SATURDAY THOUGHTS: IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

I saw a post on Facebook around 5:00 PM yesterday, indicating that pianist, Anthony Walker and Philadelphia's inspirational jazz band, "Breath of Heaven" were in concert at Living Word Church at 7:00 PM. Great jazz was coming to Bellevue! 

It was much too close to home for me to miss it, so I got my post-Thanksgiving, lazy self together, and went. 

There is nothing like well-performed, live music! The musicians so perfectly blended with one another. Their skill was admirable and the sounds were so wonderfully harmonious. 

I really felt great when I left.

The sounds that caught my attention this morning, however weren't so great. It was such a stark contrast to the ear candy from last night. 

I was awake, so it wasn't a huge deal, just fodder to write about, I suppose. 

People in the neighborhood apparently, and coincidentally said to themselves, "I think I'm going to get up this fine Saturday morning, go outside and attempt to talk as loudly as I can". 

Two guys were carrying on so ridiculously, around 7:30, that I was compelled to visit YouTube and listen to all 14 minutes and 45 seconds of James Brown's "Talking Loud and Saying Nothing". 

I don't know why their conversation couldn't have been taken inside, except that maybe someone inside wasn't going to put up with it so very early in the morning. 

I had to laugh at it all. James was right. I certainly couldn't open my window tell them which way to go, because they were "three times seven, and then some more." 

I sure wished they would tone it down though.

I submit that a lot of other people's business, serious, intimate or trivial, the exposure of which, they ponder and frustrate themselves about, could be kept hidden if only people would notice the volume of their own voices. 

Maybe some people don't think it prudent to wait until they are within earshot of the person to whom they wish to speak. 

When people are arguing, perhaps the last thing they consider is who's listening unintentionally. 

What is it that makes folk wake up in the morning, and just crank up the conversation to full blast?
Maybe people don't think there's any possibility of disturbing others who are behind closed windows, doors, and brick walls. 

Maybe they want to be overheard as they discuss what they bought, where they're going, what they have, who said or did what, when and where, addresses, phone numbers, and plans. 

I don't think some people know just how far and clearly their out-of-doors, or stairwell conversations actually travel. 

Perhaps I wasn't supposed to know who had the car last, and used all of the gas, or if there was no Sutter Home Moscato at the corner store, or that the old girlfriend now knows where the new girlfriend lives because she followed the old boyfriend, or that one person's groceries were 30-some dollars, and another persons came to 20-some dollars and that made 50-some dollars, and the big soap powder purchased will last the both of them. 

I do now. 

Now what's a person to do with the information that blended itself with the sounds of traffic, birds chirping, and a brisk November wind? Nothing I guess.

"Good luck to you over there, Mr. Loud and Wrong." 

#noise

#voices

#thehood

FRIDAY THOUGHTS: THANKSGIVING---GETTING OLDER

Dad said, "I think I want a computer. My sister has one, and I think she's talked me into it." 

We were transferring the place mats from the kitchen table to to the dining room table. 

Dad told my daughter, "do whatever you want to do" when she'd asked how he wanted the table set, or in what room he would like everyone to eat. 

She decided on the dining room. 

We were trying not to displace papers and other things he had on the kitchen table, when he said he'd inadvertently tossed out the clipping from a magazine advertising "a computer for old people" (his words, not mine). 

"I don't know what I did with it, but I want one specifically designed for people my age." 

I said, "I think I know what you're talking about. Larger numbers, and letters, and screen, right? I saw that. AARP offers it." 

Dad said, "Yeah. I do believe it was in their magazine." 

Someone who will remain nameless (my daughter Lisa) said, "So, Mom, you mean you saw it in YOUR AARP magazine? Do you still have it?" 

Her timing made everyone, including me, laugh. 

Of course I knew what my Dad was talking about because I'd seen it. 

I'm not quite as enthused about it as he, and don't need it, (yet) but it occurred to me that we read the same magazine for older adults, even though he's celebrated approximately 33 more Thanksgiving days than I have.

I found myself studying him briefly yesterday. 

His beard is coming in gray. 

I don't know that I'd ever seen my Dad unshaven. 

His steps are carefully taken. 

His laugh is still hearty. 

