The Almost Daily Thread

musings from the blue chair

Prompt #8 – I do not choose to

The suggested prompt is: All good things must come to an end. That one way too close to a death and finality for me today so I say, “I do not choose to write about that,” which brings me to a story I can tell you about I do not choose to.

August 25, 1996 The Clinton family stopped in Riverfront Park Ashland on a whistle stop tour on their way to Chicago to accept the party’s renomination for Bill.

“The president is here in Ashland, Kentucky, first stop of his campaign train trip to Chicago, where he’ll accept his party’s renomination of the Democratic convention. His mission, to explain to Democrats and to Americans all over the country why he should be reelected and why Bob Dole should not enter the White House.” from an interview with CNN.

http://www.cnn.com/ALLPOLITICS/1996/news/9608/25/clinton.interview/interview.shtml

Ashland is a river front town where the railroad tracks parallel the river.  A flood wall built a block or so away from the river protects with gates that can be open and shut at the streets that cross it.

The town rose to the call of the event.  Clean up.  Paint.  Build a speakers platform and podium.  Chairs.  Bunting and banners.  Celebration.  For several weeks, secret service men, yes, in trench coats, wandered the streets obviously not “from here,”  but setting up observation posts.   Our town was honored, decorated and safe.

After much anticipation, the train pulled from West Virginia where Hillary had spoken that morning and stopped just past one of the street openings of the flood wall.  Maybe 14th Street??

My step-ex-mother-in-law (that is a whole other story!), a long time Democrat, got tickets in the VIP seats via our friend, head of the Democratic Party at the time.  Juanita was beyond excited to attend the event, however, her physical health was such that she couldn’t walk great distances.  I picked her up early so we could get a parking place close to the speakers platform and her seat.  We that happened!  We found our seats, talked and visited all morning with all those gathering.  We watched from the center the frenzy of a Presidential visit to our small town.

The only other time a President graced us was when Nixon came through Russell to receive an illegal campaign contribution from Ashland Oil.  We, then, lined the streets for a glimpse.  Nixon didn’t stop to speak, just breezed through with his hand out.

I digress.

https://mobile.nytimes.com/1974/12/31/archives/170000-in-illegal-gifts-admitted-by-ashland-oil-special-to-the-new.html

So, the chugging train arrives as the anticipation grows.  And the President of the United States of America on stage with our local heroes and politicians speaks.  A fabulous speaker, Bill Clinton.  He smiles.  He offers promise and hope.  He entertains in an eloquent political speech.

When the podium empties and the applause stops the crowd is directed to leave through a street a block down from where our car was parked.  The train would stay parked while while Clinton does an interview with Wolf Blitzer.  CNN was so brand new then.

Juanita and I stand, speak to people leaving, wait until the crowd thins a bit.  When we leave we are directed to walk past the open flood gate where our car sits just on the other side to down to the next street.  Like from 14th Street to 15th.

“But my car is parked right over there,” she points to just a half a block away.

“Ma’am, this gate is closed now,” replies the secret service man very kindly.  And he turns to walk away but stops when he hears her speak.

“Sir, we came early to  park close so I wouldn’t have to walk far to get to and from my car.”

The man comes closer to us.  “I understand that, Ma’am.  But this street is closed for as long as the President’s train is parked.  I am going to ask you to walk this way,” and he points towards the crowd that is flowing out of the next street.

“And I am telling you I don’t choose to.”

“Ma’am, this street is closed.”

“Well, look, at all the other people using this street.”  She points behind him.

“I see them and each of them are an authorized part of the team here to protect the President.  Now, would you just walk on to the next block and exit.”

“I don’t choose to,” she firmly states.   “My car is parked right over there and I am going to walk straight to there from here.”

I look behind her to see several local officials now aware of and watching this conversation.  The Ashland Chief-of-Police is standing with his arms crossed and I suspect he and the mayor and council men have just placed a bet on who wins this one.

