that this life is a gift, and it’s meant to be lived to the fullest. So, from then on, I started having my adventures.

While some people like to plan a week of relaxing by the beach or at a spa; I chase the wild. I hiked (and subsequently got lost) in the Appalachian Mountains. I camped alone on the banks of the Chunky River, listening to deer (or bears) sniffing around my camp gear. I hammocked in the Ouachita Mountains and watched fireworks coming from the city of Hot Springs. I went on a Bigfoot Hunt – obviously didn’t find him; but it was worth the trip.  I hiked over 6 miles deep into the Ozark mountains, along the tallest sheer bluff face found between the Rocky and Appalachian Mountains, climbed through a hole in mountain and walked along a narrow 5-foot-wide ledge off the bluff, over 500 feet in the air and dangled my feet over the Buffalo River.  I saw real glowworms—one of the only places in the world outside New Zealand where they exist. I rode an Amtrak from Greenwood to Chicago just to eat pizza with my daughter, then caught another train to D.C., wandered the Capitol alone, and finally took a train to Baltimore.

I’ve packed in more adventure in the three years since Vickey passed than in decades prior. But this year? This will be my greatest adventure yet.

This year I turn 50 years old.

With such a momentous birthday, the people I’ve lost have been heavy on my heart. But it’s not just my mama and my friends. So many others didn’t make it this far.

I’ve wanted to do this for 10 years now; but didn’t ever have the nerve to do.  And this year, I’m taking all those that didn’t make it to 50 along with me.  I know how tenuous life can be, how quickly everything can change. I fully intend to live the rest of my life creating memories worth sharing long after I’m gone.  I want my granddaughter to one day hold a picture of me up to her friends and say, “You know, my Oma did the wildest, craziest things!”  So, for this next adventure, I am riding in the Naked Bicycle Ride in New Orleans.

This isn’t about the nudity.  It’s about the cycles; and acceptance. 

When I lived in Gulfport, I rode my bike everywhere – from work to the grocery store. Every Saturday, my children and I would pack a lunch and some drinks, hop on our bikes and ride 8-10 miles up and down the MS Gulf Coast. Riding around on our bikes was easy there. We had bike lanes from the interstate to the beach and board walks from Long Beach to Biloxi. But sadly, that is not the case in the Delta.

The Naked Bicycle Ride started in Portland as a protest formed by a group of artists protesting society’s oil dependency. Over the years it has spread worldwide, in every major city, gradually shifted into more of an advocacy event for cyclist safety and body positivity, which are 2 very personal issues for me.  Also – who doesn’t want to do something outlandish for a good cause?  I figured this would be the perfect way for me to celebrate 50 incredible years living this beautiful life God has blessed me with.  For anyone who knew the younger me, it’s a miracle that I’ve made it this far.   This birthday is not just a celebration for me. It’s a reflection of the beautiful journey I’ve travelled over this lifetime, and a tribute to those I’ve loved and lost—each one leaving their own mark on my heart.  I am not only riding for myself, but I am also riding for all those exceptional souls that didn’t get to see their own 50th.

I’m Riding for….

My mama- Because she never got to do anything too crazy. She spent all her precious energy and short time on this earth (only 37 years) taking care of everyone else.  And I can hear her saying “You’re as crazy as your damn daddy!”  And I know she loved him as much as she loved anyone else until the day she died. Their love kept them tethered, even 17 years after divorcing. I know she’s rolling her eyes and thinking to herself, “I didn’t call her ‘Crazy’ for nothing.”  But I also know she would fight anyone tooth and nail to defend me because that’s who she was and what she did.  She was my mama; and she always fought for me. It was the sheer fight in her that got her to 37 years old.

