The Box

Rick and I are antique junkies.  We are particularly fond of primitives.  Rusty buckets and porcelain signs draw us like bees to honey.  Our house is full of antiques and junk and collectibles with stories that could fill a book.

We are also avid campers and the Ozarks are one of our favorite camping spots.  Over the more than thirty years that we’ve been visiting the Ozarks, we finally built a small one room cabin on our secluded property just outside of Heber Springs.

On one of our many trips to our cabin in the Ozarks, we stopped off at a small junk shop.  The owners were an elderly couple probably in their late seventies.   We just knew them by the name of their shop, Cothren’s Antiques.  Mr. Cothren walked out from one of the several buildings they used to house their treasures. We could hear his voice before we could see him. He had a distinct voice and a personality to go with it.  Mr. Cothren  was about as cute as you could get. He was wearing a pair of worn overalls and a big straw hat.  He had obviously been working on one of his many restoration projects. He pulled his gloves off, wiped his hands on his overalls and stuck out his hand to greet us.

Mrs. Cothren was inside the showroom. She tended to the store and rang up the purchases.   They had a pretty magnificent show room in one of their out buildings. We were quite surprised to see the quality of the antiques they had there.  We stopped a few times and bought some nice pieces from them and even brought some of our friends with us over the years that also purchased some nice pieces from the Cothren’s.

On one of our visits, we had noticed an old primitive box propped up on the outside of the building alongside a pile of chopped wood. We are suckers for boxes.  This was a particularly large wooden box with a strange marking on the side. It was as if someone had tried to carve some kind of design on the side of it.   It was very weathered and we could only guess how old it must be.  It looked like it had been propped up against the building for some time.  Before inquiring about the old gray weathered box, we decided we didn’t have room for it anyway. We were so loaded up with camping gear that we would have had to strap it to the roof of the jeep, so we left without it.

All the way home, we talked about that box.  We speculated on its origin.  We also talked about how we wished we had gone ahead and strapped it to the roof.   And like many of the old things we’ve purchased over the years, we imagined the story that must have gone with that old box.  We were really regretting we didn’t buy it and bring it home.

A few years later on our way home from the Ozarks; we stopped off at the little junk shop.  This time we noticed a sign on the door.  “We’re selling out.”  It appeared as though the Cothren’s had decided to sell off all their antiques and close their little shop.  We went in and scanned the place of any antiques we thought we couldn’t live without.   We made a few purchases and while Mrs. Cothren was checking us out, Mr. Cothren walked in.  He appeared to be pretty excited about something.  He explained to his wife that he was finished with the project that he had been working on and just had to show it to her.  He was so preoccupied with his project and showing it off that he barely made eye contact with us.  He brought it in and sat it down on the floor and began to talk about the many days he had spent on this hopeless piece of junk only to discover it’s real beauty.  He stepped aside to reveal a golden brown and beautifully hand rubbed BOX.  Rick and I both gasped at the same time. “That’s THE box!”

 The old gray and weathered box that we left behind years ago had been sitting and waiting for us all this time. Of course, it had to be ours. Without even knowing what the box was going to cost, we declared it ‘sold!’   We purchased the box and asked if it had a story with it.  “Of course, “ said Mr. Cothren.   This beat up old weathered box had sat out on the front porch of a local grocery store for more than 100 years.  He himself remembered buying potatoes out of the old box.  He pointed out the hole where the mice had made their way in and out of the box over the years.  He didn’t know why the crude carving was on the side of the box. That is still a mystery.  But he had acquired it during one of his many purchases of various items around his neighborhood. He said it sat outside his building for years until recently when he had decided to see what a little paste wax would do.  

The shiny golden brown box now sits in our living room.  Many who come to our house notice its uniqueness and primitive beauty.  And then we tell them the story of ‘the box’ and the little old man who polished it up just for us.

Digging for Gold

I went to The Farm recently to check on the place.  It was cold and wet and the ground was still soaked from the heavy rains.  I walked around the barn and there in front of me  was a patch of white flowers. They were blooming on the fence row under the shadow of the huge pecan tree.   I smiled and thought of Zenobia immediately.  The paper whites that normally bloom in February were all in bloom...just in time for her birthday.   I could smell their fragrance and a flood of memories rushed through my head.

