Barbie Perkins-Cooper, Author

Tag: Reflections

  • In Memory of My Father


    Dearest Readers:

    Below is an essay written before my father’s death – July 6, 1999

    WALTER W. PERKINS

    Mr. Sandpiper, 1998

    Born an identical twin on December 19, 1914, Walter W. Perkins will soon celebrate his 84th birthday and he is the only surviving family member left of his generation.  His identical twin brother was named Lewis.  The Perkins Family included a total of six siblings, three boys, and three girls.  Growing up as twins (Lewis and Walter) shared more than most siblings and they were inseparable — virtually impossible to tell apart.   Known as The Perkins Twins, they sang harmonically in church choirs while preaching the gospel.  They traveled to many cities, touring as The Perkins Twins and found this to be their calling in life; however, their future together, billed as The Perkins Twins, was short-lived.  Lewis became ill at the age of 26 and died suddenly.

    Because he loves meeting people and does it so well, Dad chose the hotel industry for his profession while pursuing his dream as a writer and poet.  In the early 1960’s he wrote a poem titled, Living Words, based somewhat on Sir Winston Churchill.  Living Words was published and today is on display at the Winston Churchill Museum.  At the age of 65, Dad retired from the Rodeway Inn, Atlanta, GA.  He is divorced and the father of four daughters.  Before becoming ill, he lived at the Canterbury House in downtown Charleston and took daily strolls for relaxation.

    Dad is a tall and proud man and he can recite poetry like a Shakespearean actor.  He is a lover of words and can paint a magnificent poetic picture while he recites the historical stories and events of times past.  An avid sports buff, he knows almost every popular football or baseball star by name, position and statistic and he can tell many interesting stories about sports, especially baseball.  If you do not care for sports, you will learn to find it an interesting fascination, just by listening to the stories Dad shares.

    Dad has always loved the magic of words, and as a young man, he wished to make the family tradition of journal writing part of his daily activities.  He has an impressive collection of family diaries and his daily ritual includes writing the days events in his personal diary.  He started this ritual many years ago and has quite an invaluable collection of diaries.  He has researched our family genealogy, dating us back to the early 1600’s.  One impressive member of our family (distant but still very special) is the late Diana, Princess of Wales.  Our heritage dates back to the Spencer Family.

    Today, Dad still believes in rituals and he records special things in his journal of diaries.  From historical moments, to births, deaths, marriages, and yes, even the sad times, are recorded as part of the Perkins History.  Significant events are recorded in “Strolling in Memories Gardens.”

    As a father, he instilled many beliefs in me and I am proud to call him Dad!  He taught me to look inside of a person, to see the inner beauty and not just the face or the smile.  He encouraged me to believe in myself and to always “make it a good day!”  He has lived a wonderful and proud life and I have never been more proud of him than I have during this year.  Walter W. Perkins is truly my bright and shining star, my beautiful aromatic rose, and he is the most loyal and dedicated father, family and friend I have ever known!

    Sun Sets in Hawaii
    Dad spoke of sunsets and sunrises, sharing with me that he was in the sunset of his life. Maybe that is why I have such passion for sunsets. Rest in peace, my precious father. How I miss you!

    Barbie Perkins-Cooper

    December 19, 1998

  • Illegal or Legal Immigrants


    Dearest Readers:

    Immigration. Illegal? Legal? What about the children???

    For all of you viewing just a photograph of a child crying — why don’t you read the full story?

    https://www.cbsnews.com/news/border-patrol-agent-involved-dramatic-photo-girl-crying-at-border-speaks-out/

    The mother was being searched. Both were exhausted. People are assuming the worst. Yes, my heart aches whenever I see a child crying; however, as a writer, I like to read or confirm the “real story.”

    I haven’t spoken publicly about this scenario until now. This is the United States of America. Most of us have a history of immigrants; however, Most of them were legal – not illegal. My ancestors came to America from England in the early 1600’s. On my father’s ancestry, we are related to the Spencer family. When my father showed me the documents, I smiled and said “I’m related to Lady Diana? Well, I always knew I was royalty!” My father chuckled! As for the illegal immigrants,  I cannot fathom any mother leaving her children. There is another unrelated story after a father speaks out, saying his wife and one child left to seek a ‘future’ in America. She left her older children. I ask you, how can a mother leave her children? I could not.

    As a professional journalist, and a member of SPJ – Society of Professional Journalists, I must follow the SPJ CODE OF ETHICS. I’ve always researched, confirmed and written my stories with information to back what I say. I do not dream up or allow my bylines to practice “If it bleeds, it leads.”

    Years ago, while in Los Angeles, my friends and I took a bus tour to Tijuana. I was excited to find some jewelry. I was warned not to speak to the children who would approach us. Well, let’s just say – I have a soft spot for children, and when they approached me with flowers, I smiled, gave them a dollar and told them to keep the flowers. One little boy rushed over to me, after I was out of one dollar bills. When I told him no, he spit — in my face! I mentioned this to the bus driver and he laughed. “I warned you,” he said! When we left, we got the bus driver to give us a brief tour of Tijuana. I was flabbergasted when I saw stacks of cardboard around the area. The cardboard was used to build a cardboard home. I’ve never forgotten those images. I never will. No wonder they want a better life in America. Who can blame them? I wasn’t a professional photographer at the time, so I do not have images to prove what I saw.

    My heart breaks for the people so desperate to cross the border illegally. I do not know if most are criminals, drug dealers, etc. I haven’t confirmed those comments many people have stated. If they are ILLEGAL, they are teaching their children one thing – and that is – in America, you can break the law, just to cross the border! I do not believe ALL that is on the Internet. After all, anyone can post fake articles, or stories. Just because you read them or view the images on the Internet does not mean they are true. So, to my fans, I say, let us all be careful. Images can be made into amazing photo-shopped images. Videos can be edited! Remember, “if it bleeds, it leads…” does not mean it is an image to really believe!

    How I wish our media would stop being so critical about immigration. This is America! We support LEGAL immigration, not ILLEGAL immigration! DSC_0013My two cents worth on this steaming, scorching day in Charleston, SC.