He mocked how soft spoken I am, (I didn't think I was inaudible, though) and admonished me to speak up, but I noticed he heard some things just fine--because he answered. 

He's never complained of any hearing loss, but then, he's never been one to complain about his own health. 

Although he frequently mentions his "macular pucker", he can still make an amazing pot of collard greens. His string beans, seasoned with smoked turkey neck bones, weren't bad either.

I was still taking things out of the oven when he yelled for me to come into the dining room. 

It wouldn't have been as startling if I'd been farther away. 

We'd put mostly everything on the table, and he'd come to sit down. 

There was a plate in front of him, and he said he was ready to pray and eat "before the food gets cold". 

I stopped what I was doing to join everyone around the table. Food getting cold or not, Dad would never consider offering God a quickie prayer. 

He didn't talk about starving children in Africa or anything, but he did mention to God how he'd heard a woman say, on the news the other day, how difficult it is to keep food on the table in these tough economic times. 

I opened my eyes, and my little nephew Yusef's eyes were open, too. "The Goofy Movie" was on the TV in the sun room, and he was very anxious to get back to it. 

The expression on his face made me have to stifle a chuckle. He was looking up at everyone as if to say "Why are you all just standing here? What's going on? Let's eat!" 

I couldn't very well crack up in the middle of the prayer. 

In that moment, I didn't feel like someone who gets the AARP magazine in the mail, too. After the prayer, the last four brown and serve rolls to make it into the oven, were a little browner than the first eight, but butter came to the rescue.

Dinner was great, (although I did miss my big sister's gumbo, and instead of the real thing, we got Instagram photos of my niece's pound cakes). 

Everyone was responsible for a dish or two. 

We sat around the table talking about what ingredients went into what, Mommy's recipes, Lisa's awesome attempt at replicating the sweet potato soup from the Carnival cruise ship Freedom's restaurant, and how neither my little sister nor I like cheese, (but her macaroni and cheese casserole was amazing). There were comments about how my cornbread dressing looked like Mommy's. 

I'm glad it was also tasty and edible, too.

 

The Cornish hens my sister baked were wonderful, thank God, because the turkey, (courtesy of Popeye's) needed the customary two days to thaw, and it was decided there was no need to rush it, and ruin it, so it didn't make the trip from her house. 

It seemed odd not having turkey on Thanksgiving, but overwhelming gratitude that there's any food at all, and the fact that, on any given day, if you want turkey you can have it, made it a non issue. 

I made two batches of potato salad. 

There was the plain one for my Dad and daughter, that I don't understand, but my daughter laughed, "Only God can judge me" about her preference for potato salad that includes only potatoes, eggs, mayonnaise and mustard. 

It's a "judgment free zone". 

The other batch, in addition to the usual ingredients, had celery, dill and sweet pickle relish, green pepper, red onion, garlic--the works--to which, after tasting, my sister said she would add still more sweet relish.

Watching my little nephew was delightful. The difference in age between the males in the house was 81 years. When my nephew was ready to eat, he chose a seat next to me--closest to the root beer he had his eye on. He was happy when I poured some in a cup for him, and described it as "spicy". 

He was really enjoying the sweet potatoes, but the swinging of his little legs under the table may have been misconstrued as playing, and playing at the table has always been a no-no for as long as I can remember. 

Still, no matter how many times Daddy said, "Be still", Yusef would stop momentarily, only to start swinging again seconds later. When you're five years old, sitting in a big dining room chair, and there's two feet of space between your feet and the floor, there's nothing else to do with your little legs, I suppose.

When you're 52 or 85 you can be still--either because you want to, or because you don't have a choice.

Yesterday, it was just family. 

Only 6 of us, and it was nice, although I always miss my big sister whether it's a holiday or not. 

To be clear, not every holiday non-family drop-in is annoying. There are some people you are delighted to unexpectedly see, and then there are others who I am convinced, rise on holidays and say, "Hmmm. What atmosphere can I cloud today by my intrusiveness, greed, and too-familiar spirit?" 

Fortunately there were no annoying drop-ins this year, for which I was extremely grateful. 

It's always a relief not to have to use the "Don't you know it's Thanksgiving? We are not related! Don't you have a family?" speech you've rehearsed in your head, but would probably never deliver because you were raised to be polite, (and, of course, you never want to be the one who wrecks Thanksgiving for actually saying what everyone else is thinking but afraid to say--"What do you want? Why are you here? GO HOME!") 