I love daffodils.  I love the way they surprise everyone in early spring.  When Ben was little I would strap him into his car seat and we would drive the back roads near our home looking for old house sites. Only a huge oak tree and a spray of yellow gold on the ground was usually all that remained of many old house sites that sprinkled the back roads of Claiborne Parish.  When we would find ‘gold’ I would pull over, spread out a blanket for Ben, grab my shovel and begin to dig.  I wouldn’t take them all. Just a couple of shovels full. After which I would fill the hole with dirt and we would be off to the next old house site. 

During the time that we were cleaning up the landscape at the Farm, we discovered ‘Gold’ there too. It wouldn’t be uncommon to go to the Farm on one of our many work days and find a new batch of flowers blooming.  They were everywhere.  I got so excited about the prospect of identifying all of these wonderful flowers and possibly cultivating them to sell to support the Farm.  I also came to recognize that some fairly rare heirloom bulbs had been planted there by Zenobia’s mother and her two aunts who lived on the Farm.

On one morning a few years back, I made one of my routine checks of the Farm.  I drove up and something was different.  Someone had been there. The ground was all churned up and there were huge holes all over the back yard and bulbs were turned over and exposed.  I was livid. Who would do this? Who would destroy this beautiful place?  We had just landscaped the backyard and transplanted a multitude of bulbs around the old pump. 

I called Chief T.C. Bloxom and explained what had happened.  He immediately sent a police officer out to the Farm to take pictures of the destruction.  The police officer was just as puzzled as I was.  “Do you have any artifacts out here?” the officer asked me.  “Do you think that someone might have been using a metal detector and dug the ground up looking for artifacts? “  That could be possible I replied because the house and the site did have some historical value but I couldn’t imagine a history buff destroying anything historic even if it was just dirt.

I had even thought that perhaps someone had realized as I did that there were many rare and valuable heirloom bulbs.  Maybe they dug some up.  But that didn’t make sense either because people who love bulbs are far too respectful to leave such destruction behind.

I left to visit the Chief about the incident.  I walked into his office and he had the photographs of the Farm grounds on his desk.  He leaned back in his chair and while placing his hands behind his head, he declared “Chrissy, they're pigs!” 

 “You got that right, Chief! The worse kind of pigs.”

“No, no, I mean real pigs!”

 The Chief went on to share his experience with pigs and declared that the damage that had been done to our Farm property was done by pigs. . “Good grief! Where would they come from? “

After talking with all the neighbors, no one had pigs around us.  Where could this pig have come from? We called Heath Balkom with the wildlife and fisheries office. Heath came out and walked the property and checked out the destruction. He agreed with the Chief that it appeared to have been done by pigs. Heath erected a huge pen and set the trap for the pig. Heath even speculated that it might be a sow and baby piglets based on the damage.  

 The grounds behind the Farm were still very grown up as was the adjoining property.  For days, Heath would make his way to the Farm to see if the trap had been sprung.  We continued to monitor the Farm. I got a call one day from Health.    “We saw him.”   “Saw him or caught him?”  I said.  I made my way to the Farm to see what was up.  As I arrived, they were repairing the trap where the pig had torn his way out. 

“Our pig is not a pig!” Heath proclaimed!  “He’s a hog!”  A big 350 pound black hog.  We never caught the hog but he also never came back.  Everyone speculated that he had made his way to the Farm by way of the little creek that runs behind the Farm. We don’t know if he just moved on or if someone had been successful in capturing him and….eating him!

The story about the hog at the Farm made it to the Minden Lion’s Club Thursday noon meeting. Everyone enjoyed a chuckle. 

Each spring when the front yard of the Farm looks like butter and the many little clumps of green around the Farm are packed with ‘Gold,’  I remember fondly my days of digging for gold and the day that the hog came to dig as well.

('The Farm' is a four acre historic site owned and managed by Cultural Crossroads, a local non profit arts organization that uses the Farm as their official festival site for their annual Spring Arts Festival and other art/agriculture related projects.)

Don't Feed the Monster!

"Fear, greed, and the desire for power are the psychological motivating forces not only behind warfare and violence between nations, tribes, religions, and ideologies, but also the cause of incessant conflict in personal relationships." --this is an excerpt from a book I'm reading "A New Earth" by Eckhart Tolle.  It was one of Oprah's Book Club recommended reads.

