Alas and alack, I fear my number of MySpace friends will never equally or exceed the number I have on Facebook.
Yes, I too joined the ranks of MySpacers. There's a whole world out there and I want to know it.
Unfortunately, MySpace is nowhere near as cool and sophisticated as Facebook use to be.
But I digress.
When I first joined Facebook, I was all about hunting folks down and adding them to my friends list. Such is not the case on MySpace.
Very few people even know I have an account there. And I am not motivated to add all those same people as MySpace friends.
I have in some shape or form met every one of my 898 Facebook friends (if only I can break 1,000).
Only random rappers and the like send me friend requests on MySpace. I keep thinking there is a connection somewhere.
“Do I know you?” I write to them
“Yo Ma' I'm bout to drop my second album, add me so you can fly high with a real playa,” they respond.
Hey, I can't be mad for someone trying to hustle. After all, I'm on MySpace for readers.
So yes, I add them and send a link to my blog. There's no harm in a little shameless self promotion.
I have found some family and friends on MySpace and added them too. It pays to actually know someone.
I probably have about a good 20 friends on MySpace now. It should have been 22, and therein is the start of my fear.
For whatever reason, some people just don't want to be my MySpace friend anymore. So they deleted me.
Who in their right mind would delete me? Clearly whatever is wrong with them is no small matter.
In both cases we were once MySpace friends for several days. We also knew each other pretty well in real life.
But things happen, friendships end, family members are disowned and voila, the communication stops.
Does it have to extend to MySpace too? Is it too much to ask for a cool 1,000 friends?
Obviously, some people just don't want to be a team player.
And to think I was going to include them in the acknowledgments for my forthcoming novel. OK that is definitely a lie, so let me retract that statement.
To think, I was going to, oh never mind, I was probably going to delete them first.
Now the truth comes to light.
My ego is so big it amazes me sometimes. I merely play if off by saying, “I'm not conceited, I'm confident.”
No one can believe in you more than you. I am my own biggest fan.
Every now and then I need an ego boost.
It's kind of like the Echinacea pills I take when I feel sickly. They're my immune system booster.
Having as many MySpace friends as possible is definitely a boost, especially since it's dedicated to my blogging (Facebook is the social network).
Granted, I do a little spring cleaning to my phone and Facebook each year. Sometimes you have to evaluate who do you really know and talk to, and who is just of no use.
Well, they deleted me before I got to that point. Talk about a blow to the ego.
Maybe that's the real problem.
Pride is probably my biggest issue. It is my “tragic flaw”
Instead of being upset that a friendship (that was once beyond MySpace) was irrevocably ended, I am annoyed I was deleted first.
She/he who deletes first wins. I came out a loser this time.
Oh well, with an ego as big as mine, one needs to be humbled occasionally.
Besides MySpace friends come a dime a dozen. Real friends last a lifetime.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
The Hartwell Chronicles … learning to balance
Instead of simply reporting, I’m also learning.
I started attending budget meetings for two of the governmental agencies I cover around the end of April.
All those big numbers can be confusing. I haven’t understood math since I stopped piano lessons.
Looking at all the money they bring in made me realize a harsh reality: I am po’ and penniless.
I don’t have a penny or pinto bean to my name. Here’s a little mathematical equation for you; journalism degree + entry level reporting job = po’.
Why I’m so po’ I can’t even afford the o and r. OK maybe I’m not really THAT poor, but it does feel like it at times.
I did not go into journalism for the money, a point my mother loves to bring up. I did it for the love of writing (and by reason of insanity). But I never thought I would be in such dire straits.
I had a nice little salary to live on when I first started working. I thought I was Ms. Baller Supreme. Trips to the mall, out to eat and across state lines were a common occurrence.
Then reality kicked in.
Yes, the check was “big” until health insurance started coming out. Suddenly things were looking mighty slim.
Not to mention, my lack of budgeting skills eventually started catching up with me. Maybe I should have taken note at the first budget meeting I attended last year.
I usually know how much money I have, but after about the third purchase I stop paying attention. That definitely leads into trouble.
My biggest budgeting problem has been rent. I pay on the first and they don’t cash it until the 21 at the earliest.
That drives me crazy. I mean it looks like I have money when I don’t.
And what do I do? Spend it.
Then I have to call home asking for a loan. Well actually I only did that twice, and once was for rent.
I never really had to develop a budget before. My momma paid all my bills. But now I pay the majority.
And after nearly a year of no budgeting, I’m realizing its importance.
It’s time for me to keep better financial records. Every purchase I make, even if it’s a pack of gum, is written down now. And I’ve evaluated what are necessities compared to luxuries.
Case in point is television. The only time I really watched TV was when the Boondocks were on.
The season’s over, and it’s available online. The same goes for Everybody Hates Chris and House of Payne.
So long TV. They disconnected my cable last week (but at least I still have Internet service).
I am also guilty of semi-reckless spending.
Now I don’t go out and by the latest pairs of Jimmy Choos, but I have my share of frivolous expenses: namely food.
Hey, a working girl’s got to eat, right? Fair enough, but those $10 lunches start adding up over time.
I’ve taken up cooking more to combat that problem. Leftovers are just fine with me.
I think frugality is going to be the name of the game for the next few months. If it ain’t free, it ain’t for me.
And considering my current locale, it shouldn’t be too hard. There isn’t that much to do in Hartwell that is too expensive.
A college degree is supposed to help bring in the green. But it also depends on your own financial responsibilities.
I wouldn’t be in my current po’ state if I had properly handled my finances. Poor, not po’, would have been my title.
But sometimes you have to learn the hard way. I think I’m done learning now.
I started attending budget meetings for two of the governmental agencies I cover around the end of April.
All those big numbers can be confusing. I haven’t understood math since I stopped piano lessons.
Looking at all the money they bring in made me realize a harsh reality: I am po’ and penniless.
I don’t have a penny or pinto bean to my name. Here’s a little mathematical equation for you; journalism degree + entry level reporting job = po’.
Why I’m so po’ I can’t even afford the o and r. OK maybe I’m not really THAT poor, but it does feel like it at times.
I did not go into journalism for the money, a point my mother loves to bring up. I did it for the love of writing (and by reason of insanity). But I never thought I would be in such dire straits.
I had a nice little salary to live on when I first started working. I thought I was Ms. Baller Supreme. Trips to the mall, out to eat and across state lines were a common occurrence.
Then reality kicked in.
Yes, the check was “big” until health insurance started coming out. Suddenly things were looking mighty slim.
Not to mention, my lack of budgeting skills eventually started catching up with me. Maybe I should have taken note at the first budget meeting I attended last year.
I usually know how much money I have, but after about the third purchase I stop paying attention. That definitely leads into trouble.
My biggest budgeting problem has been rent. I pay on the first and they don’t cash it until the 21 at the earliest.
That drives me crazy. I mean it looks like I have money when I don’t.
And what do I do? Spend it.
Then I have to call home asking for a loan. Well actually I only did that twice, and once was for rent.
I never really had to develop a budget before. My momma paid all my bills. But now I pay the majority.
And after nearly a year of no budgeting, I’m realizing its importance.
It’s time for me to keep better financial records. Every purchase I make, even if it’s a pack of gum, is written down now. And I’ve evaluated what are necessities compared to luxuries.
Case in point is television. The only time I really watched TV was when the Boondocks were on.
The season’s over, and it’s available online. The same goes for Everybody Hates Chris and House of Payne.
So long TV. They disconnected my cable last week (but at least I still have Internet service).
I am also guilty of semi-reckless spending.
Now I don’t go out and by the latest pairs of Jimmy Choos, but I have my share of frivolous expenses: namely food.
Hey, a working girl’s got to eat, right? Fair enough, but those $10 lunches start adding up over time.
I’ve taken up cooking more to combat that problem. Leftovers are just fine with me.
I think frugality is going to be the name of the game for the next few months. If it ain’t free, it ain’t for me.
And considering my current locale, it shouldn’t be too hard. There isn’t that much to do in Hartwell that is too expensive.
A college degree is supposed to help bring in the green. But it also depends on your own financial responsibilities.
I wouldn’t be in my current po’ state if I had properly handled my finances. Poor, not po’, would have been my title.
But sometimes you have to learn the hard way. I think I’m done learning now.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Chronicles of Life ... My new philosophy
Some things are better left unsaid.
I would have never subscribed to this theory in my younger days.
I am by nature a compulsive talker. Granny use to call me motor mouth or mouth all mighty, tongue everlasting.
My talkative personality is a gift and a curse. It took until adulthood for me to realize that.
Getting the last word is like a silent victory for me. And I always have to get MY point across, be it wrong or right.
My mother called it talking back when we had arguments. I saw it as stating my case.
Perhaps realizing silence is golden at an earlier age would have saved me from some spankings. But speech was silver, and I preferred that anyway.
Senior says I love to hear the sound of my own voice. He’s one to talk. Where does he think I get it from?
Every Lawson seems to love to chat it up. A simple five minute conversation can last for hours.
