tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5952554183784461052024-03-12T17:12:29.132-07:00Necie Bug's BlogThings that float through my mind.
Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-77661550822403977592023-06-04T16:43:00.000-07:002023-06-04T16:43:20.572-07:00Bike Path Adventures<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJbkyJY2WVVOQiegMnWk7xFsy1tH3NOC3VLyQgqNIsj-BpiKyoCEIF05MlSrRiU3kA2Y7FdsgGDWH2OWYay18QlQSmeb8NWIJMowGuKAsKtG0rs0aPh0IHQe5JS0rzn3ak5GSzndLRYv-Bkqbv0l08XRxlmSHvBEvJiF6BTebQeKx7jeSVQx6Rt1r_dQ/s4000/DSCN1925.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJbkyJY2WVVOQiegMnWk7xFsy1tH3NOC3VLyQgqNIsj-BpiKyoCEIF05MlSrRiU3kA2Y7FdsgGDWH2OWYay18QlQSmeb8NWIJMowGuKAsKtG0rs0aPh0IHQe5JS0rzn3ak5GSzndLRYv-Bkqbv0l08XRxlmSHvBEvJiF6BTebQeKx7jeSVQx6Rt1r_dQ/s320/DSCN1925.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>I have two titanium knees that cost half a million dollars. One is seven years old and the other is six. They are the reason I don't ride my bike anymore, because falls happen in bike riding, period. I don't want to bust up these babies. Though a friend told me the other day that I could shoot a bullet at these titanium knees with no damage. Still I don't trust. One bad fall sent me to the ER (See blog post - It Happens to the Best of Us 3/12/13), and I don't want that to happen again. These days I ride my stationery excercise bike in the garage with the door open. That's enough adventure for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I have these fond memories of the bike path:</div><div><br /></div>I would see all kinds of things on the bike path and in the park where I rode my bike. Twice on the path I saw a man in a motorized easy chair. How did he make that happen? A lot of ingenuity for sure. I wish I had taken a picture. <div><br />
The chair was wide, made of black leather or pleather, not sure. Head lights beamed from the front of the arm rests and brake and back up lights flashed from the rear. A flag pole with an American flag flew from the back, too. The guy piloting this thing wore a star spangled scarf on his head and a beard. Awfully friendly, too. I'm sure he wouldn't have minded stopping for a photo op.<br />
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In the park near the Balboa Lake there were lots of people walking their dogs. The dogs mingled happily with the kids and geese and ducks. Many folks had multiple dogs. One family I encountered had what, on first glance, looked like four big white dogs. Tall, thin dogs. When I got closer I realized that one of the dogs was actually a goat. Yep, a goat. They walked their dogs and goat in the park like it was an everyday occurrence. I had to say, "Hey, that's not a dog!", on my way past them. They just chuckled and kept walking. Two kids, three dogs, one goat...doesn't everybody have one?</div>Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-32186344105431279122023-01-23T15:31:00.049-08:002023-04-23T18:30:10.234-07:00LATE FOR THE BUS<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcktQXqLa1cG5VVnVotyl2Y7vVwKtgjT1cD8K-VUp9YR2nPZhQ-3J7r45bM8ycl7rKr7kkzL-fwV_HvVdepesKn6GIpJ2J7hRsAdNsR72kQhuruGhZkTvT89uYScfArtGoW0NSqUpgzdF32xCZCXged7NbH4MC8EmnPhIG4qZpzNGm_eSAto1o2c4P_Q/s721/Screenshot%202023-04-23%20at%203.56.24%20PM.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="721" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcktQXqLa1cG5VVnVotyl2Y7vVwKtgjT1cD8K-VUp9YR2nPZhQ-3J7r45bM8ycl7rKr7kkzL-fwV_HvVdepesKn6GIpJ2J7hRsAdNsR72kQhuruGhZkTvT89uYScfArtGoW0NSqUpgzdF32xCZCXged7NbH4MC8EmnPhIG4qZpzNGm_eSAto1o2c4P_Q/s320/Screenshot%202023-04-23%20at%203.56.24%20PM.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Out of breath, hair flying in the wind, arms flailing, running hard in shoes made for sitting, I screamed at the retreating school bus, “Wait, wait, wait!” Through the oval windows I saw my classmates laughing and talking, but they didn’t see me. </div></span></div><p>Harrison elementary school was around the corner from where my mother, brother and I lived. Early in the school year our sixth grade class took a field trip to the art museum. It was a first for me and I was excited, wide awake all the night before, which is why I overslept. I raced around the corner from Harris Ave. to Fair Ave just in time to see the long yellow school bus pulling off. Even though I picked up my speed to catch up with the bus, the driver didn’t see me and he kept rolling. My classmates reveled in animated conversations and did not notice as I ran alongside the big bus in desperation. Mortified and gasping for air I gave up after a half block. </p><p></p><p>I don’t remember if I returned home or if I went into the deserted classroom. I do remember my embarrassment and shame. I don’t remember if my classmates wondered where I was, or if they teased me the next day for being late. I don’t think they noticed my absence. I DO know that I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been late for anything since then. I still barely sleep the night before an event and I am usually up to an hour early for everything. Now that I recognize the connection, perhaps I can let it go and trust myself to be on time.</p><div><br /></div>Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-84844575958773637882022-04-17T15:23:00.000-07:002022-04-17T15:23:13.956-07:00<p style="text-align: center;"><span> </span> LOUISE’S PINK GIFTS</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB26GsJAxmpRsA1MrU06Dj401B98NfeqJcsG2lTLcnciv2fBnw6WozZl5H0B5Rz7sGedD0RPy6IpOT0LSKDWk7jjyUoxxpTyA5lmCM-lDFhnKzllNBLBQsU0jXsPgjwVCygcHgp6GPjE0PAeTUgotIfhhfSnI3Awx1HbLsRI_mkv46mS7fx3x_5z0Lsg/s364/Screen%20Shot%202022-04-17%20at%203.09.51%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="364" data-original-width="248" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB26GsJAxmpRsA1MrU06Dj401B98NfeqJcsG2lTLcnciv2fBnw6WozZl5H0B5Rz7sGedD0RPy6IpOT0LSKDWk7jjyUoxxpTyA5lmCM-lDFhnKzllNBLBQsU0jXsPgjwVCygcHgp6GPjE0PAeTUgotIfhhfSnI3Awx1HbLsRI_mkv46mS7fx3x_5z0Lsg/s320/Screen%20Shot%202022-04-17%20at%203.09.51%20PM.png" width="218" /></a></div><p></p><p><span> </span>A few weeks ago, I received an unexpected package in the mail from my sister-in-common-law, Louise, also known as Baby Doll. The box contained a plethora of pink items: 2 small pink woven boxes, two night shirts, pink cross body bag, pink ankle socks, a mug and shavers. I thought the gift was cute and thoughtful. I texted her to thank her with a picture of me and my pink plunder. All from my favorite store, Ross Dress for less. She didn’t tell me that, I know because I am a regular at Ross. Anyway, she told me then that there was more to come. I promptly forgot.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, when on yesterday, I received two more boxes from St. Louis, I was pleasantly confused. Inside was more pinkness. This time pink furry flip flops, a gorgeous pale pink cardigan, a large pink woven box, and pink decorative wicker balls. Wow! This time I texted “Girl, this is too much, but thanks!” That’s when she said, “It’s in celebration of my sister’s (my) survival!”</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I am a breast cancer survivor since 2007. It’s been so many years I don’t think of it often. This lovely sentiment got me to thinking that maybe God and I have some kind of superpower. I know that I did all I could to survive. Whatever the doctor told me to do that’s what I did. Throughout my treatment I was lifted by the prayers and good thoughts of friends and family and I was cared for daily by my number one, Earl. I am still here. Thank you to anyone who thinks that is special. It was a fight.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Louise spent a lot of time and effort to shop for all pink items, many pink items. She kept me in mind the entire time. More effort was put into packing, and paying the exorbitant price of shipping these days. She is a Virgo like me so the whole process was probably fun for her, but still, it was a lot. I am humbled by her endeavor in my honor.</p><div><br /></div>Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-88462821319852713572022-01-10T16:03:00.006-08:002023-06-04T15:46:17.191-07:00CONVERSATION WITH ALICE<p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEExtqQ7ENMefpLUDSIr9UzOajzAWGvILKmZALu91o3T8tk5bTIPmD0p29GN-sSL_m6BgYrodqj0NA5HIu0LXAk237RtZkrAvactpr3JzJPsizxwnyHgtSG8osV7NmWX8eHe31InoP_4Xir48JbEQ9kzwSNCdCzElXwH4_9vNH_696Xg8fwvu2mtE9rg=s895" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="895" data-original-width="618" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEExtqQ7ENMefpLUDSIr9UzOajzAWGvILKmZALu91o3T8tk5bTIPmD0p29GN-sSL_m6BgYrodqj0NA5HIu0LXAk237RtZkrAvactpr3JzJPsizxwnyHgtSG8osV7NmWX8eHe31InoP_4Xir48JbEQ9kzwSNCdCzElXwH4_9vNH_696Xg8fwvu2mtE9rg=s320" width="221" /></a></div><p><span> </span>My second cousin Alice turned 80 this past November. She is my mother’s first cousin and they were as close as sisters when my mother was alive. I called her for our annual birthday chat. I love talking to her. She is the source of some of my most colorful language. I should call more often. As usual, we talked about everything under the sun. Here are a few highlights:</p><p><span> </span>Her house is 135 years old. Built in about 1887. Two stories of solid brick in a gentrifying area at the center of St. Louis. She has lived there my whole life, she is our family historian and her archives are very old school. Every wall in every room of the house was lined from floor to ceiling with family photographs dating back to the 1800s. Amazing. I didn’t appreciate them when I was a kid. As an adult attempting to take over the mantle of family historian, I was obsessed. The last time I visited, I took pictures of all of her pictures! My goal is to enter all of them into ancestry.com.</p><p><span> </span>She and her longtime husband Wilfred, were preparing to move out of the big old place to an apartment five minutes away. A two bedroom unit with a bedroom for each of them. She had already packed all of her thousands of pictures. Many were removed from their frames to be put into albums at some point. Her nieces, Janice and Angie, have tried to get her to move to the county where they live but she says, “I’m a city girl and that’s where I will be for the last chapter of my life. I want to be where I can walk to the store nearby and stuff like that.”</p><p><span> </span>For her birthday she had a nice meal and chilled in front of the TV. That’s what I’m talking about! We both did the same for Thanksgiving. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhonLeJpNiudnrcpu_9Pn5P_YTFpM4K_LjERuk-RBtMJEDDkMRB8rc4l58THOpxmQkO_sY4V7R1BqUk7BimPNVSG4QdQ1owlY3FC3SWDhZ02S-qAliszVCFuPMijkODYusiJw2YG1fT1NF0NxwhWxGWbCM-3ffJKzfseFc3M6LapyHBfptTAR_TLQaQjw=s2048" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhonLeJpNiudnrcpu_9Pn5P_YTFpM4K_LjERuk-RBtMJEDDkMRB8rc4l58THOpxmQkO_sY4V7R1BqUk7BimPNVSG4QdQ1owlY3FC3SWDhZ02S-qAliszVCFuPMijkODYusiJw2YG1fT1NF0NxwhWxGWbCM-3ffJKzfseFc3M6LapyHBfptTAR_TLQaQjw=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p><span> </span>She told me, “You know, that Janice is a night owl. She even does her grocery shopping in the middle of the night. Around 7pm. That’s why she carries a gun. She got a permit and everything. Angie’s got a permit and a gun, too!” I wasn’t upset by this. As a woman, you need a gun in St. Louis, that’s just the truth of it. </p><p><span> </span>Alice says, “The reason you have a house is to “Stay yo’ ass at home!” Now that I’m old I understand completely. </p><p><span> </span>We swapped some good get high stories and laughed hard. That’s my favorite part of our conversations, the laughing. We laughed until we cried. We’ve both done some fun, crazy and dangerous things in our youth. This call, we spoke very briefly about my mother, who died in 2011. That’s OK. I think we’ve talked through our grief over her. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRl1fU_MxW5xe4_Qwj61a3wUUZVBGfMEp4owZusPx3Cdjc4NERuCiXhUw2WJZeoZ9gJAZwfq37WjEk3mIxRg9xlc-cJBYuvkf8ef2gEZr1QIE1FGxvHWRO2w4RmyPDD7ZlRn8_gA9-eFXbsK4tF2P83D_i2TokgLM2Qshvod9FtoMcORweH6aHTU8oDg=s1777" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1777" data-original-width="1242" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRl1fU_MxW5xe4_Qwj61a3wUUZVBGfMEp4owZusPx3Cdjc4NERuCiXhUw2WJZeoZ9gJAZwfq37WjEk3mIxRg9xlc-cJBYuvkf8ef2gEZr1QIE1FGxvHWRO2w4RmyPDD7ZlRn8_gA9-eFXbsK4tF2P83D_i2TokgLM2Qshvod9FtoMcORweH6aHTU8oDg=s320" width="224" /></a></div><br /><p><span> </span> I asked about the dogs they always have, if they are going to the new apartment. “Hell, naw! Wilfred was supposed to take care of the dog.” Their recently deceased son Anthony gave them the dog. Alice didn’t want the dog. Wilfred, who doesn’t even like dogs, said he would take care of the dog. Alice told him, “You don’t even take care of your damn self, how you gone take care of a dog?” Alice chose not to get attached to the dog. She doesn’t feed him or anything. The Animal People wouldn’t take the dog because they were full. Alice doesn’t know or care what happens to the dog. All she knows for sure is that, “He ain’t coming to the new apartment!”</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><br />Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-19606922061723608832022-01-02T18:15:00.003-08:002022-01-11T19:22:41.088-08:00ARE YOU MY GRANDMA?<p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKxA3jBtfYF0AWWaEWEFIPLhRfE_6PA4nMQCQ8QuoI899ZaiHIG0Rg7K3X2SOapyWP64UMDJzT2uwpEDn8Q8GFZjcf-_kYjoktfqt42krelyvS4Wa2E5VXaU33I9Wsw_c6ttbcRcUv-pzu8Y3S4nXisOk_-AENOjRmEaxZM4UBGAuRQwA4nZ5d4lsNOQ=s570" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKxA3jBtfYF0AWWaEWEFIPLhRfE_6PA4nMQCQ8QuoI899ZaiHIG0Rg7K3X2SOapyWP64UMDJzT2uwpEDn8Q8GFZjcf-_kYjoktfqt42krelyvS4Wa2E5VXaU33I9Wsw_c6ttbcRcUv-pzu8Y3S4nXisOk_-AENOjRmEaxZM4UBGAuRQwA4nZ5d4lsNOQ=s320" width="243" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span> T</span>he three-year-old girl in Ralph’s grocery store who called me “Grandma!”, had no idea I have Grandmother issues. Many things ran through my mind before I responded. I couldn’t tell her and her young father the whole untold story of my estranged grands. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span> </span>I could only blurt out, “I wish!” from behind my mask. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span> </span>She was the cutest little girl. Her curls bounced as she ran down the aisle. I would gladly be her Grandma. Her handsome Dad said by way of apology, “Her Grandmother wears her hair in braids like yours.”</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span> </span>I wish I had blown her a kiss.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-5852448027750593962020-01-31T16:27:00.002-08:002020-01-31T16:27:45.691-08:00Amateur Window Washer<br />
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We looked at her and sadly shook our heads. We didn't want to do it for her, but we knew we could do it better, much better.<br />
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We are the ladies in the training pool at the YMCA. The training pool is small, no more than 20 people can fit into it. It goes from three feet to only five feet deep. It's our time to relax and meditate while we stretch and strengthen our old bodies during our one hour class led by Marti.<br />
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Our minds wander as we stare ahead. Through the three large window panes that make a wall between the training pool and the jacuzzi spa. Our bodies know the routine, many of us have been in the class for over twenty years; all we need is Marti's prompting. I raise my eyes farther and watch the trees sway outside the four small windows atop the outer wall of the jacuzzi spa room. Those trees soothe me. Calm my monkey mind. We are mellowed out; halfway through our workout.<br />
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Then along comes Miss Energetic life guard with a new cleaning tool she's decided to try out. It's cute. Its double head has a spongy scrubber mop on one side and a rubber edged squeegee on the other. Right below the head is a bright red trigger handle that squirts liquid cleanser.<br />
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We notice all of this because she has interrupted our tranquility. She is young and ruddy cheeked, sporting a brand new Apple watch that she checks every few minutes. It's her job to insure we don't overstay our allotted fifteen minutes in the jacuzzi, where we like to loosen up before and after the regular class. They don't want to run up us oldster's blood pressure.<br />
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But she has taken it upon herself to attempt to clean the cruddy window panes. They probably annoy her as much as they do us ladies, home makers all, but we know we're not there to clean. We are off the clock here, so we luxuriate and take our time. Gossiping with each other at our leisure. Joking, laughing and stretching out this work-free portion of our day as long as possible.<br />
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Miss Energizer Bunny life guard, whose name is Amy, begins and we watch with wry amusement. She thinks she'll be able to knock out this job in a few minutes. Between her walks around the pool checking on us and the swimmers in the large lap pool on the opposite side of the training pool. We know better. We watch.<br />
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We watch Amy begin on the jacuzzi side of the glass, on the innermost pane. She squeezes the red trigger and a meager stream of cleanser dribbles out. Already this is not going well. We ladies look at each other with knowing smirks. Our leader, Marti's back is to Amy and she continues: "Run in place with your knees high!"<br />
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Amy keeps squeezing the red trigger and finally gets a good shot of cleanser. She spreads it up and down on the top half of the pane with the mop side of her new tool. So far so good. She flips the mop head to the rubber squeegee side and it stutter- slides down the glass. She's not too good at this. Some of the ladies in the pool point out to her were she's missed a spot. We giggle quietly and keep running in place.<br />