    I will pray for those who are missing their children; however, maybe next time, they need to enter the USA as legal immigrants – NOT Illegal!

  • Happy Father’s Day


    Dearest Readers:

    Happy Father’s Day to all of the father’s in the United States of America. Today is a special day, to give thanks and celebrate our fathers. From the moment we were born, most of us had a father. Maybe you have precious memories of your father, and perhaps there are some, like me, who have — shall I say — interesting, sometimes traumatic memories.

    As a little girl, I looked up to my father, sometimes squealing for him to scoop me into his arms. However, at five-years-old, I saw a different side of my father, and I must say, he scared me. At the time, we were living in the projects in Atlanta, Georgia. I hated the projects! My mother loved to go outside and gossip with all of the nasty, ugly, snide women who lived in the projects. On one crisp Saturday morning, my mother was outside. Sitting by the curb, legs spread wide open, wearing a dress. I couldn’t understand why my mother always told me to keep my knees together when I sat, wearing a dress, when she didn’t practice what she preached, but I listened and I didn’t dare open my legs wide in a dress. On this morning, Mom was laughing with the women, talking about the neighbors, the fighting and the ugly gossip always shared when wicked women get together.

    I was sitting on the back porch playing with my dolly when Daddy opened the back door, screaming for my mama. She ignored his call. I looked at my daddy, seeing an evil look in his eyes. He pointed his finger at me, shaking it furiously he said: “You go get your mother and tell her I want to speak with her.” He paused, and then he screamed at me, “NOW!”

    “Yes Sir,” I said, placing my doll on the floor of the porch.

    I ran as fast as my little legs could move. “Mama, Daddy wants you. He’s been calling for you.”

    She laughed, scratched her inner thigh and looked at me. “Well, girls I guess I better jump and go to him. You all know how these men in the projects get if the little woman doesn’t obey.”

    They laughed. As Mama rose, Daddy met her. He shook her shoulders. Words were expressed, but I can’t remember exactly what he said. She laughed, then thrust her arms at him. He pushed her, knocking her down on to the concrete next to the metal trash cans. Mama hit her head on the trash can and when she fell she bruised her knees.

    The gossipy, wicked women rushed away.

    I struggled to help my mama up. I looked at my daddy, standing tall. Anger seeping from his eyes. I put my hands on his legs and said, “Daddy move away. Mama’s coming. Don’t push her anymore. That was a mean thing to do.”

    I suppose one could say, on that day, I became the referee for our family. I was the middle child, but I refused to tolerate abuse and every time I was around, watching my daddy and my mother fight so dreadfully, I remember squeezing into the middle of the fight, placing my arms out to make them move away. I would always say, “Daddy. Mama. Stop this fighting. If you want to beat someone, beat me!”

    When I was fifteen, I stopped the final fight. I arrived home from school. Excited to share that I had a lead in a musical! I was so happy and proud of myself on that beautiful Tuesday afternoon. Walking inside the house, I heard shouting and I knew, another round of fights was on. I listened to the shouts, cursing and the horror. I knocked on the door, then I pushed it open. Mama was bending down, gasping for breath. Her face was blue. Daddy stood, watching her, holding a stack of mail.

    “You two need to stop this,” I screamed. “Look at her. She’s having difficulty breathing. You need to stop this fighting before one of you kills the other. One of you needs to leave.”

    Daddy threw the mail in my direction. “Look at this. Just look at what she did. She bought a diamond ring and didn’t tell me. Now they’re going to garnish my wages. We’ll have to file for bankruptcy. Just look at what she’s done.”

    I glanced at one envelope stamped with an orange Past Due notice.

    “The fighting needs to stop before one of you goes to prison,” I said.

    Little did I know how things would change.

    The next day, I walked home from school, trying to work things out in my head. I knew domestic abuse wasn’t healthy in a family situation. I felt helpless. I had no one to talk to. None of my relatives would understand and I was certain if I said anything to anyone, I would become the trouble maker of our family. I remember hearing people saying fighting in a marriage was “normal”… “A Family Matter…”

    Opening the door to the house, my mama was sitting on the couch in tears.  She rushed at me. “This is all your fault. I hope you’re happy now. Your daddy left us today. He’s dead. Dead. DEAD. I never want to hear his name again in this house and you are never allowed to talk to him, or mention his name again!”

    The following Saturday, Mama moved us to Columbus, Georgia. Four children. One adult, living in a two bedroom mill village with our grandparents. To say we were crowded for space is an understatement.

    I had to follow the rules:

    Church on Sunday.

    Wednesday night prayer meetings at church

    No makeup (I broke that rule)

    No rock n’ roll music, only Christian music

    Go to school

    Nothing more.

    I hated this new life and rebelled. No, I never did drugs. Never tried alcohol. I rebelled by staying alone, taking walks, retreating to the Chattahoochee River. At school, I became a wallflower, refusing to try out for plays, musicals, or anything interesting. I wrote to my dad, letting him know I loved him.

    Never do I really remember celebrating Father’s Day for my dad as a child. As a grown up, married with a child of my own, I chose to make Father’s Day special. I bought cards for my dad. When he visited us, he was different. I actually heard him laugh, and I watched him playing with my son. Gone from his demeanor was the anger, hatred, and abuse. Never did I hear my dad say anything ugly about our mother after their divorce. He was truly a changed man. No violence. No shouting. Just a kind, and loving man filled with Laughter and Happiness within himself.

    In December, 1997, my beloved father became ill with esophageal cancer. Serving as his caregiver until his death on July 6, 1999, I truly saw a beautiful person within his demeanor. On one occasion, he thanked me for what I said on the last day before my parents separated. He admired my strength to serve as the referee. To my knowledge, no one within our family circle knew about the domestic “family matters” of our family.

    As a writer, I’ve written many articles about domestic abuse. How it changes a family. How it paints a vivid, horrifying picture about marriage and I vowed to myself that no one would ever abuse me. I suppose I overlooked another side of domestic abuse – the verbal abuse, and for years, my husband who suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder [PTSD] from Vietnam, would get into rages, shouting at me. Once, he shoved me and when he did, I fought back, standing firm to him, letting him know he had to stop his rage, or I would end the marriage.