Naturally I inherited that trait since I take after my dad’s side.
But lately I’ve been trying not to talk as much.
Maybe it was because of my friends tuning me out on phone conversations.
More than once I have finished my latest rambling to find them not listening to a word I said.
“Are you even listening?” I asked.
“No, I started tuning you out,” they respond.
I would get mad, but I do know I can go on way too long.
Or it could be because my boss has told me on several occasions I am too chatty.
She doesn’t say it in a mean way. It’s just I tend to talk a lot at the wrong time: namely deadline.
Asking me one question can lead into a lengthy dialogue. Even my co-worker has pulled out the quiet game on me.
Furthermore, how can I forget the many times I’ve come down with the dreaded foot-n-mouth disease?
I often respond first and think later. That usually doesn’t have a good ending.
But I think the real reason I’m deciding to keep mum it because I wish some people just wouldn’t say anything.
As one of my friends would say, “Well if that ain’t the pot calling the kettle black.”
My thoughts on communication are funny like that. I know what irks me, and yet I do the exact same thing.
In recent weeks, I’ve had two instances where people gave me some long, unnecessary explanation filled with useless information.
“This and this caused that and the other, yada yada yada,” they said.
I feel like Sally from the musical “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.” On more than one instant I’ve wanted to respond with her classic, “Why are you telling me?”
It wasn’t like I initiated it.
For what it was worth, they could have kept the comments to themselves. At least wait for the question and answer session.
I guess they just wanted to “state their case,” too.
Ask me if I care. Heck, no!
Can we say hypocrite?
I am already guilty of many faults: pride, wrath and even occasionally sloth. I for one don’t want to be a hypocrite anymore.
What goes around comes around. So if I don’t like something, maybe I should stop doing it too.
When it’s all said and done, maybe I should just be silent.
And that’s MY new philosophy.
I would have never subscribed to this theory in my younger days.
I am by nature a compulsive talker. Granny use to call me motor mouth or mouth all mighty, tongue everlasting.
My talkative personality is a gift and a curse. It took until adulthood for me to realize that.
Getting the last word is like a silent victory for me. And I always have to get MY point across, be it wrong or right.
My mother called it talking back when we had arguments. I saw it as stating my case.
Perhaps realizing silence is golden at an earlier age would have saved me from some spankings. But speech was silver, and I preferred that anyway.
Senior says I love to hear the sound of my own voice. He’s one to talk. Where does he think I get it from?
Every Lawson seems to love to chat it up. A simple five minute conversation can last for hours.
Naturally I inherited that trait since I take after my dad’s side.
But lately I’ve been trying not to talk as much.
Maybe it was because of my friends tuning me out on phone conversations.
More than once I have finished my latest rambling to find them not listening to a word I said.
“Are you even listening?” I asked.
“No, I started tuning you out,” they respond.
I would get mad, but I do know I can go on way too long.
Or it could be because my boss has told me on several occasions I am too chatty.
She doesn’t say it in a mean way. It’s just I tend to talk a lot at the wrong time: namely deadline.
Asking me one question can lead into a lengthy dialogue. Even my co-worker has pulled out the quiet game on me.
Furthermore, how can I forget the many times I’ve come down with the dreaded foot-n-mouth disease?
I often respond first and think later. That usually doesn’t have a good ending.
But I think the real reason I’m deciding to keep mum it because I wish some people just wouldn’t say anything.
As one of my friends would say, “Well if that ain’t the pot calling the kettle black.”
My thoughts on communication are funny like that. I know what irks me, and yet I do the exact same thing.
In recent weeks, I’ve had two instances where people gave me some long, unnecessary explanation filled with useless information.
“This and this caused that and the other, yada yada yada,” they said.
I feel like Sally from the musical “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.” On more than one instant I’ve wanted to respond with her classic, “Why are you telling me?”
It wasn’t like I initiated it.
For what it was worth, they could have kept the comments to themselves. At least wait for the question and answer session.
I guess they just wanted to “state their case,” too.
Ask me if I care. Heck, no!
Can we say hypocrite?
I am already guilty of many faults: pride, wrath and even occasionally sloth. I for one don’t want to be a hypocrite anymore.
What goes around comes around. So if I don’t like something, maybe I should stop doing it too.
When it’s all said and done, maybe I should just be silent.
And that’s MY new philosophy.
The Hartwell Chronicles ... Staying afloat
It’s amazing how time flies.
Each addition of my company’s newsletter contains a section with birthdays and work anniversaries. Guess who’s name was in there for an upcoming one year anniversary?
I can hardly believe it. I will complete a year in Hartwell Aug. 3.
Things have been pretty interesting since day one.
I remember well my journey here. How can I forget?
First, I was crying to a certain person about how I didn’t want to go.
“Ask me to stay, and I will,” I said.
But we both knew that wasn’t the case.
Then my parents were five hours late picking me up from Gainesville.
We were suppose to leave at noon, but knowing Senior I expected him around 3 p.m.
It was after 6 p.m. when we started on that long drive. And I do mean long!
A six and a half hour drive turned into over 10 hours because we kept getting loss.
“If we get lost again, I’m turning around and going back to Jacksonville,” I proclaimed.
My mother responded with words I can’t repeat here.
Later she was pulled over by a state trooper for following too close.
Senior was in the u-haul. I was on his bumper in the Green Machine, but my mom was like 100 feet away in the rental car. How she got stopped, we will never know.
I took all of this as a sign and was ready to turn right around.
But I didn’t.
There was no job waiting for me in Jacksonville. It was time to sink or swim.
We finally made it to the hotel after 1 a.m., and I was delirious with sleep.
My main focus for the next day was finding a place to live and moving in. But I was blessed to get that situated very quickly.
And the family made quick work of bringing in everything.
I started working the next morning at 8 a.m. That afternoon my family left.
I remember feeling very alone when I came home that evening. Somehow I kept from crying.
Slowly I became acclimated with the area. It only took about a week for me to stop getting loss coming home from work.
Too bad that still isn't the case for the rest of the city and county (but at least I can read a map).
Faces became more and more familiar for those on my beats. I didn’t have to coyly ask, “Let me make sure I spell your name correctly,” to find out what it was in the first place.
I’m also feeling a little less loss and a little more sure of myself every day.
Granted the road hasn’t been easy. The Green Machine definitely has some major battle scars.
Between work stress, losing loved ones and just good old life drama, I thought I was sinking a few times.
Things would probably be easier if I had my circle for friends and SISTUHS here. But I am learning to stand alone and on my own. And I know everyone is only one call away.
I’ve learned to following the rhythm of the ocean.
Looking back, I don’t think I’m quite swimming yet. But I’m definitely not sinking.
For now, I’m still floating on down the river of life. But each day I’m getting closer and closer to taking that first real stroke.
(If only I could swim in real life.)
Each addition of my company’s newsletter contains a section with birthdays and work anniversaries. Guess who’s name was in there for an upcoming one year anniversary?
I can hardly believe it. I will complete a year in Hartwell Aug. 3.
Things have been pretty interesting since day one.
I remember well my journey here. How can I forget?
First, I was crying to a certain person about how I didn’t want to go.
“Ask me to stay, and I will,” I said.
But we both knew that wasn’t the case.
Then my parents were five hours late picking me up from Gainesville.
We were suppose to leave at noon, but knowing Senior I expected him around 3 p.m.
It was after 6 p.m. when we started on that long drive. And I do mean long!
A six and a half hour drive turned into over 10 hours because we kept getting loss.
“If we get lost again, I’m turning around and going back to Jacksonville,” I proclaimed.
My mother responded with words I can’t repeat here.
Later she was pulled over by a state trooper for following too close.
Senior was in the u-haul. I was on his bumper in the Green Machine, but my mom was like 100 feet away in the rental car. How she got stopped, we will never know.
I took all of this as a sign and was ready to turn right around.
But I didn’t.
There was no job waiting for me in Jacksonville. It was time to sink or swim.
We finally made it to the hotel after 1 a.m., and I was delirious with sleep.
My main focus for the next day was finding a place to live and moving in. But I was blessed to get that situated very quickly.
And the family made quick work of bringing in everything.
I started working the next morning at 8 a.m. That afternoon my family left.
I remember feeling very alone when I came home that evening. Somehow I kept from crying.
Slowly I became acclimated with the area. It only took about a week for me to stop getting loss coming home from work.
Too bad that still isn't the case for the rest of the city and county (but at least I can read a map).
Faces became more and more familiar for those on my beats. I didn’t have to coyly ask, “Let me make sure I spell your name correctly,” to find out what it was in the first place.
I’m also feeling a little less loss and a little more sure of myself every day.
Granted the road hasn’t been easy. The Green Machine definitely has some major battle scars.
Between work stress, losing loved ones and just good old life drama, I thought I was sinking a few times.
Things would probably be easier if I had my circle for friends and SISTUHS here. But I am learning to stand alone and on my own. And I know everyone is only one call away.
I’ve learned to following the rhythm of the ocean.
Looking back, I don’t think I’m quite swimming yet. But I’m definitely not sinking.