“Perhaps then you need assistance, Ma’am.  I can get you a wheelchair or I can call for an ambulance?”

And I knew at that moment, no matter what kind of weapon was under that coat,  the secret service man had lost his cause.

“Sir,” she took a step forward, “I can assure you I do not need assistance.”  And she took my arm.  “Let me remind you, sir, you are in my town only for a brief passing and I am going to use the streets in my town to my benefit.  I am going to walk across here and go to my car and you may arrest me or assist me.  Now, come on Susan.”

I see the local authorities smiling and I put my hand on her hers and we start to walk.

The man in the trench coat shrugs his shoulders, turns and says to the locals, “This is one tough crowd.”  And he follows us across the railroad tracks to our vehicle.

The text of Bill Clinton’s speech is:

http://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/ws/?pid=53232

 

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Prompt #6 The Perfect View

Certainly Paris from atop the Eiffel tower or from rock wall fortification in Montmarte.

Madrid’s night sky from the 23rd floor.

The Mediterranean from the hill road going into Monaco or from the sandy beach at Cannes.

The Atlantic from San Sebastian or Barritz.

The red roofs surrounding Caracassone.

The chickens outside my bedroom window at the Pension Eirexe.

From the cafe in O Pino the cows marching to be milked.

Or the eucalyptus trees from the room at the Headlands Center for the Arts where I could wander up the hill to see the Golden Gate Bridge.

Or the real genius of Wendell Berry’s Window Poems, written from the inside the multipaned window in his studio.

As I look through all the pictures on my phone and am once again startled at the beauty and glory of nature and the creations of humankind, I believe the view I love best is from the futon on my back porch.  Looking into the yard I have, dug, raked, hoed, planted, harvested and maneuvered.  We have hauled dirt and compost to create six raised beds.  I’ve moved a rock walkway to create a 3-circuit labyrinth on  the left side of the yard and then hauled it to the right side so the grow beds and compost bin could be installed.  Now I’ve stacked them for a wall to line the walkway to the greenhouse.

Everchanging.

I have flowers along the garage with old metal window grates as trellising.  Red roses, pink white and purple zennias, orange Gerber daisys, purple phlox and a hearty tomato plant hovering over the thyme ground cover right next to the rain barrel.

It’s my little urban farm from and in which I love to work and play and plan.  And when the grass is cut and the weeding done, the raspberries trimmed back to manageable, the cucumber and squash contained, I sit and admire the plants that feed us food and joy.  And I nap and read and star,e surrounded by the quiet plot that holds the answer to many of my dreams.

Now for the aquaponics inside a bigger greenhouse….

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Prompt #5 Before and After

Sticking to the guidelines today. After all, the prompts are merely suggestions not rules. My issues of authority surfacing again!

Many items come to mind. I could go historical and do the automobile, refrigerator, dish washer, gas stove. I could describe my yard before and after the raised beds or the aquaponic system I am learning to operate.  I could describe the canner and go into my attempts to remove myself from the corporate food chain and chemicals in my own small way.  Yet I’ve written about these previously.

I am lead to the wood stove!  I love heating with wood.  I’m not totally sure it lowers the heating costs if we don’t manage to obtain free wood which we have had a lot of! We’ve cut, shopped and split several driveways full of wood.  Rest in peace downed ash, maple, oak, walnut and Osage.  We burned the Bradford Pear that didn’t survive the four tornado day a couple of years ago.  But the money to rent the splitter and gasoline and transportation…Am I saving resources?  The process of me or anyone getting the wood to the point of use and the smokey by-product wafting into the air has to factor in.  There is an environmental cost for everything.  I feel like the burning of the deceased trees is a part of speeded up recycling!