    I’m proud to say, we worked those issues out, and now, we do not scream, shout or verbally fight. Our home is a happy home. Father’s Day is always special. I give thanks to God for guiding me and giving me strength.

    And so, on Father’s Day, 2018, I give thanks to God for all He has given me and my family. It is my wish for all of you reading this, to please take a moment to give your father a bit of special care and love on this Father’s Day. How I wish I could share Father’s Day with my father, and maybe I can. He is still tucked safely within my heart.

    Happy Father’s Day to my husband, and all who are fathers!

     

     

  • Another Saga About Weight Watchers


    Dearest Readers:

    Last week, I stayed away from my Weight Watchers meeting, all to the credit of the nightmare of traffic congestion Mt. Pleasant, and Charleston, SC is enduring due to the West bound side of I-526 being closed. The bridge is a bit unsafe now, so after finding one of the problems and planning to “temporarily fix” the problem, a nightmare of traffic is tolerated by everyone – including tourists! One can only imagine what will happen with traffic when Spoleto debuts this weekend. Also, tourists will be coming to Charleston and the beaches. Hey people. Guess what! We only have two bridges to cross to get from Charleston to Mt. Pleasant and Isle of Palms and Sullivan’s Island. Be certain you do a restroom break before you leave! There are no restrooms on the bridges!

    Today, I decided to return to Weight Watchers after binging all weekend and this week. I baked a cake on Sunday. Big mistake! It was a butter nut cake with cream cheese frosting. The recipe called for four cups of sugar. I cut it back to one and one/half cups. Believe me when I say, this cake was incredibly sweet. Good thing I cut back the sugar contents.

    I wasn’t certain if I wanted to return to Weight Watchers this week. I was skeptical about the traffic. Much to my surprise, the traffic moved well. Arriving at Weight Watchers, I let them know I could be counted, but I was not weighing. Cake does make one gain weight. Yesterday afternoon, I tossed the cake from Sunday into the trash! Proud of myself for doing that, but still discouraged that I allowed myself to binge, I chose honesty as the best policy. Yes, I knew I was binging, and I had to really dig deep to understand why.

    I’ve had many issues lately. A class reunion where I felt as if I didn’t belong. Have no idea why, with exception, I permitted old memories of my life as a teenager to creep into my soul once again. Prior to leaving for the reunion, we discovered a leak within our house – just where the leak was, we didn’t know, so our water bill has escalated from an affordable $55-$65.00 monthly to an outrageous $165.00 for April, and May’s bill increased to $265.00 monthly. I haven’t a clue what June’s bill will be! So much for a monthly budget!

    After spending over $500 this month to find the leak, I’ve been so worried about my monthly household budget that I chose to stuff my face — with cake!

    Now, I’m pleased to say, after a serious conversation with myself, and sharing my binge eating today at Weight Watchers, I’ve decided to get back on the horse and ride. This time — NO BINGING!

    I am tracking what I eat and I’m practicing healthy eating. Freestyle. Next week, there will be a weight loss, or a ‘maintaining’ – not a weight gain. And now, my friends, I must get back on the treadmill and my ab machine to get back in the game. I must remind myself: “It’s when things seem worse — YOU mustn’t quit!

    Weight Watchers works. Especially Freestyle!

    I’ll share more next week, after the meeting. Bon Appetitt!

     

  • Chattahoochee Child – Excerpt


    Dearest Readers:

    Posting a bit of the story I’ve had dancing inside my heart and soul for many years. Too many years to mention. Yesterday, I realized I have to let go and write this. I hope you enjoy.

     

    Yesterday, my husband and I went to the theatre to see “I CAN ONLY IMAGINE.” Based on the song, “I CAN ONLY IMAGINE,” recorded by Mercy Me in 1999, I remembered when I first heard this song and how the lyrics affected me. My dad passed away in July, 1999. I was in such a severe depression after losing him, I prayed to die, realizing I was being selfish. I still had life to live. People to care for and love. Visiting with my doctor, she asked if I was suicidal. I laughed, realizing she knew me better than I knew myself.
    How can a song affect someone so passionately? Writing this question out, I recognized I failed to have an answer. Kneeling at my special window, I looked up into the Heavens and prayed, only this time, my prayer was different. I asked God to help me live and to learn to forgive.
    My mother and I were alienated since 1988. After my high school class reunion, I discovered my mother told our little boy his mother was a whore and a drunk. The morning after the reunion, little Michael David rushed to me asking me what was a whore. “I know what a drunk is since Grandpa in Charleston is a drunk, but I’ve never heard the word whore. What is it, Mommy?”

    I scooped his tiny body into my arms and bear hugged him. “Mommy is not a whore. A whore is someone who goes out with other men and sleeps in the bed with them. I’m not a whore, Michael David.”

    “Granny called you a whore. But you only sleep in the bed with my daddy, Mommy.”

    “It’s not a nice name and it’s a word you should not speak again, at least until you’re grown.”

    “Why would she call you that word?”

    “Granny doesn’t love Mommy the way you and Daddy love me. That’s a good question, and I will ask her in a minute. You go back to sleep.” I kissed Michael on the cheek, tucking him in with his father. I slipped on my robe, walking toward my mother’s room.

    I knocked three times. She opened her eyes. “Why did you call me a whore?” I shouted.

    “I did no such a thing.”

    “Yes, you did.” Michael stood next to me. “You said my mommy was a whore and a drunk.”

    The argument continued for an hour. Garrett awoke to the shouting. Recognizing this conversation would be an eternal shouting match of two stubborn women who butted heads all the time, he said we were leaving. I grabbed our luggage and stormed out of the house, refusing to look back.

    I cried an endless ocean of tears from Columbus, Georgia to Charleston, South Carolina. Michael David apologized for starting the argument. I responded that he was not the problem. My life as a child of the Chattahoochee, the daughter of a woman who could not show love at all, was the problem. The only solution was to build my life with my family, Garrett, and Michael.

