Georgia, Memoir, Politics, Uncategorized

Remembering Georgia

I was married for thirty years to George Fowler, twenty-five years old when I married him and age fifty-five when he died.  Who I became as a mature, thinking woman was done with him.

            George’s history and his family history going back to the Civil War was in Georgia.  As a child, he played with confederate money in his grandfather’s barn.

            His great-grandfather was a store keeper, not slave owner, in rural Georgia when the Civil War began.  The confederates forced his grandfather to surrender his money/gold and was given worthless confederate money in exchange.  When the confederates lost the war, he lost everything due to the theft.

            We move forward in time to George’s father, Oscar, who was a tenant farmer.  He farmed next door to a black tenant farmer who had the misfortune of having daughters.  Oscar and the neighbor exchanged work, Oscar’s boys working the neighbor’s field and the neighbor’s girls working Oscar’s garden.

            A very young George was working in the neighbor’s field one day when a white brute crossed the furrows with a 2-by-4 board.  He raised the board and for no reason except hate he struck the black man working his field.  The white man turned and left as quickly as he arrived.  George never forgot his friend’s assault and the lack of justice to follow.

            After George at age 17 followed Patton across Europe, he returned to Georgia.  He was a mail carrier, postal clerk, assistant Post Master and finally the Post Master in Decatur, Georgia.  Along the way, George played golf with men of all races before integration.  His friendships were always based on shared values, not race or ethnic origin.  He was considered a fair manager – tough, but just. 

            I not only was inspired by George’s racial fairness, but he was feminist before I was.  He always insisted I be more than I imagined.

            George was the most intelligent person I have ever known.  He read continually.  Brilliant mind.  Great humor.  Kind.

            I believe George is looking down and screaming, “Black lives matter!”  As a man who supported women, he would be proud of Representative Park Cannon.

            I lived in Savannah, Athens, Decatur and Ellijay in the North Georgia Mountains.  As an observer from afar, I know the people who foolishly elected Marjorie Taylor Greene.  I have been amazed at the democratic votes coming from Savannah, an obviously different place from what I knew in 1969. 

            George loved Georgia.  It was home – complex, beautifully landscaped, and still living the pain of the Civil War.

            As I have watched what is happening in Georgia, I remember my George, his grandsons in Georgia and his granddaughters beyond Georgia borders.  I know they remember their grandfather with great love.  George is looking down and expecting them to honor their family legacy, to be strong, fair and kind.  

Aging, Art, Country, Memoir, Peace, Politics, Uncategorized

Political Winds

Seventy-one and a woman who’s seen mighty change—internet, cell phones, and one step for mankind on moonscape.  Veterans of WWII branded their stories on my young soul.  That damned McCarthy caused me to look for communists neath my bed.  Viet Nam tattooed my innocence.  Patriotism, plated as political righteousness, challenged the rage against dying and peace movements—Gandhi dared Patton philosophies wrestling for ethos.  No winners, just battle-worn heroes.  Now drums the social-till-doomsday-shrill-media robbing weak heads of free thinking—new mind control.  Fear like rain cuts rough, new gullies of hate, fear and rage.  Peace lost not on a battlefield, love in surrender to hate.  Godly abandoned in rallies, the modern lion’s den, truth’s death.  Long serving soldiers dismissed for truth-telling.  A Medal of Honor bestowed on a bigot.  Romney the lone statesman.  Loyal, weak servants rewarded and righteous, strong saints defiled.  Labeling knowledable elitist.  Labeling brown other.  Labeling good hearts feeding hungry folk socialists.  Villainous!  Rise up you virtuous patriots.  Be the strong voice of right.  Rise up still Christians and claim the mantle of kindness.  Rise up to speak!  Rise up to vote!  Rise up!

Aging, Alzheimer's, Caregiving, Dementia, Memoir, Personhood


I read at a nursing care center every two weeks.  From the hearts of people who never remember me, I receive amazing gifts.