Eden and Vickey- just because I know they’d get the biggest kick out of it.  They always got a kick out of our crazy shenanigans. Those girls knew all my secrets and supported me through all kinds of crazy. And they know that riding on a bike, is not the worst thing I’ve done for them😊

Chris and Jody- because my childhood wouldn’t have been complete without them.  They were more like family than just friends. My first realization that they were like family came when my mom said one night, “better get out of your nightgown and put more clothes on. Barbara is coming by with the boys really quick.” And I said, “it’s just Chris and Jody.  They don’t care.”  Watching Chris’ kids grow up has been a privilege; and sharing stories with them is a treasure. The last time I saw Jody was only a few minutes before his accident. My mom was teasing us about getting “our tails back to school.”  The last time I saw Chris, he was riding a motorcycle down the road, his babies trailing behind him on their own “little toy motorcycles” like little ducklings following the leader.

My cousin Danny Lewis – because he was never too busy to push me on the tire swing in his front yard; and wasn’t too cool to hold my hand and walk with me from Elementary to the High School where my Aunt Tammy was.  He didn’t even see 21.  I can’t imagine what he would look like as an older man.  He will forever be young in my mind; and there’s something beautiful about that.

My Uncle Danny Joe – because he bailed me out on more than one speeding ticket that he knew I couldn’t afford to pay; and let me crash at his house any time I wanted.  Growing up, I thought he was the most handsome of all my uncles – and I have a bunch of uncles.

Misty Rainey – My sweet cousin because she stayed with us as much as she stayed at home. Because behind the deep hauntingly brown eyes of that little girl was an old soul that would reach out and grab you by the heart strings, sucking you in.

Lane – my sweet nephew- because I can still feel his spirit in his mama’s laughter and his sister’s mischievous grin; and can still practically see him standing next to Randolph and David – right beside them tinkering with the tools and working on stuff.

Jake Byars – he was the first friend we lost. Losing him showed us just how fragile life could be. We were so young; that I don’t think it really sunk it at first.  His death was almost an unspoken memory that haunted our young minds. No one knew what to say; how to act; or how to just be. Now that I am a mother, I have a special place in my heart for his mama’s strength in carrying on; and continuing to show up for his brother Todd. Seeing his dad cheering loudly from the stands warmed my heart.

Tal Tharp and Jay Duke- because we grew up together out in the country; trauma-bonded by the long morning and afternoon rides on Mr. Pena’s school bus. They were best pals that passed together; so, they should be together on the ride too.  I love to see their families and know how proud they’d be of them today.  They were the boys that never started trouble. They were some of the good ones. And sadly, it really is always the good ones that die young.

Little Ariana – because that little head of curls bounced up and down the stairs of my home countless times; and when you’re at my home- I’m gonna treat you like you’re mine, love you like you’re mine and scold you like you’re mine.  After she had her accident, we moved out of that house. As we were packing and cleaning, we found a mirror upstairs that she had written her name on in marker.  That was a special treasure to find. Just like her name was permanently marked on my mirror; her smile and youthfulness will always leave a stain on everyone who knew her.

Roy Cook – because he loved me, though he never had me. He was such a special friend to me right on the cusp of adulthood. We rode a million miles down every back road we could get lost on, escaping reality, forever questioning what we were going to do with our lives; and finding a bond that always kept us tethered together in spirit, even though we eventually went our separate ways. I always thought back on him, prayed he was happy, and I still smile at the memories we shared.

So, when you see me butt naked, among a sea of perfect strangers, with my unbridled naughty bits on full display, just know that I didn’t get here easily.  My journey has been as hard as it has been beautiful. And for just a moment in time, I will be completely free – free from social conventions, free from the constraints of mistakes made and the weight of grief.

For just a few miles in New Orleans, the little girl that I was once will reemerge; changed by life’s heartbreaks; but not broken. She is still there and will rise up like a phoenix, strong, resilient, defiant, and pulchritudinous.  And she will not ride alone. The spirits of those I ride for will be with the little girl inside me; celebrated by every memory that shaped me.

I once heard that our children reflect the best and the worst of us. I know I reflect the worse of my mother. She may have been sick and frail physically, but mentally she was as strong as an ox. I have had too many weak moments. I’ve made choices that I am sure would have disappointed her.  But my mother could also be spontaneously silly. She would get so tickled at herself, that she couldn’t breathe.  One of my favorite memories is of her singing loudly and off-key “We Are Family” into the broomstick as she swept the kitchen floor. This is a side of my mother that a lot of people never got a chance to see. She had to fight so hard against the cards she was dealt that she rarely got the chance to play.

