One of the best gifts in my whole life is having the privilege of house-sitting every year for my sister. They live in paradise….San Juan Island, WA. They go sailing while we tend their Bamboo Farm and arguably, the most spectacular gardens in the Northwest. One year I photographed just a few of their flowers (few, meaning hundreds) and then for Christmas, made them a calendar. These are the 12 photos I picked.
“Peggy” by my friend and artist, Virginia Carter
My Grandsons, now 10 and 12, have always loved Treasure Hunts and Treasure Chests!
So for Christmas a few years back, I made them each a Memory Treasure Box. Every single charm, scrap of paper, toy, figurine, button, patch, and trinket symbolized something we had all done together or something special about each of them. Even the Popsicle sticks and gum wrappers were theirs. (Wow, that sounds a bit creepy now as I write it, but at the time, since they are generally not allowed any sugar treats, these bits represented special occasions.)
I strung the extra charms on chains that they could wear or hang up.
In each box I put a tiny notepad, with a tiny pencil, and a Treasure Map type instructions.
“Write down in your tiny tablet, everything in and on your box that you know the meaning of, to earn points toward the next Big Adventure.”
(I’m thinking I’m so cagey, you know, giving them spelling and handwriting practice, right?) Of course, they saw right through that and wanted to “tell” me each thing.
I relented because really, is there anything more special than holding your grandchild in your lap while you reminisce about your lives together?
sigh.
I walked downstairs to bring something to my grandsons’ shared room. They, along with their Dad, without their Mom, have recently moved in with Grandma. (That would be me.)
Here’s what I found in the 12 year old’s bed. (A relief actually…he is the mature kid who tends to take care of everyone else.)
As a friend from our Writer’s Group always says, “If this does not brighten your day, well, then I just don’t know about you.”
Coming out of Hiding
Miles College, Fairfield, AL
We were quickly ushered into the basement of the home belonging to the Pastor of the community’s largest church…..
We were guarded, the ten of us, in a dry, clean enough, cramped basement (think 1950’s rumpus room.) I think we knew that we were being protected but they fed and watered us like terrified prisoners, completely confused about our crimes.
Safe House
We finally got word from our VISTA Project Supervisor through our host, the Pastor. The relayed message was that we were free to go back to our separate housings now, but, if we felt compelled to participate in the rumored Memorial March to Birmingham’s city hall in honor of the passing of Dr. King, we could not, in any way, identify ourselves with or make reference to VISTA. Like in the then popular TV series, we were given the Mission Impossible disclaimer “The director will disavow any knowledge of….” (This was also the nick name for our particular VISTA Project.)
In other words, we could join the memorial but we would be completely on our own….and it would be dangerous.
The danger, as well as the denunciation from our project leaders was no surprise. We had been thoroughly briefed in our intense, 6 week, training in Atlanta before we came here. We were endlessly briefed about how to keep our VISTA project from getting thrown out of Alabama.
We had even role played many scenarios about how to stay safe and talk our way out of a variety of situations. For example, if the locals (especially the authorities) found any of us alone with a Black person, even another “volunteer” who happened to be Black, we had very specific things we were coached to say by way of locally acceptable excuses for such abhorrent behavior. (It wasn’t until years later I realized all those exercises for our safety were about white people hurting us, especially police. We were embedded in a middle class, again relatively speaking, all Black college town, and it didn’t occur to anyone that we might be in danger from the people we were there to help…)
All those warnings didn’t matter now though. Many of us had been drawn here in the first place, by the work of Dr. King. He was certainly my number one teacher. We were devastated.
Before King’s assassination, way back on my third day in Fairfield, I had ventured out from our tiny shared living quarters to the little mom and pop grocery store across the street from the college. I was surprised to see a pretty young white women about my age shopping there. I had arrogantly assumed that we VISTA’s were the only Caucasians in town. She came right up to me and looked me straight in the eyes. She said she was an exchange student from a Christian College up North. She had heard we were coming. She knew why we were in town. With a heartbroken expression, she warned me about something that, in my intense idealism, I defensively could not comprehend. All she said was, “No matter how badly you want to, you will never be black.” Then she turned and like a wizened old woman, very slowly walked out.
Her words came back to me now as we prepared to march, but I was a True Believer. I was going to stand up for ending racism in a non-violent way. I was not afraid. Dr. King was as much my loss as anyone’s. Nothing could have held me back. (Ah, the idealistic mindset of a 19 year old. Hmm, isn’t that the age we send our youth to war?)
So off we went, to march with our Black Brothers and Sisters, fully expecting that we might die for our cause that day. It is 6 miles from Fairfield to Birmingham. I was never afraid, even as we passed through the rougher parts of town, where on one corner, there were groups of Blacks shaking chains and brandishing knives at us and on the next corner, Whites yelling out the standard “nigger lover” threats. I felt hated by all but motivated by a much bigger force cursing through me. I just kept marching and I sang until my voice was completely gone….Amazing Grace and We Shall Overcome….over and over and over until we arrived at the courthouse. I have no words to describe the feeling of blissful oneness and pure honesty I felt that day.
I heard later there were 10,000 of us, and an estimated 10 % were white. As the Mayor of Birmingham addressed the crowd, he actually choked up when he said something like Dr. “King was an honorable enough Negro. Just look how he brought our white people and the Negroes together today”, a sight this mayor said he never thought he’d live to see in his city.
I will never forget that day, that feeling of raw, unconditional hope…the uncomplicated, indisputable knowledge of being connected to all of humankind. It became the bedrock of my life’s work as a Psychotherapist, working with the most traumatized and shortchanged of people. My mission in life continues to be finding and providing proof to people that two seemingly opposing truths can co-exist, even complement and enhance each other….like what I witnessed that day on the lawn outside the court house in Birmingham. Blacks and Whites hated each other but they came together, united in their grief over Dr. King.
