Barbie Perkins-Cooper, Author

Tag: Charleston

  • Give Me Wings to Fly…

    Give Me Wings to Fly…


    Today appeared to be a good day. After paying the monthly bills, I settled down, thankful that life was going my way – finally. I looked up to the blue skies, whispering a silent prayer to God, thankful that I could pay the monthly bills and still have a bit left over, just in the event some emergency occurred. The sun was shining bright now. Glittering colors of sky blue, radiant shadows from the sunlight kissed the trees. I sighed, so thankful for the beauty of earth. No more thick black clouds of self-doubt…Pain…Hurt…Depression. This will be a good day, I whispered. That is, until I opened the laundry room door. Sorting the clothing, I stashed the first load of colorfast in the washer, placing other stacks in the hamper so I could accomplish the laundry. I punched the button of the Kenmore front loading machine. No power. Nothing. Checking the fuse box, I flipped switches. Nothing. I phoned Garrett, feeling totally helpless – again. Depending on others is something extremely hard for me. Garrett listened to me and when I started to cry, he reassured me he would get the washer to work.

    “Don’t worry, babe. It’s nothing to cry about.”

    How could I expect him to understand? Garrett was an uncompromising, capricious demeanor of a man. A Vietnam Veteran who saw the scars, pain, blood and agony of war. He knew the smell of death, decaying bodies lying along the roads. Vultures flying overhead, landing on the fading, deteriorating bodies, attacking, probing and eating away at the decomposing bodies while the sounds of mortars rang overhead. “It don’t mean nothing,” Garrett said repeatedly, reminding him that war is hell and nothing can change it. “It don’t MEAN NOTHING!’ Rarely did something affect him. When his father died, never did he shed a tear. When our son cried, Garrett scolded him. “Real men don’t cry,” he said. Perhaps his attitude was due to his military and combat training. Crying for Garrett was a weakness. Every time I cried around him he rolled his eyes upward, shaking his head, whispering, “It don’t mean nothing!”

    Hot tears spilled down my face. I inhaled. Exhaled. Why am I so teary eyed today? What is wrong with me? Opening my appointment calendar I realized in less than ten days would be the anniversary of the loss of my dad.

    Dad died July 6, 1999. “The grief should be gone,” I said, tapping my face to wipe the tears away. The memory of his passing was rooted forever inside my brain. I shouldn’t need him so much, but I do. I should be adjusted to his loss. I miss my dad. I miss his laughter and harmonizing gospel songs with him. I missed his hugs, and his reassuring voice. “Make it a good day,” his voice chimed rhythmically when I was nearby. His smile was contagious. I rubbed my neck. Inhaled. Exhaled. My dad made his life completely different after my parents’ divorce. Peaceful. No hostility. No temper tantrums. No one who knew him before his illness could imagine that once he was physically cruel to my mother, knocking her to the ground during a fight. I was amazed at his change, and so proud to call him, Dad.
    There was much to do around the house. Depression left me so exhausted, when I made the attempt to clean the house; I forgot to wash the baseboards and the corners of the floors. That can wait until later, I thought. I’m too tired today.

    Glancing at the corners of the bathroom floors I promised myself I would scrub them later. After all, no one sees the house, with exception of the dogs.

    As hard as I tried to understand my depression, I couldn’t, until I glanced at the calendar. In exactly ten days I would reminisce about the death of my dad. Still, it seemed like yesterday. How long does one grieve, I asked myself, wiping fresh tears from my face.

    Gathering my mop and cleaning materials, I scrubbed the corners of the bathroom floors and the base boards. I suddenly realized I wasn’t cleaning the dirt away. I was struggling to scrub away depression. Grief. Sadness. Heart-breaking wretchedness.

    Just how long does one grieve over such a loss? I had no answers, but today was a day I could not fight it, so I gave in to it while cleaning and scrubbing the floors.

    Grief was introduced to me as a young, innocent girl. During my junior year of high school, I received a nice letter from someone named Benjamin. I read his letter with interest. He seemed to be so charming. Intelligent. Funny. His letter made me laugh. He was stationed in California, in the Navy. My cousin, Donald, was his best buddy. One night while drinking, Donald showed Benjamin my photograph, giving him my address. Donald knew I loved to write letters, so he thought we could become pen pals. Benjamin’s letter was filled with compliments about me, leaving me to be ever so curious about his sincerity. I wrote him a letter, mailing it the next morning on my way to school, hopeful he would write again. What began as an innocent pen pal relationship developed quickly. That summer, Benjamin flew to Columbus to meet me. My heart danced inside my chest, in anticipation of meeting Benjamin. Doubts gnawed inside my stomach. What would happen if he didn’t like me, or think I was pretty? Was I deserving? A young, unsophisticated girl from a textile mill village, without any future plans? All I possessed were the dreams I cherished inside my heart. Dreams about singing and acting and becoming famous. I wrote about these dreams in my journals. When my mother found them underneath my mattress, she read them and laughed, telling me I’d never amount to anything.

    My fears subsided when he arrived. I recognized him immediately and rushed into his arms. He lifted me tightly, spinning me around like I was a feather and I laughed with delight. Then, his lips met mine in our first kiss. The warmth of his mouth searching and probing inside of my mouth tasted delicious. This was Love. Finally, I had found someone to love me. Finally I could tell my mother she was mistaken. I was a lovable person. I was more than my mother’s piece of trash. I was someone warm, exciting and deserving of love.