For now, I’m still floating on down the river of life. But each day I’m getting closer and closer to taking that first real stroke.
(If only I could swim in real life.)
Monday, July 21, 2008
Chronicles of Life... a teenage love affair
My baby’s growing up!
Actually, he’s not a baby anymore.
The boy (aka my brother) has fancied himself on my level since I can remember. The fact that he’s newly 16 only further proves his theory that he is “grown.”
Whatever!
I will admit AQ (another nickname) is very mature for his age. He had to be.
All my cousins and I were already eight plus years older than him when he was born.
We didn’t care he was the last grandchild. He had to get on our level pronto.
So we all treated him as an equal. Not to mention my parents didn’t do the whole baby talk thing.
Most of his friends are a few years older. His love interests range no less than one year older.
Let AJ (yet another nickname) tell it, he’s playa, playa from the Himalayas.
He claims he has more game than me, been in more relationships than me and can pull more girls in one day quicker than I can boys in a month.
I won’t deny that. I’m not into the whole dating thing anyway.
But dear brother has always been crazy for the ladies. Recently it seems he’s crazy for only one lady.
Awww!!! A “teenage love affair.”
I’m really digging Alicia Keys’ song “Teenage Love Affair.”
Granted, I think it’s weird she’s singing about high school emotions as an adult with a video set in college. But you’ve got to admit, the song is still catchy:
“Can’t wait to get home
Baby dial your number
Can you pick up the phone
Cause I wanna holla
Daydreaming about you all day
In school can’t concentrate
Want have your voice in my ear
‘Till mama comes and says it’s too late
Cause the lights are on outside
Wish there was somewhere to hide
Cause I just don’t want to say goodbye
Cause you are my baby, baby
Nothing really matters
I don’t really care
What nobody tell me
I’m gunna be here
It’s a matter of extreme importance
My first teenage love affair.”
Makes me reminisce about my first teenage love affair. OK it was at 22, but the feelings still apply.
I learned of the boy’s boo – although he vehemently denies there is a relationship – late this spring.
During one trip home, he kept me awake texting back and forth with her all night long (yes we share a bed because I no longer have a room). I was fit to be tied.
“Go to sleep,” I demanded.
“Get out my bed,” he retorted.
The floor was hard, but at least quiet that night.
I was only home for 2.5 days, but the whole time he was cakin’ on the phone. His inbox and outbox had no less than 500 messages.
Soon enough my deeply ingrained nosiness took over. I learned her name, age, location, you know all the vital big sis questions.
I think we bonded over talks of his “friend that is a girl.”
From what I understand, she’s a nice person.
My parents got to officially meet her Sunday. She was at church and of course Senior (my daddy) had to put the boy on blast.
“Deacon Norwood wants to see you after church, and I want to see the one sitting next to you,” Senior announced.
That’s exactly why I never brought anyone home. Well that and the fact I don’t really date.
My mother, who doesn’t like anybody, even liked her. Now I just have to meet her and give my seal of approval.
I’m excited to officially learn of someone my brother has an interest in. In a way it show’s me he’s growing up and not the little baby I use to dress up in doll clothes.
That will be an interesting topic of discussion or his wifey one day.
But I doubt wedding bells will be ringing anytime soon.
He is only a teenager. And there is a certain friend of mine he would drop all others for in a heartbeat if she would merely bat her eye lashes at him.
Ah teenage love: so fresh, so fickle.
Actually, he’s not a baby anymore.
The boy (aka my brother) has fancied himself on my level since I can remember. The fact that he’s newly 16 only further proves his theory that he is “grown.”
Whatever!
I will admit AQ (another nickname) is very mature for his age. He had to be.
All my cousins and I were already eight plus years older than him when he was born.
We didn’t care he was the last grandchild. He had to get on our level pronto.
So we all treated him as an equal. Not to mention my parents didn’t do the whole baby talk thing.
Most of his friends are a few years older. His love interests range no less than one year older.
Let AJ (yet another nickname) tell it, he’s playa, playa from the Himalayas.
He claims he has more game than me, been in more relationships than me and can pull more girls in one day quicker than I can boys in a month.
I won’t deny that. I’m not into the whole dating thing anyway.
But dear brother has always been crazy for the ladies. Recently it seems he’s crazy for only one lady.
Awww!!! A “teenage love affair.”
I’m really digging Alicia Keys’ song “Teenage Love Affair.”
Granted, I think it’s weird she’s singing about high school emotions as an adult with a video set in college. But you’ve got to admit, the song is still catchy:
“Can’t wait to get home
Baby dial your number
Can you pick up the phone
Cause I wanna holla
Daydreaming about you all day
In school can’t concentrate
Want have your voice in my ear
‘Till mama comes and says it’s too late
Cause the lights are on outside
Wish there was somewhere to hide
Cause I just don’t want to say goodbye
Cause you are my baby, baby
Nothing really matters
I don’t really care
What nobody tell me
I’m gunna be here
It’s a matter of extreme importance
My first teenage love affair.”
Makes me reminisce about my first teenage love affair. OK it was at 22, but the feelings still apply.
I learned of the boy’s boo – although he vehemently denies there is a relationship – late this spring.
During one trip home, he kept me awake texting back and forth with her all night long (yes we share a bed because I no longer have a room). I was fit to be tied.
“Go to sleep,” I demanded.
“Get out my bed,” he retorted.
The floor was hard, but at least quiet that night.
I was only home for 2.5 days, but the whole time he was cakin’ on the phone. His inbox and outbox had no less than 500 messages.
Soon enough my deeply ingrained nosiness took over. I learned her name, age, location, you know all the vital big sis questions.
I think we bonded over talks of his “friend that is a girl.”
From what I understand, she’s a nice person.
My parents got to officially meet her Sunday. She was at church and of course Senior (my daddy) had to put the boy on blast.
“Deacon Norwood wants to see you after church, and I want to see the one sitting next to you,” Senior announced.
That’s exactly why I never brought anyone home. Well that and the fact I don’t really date.
My mother, who doesn’t like anybody, even liked her. Now I just have to meet her and give my seal of approval.
I’m excited to officially learn of someone my brother has an interest in. In a way it show’s me he’s growing up and not the little baby I use to dress up in doll clothes.
That will be an interesting topic of discussion or his wifey one day.
But I doubt wedding bells will be ringing anytime soon.
He is only a teenager. And there is a certain friend of mine he would drop all others for in a heartbeat if she would merely bat her eye lashes at him.
Ah teenage love: so fresh, so fickle.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Chronicles of Life... Family Affair
The Lawson’s shut it down again!
I had the pleasure of attending my second annual family reunion this past weekend in Jacksonville.
Yeah we started late.
There had been some talk for years of having one, but we all procrastinated on the idea.
The family finally realized how desperately we needed to have a reunion after my great-grandma died in 2006.
I think we brushed off the idea for so long because my family is pretty close knit in one way.
Church service every week was a mini family reunion for me. Pearl – my grandmother – and all her progeny went to the same little white church by the side of the railroad.
We all lived no less than 15 minutes apart from each other.
Everyone, grandchildren and great grandchildren included, have stayed extensively with Pearl.
Before day care, there is Pearl care. Those who are in day care all go to the same one.
And holidays, oh the holidays, are jam packed with people.
Who needed a family reunion? We were thick as thieves with each other.
But that was mainly with those of Robinson (RIP Henry) descent.
Here’s a quick family tree for you.
My grandmother is the oldest of 11 children. She and two other siblings live in Jacksonville. Three are dead. One is MIA and four live in Belle Glade.
The Jacksonville crew is pretty close with each other, but Pearl’s children are a clan all in themselves.
We didn’t really know the Belle Glade crew that well. We only made that painstakingly long and boring trip a few times.
My third time would have been the funeral.
The Glades group is probably a clan to themselves down there.
Something needed to be done to unite us all.
So we made a pilgrimage to Belle Glade in 2007 to celebrate two hearts - Hambrick and Emma - that helped produce the Lawson family.
All the remaining siblings, except for the MIA uncle, and most of their children gather together at the reunions.
Some people are just not going to come, no matter what. But hopefully one day we all can reunite.
I mean, who would want to miss out on all the fun?
We have the kiddie crew, the young and fabulous crowd and the old timers.
The children act like a pack of wild animals. The fab adults play games and socialize and the old folks talk about the good old days.
There was talk of switching the reunion to every other year after this one.
Luckily one of the young and fabulous spoke out against it.
“Our parents and grandparents aren’t getting any younger,” he said. “A lot could happen in a year, and we don’t want the next time we get together to be a funeral.”
So next year we will journey to Atlanta and shut it down too. Yours truly is on the planning committee as the self-appointed activities director (I was the self-appointed consultant this year. I need to work on getting a real title).
A town might stay down, but now when the Lawsons are around.
Don’t you just love a family affair?
I had the pleasure of attending my second annual family reunion this past weekend in Jacksonville.
Yeah we started late.
There had been some talk for years of having one, but we all procrastinated on the idea.