My youthful, ferocious belief in the possible end of bigotry dulled over the next few years, to the point that I almost gave it up. I hid my idealistic conviction even from my closest people. But that tiny flame would still flicker when I would see something normal and lovely and equal happening between and among the races.
And it will never blow out completely. I’ll fan that flame until the day I die. Here’s why.
All those years ago in Fairfield, the other “job” we had as Vista Volunteers was to teach A.B.E. (Adult Basic Education) in night school at the college. My favorite student was an 80 year old preacher who was learning to read his bible. He said before he died, he just wanted to be able to actually “read God’s words, not just memberize ’em”. One night he told me that his grandfather had been a slave in Birmingham and that his grandchildren now lived in a rat town housing project on the same property where his grandfather used to pick cotton. My sweet Pastor shook his head sadly and said, “I always prayed my grand chillen would get to see the true end of slavery but they still slaves to the white man, living under his thumb. You young. Maybe you grand chillen get to see it.”
Well, not that long ago, my two grandsons got a glimpse. I first started writing this on January 21st, 2009, the day the United States of America elected Obama as their 44th and my “grand chillen” have an un-erasable Black President as part of their history.
Those boys are 10 and 12 years old now, and their grandmother is committed to teaching them about the symbolism of Martin Luther King and Barack Obama and the hard work it took all of us to get even this far.
Flame officially fanned!
I’ve already posted several times for this topic but after reading
this morning I was reminded of a long held treasure of my own right here on the couch.
A dear friend spent a whole year stitching me this lovely pillow cover. I mess with beads but this stitching stuff is a mystery to me. I can’t imagine what it took to do this piece. No one in my family is allowed to use it, and the cat that caused the tiny snag on the lower left edge was nearly banished for his treachery!
Well, it all started early last June…..
1) This guy starts visiting regularly and riling up Phineas and Zorro (our indoor Cat Bosses).
We think this is an “Evil Wild Tomcat”, just stirring up trouble.
2) Then James has a big surprise. He sees movement under the wood pile, just beyond where we sit on our porch swing to look out over the valley. He literally drags me dripping out of my shower to come and see!!
It’s a close call but, after a while, I convince him to put this baby back where he got it as it is WAY too little for humans to mess with.
3) Then later that day I see a different but regular visitor in our yard and she is glowing so I have to take her picture.
(Can you see why she is “glowing”?)
4) James, uninterested in my Mama Deer, has stationed himself by the woodpile, you know, just in case….
5) And sure enough, look who he finds!!!!
UH OH!!
We already have two “very bad cats” (aren’t they all?)
So I am screaming, “NO, no! For god’s sake, don’t FEED them!”
I had a hard time getting James to put them back. I’m afraid we may have several new residents if I don’t watch him (James) closely!
6) Speaking of watching closely, apparently “Evil Tom” is actually “Protective MOM!” Here she is guarding the woodpile.
7) And as if this was not enough “cute” for one day…as we arrived home from a quick trip to town, look who we nearly ran into!!!
She is still licking them off.
First suckle.
We watched as she led them off into the woods for safety, and no doubt, a rest.
She’s not so Robust/rotund anymore, is she?
8) Had enough Cuteness for one day??? Not so fast! We get home and have to check on our 3 new little “guest” kittens, right? And guess what!!!
We discover this white one!
Now THERE ARE FOUR!!! So far, anyway……..
I’m exhausted from delight!
As Paul Harvey would always say “And now, the rest of the story.”
Any guesses as to which one we kept??
We eventually found homes for 3 of them, with folks who were committed to socializing these terrified kittens, but this little tough one, the smallest, would just not leave us alone. She would bound out to see us even as her siblings would scatter and hide.
Meet Lucy, named by my grandsons who wanted her to have a strong (super hero) girl name. The movie Lucy had just been released and though they were not allowed to see it, they got the idea from the previews.
(parts of this story were published previously in Pacific Northwest Green Friends Newsletter)
Next Chapter:
Lucy’s Story
This is one of my bugs, (Extatosoma tiaratum). She is about 1/3 of the way through her life. She will more than double in size, and then I will be able to feel her weight, barely. In this photo, but for the faint tickle of her claws on my skin, she is completely weightless. I can’t feel her.
I watched this little one for a hours one day and couldn’t tell if she was scruffy old and ready to go, or young and still shedding baby fluff.
The next day, I found her dead on the ground under the feeder. When I picked her up, she seemed to weigh even less than my full grown Bugs. I still could not guess her age.
I posted a picture yesterday of our sweet kitten, Lucy. She’s a cat now really, but you know how long the “baby of the family” gets to retain that position indefinitely. I know cats can be fascinated by TV but it startled me to see it happen with Lucy, and only twice now.
If you are a cat person, and also occasionally indulge in reality TV, you might even recognize the (bad) picture on the screen. ( I worded that carefully because I would not want to imply a necessary connection between those two categories of people…)
If you don’t know who is on the screen, let me introduce you to Jackson Galaxy (rock musician by night and cat whisperer by day). His “educational” TV show is called My Cat from Hell, and he “helps couples resolve conflict and behavioral issues between them and their cats”.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jackson_Galaxy
Lucy, a typically hyper cat, sat and watched his show for the longest time. Go figure.
Oh and the only other time she has been glued to the TV in this way was for this program. (another lousy picture, but you get the idea.)
Vibrant
Alphabet