    During my senior year of high school, I was filled with happiness. Letters from Benjamin arrived almost daily. Every Sunday evening we talked on the phone. We were engaged, planning for our future together as husband and wife. My new life, filled with love and happiness, was about to begin.
    I met Benjamin’s parents at Christmastime. His mother embraced me with love and acceptance. We discussed our wedding and marriage. That Christmas in New England was the most commemorative holiday I had ever experienced in my young lifetime. We were scheduled to ring in the New Year together in New England. Early one morning, my mother changed our plans and we left, without an explanation. My mother was in one of her moods. When I inquired as to why we were leaving now, she balled a fist at me. Her demeanor was malicious. She belittled Benjamin and his family, telling me I did not belong with them. I kissed Benjamin goodbye, praying that my mother’s behavior would not influence our future. Leaving New England, I cried on the plane, and when I arrived home, I cried into my pillows. Something was different. Something was missing, so I cried…and cried…and cried…just like I was crying now – over grief. One month later, I received a letter from Benjamin, ending our relationship. The distance between us was a deciding factor, he wrote. I read the letter over and over again, realizing my mother’s words of my not deserving of Benjamin’s love were so true. We were from different worlds – a naïve mill kid and a sophisticated, handsome military guy did not mix. Like oil and water, we could not make a life together.

    Funny. I hadn’t really thought about Benjamin in years. Life had a way of keeping me so busy I didn’t have the time to allow emotions to crawl and brew inside of me, but today was different. Tears were pouring down my face, like an endless waterfall.

    Once I had loved Benjamin so much I thought I could not breathe without him. Yet, after we broke up, I realized life still existed. Every morning, I awoke to a new day, only this was another day without my future – Benjamin. My mother laughed at me, telling me I was such a fool for loving a man. “No one should give her heart to a man like you did. It’s no wonder he stomped all over you and broke your heart. You’re such a foolish, insecure and stupid girl. Stupid girls don’t deserve love, and you are one STUPID GIRL,” she shouted, laughing from the depth of her obese stomach at me.

    I struggled to stop the tears, but they rushed inside of me, deep from my heart and soul. “I hate crying. Please God, let me stop crying.” The tears continued to spill down my face as I realized my mother was correct. I was a stupid girl who never deserved love. I missed several days of school because my eyes were swollen and red. I was ashamed for anyone to see me.

    Much to my surprise, during this time, Benjamin’s mother phoned me. Faith wanted to know how I was feeling. How was I coping? She wanted me to keep in touch with Benjamin, so he would awaken and realize he loved me.

    I listened to her, wanting to scream. “Benjamin doesn’t love me. He broke my heart. No one loves me. I’m not worthy of love.”

    Faith listened to me, encouraging me to continue the fight, if I really loved Benjamin.

    Just how is it someone can grieve so painfully when grief was for the lost…those who have died and we will never see again? I asked myself that question over and over again, wishing to find the answer while the grief rushed over me.

    Returning to school, I thrust myself into plans for graduation and my future. When friends asked me about the wedding plans with Benjamin, I pushed them away. I could not talk about the pain I felt. All I could do was burst into another sea of endless tears.

    After graduation, I found love again in the arms of another military man, Garrett. He was stationed at Fort Benning, in preparation for his deployment to Vietnam. Charming and handsome, Garrett and I married a bit too quickly. Three months later, he went to Vietnam.

    During Christmas of that year, I received a package in the mail. I opened it, discovering a card from Faith, along with a beautiful pair of slippers. She signed the card in her handwriting, wishing me a loving and happy journey in my new life as a married woman. She wrote about lost love and how new love would take me along the trials and tribulations of life. She was confident that I would take on this challenge with the new slippers. The colorful satin slippers would carry me along the paths of life, to areas I had never dreamed about. She wished me well, telling me that she would miss me along the way, but she was hopeful that I would keep in touch with her. Faith gave me new inspiration and hope.
    Faith and I kept in touch over the years. During Christmas holidays, we spoke on the phone, catching up like two close friends would do, laughing and crying over life, the birth of children, aging, disappointments and dreams we shared. She consoled me when I cut the cords with my mother. And when I asked her why couldn’t I cry, after my mother passed, she soothed me with her words, reminding me I cut the cords earlier in my life to become a better person since my mother was a bitter woman who was unable and afraid to love. In 2010, I lost contact with Faith. Her phone was disconnected and I knew something was wrong with her. Researching on the computer I discovered Faith had passed away. And so, I cried.

    Benjamin was my foundation, teaching me about love. Faith was my inspiration. She believed in me when no one else would. Garrett was my bridge, accepting and loving me for who I was. But — would he still love me as I grew older, stronger from the wisdom and character I planned to develop with self-growth and self-worth.

    My brain continued to race with grief. Although I felt grief when my mother died, never did I cry. Those tears were disbursed in 1988, when we said our final goodbyes after an emotional war. She threatened to slap me if I didn’t give her some money. I stood my ground, refusing to allow her manipulative intimidations to weaken me. Garrett was playing golf when we fought. When he arrived at my mother’s house, he looked into my eyes, noticing my vacant stare along with my shaking hands. He saw the suitcases sitting by the doorway.

    Garrett nodded for me to go outside on the porch. I opened the tattered doorway, closing it tightly. “What’s the matter? Are you two fighting again?”

    “We’re leaving,” I said, glancing down at my chipped manicured nails.

    “What happened?” Garrett insisted, his voice firm. He placed his arm on my shoulder and I flinched. “Why are your fingernails chipped?”

    Garrett knew me a bit too well at times.

    “Let’s go. Let’s get the suitcases and leave. Now!” I whispered, picking at my fingernails.

    Garrett opened the door.

    My mother stood by the suitcases. “You’re not leaving!” Her arms were crossed. She stood by the suitcases, ready for a battle.

    Garrett stood his ground. “You need to move.”

    My mother placed her hands on the suitcases.

    “If you don’t allow us to take our belongings, I will call the cops,” I said. “We’re leaving and there isn’t anything you can do to keep us here!”