I've been going crazy lately with trying to understand why we all seem to be displaying so much hatred.  Everywhere you turn, people are posting their hate and anger at Congress, or the President or gays....or whatever their choice of frustration might be at the time.  While being angry over issues is not the problem, this book has opened my eyes to a new way of thinking about this whole hatred thing. I have come to realize how dysfunctional we are as a society (and I include myself in this) and that we are so busy feeding our egos, we don't realize how hateful we've become.

Here is another except from the book that explains that better than I can.

"BEING RIGHT, MAKING WRONG
Complaining as well as faultfinding and reactivity strengthen the ego's sense of boundary and separateness on which no survival depends.  But they also strengthen the ego in another way by giving it a feeling of superiority on which it thrives. It may not be immediately apparent how complaining, say, about a traffic jam, about politicians, about the 'greedy wealthy' or the 'lazy unemployed,' or your colleagues or ex-spouses, men or women, can give you a sense of superiority. Here is why.  When you complain by implication you are right and the person or situation you complain about or react against is wrong.

There is nothing that strengthens the ego more than being right. Being right is identification with a mental position--a perspective, an opinion, a judgement, a story.  For you to be right, of course, you need someone else to be wrong., and so the ego loves to make wrong in order to be right. ........Being right places you in a position of imagined moral superiority in relation to the person or situation that is being judged and found wanting. It is that sense of superiority the ego craves and through which it enhances itself."

This coming year, I am going to do my very best not to feed the monster (ego). I haven't finished the book but I have already learned so much about myself and my own egotistical tendencies that I'm excited about starting a new year off in a new direction and a new awaking to my own life's purpose.

                                                     --------------------

October 16, 2017--Reflecting back on this post, I have come to realize how much we feed our egoes through FB. While I love the social aspect of sharing ideas and points interest, it does alarm me that we have allowed it consume us while we feed the monster.  I am guilty of feeding the monster.  I hope to do better. 

Discovering Christine

"So, what do you want to be when you grow up, Christine?"

I was in the third grade when I became aware that I would be growing up...into something or somebody.  I was a handful for my third grade teacher, Mrs. Beard.  She was an older lady and probably gave me my first experience with real kindness. I was not a good pupil but I don't remember her ever being unkind to me. But I do remember her losing her patience with me. 

My grades were not good. My attitude was not good. I often lost my temper and would welcome a fight on any given day. I do remember one such day when I'm sure I had stepped on Mrs. Beard's last nerve. I wouldn't keep quite. I was constantly disturbing the class.  But instead of scolding me or sending me out in the hall, she did an amazing thing. 

She called me to the back of the class and sat me down at a desk next to hers.  She pulled out some paper, a pencil and a brand new pack of crayons. She opened my history book to a chapter on 'how the west of won.'  Our history books had wonderful illustrations in them and this chapter was particularly colorful.  My assignment was to sit at the desk and draw and color the first illustration in the chapter. All I could think about at the time was 'wow! a brand new box of crayons...just for me!'

I know now why that worked probably more than she realized at the time. As an art teacher now, once you are engaged in a drawing exercise, a wonderful thing happens....you can't talk, or don't want to talk, I should say.   Talking is a left brain function and drawing/creating is a right brain function. When your brain is engaged in creative expression, you are basically transported to never, never land, where there is no sense of time.

I spent the better part of that day drawing this scene out of the book.  At the end of the day, I turned it in.  Instead of sticking it in her drawer and dismissing me, she took the drawing from me. She grabbed two tacks and walked to the front of the class and posted the drawing above the blackboard where the alphabet is usually displayed. She didn't say a word. Class was dismissed and I went home feeling pretty good about my accomplishments that day.  I didn't do much in the way of learning I thought but I sure felt good about what I had done and what I had been allowed to do in class.

The next day, she repeated the order. I guess she enjoyed a day of silence and figured if it worked once, it could work again.  And she was right.  She repeated this routine every day for the next several days.  And at the end of each day, she repeated her routine of tacking the drawing up above the blackboard.

As my drawing assignments ended when the chapter ended,  Mrs. Beard did another amazing thing. She had the class open their history books to the chapter on 'how the west was won.'  She then moved to the front of the class and while standing under the many drawings I had completed the last few days, she began to use the drawings as a teaching aid.  She told the story and as she went from one historic incident to the other, she pointed to the drawings.