Realizing early on just how precious those rare silly moments with her were, I made a conscious decision to always be silly with my own children. While my silliness has more often than not caused my children some embarrassment (this latest probably causing the most), I hope that when I am long gone, my antics will serve as a source of joyful reflection. And while I am riding down the streets of New Orleans in my birthday suit, that mama will be laughing her head off in heaven and cheering me on; and I will reflect the very best of her.

A Chair For My Mother; Validation For My Heart

A Chair For My Mother is a story written by Vera B. Williams, inspired by a true event in her childhood. The story introduces us to a multi-generational household; pooling their change together to buy a new chair after a fire destroys most of their furniture and belongings. The story seems simple at first glance; but just underneath the surface, a much deeper story is revealed. This is not just a story about a mom waiting tables at a diner and saving up change in a change jar. It is a story of resilience, dedication, strength, compassion and love. And this is a story everyone of us can relate to in one way or another. Personally, the parallel between the story characters trying to rebuild their lives and my own family is uncanny.

As most of my friends know; I found myself back in my hometown of Belzoni, Mississippi, with 2 kids, 1 cat and 1 dog; and nothing else. In a last ditch effort to escape an abusive marriage, the kids and I threw our clothes in garbage bags and fled. I left behind a life that took me 20 plus years to build. I was homeless, jobless, carless and had no idea how I was going to get back on my feet. Just as in Williams’ story, friends and neighbors stepped in. We were offered a tiny 1-bedroom cottage in the alley to rent; and people donated dishes, furniture, and any household essentials we needed. My daughter got the bedroom, my son’s make-shift bedroom was once the back porch; and I slept on an abandoned love seat in a room that served as kitchen/dining room and living room. I could lie on the love seat, and my son could lie in his bed and we could stretch out our arms and give each other a high-five. That’s how small the cottage was! But it was a start; and that’s all we needed- a fresh start.

I worked 3 – 4 jobs at once – waiting tables at night and by day, working as a dialysis tech, receptionist and fitness instructor. My day would start around 4am and ended in complete exhaustion after I grabbed up the last tips at the restaurant. Every night, I would get home and count my tips. The tips paid for the school lunches; and admission to all the kids’ games. While my checks covered the utilities; I needed the tip money so my kids could maintain some resemblance of a normal life. They had already survived so much trauma; and I just wanted them to have the best time in their remaining years of childhood. And for the most part, they did!

In A Chair For My Mother, the chair serves as more than just a piece of furniture. The chair symbolizes comfort and peace; and a sense of accomplishment after working together. And, isn’t that all we all really want in life? While that may look a little different for each person, we all just want to find that moment of peace at the end of each day. When I was headed north on Highway 12 with garbage bags in the backseat, peace was all I wanted for my family. And even though we did not have alot of money, that little cottage in the alleyway saw lots of growth, lots of laughs and more love than imaginable.

Fun fact about the story behind the story, Vera B. Williams wrote A Chair For My Mother in memory of her own mother; who bought a new chair on an installment plan. Because her mother was still in nursing school, the family had to forgo other purchases to make sure they had enough money each month to pay for the new chair. In typical immature fashion, Vera yelled at her mom, “You shouldn’t have bought the chair if you couldn’t afford it!” For years, Williams lived with regret at lashing out at her mother who just wanted a chair to relax in.

I often reflect back on my decision to uproot my children from the only home and friends that had ever known and planting them down in the Mississippi Delta. While I do not regret my decision, it hasn’t been without much internal conflict. It’s been 11 years now, and the guilt I feel still haunts my dreams. As a matter of fact, that is my reasoning behind revisiting this story. I am proud of the new life my children and I built together in the alleyway. And I am proud to have been able to watch them both thrive in their new world of cotton fields and farmers. But I can’t help but wonder if I could have done things differently, cleaner and gentler.

In this story, the family pooled their sources together and were able to all find comfort at the end of the day in their new chair. Even though we left that abandoned love seat I slept on for years behind, I can still remember how well I slept on it after a long day of work and school just knowing that my children were at peace and safe, and within an arm’s length.