    “I want money.”

    “I don’t have any money,” I said.

    My mother smirked. “You lying bitch! You got cash in your wallet. I seen it. I want it!”

    I rolled my eyes at her, reached down and grabbed the suitcases.

    “Goodbye Mother,” I said.

    I cried all the way home. Garrett touched my hand while he drove. His actions told me I would be OK. Garrett never liked seeing me cry. His demeanor was one of strength. “It don’t mean nothing,” he would say, during and after a fight. “It don’t mean nothing,” and then, he would walk away.

    I was the weakling in our family, at least, according to Garrett. In 1992, after another emotional war where Garrett’s jealousy raged into me, shouting accusations that were not true, thrusting his finger at me while he belittled me, I fell completely apart. Sitting on the corner of the couch, I cried. And cried. And cried. Garrett kept pushing me, wanting to know why I was crying. As hard as I tried to turn the water works off, I could not. Watching the cruel, snappish actions of Garrett, he reminded me of my mother and I cringed. Why wasn’t I worthy of love?

    That night was a turning point for me as I opened my mouth to share a horrific childhood story with Garrett. “I’d like to tell you something I’ve never shared with anyone before. You must promise to listen to me and not say anything until I finish. Promise?”

    Garrett nodded. Glancing at my fingernails, I pulled at the cuticles and my nail polish, a nervous habit I always performed when threatened. I inhaled. Exhaled and said a silent prayer for God to give me strength. I licked my lips and began, unable to stop as I described my mother’s probing hands. Wrinkled, leathered hands that touched me in forbidden places, searching, rushing hands that left me feeling cheap. Garrett listened, occasionally wiping the flood of tears rushing down my face. One hour later, in the darkness of midnight, Garrett held me tight.

    “Now, I understand why you apologize so much. Why your beat yourself in the head at times and always say you are not worthy of love. Now I know why your body jumps when you are sleeping and it is lightning outside. Your mother was wrong to touch you.”

    “But…she was my mother…She only wanted to protect me.”

    Garrett kissed my forehead. “You deserve happiness and love, just the way I love you. Let me love you. Maybe now I can understand why you always hurt yourself, and why you fight me so much when I want to shelter you.”

    “Don’t you see, Garrett? I don’t need sheltering. I’m independent. I’ve always liked doing things on my own. All I’ve ever wanted from you is for you to give me wings to fly.”

    Our relationship began a new journey on that night.

  • THE WAKE UP CALL


    First North American Rights Only
    Total Word Count –1491 words
    Barbie Perkins-Cooper
    E-mail: barbiepc@bellsouth.net

    Arriving in Greensboro, North Carolina, I met Joan at Friendly Shopping Center. I parked the car in the first available spot and headed towards Hecht’s Department Store. Rushing across the parking lot, I waved to Joan. Stopping for only a moment, I admired the Christmas decorations. Early morning bargain hunters were anxious for the doors to open, pushing, and shoving to get to the entrance. Joan and I stepped aside letting an elderly woman in a wheel chair take our spot. Holiday sales meant nothing to me. I’d experienced the worst year in my life, watching my father melting away from the toxic poisons of esophageal cancer and chemo-radiation therapy.

    “Crowds bother me,” I said to Joan. “Will I ever laugh again?”

    Joan nodded. I turned my back to the street, noticing the trees decorated with bright lights. I’d almost forgotten Christmas was less than a month away.

    “How are you doing?” Joan asked.

    “Okay. The trees are beautiful this year.”

    “Just okay, huh,” Joan said. “It’s been six months. If you need to talk, I’m here.”

    Grief is an emotional I do not tolerate well. Normally a boisterous woman, full of laughter and fun, especially at the holidays, my present demeanor was a weakened shell of a woman, bursting into tears at the slightest gesture, especially when someone struggled to move in a wheel chair, or a walker. Too many memories surfaced and I crumbled like a child. I missed my dad more than words could express. My actions revealed how despondent I was, and I truly hated myself for being such a weakling.

    When the doors opened, I looked over my shoulder. Something caught my eye. An object was lying in the road. Someone probably dropped a jacket I thought as I moved closer.

    “Joan,” I said. “I’ll meet you in ladies wear.”

    I didn’t hear Joan answer me. By now, there were hundreds of shoppers pushing and shoving into Hecht’s.
    Striding towards the road, I recognized the item by the curb wasn’t a jacket, but an elderly gentleman.
    “He must be drunk,” I mumbled, moving closer to him. What if he’s dead? I dialed 9-1-1 on my cell phone.

    My mind rewound, stopping at the memories and heartache of July, 1999. That humid Tuesday evening in South Carolina, I was late arriving at Sandpiper Convalescent Center. When I placed my hand on the door of my father’s room, a nurse intercepted me. Nurses were rushing around Dad’s bed.

    “Can you get a pulse?” I heard someone say.

    “His daughter is here. What should we do?”

    Nurse Angie joined me at the doorway. Her eyes locked into mine.

    “No, “I screamed. “No! Please God, No!”

    Nurse Angie sat me down. She didn’t need to tell me what was going on. I knew the day had arrived, and although Dr. Williams told me I needed to prepare myself, I wasn’t ready to let Dad go. I still needed him in my life. For two years he’d fought and survived. For two years, we’d buried the past, building a newfound respect, love and forgiveness. He couldn’t leave me now.

    Nurse Angie whispered. “He’s a DNR. Do you want us to do anything?”

    The acronym for do not resuscitate rang in my ears. “I can’t override his decision. Not even if it means—.” I couldn’t finish the words. Since childhood, Dad was my helping hand. Always ready to cheer me up. He and my grandmother taught me about God and prayer. Dad was the provider who encouraged me to stand up for myself and to speak my mind. Dad was the one who glowed with pride when I sang in the choir. Dad was the one who encouraged me to reach for the stars.