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Amy finishes the top half. It doesn't look any cleaner than when she began. The crud on the windows has been there for years. It will take more than what she's got to make a dent in the decay. She props the mini mop thingy against the window-wall pane and runs off. It falls while she is away. She returns with a half roll of paper towels from the women's bathroom. She rips off a sheet and tucks the rest of the roll in the belt on her life guard fanny pack. It won't stay so she puts it on the floor. She wipes the rubber edge of the squeegee with the paper towel and continues cleaning the bottom section of the pane. It's a torturous process. It's still not looking any cleaner. She runs off again.<br />
<br />
This time Amy returns with another, wider rubber hand squeegee. It doesn't do a better job than the first one. This job is going to require serious elbow grease and industrial cleanser. This cute little mop thingy is not going to cut it. Amy is beginning to see what us old timers already knew from the start. She leaves the fancy new tool and gives up. The window-wall won.<br />
<br />
We don't comment on it at all. Not even later in the locker room after our showers. Nothing needs to be said. We just know we could have done it better.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-86297541837439701662018-05-21T16:33:00.000-07:002018-05-21T16:35:40.226-07:00MY BREAST CANCER JOURNEY<div style="text-align: center;">
MY BREAST CANCER JOURNEY</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaq50QxMpsum076r-UTZgulmBoQYk8kf3TTqv10RYuU5fuXfyXq84JZao7LNhbhc2M4W9-3sLw64-q_BPR68_UcHsWeZYt-9ziT-0puEpQ4aKZDz0A-VVwBdv1aL2t6yTi8O9QDUWIjhHs/s1600/561005_10151108057123792_1121350576_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="960" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaq50QxMpsum076r-UTZgulmBoQYk8kf3TTqv10RYuU5fuXfyXq84JZao7LNhbhc2M4W9-3sLw64-q_BPR68_UcHsWeZYt-9ziT-0puEpQ4aKZDz0A-VVwBdv1aL2t6yTi8O9QDUWIjhHs/s320/561005_10151108057123792_1121350576_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2007</td></tr>
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In March of 2007 we began a huge remodel on our home. The master bedroom and bath along with the front driveway and the entire backyard was to be ripped out and redone. I went for my annual mammogram at the end of February 2007, and was called back. As I waited to make an appointment for the second mammogram, I felt disappointed in myself for not having discovered the lump sooner. The radiologist showed me a lump the size of a quarter. He couldn’t tell me if it was cancer, but he said that if it was his loved one he would recommend having it removed.<br />
<br />
I was referred to a surgeon who performed a biopsy on March 16th. I envisioned God enfolding me in His arms throughout the procedure. I was fascinated by the ultrasound images of my tumor. And the needle gun with a cooling element that took the core biopsy. I took a quick look at the core samples before they were sent off to the lab. During the biopsy my breast was numbed, but I felt the warm blood roll down my body.<br />
<br />
On Friday, March 23rd I received the news that yes I had breast cancer. Before that I had gotten quite comfortable in “I don’t know” land. I couldn’t believe what the doctor was saying. I was so afraid I stopped hearing. I could see his lips moving but I could not hear what he was saying. I stopped breathing for several moments. Once I started breathing again, the tears started to flow. I was planning my funeral. I thought that I was going to die that day. Thank God my husband Earl was there to tell me what the doctor had said when we got home.<br />
<br />
I started telling people the news and I found that the more people I told the better I felt emotionally. People care but they are scared and don’t know quite what to say. It got even more uncomfortable if I started to cry. I learned to keep my tears in check, so people would not be reluctant to talk to me about what was going on. I learned who I could cry with and not.<br />
<br />
On March 28th I had a partial mastectomy (essentially a lumpectomy) and by the end of the month I would start chemotherapy. The surgery was scary. It was made a little less scary by the daily prayer that was broadcast over the hospital intercom. Just at my most vulnerable moment, when I was alone in an exam room right before surgery. I was awake as they rolled me into the operating room. The medical team there impressed me. Everyone shouted out, “OK, this is Denise B., and we are going to operate on her left breast!” Around the room they went, “Left breast,” “Left breast,” Left breast,” until it was my turn to say, “Left breast!” I got caught up in the excitement and was very happy they were going to cut the correct breast. Having heard horror stories of people having the wrong leg amputated.<br />
<br />
Hours later I awoke in the hospital room. Earl was there and medical people were coming and going. And there was Chaplain Diane. A beautiful black woman with dreadlocks like mine. She had come to bring a special prayer for me. I was concerned, did I need a chaplain, was I dying? No, she wanted to give me the copy of the prayer she had said for me. I wasn’t able to read it then as I was full of drugs for the pain, but when I read it days later more tears flowed. That prayer was just what I needed.<br />
<br />
The first time I felt my left breast after surgery was nerve wracking. I was afraid that the entire breast would be gone. What a relief to find it still there. Then I was curious about all of the dressing and the discovery that there was a drain hanging from my body. What was a drain? Oh, it is going to continually fill with blood. And someone will have to empty it. Oh. OK.<br />
<br />
That was a whirlwind month of doctor’s appointments and procedures. I hardly knew what was going on. Earl was keeping up with my appointments. I just showed up, at the beginning that was all I could do. My attitude about the whole ordeal was adjusted when my husband told me early on that, “Yes, you’re going to die, but not from this.” I was able to breathe again after absorbing this new reality. My sponsor said that no one dies from breast cancer anymore. These were words of hope that I clung to. Over time I became more proactive in my treatment. When I was able to drive myself to appointments I was so happy. I felt semi-normal.<br />
<br />
I wondered though, what might have caused this. Was it something I ate? Was it the wild and crazy behavior of my youth? Was it the fumes I inhaled from the car painting business I ride past on my bicycle everyday? Was it the plastic I microwaved my food in? No one knows. I just know that this is what is. I have to deal with it.<br />
<br />
The results of my pretreatment PET/CT scan showed what was thought to be more cancer in the lymph nodes in my shoulder and behind my breastbone. These areas cannot be reached with surgery. I was preparing for chemo and radiation by having a portable catheter implanted, one more surgical procedure. I discovered that I’m not a candidate for chemo pills because my cancer is triple negative, no estrogen receptor (er), no progesterone receptor (pr) and no human epidermal growth factor receptor 2 (her-2). Turns out that this first PET/CT scan was over read and the cancer had not spread as they first thought. What a relief.<br />
<br />
Around this time I started wishing that I could turn back the hands of time. To live without this horrible, life threatening, new knowledge. Cancer was now a permanent part of my life story. Ugggggh. I wanted to have big old pity parties, but that wouldn’t help anything. My husband and doctors encouraged me to keep living, keep moving. I forced myself to do so. Walking and riding my bike as much as I could. These activities reminded me that the rest of my body still functions. I am not just my left breast. I needed to stay strong to fight chemo. I didn’t want to waste precious time being pitiful.<br />
<br />
It was hard to believe such harsh words were now connected to me. Breast cancer, chemo, radiation, surgery, porta-caths, PET/CT scans, MRIs, biopsies, and drains. I had been skipping along through life without having any really serious hardships. Well, it’s my turn now. Everyone goes through tough times. Everyone has to face life or death possibilities. I just wasn’t ready yet for it to be me.<br />
<br />
As my treatments continued, our home remodel went on. What else was there to do? One of the best days I had at this time was when Yosi our landscaper for the garden, took me to the local nursery here in the San Fernando Valley. There were acres and acres of beautiful blooming plants. We were there to pick out the vines and plants for the backyard garden. Earl hung back while Yosi and I sped all over the place on a flat bed cart making selections.<br />
<br />
It was so much fun because we were buying nearly 200 plants. Yosi knows the place like the back of his hand. We filled up the cart 3 times. Yosi would ask me if I liked this plant or that one and when I said, “Yes,” he’d load on 5 to 10 pots of that plant. It was my HGTV dream come true! I forgot for the day that I was waiting to find out the results of my biopsy.<br />
<br />
Chemo was weekly for 6 months, beginning April 30th, with daily white blood count booster shots and anti nausea shots in between. As I recovered from the effects of the chemo, I had the fantastically beautiful and peaceful garden as a source of positive energy.<br />
<br />
A second bit of happiness during my treatment was that my son got married. He was so happy and I was so happy for him that I felt like I had yet another reason to live. He had been depressed for a long time and I hadn’t seen him smile in years. He sent pictures of himself and his fiancée’ and her daughter, with a big old smile on his face and I was filled with joy. They were even talking about having more kids. I could be a grandmother, something I never thought I’d be excited about.<br />
<br />
April 24th I had the first teaching session with Nurse Barbara, to tell us what to expect in the chemo treatments. All of my questions were answered and I came away with a lot of hope and information overload. She was very competent and thorough. She did not however mention that to get to her office we had to walk through the chemo room. What a shock. What a reality check. Everyone looked so pale and sick. Hooked up to the IV s. It’s not a pretty sight. I tried to smile at a couple of the people but I couldn’t sustain it, and I looked away. I would be in that room soon. I hoped to bring some color and life with me. I did bring color to the room, first because there were very few black women in there and second because I wore a deep purple wrap to stay warm and I brought my surgeon teddy bear. (Everyone fell in love with him.) I wore lipstick and new shoes every week. As I reclined in the chemo chair, I enjoyed looking at my shoes. I was told to wear grubby clothes for chemo, but that was not me. When I dressed becomingly in that chemo room, I felt a bit better.<br />
<br />
Nurse Barbara said that in 3 weeks all of my hair would fall out. It did. I was OK with that, I would get to wear hats and scarves, or just be bald. I was. First a hair stylist friend cut my long dreadlocks off into a short Afro, as suggested by the nurse. Everyday as I combed my hair more and more hair came out in the comb. Finally there was a big bald spot on the back of my head. I asked my husband to shave my head. It was a great relief to make the decision. It was one of my most loving and intimate experiences ever. I was glad it was Earl doing this for me. He had said he would shave his head, too. I thought he meant some time in the future. But as soon as he finished mine, he shaved his right off. I was very moved by this. My best friend Marsha and my mother asked me to save some of my locks for them. So I washed my hair and had some lovely smelling locks to send to my loved ones.<br />
<br />
Later we took pictures. I wanted my family at home to see that we were still standing and smiling. Being bald was strangely liberating, though it took a while to get used to my new look. I was no longer studying my pillow in the morning looking for patches of hair. Plus the fiery tingling in my scalp stopped. I was excited about wearing hats, but now the hats that fit with my dreadlocks were too big. I asked a friend if she would get a hat for me in her shopping travels, she asked if I wanted to go shopping with her. The chemo had me too fatigued for that. A few days later my friend and her husband came by to sit on the patio with us. She had a large bag and I assumed she’d brought something for the house. What she had was a hatbox full of hats, ten hats in every color and style. I was so happy. I was undone by her love and generosity. That was the power of friendship keeping me in the fight.<br />
<br />
At one point I just got weary of talking about cancer. I needed to distract myself. Hear someone else’s story. Talking to my support group friends helped with that. I could call people who didn’t know what was happening with me and just listen to what was going on with their day. Listening with joy and much interest. All of this was a part of what I called my Life Saving Procedure. Including all of the gazillions of side effects, too numerous to list here, but worth enduring to keep living.<br />
<br />
Some nights the chemo chemicals sparked off me like crazy. They flushed from my eyes and scalp. I could smell it coming from my pores. There was a chemical taste in my mouth all of the time. I couldn’t taste my food. That was the hardest part of the treatment. I was forcing myself to eat then. Food tasted terrible, but as a compulsive overeater, it was easy to force down food, even if it tasted like metal. I did like the fact that no matter how much I ate, I stayed thin. I loved the way my clothes fit.<br />
<br />
We took a little break from treatment and doctors for a trip to Jamaica. I saw a picture from that trip and I thought I was looking OK when I took the picture. Looking at it later I saw that I could barely keep my left eye open. My face looked so tired. I’ve since shredded those pictures. I had chemo brain, I could hardly spell, reading was difficult and reading is my favorite past time. Thinking and speaking was hard, words got turned around. Some days I was thin, some days my face was puffy. I hated that chemo. Even though it was saving my life, I still feel that there must be a less toxic way to treat this illness.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I would just cry. Sometimes being upbeat and positive about breast cancer would be more than I could manage. I would get frustrated at trying to work up an outfit and then remember, oh, what will I put on my bald head. I did like my cheekbones and thinner thighs, not having to shave my legs and underarms or wash my hair. I’d just put my head under the shower, wipe it and go.<br />
<br />
It took about three months before I really came to the leading edge of acceptance of what I was going through. When I looked into the mirror I could literally see the barest essence of myself. With no hair, eyelashes or eyebrows my eyes looked darker and deeper.<br />
<br />
The breast cancer information said not to try to lose weight during chemo. It was tempting with no appetite and all, but the burn was too much. I could feel that chemo burning through the food I would eat. The info also said that life after treatment might not be the same as it was before. That it takes six months to a year to get back to your previous physical condition.<br />
<br />
The arm where my surgery was will never be the same. I will always need to exercise it to avoid swelling from the lymph nodes removal. It said there would be a kind of post-treatment depression once treatment is done. That wasn’t my experience. I was so happy that I didn’t have to keep going to doctor’s appointments. But what did happen is that my body went “kaflooy”, that’s the medical term my radiation nurse used. I had all kinds of breakouts and infections that needed treatment. So it took another month after treatment to kind of get back to semi-normal. They talked about the anxiety that comes before future check ups and the concern about recurrence of cancer. I do worry about that.<br />
<br />
Two weeks after chemo and before radiation my hair started growing back. The radiation didn’t take out the hair on my head, only the hair near the radiation site. Still didn’t have to shave the underarms. I’m still waiting for my eyelashes and eyebrows to come back in completely.<br />
<br />
When my chemo treatments were complete I had a second PET/CT scan that came back normal. I broke down in tears of joy from deep in my gut. I had a few weeks break and then radiation began for 6 weeks everyday 5 days on 2 days off. Radiation was a cakewalk compared to chemo. I was told that I would feel some fatigue by the end of the treatments. I had 33 treatments.<br />
<br />
During radiation, which was so much easier than chemo, I was able to drive myself to the daily treatments, which lasted about 15 minutes each. At first it was easy on my skin and I was given some creams and potions to apply to the affected area. Over time that area darkened and at the end in the last 5 treatments it became painful. It was like a really, really really bad sunburn. The last treatments concentrated the radiation beams on the area where the cancerous lump was removed. Owww.<br />
<br />
In the radiation waiting room a sort of camaraderie developed. We’d sit there, men and women in our skimpy hospital gowns trying to hold on to our last shreds of dignity as we’d shared our stories. I was able to put my illness into its proper perspective when I heard the others’ stories. Some were getting their heads, faces and prostates zapped. Some didn’t have enough insurance and weren’t able to complete their treatments. Some didn’t have transportation to the hospital. Some had been shuffled around from hospital to hospital piecing together their treatment plan. One nice lady would bring insurance information to the waiting room to share. We counted down the days and then we all celebrated when it was the last day of treatment.<br />
<br />