I feel strong when operating the splitter.  It’s fun!  And hard work.  I feel strong lifting and stacking wood.  I feel strong carrying wood even though I carry only 3-4 logs at a time.  Carrying wood forces me to get outside in the cold, damp, snow, fog, ice.  so I am still connected with the outside when the windows are shut and the daylight is in short supply.  And I am moving.  I am stretching and using my body.

I cook soups and veggies atop the stove.  Cast iron.  I dry our clothes on racks in front of the stove.  I sit and stare, my feet resting on the brick foundation and browse seed catalogues and read.

The whirr and hum of the furnace is replaced by wood crackling and popping as the fire dances life.  The heart light glowing from the center of my house.

 

 

 

 

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Writing Prompt #4. Who is driving?

Again, I diverge from the given topic! They say a quote from a movie. I am choosing a quote from Animal Dreams by Barbara Kingsolver, (HarperPerennial 1991). Maybe this book is my favorite of hers, but really everyone I read or reread is then my current favorite.

My friend Deborah and I did a writing prompt around this today.

Quote from pg 224 in a letter from Hallie to Codi: “What keeps you going isn’t some fine destination but just the road you are on, and the fact that you know how to drive.”

The “I know how to drive” is what strikes me in this quote. So much of my life I have not felt like the driver but the passenger, not reacting primarily to my own thoughts, needs, desires or reactions but to someone else. Me, the peacekeeper, the one in service.  Let me fix this for you.  Let me do this for you.  Co-dependent.

Seeing the many roads and at this stage in my life, knowing and really believing at an independent level that I can make my own choices – I drive. Certainly with concern and compassion for any others involved but now including myself as equally relevant.

I drive sometimes with the top down and my hair blowing in the wind feeling the sun and the shade of the passing clouds.  Smelling the trees and skunks and road kill and cooking.

Sometimes I drive with the windows up and the music so loud I can’t hear my thoughts.

Sometimes I drive too fast, wanting everyone else to get out of my way, my mission being way more important than theirs.  Especially if I have caused myself time constraints.

Sometimes I go slower, wanting to look around (often at the bane of the me from the last paragraph in the cars behind me.)

Sometimes I leave the house without knowing directions to where I am going.  My second ex-husband claims Garamin was created for me.  I am now saved by Google maps and Siri and, conspiracitorally speaking, tracked by the same.  My new big brother, Google.

So I have been the driver, as well as a willing and unwilling passenger and I know absolutely the destination can certainly be colored by the journey.  Changing the “fine destination” to stressed, angry, happy or excited destination.  So how can I completely color or visualize the destination without leaving some areas for shading to accommodate the human emotions/experiences on the road to getting there?  Some fine destinations turn out to be so changed or rearranged by the time I get there!  Can I accurately color the future?  So what about intention?  Do I set them?  What about vision boards and dreams?  Do I even consider vision or envision?  How do I paint where I want to land, my destination?

The road I am on can be laced with, intersected by so many other interesting other roads.  Other options like curiosity and ADD and boredom can cause many a change in my direction.  And because I am directionally challenged I’m often turning left instead of right and vise versa.  Your side, my side works much better for me!  Lost is often its own unique journey.

I don’t read the last chapter of a book without reading the character’s journey through the middle.  Because here is lies the richness.  Here is where the ingredients, all mixed together, cook up into the serving/the destination as it is right now.  And then we are off to yet another …

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Writing Prompt #2 –TV/Movie reaction

Not exactly following the suggestion – but I am pretty good at “bucking the system” by twisting the rules just a bit.  There is an entire blog post on that personal revelation!

I have adapted the prompt to : emotion associated with a movie or TV show

I don’t watch much TV.  Movies I love if they are funny, character driven and not too violent.  I walked out of the horse head scene in Godfather and again in Black Hawk Down.  I don’t know how they even talked me into that movie.  Many a movie or show I’ve tried gets too careless with death and gore for me.  Like No Country for Old Men.  Love the cast of actors.  But the opening scene in a desolate American West.  Two cars.  Only two cars and two men.  They stop and the guy in the tail car approaches and blows the other one off the map.  Bang you are dead.  In this wide open space, full of emptiness and possibility two men and boom.  Now, granted I did not stick around long enough to see the guy hit the ground so i don’t know the when, why or wherefore.  I just know that I had had enough in 3-4 minutes.