At the end, she thanked me in front of the class for having given them this remarkable artistic account about a time in our history when the west was wild and the country was new....just like me!

So, Christine, what do you want to be when you grow up? I want to be just like my teacher, Mrs. Beard.

The Interview of a Lifetime

It will be two years this month when three of the oldest African American siblings in Minden would all pass away.  It was also two years ago that a representative from Guinness World Book of Records visited  Minden to announce that the Thornton sisters of Minden were officially the “oldest African American siblings in the world.”  The presentation was made during a special birthday party for the Thornton sisters sponsored by Cultural Crossroads. Hundreds and hundreds of family, friends and well wishers crowed into the Minden civic center to honor the long lives of these three women.  Their story made headlines and television stations across the nation picked up the original telecast from one of Shreveport’s TV stations.  And overnight the Thornton sisters were celebrities.  Their 324 combined years of life would make history.

Following the early November ‘Super Birthday Party’, Rosie passed away mid December.  And by the end of January, all three sisters would be gone.   Rosie Thornton Warren, the youngest who was 104 passed away first. Then Carrie Thornton Miller, who was 107 died a couple of weeks later. The oldest would be the last to go. Maggie Thornton Renfro, a celebrated super centenarian, was 114 when she passed away in January of 2010.

I had the privilege of assisting with the last known interview with the Thornton Sisters.  Cultural Crossroads participated in a statewide project celebrating the Great Depression. “Triumph Over Tragedy” challenged each parish to find and document members in their community who lived through the Great Depression.  We had the great niece of the Thornton sisters, Janell Thornton, sitting on the board of Cultural Crossroads.  Without any prior knowledge of them, we quickly learned that we had three centenarians in Webster Parish.

I solicited the help of my long time friend and regional folklorist, Susan Roach. Susan and I together would take on the job of interviewing the three sisters. It was the summer of 2009. With the help of Janell Thornton, we arranged a time to interview all three sisters together in Rosie’s home.  

When we arrived, Susan and I were greeted by Rosie’s daughters who were also her loving caretakers. Rosie was in her wheelchair.  Maggie was there in her wheelchair and Carrie walked in on her own.   We were looking around trying to decide where the best place would be to seat everyone.  We all agreed on the living room.  Rosie’s daughter, Lovie, started to move Rosie to the living room.  I was behind Rosie and she was facing me in her wheelchair.  Lovie was pulling her towards the living room when Rosie grabbed her false teeth out of her mouth and threw them in my direction.  They hit the wall. Of course everyone turned around and inquired “What was that?”  Impulsively I busted out laughing. “I think Rosie just threw her dentures at me.”  The others laughed. “Well Momma,” Lovie said, “you’re gonna need your teeth for this interview.”  Lovie found the dentures, washed them off and handed them to Rosie who chose that day to NOT wear her dentures. She was 104; she could do what she wanted.

We set up our camera and Susan had her tape recorder all ready for a day of questions and answers.  I sat behind the camera while Susan conducted the interview.  Little did I know that this would be one of the most wonderful days I would spend with three incredible women. I was in for the treat of a life time.  Their interview revealed a life of struggles and hardships but more than that they shared their deep love for God, family and mankind.  “Give them (people) your best respects,” were the words that Carrie used over and over. “Treat everybody with respect. Love everybody” was Maggie’s motto.  The life they thought was simple was anything but….their message of love came through.  And over and over again they would talk about the importance of everyone loving each other.  As I sat behind the camera, I knew that I was experiencing something very special. This once-in-a-lifetime moment is something that I still treasure.

Seated L-R: Rosie Thorton Warren, 104; Maggie Thornton Renfro, 114 and Carrie Thorton Miller, 107

Zenobia's Gift

Zenobia Camp West, the most selfless woman I ever met, would have been 94 years old this year.  Zenobia West, the woman who gave Cultural Crossroads her family home, left a gift for children.

I met Zenobia when I was in my 30’s. We were at a community meeting together.  As I recall, they were asking people interested in cultural development to come to a meeting.  I don’t remember too many people showing up but she and I were there. That meeting started a lifetime friendship.  Zenobia would join me as one of the original founders of Cultural Crossroads. 