    In 1988, I realized home is where the heart is. My heart was in Charleston, not Bibb City, or the Chattahoochee. My life in Charleston was filled with suburban roots, and a solid brick foundation, not a detour route of housing projects, mill villages, shouting matches and nothing to refer to as home. The windows to my world reflected love, pride, and ambition. I pinched myself to bring myself back to reality. I did not wish to remember the annoying disconnections I shared with my mother, nor did I want to walk in her footsteps.

    I lost my mother on September 11, 2002. She died a ‘questionable death,’ after battling to survive a stroke. Since that time, I’ve discovered she choked to death by inhaling nuts. My mother was allergic to nuts. Her body was paralyzed on the right side. How she was able to inhale nuts and choke to death is a question I need answering. When my sister phoned me telling me of her passing, the one question she repeated to me was: Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?

    Interesting question I failed to understand since I was ill with acute bronchial asthma at the time and failed to comprehend what my sister was asking.

    Do you think they’ll do an autopsy? Interesting question…

    I can only imagine!DSC_0061
     

  • Weight Watchers Is Not a Diet – It’s A Community of People…


    Dearest Readers:

    This will probably be a short posting about something we learned at the Weight Watchers meeting Thursday, March 8, 2017. Two of my closest friends in Charleston are Tammy and Sara. Neither were at the meeting on Thursday…Just me, my shadow and other friends I’ve met thru Weight Watchers. Tammy moved to Florida a few months ago. How I miss her. Sara is out of town. We are keeping in touch and I need to send Tammy a text – something we do lately on Thursdays.

    On Thursday, I lost .06 pounds. I’ll take it, I said – finally happy to be losing again. I hit plateaus that seem to last FOREVER. My goal was to lose 15 pounds by my class reunion in May. Since I lose so slowly, I do not believe I’ll achieve that goal, so now, I’m saying I’d love to lose five pounds by May. I’m hopeful the dress I bought two years ago will fit. I’ll let you know about that goal IF I wear it to the reunion. More on that – Later!

    Looking around our meeting room at Weight Watchers I realized I joined this amazing group of ladies, and a few men, seven years ago. Back then, I wanted to achieve my ‘goal weight’ that year. Believe me, I’m still struggling to achieve that goal weight — WHATEVER the goal weight is for me. No one has mentioned I should weigh this ___, or I should weigh that ___! I realized it is up to me, and maybe my doctor, to select my goal weight; nevertheless, If (and WHEN) I reach that number, I will weigh less than I weighed in high school. I confess, during the four years of high school, I attended six high schools!  No, I wasn’t the kind of student to be kicked out of school. Changing high schools so many times was simply because my parents moved us as a family, and when I was 15, my parents separated and divorced, so we moved to Columbus, GA – to a mill village.

    Needless to say, my teenage life was a life filled with stress, the inability to make friends, and many unpredictable situations I’ve written about on this blog. Fortunately, I graduated from high school and now, I’m happy to have a fulfilled life in Charleston, SC.

    As mentioned, losing weight is not an easy task for me. Now, I’m back to working out and using the Freestyle of Weight Watchers.

    During our meeting on Thursday, someone mentioned that Weight Watchers IS NOT A DIET…IT’S A COMMUNITY! How interesting and true that statement is. We have ladies (and a few men) wanting to lose weight. One special lady has been ‘lifetime since she was 17!’ She’s had many setbacks, but to look at her now, she is beautiful, slim and such an inspiration, especially to me. Other women have fought and struggled many times. Just like ME! Nevertheless, all of these Weight Watchers admitted they could not lose weight alone. They had to attend meetings! They had to face the scale once weekly, and they had to keep attending meetings. So like me! A beautiful lady sitting next to me stated she had her son’s wedding coming up so she understood my goal of ‘knocking ’em dead.’

    I must confess, in high school I was a wallflower. My parents were divorcing. We lived with our maternal grandparents in a two-bedroom mill village house – with one bathroom. No washer, or dryer. No air conditioning. Simply a TINY house of brick and mortar. I did not make many friends in high school, nor did I date high school guys! Why would I? If I did, we as a family would pack up and move again. We lived like gypsies. Never having a home that would build me into the woman I am today. When I go back to my ‘home town’ I do not have any roots to remember. NOTHING. I thank God I survived and didn’t end up as a child with many problems. I credit that reality to my stubbornness, determination and independence and attending church regularly!

    The one indiscretion I did have, and still have is the hunger for food. My grandmother made the most fluffy and delicious homemade biscuits ever. They seemed to just melt in my mouth and each time she made them, I ate my share. After my husband’s heart surgery in 1998, I changed the way I cooked, learning to cook healthier. Fortunately, I never learned to make Grandma’s homemade biscuits. Each time I tried, my husband called them hockey pucks. I do believe his description is correct!

    My friends still ask me, “Are you STILL doing Weight Watchers?”

    Yes. I’m still doing Weight Watchers and when I reach Lifetime, I will continue attending the meetings on each Thursday. I remind myself: This I do for ME! Nothing interrupts my Thursday meetings. I will miss my meeting when we go to my class reunion, but the next week I’ll get back on that scale again, still seeking “Lifetime!”

    After all – for me, Weight Watchers IS A COMMUNITY. A community of encouraging women (and a few men) — haven’t I said that before? Even if we, as a community, have only five, 10, 20, 30, 40 or even 50 pounds to lose, together we can do this. I have anchors I use to remind me to continue. One of my anchors is a poem I repeat daily:

    “It’s when things seem worse, you mustn’t quit,” and I say: “This too shall pass,” whenever I gain. I’ve learned not to beat myself up when I am not successful, and I keep reminding myself that Weight Watchers is what I do for me. No one else. No, I’m not working out daily and doing my best to lose weight for my husband, family, or shame. I am doing this for me. I look in the mirror daily. I wear makeup – DAILY. I style my hair – DAILY and now, I do my best to be accountable and to accept whenever I gain, or lose only “.06 of a pound.” A loss is a loss, I tell myself. Together, as a community WE can do this!

    After all, Weight Watchers IS my life now! Next Thursday, I’ll be at the meetings. And the next….and the NEXT….continuing my journey to lose my weight, and to look the best that I can look at the class reunion and beyond!

