Family – Page 3 – SeasonedSistah

My Blogging Hiatus Experience

In an opening scene of the 2013 TV series, Revenge, “Emily Thorne says:

“They say the best-laid plans often go awry. Because no matter how detailed the preparation, a plan will always have a WEAK SPOT…..”

Blogging Hiatus Plan

In anticipation of our two granddaughters visiting over spring break and Hubby and I celebrated our 55th Wedding Anniversary, I went on a 3+ week blogging hiatus. I devoted the first week to scheduling and organizing:

exciting activities for the granddaughters during their seven-day visit; and
interesting places for Hubby and I to visit over our four-day mini vacation.

“Weak Spot”

Days before the grands arrived, Hubby’s trigeminal nerve pain flared-up. He has lived with this condition for more than five years and the pain usually resolves on its own. But, in the last six months he has undergone several outpatient surgical procedures with only temporary relief.

Hubby’s severe pain flare-up was the “weak spot” in my family planned activities during this “blogging hiatus”.

Self-Trust

Rather than push the panic button when my “hiatus plans” hit a “weak spot”, I went to a space of stillness, quiet, and mindful breathing. In silence, Self-Trust emerged and I was able to re-direct and focus on creating a new plan, which gave me the Self-Confidence to:

Stretch – I went outside of my comfort-zone to overcome a long-time fear of driving on two-lane highways, tollways and interstate highways. When faced with the choice whether to disappoint our granddaughters or overcome my fears, it was a no-brainer. The granddaughters left eleven days ago and since that time I drive, solo, all over the City of Orlando and its suburbs. Getting to places where I like to go, without bugging Hubby, and enjoying every moment of this newfound freedom.
Let Go of the planned mini-vacation until Hubby’s pain condition is under control. Instead, I spent time reading, exploring, learning and relaxing.

Blogging Hiatus Experience

Through this “blogging hiatus experience”, Self-Trust emerged and strengthened my:

Self-Esteem to step outside of my comfort zone;
Inner Strength to move beyond the “weak spots” that cross my path; and
Self-Confidence to rely on my “inner voice.”

Why I Blog

In my last post, “Blog, Why” I shared with you:

a few negative comments from non-bloggers who expressed their beliefs about why people blog;
my inability to respond openly and honestly when asked by friends and family, “Why Do You Blog.” and
why I was taking time off from blogging to go within and explore “Why I Blog”.

When I stepped away from blogging and travelled inward to find words that authentically expressed “Why I Blog,” I came up with a number of reasons and these are just a few:

I blog for Self-Expression – I silenced my voice many, many years ago and readily accepted the role of “listener”. But in this last season of life, I wanted to share my experiences, opinions, and rants. I needed a platform to “speak up,” “speak clear, and “speak out. ” And, I found it . My voice gets stronger every day on Blogosphere as well as when I communicate with people face-to-face.
I blog for Self-Care – Ten years ago, it dawned on me that I have a paternal family Alzheimer’s and Dementia history. Of my three paternal aunts, two lived into their seventies, both were diagnosed with the conditions and, the third died in her forties. My only two paternal female cousins who both lived past the age of sixty were diagnosed as well. Blogging is one of the things that I do to exercise my brain. And, staying mentally alert is especially important given my age, seventy-two, and family history.
I blog for Self-Education – I communicate with Bloggers around the world. Through these Blogs, my life opens up to new things, places, cultures and lifestyles. Whenever, I go to my Reader and/or visit a Blog, I can expect to learn something new.
I blog for Self-Awareness – “Living in the Present Moment,” Stillness, and “Quiet” did not play a role in my life until I entered Blogosphere a little over two years ago. This is when yoga, meditation and mindfulness entered my space. Though, still a work-in-progress, through these practices, I now do a better job of understanding who I am and how I relate to what happens in my life both the positive and the negative.
I blog for Self-Love” – Blogging for me is very nurturing; and, I am worthy of doing what I enjoy and all that brings tranquility and happiness into my space.

This is my last blog post until Monday, April 27, I am taking a break to spend seven fun-filled days with my two beautiful granddaughters who will be visiting us during their spring break.