The family finally realized how desperately we needed to have a reunion after my great-grandma died in 2006.
I think we brushed off the idea for so long because my family is pretty close knit in one way.
Church service every week was a mini family reunion for me. Pearl – my grandmother – and all her progeny went to the same little white church by the side of the railroad.
We all lived no less than 15 minutes apart from each other.
Everyone, grandchildren and great grandchildren included, have stayed extensively with Pearl.
Before day care, there is Pearl care. Those who are in day care all go to the same one.
And holidays, oh the holidays, are jam packed with people.
Who needed a family reunion? We were thick as thieves with each other.
But that was mainly with those of Robinson (RIP Henry) descent.
Here’s a quick family tree for you.
My grandmother is the oldest of 11 children. She and two other siblings live in Jacksonville. Three are dead. One is MIA and four live in Belle Glade.
The Jacksonville crew is pretty close with each other, but Pearl’s children are a clan all in themselves.
We didn’t really know the Belle Glade crew that well. We only made that painstakingly long and boring trip a few times.
My third time would have been the funeral.
The Glades group is probably a clan to themselves down there.
Something needed to be done to unite us all.
So we made a pilgrimage to Belle Glade in 2007 to celebrate two hearts - Hambrick and Emma - that helped produce the Lawson family.
All the remaining siblings, except for the MIA uncle, and most of their children gather together at the reunions.
Some people are just not going to come, no matter what. But hopefully one day we all can reunite.
I mean, who would want to miss out on all the fun?
We have the kiddie crew, the young and fabulous crowd and the old timers.
The children act like a pack of wild animals. The fab adults play games and socialize and the old folks talk about the good old days.
There was talk of switching the reunion to every other year after this one.
Luckily one of the young and fabulous spoke out against it.
“Our parents and grandparents aren’t getting any younger,” he said. “A lot could happen in a year, and we don’t want the next time we get together to be a funeral.”
So next year we will journey to Atlanta and shut it down too. Yours truly is on the planning committee as the self-appointed activities director (I was the self-appointed consultant this year. I need to work on getting a real title).
A town might stay down, but now when the Lawsons are around.
Don’t you just love a family affair?
The Hartwell Chronicles ... Just the two of us
I have a mini me for the summer.
OK not quite a mini me, because she is definitely her own person.
My little cousin is staying with me in the lovely city of Hartwell.
The idea came about when me and her mom, my older cousin, talked about the need to remediate my brother’s behavior. His parents didn’t deem it necessary to send him to me.
But my cousin thought it would be a wonderful idea to send her daughter here.
She would get to experience a new cultural environment and actually go somewhere cool for the summer.
Err, cool might not be the word, but hey hanging with her older cousin should be fun right?
I’m young, hip and in the know.
Actually, there are those who say I am lame. Namely my brother and one of my friends.
I will admit, I am not the picture of perfection when it comes to being trendy and whatnot.
This isn’t Sex and the City here. It’s small town single (a forthcoming novel by yours truly. The title has been copy written by me.)
But what I lack in trendsetting, I make up for in my quirky yet entertaining personality.
Hopefully my cousin sees that.
She started crying right before we left from the family reunion saying she didn’t want to go. Then the yelling started from everyone.
“My daughter doesn’t need to deal with her drama,” my daddy shouted.
“Get your stuff out the car if you’re going to act a fool,” my grandma chimed in.
“You need to experience new things, so get in the car” her mom said.
It was driving me crazy. I know she was headed there too.
So she said she would go.
My family did a lot of teasing to my cousin right before she left, and I think that’s what got to her. They said I would be running a boot camp.
I am not.
Yes, I do make her read, write and practice diction. But that’s because she needs improvement in those areas, especially if she aspires to be a lawyer.
When she’s a supreme court justice, she’ll thank me.
And we’ve been counting calories and exercising. Her mom said she needs to lose weight.
She’s slightly shorter than me, but weighs almost the same amount. We both need to drop some major pounds.
You do not want to start high school overweight, believe me.
I guess what everyone failed to realize is she is only 14. She’s never been away from home in another state.
That can be challenging when you’re young.
No friends, no family except a lame-o cousin and a summer filled with unfun activities (wait they’re not that bad). I think I would have started crying too.
By the time we got down the highway and made it to Hartwell she seemed fine. We sung along to the radio, laughed at my bad driving and talked about how I live in a retirement community.
I have to remember to be her cousin and not her parent.
I’m sure I’ll have my share of day’s wondering, “What did I get myself into?”
She mumbles, doesn’t want to listen to me and keeps telling me to turn the lights off (in my own house nonetheless. Her point is we’re in a recession.)
But I’m sure she’s thinking the same thing.
She probably resents me for my lack of culinary skills, my school like structure and my many idiosyncrasies.
Oh well, nobody’s perfect. The two of us are stuck together this summer.
OK not quite a mini me, because she is definitely her own person.
My little cousin is staying with me in the lovely city of Hartwell.
The idea came about when me and her mom, my older cousin, talked about the need to remediate my brother’s behavior. His parents didn’t deem it necessary to send him to me.
But my cousin thought it would be a wonderful idea to send her daughter here.
She would get to experience a new cultural environment and actually go somewhere cool for the summer.
Err, cool might not be the word, but hey hanging with her older cousin should be fun right?
I’m young, hip and in the know.
Actually, there are those who say I am lame. Namely my brother and one of my friends.
I will admit, I am not the picture of perfection when it comes to being trendy and whatnot.
This isn’t Sex and the City here. It’s small town single (a forthcoming novel by yours truly. The title has been copy written by me.)
But what I lack in trendsetting, I make up for in my quirky yet entertaining personality.
Hopefully my cousin sees that.
She started crying right before we left from the family reunion saying she didn’t want to go. Then the yelling started from everyone.
“My daughter doesn’t need to deal with her drama,” my daddy shouted.
“Get your stuff out the car if you’re going to act a fool,” my grandma chimed in.
“You need to experience new things, so get in the car” her mom said.
It was driving me crazy. I know she was headed there too.
So she said she would go.
My family did a lot of teasing to my cousin right before she left, and I think that’s what got to her. They said I would be running a boot camp.
I am not.
Yes, I do make her read, write and practice diction. But that’s because she needs improvement in those areas, especially if she aspires to be a lawyer.
When she’s a supreme court justice, she’ll thank me.
And we’ve been counting calories and exercising. Her mom said she needs to lose weight.
She’s slightly shorter than me, but weighs almost the same amount. We both need to drop some major pounds.
You do not want to start high school overweight, believe me.
I guess what everyone failed to realize is she is only 14. She’s never been away from home in another state.
That can be challenging when you’re young.
No friends, no family except a lame-o cousin and a summer filled with unfun activities (wait they’re not that bad). I think I would have started crying too.
By the time we got down the highway and made it to Hartwell she seemed fine. We sung along to the radio, laughed at my bad driving and talked about how I live in a retirement community.
I have to remember to be her cousin and not her parent.
I’m sure I’ll have my share of day’s wondering, “What did I get myself into?”
She mumbles, doesn’t want to listen to me and keeps telling me to turn the lights off (in my own house nonetheless. Her point is we’re in a recession.)
But I’m sure she’s thinking the same thing.
She probably resents me for my lack of culinary skills, my school like structure and my many idiosyncrasies.
Oh well, nobody’s perfect. The two of us are stuck together this summer.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Chronicles of Life... For whom the bell tolls
Mark your calendars for June 30, 2012 and June 30, 2018.
I am getting married on one or both of those days.
That’s right, the “wedding bug” has bit me.
I went to a friend’s wedding Father’s Day Weekend and was “caught up in the rapture of love,” a la Anita Baker.
It was absolutely beautiful.
The wedding party gracefully came down the aisle, the bride looked like a dream and the ceremony was wonderfully done (and I’m not just saying this because my daddy officiated).
Then we ate, we laughed, we danced at the reception.
And there was cake. Cake, glorious cake. Oh for the love of cake!
I want a wedding!
Bells, wedding ones that is, have been ringing in my head since last Saturday.
I started working out the details of my special day on the ride back to Hartwell Sunday night.
I have a color scheme, ceremony, location and most of the bridal party planned. The only thing missing is one small detail: the groom.
OK, maybe that’s a major part of it. But can’t I just find one in the Penny Saver?
If Juno can find adoptive parents for her unborn baby, I should be able to find a husband.
I’m not asking for much. He just needs to fit my 50 qualifications which include being taller than 5’9, clean and straight teeth, good credit, gainfully employed, intelligence, a relationship not religion with God, you know all the normal stuff.
A few references, background check, drug and mental test wouldn’t hurt.
This is a full time job, after all. I can’t just let any and everybody apply for the position of husband.
All he has to do is show up for the wedding after he gets the job.
This should be fairly simple, right?
Wrong.
I’m just kidding about all the above (err at least most of it).
But someone else might not be.
A lot of people really do catch the “wedding bug” and rush into a faulty relationship and even quicker out a bad marriage. They get caught in the romanticism of marriage and are ready to jump the broom quicker than lighting.