    Yes, I’m vain. I want to look the best I can look – for eternity and ‘beyond!’DSC_0061

     

  • Today I Met Mama Grinch…


    Dearest Readers:

    People are so interesting, especially during the holiday season. About 30 minutes ago, I was standing in the overcrowded line at Dollar Tree. I noticed a woman slowly pushing her cart into the line. She was an elderly woman with gray hair. Her face was wrinkled, reminding me of a crinkled road map. She had an angry smirk on her mouth. Maybe Santa Claus brought her a bunch of coal this year. She hugged the cart, probably for support. I could easily imagine this woman using this cart to keep her balance.  Of course, being the shy person that I am NOT, I spoke to her to let her know the end of the line was several people behind me.

    She glared at me and spat: “I know where the end of the line is. You don’t have to tell me that.”

    “Well excuse me, Ma’am. Happy New Year.”

    When the second cashier opened a register, I kept my eyes on it. If that woman even attempted to break into the line to get service quicker, I was ready for her. Even with my boots on I knew I could move quicker than Mama Grinch. I was prepared to tell the cashier other people have been in the line longer than she. That woman is not the ‘next person in line.’

    Was I wrong? NO. Was I rude? NO. I was prepared to speak up.

    I was raised to respect my elders, but today – I think I’ve lost a little respect. My message to this slump shouldered, stout, grouchy Mama Grinch is simple: “Just because you are old doesn’t mean you need to be ugly!”

    Think I’ll pray for Mama Grinch today, adding her to a growing list I pray for every night. Another little tidbit of advice taught to me by my maternal grandmother. As an elderly woman I never heard her be rude to anyone. As for Mama Grinch, maybe she needs to stand in a corner and change her rude, angry attitude.

    Isn’t it sad to see so many elderly people so angry with themselves? Maybe Mama Grinch was all alone on Christmas Day.  So sad.

    Yes, I’ll pray for all the angry elderly woman, hopeful she will find peace and happiness.

    Happy New Year!

     

    DSC_0027

  • Happy Birthday, Walter Perkins – My Dad


    Dearest Readers:

    On December 19, 1914, two identical twins were born in Michigan. Lewis Eugene and Walter W. Perkins. Never did I have the honor to know Uncle Lewis. He died at 26-years-of-age from Bright’s Disease. I believe it is an inflammation of the kidneys. After his death, my father reportedly changed to a sad, miserable man. He and his identical twin were inseparable until Uncle Lewis died.

    I lost my dad to esophageal cancer on July 6, 1999. I confess, a part of my heart died on that day. My dad and I were bonded. During his terminal illness, I visited him daily at the convalescent center and hospital, unless I was sick with my episodes of bronchial asthma.

    Today, I would like to wish my dad and Uncle Lewis an early happy birthday in Heaven. No doubt, tomorrow will be a sad day for me; nevertheless, I will focus on the memories we made. Singing together. Teaching me to harmonize. Sharing my poems and other stories with him, and hearing him say on WCSC Channel 5 during an interview, “No. I’m not the writer. My daughter, Barbara, now she’s the writer!” My heart melted when I heard him say that. Finally, he was proud of me!

    Our life together during my childhood wasn’t a good one. From the age of five-years-old, until I was 15, I served as the referee between my mother and my dad. Their marriage was a volatile marriage, filled with “I hate you…How I wish you were dead…I wish to God I’d never married you… You’re nothing but a bastard!” From both parties the hatred poured from their lips like steaming hot volcano ashes rolling vibrantly onto the grounds. Poisons. Poisons from lips without love or any form of happiness. During my childhood, I believe their angers, hatreds and tumultuous physical battles were protected within our home. I do not believe my grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins and friends of the family knew about the dreadful, dangerous domestic battles my parents fought. Secrets. Protected, never to be shared, until now. I knew not to say anything. If I did, my mother would come after me, slapping, knocking and pulling my hair out. If I wanted to live, my lips must remain closed.

    Finally, at fifteen, I stood between them for the last time, telling them one of you needs to leave this marriage and this house. You’ve always hated each other… The next day, my father packed up and left. My mother spat at me telling me she hoped I was happy now. Their marriage was over and it was all my fault.

    I rushed into my room. Never confronting her. Never calling my dad. I pondered my heartache inside while praying I would see my dad once again, and I would sing with him again. He visited us after the divorce. He rushed to hug me, something he never did until the bitter divorce. Gone were the shouting and fighting matches. My father had finally found out he was a ‘better man,’ as for my mother — her poisonous tongue spilled hatred to me every time she could. Shouting matches. Slapping my face. Pulling my hair until clumps of my hair fell into her hands. Never did I share these shattered, horrifying days with anyone.  I was taught to be seen, but not heard. How I detested whenever we visited family members. I was told to “say hello. Give a hug and keep your damned mouth shut.”

    And so, I did!

    To escape the misery of my teenage years, I married at 17. After moving to Charleston, Dad and I became much closer. When he was 68, in 1982, we moved him to Charleston to be closer to a family member. I delighted in caring for him and visiting him in his apartment until 1988 when I had to find a job to save my home and family. My job was demanding, working 40 hours plus, including weekends.

    In 1997, during the holidays, Dad became ill. In December, he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. He chose to battle the debilitating cancer until his death in July, 1999. During that time, we made wonderful memories. I changed jobs, so I could spend more time with Dad. I watched the wonderful, happy man he became and I loved him even more than he, or anyone, could imagine.

    The week before his death, he sat in his room at the nursing home, reading his Bible, praying for God to ‘take me home.’ He was spiteful with me. Almost cruel, according to his roommate, Mr. Dudley. Dad would move his hands, telling me to leave his room. Although it hurt, I swallowed my pride and listened to him doing his best to detach from me. He did not want me around when he died.

    On July 6, 1999, as I walked towards his room, I met a nurse, pushing an oxygen tank. “Oh no,” I managed to say, “that isn’t a good sign.” She nodded and when she and I placed our hands on the door of Dad’s room, I knew the moment of his passing had arrived.