Chelsea, 23-Years-Old — Chelsea Yvonne, 23-Years-Old

After the granddaughters leave, Hubby and I are taking several mini vacations to celebrate our 55th Wedding Anniversary.

Freedom Friday – Black History Month: Part 3

The freedom to speak freely is not always free from repercussions. When blogging friend, Imani, created Freedom Friday, I saw this as the first-step toward freeing me from ego and self-judgment about what I write, embrace, or critique on this blog.

With this newfound freedom every Friday, during Black History Month 2015, I chose to recognize an “unknown man” to many but a “Black Hero” to me. The Hubby that I have loved and respected for almost fifty-five years, who stepped outside of his comfort zone, to write his first book, “The Son of A Sharecropper Achieves the American Dream.”

The following are excerpts from his book of memoirs.

Part 1 – Introduction: February 6

Part 2 – Childhood in The Big House: February 13

Part 3

Coming of Age in Coahoma

After living on the Ralston plantation for about two or three years, we moved to another house on the Parker plantation in Coahoma. I was about ten years old at the time. This was exciting I had more kids to play with and I could go to town on the weekends.

Coahoma consisted of three general stores, three cafes, a dry goods store, a train station, a post office, a doctor’s office, two churches and a cotton gin.

As a teenager, I worked in the fields, babysit my sisters and brothers, and attended school. I had begun working in the fields at age 5 or 6, chopping and picking cotton, but now I was getting paid. I worked 10 hours a day to earn money for school clothes and other personal needs. The rate was 25 cents an hour if you worked on the plantation where you lived, and 30 cents an hour if you worked off the plantation.

Going to the fields to chop cotton was a lot of fun. It was extremely hard and dirty work, but it gave us an opportunity to enjoy our good friends, sing, tell jokes and trash talk.

From age 12-17, I worked five days a week, ten hours a day, for about eight or nine months of the year. I was in school only four months of the year,

One could earn about $12.50 a week if you worked all five days, ten hours a day. I gave some money to my parents and kept the rest. Sometimes the owners would let the grownups work more days than the kids, so they could make as much money as they could to provide for their families, while the work lasted.

One week after working in the fields chopping cotton and getting paid, I took my fist bus ride by myself, a 13-mile trip to Clarksdale, Mississippi, a much larger town. Clarksdale had many big stores and three movie houses. The bus line only ran on Saturdays, at noon, five p.m., and 10 p.m. If you missed the last bus, you had to walk home. I couldn’t have been much older than 12 or 13, and I took this trip all by myself. I watched a Class B western and bought a shirt for the first time in my life. I remember the shirt was blue with pink designs, and I was surprised that it was a good fit.

On this trip I bought my first hamburger at the cafe on Issaquena Street.

During the summer of 1956, I met Yvonne Burks. Yvonne was born in Mississippi but grew up in Chicago. She was in Coahoma visiting her grandparents for the summer.

During her summer visits we went on hayrides and the annual community trip to the zoo in Memphis. I can remember sitting on her grandparents front porch trying to be Mr. Big Stuff, rapping to her that the stars and the moon reminded me of the power of our love, how much she meant to me, and how our lives would come together as husband and wife when we were older and got married.

I met my father, Willie Brown, for the first time when I was 15, in 1957. One day he and his wife showed up in Coahoma, where he had grown up as a kid. He was in the army and was en route back to Chicago. I was in school and some people came in the classroom and said my father was out there and wanted to see me. I went out and he introduced himself.

It was such a shock, I didn’t now how to deal with it. I was happy that he was here, but at the same time I never expected to see him. He showed up at my school, without writing, sending a smoke signal, or some other form of communication. You do not walk up to a 15-year-old and say, “Hey boy I’m your daddy.” You must remember that I had not heard from him or spoke with this man during my entire life.

We talked and got in his car. He drove me home and visited with my mother and stepfather. He talked about his army career in World War II and Korea. He gave me an old pair of army tennis shoes, and the next day he left. I didn’t see him again until I moved to Chicago in 1959. I stayed in touch with my biological father from time to time, until he passed away in 1970 from throat cancer.