So what’s the moral of the story? I guess the answer varies according to whichever perspective from which you read it. If you read this story from the characters’ perspectives, the moral is that with community, hard work, and determination, you can overcome any hardship. If you are reading this story from the author’s perspective, the moral of the story is that it is never too late to mature and empathize and offer your hardworking mama an apology. In the end, it doesn’t really matter how you read the story; because we all (the author, the characters and the reader) are just trying our best out here and want a little peace at the end of the day… whether it be in a new chair or an abandoned love seat in the middle of the kitchen in a tiny cottage in the alleyway.

AMAZING GRACE AND A LIL PETER PAN IN ALL OF US

Oh Reading Rainbow, if you didn’t do anything else; you gave a little poor girl in the Mississippi Delta hope and the courage to be a little different from everyone else. I grew up on mostly dirt road (there are some sections that are paved) with the nearest neighbor my age about 1/2 mile away. So, much like the title character in Mary Hoffman’s, “Amazing Grace”, my days relied heavily on my imagination. I would walk around the woods, searching for hidden treasure left by Native Indians. I would dig for dinosaur fossils. The fishpond levees would become a race track to race for a million dollars. The tree branches would give the best vantage point to fight imaginary enemies; their leaves camouflaging me from “bullets”.

In her story, Grace has an intense love for stories of all sorts. Fully emerging herself into each story, she re-enacts the most exciting characters and their stunts using anything available. With a little enchantment and creativity, Grace could turn a teapot into a magic lamp. Her stool becomes a peg leg; a blanket becomes a cape. Even her mother and grandmother become props for Grace when reliving these wonderful stories! With her imagination, Grace could be anyone she wanted and household items could be magic!

One day, at school, though, Grace’s classmates diminished her hope and lust for life. The school would be re-creating the play “Peter Pan” and Grace knew she wanted to play the lead role! But her classmates cruelly pointed out that Grace was different that what they thought Peter Pan should be. “You can’t be Peter Pan. He’s not a girl,” one classmate yelled. Yet Grace kept her hand up to audition for the play; and her chin held high as other classmates chimed in. “Natalie says I can’t be Peter Pan because I’m black,” a disheartened Grace cried to her family that afternoon, recapping how her classmates crushed her Peter Pan dreams of flying over the entire school.

Was her family angered by the children’s coldness towards Grace? Sure. But anger only stifles one’s dreams; and Grace was just too amazing to be stifled. Her Nana took her to a play to show her that anyone can reach their dreams. Just as Grace dreamed of being Peter Pan, Rosalie was a little girl from Trinidad who dreamed big; and now she had the starring role in Romeo and Juliet. After the ballet, Grace danced around her room, in her imaginary tutu, reminding herself that she can, in fact, be anything she wanted. Of course, on Monday’s class auditions, no one could deny Grace’s talent and energy. Everyone, even those that doubted her at first, voted for Grace to be Peter Pan.

I was much like Grace growing up. I would hop on my yellow banana seat bike and head for the horizon, in search of new adventure around Cole Lake. And also like Grace, there was always some nay-sayer ready to extinquish any hopes and dreams I had because my visions for a fruitful future didn’t fit in with Mississippi Delta standards. I wanted to be a writer and travel. I wrote poetry. I was enticed by anything and everything that sat outside the realm of acceptance or broke the mold.

“You have no direction.” That’s what a man once told me. “Yes I do! Today, I’m going to Greenville. And from there, I’ll figure it out!” I stamped back. The truth is, I never had any direction; and I didn’t want it. The idea of floating around the world and emerging myself in all the different cultures and ways of life was the only thing that appealed to me. I knew there was so much more beyond the corn fields and fish ponds; and I wanted to try it all. Being from a traditional Southern small town, this ideology was not embraced; and certainly not encouraged. Needless to say, I had bullies at school; and bullies at the family dinners. But my mama always encouraged me. I remember once when she was in the hospital; and we were settling down as best as we could for the night, she looked over at me and said, “write me a poem.” I wrote a poem titled, “What’s My Name” that night for her. A year later, that poem won a National Poetry Contest.