Zenobia was the most independent, most humble woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of calling my friend. We would joint venture on several things but it would be the four acre Farm on the corner of Talton Street and East Union that brought us closer.  We both loved the idea of it.  She had the dream and I had the desire. So, we were a good match.  She donated her family home and four acres to Cultural Crossroads  in 2000. It was an overgrown lot by this time and while she tried to maintain it, over the years, the underbrush, vines and briars took it over. You could barely see the little white house let alone the smaller wooden outhouses in the back.

The week we signed the papers, I drove to the property and parked my car on the side of the road and walked in the front gate and up to the front door. There was no front porch at the time.  I could not walk around the house for all the overgrown weeds and shrubs. But while I was there I remember looking at it all and wondering ‘how in the world are we going to make this happen for her?’  ‘What have I gotten myself into?’ and then I said a little prayer. “God, you’re gonna have to help us with this one.”

About that same time my husband, Rick, and I had become involved in a permanent agriculture study program at the Louisiana Shell Plant (Camp Minden).  And Rick had become acquaintanted with some ‘foreigners’ through the Sparta Aquifer meetings. Some were from Australia and Italy and then others were from northern states.  They were a really wonderful bunch of people whom we really 
enjoyed getting to know.   I shared Zenobia’s Dream with them.

9/11, 2001,  changed everything. The weeks that followed were frightful for everyone.  Everything changed.  Because of the attack, all the bases were closed to the public. Security was at its highest.  The guys who worked at the Shell Plant were anxious to get home themselves. Vic Guadagno headed the group. He was a young professional with a great sense of self and even a better sense of the world.  As an environmentalist and a big believer in sustainable agriculture, he led the group. 

One day Vic came to me and asked if they could meet with me.  As it turned out, the Army was shutting down the permanent agriculture study project at the Shell Plant.  That would mean that the guys would be leaving.  But what I didn’t know was that they had come up with the idea of presenting a proposal to the Army to redirect the remainder of the study money to Cultural Crossroads and our ‘Farm’ project. They flew me up to Rock Island and with a lot of their help; we pitched the Army the idea of placing those funds with the four acre project that was located in a disadvantaged neighborhood of Minden, Louisiana.  And they bought it!

This meant that Cultural Crossroads would receive $100,000 to aid in the development of a cultural arts project. This would include the clearing of the four acre homestead, identifying the existing food forest and laying the ground for a cultural arts center.  Halleluiah!!!! Five interns from the Shell Plant along with Vic, Paul and Andrew, the first phase of establishing the Moess Center for the Arts and City Farm began.

 Zenobia and I cried at the news.  She could not have been happier.  By this time in her life, she was suffering from some kind of muscular and spinal degeneration that took away her ability to walk without a cane and eventually she was confined to a wheelchair. I would make frequent visits to her house and let her know how we were progressing.  I photographed everything for her and chronicled our progress.

Zenobia West left a gift for the children of this area. Her dream to provide a safe haven for children to discover and explore the joys of creativity can be found at Moess Center for the Arts & City Farm. Now more than a decade in the making, the Farm added a one room studio this spring.  Thanks to a recent grant from the Beard Foundation of Shreveport and an anonymous donor, we added a new feature to the Farm.  This one room building will be appropriately called “Zenobia’s House.”  Zenobia would not have liked that. She didn’t want anything named after her.  She was just that selfless.  

While the thousands of children who come to the Farm each year may not know the woman who gave them this wonderful gift, they will remember the experience.  And isn’t that the real gift?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To learn more about the Farm and Cultural Crossroads, log on to their website at: www.artsinminden.com

"Storms make strong trees"

My first husband died in an automobile accident about two years after we divorced.  We had been married for eight long years.  They were long because they were painful.  My first husband and I met while in college. 

We eloped in the summer of 1971. We would spend the first few years of marriage in Minden.  While I feel uncomfortable speaking unkindly about him, it is a part of the message of this blog post.  My first husband was a very talented man.  He was a part time freelance reporter and a full time college student. I worked to put him through college and it would take him the length of our marriage to finally graduate. 

Most people were not aware of the abuse that was taking place in our family.  His parents, now deceased, struggled with abuse in their family.  Early on in our marriage we began to have problems.  We both consulted with our respective pastors for prayers and guidance.  We finally decided that we needed to leave Minden and find our own place as a couple in the world.