I wonder if, as I age, I'll acquire that wonderfully naughty penchant for saying whatever one wants to say, not care at all, and blame it on being old?

As we sat around the dining room table, after the meal, Daddy told us how he and his sisters used to play a game at the dinner table. Whoever finished their meal first, would help the others finish their meal. It wasn't a game as much as a statement of the poverty they once experienced. 

Then he told us about the other game, "What's Going On In Your Life". 

It was a tricky, talking game, to see who would get tired of talking, and decide that even washing dishes was a better thing to do. 

"You mind who does the cooking," he said, "but you don't care who washes the dishes." 

Fortunately, there were no overwhelming piles of dishes, pots and pans to wash like there used to be when we were kids; no mountains of trash to take out; and no cleaning out the refrigerator to make room for Tupperware. 

Yesterday, there was just a coordinated effort to clean up, and divvy up the leftovers. ("Here. Take some more. We can't eat all of that.")

 

We sat around the kitchen table, laughing and talking, and watched "The Blind Side" and checked periodically on the Redskins' progress. (Go Skins!). Had my Mother been alive, or my big sister been in town, the game would definitely have been a greater priority.

There was ice cream, but no one had any room for anything else. (God, I must be getting older. I don't ever remember turning down ice cream.)

 

It seemed like night came so quickly, and another Thanksgiving Day was over, and just like every year since 2003, it seems so odd; so awkward, and downright strange and unfair not to have Mommy there.
With leftovers in tow, we headed back to DC. 

My day was done, while my daughter's continued. Nope. I can't hang like I used to.

This morning, I read on Facebook that my big sister and niece have already been "Black Friday" shopping at several stores, and are back at their respective homes. I, on the other hand am typing from the comfort of my bed. I'm not tired, just resting. 

I'm noticing that I need rest more these days. 

Getting older has it's benefits, and is very interesting. Little, weird aches and pains, less energy, a lot more patience, seemingly faster moving days, more confidence and assertiveness, and less tolerance for foolishness of any kind seem to top the list.  

I did manage to drag myself to the bathroom, then the kitchen. 

I knew there were Thanksgiving leftovers in the refrigerator, and even considered what kind of early meal potato salad would make, when I made another discovery.
I don't know where the really good muffins came from, (probably courtesy of my daughter's continued celebrating after she dropped me off at home) but they're officially breakfast. 

Who feels like cooking anything? I sure don't.

For the wonder that is the microwave, I am thankful.

THANKFUL

The oven is off. My contribution to tomorrow's Thanksgiving table is done. I can't help but think about my Mom-- the holiday bunny. She LOVED holidays. Each one had it's own specialties. For Thanksgiving, she'd break out the the large, white ceramic platter with the embossed turkey, the thanksgiving table linens, the "good" dishes and glasses that were forbidden to go into the dishwasher. She made the best gumbo...She would have been doing some serious cooking, even at this hour.
I'm grateful to have her recipes. Tonight it seemed like I instinctively knew what to do. She used to have the heavy grinder thingy with all of the parts and the old mixer. All of the chopping or pureeing I had to do was so much easier thanks to Toastmaster. I only had to make two dishes, so I wasn't on my feet nearly as long as she used to be. I thought of her the whole time I was cooking---and cleaning. She always said, "Clean as you go, so when you're done, you won't have so much to do and you can enjoy your meal." She was right. If something splashed or spilled, she was right on it, and after dinner, all that was left to clean were the dinner dishes and glasses. She considered cooking a full-time job. There was no going too far away from the stove. You had to keep an eye on things. Her sense of smell was amazing. If she said something was burning, it was.
She also didn't believe in putting the pots, in which the food had been cooked, in the refrigerator. Everything would be transferred to Tupperware or some other plastic container. The turkey would be carved and placed in bags. When I was young, her Thanksgiving dinner meant at least 3 days of leftovers, and then there would be turkey sandwiches, then beans or greens would be graced with the turkey bone. When I got older, there was no leaving the house without an ample doggie bag.
It's always odd not seeing her in her kitchen. Even after all these years, I can imagine hearing the sound of her slippers as she made the corner from the hall to the foyer and entered the kitchen.  
I'm glad to have good memories, but it would be better to have her. Holidays just haven't been the same, but I'm thankful..: )

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SUNDAY THOUGHTS: SEVENTEEN: A SHORT STORY

SEVENTEEN

A short story by Vanessa Renee Williams

Been here a long time. I’ve seen the neighborhood go from one extreme to the other, but I tell you, I don’t remember it ever being this quiet.