I cringe at the violence in the 30 second advertising slots for the detective shows especially when there are children involved.

I am not denying there are terrible things that happen to people.  Horrific, tragic situations.  Still I don’t want to see imagined, horrific, tragic situations play out in a 40 minute skit broken into commercial segments selling the viewers medicine for depression.  And the next week the main players are all fine and redo to go into another episode.  There is no reality of healing time, grief, anger, frustration.  No regrouping time.  Only scenes from next week.

Several years ago, I regularly watched a show I can’t remember the name of.  Maybe you all can add the name!  (I could do a blog post on instant recall if I could remember to.)   Heroes, I found it on the web, of course.  The players had super powers.  The main character was a cheerleader in high school.  The combat between good and evil was more of a mental battleground at first but then the story line got really brutal and gory.  I quit watching.

I believe the constant depictions violence hardens us, desensitizes us, creates an underlying sense of mistrust and does little to assist in dealing with these situations on a reality basis.  And then what is the reality?  Is Hollywood creating the reality of our society by telling us this is how our society is? Oh, maybe I should just watch the news.  Oh, dear, never mind that.

And then there are the violent video games.  Teaching how to kill with animation that looks like real people.  Training for…?

Call me idealistic, a Pollyanna.  Tell me I have my head in the sand.  Okay.  And still I’ll stick with watching Antiques Roadshow and the shows about personal talents.  Why are there no more Doc Martin episodes?  I do watch Madame Secretary which can occasionally get a bit bloody.  60 minutes and Sunday Morning.  Oh, and Grace and Frankie!  And documentaries.

 

 

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Writing Prompts Day #1 – Books

I am challenging myself to write with an email prompt for 31 days. To sharp my skills, to force myself to write. Writer’s write. So if I want to publish again, well… pen in hand, Susan Rea.

The first prompt is: Write about a beloved book and relive your memories of the time spent entranced by a wonderful story.
Being the Libra poster child, I can’t pick just one. So here is my response.

The first novel I read was Old Yeller by Fred Gibson. I cried so hard. That dog became as personal to me as Dusty! I learned then the power of the written word. I was hooked. Give me a good book and a quiet spot from my early teens.

From a family of storytellers , now wishing I had listened and could remember some of them better, I thank you Uncle John for the snippets in the bundle of letters we found in your desk. I am trying to take it from there, writing little personality bio’s for the faces I have represented in the archives I have assembled.

Another book I well remember is The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley. Life changing. The book really changed my belief system. The Goddess connection spoke to me and drew me in – connected with me. From this reading, I experienced possibility and earth spirituality. This didn’t strike me as fantasy but a reality channeled through an open mind.

The Hobbit and trilogy, The Lord of the Rings, while much more action packed and violent than I usually read, held me spell bound. I propped these books in the window sill to read while I was washing dishes! Heroes, with every character flaw and self-doubt, faith and courageous curiosity. By the way I think Samwise is the hero of this story.

I love books where the historical characters come alive, are given personality. Historical fiction – I suspect many are channeled or directed in some part by divine syncronicity. The focus of the writer on a specific character can often be too intense to not connect with the energy of that character and time. I believe it’s possible.

When I read The Invention of Wings, which I read because Sue Monk Kidd wrote it and I loved The Secret Life of Bees and the strength of the female community, I was entranced, fascinated and so angry.

Thoroughly intrigued with the book and insulted that my history lessons had not taught me, not mentioned or considered important the Grinke sisters, Handful and her mother Charlotte important enough to include in it’s references. (See my previous blog post from July 2015.) Grossly unfair to our culture’s story in both areas of race and gender.