I was reluctant to celebrate too much when my treatment was complete. I don’t want to temp fate. There is still that fear that the cancer will return. But whatever happens I will keep moving forward. Keep fighting.<br />
<br />
I had no choice but to fight. I had my husband pushing and pulling me through recovery. I have my support group fellowship, my prayer warriors, my family and friends, who I think of as my Village; I have God who is with me always. So I get to step up to the plate and handle this with grace and courage.<br />
<br />
My support group fellowship was and still is a huge help to me. They shared their experience, strength and hope with me. Showing me their breast cancer scars and telling me how long they have survived, one for eight years, another for 12 years. They let me cry on their shoulders when I was first diagnosed and afterward. I could share with them my fears and concerns and they didn’t recoil. They had already faced this fear and were no longer afraid.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs1pLIJVwsuE3lBYd0jx7bb8T4f-ApXtWhnyJQHqWw6jR3VnI0QI-uSdboDdFG5bGNBLffmMQlk1frmEk1hFWncnHqQQVIiH4CrF-uVW7H156e1QNbJOa6gY53XZZTgFgC1sY6DDr_4yPh/s1600/20431725_10155583427243792_3746119998777578765_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="960" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs1pLIJVwsuE3lBYd0jx7bb8T4f-ApXtWhnyJQHqWw6jR3VnI0QI-uSdboDdFG5bGNBLffmMQlk1frmEk1hFWncnHqQQVIiH4CrF-uVW7H156e1QNbJOa6gY53XZZTgFgC1sY6DDr_4yPh/s320/20431725_10155583427243792_3746119998777578765_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2017</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
My Village lifted me up in prayer. Many times I literally felt lifted. Our neighbors prayed for me. Across the street, Rose told me that the whole Armenian Church was praying for me. She brought home cooked food for me. Evelyn next door sat with me and assured me that she would see me riding my bike in the neighborhood again soon. My cousin in Texas is a prayer warrior (who knew?). She drove to San Marcos from Houston to lay hands on me when we visited there. Kathy came and brought soup and sat with me in the garden some days. Jill and Lynn brought flowers and sat with me. Barbara brought me books that I read in the garden. Juanita helped me pack for a trip. Marsha and Bootsie flew in from my hometown just see for themselves how I was doing. Pam sat with me even though she had recently had surgery. Gina, Eve, and Barbara drove me to chemo on the days Earl couldn’t. They all helped me make it through. I am eternally grateful to them all. I have survived incest, domestic violence, drug abuse, compulsive overeating and lots of other things that could have killed me and I’m still here, I’m not ready to die, I’m still standing.<br />
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Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-80787808073753914282017-09-02T19:02:00.002-07:002022-01-11T19:40:37.674-08:00Review of Destiny Lingers by Rolonda Watts<div class="separator"><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="494" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvFVb2XOkkb-qfQfddCHYp1KtBlfqgdY6J_XCt8LMKJzrkvgS9Jvr9pP7pMC9dXINB55u888gg4Hm4LE-dGV2EDEzC6yLYHsAHyca-8mVaI56kFhq3AQ0WEse1mf1xGEeW0Y1Iw4C0lfiq_Nfis8-wI2hEBL-jRDfNz323MxQyKwKlxID7RL0wPDhOMg=s320" width="210" /></div></div><div><span> </span>I must issue a disclaimer: Rolonda is a friend of mine. But I don't think I'm being biased when I say you will like this story. Rolonda as, Maya Angelou says, is a good writer and a good story teller. She pays great attention to the very fine details of life. Her description of the perfect martini is mouthwatering. A woman wiping excess lipstick off the corners of her mouth after application is visual art. The nuances of the culture of women's restrooms in night clubs.</div>
<br />
<span> </span>Character development is fantastic. The cheating husband got on my motherfuckin' nerves. Not just because he was unfaithful to Destiny, but because he's a rude asshole. I wondered why she liked him in the first place.<br />
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<span> </span>This is a juicy story. That bitch Eve got the choking and hair-snatching she so richly deserved.<br />
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<span> </span>I like how Rolonda refers to the sun and the sea as "she". The ocean is "frisky", but "nowhere near the pouty little girl she was last night." Or "Mother Ocean."<br />
<br />
<span> </span>This is a good drama, it has everything. Racism, kidnapping, hostages, shooting, island life, hurricanes, infidelity, and taboo love. I was caught up in the story right away.<br />
<br />
<span> </span>It's a good thing Destiny has her good friends, Kat, with her colorful language, and Hope who keeps her grounded. Though, I had to remind myself that the story is set in a time before cell phones.<br />
<br />
<span> </span>I haven't read a romance novel in a long time. I would probably read them more often if they had characters like Kat, who say things like, "Girl, you better getcho happy ass off that island!"<br />
<br />
See what I mean?Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-89963440513297624432017-08-15T22:57:00.004-07:002022-01-11T20:03:08.643-08:00Black Boy by Richard Wright - Denise Billings's review<div><span class="item"><br /></span></div><span class="item"><div><span class="item"><br /></span></div><span class="fn"><div><span class="item"><span class="fn"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="item"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibASbdmjQDzi8NQRi7ycgA770tQtvfv4C0p2Wl3r8d7fq9nCV22_DhRtkIYNUX5cZuK-4SRxeIS2yo4dcJ1xiyTpg3_o7YBko7BZpWnyya7g0fY7bwCpzUEvlsDhF9yen1P4qpCRYscG67zlt1qLEhPFkTQBH2ds_ic_GnHqSBI-SeFSeqexcO-2myLw=s696" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="696" data-original-width="398" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibASbdmjQDzi8NQRi7ycgA770tQtvfv4C0p2Wl3r8d7fq9nCV22_DhRtkIYNUX5cZuK-4SRxeIS2yo4dcJ1xiyTpg3_o7YBko7BZpWnyya7g0fY7bwCpzUEvlsDhF9yen1P4qpCRYscG67zlt1qLEhPFkTQBH2ds_ic_GnHqSBI-SeFSeqexcO-2myLw=s320" width="183" /></a></div><span class="fn">Black Boy</span> </span></div></span></span>
<span class="by smallText" face=""lato" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">by</span> <span itemprop="author" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><a class="authorName" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9657.Richard_Wright" itemprop="url" style="color: #333333; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-decoration-line: none;"><span itemprop="name">Richard Wright</span></a>, <a class="authorName" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2947790.Jerry_W_Ward_Jr_" itemprop="url" style="color: #333333; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-decoration-line: none;"><span itemprop="name">Jerry W. Ward Jr.</span></a> <span class="authorName greyText smallText role" face=""lato" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #999999; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">(Introduction)</span> </span><br />
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<span class="reviewer"><a class="userReview" href="https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/13596608-denise-billings" itemprop="author" style="color: #382110; font-size: 13px; text-decoration-line: none;">Denise Billings</a></span>'s review<br />
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<span itemprop="publishDate">May 12, 2013</span> <span class="greyText"> · </span> <a class="smallText greyText" href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/edit/228630" style="color: #999999; line-height: 14px; text-decoration-line: none;">edit</a><span class="value-title" title="2013-05-12"></span></div>
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<span class="value-title" title="5"></span><span class="staticStars" style="background-repeat: no-repeat; display: inline-block; font-size: 0px; height: 15px; vertical-align: top; white-space: nowrap; width: 75px;"><span class="staticStar p10" style="background-image: url("data:image/png; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: 15px; float: left; height: 15px; width: 15px;" title="it was amazing">it was amazing</span><span class="staticStar p10" style="background-image: url("data:image/png; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: 15px; float: left; height: 15px; width: 15px;" title="it was amazing"></span><span class="staticStar p10" style="background-image: url("data:image/png; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: 15px; float: left; height: 15px; width: 15px;" title="it was amazing"></span><span class="staticStar p10" style="background-image: url("data:image/png; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: 15px; float: left; height: 15px; width: 15px;" title="it was amazing"></span><span class="staticStar p10" style="background-image: url("data:image/png; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: 15px; float: left; height: 15px; width: 15px;" title="it was amazing"></span></span></div>
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Read 2 times. Last read August 6, 2017 to August 15, 2017.</div>
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A gripping story that says a lot with an economy words. By page 16 so much had happened to four year old Richard, I could barely sleep thinking about what I'd just read. The story begins in about 1909 in Jackson, Mississippi and goes until 1926 when young Richard finally escapes the South where is brilliant and hungry mind just would not allow him to remain. If he stayed there he would have died or certainly would have been killed.<br />
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His family and friends could not understand why he wanted to read and they definitely could not wrap their minds around him wanting to be a writer. He might as well have told them he wanted to walk on the moon. When he mentioned reading to his friends they constantly asked him why. Why did he want to read those books? Why did he want to read when he didn't have to?<br />
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"I was building up in me a dream which the entire educational system of the South had been rigged to stifle. I was feeling the very thing that the state of Mississippi had spent millions of dollars to make sure that I would never feel; I was becoming aware of the thing that the Jim Crow laws had been drafted and passed to keep out of my consciousness; I was acting on impulses that southern senators in the nation's capital had striven to keep out of Negro life; I was beginning to dream the dreams that the state had said were wrong, that the schools had said were taboo."<br />
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This was true in 1924 and apparently is still true today.<br />
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When Richard's friend's brother was killed he thought "Bob had been caught by the white death, the threat of which hung over every black male in the south." What he heard "altered the look of the world, induced in me a temporary paralysis of will and impulse. The penalty of death awaited me if I made a false move and I wondered if it was worth-while to make any move at all."<br />
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Fortunately he had the wherewithal to push past this hopeless feeling. He was a conscious boy living in a world where that attitude would get him killed. The kids today would say he's "woke". He resisted and no one understood why he resisted. Everyone in the black community was simply trying to stay alive. Going along with the Jim Crow ways was the easiest way to do so.<br />
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"I had begun coping with the white world too late. I could not make subservience an automatic part of my behavior. I had to feel and think out each tiny item of racial experience in the light of the whole race problem, and to each item I brought the whole of my life. While standing before a white man I had to figure out how to perform each act and how to say each word. I could not help it. I could not grin. In the past I had always said too much, now I found that it was difficult to say anything at all. I could not react as the world in which I lived expected me to; that world was too baffling, too uncertain."<br />
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He had been relatively sheltered from white people during his childhood. He had people in his family who looked like white people. He didn't grow up seeing colors. But now, if he did or said the wrong thing, and he never could be sure of the right thing, he could very easily die.<br />
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He finally saved enough money to move from Jackson Mississippi to Memphis Tennessee. There he was still trying to read as much as possible. Still people around him, blacks and especially whites couldn't understand why he wanted to read and discouraged him at every turn. He had a job running errands for a white man. Sometimes he was sent with a note to the library. Blacks were not allowed in the libraries at that time. He found a way to get books by forging notes from his boss, with the boss's permission. This particular white man was a Catholic who was shunned by the other southern white men. He went back to the library again and again. The more he read the more he wanted to read.<br />
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I related to how he said the books were like a drug to him, like dope. The books helped him understand the narrow lives of the white men who had so much power over him. Books kept his hope alive. Showed him other ways of life. To me that is the beauty of books. The beauty of this book is that it showed the world what life was like in the bad old days. It showed that things have changed but we still have a long way to go.</div>
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Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-65751850824427830382016-01-21T12:38:00.003-08:002023-10-09T19:19:06.450-07:00Necie's Knees<br />
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Until July 17, 2015 both of my knees were shot. I'd been complaining to my docs for some time. Asking them if they could hear the crunching that I heard when I bent my knees. One doc said she heard it, but it was no big deal. She blew it off. At the time my docs were rotating like crazy, in and out of Toluca Lake Medical Center.<br />
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The last one promised she would stay around a while and she took me seriously when I told her about the crunching and pain in my knees. Right away she referred me to Dr. Robert Klapper, the knee guy to the stars, who works out of Cedars Sinai.<br />
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Dr. Klapper is a busy man. It was 3 months before I was able to get in to see him. Before he entered the exam room he ordered more x-rays, because the ones I brought with me weren't clear. Dr. Klapper has every x-ray machine known to man, right there in his office.<br />
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He came into the exam room with my x-rays and said, "I hate to say 'Hello, I'm Dr. Klapper, and you need surgery', but......" He showed me the shots of my knees, that look so much thinner in the x-rays, and told me that I had no meniscus. None. My knees were bone on bone. He listened to the crunch as he moved my feet up and down while I sat on the exam table. He said you could hear the crunch from across the room. He told me not to let anyone give me shots in the knees, because there was nothing to put the shot in.<br />
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He ordered physical therapy for me while I contemplated surgery. Before I left, he said, "I can't tell, you, you can't tell you, but your knees will tell you when it's time for surgery." Hmmmmmm.<br />
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He told me to keep riding my bike but to avoid hills. And that ice is my friend.<br />
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I went ahead and scheduled my next appointment, 3 months out. When my appointment rolled around, I was more than ready. I came into the exam room and told him, "Cut me doc!" My knees were killing me. Making me a crippled old lady, I was not ready to be. I appreciated Dr. Klapper's confidence. He told me that the surgery takes and hour and a half for most surgeons, but for him only 45 minutes because, "I measure twice and cut once."<br />
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The right knee gave me the most pain and that's where we started. My surgery was scheduled quickly because someone else had canceled. I had less than 3 weeks to get all of the pre-op blood work and tests done. My blood was typed, crossed and checked for HIV/AIDS and other STDs. I donated a unit of blood for the surgery. This was a challenge as I have slow moving blood and rolly polly veins. The nurses call it a hard stick. It's hard alright. Hard on me. Especially when there is an inexperienced nurse poking around in my arm. The folks at Cedars are pros, though, and they made it happen. If they had been unable to get my blood flowing, I would have had to ask someone to donate a unit of blood for my surgery. Who knew? I also didn't know that my slow flowing blood could have lead to a clotting problem during surgery. My blood flow speed just barely made the time cut. Whew.<br />
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Then there were teeth to clean, because after the surgery there would be no more dental visits for a year. There was a class to take. A two hour pre-surgery class. I've got to give it to the people at Cedars, they are thorough as hell. They leave no stone unturned. During my numerous trips back and forth to Cedars I saw how vast an organization it is. It's like a small city. There's a Starbucks, clothing stores, gifts shops, of course, and all manner of food shops.<br />
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Then there was a pre-op exam by my internist Dr. So. A mammogram which was already scheduled before the surgery. Then before you know it, it was the 17th. July 17th is my beloved Grandmother's birthday, so I thought it was the perfect date for the surgery. A good sign. Some nice person called the night before to let us know what time the surgery was scheduled. I was ready.<br />