But after the honey moon is when the troubles come.
People don’t realize a relationship takes a lot of work and even more if its a marriage. This isn’t some fly by night operation.
I’m not going to lie. I was caught up in the glitz and glamor of the wedding for a moment.
I almost was ready to start on my five year plan.
“Got to get married while I’m still young,” I thought.
Then I went back to reality.
I didn’t get a boyfriend until 22. I’m definitely not about to rush marriage.
If I’m married by 30, great. If it takes until 40 even better.
Right now my twenties are all about me. There are so many things I want to accomplish before marriage. Why rush it?
I think I’ll get the wedding bug out my system by planning a few parties on those dates.
So ask not for whom the bell tolls. I guarantee it won’t be me for at least another 10 years.
Then again. ...
I am getting married on one or both of those days.
That’s right, the “wedding bug” has bit me.
I went to a friend’s wedding Father’s Day Weekend and was “caught up in the rapture of love,” a la Anita Baker.
It was absolutely beautiful.
The wedding party gracefully came down the aisle, the bride looked like a dream and the ceremony was wonderfully done (and I’m not just saying this because my daddy officiated).
Then we ate, we laughed, we danced at the reception.
And there was cake. Cake, glorious cake. Oh for the love of cake!
I want a wedding!
Bells, wedding ones that is, have been ringing in my head since last Saturday.
I started working out the details of my special day on the ride back to Hartwell Sunday night.
I have a color scheme, ceremony, location and most of the bridal party planned. The only thing missing is one small detail: the groom.
OK, maybe that’s a major part of it. But can’t I just find one in the Penny Saver?
If Juno can find adoptive parents for her unborn baby, I should be able to find a husband.
I’m not asking for much. He just needs to fit my 50 qualifications which include being taller than 5’9, clean and straight teeth, good credit, gainfully employed, intelligence, a relationship not religion with God, you know all the normal stuff.
A few references, background check, drug and mental test wouldn’t hurt.
This is a full time job, after all. I can’t just let any and everybody apply for the position of husband.
All he has to do is show up for the wedding after he gets the job.
This should be fairly simple, right?
Wrong.
I’m just kidding about all the above (err at least most of it).
But someone else might not be.
A lot of people really do catch the “wedding bug” and rush into a faulty relationship and even quicker out a bad marriage. They get caught in the romanticism of marriage and are ready to jump the broom quicker than lighting.
But after the honey moon is when the troubles come.
People don’t realize a relationship takes a lot of work and even more if its a marriage. This isn’t some fly by night operation.
I’m not going to lie. I was caught up in the glitz and glamor of the wedding for a moment.
I almost was ready to start on my five year plan.
“Got to get married while I’m still young,” I thought.
Then I went back to reality.
I didn’t get a boyfriend until 22. I’m definitely not about to rush marriage.
If I’m married by 30, great. If it takes until 40 even better.
Right now my twenties are all about me. There are so many things I want to accomplish before marriage. Why rush it?
I think I’ll get the wedding bug out my system by planning a few parties on those dates.
So ask not for whom the bell tolls. I guarantee it won’t be me for at least another 10 years.
Then again. ...
Sunday, June 8, 2008
The Hartwell Chronicles… It's TP'ing Time
The first wrap around was hard. My roll broke off, and I didn’t know what I was doing.
But then it became easier, and easier and easier. Finally, I had completed the porch’s railing.
Soon, flashes of white were headed for the sky and landing in tree limbs.
I was alive, I was free, I was finally doing it.
Doing what, you ask?
At long last, I have engaged in the age old tradition of TP’ing.
Yes, in my nearly 24 years of existence, I had never before thrown a beautiful toilet paper roll into the air and watched it land in the trees.
I’ve done my share of decorating dorm and bedroom doors or party locations, but it just doesn’t compare to TP’ing.
TP’ing is a popular tradition in the U.S. And no wonder.
You get a rush from doing it. Sneaking in the night, aided only by the light of the moon as you complete your task is exhilarating.
Alas and alack, it seemed like another rite of passage from my youth would disappear with the sands of times.
I can’t swim. I don’t know how to ride a bike. Skating is a definite no-no.
At least I learned how to hula hoop and can semi-bowl.
Opportunity finally presented its self for me to join the ranks of TP’ers
The crew – Sarah Lee, H.J.L. and San Antonia – whose true identities shall remain nameless to protect the not so innocent, carefully picked our target.
He is someone we’ve all come into contact with several times.
One lives near him. One works with him. And the other has interacted with him on the football field.
Marky Mark was, well, the mark.
Tomorrow is his birthday. And what better way to commemorate such a momentous occasion then with a few decorations here or there? A few TP decorations at that.
So we crept into the night, dressed in mostly black and went to work. Toilet paper would soon be everywhere.
The first rule of TP’ing is to work while the cost is clear.
We thought we were in the clear. Marky Mark’s car had been M.I.A. for several days.
He wouldn’t know who or what hit him.
Rule number two: blend in with your surroundings. The black attire would help camouflage us amid the darkness.
Number tres: Don’t get caught!
Funny I should mention that.
There were several cars that drove past us. We hid for safe measures among the trees.
The first one was a false alarm. Too bad the next one wasn’t.
The jig was up.
Marky Mark’s little red car started pulling up, and we took off running.
Very carefully we calculated our next move. We would wait and resume.
Err actually we just turned ourselves in. After all, he took the rest of the toilet paper rolls.
I think Marky Mark was pleasantly surprised and even touched. Not every sports editor is lucky enough to get his house TP’ed.
He may have caught us this time, but soon, and very soon, the crew shall return.
TP'ing time will strike again!
But then it became easier, and easier and easier. Finally, I had completed the porch’s railing.
Soon, flashes of white were headed for the sky and landing in tree limbs.
I was alive, I was free, I was finally doing it.
Doing what, you ask?
At long last, I have engaged in the age old tradition of TP’ing.
Yes, in my nearly 24 years of existence, I had never before thrown a beautiful toilet paper roll into the air and watched it land in the trees.
I’ve done my share of decorating dorm and bedroom doors or party locations, but it just doesn’t compare to TP’ing.
TP’ing is a popular tradition in the U.S. And no wonder.
You get a rush from doing it. Sneaking in the night, aided only by the light of the moon as you complete your task is exhilarating.
Alas and alack, it seemed like another rite of passage from my youth would disappear with the sands of times.
I can’t swim. I don’t know how to ride a bike. Skating is a definite no-no.
At least I learned how to hula hoop and can semi-bowl.
Opportunity finally presented its self for me to join the ranks of TP’ers
The crew – Sarah Lee, H.J.L. and San Antonia – whose true identities shall remain nameless to protect the not so innocent, carefully picked our target.
He is someone we’ve all come into contact with several times.
One lives near him. One works with him. And the other has interacted with him on the football field.
Marky Mark was, well, the mark.
Tomorrow is his birthday. And what better way to commemorate such a momentous occasion then with a few decorations here or there? A few TP decorations at that.
So we crept into the night, dressed in mostly black and went to work. Toilet paper would soon be everywhere.
The first rule of TP’ing is to work while the cost is clear.
We thought we were in the clear. Marky Mark’s car had been M.I.A. for several days.
He wouldn’t know who or what hit him.
Rule number two: blend in with your surroundings. The black attire would help camouflage us amid the darkness.
Number tres: Don’t get caught!
Funny I should mention that.
There were several cars that drove past us. We hid for safe measures among the trees.
The first one was a false alarm. Too bad the next one wasn’t.
The jig was up.
Marky Mark’s little red car started pulling up, and we took off running.
Very carefully we calculated our next move. We would wait and resume.
Err actually we just turned ourselves in. After all, he took the rest of the toilet paper rolls.
I think Marky Mark was pleasantly surprised and even touched. Not every sports editor is lucky enough to get his house TP’ed.
He may have caught us this time, but soon, and very soon, the crew shall return.
TP'ing time will strike again!
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Chronicles of Life… Never say bye
Sometimes I still can’t believe they’re gone.
It’s been four months since I lost my granny. And Father’s Day this year officially marks 11 years since my granddaddy passed away.
The pain doesn’t sting as deep when they first died, but it still hurts … a lot.
I have my days when I can think about them without getting sad. But there are a lot more times when I cry, especially when thinking about my granny.
I see a lot of people in Hartwell with grandchildren. They usually are beaming with pride over the grands.
My grandparents were the same way. I was their angel.
I didn’t visit my grandparents, I practically lived with them. Their house was my domain.
It was the first place I was going to run away to when my mom told me she was pregnant with my brother (yeah , I didn’t take that news too well ).
Naturally you develop a closeness with your grandparents when you’re around them 24/7.
I guess that’s why losing them was so rough.
I’m definitely glad they’re not suffering anymore. But the selfish side of me wishes I still had them.
My granddaddy had no less that 20 other grandchildren. Most are old enough to be my parents.
He got to live through so much of their life. But that wasn’t the case for me.
He only got to see me finish sixth grade.
And although Granny made it to my high school graduation, she was a shadow of her former self.