    I screamed. Cried. Hysterically, I sat in a chair, across from Dad’s room and I listened. The nurse wanted to know if I wanted them to ‘bring him back.’ I said No. He’s a DNR. Please do not resuscitate him. Let him go. He was praying to die soon.

    Nineteen years ago, according to birthdays, my father celebrated his birthday now as an identical twin. No doubt, he and Uncle Lewis have caught up and replenished their lost years. I can picture them singing in the Heavenly choirs, inseparable and happy together.

    Today, I would like to celebrate Walter and Lewis Perkins, better known as the Perkins Twins a wonderful Happy Birthday. Now, 103 years-of-age December 19 will be a joyous celebration in Heaven. I can hear my dad singing harmony with Uncle Lewis, probably singing Amazing Grace together while celebrating their reunion and Christmas.

    As for me, I will be busy wrapping Christmas packages and maybe going out to get more Christmas goodies for our pups and for Phil. I always keep myself extra busy on December 19. While I am happy for my father to be reunited with Uncle Lewis and with God, I miss him.

    IMG_6059
    Angel Oak Tree, a gorgeous tree embracing Johns Island, SC

    Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday to the Perkins Twins. Oh, Dad — how I miss you!

    In memory of:

    THE PERKINS TWINS

    Lewis and Walter – Identical Twins

    Separated by death at age 26;

    Reunited with God’s love at 84.

    Holding the gates to Heaven’s Door.

     Missing and Loving you both —

    Walter’s Daughter – Barbara

     

     

  • Sexual Assault/Molestation – My Story #MeToo


    Dearest Readers:

    Today I am writing about a topic close to my heart. A secret. Well, not after today’s post.

    Listening to many current events, I am finding the courage to come forward about a subject, once closed. Another of those topics considered “a family matter.” Maybe I am finally finding the courage to share these experiences now since the issue is in the news. If you follow current events, I’m certain you’ve heard the accusations regarding Harvey Weinstein. Allegations of molestation…Rape…Sexual assault. And on…and on.

    Many of these stories I haven’t read thoroughly. I get angry, and then, I have dreams, actually nightmares. Nightmares I want to toss into the trash, or delete from a keyboard. It is a bit difficult to delete these tragic events from one’s mind, so for many, many years I kept quiet. Never mentioning my sexual assaults.

    Last night, I awoke, talking in my sleep. While I do not recall the entire “nightmare” I heard my voice saying “Stop it! Don’t touch me. Let me go! Stop it. STOP IT!”

    When I was fifteen-years-old, I was sexually molested. I remember it just like it was yesterday. My parents were in the middle of a bitter, volatile divorce. My mother would tell me to “Never trust a man. They only want you for one reason, and when they’re through with you, they’ll toss you away like yesterday’s trash. That’s just what your daddy is doing to me. Throwing me away. I hate him, and I hate you. See what you’ve done. Your daddy wouldn’t divorce me now if you left us alone. I hate you and Him!”

    Yes. It’s true. I caused my parents to divorce, after separating both of them while in a tumultuous fight. Arriving home from school, I heard shouting. My bedroom was across from their room. Leaving my bedroom door open, I listened to them shouting words of hatred to each other. The fight continued for a while, then – silence. I knocked on their door. No one responded, so I opened the door.

    My mother was gasping for breath. Her face was blue. My father had his back turned, then he threw a pile of mail at my mother.

    “What’s going on?” I said. “I heard the fighting.”

    It wasn’t the first time my parents fought. I had served as their referee since I was five-years-old. My mother stumbled to a chair.

    I picked up the mail, noticing “Past Due and Final Request” stamped on some of the bills.

    “She’s gone and spent money again. Money I don’t have. There’s a letter from an attorney. If I don’t pay these bills, my wages will be garnished.”

    I wasn’t surprised. My mother could not handle finances and when she wanted something, she purchased rings, and other items on credit cards.

    Suddenly my mother rose from the chair, heading in his direction. She balled her fist, shaking it while cursing him. Dad rushed to her, hitting her. She fell. I rushed to her aid, shouting at my father, telling him he needed to stop hitting her. If he wanted to hit someone, he could hit me. I’ve seen my father’s anger many times, but today was the worst.

    I stood between them, hands extended like a referee. “Don’t touch my mother again. If you keep doing this, one of you will kill the other one. Then, you’ll be in jail. One of you needs to leave.”

    The next afternoon, I came home from school excited to share I had the lead in a musical. When I walked inside the house, my mother was scantily dressed in a torn, thin gown. Her hair was messy and her eyes were filled with hatred and rage.

    She jumped towards me.

    “I hope you’re happy now,” she shouted. “You stupid girl. Your daddy’s left and it’s all your fault. He’s divorcing me. You can consider him dead now!”

    Three days later, we moved in with our grandparents in Bibb City, the mill village of Columbus, Georgia.

    One of my great uncles took a liking to me, always telling me I was pretty and sweet. He invited me to ride with him on his dry cleaning deliveries. He said we’d have a ‘good time.’

    Little did I know what his definition of ‘a good time’ really meant.

    It was early springtime when I rode with him. He packed a variety of Tom’s snacks and Nehi orange soda for us to enjoy on this warm Saturday. Driving along, he talked about Papa and fishing and music. He knew I loved music. He played musical instruments so he invited me to sing with him at his house.

    “You’ll love the music we play,” he said. “Good ole gospel music.”

    “I like jazz,” I said, sipping my drink.

    Carefully, I watched the directions of his driving. I’ve always been one to look for landmarks on the road. Little did I know how smart this little game of landmarks would become. We rode around to Smith’s Station, Alabama. According to roadmaps, Smith’s Station was exactly ten miles from Columbus, Georgia.

    My uncle made a right turn on a dirt road. I glanced around, looking for homes, or maybe a farm. All I saw were dusty, red clay fields and another dirt road. He made another right onto another dirt road. I glanced behind me, noticing the dust from the roads created a thick, red fog.

    “There aren’t any homes around here. Where are we going?”

    My uncle smiled a devious smile. He reached his right arm over to me. “Come here,” He said. “You need to sit closer to me.”