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A couple days before the surgery date, the husband, Earl, was cleaning the gutters on the back of the house. I came home from running some errands. I greeted him and he asked me to spot him on the ladder. I was hungry and he'd asked me to change clothes, into"grubbies", to better help. I wanted to get something to eat first. He said go ahead.<br />
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I was eating when I heard a thump. I ran to see what happened and there he was, going down. I got there just in time to see his head hit the ottoman cushion. His arm took the brunt of the fall. He sat up in shock. I helped him up, saying to him, "No more ladders!" He'd missed the last step on the way down. He insisted on finishing the job. I spotted him. It was too late. I told him,"You can't be broke down now, you've got to help me next week!"<br />
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Later that day his arm swelled up and was terribly bruised. I felt really guilty. The only good thing that came out of this is that he is absolutely through with ladders. Later I said to him, "If only I'd spotted you." He blew it off with, "That's split milk." I didn't want to keep bringing it up. He gets annoyed when I do that, so I just tried to do all I could to help him feel better.<br />
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He went to the doctor and then to a specialist. He thought the wrist was broken as it was the most painful. It wasn't broken, but he wore a brace for a while. He took muscle relaxers and stumbled around like a zombie. He was exhausted at the hospital and I felt bad to have to ask for everything after my surgery.<br />
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At the hospital I had the wonderful nurses to help me. I needed them, too. They waited on me hand and foot. Even putting in my prescription eyedrops for me. I missed them when I got home. The surgery went well. I slept through the whole thing, of course, amazed when I awoke to a 26cm scar from above to right below my new knee. Held together with 65+ staples. I had the nurse take pix so I could post them on Face Book. I almost lost a few friends behind that post. LOL! Some people are so sensitive.<br />
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The first two nights were ass kickers. The pain brought me to tears and nearly to my knees. Dr. Klapper said my high pain tolerance is a blessing and a curse. I endured too long and that increased the damage. He said when he cut me open it looked like someone had poured battery acid in there, it was bad.<br />
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Because of the major pain, as the anesthesia and pain blockers wore off I was taking high doses of pain meds. Norco 10 - 4 x a day. There's a Norco 5 but I didn't think that would cut it the way I was hurting. Norco is hydrocodone/acetaminophen 10-325mg. I think it's what they make meth with. What I know is that it knocks down the pain and drys out my mouth and intestines. Bringing along nausea and dizziness. In hospital, I was given stool softeners and anti nausea patches. When I left I didn't get any to take with me. I felt OK. I didn't feel constipated but everyone insisted it would happen. More on that later.<br />
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In order to be released from the hospital, I had to walk the halls and take a step on the stairway to be ready for the one step we have at home. My blood pressure kept dropping when I stood so I had to stay an extra day to get my BP stabilized. I'd heard that they would have me up and walking on the same day as surgery. It was true. It hurt like hell, too. Just getting out of the bed was a supreme challenge.<br />
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The night before surgery I was to shower with Chlorhexidine Gluconcate 4% (CHG) antibiotic soap. I was instructed to shampoo my hair with regular shampoo and shower again the morning of surgery with more CHG. Once I got to the hospital they had me wipe myself down with CHG towelettes. They're not playing with those germs! The nurses prepped me and of course my rolly polly veins held up the works. The anesthesiologist ended up getting my line in. The nurses were out in the bay describing how they'd never seen anything like them. I wanted to say "I can hear you!" I tried to tell them they would need their needle expert. Anyway, it got done and they rolled me into the biggest OR I'd ever seen. Everyone introduced themselves. One guy was named Earl. Earl the Pearl he said. We got my knee marked and that's all she wrote.<br />
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As I said before, I woke up amazed. My knee was all bundled up and nurses were asking me questions. Can't remember any of them now. My room turned out to be the very same one that our friend Richard Gant had occupied a month earlier when Dr. Klapper replaced his hip. He and his wife Jasmine sent beautiful fragrant flowers.<br />
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Brent visited. I was supposed to be in the hospital 1-2 nights. Turns out it was 2. Earl went home every night. He had done that staying overnight thing in 2007 when I had breast cancer surgery. No one offered him a cot back then and this time he was all cramped up from his injuries from the fall. He didn't take the cot they offered as he remembered what it was like in 2007.<br />
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Juanita visited the next day, after a lot of confusion about where I was. She, like the others, insisted I not get too constipated. Another friend said that her constipation was worse than the major surgery she'd had. I was still feeling OK. I hadn't eaten much. The food was too terrible to eat. I ate less each day. My mouth was too dry to taste anything. I had never suffered from constipation in the past. Diarrhea, yes, constipation, no. Maybe that's TMI.<br />
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Anyway, I finally caved and purchased some stool softener and laxative and prunes. I got the works. This was after being home a couple days and seeing a doctor for dizziness and nausea. He said I should cut back on the Norco 10. The nurses had suggested cutting back when I was in the hospital. The pain wouldn't let me. In time the nausea and dizziness were too much so I relented and I cut back. The doc said to take some ibuprofen along with the Norco.<br />
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The day I saw the doc, I came home and launched a 3 prong attack on my long lost bowel movement. It had been a week. I took Senekot laxative, Myralax stool softener and ate a whole lot of prunes. The doc said I should have a movement by Sunday. It was Thursday. Happy to announce my bowels moved the same day. Now I had to remember to keep taking all of the above as long as I was taking the Norco. Who knew, I was to have this much discussion of my bowel movements?<br />
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In cutting back on the Norco I had a bad pain experience that night. Didn't make me cry. Did make me moan and reach for the iburprofen. I worried that I would run out with only 3 tabs left. The pain episode passed and I was OK for the moment.<br />
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Lance visited the next day and brought flowers. He did a few thing I didn't want to want to bother Earl with as he was exhausted handling the basics of cooking, washing dishes and making the beds all with a bum arm from his fall. Lance went to the store and got me some more ibuprofen. I could relax then, knowing I had my stash.<br />
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Every other day or so a physical therapist came by. A nurse came by regularly to take my vitals. I didn't need the nurse so much as I needed Ash the PT. I needed to get my knee stretched out so it would heal correctly. I had been doing so well with the PT that I overdid it on my own the next day.<br />
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It was time for my 3 week post-op doctor's visit. Overdoing it had set me back and I was in a lot of pain. Kathy drove me to the appointment that day because Earl had to work. My appointment was at 8am in Beverly Hills. I live in the Valley, an hour's drive during rush hour. Kathy picked me up at 6:30am. We got there early and there was nowhere to sit outside the locked office doors. There were benches in the downstairs lobby where we'd waited earlier, but we were hoping the doors would open a few minutes early. It was tough trying to stand in pain. I was using the cane then, but I probably should have used the walker that day. Kathy grabbed my sweater and purse to make it as easy as possible for me. At last the doors opened. That was a tough day, but I got a good report nonetheless. I don't have to see the doctor again for a year. Kathy made the day better by taking me to breakfast afterward. My friends are the best.<br />
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There were some rough days when it was super hot and Earl was tired, I was impatient and unwashed. I didn't want to risk an infection by getting my bandages wet. I could have put a garbage bag and duct tape over my leg to shower, but I didn't want to take a chance. I just washed up at the sink. I was on a walker and using a commode. I hated that commode at first then hardly wanted to give it up when it was time. I kinda liked having armrests on the toilet.<br />
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One thing I remembered well from the pre-op class is that when friends and family ask what they could bring, ask them to bring prepared food. Carolyn and Brittany visited and brought the veggie salads I had been craving. The Farquhars visited bringing flowers and more delicious food. I was hoping I wasn't too funky for a hug. They graciously hugged me anyway.<br />
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I lost a couple pounds. The pain subsided and I could feel the extra weight of the titanium where my meniscus used to be. I took a couple steps without the walker and Ash began talking about a cane. Soon it would be time to start water therapy. I had planned to go back to the Motion Picture Hospital where I'd gone for pre surgery therapy. I thought I would need a driver but I realized one of the exercises Ash had me doing was preparing me for driving a car. Yessssssss.<br />
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Barbara came by and washed my hair for me and rebraided it. I was so grateful. It had gotten pretty smelly. I love my friends. I can't tell you. So many people were supportive. Barbara came back by some weeks later and followed up on her promise to treat me to a mani-pedi. I didn't think I wanted one as I usually do my own nails, but it was so great to get out of the house and hang with my girl. Talking and catching up with each other .<br />
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By week seven I was walking without a cane. The knee was stiff but not too painful. I tried to cut back on my pain med dosage but it was too soon. I was taking something every 9 hours or so. I've learned to practice patience with this as Dr. Klapper said it would take a whole year to be completely healed.<br />
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I was so looking forward to driving. Earl was doing everything including driving me everywhere and cleaning up my bathroom accidents in addition to his regular stuff. Plus his arm was still healing. He said that if I could walk, then I could drive. I decided to take his word for it.<br />
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At the beginning of September I drove our car! I was sooooo excited. OK, I only drove it from the driveway to the street. But then I knew I could do it. I didn't think about my knee at all. Only driving. And it didn't hurt. Now I would be able to drive myself to physical therapy. Three times a week was a lot to ask of poor Earl. I dismantled the commode, too. As much as I liked the comfort of an armchair toilet, I was sick of looking at it. Tired of being an invalid. I thought of putting the area rugs back down, too. They had to be removed while I was on the walker and cane. I was still kind of dragging my right foot and the last thing I wanted to do was to trip and fall.<br />
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Good thing my recovery was moving along well, because in October the hubby got a job that took him out of state for a month. By then I was pretty darned independent. I was on Earl-cation. No making the beds and washing dishes. I stayed up as late as I wanted. Watched what I wanted on TV. Did laundry when I felt like it. And ate my favorite foods from restaurants he's not interested in. Yum. Oh, and listened to all of the music I want, really loud!<br />
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Earl left me a honey-do list. Can you believe that? Not easy stuff either. One item was taking one of the cars to the dealership for work that would take a week. Not too bad. I dropped off the car and they brought me home. They would come get me the next week so I could retrieve the car.<br />
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Item number two was replacing the front door. This was more than a notion, as my Grandmother used to say. I have an inch of paper work to show for it. We had been talking about getting a new front door for at least 5 years. He picks now to actually do it. So before he left town we went to Home Depot and made our selection. Home Depot doesn't tell you until it's too late to refuse, that you'll need a permit and an inspection. The installer didn't tell me until he was done that I would need to paint the wood door frame within 2 weeks to avoid water damage. That meant right away because it was supposed to rain in a couple days.<br />
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After inventorying our painting supplies and 3 trips to Home Depot, limping along on my new knee, the door installation was complete. It was not a pretty sight, limping up and down a step stool trying to prep and paint the door frame without getting paint on the rubber seal. The neighbors walking their dogs looked on curiously. None offered to help.<br />
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Physical therapy was going well. I may have lost a couple pounds without feeling like I worked very hard. It was an hour and 20 minutes of non-stop activity in the nice warm pool. The first few times I was exhausted afterwards. Soon my stamina built up enough to do more after therapy.<br />
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By the end of October I was able to get back on my bike. It had been over 3 months and it felt really good to have the wind blowing in my face as I coasted along. The 18 sessions of pool therapy were a huge help. It almost made me want to take swimming lessons. Almost. Each day my muscles and ligaments felt more connected to my bones.<br />
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A friend who'd had her knee replaced a month after me said she watched a knee replacement surgery video on You Tube. I thought that was a good idea for me, too. I like watching that kind of stuff, anyway. It turned out to be surprisingly helpful. I understood why my knee and leg felt the way they did. The muscles had been cut away from the bone and now they were reattaching. I could feel it happening. A healing pain. Sometimes I can't even call it a pain. The medical people say that the swelling is part of the healing. I think the swelling kind of holds things together until they are reattached.<br />
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It's now 6 months of recovery and I can do just about everything I used to do. I learned the hard way not to skip the daily stretching exercises. The pain and stiffness comes back like gangbusters. I'm picking up speed on my bike. I don't know if I'll ever ride the distances of the past, but I'm just happy to ride again. Dr. Klapper said that the best thing I could do for my left knee was to get my right knee fixed. That's pretty true. Now my poor left knee has to try to keep up with the new titanium knee.<br />
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During the first 3 weeks of recovery, I thought I would never let anyone cut on me again, I was in so much pain. I thought, forget about the left knee, that's just it! I'm going to go ahead and get my left knee done, too. I'll wait until the right knee has had plenty time to heal and go ahead and get 'er done. I know what to expect and I'm going to go for it.<br />