Fast-forward 40+ years and here I am. Back in the Mississippi Delta and back with some of the ghosts of my childhood. Did all my wild dreams come true? No. But there were some wild adventures I’ve been on. I’ve done more than what baby Tracy ever really thought was possible. I’ve had friends from different lands far away, who practiced different religions. I’ve kissed on a mountain top. I’ve caught a shark in the ocean (it was a baby Hammerhead but it still counts). I’ve gone parasailing in Cancun. I’ve nosedived in a plane during an air show. I’ve been to prestigious dinner parties with the rich. I’ve met some famous people. I’ve shot pool in dive bars. I’ve sipped wine with the finest of ladies who turned out to be snakes in the grass; and shot whiskey with the scariest of men; who turned out to be big Teddy Bears. I’ve celebrated Easter Sunday on the wrong side of the tracks. I’ve celebrated the New Moon topless in the woods. I’ve rung in the New Year by myself. I’ve ridden a train cross-country alone. I’ve gone to a Big Foot Hunt! I’ve had tattoos. I’ve had piercings. And I’ve had children; my greatest adventure of all.

I’ve maintained my “Try anything once” mindset through every aspect of my life. And when my marriage crumbled; I clung to that motto to get me through. I was different than the typical Delta girl. I knew that growing up; and was reminded of it constantly. But now that I’m older; now that we are all older, my difference is embraced more than rejected. I may not have written the best-seller I envisioned. But I have lived; and I have feverishly eaten every little crumb this crazy and beautiful world has left for me. I’ve learned to be proud. I’ve learned to be humble. I’ve learned to be kind. Most importantly, I’ve learned that we all were once just little kids staring out the window, eager to break free and find an adventure.

We don’t all have to look alike; or fit into a specific mold. We don’t all have to share the same idea of success and failure. It’s our differences that make us special and provides us the ability to put our own special spin on things. Just as Grace’s classmates quickly learned in Amazing Grace, there’s a little Peter Pan in all of us if we are just brave enough to let it show and have one person in your camp encouraging you to be yourself!

Looking Back At The Giving Tree

The instant I mention any childhood books to my children, they immediately go to “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein. I read to my children regularly and they always got a new book in their Christmas stash; but for some reason, this book stands out for both of them. So, of course it had to be the first book I would re-read in my Reading Rainbow series.

The Giving Tree explores the ever-changing relationship between a boy and a tree. What starts off as a simple and playful relationship becomes more complex as the boy grows and matures and his needs from the tree change. In the beginning, the boy wants nothing more than to play on the tree’s branches and sit under its shade; but as he grows, his needs from the tree grow too. The tree loves the boy so much, it will do anything to help him. He offered all his apples to the boy so that he could sell them for money. The tree allowed the boy to cut off all its branches so he could build a home for his family. And when there was little left, the tree offered its massive trunk to the boy to build a boat. Throughout the boy’s life, the tree was a constant source for the boy until the tree is left with nothing more than a stump to offer. And, in the end, a tree stump is all that the boy needed.

Some may think the story is one of a one-sided relationship of which the boy takes full advantage. But I disagree. The tree was happy to make each sacrifice for the boy. After all, the tree loved the little boy very much; just as a mother loves her child. As a mother, we don’t keep a tab of the sacrifices we make for our children. When we see a need they have, it makes us happy to be able to fulfill that need; just as its sacrifices made the tree happy. And the evolving relationship between the boy and tree in “The Giving Tree” is parallel to one between a mother and child.

In the beginning, all that a baby needs from its mother are the essentials: food and shelter and play. A baby immediately learns to rely on its mother for everything. Essentially, for the first formative years of its life, a mother is that child’s entire world. She is all it knows; and she provides all its needs.

But, just as the boy grew; so does every child and their needs change also. A child no longer comes to its mother for food and shelter. That child will now want to build its own life, outside the safety of its mother’s arms. But mothers don’t just turn their backs on their children at this point. We pivot and provide our children with the means to be independent and to thrive on their own. Just as the tree offers the boy its apples to sale, our mother offers its child the knowledge she has and the stepping stones for the child to form a path of their own. And while, it is bittersweet to watch your child leave the nest; it makes you happy to see them form a life of their own.