My husband joined the Army and we found ourselves stationed in Leesville for his four years of volunteer service.   Although we moved away from Minden, the problems moved with us.  The verbal and physical abuse escalated.  During one of our many fights, things turned critical. I sought the advice of a minister that I had befriended.   The minister told me that it was all my fault.  He said that I had not submitted myself completely to my husband. He quoted scriptures and went to council me on how I could be more submissive and honor my husband as the head of our household.  I listened respectfully but I kept feeling like he wasn’t really understanding what was going on.  How could he encourage me to stay with someone who was so abusive? He offered up prayer and visited me often at my job to give me words of encouragement and support.   But all the while, the message was still the same….  I needed to be more submissive to my husband.  He needed to feel like he was the head of our household and whatever he said should be honored. 

 While living in Leesville, I was offered a job by a local telecommunications company.  It paid a little more than minimum wage.  I would be in charge of selling and creating commercials for their local origination station.  I loved this job.  We had three people in our department including our department head. And our job included everything from creating and videotaping programs for our independent station to selling ads.   I learned how to use a camera and how to film and edit videos. I had excelled to the point that they had even given me my own morning news show “Coffee with Chris.”  Now while that sounds impressive, it really isn’t.  The local station was only available to members of this newly formed cable company and there were probably a dozen subscribers that tuned in. But just the idea of it gave me more confidence in myself.  

While this job was getting increasingly demanding with my time, so was my husband.  He was extremely manipulative and controlling.  I loved this job and he hated this job.  We fought often over it and he demanded that I quit.  On one rainy afternoon, he had all he could take and accused me of cheating on him. He came to my place of business and while in the middle of an argument, he threw back his fist and hit me in the face.   The manager tried to step in but it only made my husband angrier so my manager backed off.

We stepped outside to talk. While I was pleading with him not to do this in front of the people I work with, he insisted that we take this matter up at home.  I started to get into our car but he locked the door and refused to let me in.   He pulled out a gun from the glove box and told me to start walking.  I started walking to our trailer which was about a mile from my work place.  He drove the car slowly behind me hollering at me outside the window. I had wondered the entire time that I was walking in the rain why someone wasn’t coming to my rescue.  Didn’t anyone see what he was doing to me?   

We reached our home and he escorted me into the house pointing the gun at me.  While we were inside, he pointed the gun at my face and commented on how no one would find me attractive anymore after ‘he was finished with me.’   I didn’t know that the gun wasn’t loaded.  And as he continued to humiliate me and threaten me, I wondered how I was going to escape.  Finally, the police drove up.  Obviously the manager at my place of business had shared the incident with the local police.  They drove up and placed him under custody.  He spent the afternoon in the jail.  A police officer stayed behind to take my statement and informed me that I would have to press charges to keep him there.  With no family there and no place to go, I did what many women do, I dropped the charges. I’m sure you’re thinking what a stupid thing to do and you’re probably right. But what most people don’t realize is that when you’ve been controlled and manipulated, the fear of what your husband will do with you if you don’t drop the charges is part of this crazy game of survival.  I probably should have packed my bags then and left.  But leave to go where?  With what money?  I couldn’t go home because I didn’t want to involve them.  I had vowed ‘for better or worse, till death do us part’ and I meant it.  

I did worry that he would come home and continue his rampage but he didn’t. I guess the idea that he could go to jail for this kept him at bay for a little while anyway. His verbal abuse and physical abuse continued.

I tolerated the situation for another two years before I had decided that this was not what God had intended for me. And I didn’t come to that conclusion based on any previous advice that I had received from any of my preacher friends.  In fact, I sat down and read the Bible from cover to cover excluding Revelations, for obvious reasons.  When I finished reading the Bible, I shut the book and said out loud “I know what to do now. I’m getting a divorce.”

 I set out to save what little money I could so I could eventually escape this life of hell.  I was working in Minden and my husband was working in Shreveport.  We drifted further and further apart. I finally left him and we divorced.  It wasn’t an easy break up but I knew that I could not live the rest of my life like this.  I was willing to do whatever it took to get away from this man. Fortunately he was involved with a young woman at his place of business and the timing was perfect for leaving him.