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<br />Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-90591631780837672962015-04-30T19:04:00.004-07:002015-04-30T19:04:57.547-07:00MY INVISIBILITY CLOAK<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">In magazine interviews, sometimes the subject is asked what superpower would they like to have. Many times they say they would like to be invisible.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I didn't ask for it, but invisibility is my superpower as an older black woman in America. Now that I've discovered I have it, I like to put it to use as often as possible. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I'm in a department store, I can be assured of an uninterrupted shopping experience. Unless I'm in a really high end store, no one cares if I need assistance. I use my powers then to eavesdrop on conversations. I try not to laugh when they say something funny, but if I do, no one notices.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I went to an open house a few weeks ago, the relator and his associates talked among themselves as if I wasn't there. I got some good information on the house that way. I waved a cheery goodbye on my way out to remind them that I had been there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the grocery store, I'm amazed at what I can do right in front of people who have decided not to see me. I get a kick out of it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Even in front of our house, I can stand on our stoop and our newer neighbors will walk right by with their dogs and babies and not see me. Sometimes I stand at the end of our driveway, right at the sidewalk to test my powers. They are strong, my powers. Even that close those who have chosen to, do not see me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In these days of racial hyper-awareness, maybe it's just that they are afraid. Afraid of any black face. That's what the hubby says. I don't know. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe they've had a negative encounter with an angry Black woman. I won't try to guess. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I can see why they would be afraid, the media makes all of us look like thugs, hooligans, violent monsters. It's too bad that they are afraid. They are missing out on a richness that could be part of their life. </span><span style="font-size: large;">If only they could step outside of the fear and step into their real world. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-42579271563881320752015-03-16T13:33:00.000-07:002015-03-16T13:33:08.307-07:00Get that Check to the Bank!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy7ih_0rChtBXvb-GUfKNCYYv_6B3ICzXEAHM-Mu2dGEJ_IX12KNVJz_TnrpAafn4Nv-oWknsvbXV5JruzRXHqiAnBtnsfng5fhBjEIJ8R0fzaHg8OUDR3zLhC2e8juiy3-zG5qS3nrVbj/s1600/images-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy7ih_0rChtBXvb-GUfKNCYYv_6B3ICzXEAHM-Mu2dGEJ_IX12KNVJz_TnrpAafn4Nv-oWknsvbXV5JruzRXHqiAnBtnsfng5fhBjEIJ8R0fzaHg8OUDR3zLhC2e8juiy3-zG5qS3nrVbj/s1600/images-1.jpg" /></a></div>
The hubby and I were chatting today about someone we know who lost their paycheck. How does that happen? I never in all my working career lost a paycheck. The paycheck actually never made it home. I went to the bank with it as soon as possible. Trying to be sure I covered post dated checks and checks I'd written to the grocery store the day before, knowing I would get paid.<br />
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Our bosses didn't expect to see us the afternoon of payday. We'd all be easing in and out of the office going to the bank.<br />
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Back in the day I worked at what used to be Pacific Bell on Wilshire Blvd. downtown. At the time there was a bank on the ground floor of the building. On pay day we would sneak downstairs on our break time, to cash our paychecks.<br />
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One Thursday there were 3 or 4 of us in line to cash our checks, when the bank got robbed. Yep, the bank got robbed. The bank robber held up the cashiers and we tried to make ourselves small. Backing our way to the door that lead back upstairs.<br />
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Our concern was not with the bank robber, but with our supervisors if we were delayed by giving reports to the police. We didn't have to talk to the police, we <i>did</i> have a little trouble when we went back to the office. Of course a new policy was made and there was no more sneaking to the bank to cash checks.<br />
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I guess these days everything is done electronically. That would save a lot of sneaking off time.<br />
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<br />Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-83599567337257692032015-03-16T13:13:00.000-07:002015-03-16T13:13:04.677-07:00Old Neighbor Friend<span style="font-size: large;">Back in the 1980s I lived in an apartment in Los Angeles' Korea Town. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I was in a relationship that was on the skids. I cried a lot. One day I was crying in the shower. Hoping that the water would camouflage my sobs. It didn't. Soon after I got out of the shower there was a knock on my door. It was my next door neighbor. She introduced herself as Cynthia. She asked if I was alright. I was not, but I didn't want to admit it to a stranger.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I resisted her for a while. I thought she would go all Willona from Good Times, on me. You know, just coming in without knocking. Just showing up. She visited a lot. I think now that she needed someone to talk to. Even though she was married to Jess. She was a short round light skinned woman with short straightened hair and too much foundation. </span><span style="font-size: large;">She was smart, funny and caring. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Jess was a really tall, dark skinned hulking illiterate </span><span style="font-size: large;">gentle</span><span style="font-size: large;"> giant. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I would ask her how he managed in the world being unable to read. If he had a job interview, she would fill in the application for him and they would drive together to the address the day before so he would know the way. He drove. He navigated L.A.'s freeway system, which is no joke. I believe he had a driver's license. He could count money and he gambled. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I think his gambling was a problem. The reason he was always looking for a job. He would spend hours just stroking her arms and legs because he liked the color of her skin. They really loved each other.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">She helped me get through a tough time in my life. With a lot of laughs and companionship. Like the time when we were smoking dope, munching out and playing Scrabble. She laid down the letters I,R,O,N. I challenged her, "Eye-ron, Eye-ron! That's not a word!" Way too much smoking at that point! We dissolved into hysterics.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I helped her and a lot of our neighbors connect their TV to the cable outlet in our apartments. I'd learned wiring skills at the good old phone company. Now Cynthia could better watch her beloved House On The Prairie.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As always when an old friend floats through my mind, I wonder where they are now and how they're doing. I hope she's doing well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-81849103664821132012014-08-08T17:53:00.002-07:002014-08-08T17:53:30.442-07:00Phone Company Daze<div style="text-align: left;">
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My eight years working on the Frame as a Facilities Technician at now defunct Pacific Bell floated through my mind this morning. Between the years of 1982 - 1990, I worked at several different locations and at each one all kinds of things happened and I met all kinds of people.<br />
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The first Frame was Rampart. Yep, in the area of the infamous Los Angeles Rampart Police Department. Luckily I had no run ins with them. While I worked there my father was killed and I mourned him with many trips to the bathroom to cry. One co-worker Raoul walked around for months holding his stomach, then was diagnosed with stomach cancer and soon died. We all went to his funeral. That was my first notion of how deadly cancer could be. I met many people as different workers would come and go. Like James, who became my boyfriend and later a serious drug addict. Mike B., who had a foot fetish. He would linger at the lockers where we changed shoes and beg to look at and touch our feet. Feet that have been in sweaty sports shoes for more than eight hours. Um hm.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4U2JI2LRqsmp_hU70XXhBPTLyIRJag1LeDe5mviOWdMilxx6s6n2Z79GWlVzITSQ4kJT_LlrATG_9zIUPQyZ_gq_2Pe_twDCSXkr9CuTa21Whqic8WaoyjLgx2xXDOr3Qjb9UmosiYll/s1600/Phone+Co+frame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4U2JI2LRqsmp_hU70XXhBPTLyIRJag1LeDe5mviOWdMilxx6s6n2Z79GWlVzITSQ4kJT_LlrATG_9zIUPQyZ_gq_2Pe_twDCSXkr9CuTa21Whqic8WaoyjLgx2xXDOr3Qjb9UmosiYll/s1600/Phone+Co+frame.jpg" height="320" width="218" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Frame. That's not me<br />of course, but that's<br />what it looked like.</td></tr>
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We climbed 15 foot rolling ladders and if Mike passed by when you were at the top of one, he couldn't resist grabbing and squeezing your toes. Mike got married during my years at Rampart. We all went to the wedding. I remember a few of us sneaking out of the reception to roll and smoke a joint.<br />
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I smoked a lot of weed there. I refined my fine skills of speed joint rolling there. I remember taking a walk with a couple of the guys to smoke one. A random guy was walking toward us and I smiled at him. He swooned and kept going. That's what I wanted. Him to keep going, so that our weed smoking would go undisturbed. One of my fellow smokers asked what I had done. I remember saying I only gave the guy a partial smile, not the full mega-watt smile that could have devastated him. LOL! High and full of myself!<br />
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It's a wonder the Rampart area's phones worked at all. We ran in the Central Office inside wiring that made residential and commercial phones work. We added lines we disconnected lines. Commercial line work orders were complicated so we usually had a team of two running in the wires. Many times both of us would be high. I often thought that my safety glasses would keep my supervisor from seeing my tight, red eyes. Pot-head logic.<br />
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We had a lot of fun doing disconnects. Before lifting the wire we had to test it to be sure we were disconnecting the right phone number. Many times the customer would be in the middle of a call. If it was a juicy conversation we would listen in. Many times I interrupted phone sex. We would share those with our co-workers. Sometimes the caller would get angry about the coming disconnect and curse us out. Those were super fun to disconnect. I'd snip that wire right in the middle of their tirade. Snicker.<br />
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While there I had to file a worker's comp case after slipping on a banana peel on the parking lot. Boy did they resist that. I finally got a few days off to rest my twisted ankle. The phone company tried to tell me that I should have seen the peel and avoided it. I told them that it was rotten and as black as the asphalt parking lot. Give me some time off please!<br />
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I had a good friend Margie, who I hung out with a lot. I wonder where she is these days? Our kids played together. I went to her house a lot. There was always something going on there. Margie and I and a couple others used to sneak away to a tiny food shack nearby. We'd wear our tool belts so we looked like we were just going on break. We weren't supposed to leave the building. On our actual lunch hour we'd go over to a little bodega type store and play Pac Man until we ran out of quarters.<br />
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One Saturday when Margie and I were supposed to be working some overtime, we were in the restroom applying blush to our non existent cheekbones, when we noticed that someone had made line drawings of us on one of the stall doors. The Balloon Sisters they called us. One figure had my name under it and the other had Margie's. We'd gained a lot of weight hanging out at the food shack. My feelings were really hurt that a grown person would do such a thing.<br />
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Once I had a seriously bad case of diarrhea. I had to go home. It was terrible. On my way home I stopped for medicine. That's when I discovered the wonders of Imodium. It worked instantly. Didn't go back to work though. It was rare that I left early or didn't report to work. I guess that's why I remember this. Pac Bell had a strict attendance policy. I was not trying to get fired.<br />
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I met a guy whose name I can't remember but he had a million funny sayings. One was, "If she's old enough to pee, she's old enough for me." and "As long as I have a face, she's got a place to sit." I guess today that would be called sexual harassment. Sigh.<br />
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Then I transferred to Melrose Frame. In the heart of West Hollywood at what would soon be the height of the AIDS epidemic. Watched up close and personal as one of our co-workers went from a buff healthy man to a withered, emaciated, addled old man. It was hard to watch. Eventually he was so incapacitated our boss had to force him to go home. All the way to the end of his life, he would call the job and ask to speak to each of us saying the craziest and many times brutally truthful things.<br />
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I met my "identical twin" sister Suzanne there. When she first arrived on the Frame I decided that I hated her and as I got to know her I realized that we had so much in common I grew to love her. She is the one who got me hooked on cross stitching. She had to stitch a bunch of Christmas ornaments and her deadline was coming up soon. She gave about five of us a quick tutorial and we were off and running, stitching tiny patches of cloth. Each one took about an hour to finish. We, of course, turned it into a competition.<br />
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We were supposed to be answering the phone on the frame. "Shoes and shorts" is what that job was called. The guys who worked outside on the poles would call in to ask us to test lines for them. We would answer the phone and put them all on hold. "Melrose Frame, you're number 2. Please hold." "Melrose Frame, you're number 3. Please hold." And on it went up to number 5. Meanwhile we were cross stitching our little hearts out. We got them all done for Suzanne. Suzanne and I were pretty close for a while. I even told my mother that I had an Identical Twin Sister. Never mind that she was blond and blue-eyed and I was not.<br />
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I had my bunion surgery while there and so I was on desk duty for a long time. Dispatching the work orders and such. My then play-son Patrick taught me how to do Synchronized Chair Dancing. With a paper clip on my nose and lovely leg and arm poses, we sailed back and forth in our rolling office chairs, in front of the supervisor's glass fronted office. Patrick later loaned me $1500.00 when I was in dire need. Problems with another drug addict. (That's another story.) Proud to say I paid him back forthwith.<br />
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There was more frustration on the Desk than there was in running in the orders. I was so pissed one day that I kicked the fax machine. I kicked it so hard that it flipped through the air and landed upside down on the concrete floor. We all stood there with our mouths hanging open. Then everyone jumped into action picking up the machine, getting rid of the evidence of the broken plastic tray that was on top of the machine and calling the repairman, innocently requesting a service visit.<br />
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It wasn't all lovely times. There was one guy who was especially perverse, a bunch of us would take lunch hour rides with him up into the Hollywood Hills on dirt roads near the Hollywood sign. He'd drive at top speed and screech up to the cliff. Scaring the bejesus out of everyone. He thought he was being really funny one time after we had done the Red Cross blood drive. He came and whispered to me that my blood work showed I had AIDS. My heart fell into my stomach and then he slaps me on the shoulder and says he was just kidding. The mother fucker. That shit wasn't funny.<br />
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We got paid every other Thursday. Big 5 the sport store, always had a sale on Thursdays. We women would shop the newspaper ads (remember newspapers?) for new and colorful sport shoes to wear on the Frame. We needed rubber soles and of course we wanted the cutest ones we could find. The designated shopper would go to Big 5 on our break and make our purchases. That was kind of fun. There is no shoe shopping opportunity that I will pass up.<br />
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One co-worker amazed me with her wedding plans. She had everything planned down to the most minute detail. The colors of the bridesmaids dresses, the church, the food and drink, the flowers, you name it, she had it worked out. Everything except the groom, she had not met him yet. I thought she was a little obsessive, but what do I know? All these years later, I hear that she is happily married, so it must have worked out for her.<br />
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Most of the men on the Frame were gay, West Hollywood, right, and all of the women were straight. From time to time workers from outside would visit to check on an order or something and there would be an announcement. "Fresh meat on the Frame. Fresh meat on the Frame." We'd all casually find a reason to be in the area of the back door where visitors usually arrived, to find out what team he was on. A Team, straight, B Team, gay. It was a dull and boring job, we had to do something to amuse ourselves.<br />
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We amused ourselves quite a bit in the break room. Especially on Mondays. On Mondays, the gay guys, Danny P. in particular, would regale us with tales of his weekend adventures in the gay bars. He'd also give us girls lessons in certain sexual situations. One story he told sticks with me to this day. He met an extra kinky guy who took him home and down to his dungeon. Yep, dungeon. Had our boy chained up for nearly 48 hours. He didn't think he was going to make it out of there alive!<br />
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Melrose Frame was and still is located 2 or 3 blocks away from the famous Pink's Hot Dog stand. I ate a lot of hot dogs in those days. In addition to regular lunches from the "roach coach" that stopped in front of our building every day. And that is where I met a guy that I smoked PCP with on my lunch hour. It might have been these purple jeans I was wearing. He told me I looked like a grape. Yep, it's still a wonder that any work got done. It's still a wonder that I got out of those days and activities alive. Thank You God.<br />