Her complete essence was gone by the time I made it through college and to my first job.
Talk about a sharp pain.
I take to heart the words in Mariah Carey’s song “Bye Bye.”
“And you never got the chance to see how good I've done
And you never got to see me back at number one
I wish that you were here to celebrate together
I wish that we could spend the holidays together
I remember when you used to tuck me in at night
With the Teddy Bear you gave to me that I held so tight
I thought you were so strong
That you can make it through whatever.
It's so hard to accept the fact you're gone forever.”
No wonder I bawl for a good minute ever time I hear the song.
The sadness I’ve felt over other little trivial things in my life is nothing compared to that of losing a loved ones.
There are days I would give anything to have my grandparents back.
But each trip to Edgewood cemetery in Jacksonville reminds me that won’t be happening. And I have no desire to deal with ghosts.
Nothing will bring them back, and that’s just something I have to deal with.
But even though they’re gone, this isn’t goodbye forever. I know I’ll see them again someday soon.
Just like the Jackson Five I never can say goodbye. So I won’t say goodbye to my grandparents. I’ll just say “See you later.”
It’s been four months since I lost my granny. And Father’s Day this year officially marks 11 years since my granddaddy passed away.
The pain doesn’t sting as deep when they first died, but it still hurts … a lot.
I have my days when I can think about them without getting sad. But there are a lot more times when I cry, especially when thinking about my granny.
I see a lot of people in Hartwell with grandchildren. They usually are beaming with pride over the grands.
My grandparents were the same way. I was their angel.
I didn’t visit my grandparents, I practically lived with them. Their house was my domain.
It was the first place I was going to run away to when my mom told me she was pregnant with my brother (yeah , I didn’t take that news too well ).
Naturally you develop a closeness with your grandparents when you’re around them 24/7.
I guess that’s why losing them was so rough.
I’m definitely glad they’re not suffering anymore. But the selfish side of me wishes I still had them.
My granddaddy had no less that 20 other grandchildren. Most are old enough to be my parents.
He got to live through so much of their life. But that wasn’t the case for me.
He only got to see me finish sixth grade.
And although Granny made it to my high school graduation, she was a shadow of her former self.
Her complete essence was gone by the time I made it through college and to my first job.
Talk about a sharp pain.
I take to heart the words in Mariah Carey’s song “Bye Bye.”
“And you never got the chance to see how good I've done
And you never got to see me back at number one
I wish that you were here to celebrate together
I wish that we could spend the holidays together
I remember when you used to tuck me in at night
With the Teddy Bear you gave to me that I held so tight
I thought you were so strong
That you can make it through whatever.
It's so hard to accept the fact you're gone forever.”
No wonder I bawl for a good minute ever time I hear the song.
The sadness I’ve felt over other little trivial things in my life is nothing compared to that of losing a loved ones.
There are days I would give anything to have my grandparents back.
But each trip to Edgewood cemetery in Jacksonville reminds me that won’t be happening. And I have no desire to deal with ghosts.
Nothing will bring them back, and that’s just something I have to deal with.
But even though they’re gone, this isn’t goodbye forever. I know I’ll see them again someday soon.
Just like the Jackson Five I never can say goodbye. So I won’t say goodbye to my grandparents. I’ll just say “See you later.”
Saturday, May 31, 2008
The Hartwell Chronicles ... tales of the old
Hartwell is a town filled with a lot of retirees. Their numbers probably rival some cities in Florida (after all the entire state is filled with nothing but senior citizens).
There’s nothing wrong with that, but sometimes senior citizens can be irksome.
Like when they’re driving. I am a speeder, so anything less than 60 is too slow.
Nothing like a little old lady creeping at 25 in a one lane road when the speed limit is 45. Sometimes I just want to shout a few choice words – like I do to other drivers – but I can’t.
I just say “Bless them Lord.”
I even said it to that 100 year old lady who was about to broadside my car. Had she been about 35, she would have gotten the beat down. But I digress.
Silver haired grandmothers. No haired grandfathers. Great-grand aunts and uncles playing bingo at the senior center. Older neighbors going to their lake houses at night. Hartwell is full of them
However, aside from the bad driving skills of some, most of them are incredible storytellers.
Have you ever just listened to their stories?
I’ve heard tales of international travelers, talked to war survivors and even met a few with stories so astounding you can hardly believe they’re real.
But real they are.
Life has a funny way of doing that.
One of my first profiles was about this phenomenal piano teacher. She tried other things, but her first love was music. Her student stories are as diverse as she is.
My new hairdresser, who at the very least is 60, shared her career tales with me. She was a nurse before becoming a hairdresser. There weren’t too many black nurses in her day, especially in Mississippi.
Just today, I interviewed a man who is swiftly approaching 91. He grew up in the days of the depression and moonshine. He’s been through a war, a job and even two marriages.
That’s barely even scraping the surface of what they told me. It would take me a packed lunch and then some.
My grandmother always used to tell me “Just keep on living.”
Now I understand why.
One of my favorite quotes, an AJR original, is “I chronicle life because it is my muse.”
I’m adding a new one in honor of seniors, “Your life is my muse.”
It’s tre-cooler to write about older people. I could just eat their stories up.
One of the objectives in SISTUHS is seek guidance from elder African-American women.
Well, I’m seeking stories from any and everyone. Plenty of their stories provide guidance.
I think a lot of the single senior citizens in Hartwell get lonely.
Spouses have passed away. Children are too busy with their own lives. Grandchildren live out of state.
Sometimes they just want someone to talk to. I can relate to that.
If they need an ear, I am more than glad to listen.
I love talking, but I don’t mind hearing an interesting tale or 10.
It just doesn’t get any better than the tales of the old.
There’s nothing wrong with that, but sometimes senior citizens can be irksome.
Like when they’re driving. I am a speeder, so anything less than 60 is too slow.
Nothing like a little old lady creeping at 25 in a one lane road when the speed limit is 45. Sometimes I just want to shout a few choice words – like I do to other drivers – but I can’t.
I just say “Bless them Lord.”
I even said it to that 100 year old lady who was about to broadside my car. Had she been about 35, she would have gotten the beat down. But I digress.
Silver haired grandmothers. No haired grandfathers. Great-grand aunts and uncles playing bingo at the senior center. Older neighbors going to their lake houses at night. Hartwell is full of them
However, aside from the bad driving skills of some, most of them are incredible storytellers.
Have you ever just listened to their stories?
I’ve heard tales of international travelers, talked to war survivors and even met a few with stories so astounding you can hardly believe they’re real.
But real they are.
Life has a funny way of doing that.
One of my first profiles was about this phenomenal piano teacher. She tried other things, but her first love was music. Her student stories are as diverse as she is.
My new hairdresser, who at the very least is 60, shared her career tales with me. She was a nurse before becoming a hairdresser. There weren’t too many black nurses in her day, especially in Mississippi.
Just today, I interviewed a man who is swiftly approaching 91. He grew up in the days of the depression and moonshine. He’s been through a war, a job and even two marriages.
That’s barely even scraping the surface of what they told me. It would take me a packed lunch and then some.
My grandmother always used to tell me “Just keep on living.”
Now I understand why.
One of my favorite quotes, an AJR original, is “I chronicle life because it is my muse.”
I’m adding a new one in honor of seniors, “Your life is my muse.”
It’s tre-cooler to write about older people. I could just eat their stories up.
One of the objectives in SISTUHS is seek guidance from elder African-American women.
Well, I’m seeking stories from any and everyone. Plenty of their stories provide guidance.
I think a lot of the single senior citizens in Hartwell get lonely.
Spouses have passed away. Children are too busy with their own lives. Grandchildren live out of state.
Sometimes they just want someone to talk to. I can relate to that.
If they need an ear, I am more than glad to listen.
I love talking, but I don’t mind hearing an interesting tale or 10.
It just doesn’t get any better than the tales of the old.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
The Hartwell Chronicles... Straight from the sidelines
“It smells like boy.”
That was the first thing I told the sports editor at the Soap and Towel Bowl.
I was at the high school’s spring football game for a little Friday night sports action and learning
I’ve never really been a football fan, but I enjoyed this game a lot better than the last one I went to.
I went to one other Hart County High School football game in the fall.
This was before I really knew anyone. So I sat in the bleachers all alone trying to look like I knew what was going on.
Well, I didn’t, for the most part.
Most of the football fundamentals escape me.
I know the basics like who the quarterback is or what TD means. But I don’t watch it enough to really care.
That’s going to change for next season.
I was the sport editor’s assistant at the spring game.
That’s right, ole San Antonia got to report from the sidelines.
It all started as a way to get into the game for free. A press pass is only good for actual work use.
So I worked.
We had a pretty good system going. He took the pictures and I wrote down all the plays, with his help of course.
There was a lovely article in this week’s paper written by him with the use of my notes.
I even know some football jargon now. But don’t ask me what it means. I’m not that good yet.
Now I think I’ve really caught the football bug.
If you’re standing on the sidelines, you can’t help but get caught up in all the football excitement.