It’s been about a year or so, and things are mighty different. I can look out of the big window now. Put my chair back there in front of it, too. Couldn’t do that before—sit by the window, I mean. It wasn’t always safe, especially when what you’re looking at isn’t Nature, but the nature of what you’re looking at makes you have to hurry up and call the police.

They said, “If you see something, say something.”, didn’t they? I guess they get a little tired and show up a little slower, and a little less frequently if you always “seeing something” every day.

You get tired, you know. What’s wrong with people? Why is somebody always trying to hurt somebody else? What’s wrong with a little peace and quiet and safety? Maybe I was praying out loud and didn’t know it, but the peace and quiet and safety is almost too much these days. I don’t know what happened, but we don’t see trouble anymore when we look out of our windows, just the trees and the birds, and people going about their business with smiles on their faces.

I’m seeing people out taking walks now; walking funny looking dogs that look like they came straight off a shelf at a fancy toy store. Shouldn’t be nothing strange about that, except the dogs on the ends of long leashes, or running loose all over the place, so much so, that the children couldn’t play outside, used to be Pit Bulls or Rottweiler’s. Their swaggering, puffed up owners didn’t seem to care about who needed to use the sidewalk. People were terrified, and you could tell it. That was the plan. Inspire fear. Be intimidating. People would stop dead in their tracks and let the dogs go by, or not get out of their cars until the coast was clear, or walk on the other side of the street altogether. It was ridiculous. Don’t have that problem no more.

Used to be, I could almost bet how many times and when I’d hear sirens, or that pop-pop-popping day or night, and it wasn’t nowhere near the Fourth of July. Ain’t nobody worrying about coming in late, or locking down everything so much that they can’t get into their own stuff their own selves. I tell you, it’s just different now, and nobody’s talking about leaving the neighborhood, or moving to the country no more, either.

Sure is something.

They used to be out there most every day. I don’t think I’ve ever seen people make doing something look so much like doing nothing. Just hanging around; shifting; hands in pockets; staring. They stopped looking like people after a while. It was like a predator spirit had taken them over. Just wasn’t a whole lot they cared about, except acting like they didn’t care, and wasn’t scared of nobody. They’d walk up the street, then I’d see them coming down the street on the other side—one hand holding cell phones or brown paper bags, and the other pulling up their pants. (I don’t know. In my day they were called “underwear” for a reason. Didn’t need all those colors, and pictures, and patterns because they weren’t supposed to be seen. My daddy used to say when he was a boy, anybody whose pants didn’t fit was poor, or they just couldn’t do any better. He said if he could have gone to school looking like some of these kids go to school today, he would have got a PhD…Anyway…

Every day—and I mean every day, there they were. I guess I didn’t notice it as much when I was working, but being home now, I see so much. Able bodied. Young. So much potential. Just pure bone-idle and up to no good. I know there were more who seemed like they were on a mission to give the neighborhood a bad name, but they just disappeared. Some I heard are in jail, and don’t seem to be trying to ever get out. Some are dead. I know because I stopped counting how many funerals the church around the corner was having. It just seemed like they liked killing each other—and over stupid stuff, too-- and stuff that didn’t even belong to them. I know there were more, but I suppose, since I stopped working and closed in my porch so I could sit out there some mornings, I counted about seventeen.

Funny, but I don’t see them no more, and nobody seems to know or care where they went. Nobody even mentions their names.