    “Dear God, give me strength,” I prayed. “Take care of my dad. Let him know I love him.”

    A screaming horn brought me back to reality. I stared into the eyes of a driver. “Get the hell out-of-the-way,” the burgundy haired woman shrieked. “I need to turn.”

    I walked over to her. She had body piercings in her eyebrow and nose. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you,” I said. “There’s a gentleman unconscious in the road. I’m not moving him until EMS gets here.”

    “Yeah, whatever,” she mouthed. “I’m in a hurry.”

    “Aren’t we all?”

    I kneeled down, touching the elderly gentleman’s forehead, feeling beads of cold sweat. His hair was thin, salt and pepper gray. His face was weathered, hands wrinkled from years of the roadblocks and detours of life. “Dear God please. Don’t let him die. Not today.”

    His hands felt like ice. His body was thin. A gray beard covered his face. He wore a gold wedding band.

    Inquisitive shoppers moved closer. Removing my coat, I covered him. A young man with spiked hair removed his leather coat, bundled it into a ball, lifting the gentleman’s head.

    “Does he have a pulse?” He asked.

    “I didn’t check.” My lips quivered.

    “It’s okay. I’m a medical student.” He checked for a pulse, nodding yes.

    The gentleman coughed.

    “Sir, can you tell me what day it is?”

    “Saturday. And if you ask me who the President is, I’m gonna scream.”

    The medical student laughed. “You’ve heard these questions a lot, huh?”

    “Doctors think I’m out of my mind, but I’m not. I’ve been in the hospital a lot. I got weak crossing the road. I must’ve blacked out. Bernice wanted to get here early for the sale.”

    “Where’s your wife?” I said.

    “Parking the car. I had chemo this week.”

    I warmed his freezing hands with mine. “Chemo,” I muttered, understanding his weakness.

    Joan joined me, touching my shoulder. “You okay?”

    I nodded.

    “Cancer,” I said. “You go shopping. I’ll stay with him.”

    “Sirens,” someone said. “They’re coming.”

    The man squeezed my hand. “Don’t leave me,” he said.

    “I’ll be here until we find Bernice.”

    “She’s buying me some fishing tackle.”

    “You must like to fish,” I said, hoping he’d remain alert. “Is there someone else we can call?”

    “My grandson, Hank. His number’s in my wallet.”

    The medical student found his wallet, dialed the number.

    When EMS arrived, a pretty older woman joined us. She smiled at me and thanked me. “I’m Bernice. His wife. Thanks for helping him,” she said.

    While sitting inside Ruby Tuesday’s for lunch, I found myself able to talk. A sudden burst of adrenalin had me chatting non-stop about Dad’s terminal illness, forgiveness and death.

    “When I was little, I was hit by a car. My Grammy said I was spared for a reason,” I said to Joan, sipping a steaming French vanilla coffee. “Until today, I never understood what she meant. I couldn’t leave that man in the road.”

    “You really have a way with old people,” she said.

    I laughed. “Thanks to cancer. I’ve never told you this, but my relationship with my parents wasn’t good. Until Dad got sick, I couldn’t forgive them.”

    I looked around the crowded restaurant. “Life is so short. So unfair. I’ve always taken life a bit too seriously… Now, I try to find the rainbows… I’ve started praying every night. That’s something I didn’t do for many years. I was racing on an endless spinning wheel.” I paused.

    “Dad’s illness was a wake up call. His faith taught me to step out of that rat race and reach out to others. Two days before he died, I visited him like I always did. I didn’t want him to die without me there. On July 4th he was sitting in his rocking chair, reading the Bible. When he saw me arrive, he raised his voice, asking me what I was doing there. I thought he was angry, so I only stayed a few minutes. I didn’t visit the next day. Now that he’s gone, I realized he was detaching. He knew his days on earth were numbered. Maybe God spoke to him.”

    “You were remarkable,” Joan said. The daily visits, the letters you wrote to his family and friends every month. The care you gave him. He was blessed.”

    “I was blessed. People come into our lives for a purpose, and God brought Dad back into my life, forcing me to wake up. Rebuilding that relationship gave me the courage I need to live the rest of my life and to make a few changes. Just when we think the door has closed, God opens a window. What more can I ask for?”

    My cell phone rang. The medical student shared an updated report about the gentleman in the road. He was stable. Bernice was by his side.

    The experience of stopping to help a total stranger during that holiday season opened my eyes and heart to our purpose in life. Each life has a reason for existence. My grandmother always told me to look for rainbows when life gives us detours. As a child, I didn’t understand her wisdom. Now, older and much wiser, I appreciated her words.

    When life brings rain, look for the rainbow. Grammy’s wisdom about God, along with my dad’s, was instilled forever inside my heart.

    -30-

    Born in Columbus, Georgia, Barbie Perkins-Cooper is a talented, award-winning writer of screenplays, fiction, non-fiction, plays, and numerous articles for regional and trade publications. She began her writing career as a child, publishing a science fiction story during third grade in Atlanta, Georgia. Her areas of writing expertise include fiction, non-fiction, articles, plays and screenplays. In 2001, she published a complex memoir based on her father’s battle with esophageal cancer. The non-fiction memoir is titled, “Condition of Limbo.”

    As a writer of accomplishment, she works diligently to achieve her goals as a professional screenwriter and playwright. She was selected as a finalist in the teleplay category with her screenplay, the Commish…The Signature Rapist. Additional screenplays were selected as finalist for the Chesterfield Writers’ Film Project and the Goldie Film Awards, Fade In competition, The Writers Network, and America’s Best, The Writers Foundation. In February 2004, she was awarded the Grand Goldie Film Award for her screenplay, Not My Papa.