    I did not move. He thrust his arm my way, pulling me to him. My body tightened.

    The interior of his truck was dusty. Freshly cleaned clothing hung on one side of the truck, covered with plastic and delivery orders attached. Still, I could see the red fog, now so thick I wasn’t certain anyone could see us.

    “Where are we going?”

    My uncle grinned. “Just relax. We’re going to pick blackberries.”

    All I could see was a dirt road. The fields were freshly planted. I doubted blackberries were ready to pick. Something frightened me.

    My uncle turned right again, pulling into a thick pile of brush and leaves. Tall pine trees grew in a line, so tall I felt I could reach the clouds if I climbed them. I wasn’t a tree climber. My uncle parked the truck, turning the motor off.

    He laughed a horrifying, wicked laughter I did not like to hear. He pulled me closer to him.

    “Stop it,” I said. I don’t want to get close to you.”

    “Don’t you miss your daddy?” He asked. “Your mama said you cry for him. Come closer to me. I can be your daddy.”

    “No,” I shouted, knowing no one would ever hear me. We were in the middle of a deserted field of red clay and pine trees.

    “I want to get to know you better.”

    “There are no blackberries around here. You lied to me.”

    I remember crying. I was so horrified. Just what was my great uncle planning to do with me?

    “I wanna go home,” I said, wiping my tears.

    “And I want to know you better. You’re such a pretty girl. Your mama knows how pretty you are. She said I should be closer to you since your daddy left.”

    His hands gripped my legs hard, moving up my thigh. He moved his right hand to my chest. I pushed away, but he was strong. Now, he was moving his entire body towards me, getting on top of me.

    I screamed again, only I knew no one would hear. If I had any chance to get away from this monster great uncle, I had to fight for myself.

    Since I was only 15-years-old and did not have any brothers, I had no idea how to fight, but I did all I could. My mother had never discussed sex with me, or what a girl could do to fight back. My arms were hard to move since he was on top of me. I heard the sound of a zipper, realizing my shorts were loser now. His hands rushed all over my body, moving into my genitals. I bit his arm. He pulled away for only a moment. My right arm was free now, so I moved my hands in the direction of his crotch. I had no idea what I should do, but I remember grabbing his crotch and I squeezed as hard as I could.

    He screamed in pain. His body went limp. I pushed him away and I grabbed the door. Rushing outside, I ran as hard as I could. I knew the way home. I could walk. Smith Station and Columbus were only ten miles away. I was suddenly thankful I had strong legs and could walk the distance. The dirt road was almost an open field, so I could not find a place to hide. In the distance, I heard his truck. He was coming after me.

    Raised in the Assembly of God Church, my grandmother had taught me to pray. Tears streaming down my face, I ran. When I saw his truck, I darted into a dry field with trees. Just maybe he could not drive his truck into the trees.

    “Please, God. Help me. I don’t know what he wants to do with me, but I don’t like it. Please, God. HELP ME!”

    My uncle saw me. He stopped the truck, opened the driver’s door and got out.

    “You need to come back. We’ve got to pick blackberries.”

    “You’re a liar,” I shouted. “I’m not getting back in the truck.”

    He laughed. “Just how do you plan to get back home?”

    “Walking,” I shouted as loud as I could scream. “I know the way.”

    He rushed towards me. I noticed he was moving slower. Just maybe I had hurt him a little bit. Good. He deserves to hurt.

    He moved closer to me, and when he did, I kicked him as hard as I could, right between his legs. He fell to the ground. I ran.

    “Please God, guide me home. And please don’t let him catch me.”

    A bit later, I heard the truck. My uncle gunned the engine, catching me. I looked behind me. The truck was getting so close I panicked, remembering when I was hit by a car at nine-years-old. I stepped to the side of the road. My uncle stopped the truck.

    He was holding one of his hands by his crotch, and he moaned as if he was in pain.

    “You get in this truck. I’ll take you home.”

    “I’m walking,” I said.

    My uncle jumped out of the car, picked me up and opened the passenger door. Kicking and screaming, I remember fighting as hard as I could to get free. He threw me in the seat.

    “Don’t you move!” He said. “I’m taking you home.”

    “I don’t want to be with you. I don’t like you anymore.”

    “You just sit still. We’ll be back to your house before you know it.” He drove off, driving as fast as he could.

    “If you tell one person I touched you, you’ll be sorry.” He said. “I’m a deacon in the church. No one will believe you.”

    Tears were pouring down my face, and I tried to speak but my words were only garbled. Inhaling, exhaling, and slowly breathing, I calmed myself down, managing to speak.

    “If you move one finger over here towards me, you’ll be sorry,” I said. “I know what to do now, and I’ll do it again if I have to. After today, don’t you even speak to me again. I hate you!”

    Arriving home, I rushed to my bedroom. My mother asked why I was home so early. I ignored her.

    I gathered some clothes and I rushed to the bathroom. I wanted to get the red dust off of myself. Scrubbing my body hard with Ivory soap, I cried and cried until there were no more tears left.

    My great uncle came to the house a few days later. When I saw his truck, I rushed away.

    Still, to this day, I can still hear his words, “I’m a deacon in the church. No one will believe you.”

    Maybe now, someone will. I was victim at fifteen-years-old. Never did I report his sexual molestations of me. Why? Simple. Back in those days, who would believe a fifteen-year-old? They would say, You were asking for it. You wore shorts and T-shirt and you have a nice chest. You were just asking for it.

    No, I wasn’t. In the dark of night while sleeping I still hear his words echoing to me.

    “I’m a deacon in the church. No one will believe you.”

    When he died, my mother phoned me, encouraging me to come to his funeral. I remember saying to her, “He can rot in Hell for all I care. He molested me.” That was the first time I shared his attack with anyone.

    Regardless who or what a man is, there is no excuse for anyone to molest, rape or sexually assault any child or woman. Even if he is – a deacon in the church.

    Now, people are under the impression a woman should always come forward; however, unless you are a victim, you cannot understand why it is so difficult and painful to “come forward.” It takes courage.

