Mama Lost Her Marbles

After a quick rap, I just walk right on in and straight back to the kitchen. I know that’s where Zilla’ll be.

“Plum smells mightly fine back here! What’s in the pot, beans?”

Zilla turns away from the steam over her range to take a glance at me, “Yessim, hand me that spoon yonder there would ya?”

Handing off the spoon, I hear the stomping of boots, “’bout ready I hope, directly those young ‘uns will be piling up in here.”

“Naw, you know they’ll have to mess and gaum some first. Come on to the table, we got time to set a spell. Tea?”

Sipping that cold sweet tea loosed my tongue some cause afore I knowed I was jawing about Hank’s retarment. “He ain’t got nary a thing to do but aggervate the dickens out of me. Me and him took to exchanging some words last night over dern marbles.”

“I knowed you was all tore up right off.” Zilla eyed me. She has a head for readin’ people.

“Firstly, them is Mama’s marbles. Next off, she likes colors mixed – like in each jar. Last off, Hank gave ’em a good sort’n. Blues with blues, reds with reds and the like.”

“Lawd, Lawd, I bet your mama was all fired up.” Zilla loved a good tangle.

“The worst of it ain’t even been told. Mama took up her jars went back yonder behind the fence and hid ’em but good. So good she cain’t find ’em. It’s likta kilt her. Hank’s out there a-hunting them marbles everhow he can.”

Always thinking, Zilla spoke the gospel, “You better get you some more marbles. Likely, your mama won’t be right with her marbles lost and all.”

* The way my Virginia family spoke. Retirement=retarment; Wire= ar; Tire=Tar etc.Adding “ly” to some words: Migthly, Firstly, etc. Mixing up the word “ever” with “every”  everway; evertime, everhow. It was a colorful and musical way of talking to my ear. I miss it.

 

It’s Time to Have an Uncomfortable Coversation With You

I feel this is an important essay and I NEEDED to repost on my blog! Thanks Amy Bee!

I wish there were a way I could talk to you. Somehow skirt around all the buzzwords and inflammatory memes. Avoid the phrases that cause you to relegate real events to political discussions, instea…

Source: It’s Time to Have an Uncomfortable Coversation With You

The Carolina Anole

The Carolina anole lizard is not a true Chameleon, although, it does change colors. Variations can range from shades of brown to hues of green. A Chameleon has a much wider range including blues, reds, oranges and more. Being called a Chameleon in human form is usually an insult. I won’t go so far as to say I am a Chameleon; but, I feel like a Carolina anole this election season. For ease of understanding in my own mind and probably yours: donkey/democrat = brown and elephant/republican = green. My basic foundation of beliefs remain donkey but sometimes I feel more elephant. I have spent most of my life in several shades of brown with hints of green. Most of my election history has been for the donkey. This election I find my head is brown but my heart is green.

Now that you are thoroughly confused, I have you caught in my web of also thoroughly confused; hopefully, that will be the right frame of mind to relate to what I am about to say. I think I should vote for Hilary Clinton but Donald Trump is tempting my vote.

I have watched and read many, many, many opinions and facts, ( I hope they are fact). Here’s the crux of my problem – I find myself agreeing with both sides and disagreeing with both sides almost equally. James T. Harris, google him if you don’t know him, makes good points and I start to turn into a bright green elephant. Then again, I watched Frank Schaeffer and my brown donkey started kicking, yeah!

This is the first election in my voting history that I don’t feel a deep conviction towards either candidate. The first election I was old enough to vote in was 1980, Jimmy Carter, the incumbent democrat vs. Ronald Reagan, Republican. I am not ashamed to say that I voted for Jimmy Carter. I was nineteen-years-old, very excited to vote, highly influenced by my mother and grandmother from Georgia, and had done my homework. To this day, I think I made the right choice. Since then, I have never voted for a Republican for president, though I have for some state and local elections.

Tonight’s debate has been on my calendar since it was announced. I’m excited, afraid, expectant and ready! I’m feeling brownish, but oh jeepers, I am afraid I will look down and be bright green all over. I wish I was a Chameleon, I’d like to be pink or purple sitting on a beach chair somewhere rotating my eyes between Jimmy Buffet and Kenny Chesney.

The Change of Life

The tears you stop, the rest you bring,
My evening friend with your crystal glass.
My cobwebbed womb a withered thing,
The tears you stop, the rest you bring.
Through this time each woman does pass,
The small pink pill saves my ass.
The tears you stop, the rest you bring
My evening friend with your crystal glass

I hope this is a Triolet, it’s my attempt anyway.

Kung-Fu

I am leaning on a grocery buggy in the lobby of the store of our frozen town in West Michigan. I am waiting for my husband to drive up so we can load our groceries into the car. I am not lazy, just practical. You can not push a loaded grocery buggy through frozen snow ruts in parking lots in late February. The floor mats in the lobby smell of several days worth of wet boot wiping. Spring is still several months away. And I have my resting bitch face on, although it’s the early eighties and it will be some time before that phrase is officially coined.

My non-reverie is broken by a young black man asking me a question.
“Does a sister need some cheering up?”

I looked back blankly for a second before replying, “Oh I’m ok, just waiting for my ride.”

“I seen you been in here for a while, lots-a scraping to do, bout four mo inches come down. I got somethin to put a smile on that pretty face.”

“Uh..” was all I got out before he busted into the Kung-Fu Fighting song.

*Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting
Those kids were fast as lightning
In fact, it was a little bit frightening
But they fought with expert timing

There were funky China men from funky Chinatown
They were chopping them up
They were chopping them down
It’s an ancient Chinese art
And everybody knew their part…

My unlikely troubadour sang all the verses, danced, kicked and did other “funky” stuff. A crowd gathered. When he was done he politely kissed my hand, bowed and boogied out the door to the applause of the now full lobby.

Shortly, I spotted my husband driving up.

This is my go to song for February. I don’t hate February at all anymore. And yes, I have go to songs for all the months…

*Lyrics by Carl Douglas

Tropical Storm

A tropical storm has been sitting off the coast near my house for about ten years now. Not really, but it probably seems like it to my dog. He hates rain pounding on the roof and thunder waking him up every morning. He will stand his ground with any man or beast flashing sharp teeth in a menacing snarl. That is to say, he is fairly tough until the beast or man offers up a tempting treat. No treat on Earth, however, would keep him from killing a tropical storm if he could.

I know how he feels. It’s not the storm that bothers me, I actually like it. It is the wipers on the car required while driving in a torrential downpour that has me gnashing my teeth. In particular, the windshield wiper pause feature on my truck. No number of trips to Starbucks for a coffee treat can placate me when my husband is driving and in control of the wipers. I would kill the inventor of intermittent wiper controls if I could.

So, we are on our way home from grocery shopping mecca, when the tropical storm rotated back into our path. At first, it was just a few huge drops of rain splatting the windshield. For most people, this would be the reason intermittent wipers were invented, not enough rain to warrant regular swipes, just enough to clear the window once every, oh say, 10 seconds. For my husband, it means no window wipers needed.

One block later we encounter the first heavy deluge, calmly my husband turns the dial to the first hash mark. This means we can see clearly once every 15 seconds. I begin to sweat. I say nothing. Two minutes pass and the heavy rain is akin to buckets of water thrown onto the window PLUS passing cars are throwing up wakes taller than the truck. My husband concedes two more clicks on the wiper dial. Probably a five-second delay, now I’m thinking what’s the point? Just put it on full blast, we still won’t be able to see. My unspoken thought is proven by the trail of red taillights pulling to the side of the road.

Gripping my arm rest, ” Hey hon, you know our wipers can go much faster? I can’t see a thing.”

He replies, “Who’s driving?”

I can think of no good answer because truthfully at this point I’m not sure what he is doing is called driving.

We made it home safely. My dog was so very happy to see me. We, my dog and I, snuggled on the couch the rest of the evening eating treats and glaring. I kept my glare on my husband. My dog watched the window. Our own tropical storm brewing. Thank God for treats or there might be some killing going on.

Streams of Profanity

Over here runs the creek muddy with confusing thoughts, anger, and depression. The waters churn over rocks called bipolar, OCD and anxiety. Navigation is nearly impossible. Small pockets of calm rest just beyond reach. Other’s have named this creek for me. It is called Shit Creek.

Just there, barely flowing, is a small stream. Just a trickle really of what it once was, the cool stream of hopes. Dammed up now by progress. The water is mostly red and viscous. Oh sure it still says it is happy to assist you onto your destination but you will have to be patient with its slow progress. Promising great destinations of financial freedom, or at least financial survival. I tip-toed in with hope. Along the way, I curse the course that claims to appreciate my time. Damn Red Tape Dam.

From behind, you can hear the wild rushing river threatening. Picking up debris along its mighty route. Deadlines, debt, health, obligations, and relationships litter the rushing waters. It’s always back there getting closer. You can not escape the ever approaching path of Sucking River.

The Battle

A noise in the night broke the slumber of both dog and human. First, the faint voice, not a scream, not alarming at all, more like a cough or signal. Then, fireworks in the street? Backfiring car? Pow pow pow pow pow, in less than half a second. The humans held ground trying to listen for the ending parenthetical sound. None came. The low growl of two dogs offered the only postlude.

At this point, the dog’s primal need to investigate and protect with a stream of urine on the perimeters of their property overrode any fear the humans may have felt about going outside. A moonless night made worse by darkened corner street lights.

I went south, he went north. We each took a dog.

I had the female dog. We two girls went towards the beach first. The men, both human, and dog went towards the seedier venue of alleyways behind local fish restaurants. For better or for worse, our paths would lead us in the same circle in opposite directions back to our door, we knew this.

Just before our first intersection on our opposite path, I heard the rumble of his voice and the growl of his dog, followed by a sharp bark, then silence. A severe snap on my dog’s lead indicated follow me. We crept behind a four-foot retaining wall softened by the branches of crepe myrtle. From our vantage point, the view was clear. Three thugs were circling my men. I could clearly see the back of one of the aggressors, he held a gun in his left hand pointing straight down from his belt to the ground. The gun out of sight from my men.

I dropped below the wall, calmed my girl and lifted my own gun from my waist holster, we inched to the end of the wall. By now the thugs formed a straight line in front of my men blocking their forward motion in my direction. I could see only one held a gun.

Straightening up, I strode directly up to the group, the two thugs without guns turned to look at me. They dismissed me as just another dog walker and started to turn back as I boldly continued up to the thug with the gun. As my men recognized us, I lifted my gun hand up, cocked and pointed it towards the gun thug. The universal clicking noise stopped them all for a beat.

The thug to the left said to my man, “What? You got to bring a woman to fight your battle?”

Just before I fired, I replied, ” Nah man, I brought some men to fight mine.”