When I finished the 9th grade, I enrolled at Agriculture High School, located outside of Clarksdale. Aggie was the only school and junior college that Blacks could attend in Coahoma County, Mississippi.

I played on the basketball team. This created a problem for me because all of the games were held at night and I didn’t haves a ride home. If you didn’t have a car your only transportation was the school bus. If I wasn’t lucky enough to catch a ride after the game with a kid who was using his parent’s car, I was forced to sleep illegally in the back of the gymnasium on a dirty mat with no covers. When I got up the next morning, I had no soap, toothbrush or toothpaste. If I wanted to eat breakfast, I had to sneak into the cafeteria. The coach let me get away with it for a while, but told me I would have to pay for breakfast.

You have no idea how hard life can be when you’re poor. In high school everyone was poor. We had no means of income during the non-farming season. Sometimes a bus would come by from Florida to pick up people for migrant work, but that was it. There was no other work.

There were days I went hungry in school. I’d stand outside the lunchroom and beg for nickels and dimes from the kids coming out of the cafeteria.

In next Friday’s post, I will share His Story about Chicago and Joining The Army.

Freedom Friday – Black History Month: Part 2

Introduction

Thanks to my blogging friend, Imani, for Freedom Friday. This year for Black History Month, I chose to use my four Freedom Fridays in February to share excerpts from Hubby’s published memoirs, “The Son of A Sharecropper Achieves the American Dream.”

Last week, I posted Part 1 of this four-part series and, as promised, this week I share excerpts from the book about his early childhood.

Childhood in The Big House

“Shortly after my birth, the plantation owner acquired some additional land and a 13-room house from a white man named Mr. Morris. This was the largest house on the plantation and my grandfather was asked to move his family into it. We called it the “Big House.” Even though we had no indoor plumbing, this house was far better than other sharecropper homes, which were basically two or three-room shacks. They had roofs made of corrugated tin, and the floorboards had enough space between them that you could see the dogs and chickens running under the house.

On Christmas Eve all the sharecropping families who lived on the Ralston Plantation would gather on the boss man’s front lawn and wait for his wife, Miss Blanche, to hand out gift bags to each family. The children got a brown bag with one orange, one apple, several loose pieces of rock candy, and mixed nuts in the shell. We didn’t get any toys. This may seem like nothing to the average person, but when you were as poor as we children were, growing up in the south during what I call “the second phase of slavery,” a present like this was a big deal.

When I was six or seven years old my mother married L.C. Childress, who became my stepfather.

I had mixed feelings about him, I knew he wasn’t my biological father, but I loved this man who was there for me when I needed a father figure in my life. Maybe he wasn’t the perfect father, but he did the best he knew how, and for that I am ever grateful to him.

He wasn’t an educated man, but he was hard-working and modestly artistic. He built me a wagon made of wood and taught me how to make wooden tee toddlers and tractors from hay baling wire.

My mother and stepfather had to work in the fields gathering the crops so my sister Shirley and I had to take turns babysitting the younger children. She would go to school one day while I did the baby-sitting, and the next day we switched. I was in the fourth grade at the time. At the end of the school year she graduated to the next grade and I was left behind. We were told that I needed a minimum number of days to graduate. My sister qualified on the number and I was one day short. This was devastating to me. As a result, I was always one grade behind my age group in school.

When I was about 9 or 10 years old, something unusual happened. A group of white people came to my elementary school. All of the students were asked to stand in line and give blood. Many years later, I learned they were from the Mississippi Department of Health.

Approximately two weeks following their visit, we received a letter stating that my mother and I had to report for treatment in Meridian, Mississippi. A special bus picked us up in Coahoma along with a number of other people, some familiar and others I had never seen. I was scared to death. My mother tried to explain by telling me I had “bad blood.” I sill did not understand why we were on this old raggedy bus to a town I had never heard of. What was this bad blood?

We traveled all that day. It was a traumatic experience. At days end we finally arrived at an old decommissioned army base. They gave me two sheets, a pillowcase, and a blanket. I was a 9-year-old living in a large army barrack without my mother or any other family member. A situation like this was ripe for a young kid to be molested. Thank God it didn’t happen to me.