Maybe that’s just the boost I needed to really get me into the game.
I should have caught football fever earlier. My dad is, after all, a football fanatic.
Sunday and Monday nights the TV is turned to the pros. Friday nights he’s at a high school game. Saturday is college game time.
He even use to coach a football team when my little brother played back in the day.
My house was on a football overload.
Come to think of it, my grandmother was a big fan, and my mom shares that trait too.
And of course you’re not a true Gator unless you watch some football.
I did semi become interested in football last season.
The sports editor and I did the pigskin picks in the paper.
Each week, he compiled a list of local high school, college and professional football match ups, and we picked what team would win and told why.
I finished with an honorable 79 wins to his 80. Not too shabby for someone that knows nothing.
With a little knowledge, I’ll be unstoppable.
People are going to see my face at more high school and rec league football games next year. Every little bit will help in improving my football knowledge.
TV commercials will soon be asking, “Are you ready for some football?”
I know I am.
That was the first thing I told the sports editor at the Soap and Towel Bowl.
I was at the high school’s spring football game for a little Friday night sports action and learning
I’ve never really been a football fan, but I enjoyed this game a lot better than the last one I went to.
I went to one other Hart County High School football game in the fall.
This was before I really knew anyone. So I sat in the bleachers all alone trying to look like I knew what was going on.
Well, I didn’t, for the most part.
Most of the football fundamentals escape me.
I know the basics like who the quarterback is or what TD means. But I don’t watch it enough to really care.
That’s going to change for next season.
I was the sport editor’s assistant at the spring game.
That’s right, ole San Antonia got to report from the sidelines.
It all started as a way to get into the game for free. A press pass is only good for actual work use.
So I worked.
We had a pretty good system going. He took the pictures and I wrote down all the plays, with his help of course.
There was a lovely article in this week’s paper written by him with the use of my notes.
I even know some football jargon now. But don’t ask me what it means. I’m not that good yet.
Now I think I’ve really caught the football bug.
If you’re standing on the sidelines, you can’t help but get caught up in all the football excitement.
Maybe that’s just the boost I needed to really get me into the game.
I should have caught football fever earlier. My dad is, after all, a football fanatic.
Sunday and Monday nights the TV is turned to the pros. Friday nights he’s at a high school game. Saturday is college game time.
He even use to coach a football team when my little brother played back in the day.
My house was on a football overload.
Come to think of it, my grandmother was a big fan, and my mom shares that trait too.
And of course you’re not a true Gator unless you watch some football.
I did semi become interested in football last season.
The sports editor and I did the pigskin picks in the paper.
Each week, he compiled a list of local high school, college and professional football match ups, and we picked what team would win and told why.
I finished with an honorable 79 wins to his 80. Not too shabby for someone that knows nothing.
With a little knowledge, I’ll be unstoppable.
People are going to see my face at more high school and rec league football games next year. Every little bit will help in improving my football knowledge.
TV commercials will soon be asking, “Are you ready for some football?”
I know I am.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Chronicles of life... Political pondering
Every now and then I talk politics with a few friends.
I am far from being Miss Political Pro herself, but I usually am not too far off in left base.
With local, state and national elections back in November 2007, coming up July 15 and again in Nov. 4, my thoughts have yet to stray from politics. After all, I want to be an informed voter.
All these political happenings have made me ponder a few things.
On the national level
1. Will Hilary and Obama ever be friends? This has got to be one of the ugliest battles for a party nomination I’ve ever seen. I’m talking about uglier than store bought sin on a hot summer’s day. And since it’s store bought, you know it’s ugly, because that’s the cheap kind. Can’t we all just get along? Apparently, not when a party nomination is at stake.
2. Who would have thought a man of African descent would run for president so soon? Or a woman for that matter? I remember watching “Head of State” when it came out and thinking “ha that’s won’t be anytime soon.” Definitely was wrong.
3. Speaking of race and gender, I hate how in the early stages, and even now, of their campaigns some people were like, “Vote for Obama, because he’s black” or “Vote for Hilary because she’s a woman.” What happened to voting for a candidate because you support their issues? Politics are not just black and white, male and female. Then there was backlash if you wanted to vote for Hilary and were black and Obama if you were white. Not only is there freedom of speech, but freedom of voting choice.
4. I got to hand it to Hil, she’s not backing down, even as the race for the party nomination comes to a close. That’s what I call some persistence. I definitely can respect that as a reporter.
5.Is it just me, or has campaigning been going on for at least four years? This is ridiculous. Democrats need to get it together. I think there should be some type of time limit in place for how far in advance you can campaign for the party’s nomination and how long thereafter before you are declared the winner. They should be thinking about vice presidents right now. But
6. Florida, Florida, Florida. Why is it every election we have some issue? We had to have a recount. Our Dems did their primary out of sync. What next? Has all the sun in the sunshine state fried the citizens’ brains? It seems so.
7. Now I didn’t hear the whole speech, but from what I understand, the Rev. Jeremiah Wright has always been outspoken. So I’m kind of mad Obama started to diss him when the pressure got hot. It’s not like he just started saying this. It’s interesting how some folks are fair weather friends.
8. But I am also mad about how the media (and yes I am one of them) played up Wright and conveniently forgot to mention how the Clinton’s former pastor is going to jail for touching children. Let’s see, would we prefer someone to be outspoken or someone who touches children.
9. I have a few discrepancies with both candidates. Hil, and Bill, tend to have the dreaded foot-in-mouth disease when it comes to race relations. And I think Obama has it to an extent himself. It would be great if he had more experience beyond being a junior senator. And he need not be so flaky. But that’s just me and my opinion.
On the state level
1. Not much to say here but candidates have been coming out the wood wack to lil ole Hartwell. I even got to ride on a campaign bus with one and do an interview. That’s going in the scrapbook. But the candidate definitely sounded like a press release. I finally just stopped listening to him. He was impressed by my uncanny ability to write and take notes without looking at the paper once. That’s a little trick I picked up in high school. People talk more when you make eye contact (except sometimes they also get nervous and look away).
On the local level
1. Why do people who are uninformed and never come to the meetings run for office? I didn’t understand it during city elections last year, and I’m still baffled with the school board elections for this one.
There was this one man running for city election who was not only 100 but couldn’t read. Funny thing, I’ve never seen him at one city meeting.
The same thing is happening with the school board.
Seat A has two candidates running against an incumbent. One has not been to a meeting as far as I know (and I’m always there). The other, when he does come, he rants and raves about topics he is grossly misinformed about. The incumbent is a really cool man, and he does a good job. My vote goes for him.
Seat B has no incumbent. But the choices aren’t that great. One lady is misinformed, whenever she comes to a meeting (I recall two). The other has never been to a meeting since I’ve been here.
Seat C puts a retiring assistant principal, who is always at the meetings, against someone I’ve never seen before. No incumbent here either.
I do have to admit, they broadcast meetings on TV. Maybe these people who are running watch them at home.
Yeah right!
Maybe I should run for office. Naw, reporting about it is way more fun.
I am far from being Miss Political Pro herself, but I usually am not too far off in left base.
With local, state and national elections back in November 2007, coming up July 15 and again in Nov. 4, my thoughts have yet to stray from politics. After all, I want to be an informed voter.
All these political happenings have made me ponder a few things.
On the national level
1. Will Hilary and Obama ever be friends? This has got to be one of the ugliest battles for a party nomination I’ve ever seen. I’m talking about uglier than store bought sin on a hot summer’s day. And since it’s store bought, you know it’s ugly, because that’s the cheap kind. Can’t we all just get along? Apparently, not when a party nomination is at stake.
2. Who would have thought a man of African descent would run for president so soon? Or a woman for that matter? I remember watching “Head of State” when it came out and thinking “ha that’s won’t be anytime soon.” Definitely was wrong.
3. Speaking of race and gender, I hate how in the early stages, and even now, of their campaigns some people were like, “Vote for Obama, because he’s black” or “Vote for Hilary because she’s a woman.” What happened to voting for a candidate because you support their issues? Politics are not just black and white, male and female. Then there was backlash if you wanted to vote for Hilary and were black and Obama if you were white. Not only is there freedom of speech, but freedom of voting choice.
4. I got to hand it to Hil, she’s not backing down, even as the race for the party nomination comes to a close. That’s what I call some persistence. I definitely can respect that as a reporter.
5.Is it just me, or has campaigning been going on for at least four years? This is ridiculous. Democrats need to get it together. I think there should be some type of time limit in place for how far in advance you can campaign for the party’s nomination and how long thereafter before you are declared the winner. They should be thinking about vice presidents right now. But
6. Florida, Florida, Florida. Why is it every election we have some issue? We had to have a recount. Our Dems did their primary out of sync. What next? Has all the sun in the sunshine state fried the citizens’ brains? It seems so.
7. Now I didn’t hear the whole speech, but from what I understand, the Rev. Jeremiah Wright has always been outspoken. So I’m kind of mad Obama started to diss him when the pressure got hot. It’s not like he just started saying this. It’s interesting how some folks are fair weather friends.