Maybe that’s why I tend to female writers. Louise Erdrich. Barbara Kingsolver. Isabelle Allende. And…Mary Oliver’s poems. Sena Jeter Naslund’s, Ahab’s Wife. Of course, Anita Diamant’s Red Tent.  My list does go on and on and on.

That being said, I have read many Tony Hillerman novels and love them all.

I am fascinated by books written on Mary Magdalene, her history and the theory that she was the most beloved disciple and wife of Jesus. Also, Anna, Jesus grandmother and the Essenes.

I also love stories about the English Queens, their strengths and limitations.

I enjoy young adult literature, but not the fantasy, so much.  It’s concise entertaining, blatantly real.  I did enjoy Harry Potter.  Even though – even his Owl got killed off.  Gezzzzz.

So, I am practicing with writing prompts to bring Hazel and Uncle Ira alive for those who will someday care to peruse what I have archived.

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Why I March

I will march with women as long as my feet will carry me. In my 67 years I have worked my way through many a gender equality issue.
I married young because I believed it “the thing to do”.

After 10 years, I became a single mother and discovered that in spite of having complete control of the finances, I was without any credit rating. After my second divorce, and while, indisputably, not the primary bread winner in either marriage, yet being again in charge of the finances, I was AGAIN without any individual credit rating.  Yes, even with the 7 years of living single between marriages. Credit ratings were attached only to the male and because my single days were previous to the 2nd  marriage they disappeared.

I worked as a banquet waitress (my second job) carrying heavy trays wearing high heels because it was the dress! Why haven’t males been expected to wear high heels to be sexy?

I lost a job once because my commissions paid me more than the boss made for a quarter of that year.

I was any number of times sexually harassed in my job. I was in sales and I certainly encountered sex for business offers. One, in particular, from a  man who was a friend of my father’s, albeit, my father was deceased.

I’ve bought make up, had my nails polished -many women color their hair (I don’t. My hair is still red!) -to step correctly, ie young and perfect, into the cultural acceptance of beauty. Has a man?

So, we, across the board, earn less and we spend on looking culturally acceptable.. (I LOVE YOU, PAULA ANN, my dear friend who does nails and throws in the loving counseling because that is the kind generous soul she is). And, I really do like to have my toenails polished in the summer!

And whose is benefiting from the sale of all that make up and cream and beauty enhancer that we are force fed by our culture? A marketing plan that tells us to be who we are and shine through our God given faces?

Why isn’t there a male word with the same connotation as  misogyny?
mi·sog·y·ny — (dislike of, contempt for, or ingrained prejudice against women.
“she felt she was struggling against thinly disguised misogyny”)

Why is hysterical and hysterectomy from the same root word?

Why is is history and not her-story? Because I think they would write differently.

How many years has it been since women were chattel? Not so many.

Why isn’t there male genital mutilation?

Why is there still a sex trade using young girls as bartering tools?

Why were the girl children killed in China?

Why was there foot binding?

Need I go on?

Yes, I sill go on and I will march for the freedom/equality path I have and will continue to pave for my daughters and my granddaughters and your daughters and your granddaughters.

Take nothing for granted. The freedoms we have now, someone has protested to provide.

Why is this permitted?

Did you know that in 2015, women working full time in the United States typically were paid just 80 percent of what men were paid, a gap of 20 percent? While the number has gone up one percentage point from 2014, the change isn’t statistically significant — because the increase is so small, mere tenths of a percent, it doesn’t amount to perceptible change. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the earnings ratio hasn’t had significant annual change since 2007. The gap has narrowed since the 1970s, due largely to women’s progress in education and workforce participation and to men’s wages rising at a slower rate. Still, the pay gap does not appear likely to go away on its own. At the rate of change between 1960 and 2015, women are expected to reach pay equity with men in 2059. But even that slow progress has stalled in recent years. If change continues at the slower rate seen since 2001, women will not reach pay equity with men until 2152.

http://www.aauw.org/research/the-simple-truth-about-the-gender-pay-gap/

 

 

Thank you Donald Trump for bringing our issues to the open and letting us examine our values in front of the world, our neighbors, ourselves.  I am certainly more and more convinced of my beliefs – the truths I hold to be self-evident.