Just as the boy wanted to start his own family, a mother’s child will too. It is then that the mother can only offer her child her own branches from her family tree. The child will have to sort through the family tree; discard of toxic “branches” and build on to the stronger, sturdier branches. This is the point where toxic cycles will be acknowledged and family bonds are most at risk for being broken. But, if the relationship between a child and mother has been a constant and healthy one, it will sustain the child’s voyage into familyhood.

Life is exciting when you take that initial leap out of the nest and make it your own. You set out on this adventure thinking the world is your oyster, dreaming of how you are going to carve your own little notch and paint it red! But, over time, you can become overwhelmed by the outside influences; while simultaneously be underwhelmed by your own lost of creativity and individuality. You can lose your shine and become cumbersome. And even then, a good mother will be there to offer you an escape, an outlet, just as the tree offered the boy his trunk to build a boat and sail away.

In the end, none of it matters. The riches and losses, the highs and lows of a life lived don’t matter in the end. All that matters is the relationship that has maintained through every stage in life. And, just as the tree was proud to offer its stump for the boy to rest on; a mother will still be proud to offer up her lap for her “baby” to crawl into for a warm embrace and a moment of peace. In the end, the tree loved the boy. And the tree was happy. And if the day comes when a child comes back home as an adult seeking the comfort of his mother’s lap; she will offer her last bit of energy to her child. And the mom will be happy.

THANK YOU MR. BURTON

Not to be dramatic; but I’ve recently come to the conclusion that Levar Burton and his show “Reading Rainbow” may have saved my life. Let me explain.

I recently heard that infamous theme song to Reading Rainbow. You know the words, “Butterfly in the sky. I can go twice as high. Take a look. It’s in a book….. A Reading Rainbow”. Immediately, I was back in my childhood home, sitting in front of our box tv singing along. I knew every lyric, every note. A feeling of peace and hope came over me that I had not felt since I was watching this man on my television set, listening to him read me a story. And that’s when I realized that this man saved my life.

Okay…so maybe he didn’t SAVE my life. But I do emphatically believe he had a huge influence on my life that I still carry with me today. My childhood was complicated by so many factors. My parents were only 17 when I was born. They were divorced. We were poor. My mother was in and out of the hospitals due a chronic illness and subsequent transplants. We lived in the rural MS Delta with few opportunities. These things made my childhood chaotic and unpredictable. For this reason, I cling to routines and simplicity to this day.

For me, Reading Rainbow was one constant in my life that I could depend on to help me zone out the scary unknowns that plagued my childhood. And by submerging myself into this make believe universe for 30 minutes a day where I could go anywhere and do anything and fly higher than a butterfly, I not only learned how to compartmentalize my feelings and let go of the things I had no control over; I have come to realize that I learned life lessons that I have carried with me for almost 50 years now. These are lessons I’ve shared with my children. And now that I am a grandmother, these are lessons I want to share with my Extraordinary Eleanor.

Can revisiting a childhood show and rereading children’s books really change our perspective on life as an adult? I believe so. In fact, I know so. How else can you explain the immediate calmness and nostalgia I felt just hearing that magical theme song? I truly think that if we could take just a few minutes to tap back into those simpler times, we can change the world today. So that’s what I intend to do with this blog.

I will be revisiting books Levar Burton covered on Reading Rainbow to see if my perspective has been tarnished or enhanced by life over the years. I once believed in what I was singing. I believed that I could go anywhere and be anything; and that there were friends to know and ways to grow; a reading rainbow. So I am striving to find that hope again through this blog and maybe giving the rest of the world some hope and a new perspective too.

But no matter what the outcome of this little experiment is; I do know I need to say this. Even though he may never ever see it; “Thank you Mr. Burton. Thank you for those few minutes you spent with me, reading to me and taking me away on a butterfly’s wing.”

So, what was your favorite book as a child? Did it have a lasting effect on you? I would love to hear about the tall tales that stayed with you through every stage in your life.