    Barbie Perkins-Cooper is a member of The Society of Professional Journalists and North Carolina Writers Network. SIn her spare time, she likes to kick off her shoes, and relax on the beaches of South Carolina. Writing is her passion.

  • When Customer Service Makes Your Day


    Dearest Readers:

    After my last post, maybe I should write an update. Yesterday was a bad day for me…one where I wanted to simply crawl into the woodwork and NEVER come out. Today, I am happy to report is a good day.

    At least it has started off better. Yesterday, I had one of my emotional meltdowns, right in front of a complete stranger. All I could do was cry, like a baby, as my husband would say.

    Yesterday, when I had my meltdown I was at Gerald’s Tires, attempting to get an estimate on brakes and one more tire. I suppose I wasn’t communicating correctly since I was so stressed, but a kind and gentle guy at Gerald’s suddenly became my guardian angel. While I was struggling to communicate, between sighs and tears, a guy named Greg entered the area. He touched my hand, told me everything was going to be ok and they could get me an estimate on these repairs. Well, you guessed it — I burst into tears.

    Why? I don’t know. Somebody turned on the water works and I could not stop.

    Today, my car is at Gerald’s, to receive the final new tire and brakes. Now, when I travel alone, I will be safe. No monster will find me broken down, or with a flattened or blown out tire along the road. Thank you, God! Thank you, Gerald’s Tires — most especially, thank you, Greg! You were my knight in shining armor yesterday, and today on the phone. There is something to be said about customer service, and I must say, Gerald’s Tires in Mount Pleasant, SC is doing the right thing with their customer service! No Good Ole Boys — just GREAT CUSTOMER SERVICE and they appear to understand the frustrations from a woman’s perspective! Now, I feel better — my writing day can begin!

  • Mother Nature…Chilling Breezes…and the Good Ole Boys!


    Dearest Readers:

    Someone on Facebook mentioned a freewriting site that is private, so here I am typing away. I suppose it could be referred to as ‘freewriting,’ the infamous writing tasks that writers do to get the wheels in motion so they can write. I am only one of those writers. At times, I struggle to get the words down. Other times, my fingers cannot dance across the keyboard quickly enough. So be it. We are writers. Thomas Wolfe once said, “Writing is easy…you just open a vein and bleed.” How I can relate!

    But, one might ask — what is freewriting, and why should I care? Duh! Freewriting is a form of just getting the words down, and that is what I am doing today — just to see IF this will help me to write regularly. Reportedly, when a writer ‘freewrites,’ he or she doesn’t correct the spelling, doesn’t edit, but simply writes. I have the tendency to correct and edit as I write. Maybe that’s why I find freewriting torture!

    As a writer, I now hate the task of writing. Years ago, in college, I did not understand when the professor stated that writers HATE to write. I disagreed with him. Well now, older, wiser, and still rejected at times, — a reality that ALL writers face — I can truly share that my professor was correct. There are times I hate to write.

    My readers tell me that I can write and that they ‘love reading my stories.’ How I laugh. While I appreciate the kindness of my reading public, I do not share how stressed I get when I cannot write. An example of that is yesterday. I had the day planned, starting with taking my car to the garage to be serviced. I asked the Dodge garage to check my car thoroughly. When completed, they shared that I needed a new tire and my rear brakes were wearing out. The quote for this was almost $400, so I drove to another site, Gerald’s, to be exact. When I told my husband about the quote, of course, he questioned everything. “We just bought you four new tires,” he screamed.

    “Nope. If you recall, we bought three tires.”

    He wanted to argue, and this set me off. My husband could easily be the king of the good ole boys club! After hanging up with him, I burst into tears. Never does he believe me and he always has to correct me — convinced that I am wrong; however, this time he is incorrect and I can prove it with the invoices from the tire purchases. I ask you — why do men have to ALWAYS be right? Like all humans, they are not perfect, although my husband totally disagrees. He NEVER MAKES MISTAKES. Oh, please! The tears continue to pour and I am so angry I could scream! An ocean of tears that refused to stop. ‘Why am I crying?’ I asked myself. ‘There’s no need for these tears.’

    I inhaled. Exhaled. Meditated. Looked up into the gray skies and had a discussion with God. Finally, the stress lifted and I was able to wipe my tears away. When my husband came home, thank goodness his mood improved. He held me close, suggesting we go out for dinner, so I could relax.

    “Just go get us something. I don’t want to do anything tonight.”

    Later, I sat on the couch, catching up on the stack of newspapers that I hadn’t had the time to read for five days.

    Why is my life so stressful? Why can’t I manage my time better? Maybe I’m spending too much time on Facebook, so effective this morning, I am cutting back on my time on social media, I plan to organize and clean out my e-mail system, and I plan to write more.

    Still freewriting here.

    Today is a new day. The sun is shining brightly on this bitterly cold spring day. According to Weather Bug, the temperature outside in Charleston, SC is a crisp 36 degrees. Normally by this date, I have a nice tan. Not this year. I haven’t been to the beach at all this spring. It is much too chilly for me, and if I’m not careful, I will get overly chilled and get dreadfully sick. Today, I still need to wear tights, sweaters and coats. I have no idea what is happening with Mother Nature and I am curious — just WHO made her so angry that she decided to extend her winter breezes? Maybe this is Mother Nature’s way of retaliating with the good ole boys! As for me, I would love to embrace Mother Nature and tell her it is time to ‘move forward with life…not look back!’ Yes, Mother Nature — are you listening? We have thick layers of pollen flying around, mixed with the bitterness of your cool breezes. This is Charleston, SC. The number one tourist destination!?! Yes, I know — the city better known as the ‘good ole boys’ club…Well, just maybe it is time for those good ole boys to step down and let Mother Nature do her best, like she always does. We need warm weather here — not chilling winter breezes. Besides, I am sick of dealing with ‘good ole boys!’ They have such a 1950’s attitude about women, and this woman refuses to give in to the good ole boys. Grow up guys, and be a real man!