    Victims are made to feel dirty, cheap, with a lack of self-esteem. I’ll not share how many years it was before I came forward and shared my story about my great uncle. When I did, I was told he had a history of ‘liking young girls.’

    Looks like he got away with what he did, at least with me, after all – He was a deacon in the church.DSC_0032_edited

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • Am I A “Racist???


    Yesterday, I received a news alert about Melania Trump being a ‘racist’ from a librarian. Seems Melania Trump is a racist for donating Dr. Seuss’ books???

    Duh? Am I missing something?

    Dr. Seuss books are racist???
    Let’s look up the definition for racist:
    “a person who shows or feels discrimination or prejudice against people of other races, or who believes that a particular race is superior to another.”

    Aren’t we hearing “racist” just a bit too much these days?

    NFL players say we are racist so they kneel to protest when the National Anthem is played at the beginning of their games. All they are illustrating is their lack of respect for the United States of America.

    Every time I’ve seen those images, all I’ve seen are black football players. Oops. Suppose I’ll be called a racist now.

    Understand – I AM NOT A RACIST! Years ago, when the South refused to accept people OF ALL COLORS, I broke the unpublished rule at the Armed Services YMCA.

    What did I do?

    I was a member of the Girls Auxiliary. The YMCA held dances for the soldiers to attend. Soldiers had to pay a cover charge to come inside to the dance.  On one occasion, I danced with a black soldier.

    OOOOOHHH! All I did was dance with the soldier, and it wasn’t a “Dirty Dance.” We did not groove, or grind with our bodies. He held me gracefully and we talked. That is all!

    A few minutes later, the President of the Armed Services YMCA tapped me on the shoulder, asking me to ‘meet him in his office.’

    Several girls noticed, along with many of the soldiers.  I admit it. I was a popular girl at the YMCA.

    Entering the President’s office, he asked me to sit down. He thanked me for joining the YMCA as a girl’s auxiliary member. Then, he said: “We have standards and rules here. You broke one of the rules tonight.”

    Flabbergasted, I asked: “What did I do?”

    He sighed, then he dropped a bomb. “You danced with a black guy. We don’t allow that here.”

    “What?” I said. “I broke the rule and danced with a black soldier? Let me get this straight. Didn’t the black soldier have to pay a cover charge to come inside tonight? You allowed him to enter, but as a girl’s auxiliary member I cannot dance with him?”

    “We don’t consider it a cover charge. He, along with all soldiers, has to pay a fee to come to the dance.”

    “But,” I interrupted, shaking and a bit angry. “You do not permit black girls to join the auxiliary. I was told that a few weeks ago when I inquired. Yet…You allow a soldier, a gentleman who fights for freedom, to come inside to the dance. BUT… Because of his color, he cannot dance with me and I’m supposed to say No when he asks me to dance. Is that what you’re saying?”

    “We don’t think of it like that. This is the South. We do things different here.”

    “But he’s a soldier. He was respectful and kind to me, and we danced. I don’t understand.”

    I jumped from my chair and left his office. By the time I got to the front door, I was in tears. Several soldiers could see I was upset and they knew me, so they followed me out the door.

    “What’s going on?” One of the soldiers asked. I noticed the black soldier standing with the group.

    “Nothing,” I cried. “I’m okay. I’m leaving.”

    The black soldier approached me. “They told you not to dance with a black soldier. Right?”

    “Not exactly and I don’t wish to lie. What he said is I danced with a ‘black guy.’ I don’t think he considers you a soldier, just because you’re black.”

    A few minutes later, I left, crying all the way home. I could not understand why the color of skin mattered so much to so many people. All I saw was a nice guy with a crooked smile and a pleasant manner. He was a soldier. He wanted to dance. Nothing more.

    Two days later, I got a phone call from the President of the Armed Services YMCA. He apologized and wanted me to come back to the dances.

    I suppose my popularity with the soldiers made an impression. Little did I know that after I left the dance that night, six soldiers demanded to meet with the President. Apparently they let him know how displeased they were and they also mentioned he was wrong to degrade me for dancing with ‘a black guy.’

    I returned to the YMCA a few times after that experience and I still danced with ‘black soldiers.’

    What a disgrace? HARDLY!

    Since those years, I’ve stood up many times and fought back when I hear people being ‘racist.’ Let’s don’t even discuss some of the words they use, but I stand tall and let them know — color is only skin deep. What lies beneath the skin is a beautiful person with love inside. Beauty and color is only skin deep!

    Now, I admit it. I detest football. I’ve seen men get so angry over a football game that they become violent. Did you know domestic violence increases during football season, especially during the Super Bowl. While I might listen to the Super Bowl since my husband likes to watch it, I have a stack of reading material ready so I can read.

    This morning while I checked Facebook ever so quickly, I saw a post related to the NFL. A toll-free phone number for Anheuser Busch was posted. 1-800-342-5283, so we could share our thoughts about the infamous NFL athletes. Personally, I think all of those athletes should lose their contracts so they will recognize every act has a repercussion! Just how would they feel after losing all of the money they earn while showing their testosterone levels! As you can see, I have no respect!

    It is a disgrace that our soldiers can battle wars and earn very little money, and IF they need veterans benefits after their battles, they must fight tooth and nail just to get what they deserve. Meanwhile, some testosterone overloaded guy shows how great he is at chasing and fighting over an inflated, or deflated, football, earning him millions of dollars.

    Oops. But — you might call me a racist now. Believe me. I’m not a racist. I simply believe in the freedoms we have earned simply because soldiers went to Gulf Shores, AL 2008 082war zones to fight for our freedoms. Some of those soldiers did not return alive. Others, are still over there fighting to forget the wars while battling Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. My husband is only one of them!

    But – that’s another subject for another time. I am not a racist. I am an American, and I am proud to share the freedoms while standing to honor our United States flag and the National Anthem. I respect our soldiers, regardless of the color of their skin, or their gender. And whenever I see a soldier, I thank him, or her, for their service! Sometimes, I even give them a hug to welcome them home!

    Here’s to the United States of America!

    Why not call Anheuser Busch 1-800-342-5283 today!