I like opening up the windows and the blinds in the morning. It’s nice to let the sunshine in, and some fresh air, even when it’s a little chilly. Those other fellows would be out there on lawn mowers at the crack of dawn, working and looking happy like they were on amusement park rides. They’d be out there with their weed whackers, leaf blowers, hoes, and spades just whistling and singing like they had won the lottery. Then I saw one of them swaggering ones on his phone, talking loud, walking down the hill just dropping paper as he went. I guess he thought the trashcan out there was for decoration. Those other fellows stopped their work to let him pass, and then answered his littering with brooms, picks and dustpans. There they were, getting paid to try to keep his space beautiful and he could have cared less. Wrapping his hands around the handle of a lawn mower wasn’t as cool as beating up those loud, silly girls he was always with, or robbing people, or shooting up in the air, or shooting other people who’d ticked him off, or going to the bus shelter, but not getting on nary bus all day. When that truck pulled up, though, he, and the one who was waiting for him on the corner, got inside. That loud, silly girl who’d run up to confront him was still yelling and making a spectacle of herself long after the truck was gone. Don’t know where that truck took them, but I haven’t seen the two of them since. The early morning air hasn’t been assaulted any more by trashy-dressing girls cussing and screaming and putting all of their business in the street. There’s nobody to scream at. Haven’t seen trash on the ground, lately, either.

They always spoke to me when I went outside to get the paper or the mail. I figured it was because I was old that they had a little bit of respect. I always spoke to them. I’d say “Good Morning”, or “Good Afternoon” and they’d either say a very quick “Guh Morr”, mumble something, or say “Fine” as if I had asked them how they were doing. I noticed they had a hard time looking me in the eye; they always kept their heads down. There was just something so sneaky about them. They didn’t have time for pleasantries, or maybe nobody ever taught them. A little time, attention, and conversation from mamas and daddies would have been so good for them. Lord knows they should have stayed in school for a few days longer. Now all the world sees are hard, snarling faces that seem to have forgotten how to smile. Shame how they stole from their mamas, so their mamas took their keys, and they spent all day in the street, rain or shine, until mama came back home from work. Wonder if their mamas miss them, because they sure got in that truck when it pulled up— all three of them.

Some of them were good looking young men; tall and strong; could have been in the movies like that Poitier or on a ball field like that –well pick one. Jackie Robinson. They don't know nothing about that. Some had this look in their eyes as if they were just waiting for somebody to assume authority and make them do something—anything. Tell them the right way to go. They looked like they wanted somebody to care, but since nobody did,  or everybody they encountered who could have helped had been exhausted, or got fed up, then, hanging on the street corners like human ornaments and being a nuisance must have been, based on their logic, the best thing to do. There was always that one who looked lost; a follower; always looked like he didn’t have an idea of his own unless somebody gave him one. He was never the lead bird. He got in that truck one day, too.

It didn’t surprise me that most of them had kids. When school was in, I’d see them walking their little ones down the hill. The little ones seemed to have everything they needed. They were neat in their little uniforms and shiny shoes. They had their little backpacks and lunch boxes, too. Seemed odd to see one tall, pimping, pants falling, hat cocked, overwhelmed by over-sized clothes, hair unkempt, and one small, colorful; little legs trying to keep up; looking up in admiration. When it was time to cross the street the menacing gave way to nurturing. They’d reach out for their child’s hand, or pick them up. Somewhere in there they knew what to do. They knew right from wrong. They knew how to care. They just didn’t seem to have hope for themselves. Once the kids were at school, they were back on the prowl.

How do you not look suspicious? Ain’t no law against walking down the street, but how do you keep from looking like you’re just up to no good? Is there a class? It’s darn near 100 degrees outside and you’re all wrapped up and hooded like Nanook of the North. Something is wrong. Or, it’s darn near -4 degrees and you’re standing outside on the sidewalk like a statue just waiting and watching. Something is very wrong.

Every day. Hanging on the corners. Propped up on steps or posts. Sitting and smoking and drinking in the park. Talking loud; arguing. Walking hard, up and down the street. Ducking in alleys. Fighting. Hopping fences. Hiding in bushes. Stashing stuff. Watching like predators. Signaling. Listening for sirens. Armed. Taking chances. Looking aimless, but on money making missions. Every day.

All seventeen of them.

It wasn’t odd to see the cars with out-of-state tags cruising along, slowing down, parked crooked, or temporarily blocking traffic. Wish I was exaggerating, but it happened every day. They’d either lean in the windows of these cars, or sometimes it would look like they were giving the driver directions. There was always some exchange. Every now and then, they’d get in. Then you’d see the same car a few minutes later and they’d get out and walk in the opposite direction--always walking fast. Those sure were some short trips they were taking. Watched five of them do it every day almost while I sat on the porch. Then, all of a sudden, those trucks drove up. They got in those, too, but they didn’t come back.