Breaking the cycle is the key but it’s not as easy as people would like to think.  I was lucky that I had youth on my side and that we did not have any children.  I think if we had had a child, I would probably be just another statistic right now.  It’s not painful for me to talk about this.  Time and maturity have helped to heal those wounds. I have taken control of my own life and my own destiny and I’m not afraid of the consequences.  It’s not easy to stand strong.  But I can weather any storm now because I have a supportive and loving husband who has encouraged me and inspired me beyond anything I could explain here. 

 I do hope that my story helps shed some light on the various forms of domestic violence that exist in our society today.   From the school yard to our back yard….it’s all about control and manipulation.  And once we understand that maybe then we can find a more loving existence….that is certainly my prayer.

It's still a man's world.

Making light of sexual harassment has lit me up!

The recent allegations of sexual misconduct by presidential candidate Herman Cain has Mr. Cain and some of his supporters downplaying sexual misconduct. Passing off sexual harassment as no big deal is part of the problem.  Cain’s actions following these allegations speak volumes about what this man really thinks of women.  And ladies, it’s not in our favor.  And he’s not the only chauvinist pig out there.  Yeah, I said it.  I’ve seen his kind before.

I’ve been a victim of sexual harassment. Not in recent years, of course.  Now that I’m older, fatter and less attractive, I don’t have to worry about that anymore.  Thank goodness.  When I worked for a company in Shreveport, the manager harassed me constantly by suggesting that I could move into higher positions if I knew what ‘other’ positions to take.  When I worked for a local manufacturing company years ago, the head of that company was a little more graphic about what ‘position’ I could take to really be successful.  He had no fear in telling me what kind of favors he would accept in return for other favors.  And believe me, I’m being kind here.   If you knew what they really said, you would call me a liar.  These are only two incidents.  There were many others.  

Being a young professional and working with powerful men was a constant challenge.  In most cases I ended up leaving their employment for another job.  And as I got a little older, I started my own businesses. 

I saw a TV ad by past presidential hopeful Mike Huckaby recently where he poked fun at it by suggesting that some fast food chain worker who called him ‘honey’ could be considered for sexual harassment.  How ridiculous!  And that’s the message he was hoping to relay to the American people.

Sexual harassment allegations should be taken seriously. It’s not easy to stand up to that kind of humiliation.  Not much has changed in the nearly 25 years since my first encounter with professional men consumed with power and ‘position.’

The truth as we know it.

Several years ago I participated in an interactive workshop that changed the way I looked at the world. It was a leadership program sponsored by the local Chamber of Commerce.  And while I’m sure that everyone attending that workshop came away with a different interpretation than mine, it’s mine that counts, especially for me anyway. And isn’t that the purpose of any workshop?

It’s called the Webster Parish Leadership program.  And while I reveal some of the inner workings of this workshop, I want you to know that I support what they are doing and would encourage anyone that can to participate in this program. It really was one of the most eye-opening experiences I’ve had in recent years.

We were assigned a massive book to read so that we would understand the ‘rules of the game.’  We committed to a weekend at a lodge at Lake Bistineau.   There were about two dozen of us. When we arrived, we were divided into three categories or teams, I should say.  The red team (the poor / lower class). The yellow team (the middle class). And the green team (the rich/upper class) .  Each team was taken to a different room at the lodge.  We were not allowed to communicate with one another.  Each team was given ‘resource’ envelopes filled with meal tickets and special ‘coupons’ that allotted your team so many judgeships, elected leaders both local and national, etc.  There was only one person that could move from room to room and was allowed to communicate with the various teams.  It was the news media.  I would come to learn how important this role was.

In the green team’s envelope were meal tickets for every member of the team. They also had the majority of coupons for a variety of leadership positions from the main judges to the sheriff and members of congress. In the yellow team’s envelope there were meal tickets for half of their team members, a few coupons for leadership positions.  In the red team’s envelope, there was absolutely nothing.

The object of the game was to make sure that society did not collapse and the measure of that was to make sure that the poor were fed.   If the poor starved, your society collapsed and the game was over. 

LET THE GAME BEGIN: Round 1—“Simsoc”

I was assigned to the Green Team. The news media came to the Green Team’s room and shared with us the ‘concerns of the poor.’ It was at this point that it became apparent to us who each team represented.  It was our place to try to figure out a way to help the poor and make sure that they did not starve. What surprised me were the greedy comments that came out of the mouths of my fellow team members.  They were more concerned about maintaining their own wealth and control of that wealth then they were of making sure the poor were fed or had jobs for that matter.  There was some discussion about creating industrial opportunities for the poor but they were all conditional.  As each team strategized about how they could contribute to a healthy society while feeding the poor, the day turned into night. 