    Still struggling to write the 750 words needed on this site, while I sip another warm cup of freshly brewed coffee. My children are playing outside, barking, wanting to come inside. I suppose they want to be warm. Maybe I’ll stop for now and embrace my children. Maybe it’s time for me to move forward and thank God for another day, even IF it is still cold! Br-rrr! I miss springtime! As for the ‘good ole boys’ I say — who cares! I will let Mother Nature take care of them, and she is definitely a woman no man wants to cross! If you are a good ole boy, please recognize it is time you moved into the Twenty-first Century!!!

  • March 20, 2014 — Welcome to The First Day of Spring!


    Dearest Readers:

    Today I awaken to the first day of spring. Living in the South, my absolute favorite time of the year is springtime — when the earth is awakening to new life. Pollen. The blooming of fresh spring flowers. The scents and aromas of freshness. Jasmine. Mimosa. Daisies. Honey Suckle. Azaleas. And how can I possibly leave out the beauty and aromatic scents of roses.

    The USA has endured a bitterly cold winter. Some areas still have snow. Many of the schools in North Carolina have nine school days to makeup after the freezing temperatures and snow days. Little did those children realize that when they have a snow day and are able to romp and play in the snow, when the weather warms, they must make up those days. Their reply is a simple one, “Well…that’s so not fair!”

    How true! Isn’t life all about change and growth? In the eyes of little children they learn at an early age that life just isn’t fair.

    Nevertheless, today is the first day of spring. I awoke a bit late. Exhausted from lack of sleep, I took a sleeping pill last night, in hopes I would sleep. My silly big guy, my giant schnauzer, Prince Midnight Shadow must have a sleeping problem too. He awakens every hour or so demanding to go outside, and so, I stumble around the house to let him outside. When he rushes back to his bed, I scold him a bit telling him “Mommy needs sleep. Please let me sleep little buddy!”

    He does not grant me that wish. If ONLY he would sleep longer!

    Today is a gloriously beautiful day in Charleston. A day where I would love to walk on the Arthur Ravenel, Jr. Bridge, but I’m much too tired. Maybe the exhaustion is related to such a long and cold winter in the tourist mecca of Charleston. I have worn my collection of sweaters, fur coats and mittens too much. Did I actually say I wore mittens? In Charleston? Yes. I wore them so much I actually placed an additional pair in my glove compartment so my freezing hands would get warm quickly.

    I don’t adjust well to cold weather. My sinuses ache, along with my fingers and my right knee. My demeanor on days filled with gray clouds and bitterly cold temperatures decrease my mood. I have threatened to run away from the cold. A friend asked me — “Where would you go?”

    Without thinking twice I replied, “Hawaii. I would sell everything and move to Hawaii.”

    Now, that’s a delightful thought. Maybe I’ll click on to my photographs of Hawaii and dream about those radiant sunrises and sunsets. The hula dancing and cuisine. The people. If ever there is a place to vacation — to get away from it all — Hawaii is the place!

    And so, I awaken to the first day of spring — to face reality once again. Looking outside, I do not see robins in my yard, nor do I see butterflies. I so look forward to seeing them again. Springtime. I confess, Charleston, SC is a BEAUTIFUL city in the spring when the flowers are blooming, the Azalea Festival arrives, along with all of the college graduations and I must mention the destination weddings in the chapels and along the beaches. How I love springtime. Achoo…now –just where are my tissues? Yes, I have allergies and cannot open my windows to enjoy the fresh warmth of the breezes in spring time, nor can my allergies appreciate the thick layer of pollen flying into the house. Regardless, I will tolerate all of the pollen and sinus headaches because — TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING. After my lawn dries out I can FINALLY rake my yard, plant flowers and enjoy this beautiful city….and soon…..SO SOON…I will not only walk on the bridge, I will slip my toes on the sand and walk along Sullivan’s Island, and I will look for the coyotes too! After all, it is springtime. The earth is fresh with new growth and change, and I embrace it all!

    Hello, Mother Springtime. It’s about time you arrived!

  • Another Gray Day — In My Dreams I Live in Hawaii!


    Dearest Readers:

    Today is Monday…another day of rain and gray clouds. I am so sick of this rain and the grayness. It is so depressing. Winter is a time where the sun appears to choose to stay within the clouds, instead of beaming with rich colors and warmth. On days like today, I simply want to run away. I spoke to a dear friend earlier. She resides in North Carolina and they are getting ice again. Will this weather EVER improve?

    Yes, we have had a few days of sunshine, but not many. Last week I noticed a robin in my back yard. The first sign of spring. My dad and I played a game every year to see who would see the first robin. Usually, he was the winner. He was retired at the time and took his ‘daily strolls’ so he managed to see the robins. I, on the other hand, was practically married to Corporate America, so my days were spent recruiting students, writing speeches and other unpredictable demands of my life in Corporate America. Let’s don’t even discuss weekends. Corporate America demanded ALL of my TIME!