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Joseph’s Journey

Joseph’s Journey is a novel I have worked on for a long, long time.  Because of the generosity of my Uncle John I was able to take a year’s sabbatical and write.

This novel was given to me through a storyteller who spoke to me every day at the same time.  I got up, got my coffee, sat in my chair (another blue chair) and translated what went through my head. Channeling.  What I discovered was an incredibly beautiful story of a man, an everyday carpenter given a huge God-task.  Going against all the dictates of his society and way out of his comfort zone he said yes. And what he finds is that through divine synronicity he is not alone, the “world” begins to work with him. He gets money and a wagon for Mary to ride in.  All along the route the needs of Mary and Joseph are met by total strangers – grassroots, kind, and generous people.  Just like who we, mostly,  are today – although the news doesn’t cover the millions of stories of daily kindnesses or the “miracles” of divine syncronicity.

I did lots of fascinating research into this story.  I make huge mistakes in self-publishing and I still have little knowledge of marketing.  I just know that the first publications weren’t as perfect as I would have liked yet, I hit the button to Publish.  Knowing the imperfections maybe kept me from much marketing.  Whatever.  Now, Christmas season 2016, I have been through the text with the help of a fellow blogger and friend, Jerri and I think it is done.  Jerri blogs at:  athursdayschild.wordpress.com.  Thank you, Jerri.

Well,  Joseph’s Journey where it is in this moment!  And I am proud of the new cover that Jerri designed, and the type style and the new size AND I love this story.

I hope you will read it and let me know what you think.

Kindle version:   https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01M7U6EYM/ref=tsm_1_fb_lk

Hardback at: CreateSpace eStore: https://www.createspace.com/6672305

 

Enjoy the song and know that Joseph didn’t get much press!!  And yet, his service was great.  In gratitude for the storyteller who whispered this story into my ear.

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A most Subversive Act

A sweat bead drips off her nose as she prays for wholeness and health for the peach eaters and providers while canning peaches which are so perfectly formed – 36 each without a single bug – she knows they are perverted with pesticides.  Still they are juicy and sweet and sensuous to the taste buds.  There is an ummm in every bite.

As she dips and peels she considers the mega production of food to bring 100 cans of peaches to every Kroger store every week.  Just how many peaches is that?  She averages 2 per pint jar.  The perfect amount to heat with a little nutmeg and heavy whipping cream in the dead of winter when a peach she had prayed over tastes like hope.

She wonders at the fears circulating among her most respected friends and colleagues that the grid will go down, the system must break in order to be fixed.  So she will eat peaches while the world struggles in chaos.  She won’t say I told you so because she doesn’t want the scenario to play out, but she does preserve  food, has water purification tablets, candles and kerosene, matches and gas for the grill and wood for the stove.

She reflects on the law of attraction and knows that attracting Mason jars and seeds is easier  for her than attracting cash.

She remembers her mother and the ladies at Florence Christian Church gathering in the kitchen basement of the Disciples Church each bringing their harvest to preserve food together.  Lightening their load in a kitchen big enough accommodate the process with a play ground big enough to entertain the kids.  Coffee in the big pot, sandwiches, peanut butter crackers to feed in the present moment.  Corn, beans, tomatoes and networking in loving fellowship to feed in the winter.

She ponders the pioneer woman isolated on the prairie.  Hungry children and no amenities.  Not even a fan, much less air conditioning and running water.  Carrying water to boil from seed to jar to the table.  What if Pioneer woman hated cooking? Or had a headache?