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I met good friend Denise L. there too. She has her own story on another blog.<br />
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One afternoon, Mae M. came into the break room and invited a few of us to come out to the parking lot. She had something in her car's trunk she wanted to show us. When she opened her trunk she had about 10 or 15 afghans that she had crotcheted and we could take our pick of one. I still have my afghan.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My afghan. Thank Mae M.</td></tr>
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I heard a guy in the break room say that his father told him he should like the woman who liked him. That's how you found true love he said. Apparently he found that woman. One of our co workers ended up marrying that guy. Again, you never know.<br />
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There is an apartment building abutting the parking lot. For a few weeks we had a flasher living there. He liked to watch us and we watched him. Good thing this was long before social media. He would have been all over the Internet with his nasty ass.<br />
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Another day on the Frame we noticed that there were two metal drums that we hadn't seen before. They were leaking. Not a good sign. We were trying not to die from some unknown toxin so we called 911 and out came the Haz Mat team. Turns out there was no danger, but it made for some excitement for the day.<br />
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Some weekends we got in a little overtime at the Sunset Frame. On Sunset Blvd. Sounds glamorous, but it wasn't. There I met a guy who was a stripper in his off hours. Overtime on a Saturday was <i>really</i> boring. Basically just manning the office in case of trouble. There was rarely any trouble. So the stripper guy and I became kinda close. He gave me my own private show. Yes.<br />
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We were a fun crew. Making the best out of a dull and boring but reasonably well paid job. All of us had degrees that had absolutely nothing to do with the job, we were there for the paycheck. We hung out together fairly regularly, going to lunch and dinners together. Parties at each other's homes. Yard sales, buying each other's furniture. My apartment at that time was mostly furnished with things I was given or bought from my friends and co workers. This was a chapter of my life that I look back on maybe not all that fondly but with interest for sure.<br />
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<br />Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-52470187481576360942014-05-29T16:34:00.001-07:002014-05-29T16:34:49.925-07:00Silver Linings.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I was in high school, my Grandfather got me a job at a dime store on the South Side of St. Louis. In those days not many black folks lived or worked on that side of town.<br />
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I really didn't want the job. It interfered with my high school social life. On Saturdays, instead of going to the football games, I had to be at work. I resented that. I also resented the all white staff, especially the head woman who insisted on calling me Denny. I wouldn't respond until she called me by my right name.<br />
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It was a really old fashioned 5 and Dime. Bare wooden floors. Fabric by the yard. Thankfully no soda fountain. I would have gained a ton of weight had that been so.<br />
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My hands would be stained with purple and black ink after hours of rolling and banding the store's sales flyers. That kept me busy between customers at the check out. The boss lady did not like to see me idle. If there had been cell phones back then I would have been on mine, taking selfies of my bored self. Bitching about how much I hated my job.<br />
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My pay checks were very small as I only worked the weekends. The only thing I liked about this job was that in the basement there were discarded paper back books. The covers were ripped off and they would be sent back to the distributor. They were free to us employees if we wanted them. I wanted them. I would bring home 4 or 5 books every weekend. Some of them I still have today. There is always a silver lining.Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-70061109807038539302014-01-30T18:16:00.001-08:002014-01-30T18:16:57.511-08:00More on Good Friends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Back in August I was meditating on my daily reader, Iyanla Vanzant's Acts of Faith. That day one line of the reading said, "The ancient Africans taught that if a person is good to you, you must forever speak good of them." This passage reminded me of how good my friends Denise Lilly and Deborah Brown Jackson were to me in my time of need.<br />
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During the late 80s I was living with a guy, who shall remain nameless. He had a drug problem and one day had an unexpected bout of violence. I was in the bathtub at the time and it really came as a surprise to me. I was finally able to get to my bathrobe and get out of the apartment. I knocked on my downstairs neighbor's door and she turned me away. I made my way to my next door neighbor's and she let me in and I called the police.<br />
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Charges were filed and after leaving the emergency room I spent the night in what to me, felt like a type of prison cell, for my safety. It was a dingy, dusty tiny room in a scuzzy downtown hotel. I was afraid as I entered, especially since I was walking on a cane with a broken toe. I thought I would be mugged at any moment. There was the obligatory single naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. We won't talk about the sheets and blanket. Needless to say I didn't sleep much that night. I felt as if I was the one being punished.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Denise Lilly</td></tr>
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The next day I still needed somewhere to stay until the guy got out of the apartment. That's when my friend Denise Lilly stepped in and offered her place. I don't remember today how long I stayed with her. I just know that I was glad to be somewhere safe, with someone who didn't judge me, but simply and graciously and without hesitation opened her home. I will be forever grateful.<br />
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Later during the mid 90s I was living in St. Louis. Another nameless motherfucker caused me to need to find a safe place in a hurry. This time the abuse was emotional. Seemingly more insidious. No details are necessary. I had been asked to leave after much much drama from a professional abuser. That night Deborah was there for me. I stayed with her for three nights before moving to a place of my own. Those nights at Deborah's were so comforting for me. I felt safe and as if I was swaddled in fluffy warm and fragrant cotton. I was able to begin healing from the abuse, I had time to remember who I was. To think about how I wanted to be treated. To start making plans for my future. To lick my wounds.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp60tkBBA5OGym1XbRO4Zib06GXhuAfmfJs9rCrqWzNn_fkZRdbO2WOmOczX-TaS18Rdvmy9E5q4FRSEBv0hwDgAyHjg8Dt2caen9T6y07abLyVIEpqxqWSyPNVbopBhuNXhdklpnU1SZx/s1600/DSCN1909_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp60tkBBA5OGym1XbRO4Zib06GXhuAfmfJs9rCrqWzNn_fkZRdbO2WOmOczX-TaS18Rdvmy9E5q4FRSEBv0hwDgAyHjg8Dt2caen9T6y07abLyVIEpqxqWSyPNVbopBhuNXhdklpnU1SZx/s1600/DSCN1909_2.jpg" height="291" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deborah Brown Jackson</td></tr>
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Both women were long time friends before I needed them in such a practical way. Both remain friends. I intend to be their friend until the end. They are both in other states now but that doesn't diminish our closeness. I will forever speak good of them.<br />
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"We must remember with a kind word the road someone else has paved for us, no matter where or how they travel now." - Iyanla Vanzant<br />
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Just for the record the woman who attracted those abusive men is gone. I've grown and healed. Discovered myself and continue to love myself. In doing so I was able to attract a whole and healthy man. No more abuse, he's a real person, who sees and loves the real me.<br />
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<br />Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-84625189586730848442014-01-17T17:40:00.001-08:002014-01-17T17:41:09.882-08:00Further Adventures on the Bike Path<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_BvU70lgflZAFLM1-4K9R-7E75X8OqejMeUK1x08Y7skgnXPftdY0gIxXPPEIGl7vPPdM-joiBtCUiZu1nm1c01sfTrDY7XazXY4VHjIo0O1iK26UjEd0KSSCAIz5G7uHCQNln21e3pG/s1600/IMG_0075_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_BvU70lgflZAFLM1-4K9R-7E75X8OqejMeUK1x08Y7skgnXPftdY0gIxXPPEIGl7vPPdM-joiBtCUiZu1nm1c01sfTrDY7XazXY4VHjIo0O1iK26UjEd0KSSCAIz5G7uHCQNln21e3pG/s1600/IMG_0075_2.jpg" height="261" width="320" /></a></div>
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Back in December I was riding my bike past the Orange Line Bus stop. I rode past a guy who was deeply engaged in a conversation with another guy. As I rolled by the first guy didn't skip a beat in his conversation to say to me, "Hey, hiya doing?" and then in the same breath turn back to his conversation. All I could think was, wow, he didn't even skip a beat, and second, I'm still hot! LOL!Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-27941200056613488392013-11-02T17:52:00.000-07:002019-07-07T19:30:48.425-07:00Dana Butler<div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging in my office.</td></tr>
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When I lived in St. Louis, I worked for a while at Dance St. Louis. DSL still brings world class dance companies to perform for local audiences who might not otherwise have a chance to see such profession and diverse styles of dance. I met some really good people there, Dana Butler and Sylvia Elliott in particular. Both, sadly, are dearly departed. I was surprised by my friendship with Dana. He disliked most people, but he liked me. He would hang out in my tiny office to bitch and complain about the people in his life. I listened because it was entertaining. Much more interesting than the work we were supposed to be doing.</div>
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We were supposed to be fundraising for the company. That is hiring, training and firing folks who cold called dance patrons to beg for money. Applying for non profit grants. Typing, duplicating, folding and stuffing envelopes and stamping or "franking" as Sylvia called it, the envelopes. Finally, carting off heavy bags full of said envelopes to be mailed. </div>
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I'm not exactly sure of Dana's job description, but I know he was a God-send for me. There was so much to be done and when I got behind Dana always offered to help me. He stayed late and he wouldn't stop until the job was done.</div>
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Dana and I would spend as much time as we could in Sylvia's crowded office. Sylvia described herself as "unafraid, unthreatened and unstoppable". A former Ebony Fashion Fair model and flight attendant who had traveled the world she had stories to tell. To Dana and me, she was irresistible. I don't know what she was supposed to be doing either, but we knew she could spin a good yarn and that helped when the days got tedious. She began every tale with...<br />
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"So, anyway..."</div>
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The days weren't always dull. Things got exciting when the dance companies we presented were in town. I still marvel today at the physical talent of those athletic dancers. Not to mention the amount of food they could eat. We held receptions for them after the shows so they could mingle with the donors. They would swarm through the room like locusts and the food disappeared within minutes. After all of that eating they were still impossibly thin. They worked hard, practicing for hours day and night. Oh, and the shows were jaw dropping.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In his healthier days.</td></tr>
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One of the perks of the job was seeing all of the performances. I got to see Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre, American Ballet Theatre, American Ballroom Theatre (their repetitiveness put me to sleep after a while), Bolshoi Ballet, Garth Fagan Dance, Martha Graham Dance Co., Hubbard Street Dance Chicago, Joffrey Ballet, Bill T. Jones (I was intimidated by his intensity and sleekness when I met him at the reception), National Ballet of Senegal, New York City Ballet, The Nutcracker that every year showcased local kids, Parsons Dance Company, Pilobolus Dance Theater, and Tharp and Baryshnikov and many more. The highlight for me was seeing Mikhail Baryshnikov. OMG, even though he was in his later years, he was astounding.</div>
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At the performances we got to dress up and this is when Dana shined. He had a splendid wardrobe. His red leather suit was my favorite. Not everyone can wear a red leather suit, but Dana rocked it with a Prince vibe.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reheating Dana's home cooked meal.<br />
Giving the illusion that I cooked it.</td></tr>
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Once, I was trying to impress some Unworthy Guy with a home cooked meal. I'm not a cook. I don't like to cook. I told Dana what I wanted to do and he cooked a fabulous meal and brought it over, showed me how to reheat it and how to make it look like I cooked it, and then he left. What a guy! The Unworthy Guy was impressed. I never told him that I didn't cook the meal. He was unworthy.</div>
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When my Uncle Wilbert died suddenly from a heart attack, I'd heard the news unceremoniously from a cousin on my answering machine. I went to work, but I wasn't much good there. Uncle Wilbert was a father figure to me and I was shattered by his passing. Sylvia and Dana could see that I was not doing well and they offered to help me get home. Sylvia drove me home in her car and Dana drove my car home for me. Dana stayed and sat with me for another hour or so, as I sobbed, just to make sure I was OK, then he took a cab back to the office. I so appreciate their loving care.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Alabama checking on Sylvia.</td></tr>
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When Sylvia decided to move from St. Louis to Alabama, Dana and I were distressed and devastated. How could she leave us? Sylvia had made up her mind. I guess she figured her job as our mother was done. We did not want her to go. We plotted to find out just where she was going so we could make sure this new place met with our approval. </div>
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Dana and I packed our things and hit the road for a car trip to Alabama. Even though Sylvia flew, we got there one day after she arrived. She couldn't believe it when we showed up at her door!<br />
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"What in the world? What are you two doing here?"<br />
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"We came to check on you. We want to make sure you're OK."<br />
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The ride was a beautiful bonding time for Dana and me, although bittersweet. He had AIDS by then and we both knew his time was short. </div>
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I worried that he wouldn't live to complete the trip. He got weaker and weaker with each passing day. We shared a joint to help increase his appetite. Nothing was really helping at this point. I worried momentarily if I would contract AIDs by smoking with him. Society knew more about AIDS but there were vestiges of ignorance still in 1995. I did most of the driving in his nice new car. I love to drive and this was right up my alley. Selfishly I campaigned for his car after he died by repeating how much I loved to drive.<br />
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I had never been to Alabama and the countryside was gorgeous. I had read about the red clay in books and seeing it ribboned through the roadside soil in person was beyond compare.</div>
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We stayed with Sylvia a few days just to confirm she was in good hands. Her roommate and dear friend Cornelius Carter, checked out. He, too, was taken aback when we dropped in unannounced. They had not unpacked and boxes were everywhere. Cornelious a talented dancer, choreographer and former Harvard professor, now Director of Dance at University of Alabama, was more than up to the task of looking out for our Sylvia. Satisfied, we set out on our way back home. Dana got weaker with every mile so I drove the whole way back, hoping he would make it.<br />
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I loved visiting his home in St. Louis. It was small like him, elegant and thoughtfully decorated. Every nook and cranny was adorned with something to please the eye, including a baby grand piano. </div>
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I got to know his family, his mother, Phyliss, and aunt Bernadine. We exchanged Christmas cards until they got too old to do so. His mom had already lost one son to AIDS and it was excruciating for her to watch her second and last son go the same way. She was strong though. She was stoic. I learned much from her. She taught me how to look death in the face without flinching. To be there for a friend until the bitter end. </div>