One of them was always over by the basketball court. He never, ever put his hands on a basketball, but just set up shop by the court everyday. I saw the trucks pull up again. This time, the drivers got out. I couldn’t see their faces, but they were dressed in fatigues. There was some exchange of words but it wasn’t for long. He got in. I haven’t seen him since. There are no more fights breaking out, no chases through the woods, no helicopters lighting up the night. The only shooting going on is balls through hoops. Now the kids can actually learn how to play the game.

Another day, one of them was just leaning on an iron fence, and another one was across the street perched up on the brick wall like a hawk on a hill. It would have been okay if there was a bus stop or something, or even if they lived in the buildings they were in front of. Can you teach somebody how to behave like they have a purpose? They kept looking around; looking up and down the street. When one took something long, shiny and sharp out of the back of his pants and started trying break into a car, I knew they weren’t just waiting for a ride, they wanted to take one. I knew it was broad daylight, but did they? Cars going up and down the street, people walking by, and when things cleared up, they’d go back at it again, trying to get in that car. The car put up a fight, though and they gave up, and I guess went looking for an easier job near the park. Not a police car in sight, but those trucks were there. They headed back up the hill, and those trucks followed. I heard a horn, and the two of them stopped. The drivers got out. They said something to them, and the two of them got in.

I went out to get the mail on another day and noticed those two brownish-colored trucks again. It was a little after 9 o’clock, and one of them was coming from the school. The drivers in fatigues were walking behind him. He turned, they exchanged words and then he walked back to one of the trucks with them and climbed in the back seat. The truck drove away. I guess he didn’t make it back to the school in time, because I saw his little boy walking up the hill alone.

I decided to take a walk to the corner store. I was about to get disgusted about having to wade through a crowd just to get to the door when I saw the trucks again. Two of them walked away from the store and crossed the street. I hurried up and went in the store when an argument started. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but when I finished shopping and came out, I saw the trucks driving away. The group that used to loiter in front of the store every day was gone.

I tell you it sure is quiet in the neighborhood these days. I enjoyed my time on the porch this morning. There were kids headed to school; people taking walks; no sirens blaring; nobody just hanging around. I kept the windows open, and all I heard were the sounds of a little traffic and the birds singing. I even enjoyed my walk to the corner store. I had to pick up a few things.

Company’s coming over this evening. Hadn’t had company in a long time. Nobody’s worried about being in the neighborhood at night anymore. People got tired of having to check on their cars every five minutes.

I decided to listen to the news while I prepared dinner. They led off with the war again. I wish they would find something more pleasant to report, but I guess it’s good to know what’s going on. It was so depressing, but I kept listening anyway. Road side bombs, snipers, explosions. Whew. I sure will be glad when it’s all over. I’m not sure if I admire those news people who go and report from war zones, or think they’ve lost their minds. Sometimes it gives worried families a chance to see their soldier loved one when the interviews are on. One day, I believed a couple of the soldiers on TV looked like some of those that used to be raising so much sand around here, but it couldn’t have been. The military wants people with some discipline who can follow directions, don’t they?

They can have the noise and the confusion. I love this peace, because the war zone on TV was like a library compared to the noise going on around here. People used to be downright scared all the time; always worried that some thug had their eye on what took 8 hours a day, 5 days a week to obtain. Never knew when somebody was going to jump you, or rob you, or carjack you, or shoot you--and for what? For what they thought you had? It’s just not natural to live in fear like that.

I always joked they ought to come and round up all the people who seem to like to fight and shoot and terrorize neighborhoods and show them what real fighting and shooting is really all about. Just sedate them, take them somewhere remote; some war zone like the one on TV, and drop them off and let them fight it out with somebody who wasn’t scared of them and wasn’t afraid to die. Then maybe, they wouldn’t be so quick to be a menace to their own communities and families.

I thought something was wrong with the TV, but there was no sound while they showed the pictures of the soldiers who died. It’s always so sad. Some days they only report a few, but even a few still is too many.

This time, there were seventeen.

I tell you the truth, it sure is quiet around here.

VRWc2012