I was really afraid when they took me to the infirmary. They had me sit on a clinic stool, lay my head on the table, and gave me a spinal tap and lollipop.

One week later, we were on the same raggedy bus heading home. I learned that my mother’s test came out negative. She didn’t have to take those shots. How could a nine-year-old who was not sexually active have “bad blood”? Where did I get this “bad blood”? What did these white people do to me? Was I part of some type of Tuskegee experiment? Since then, there have been times when my blood tests have been positive. Other times, they have been negative.

My early “bad blood” experience has never been explained. I pray that I was not part of some nefarious experiment by our government.

In next Friday’s post, I will share HIS STORY about COMING OF AGE IN COAHOMA

Freedom Friday – Black History Month: Part 1

February 1 marked the beginning of Black History Month; and, the theme for 2015 is a “Century of Black Life, History and Culture.”

On this Freedom Friday and for the remaining three Fridays in February, I choose to celebrate Black History Month by recognizing and celebrating my Hubby and BFF (Best Friend Forever) for all that he has endured, overcome and accomplished during his lifetime.

I am grateful to have this blog platform to tell HIS STORY, HIS HISTORY and IN HIS OWN WORDS by sharing excerpts from HIS published memoirs, “The Son of A Sharecropper Achieves the American Dream.”

“I am a 70-year-old black male who was born in Mississippi in 1941 to an 18-year-old unwed mother with one child. I did not know my biological father until I was 15-years-old. I grew up in dire poverty in the pre-Civil Rights south, chopping and picking cotton for ten hours a day, eight months of the year. I was a high school dropout and had my first child, out-of-wedlock, at the tender age of 17. One year later, I married my beautiful childhood sweetheart and by the age 26 I was the father of four children. By age 33, I had obtained a Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. I overcame my difficult beginnings to become the successful person I am today.

My story and my family’s story is about being black in this country — an honest story about how much progress we have made but also about how much progress we still need to make. I faced many hardships and struggles as a poor black boy growing up in 1950s Mississippi. But my struggles and hardships didn’t end when I moved to the north and began my professional career in business and government service. While I was no longer chopping and picking cotton ten hours a day, I was still in many ways treated like a second class citizen. This book, then, is a cautionary tale for black people about attitudes that have not changed fast enough and the progress we still need to achieve.

At the same time this is not a memoir about an angry black man. Rather, it is a story of hope and perseverance — about how I overcame tremendous odds to achieve success and the American Dream. Despite the problems I describe, I’ve had many more victories, and I am thankful to my family, friends, colleagues and county for the opportunities and achievements that have blessed my life.”

James C. Thomas, December 2012

In next Friday’s post, I will share HIS STORY about HIS CHILDHOOD.

Pain and Painting Black Figurines

Chronic Pain Memories

When I returned to Wisconsin for the Thanksgiving Holiday, this past year, I did more than spend quality time with family and friends.

I, also, reconnected with memories created more than twenty years ago. Fond memories of struggling through the early years of a chronic pain condition.

As shared in earlier posts, I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis in 1993. The daily, excruciating pain associated with this condition forced me to take a six-month medical leave from my dream job, which eventually led to a resignation for medical reasons.

Because of the severe joint degeneration in my hands, I lost the ability to do even simple self-care tasks e.g., buttoning my blouse, tying my shoes, putting on a bra, or even combing my hair. In addition to working full-time, Hubby served as my primary caregiver. That is one of many reasons why I have kept him around for almost fifty-five years.

Chronic Pain Management: Painting Black Figurines

Approximately four months after the diagnosis, things changed. It started, when I opened the huge box sent by the Eldest Daughter from North Carolina where she was living at the time. Inside were bottles of acrylic paint in an array of colors as well as a number of unpainted figurines.

UNPAINTED PECAN SHELL RESIN ANGEL FIGURINE

I called her and said, “Thank you for the gift, but What The H… am I suppose to do with these things?”

“Painting may give you some pain relief as well as strengthen your hands. Give it a try.” she said.

I tried and the first pieces were a disaster. But, I painted figurines almost everyday from 1993 until 1996. The painting improved. But, more importantly, the joints strengthened and the pain lessened.