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The day arrived when the dreaded phone call came. I was hanging out with another less than worthy guy when the phone rang. It was Phyliss at the hospital.<br />
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"Dana probably won't make it through the end of the day."<br />
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For some reason I consulted Unworthy Guy #2 about whether to go to the hospital to see my friend. UG#2 shrugged his shoulders and I got my coat. </div>
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Phyliss was there along with another of Dana's good friends. I wish I could remember her name, for we formed a deep bond that day. Dana was so slight, lying there in the hospital bed, you could barely tell there was a person there. His already tiny frame wasted away to nearly nothing. The nurses seemed to avoid his room. Dana was through talking. But I talked to him as his mom suggested. I reminisced about good times past and I let him know how much I loved and appreciated him. By this time we could hear the gurgling sound of his death rattle. Something else I'd read about but never experienced. You don't want to experience this. </div>
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Then the rattling began to fade. I sat beside him and I cradled the top of his head with my cupped hand. He took his last breath and I felt his head go from warm to cool. Was that his soul leaving his body? I don't know. I was glad to be there with his family. He was a good friend to me and I miss him.<br />
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Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-39845625848682759372013-10-24T17:57:00.001-07:002020-04-11T16:03:00.664-07:00FURTHER ADVENTURES ON THE BIKE PATH<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Of Course I Took Pix</td></tr>
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I usually have nice peaceful bike rides, meditating along the way, enjoying the wonders of nature. Today was a little different.<br />
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<span class="s1">On the bike path there are stretches at least a quarter mile long. In the middle of these long stretches people do all kinds of things that they don’t want the police to know about. Dumping furniture and trash, making out, drinking alcohol, passing out, smoking dope, and urinating. Lots of urinating.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Someone must have complained because now there are bicycle police patrolling the the bike path these days. Today on about mile 5 of my ride, two bike cops and a patrol car where on the the path arresting a man. The nice lady cop smiled at me as I rode by. I smiled back, showing how well I adhere to the law.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">On mile 7 as I approached a small street that crosses the bike path I could see up ahead a man off of his bike. I hoped he wasn’t blocking the path as many times happens. As I got closer I could see that he was on the phone but not blocking the path. OK, that’s good for me, I can get past him. </span></div>
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When I got up to him, I discovered why he had stopped and was on the phone. There was a half naked woman sitting in a big muddy puddle on the side of the path. He said that he had seen her walking and then fall. </div>
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<span class="s1">She was literally half naked. Nothing at all from the waist down as she sat like she was in a bath tub, in this nasty ass muddy water. Her dress used to be a crocheted type of thing, but it was ripped to shreds, the bottom was totally missing and she tried to cover her legs with what was left of the bottom part of the dress. On the top section she wore her bra on the outside of the dress.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I asked if she was OK, as I rode up. When I saw her I knew she was not OK. I asked her what was she on. She mumbled something incoherent. I asked, “Did you take something?” She smiled crazily and said, “Vicodinnnnnn”. </span>I asked, “ How much vicodin?” She gestured with her hand and counted off from her pinky finger with her thumb, “Onnnnne, twoooooo, threeeeeee, fourrrrrr, maybe fiiiiiiiiiiii....” I asked, “Who gave you the vicodin?” She stared off into space.</div>
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<span class="s1">We could hear the sirens coming and I was going to leave. She beckoned me to stay and talk to her some more. She thought I was awfully nice. I was concerned as I noticed her entire pussy was submersed in the mud. Yikes.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The guy who saw her first went out into the busy traffic across two of the four lanes to flag down the ambulance. I stayed with the woman, and waved from there. The paramedics came over, careful not to step in the mud on the other side of the path. They talked to her, asking what I’d asked. I answered for her. </span>They stayed on the path, encouraging her to come to them. She couldn't. They were not about to step into that nasty puddle. Finally she reached out her arm to them and they dragged her out of the puddle onto the path. <span class="s1">They asked her name. She mumbled her name. </span>They gave her a shot and she went, “WOOOOOWEEEEE!” As I rode away I heard the paramedics say, <span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"</span>She’s going to feel much better now.”<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I couldn’t help thinking more about her as I continued my ride. How did she get there? Who just dumped her into this public space with no shoes, no purse, nearly no clothes? Where were the bike police when she was dumped? Would they do a rape kit at the hospital? She probably had been raped, since her bottom was naked. I’ll never know the answers to any of these questions. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">When I relayed the story to the hubby he asked me why did I ask her these questions. First, I'm nosey and watch a lot of medical and police TV shows. Second, she was a woman out there alone and in major distress and totally vulnerable. It's a woman thing.</span></div>
Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-8030967189212752032013-09-30T22:36:00.001-07:002013-09-30T22:36:34.752-07:00DENISE'S BOOKS<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-P8P5SG1VTkzf9HpCnOUwvslJw-sb1DZ2fkUt4pr4oIdaRaWGp-QUw9DH17Ah-xTQySOM0hrpIASPvTBvYPIhav4te1ILkq6sRLvherJ_59QwFXidS9kTKQdblV-VD1sa6xOOqX4U4Ht8/s1600/Scan.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-P8P5SG1VTkzf9HpCnOUwvslJw-sb1DZ2fkUt4pr4oIdaRaWGp-QUw9DH17Ah-xTQySOM0hrpIASPvTBvYPIhav4te1ILkq6sRLvherJ_59QwFXidS9kTKQdblV-VD1sa6xOOqX4U4Ht8/s320/Scan.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ad for my bookstore 1995</td></tr>
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Last week I posted on Face Book pictures from the days when I ran a bookstore from my home. It was something I'd always wanted to do as a book lover. I had my chance when I was fired from a job at a swanky St. Louis prep school because of my dreadlocks. As the only black person working there at the time, my hair made the parents uncomfortable. But that's another story.<br />
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Unemployed, I signed up for Unemployment Benefits and moved on. I volunteered at The St. Louis Black Repertory Theater, too, another thing I thought I'd like to try. Very flexible hours.<br />
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A good friend gave me a really old computer. Way better than the no computer I had. I talked to the nice retired people at SCORE to work on a business plan. I looked at locations and found one I thought would be perfect. It had lots of foot traffic. Big plate glass windows. A real estate person walked me through the building and I dreamed and dreamed of a bookstore with a performance space and a coffee bar. I visualized poetry readings, book readings and signings and a jazz trio. It would be just great.<br />
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Then I found out how much it would cost. My business plan was bare bones, more work than I was willing to do. I decided that in the meantime I would operate out of my apartment. I used my spare bedroom as the bookstore. Word of mouth helped a lot. I lugged books to my friends' jobs. I got women hooked on black romance novels.<br />
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One of my most brilliant ideas was at the time of the Million Man March on Washington. I found out where the men were leaving on buses from St. Louis and I showed up with several duffle bags of books I thought these conscious men would enjoy. They bought every last book.<br />
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My friend Bootsie thought it would be a good idea for me to have a newsletter with book recommendations. I thought it was a good idea, too. She was a whiz at putting that together for me. I already had lots of book recommendations written up. We came up with a contest to name the newsletter. The contest drew lots of suggestions.<br />
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I attended book club meetings bringing the book of the month. Offering a discount for bulk orders. Making recommendations for their next month's choice.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">African American Products Convention in St. Louis<br />
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I started thinking about getting a truck as my Toyota Tercel was getting old and overburdened. I toted boxes and boxes of books to an African American convention and shared a booth with my pal Bootsie. My Mom came out to support our effort.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Booksellers Convention in Chicago</td></tr>
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I went to a booksellers convention in Chicago on the train from St. Louis. That was a lot of fun. Going out on my own, trying to make this thing work. I came home with bags and bags of samples and books about selling books and lots of new ideas.<br />
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I was really good at talking books, making recommendations, but the business side, well, not so much. I just didn't want to deal with those issues. Somewhere along the line more money was going out than was coming in. I was racking up debt at my supplier. I would go a little crazy at the book supply store, book lover that I am. I really could have used a financial person.<br />
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The day came when I knew I couldn't maintain the business. Volunteering turned into a job at the Black Rep where I met a nice man and I would soon leave town. I shut things down, had a fire sale of my inventory and my dream of running a bookstore became a bittersweet memory.<br />
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This was also around the time when bookstores were beginning to close across the country. Delivering books was a good idea, but opening a brick and mortar store was not. This was before Amazon and other online booksellers. I still get a little wistful when I see an independent bookstore but I know how difficult it is for them to remain in business. I tell you, that business thing is no joke.<br />
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<br />Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-33531309908354998882013-09-19T21:13:00.000-07:002013-09-19T21:13:38.681-07:00Guest Blogger the Late Versie Lee Henderson<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Versie Lee Henderson</td></tr>
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I was in my hometown of St. Louis, this weekend for my niece, Amber's wedding. It was lovely and I was so pleased to be able to witness the ceremony. Great to meet the new in-laws. Hanging with my sister-friends, Marsha, Deborah, Carol Ann and Bootsie. They are the best. Always showing up for family events. Know why? Because they are family. I love them madly.<br />
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Anyway, my cousin Will gave me a copy of a memoir my mother wrote on the occasion of her brother, Will's father's death in 1994. It's such a beautiful testimony and family history I thought I would be remiss if I didn't share it. This is what she wrote:<br />
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HOW I REMEMBER HIM - MY BROTHER, WILBERT LONG, SR.<br />
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When driving around certain areas in St. Louis, it strikes me that so many of my friends, ones that I would call occasionally and keep in touch with, are gone forever. There was Ezra, Andy, Ronnie, Joan, Mom, Dad, to name a few, but the one best friend that I will never forget is my brother, Wilbert Long, Sr. You see, we were raised together, and lived so close to each other for the better part of our lives.<br />
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When we lived in Wynne Arkansas, I have only a few memories, but all good ones of when our mother, Almamie Long, and our brother, James Jr., would sometimes leave early in the morning to go out and work in the cotton fields for the sharecroppers. So all Wilbert and I were left to do was to play all day. (It was very safe there.) I remember once we played on a stack of sugar canes...we had fun eating as we played. After it rained, James, Wilbert and I would go outside and watch the water drain down the street, and try to catch the craw-deads, as we called them - now called cray fish. <br />
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I was not in school then, but I remember at one other time after it had rained and stormed they said lightening had hit the school building and it was partially burned. James and Wilbert went into the building to play, and James cut his heel on a piece of glass...later that evening we all waited in the doctor's office and watched him remove the glass from James' foot. It seemed like it hurt me, too.<br />
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I have a few wandering memories between those times in Arkansas and when we moved to St. Louis in 1941. We lived in a large boarding house when we first arrived, where we shared a real large refrigerator in the kitchen with other boarders. We kids had fun rambling through everybody's goodies, until we got caught.<br />
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We all attended Waring Elementary School which is still located off of Laclede Ave. on Compton. Our Uncle, Tommie Lee Gray, who happened to be near James' age, and our cousin, Jacqueline Laverne, also went there --- later, Jimmie, Alice, Carol and Frances came along...they were a little younger. Those were fun days. At lunch my friends and I went around the corner for greasy hamburgers or chili. We would buy dill pickles and put peppermint candy down inside the pickle and eat it all together. At playtime I remember the whole play yard was full and they played kick-volley ball. Those were the good old days.<br />
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As we all grew near the eighth grade, I remember that the girls began to form crushes on Wilbert and James. They would be very good to me in hopes that they would get to meet them. They would buy me large delicious apples or give me cookies and candy, etc. We were all separated in school when James was the first to graduate. He went to Vashon High School, then located at 2900 Laclede Ave., now known as Harris-Stowe Teacher's College. Wilbert followed behind James the next year, and I the following year. In the early 1950s James and Wilbert were recruited by Coach Jodie Bailey to play basketball. They were both over 6 feet tall. After I arrived at Vashon I attended a few of the games, but my brothers would not let their "little sister" follow them around. I found out in later years that I was very protected from some of their friends by my "big brothers".<br />
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On Saturday nights, without fail, all of the cousins, aunts, granpa (Poppa), grandma (Momma), all went to the movie, the Laclede Theater. We were not allowed in the Fox then. These were safe times when we walked to the movie and back home together. We saw Tarzan, Lone Ranger, Roy Rogers, Captain Marvel, etc. Once or twice a month this same group would go on picnics in Forest Park, which was safe then, too. All teenagers had to be in by the 9:00 curfew (whistle).<br />
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Later we moved from the boarding house on Lawton to 3409 Walnut St. We then met our lifelong friends, Mr. Jesse and Mrs. Gertrude Carter, and their three children, Jimmie, Velma and Clifton.<br />
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My father, James Long, Sr., worked for the Century Electric Co., and later for Sculling Steel Co., when we first came to St. Louis, until those jobs played out. He finally came to work for Missouri Pacific Railroad in the yard until he retired in the late 70s.<br />
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James and Wilbert graduated from Vashon...and again we were all separated when they both went to Lincoln University in Jefferson City, MO. You guessed it, they played basketball again. It seems the years flew by...they both joined the R.O.T.C. --- James married Patricia Hardiman, Professor Hardiman's daughter, after graduation. Wilbert joined the Army --- James and Pat went to live in Kansas City...and later moved to Boston Massachusetts... I married Jesse Henderson while they were away. So it seemed that James had been gone since high school. Wilbert left the Army, met and married Ethel Shelton, a student nurse. A few years passed and we all lived in various locations until 1962, when we found that Wilbert and Ethel had bought a home at 4545 Fair Ave., and Jesse and I had bought a home at 4514 Harris, almost simultaneously. We lived back to back at opposite ends of the block, until Wilbert's death in 1994.<br />