What is to be learned from Alzheimer’s or other dementia patients?

Sharing:  Some people enter into relationships with a requirement for memory retention.  They need verbal reflections of their own value from those who have fully-functioning memory banks and verbal fluidity.   Without empathy, the face of a person with dementia is constant frustration—the “all about me” need never satisfied.  Pure charity (love) is giving without the expectation of reciprocation.

The Existential:  In reality, all we have is the moment.  We tend to forget the present as we rehash the past and plan for the future.  Moments are lost as our busy minds run wildly.  Visiting with someone with dementia quiets our minds when we allow ourselves to be still as we hold loved ones’ hands, look into cloudy eyes, and offer kind words.  Moments become a celebrations larger than the indulgences of memory or mind-preparations for dinner or other non-monumental planning.

Recognition of Personhood:  Society, as a whole, has corrupted how we celebrate personhood.  We are asked to admire the crazies on reality TV, boorish politicians who devalue segments of our population, and advertisements defining beauty and success.  Reality TV vs. reality: people get old or have disabilities and they still have value.  Political rhetoric vs. reality: there is more value in a person who has worked for many decades, raised a loving family and done their best to be honorable than any politician who ignores the many needs of the elderly.  Advertisement vs. reality: no model is more beautiful than an elderly man or woman with a smile—with or without teeth.

What inspired this post?  I always greet and hold the hands of each resident as they come to my readings.  Again, after I finish my 20-minutes of readings and humor, I tell each person goodbye and hold their hands.

Last week, one woman pulled my hand to her lips and kissed it.  Her eyes were clear.  I bent down and kissed her white hair in need of a brush.  In that existential moment, we connected as women on a journey together.

I grieve for all those young people who are not learning from their elders.  Learning may be wisdom imparted or the acceptance of an elder who only has “in the moment” to offer.


Call Me On Route 66

When I was almost 12-years-old, my family moved from the farm to an apartment adjoining the local telephone company switchboard and office.  The building was tin and in the summer months our living quarters felt like a metal oven.  Only the phone office had a window air conditioning unit.

Mother was the new office manager of one of the last pre-dial phone systems in the United States.  She had two operators to help her six to nine hours a day.  The remainder of the fifteen to eighteen hours she answered calls, “Number please.”  Mother also did all the billing and cleaning.  The only other employee was a part-time lineman who worked for the railroad full time.

Farm homes still had wooden, box phones and individual telephone rings made up of longs and shorts.  On the farm we answered to two long rings and two short rings on line seven.  The jingle alerted homemakers to their neighbor’s calls and “listening in” was a favorite pastime – a pastime all denied!

Residents were respectful of the night rule: no calls after ten o’clock or before seven in the morning.  Exceptions to the rules were made for emergencies, railroader calls to report for work, and student calls for rides home following high school sporting events.

Railroaders daily called the operator and told her he was going for a haircut or to the drug store for coffee.  If a call for work presented itself, the operator sent the call to the railroader’s location.  Of course, there was no fee for the answering service – just the neighborly thing to do.

City dwellers in Hope, Kansas who lifted their receivers triggered a light on the switchboard.  If a senior citizen’s light came on and there was no verbal response, mother would contact their family or send my father out to knock on their door.

The relationship between the phone office and the residents was civility at its best.  The community supported the phone office team and the operators made every effort to do what was best for the locals.  No one screamed, “Not my job description!”

There is no going back to phones with handles and mouth pieces hanging in flowered, wall-papered kitchens.  There is no going back to quiet nights without texts and cyber messaging.  There is no going back to the absence of phones at the dinner table.  There is no going back to creative play rather than mindless games on i-phones.

How different would the world be if we still knew the phone operator by name?  How different would the world be if everyone in cyberspace did not know our names?  A part of us changed with each advance in communication technology.  Perhaps the first step in reestablishing our civility is to recognize what we lost along the way.