Daily, for almost three years, I painted figurines depicting African-Americans in different roles — babies, clowns, children, angels, baseball players, basketball players, sorority girls, fraternity boys, historical figures, Buffalo Soldiers, doctors, nurses, etc.

After a while, the pieces went on display in the African-American Art Gallery that we formerly owned. They were quick sellers, especially the Santa’s and Angels.

I painted under the pseudonym, Marie Enno, which I took from the last four letters, spelled backwards, of my first name “Yvonne”; and, my middle name “Marie.” A number of close friends and relatives purchased the figurines. However, they had no idea that Yvonne Marie and Marie Enno were one in the same.

Painting the figurines distracted me from focusing on pain. I know painting was the beginning of my journey:

from the non-productive invalid stage of chronic pain
to the productive and active lifestyle I continue to enjoy at the seasoned age of 73.

Yes, I still have pain but I work to control it rather than letting it control me.

Thanksgiving with The Black Santa’s

With the exception of the Santa’s shown in this post, all the figurines were either sold at the gallery or gifted to friends.

When the family Christmas Gatherings, outgrew the space in our home, the Eldest Daughter said, “Let’s move the Santa’s to my home so we can continue to enjoy them.” I agreed and visited my Santa’s at her house every Christmas Holiday until retirement brought us to Florida in 2010.

Though everybody now comes to Florida for Christmas, Eldest Daughter wants to keep the Santa’s. Since they have been in her possession for more than ten years, I believe her home is now their home.

This year, for the first time, she decorated for Christmas before Thanksgiving; and, I was able to once again enjoy my beloved Santa’s. She will continue to do this in the future; and I look forward to visiting with my Santa’s every Thanksgiving.

I added the photos below to my Cherished Memories Album. I can now enjoy looking at them when I want.

Sharing a Memory: Thanksgiving 2014

Hubby and I returned to Wisconsin to spend Thanksgiving with the kids, grands, relatives and friends this past year. Since we decided to go at the last-minute one, our airline ticket prices were over the top. (Side Bar Correction: The decision was mine and I bugged Hubby until he agreed.).

Why I Bugged Hubby

For years, we postponed visiting Hubby’s last remaining Aunt even though, by car, she lived six hours away from our home in Wisconsin. I remember reasons like “not enough time” or “maybe next year.”

Sadly, she passed away the first week in November. There was “enough time” and we couldn’t wait until “maybe next year” to attend her funeral and show our respect.

It was an up-front and up-in-my-face reality moment. Our tomorrows with loved ones are not promised. And, nothing short of my death was going to prevent me from spending Thanksgiving with the children and grands.

It was a short visit with a lot packed into three days, but I am grateful for the many precious memories including this one about my Little Girls.

The youngest members of our families are oftentimes the funniest. And, these two were in hot water for their shenanigans during the after Thanksgiving Family Gathering.

Cupcake (Black Dress) – Lyric (Plaid Shirt)

Our 6-year-old granddaughter, Cupcake, and great-granddaughter, Lyric, 7-years-old proudly announced to all that they were putting on a play later in the evening. Everyone purchased a ticket. The two girls disappeared; and, we all assumed they were pulling things together. When the girls came downstairs a bit later, they started to play a board game, and the play was soon forgotten by all.

Several hours later, the Eldest Daughter answered the phone and the caller said, “Someone telephoned 911 from this telephone is everything okay?” She assured the dispatcher all was well and said, “I can’t imagine what happened.”

My son decided to ask the girls and Cupcake admitted making the call. He explained to her that 911 calls were for emergencies only. She quickly said, “This was an emergency Lyric stole my money.” Lyric piped up with “I deserved more money because I am older.”

Aunts, cousins, uncles, dad, friends, etc., all took turns sharing examples with the girls of the right and wrong times to call the 911 emergency number.

The money collected was equally split between the two girls with the promise they would put the play on at our family’s July 4th Celebration.

Once everything settled down with the girls, the party activities continued. Then, the doorbell ring, a police officer came down the steps and entered the lower level. Cupcake looked up from her card game, saw the police officer, and quickly ducked behind the ottoman.