She angers at the thought of big corporations refusing to label honestly and big agriculture putting poison in foods.  And she wonders if, as a progressive society, we have gotten too lazy to even feed ourselves?

Are we lazy?  Spoiled?  A new lifestyle in this progressing world where someone else does it cheaper and more effectively and we aren’t chained to the daily feeding of ourselves.  Yet do the producers have the consumer’s interest as a priority? Or their bottom line?

Canning is no longer a necessity but a choice and, somehow, it’s one of my favorite “chores.”  No matter how much I sweat.  And, I could turn on the air conditioner, but the smell of the rain and hearing the pattering on my roof makes me happy.  Plus, the food growing in my back yard is being fed.

A most subversive act, organic veggies from my own yard.

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Where Susan Rea Caldwell is from

Hello everyone who reads my blog!  It’s been a long time~a long time~ since my last post.  This poem keeps telling me it wants recognition not only for myself but because it will encourage you, the reader, to create your own poem about your self.

My poem is modeled after George Ella Lyons’ poem Where I am from.  George Ella is homegrown and her works, her voice certainly makes Kentucky Proud.  She is the Poet Laureate of Kentucky this year.  http://www.georgeellalyon.com/where.html

If you read the article you will see that this poem is a favorite among her students and has been a call to writers/poets in Kentucky to honor her position this year.

I challenge you to write the poem about yourself and your past.  It’s enlightening and fun and really interesting.

I find I could write a poem about each decade and really measure the changes.

So here goes.  I am not a poet!

Where Susan Rea Caldwell is from –

I am long awaited
Kentucky Proud
Since before statehood was declared.

I am a Baby Boomer – Class of ‘67

I am from many names so reissued
The tree becomes brambles
William – John – Mary
Directly I am from
Glen Gordon and Lorel Kelly
William and Hazel Gertrude – Betty Rea and Asbury

I am marriages with unique stories
Surnames grafting to twist the branches.

I am red curls from the X and Y
Hazel and Philadelphia.
I am Scotch Irish freckles and sunburns
Forbidden to wear pink, orange or red.

I am 2nd generation from leaving the farm to become
entrepreneurs, cooks, seamstresses, bankers, beauticians,
bookkeepers, salesmen, writers,
homemakers bringing the farm habits to the suburbs.
while keeping the family rooted at regular gatherings and reunions.

I am 5th generation Disciple of Christ.
from Sunday School, choir, Brownies, Girl Scouts and Wa-Kon-Da-Ho.

I am from National Clean-up Your Plate Day,
Patience is the Prince,
God is Great,
Peace, and
Save it, it might be worth something someday.

I am from safety
nurtured and supported in a loving tribe,
running streets with no fears.

I am from a yard full of adventure and
and neighborhood housing mystery and playmates
duck funerals, pink chickens, kick-the-can, tag,
dancing with garage poles, forts, Jacks and Barbies,
the practical green bike, not the shiny pink one
A younger brother and sister (She really is not adopted).

I am from a well storied and often shared oral history

laughter and card playing
cocktails and cigarettes

I am from widowed grandmothers –
the grassroots independents
who produced we bra burners.

I am from Kanebrak and Town and Country
fried chicken from cold oil served in baskets
to fine upscale dining.

I am from practical jokers — and cancer, which is NOT –
I traded a parent for a daughter
5 years apart.

I am from being married to my step-brother and my children being my nieces.  (Figure that one out!)

I am from 3 last names
2 college degrees
I am from learning how to make ends meet when no end was in sight and
death that came too early too many times in waves of 3’s.

Yet, the shrinking tree now expands with names and faces I know only on Facebook.

I take my place as an archivist of my ancestral history from unidentifiable tin types to digital where the paper trail ends and void where the fire destroyed.

From 1-11 my history is recorded in 3-ring binders – linear – to prove that
I AM and how I got to right here!

 

Thank you for reading.

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