8. But I am also mad about how the media (and yes I am one of them) played up Wright and conveniently forgot to mention how the Clinton’s former pastor is going to jail for touching children. Let’s see, would we prefer someone to be outspoken or someone who touches children.
9. I have a few discrepancies with both candidates. Hil, and Bill, tend to have the dreaded foot-in-mouth disease when it comes to race relations. And I think Obama has it to an extent himself. It would be great if he had more experience beyond being a junior senator. And he need not be so flaky. But that’s just me and my opinion.
On the state level
1. Not much to say here but candidates have been coming out the wood wack to lil ole Hartwell. I even got to ride on a campaign bus with one and do an interview. That’s going in the scrapbook. But the candidate definitely sounded like a press release. I finally just stopped listening to him. He was impressed by my uncanny ability to write and take notes without looking at the paper once. That’s a little trick I picked up in high school. People talk more when you make eye contact (except sometimes they also get nervous and look away).
On the local level
1. Why do people who are uninformed and never come to the meetings run for office? I didn’t understand it during city elections last year, and I’m still baffled with the school board elections for this one.
There was this one man running for city election who was not only 100 but couldn’t read. Funny thing, I’ve never seen him at one city meeting.
The same thing is happening with the school board.
Seat A has two candidates running against an incumbent. One has not been to a meeting as far as I know (and I’m always there). The other, when he does come, he rants and raves about topics he is grossly misinformed about. The incumbent is a really cool man, and he does a good job. My vote goes for him.
Seat B has no incumbent. But the choices aren’t that great. One lady is misinformed, whenever she comes to a meeting (I recall two). The other has never been to a meeting since I’ve been here.
Seat C puts a retiring assistant principal, who is always at the meetings, against someone I’ve never seen before. No incumbent here either.
I do have to admit, they broadcast meetings on TV. Maybe these people who are running watch them at home.
Yeah right!
Maybe I should run for office. Naw, reporting about it is way more fun.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The Hartwell Chronicles ... Good or bad hair
Who would have thought finding a hairdresser could be so hard?
I went to the same person for as long as I can remember back in Florida.
Whatever I did with my hair, Ms. Stacy was there to see it through. She has cut it, dyed it and weaved it up for me when it was long and short; relaxed and natural; or soft and rough.
It's been a while since I've been to a hairdresser.
I love doing my hair now that it's natural. It's all about trying new things.
But there are some things I can't do, such as cut it.
Finding a stylist was the first thing on the list when I moved to Hartwell.
Trips to Wal Mart weren't just about shopping. They were about stalking that sista to the left with the tight 'do.
A nicely done hairstyle is the best business card for any stylist. The only problem was none of them did natural hair.
What is with the discrimination against the 'fro and frizz?
I finally learned of one lady way back in September.
It was not a happy ending.
I called to set up an appointment and told her I wanted my ends trimmed and a deep conditioning.
She has had natural hair herself. I thought I had found a kindred spirit.
WRONG!
Strike one: Home girl did not accept appointments on Saturdays, only walk ins.
Strike two: That wasn't too bad until I entered the shop at 10 a.m. and waited until almost 1 p.m. before she started on my hair.
Strike three: She did not cut my hair!
“Natural hair is too hard to cut,” she said. “Unless you want a particular style, I think you should just let it grow free.”
Did I mention I didn't get the deep condition either?
And you're out!
I haven't been back since then.
I can't be bothered waiting countless hours to not get what I want. I'm trying to keep my hair good.
No, I don't mean good as in naturally silky straight hair: the kind some people tend to have.
Good hair is healthy hair. You can get so much weave until its unbeweaveable, a relaxed mane retouched every six weeks or, my personal favorite, the naturally you 'do and have healthy hair.
Having good hair is not just about genetics. It's about keeping it healthy.
Lately, my state of health has fallen into disarray.
It's bad y'all, real bad.
I thought I was avoiding it, but somehow it caught up with my. Now I have the ... dum, dum, dum ... dreaded split ends.
I NEED A HAIR CUT NOW!
Clearly, the first stylist I went to didn't know what she was talking about. It might be hard to, but natural hair does need to be trimmed every now and then.
Ms. Stacy definitely cut my hair after I went natural.
I started back on my quest for a local stylist, a few weeks ago. I know I'm not the only person in these parts rockin' the natural look.
Then again, I haven't seen anyone other women wearing twists, 'fros or natural curls. Guess I am one of a kind.
I was determined not to have to travel to Atlanta (two hours away), Athens (45 minutes away) or even Greenville (one hour away) just to get my hair “did.”
And I did finally hear of one lady who will deal with the fierce 'fro.
Saturday afternoon I have an appointment for a press and cut.
It's been a while since I've seen my hair straight. But with the weather the way it is, the curls will be back in a day.
Right now I don't care if my hair is straight, curly or frizzy. I just want my good hair back.
I went to the same person for as long as I can remember back in Florida.
Whatever I did with my hair, Ms. Stacy was there to see it through. She has cut it, dyed it and weaved it up for me when it was long and short; relaxed and natural; or soft and rough.
It's been a while since I've been to a hairdresser.
I love doing my hair now that it's natural. It's all about trying new things.
But there are some things I can't do, such as cut it.
Finding a stylist was the first thing on the list when I moved to Hartwell.
Trips to Wal Mart weren't just about shopping. They were about stalking that sista to the left with the tight 'do.
A nicely done hairstyle is the best business card for any stylist. The only problem was none of them did natural hair.
What is with the discrimination against the 'fro and frizz?
I finally learned of one lady way back in September.
It was not a happy ending.
I called to set up an appointment and told her I wanted my ends trimmed and a deep conditioning.
She has had natural hair herself. I thought I had found a kindred spirit.
WRONG!
Strike one: Home girl did not accept appointments on Saturdays, only walk ins.
Strike two: That wasn't too bad until I entered the shop at 10 a.m. and waited until almost 1 p.m. before she started on my hair.
Strike three: She did not cut my hair!
“Natural hair is too hard to cut,” she said. “Unless you want a particular style, I think you should just let it grow free.”
Did I mention I didn't get the deep condition either?
And you're out!
I haven't been back since then.
I can't be bothered waiting countless hours to not get what I want. I'm trying to keep my hair good.
No, I don't mean good as in naturally silky straight hair: the kind some people tend to have.
Good hair is healthy hair. You can get so much weave until its unbeweaveable, a relaxed mane retouched every six weeks or, my personal favorite, the naturally you 'do and have healthy hair.
Having good hair is not just about genetics. It's about keeping it healthy.
Lately, my state of health has fallen into disarray.
It's bad y'all, real bad.
I thought I was avoiding it, but somehow it caught up with my. Now I have the ... dum, dum, dum ... dreaded split ends.
I NEED A HAIR CUT NOW!
Clearly, the first stylist I went to didn't know what she was talking about. It might be hard to, but natural hair does need to be trimmed every now and then.
Ms. Stacy definitely cut my hair after I went natural.
I started back on my quest for a local stylist, a few weeks ago. I know I'm not the only person in these parts rockin' the natural look.
Then again, I haven't seen anyone other women wearing twists, 'fros or natural curls. Guess I am one of a kind.
I was determined not to have to travel to Atlanta (two hours away), Athens (45 minutes away) or even Greenville (one hour away) just to get my hair “did.”
And I did finally hear of one lady who will deal with the fierce 'fro.
Saturday afternoon I have an appointment for a press and cut.
It's been a while since I've seen my hair straight. But with the weather the way it is, the curls will be back in a day.
Right now I don't care if my hair is straight, curly or frizzy. I just want my good hair back.
Monday, April 28, 2008
New beginnings
I have realized there will come a day when I will feel too old for Facebook, yet not have that column writing job on the side.
Gasp! What will happen to the chronicles?
Well I for one don't plan to stop writing them.
I'm not leaving Facebook any time soon, but I figured I would get a jumpstart of the blogging.
Who knows? Maybe one day I will be a renowned bloggerista.
But until that day, you can find me right here.
So how mad am I that some loser already has thechronicles.blogspot.com? And they aren't even writing anything!
It's OK. The Antonia Chronicles is so much cooler.
But don't take my word for it.
Check back each week for the latest Chronicle, whether it be about life or Hartwell. And tell a friend or two.
For now they will appear simultaneously with the ones on Facebook.
Can't shake that monkey just yet!
Enjoy!
Gasp! What will happen to the chronicles?
Well I for one don't plan to stop writing them.
I'm not leaving Facebook any time soon, but I figured I would get a jumpstart of the blogging.
Who knows? Maybe one day I will be a renowned bloggerista.
But until that day, you can find me right here.
So how mad am I that some loser already has thechronicles.blogspot.com? And they aren't even writing anything!
It's OK. The Antonia Chronicles is so much cooler.
But don't take my word for it.
Check back each week for the latest Chronicle, whether it be about life or Hartwell. And tell a friend or two.
For now they will appear simultaneously with the ones on Facebook.
Can't shake that monkey just yet!
Enjoy!
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