    Now, as a writer, I have the time to look for robins and I must say, seeing that beautiful robin in my back yard, directing his look at me sitting by my window, I felt the presence of my dad and I knew, springtime is just around the corner and I want to embrace it tightly! Last week, I planned to work in my yard. To rake the leaves and place them in my compost pile. When I went outside to do that, the lawn was still too wet, so I chose to do some spring cleaning instead. The weekend, it rained. Today, rain again — it is STILL RAINING while I write this. Will it EVER stop? Normally by now in Charleston, SC the azaleas are blooming along with other flowers. This year? Every thing is still soaked, or just beginning to bud. Saturday, when I stripped the beds, I removed my electric blanket. Today, it is 44 degrees at the moment. How I wish I’d left that warm and toasty blanket on my bed. Oh well. I’ll simply have to snuggle up close just to get warm. It has been such a cold winter for us here in Charleston. I’m ready to sell everything and move to a warmer climate — maybe Hawaii!!!

    At least a girl can dream, and in my dreams I live in Hawaii and I stroll along on Waikiki Beach daily. Never did I feel threatened or unsafe in Hawaii.

    I suppose this gray, wet day is getting the best of me because all I am doing today is rambling. Oops…make that is freewriting instead! Heaven forbid if I rambled! How I wish I was back in Hawaii again! Yes, walking along the streets to International Market Place, dressed in shorts, a T-shirt, my camera and phone nearby.

    Oh, how I’d love to get a trip to Hawaii again! The climate is magnificent, and even when it rains, it is only for a short while. Later, the sun comes out, and the day is beautiful! Incidentally, I have photographs to prove it!

    Aloha!!!

  • Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge Is Still Closed…


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    Dearest Readers:

    How are you enjoying these incredible winter storms? I find it interesting that the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia is having temperatures in the high 60’s while the USA is freezing in many locations, including the mild climate of Charleston, SC. Early Wednesday morning at 4:00am, our signature, landmark bridge, Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge was closed due to the inclement weather — ice on the bridge. Today, it is Thursday, my Weight Watchers meeting day and the bridge is still closed; in fact, according to Governor Nikki Haley, it is the only bridge in South Carolina that is still closed.

    What is the problem? Why can’t this bridge be opened. SIMPLE! The bridge has two diamond-shaped twin towers with approximately 128 cable stays. On the cables ice is falling onto the bridge. Would you want your car to be at risk due to unguided missiles falling from the cables? I think not. Two weeks ago we experienced this ice situation. Engineers and the SCDOT decided to open the bridge because if and when the cable stays thaw out, the ice will fall away from the roadbed. NOT!

    After the bridge opened, the ice thawed, dropping onto several cars. Some of the windshields exploded. One woman reportedly suffered an eye injury when shattered glass fell into her eye. Thank God no one was killed! I can only imagine the lawsuits that will occur.

    And so, we the residents of Charleston, SC await to hear the bridge has opened again. Many people are furious about the situation. Well, I’ve said it for years, and I will continue to say it here and in public — the antiquated city of Charleston, SC needs to build more bridges. We are having an amazing growth spell in Charleston now, but with growth we need more roads and that just isn’t happening.

    According to news alerts I receive, the bridge is still closed at this moment, due to the ice falling from the cable stays.

    I have lived in Charleston for many, many years. I haven’t seen many new roads built, and I doubt they ever will, but we definitely need more bridges. The only way out of Mt. Pleasant into Charleston is thru the I-526 highways, or if you take the back roads, you can travel on Highway 41. Just make certain you have plenty of gas because it is a long way to travel, just to get to your destination. Or, if you are in a hurry — just face the reality of the situation…You are in Charleston, SC — where things move at a slower pace. Yes, I love the city and the beauty, but we really do need to modernize and build more roads.

    Somehow I doubt it will happen. People here are still fighting over the cruise ships in the harbor. So, fellow residents if you are looking for a way to cross the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge — just stay home, or take the Charleston Water Taxi, http://www.charlestonwatertaxi.com/

    You will not be disappointed. The view from the water taxi is spectacular!

  • When I Think About Christmas…I Think of Traditions…


    Dearest Readers:

    December 2020:

    Since the arrival of Corona Covid-19 Virus, I still like to think about traditions, especially at Christmas Time. This year, we will not visit or attend Christmas parties of any kind. Phil and I are blessed. Neither of us has suffered from any contagious diseases. Mainly, we remain at home. This will be the first anniversary of our move to the country. We enjoy the wildlife and all the blessings of life in the country. I hope and pray all of you reading this will enjoy the traditions of the past and future traditions. May God bless us, everyone. Merry Christmas.

    Today is Christmas Eve, December 24, 2013. A day for the world to come together, to celebrate and give thanks. When I think about Christmas, I think about years past. Many Christmases celebrated at my maternal grandparents’ tiny home in the mill village of Bibb City, Georgia. I remember my grandmother’s hands, washing them every few minutes as she prepared the traditional foods for our Christmas Day. I remember the apron she wore, and I recall the delicious, tempting aromas of pies baking in the oven—the country ham, covered with cloves, pineapples, and cherries.

    Although our family was not rich, we lived in a community where people looked out for one another. At Christmas time, we had food delivered to us from our neighbors. One little lady within the community was famous for her pound cakes. Every year, she delivered a freshly made pound cake to our door. Another lady made pies, especially homemade apple pies. Grandma baked custard pies, and sometimes, she made homemade lemon meringue pies. She always made her delicious, soft as a cloud and flaky homemade biscuits. Ham sandwiches tasted so much better when we used a cold biscuit.  Christmas time was truly a time to eat…and eat…and eat. Never did we worry about calories.

    In later years, Grandma was too weak to bake. Breast cancer had taken its toll on her. I took over as the official Christmas cook. Never did I master Grandma’s biscuits, but I could bake fabulous pound cakes.

    Our traditions as a family were simple. We exchanged gifts, most of them purchased at the family-owned stores within the Bibb City community. We decorated a Christmas tree, usually just a few days before Christmas. We went to church on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Early in the morning of Christmas Day, we opened our gifts, rushed to the church, and arrived back home to finish cooking the Christmas meal. As a family, we held hands before eating, saying the family prayer of thanks.