Her dad called her out of hiding. And, she meekly stood before the officer as he calmly explained to both girls that 911 calls were for emergencies only.

Cam’ron (Play Grandson) – Police Officer

Something positive came out of this 911 incident. After all the negative publicity about policemen and their negative relationship with the African-American community, it was good for our teenage family members to witness a police officer interacting with these two little girls as well as our entire family in a kind, professional, and respectful way.

L-R: Avi, Tianna, Cupcake, Taeja, Lyric and Chelsea

Photography 101, Day 4: Solitude

Tired of Pool Ping Pong – Dismantled Table – Seeking Solitude – My 7-Year-Old Summer Visitor

Freedom Friday – November 7, 2014

The outcome of the 2014 mid-term election is disappointing. But, acceptance and awareness tells me not to dwell on the past.

So, today, I choose to live in the present moment with a smile.

My youngest granddaughter, Cupcake, always brings happiness and joy into my space. Regrettably, she lives two thousand miles away. However, when I pull up her photos on my computer screen:

I Smile.

I, Even, Laugh Out Loud

Past Memories: College Days

Introduction

Hubby and I enrolled in the University of Wisconsin-Madison as freshmen in the Fall Semester of 1969.

I was 27-years-old, Hubby was 28, and we had three children 9, 8 and 2.

I was a high school graduate. He earned a GED, while serving in the military, after dropping out of high school in the 10th grade.

Both of us were on a mission to improve the quality of our family’s life; and, we believed earning a college degree would lead us toward fulfilling this mission.

Memories Disclosed

While I have many positive memories of my student days at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, for some reason, I chose to disclose memories that have remained hidden for many years.

They were hidden in my mind because I lacked the confidence to even self-acknowledge, much less open up to others, about how the things I am sharing today made me feel.

In the late 1960s, we stood out in our new roles as freshman college students. And, sadly, I felt uncomfortable. My classes were filled with students in their late teens and early twenties.

I felt “less than” and “different than” these college students. They were young and single with recent educational experiences. While I was older, married, with three kids; and, I hadn’t been in a classroom for more than nine years.

Another “less than” and “different than” experience, which was personally embarrassing, happened when Hubby and I attended a freshman event on campus; and, the reporter covering the event walked over to Hubby and sarcastically asked, “Aren’t you a little old for this.”

Hubby, responded, sarcastically saying, “You’re never to old to follow your dream.”

Today, if asked the same question, rather than being embarrassed, I would say, “We are here to provide our three children with a better life. “

Another “less than” college memory was when, during my first semester, I had to drop out of both Spanish 101 and French 101 within the first several weeks. Even though I tried, it was impossible, to keep up with students who had just finished taking high school classes in these languages.

But, I needed the required foreign language credits to graduate. Thinking I could manage a class where my foreign language skills (none) were comparable to the other students, I decided to try an African language. Classes were offered in the University’s African Studies Department; and, I was able to satisfy my foreign language requirements by taking classes in Swahili, Xhosa and Hausa.

Several of the faculty members, in the department, impressed with my academic performance encouraged me to apply to the school’s PH.D program.

I thought my life had opened up to a wide-range of career possibilities. But, the optimism didn’t last long when friends and family members cited a number of reasons why this wasn’t a realistic choice. So, I walked away feeling “less than.”

Thankfully, I have reached a point in life where I am no longer controlled, embarrassed or intimidated when confronted with “less than” or “different than” comments made by others.

After two life-threatening illnesses, breast cancer and epiglottitis which occurred in 2008 and 2010 respectively, I went on a self-awareness, self-empowerment and self-love journey.

The longer I stay on this path , the easier it is to “let go” and discard the unnecessary baggage of “not good enough,” “unworthy,” and “unlovable” which controlled my life from early childhood.

Closing

Despite my struggles, we fulfilled our educational dreams:

Hubby earned his Bachelors and Masters of Science Degrees;
I earned a Bachelors of Science Degree
Our eldest daughter, who was 9-years-old when Hubby and I enrolled as freshmen, earned her Medical Degree;
Our youngster daughter earned her Bachelor’s in Business Administration and Law Degree; and
Our youngest grandson enrolled as a freshman, Fall of 2014.