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Anytime I needed a shoulder to lean on, some helpful advice, or just somebody to talk to, I could call on Wilbert, at home or at work. Wilbert's career, (25 years at the Juvenile Court), was a constant means for all of us to keep in touch. I think he would lunch with one of the kids at least once a week. Occasionally he and I would meet for lunch when we could. He always counseled family members as well as young criminals on how to become a better person in this society. I will always believe that the strain he endured in his capacity as Chief Juvenile Officer was extremely detrimental to his demise. He died within two months after he retired from the Court.<br />
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The fact that he could not discuss the cases with anyone outside of the office meant that he had to withhold speaking his thoughts to anyone about the carnage that crossed by him on a daily basis.<br />
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Wilbert was a happy-go-lucky individual by nature, and I just believe that as long as you have to hold anything in, bad or good, it is not good for the soul.<br />
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I have tried to justify his death in so many ways in my mind...one of them being the thought that he could have fallen from a stray assassin's bullet, or died by accident on the road, or in the air; either of which would have been just as hard for all of us to accept. As my brother James put it, I feel cheated in that we did not get a chance to enjoy doing things together after his retirement.<br />
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To put it lightly, just think, he missed seeing one of his idols, O.J. Simpson, being cast down and out from the throne he used to hold. Not to mention the floods, earthquakes, heat emergencies, as well as all of man's efforts to ruin the Earth's environment.<br />
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His son, Wilbert Jr. asked me when he died, is there anything Dad wanted us (kids) to do? I was unable to answer him then, but after a lot of thought, I remembered, and would like to pass this along to his children, mine and James'. He always strived to see that each child received a college education, and some of them did complete college. He wanted them to find mates and marry them, particularly if there were children involved. We all believe in the old fashioned way -- meet, marry and then have children; always respect your elders, as well as yourselves; do unto others as you would have them do to you.<br />
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I will close this with a statement our mother always kept on our presence, that is, "All things work together for good to them that love God."<br />
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<br />Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-34374205395026913062013-09-01T21:14:00.001-07:002013-09-01T21:14:33.716-07:00My Vanity Project Phase 1<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju24pcpVu3Voqov5f4XXeYdGzxruja75BFw_NEUGS8YjkKWgEGa-rtOEQaDIY9hMqBmX0YdJK7yvq6A78CaDShw08d-E3yWj0h70yQjY4N96E-TsdbnK2qFmbE6220JY6sOG7WRK9YE04c/s1600/1228664_10151882566063792_2035636373_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju24pcpVu3Voqov5f4XXeYdGzxruja75BFw_NEUGS8YjkKWgEGa-rtOEQaDIY9hMqBmX0YdJK7yvq6A78CaDShw08d-E3yWj0h70yQjY4N96E-TsdbnK2qFmbE6220JY6sOG7WRK9YE04c/s320/1228664_10151882566063792_2035636373_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vanity Project Phase One</td></tr>
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After weeks of dragging the hubby around town looking for what he called a unicorn, I have given up. Instead I scoured magazines and Pinterest for ideas. I was looking for a vanity table. What I'm looking for doesn't exist. Not a new one anyway. I like the antique versions I ran across but they just didn't fit what I was looking for.<br />
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I got a couple great ideas from Architectural Digest and cut out the pix for my file. I kinda forgot them for a while. When I ran across them again I was inspired. Then I saw a really frilly vanity table covered in a lacy table cloth. Too frufru for me but I will adapt it to my style. I saw a chair cover for my office chair. That will complete phase two.<br />
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I began simply by moving my stuff from the bathroom to the guest room that I also use as a sewing room. I need to sit down to do my toilette. I'm just too old to stand as long as it takes to get myself together these days. I have a folding table that I use as a sewing surface. When not in use I put a table cloth on it for our guests. Not that many guests, but I still wanted the room to look nice. Not just thrown together.<br />
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I moved a magnifying mirror in, too. Sitting in there even in this unfinished state, felt wonderful. I knew I was onto something. As I sat there looking at what I'd begun, I realized I didn't need to go out and buy a new piece of furniture, I have pretty much every thing I need to make this thing happen.<br />
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First I consulted the hubby to see if he had any objection to me relocating the large mirror already on the wall. As our resident artist, he is the one who usually does our home decorating. That mirror was just kinda thrown up there, a remnant from our old condo. I lowered it to just above the table and voila' the basis of my vanity table was begun!<br />
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The hubby said he'd always wanted to hang more pix in there. I thought that was a great idea. I'd fill the new space above the mirror. My vanity, my choice of pix to hang. I'm loving this. I went around the house and gathered pix I wanted. Looked through a stack of others that had been hanging in the office. Made a selection that pleased me. Did a little re- framing, too.<br />
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That took a while. Today I was ready to actually hang the pix. The hubby came through as I hammered away. He wanted to know how my "clubhouse" was doing. I am a happy camper. Making this space just for me.<br />
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Now that this phase is done, up next is shopping for fabric for the tablecloth and chair cover. Nothing too frilly, not matchy matchy, I will know it when I see it. I looked high and low for ready made table cloths and chair covers and I didn't find what I am looking for. I will be in JoAnn's fabrics on the hunt. Penterest has lots of ideas for making patterns for and sewing the chair cover. I'm all over this!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCz_KMVPNMas6iy0ts6u5DxwdnL-On9oVFht8VqF4XYYt6IlEVT_QE4Dz6q7706mXqFee2xWFAD5IFUhAVuxxOSqNKhGE1cQb5TiiTpFEVCkI6hEhC4dpuoi9Q96oXXLyx94X4LuZgyrsV/s1600/1231377_10151868776663792_455789365_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCz_KMVPNMas6iy0ts6u5DxwdnL-On9oVFht8VqF4XYYt6IlEVT_QE4Dz6q7706mXqFee2xWFAD5IFUhAVuxxOSqNKhGE1cQb5TiiTpFEVCkI6hEhC4dpuoi9Q96oXXLyx94X4LuZgyrsV/s320/1231377_10151868776663792_455789365_o.jpg" width="273" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Preeeeeety</td></tr>
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The final touch will be this beautiful mirrored box and fancy magnifying mirror I found at Z Gallerie. These two items are going to set it off. Can't wait to see the finished project.<br />
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<br />Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-29628918938396567992013-08-13T14:19:00.003-07:002013-08-13T14:19:56.898-07:00Star Gazing Day Three<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sN8dRQIUjohmnfINW5Ua0fyH5y48SMMweT1Z_9QCFvQlH9bK5QSQJijc-shMy4XH6w86At7pTCJTTIg5mFO4Hbwrjs6Y6ZLlk_o1XjTX0Fjyoc-fPku5Pj_B-CNUwVi6QEfz27ekFI0I/s1600/IMG_1755.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sN8dRQIUjohmnfINW5Ua0fyH5y48SMMweT1Z_9QCFvQlH9bK5QSQJijc-shMy4XH6w86At7pTCJTTIg5mFO4Hbwrjs6Y6ZLlk_o1XjTX0Fjyoc-fPku5Pj_B-CNUwVi6QEfz27ekFI0I/s320/IMG_1755.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bummed :(</td></tr>
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Well Day Three of gazing at the Perseid Meteor Shower was a bust. I stayed on the roof an hour and a half and saw only 5 streaks. I didn't wait for the clouds to come this time, I just packed it in.<br />
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I had the flash turned off of the camera and took a couple shadowy pix of the nearby trees. Nothing else came out. Bummer. I'm washing my roof blanket now and putting away the camera and flash light with a sigh.<br />
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The lesson for today kids, is the second day of the meteor shower is the best day. Next year I'm thinking of dragging the hubby to Palm Springs were there is open space and no city lights. He won't mind much if he gets to play golf.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8U2zmwBnPtOhk3i54prEDyMvhkXs2NfOYEM7g-7VyhpxPBGCnXCXcrx1LXkKzJ33la6WzNcpB2nnyPyy1bSzVErSGSmlGgJ6wAQir1hRKV4HEI88rR3baeM1bqV5gfA1tRlKriV4Zynw/s1600/1148919_506761729399924_844312151_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8U2zmwBnPtOhk3i54prEDyMvhkXs2NfOYEM7g-7VyhpxPBGCnXCXcrx1LXkKzJ33la6WzNcpB2nnyPyy1bSzVErSGSmlGgJ6wAQir1hRKV4HEI88rR3baeM1bqV5gfA1tRlKriV4Zynw/s320/1148919_506761729399924_844312151_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Next up is August 27th at 00:30, the day before my birthday, so I will remember, but it's on my calendar nonetheless. I'll be watching for Mars. It will pass just 34.65 million miles from earth. To the naked eye it will look like two moons. The next time Mars will be so close to Earth will be the year 2287. I probably won't be around then so I'm not going to miss this opportunity!Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-81658810086331527202013-08-12T15:30:00.002-07:002013-08-12T15:30:57.748-07:00Stargazing: Day Two<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy79XbOEk1_Ne6NUuSj_u8JTtyTWvvNtz6_Z7hZW52J8I2RtmnjHUhK2ljphHtVDZOwE7ql5VhFthzXnDRdujiuLe-1BbH6mBefCZ9t17twfw_Z0MnbHjPj2FwJBOaegmj4r5P_xbIapDo/s1600/IMG_1753.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy79XbOEk1_Ne6NUuSj_u8JTtyTWvvNtz6_Z7hZW52J8I2RtmnjHUhK2ljphHtVDZOwE7ql5VhFthzXnDRdujiuLe-1BbH6mBefCZ9t17twfw_Z0MnbHjPj2FwJBOaegmj4r5P_xbIapDo/s320/IMG_1753.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selfie on the Roof<br /></td></tr>
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Day two of stargazing the Perseid Meteor Shower was amazing! This time I saw dozens of meteor chunks blazing across the sky. I was on the roof from 2:00am until 4:30am this time. Two and a half hours of bliss before the clouds took over.<br />
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I was more prepared this time. Leaving the binoculars behind and wearing an extra layer of clothing. Using my back pillow from the car. Even with the pillows from the patio, I needed more back support. I think I'll need one more layer for tonight. It gets misty on the roof as you can see in my photos I have an aura. Cool, huh? I'll turn off the flash on the camera tonight and see if I can get better shots of the sky.<br />
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I got a little sleepy up there this time. Since there were long periods between sightings I rested my eyes in between. I soon learned the pattern of the streaking chunks. Hope I didn't miss too much. I drifted off just a little bit, but I didn't want to get too relaxed up there. Even though no critters have bothered me, why take the chance?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQIE5YA_CUjMDYm9U9Zz9z8Hi6w9Ye_6ccLFeBlb4Ij7jMW0sUsA0HELAaHQDUKmk2EMMPnGRBxarg1S6xJ0SaIOj7zS2ITP0W-3p8xUvqELHzP1WToYoc3cslz69tZIZVTUGbsZTd2XC1/s1600/IMG_1754.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQIE5YA_CUjMDYm9U9Zz9z8Hi6w9Ye_6ccLFeBlb4Ij7jMW0sUsA0HELAaHQDUKmk2EMMPnGRBxarg1S6xJ0SaIOj7zS2ITP0W-3p8xUvqELHzP1WToYoc3cslz69tZIZVTUGbsZTd2XC1/s320/IMG_1754.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Check out my aura!</td></tr>
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Between sightings I had plenty time to contemplate the meaning of life. I came up with: We are here to witness God's miracles. I was looking at one right then. I quietly ooooo'd and aaaaaaahhh'd and thanked God. It was like a silent fireworks show. I love fireworks. Again it was really quiet up there on the roof. So quiet in fact I could hear our neighbor open and close a door during the night. I tried not to assume someone was making a bathroom trip.<br />
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Anyway, the dozens of meteors I saw last night, or rather this morning, were pretty small and fast. Sometimes I could only see them out of the corner of my eye. But there were two exceptional ones that were right in my line of sight. Right in my face with their massive size and lingering tail. I was very happy. Lying on the roof grinning from ear to ear. Oh, yeah, Tucker, this time I remembered to make a wish. I made a lot of wishes. Why not?<br />
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I said I'd kind of figured out their schedule, but not really. As soon I thought I had their pattern down pat, two swooshed by one after the other. Wooohooo! Every time I thought about calling it a night another one would fly by! I was determined to stay up there as long as I could. But then the clouds came and it was time to pack it in.<br />
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All the while I was going back and forth about whether I would watch again tonight. But just in case the last night is the best night, I'm going to be there!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgUOvlCgevvc1XaIdMMW8BJERHs5Rm7HQ_Xsc29p1S3n9MJc4KHQGxh1c72Nny9kEfEc07-S6d1Jk8K9aYnXWijxEYf9fGci_osJ83kJFDq2_7kx7Xs7WQHmYgINtztGCdTufdILK1TK7Q/s1600/IMG_1755.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgUOvlCgevvc1XaIdMMW8BJERHs5Rm7HQ_Xsc29p1S3n9MJc4KHQGxh1c72Nny9kEfEc07-S6d1Jk8K9aYnXWijxEYf9fGci_osJ83kJFDq2_7kx7Xs7WQHmYgINtztGCdTufdILK1TK7Q/s320/IMG_1755.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See you in the morning!</td></tr>
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<br />Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-595255418378446105.post-80352578471819956052013-08-11T12:18:00.000-07:002013-08-11T12:21:48.490-07:00I Was The Only Idiot On The Roof<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8TtWNp8oCzUmfQgyPIZM8SpJ_qKgOYm87gfO2zDz3VXwukxXGxteJ09huIpr_FgSgiDNU8hyOS48g5fdSfmQQXx1d7KP9dPTWhatljnjlof2vglpJqe-3pUObPx3UnDx5H-8fmCsq8QO/s1600/imgres-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8TtWNp8oCzUmfQgyPIZM8SpJ_qKgOYm87gfO2zDz3VXwukxXGxteJ09huIpr_FgSgiDNU8hyOS48g5fdSfmQQXx1d7KP9dPTWhatljnjlof2vglpJqe-3pUObPx3UnDx5H-8fmCsq8QO/s1600/imgres-2.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">PERSEID METEOR SHOWER 2013</td></tr>
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So last night I prepped for viewing the Perseid Meteor Shower. It's supposed to continue for the next couple days. I read about the it in the AARP magazine. That's were I get some of my best hair brained schemes! But that's another story.<br />
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I set my alarm for 2:00am. I woke up at 1:50am, my regular pee and hot flash time. Also another story. As I sat there I wondered who thought of this hair brained scheme? Oh, me. Urged on unknowingly by Facebook posts by Emmanuel and Tucker. I went to the bathroom, still thinking about going back to bed, but I looked out the window and saw a star and got all excited again.<br />
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I got dressed and gathered my blanket, binoculars and camera. I had already placed my ladder to the roof. That is were I thought I would be able to see the greatest expanse of sky. I was right. There were stars everywhere. When I got to the top of the ladder I still thought it was a good idea.<br />
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I tried to be as quiet as possible on the roof with the hubby still asleep in the bedroom below. I know what it sounds like when the cats and coyotes romp around up there. A little scary. I kept an eye out the whole time for more cats and coyotes. No trouble on that front, thankfully.<br />
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It was beautiful and quiet and starry up there as I lay on my blanket. Except, wait. My back was killing me. I laid there a while longer and the more I looked the more stars I could see.<br />
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I went back down the ladder and got some patio furniture cushions and another blanket. It was a little chilly up there. I got comfy. The binoculars didn't really help. The light on the camera messed with my eyes and it really didn't get any good shots. Just like when I tried taking pix of the moon a while back. Shaky.<br />
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All this time though I still didn't see any meteors. Then just when I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, because I thought I was seeing little red specks moving about, I saw a big white one streak across the sky. I almost shouted. "No, that WAS one! That WAS one!"<br />
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The sky clouded over after that. I laid there a few minutes more. Looking hopefully at the spot where I saw the streak. That was it. And so worth the wait. I packed it in after an hour and a half. I would have stayed longer but for the cloud cover.<br />
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This morning the hubby asked how it went. He asked if there was anyone else out on their roof. I said "No, I was the only idiot on the roof!" He said that should be the title of your blog post. Here it is. I'm going back up tonight!<br />
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<br />Necie Bughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08570564214813698460noreply@blogger.com2