    At seventeen, our Christmas traditions changed, at least for me. I was a ‘grown, married woman,’ but my husband was away fighting a war. My mother and dad had divorced when I was fifteen. Christmas became a sad time for me. A husband away at war, my father visiting ‘just for the day.’

    Quickly, the years faded away. My husband and I made our own traditions. Going to church. Attending Christmas plays and musical festivals. Sending Christmas cards to friends and family who lived away from us. We drove around, looking for Christmas lights in the more upscale communities. In 1973, we moved to Charleston. Every Christmas, my dad would visit with us, and together we built new traditions. Christmas dinner at our house, using the best china and lace tablecloths I owned. We opened presents, watched football, and enjoyed the company of each other.

    In July 1999, I lost my dad. Suddenly Christmas was quiet. Although we have a son, he shares his holidays with the family of his wife. Rarely do we get to see them, or our grandchild, who is now 13-years-old?

    Phil and I are making new traditions now. We drive to see the Christmas Festival of Lights in Charleston and other locations within our community. Tonight, we are going to church to hear Christmas music. This year, Phil played DJ for two of my friends and me at the Red Hatters Christmas Luncheon. We’ve attended Christmas parties, and I have noticed more people are saying “Merry Christmas” instead of “Happy Holidays.”

    After this discovery, I contemplated in hopes that people are drifting back to the true meaning of Christmas, along with Christmas traditions. So many people are in the belief that Christmas is a time to overindulge. A time to overspend and max our credit cards. A time to overdo things. For example, many people must have the most Christmas lights on their home to show how much Christmas spirit they have. Forgive me, but placing lights on a home does nothing to indicate how much Christmas spirit one has. According to a news report this morning, Christmas was not celebrated in the USA until 1871. I was shocked to hear that statement. No, I haven’t the time today to research it, but I have always been under the impression that Christmas was ALWAYS celebrated. My grandparents shared old stories when I was a child, how they used candles on the tree and in the house. I suppose in my childish mind I could not understand why electricity wasn’t used—silly me.

    I lost my grandparents many years ago, but the memories I have are to be cherished.

    What are your traditions at Christmas?

    This year, we will celebrate Christmas Day at a friend’s home. Perhaps after dinner, we will sing a bit of karaoke and drink a bit of wine. Meanwhile, I will reminisce about my Christmas Days as a child. There were four children inside the house, all tucked in, nice and warm. We would rush to see what was under the tree. Did Santa Claus bring me that special doll? Did I get a guitar? Just what would Santa Claus bring us? As stated, our family was not rich, but Santa Claus never forgot us. Now that I am older and wiser, I realize Christmas is really not about gifts. Christmas Day is a day to reflect and give thanks that we have family and friends who will care for us and spend time with us during the good times and the sad times. Christmas Day is the day to celebrate Christ and to share that celebration with the world.

    Last year at Christmas I was sick. So sick, I didn’t have the energy to cook a Christmas meal. Phil ordered a Christmas meal from Publix. When he delivered it, I realized it needed to be heated again because it was so cold. The meal was dreadful. I told Phil never to order a Christmas meal from any grocery store again. I was so disappointed. Now that I’m well, I wonder, was the meal so bad because I didn’t prepare it, and I STILL had to cook it? Later that afternoon, we drove to some friends’ home to have Christmas dinner. Honestly, I was so ill, I don’t remember much about Christmas 2012. Illness, and a constant cough that refused to go away. May I never celebrate another Christmas Day that ill!

    My wish and prayers for you, my readers, is a day of Christmas Thanks and Traditions. May you enjoy the love and caring of your family and friends while taking the time to continue with your Christmas traditions. This evening, Phil and I will be at church. Later, we will exchange gifts, in hopes that we will see our grandchild.

    Merry Christmas to all of you!

  • Ah…Home Sweet Home…”At Last…”


    So nice to arrive home earlier with my babies awaiting our arrival. Over the weekend Phil and I participated in the Murrells Inlet Elks Lodge show, based on the Charleston Elks Lodge, Back Porch Opera Extravaganza. We had a terrific time last night. Phil served as the sound engineer, dj, and of course, I sang. No, I did not sing “At Last,” my signature song. I chose, “When We Make Love,” Alabama style, adding my one little version, of course.

    We drove up on Friday, choosing to go to karaoke on Friday night at Broadway at the Beach. One thing I suggest to the City of Myrtle Beach is to establish a ‘non-smoking ordinance.’ Silly me. I assumed that Myrtle Beach is non-smoking. It is not. The cigarette plumes radiated throughout the bar and I could not wait to leave. Unfortunately, we stayed until midnight. Seems we had a bit of a miscommunication with some friends, hiring a cab driver. Trust me, that will not happen to me again! I will remain the designated driver.

    At Broadway at the Beach, I sang “At Last,” and when I was finally called up to sing again, I chose, “Unchained Melody.” By that time, the audience was truly having, shall I say, a grand time…drinking…doing shots…and all that stuff I do not do. Yes, I do drink occasionally, but I absolutely refuse to drink wine from a plastic cup. It doesn’t taste right so I drank water…But, back to my song. When I sang “Unchained Melody,” I connected with the audience, belting the song out as the crowd hushed to listen.

    Only a performer understands the euphoric feeling of having the audience relating and listening. I must say, it was fabulous!

    To all that drove up to Murrells Inlet for the show, and to perform in the show, I say thank you. I am so proud to be a member of this amazing group of local performers from the Charleston, SC Elks Lodge.

    And now, I must get back to work…to feed my children and to share with them how much I’ve missed them. This will be an early night. I am much too tired…At Last I am home…Home Sweet Home!