We were not allowed to speak to one another about any of the goings on in each of our groups.  We were dismissed for dinner.  We each retreated to our assigned cabins and washed up for our evening meal.  As we arrived at the kitchen, we understood that we had to have a meal ticket to eat.  That part of the exercise was real. The meal tickets in each of our envelopes meant real food for our team members and other team members…or not. 

As we lined up for our meals, I looked around to see who didn’t receive a meal. It looked like everyone did.  I’m not sure now if I really understood this game at this point.  As we finished our meals, the facilitator made the announcement that we had indeed ‘survived’ round one.  The poor had been fed. We would go to bed knowing that everyone was fed.  Our simulated society was saved.  And we would start round 2 bright and early the next morning.

Breakfast was done the same way. Meal tickets were collected and we divided up again into our respective rooms.  Again the news media visited each team and relayed the demands and wishes of the other teams.  It seemed that the biggest demands and the largest concerns came from the Red Team. They were begging for jobs. They didn’t care what they were paid. They just wanted to feed their families.  The Yellow Team was asking the Green Team to consider using their resources to create jobs.  And the Green Team was demanding respect and more appreciation for what they had done. (Which truly wasn’t much in my opinion.)   I know I’ve simplified it but that’s what it all came down to for me anyway.  

At the end of Round 2, I wondered again did we win?  Did we save our society from collapse?   We all met together to share our experiences and to learn the fate of our simulated society.  This was an emotional meeting for me. The reality of this game was too close for comfort.  In real society I would obviously not be a member of the Green Team but rather the Yellow Team. But this exercise gave me an opportunity to experience the mindset of the elite and the privileged even if it was in a fantasy setting.  

As we all discussed the results of some of our decisions, we learned that the news media (which was actually one person who translated, interpreted and reported for each of the teams) had indeed misrepresented some issues. Not necessarily on purpose.  We learned that she had tried to manipulate the system or the game with details that were either left out or changed slightly to gain the kind of reaction she personally was hoping to reach.  She thought she was helping. Now, I’m not sure at this point if the woman who represented the news media was influenced by anything other than her  own conscious or if she was instructed to lean a certain way so as to give some authenticity to the game or not.  Didn’t matter, because I saw it as a reflection of our own country’s exchange of information and reporting bias and I became to realize how easy it would be to change a country’s perception of events based on who owned the news media.

As the round table discussion progressed and each of us were allowed to share our opinion and/or experiences of this game, the facilitator did reveal again that society did not collapse. We had managed to feed the poor in round 2.  I was so surprised.  I knew that my team had not given up one single meal ticket to any other team in round 1 or round 2.

 “Who fed them?” I asked.  “The Middle Class!”  The facilitator went on to explain that half of the middle class gave up their meal ticket on round 1 so that the poor could be fed. And the other half gave up their meal tickets in round 2.   ‘ Of course!’  I thought. ‘ Isn’t that the way of our society today?’  It’s the middle class that carried the burden of feeding the poor while the elite worried about their riches and maintaining control, I thought.

That single exercise changed me and changed many of the decisions I made after that.  I realize that it was just a game. But was it really?

 

Embarrasing Moments

The great thing about getting old is that eventually you start to not give-a-damn about a lot of things you use to fret over.…like your looks or how you appear to others.  When you realize that the beauty you had is fading or worse yet when you realize the beauty you ‘thought’ you had is fading you begin to panic.

I remember the day that I realized that this thing was not going to get better. This person looking back at me in the mirror was slowly getting less and less attractive and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I thought that maybe I could get by. I figured that I’d work on my personality.  Maybe with a great personality people won’t notice so much.  But the truth of the matter is that by this time, if you don’t have one, chances are you can’t get one.  So, I decided to settle for a more comfortable version of me and people could like it or lump it.  What choice did I have anyway.

The positive side of this is that you don’t have to worry about impressing anyone anymore with your looks. That can be pretty liberating especially when I think back at the times that I went overboard to try to impress someone only to come out tortured with memories like this one:

I was in my late twenties. I was working for myself.  I had started my own business, Speciality Design.  I was creating marketing campaigns for major companies and local industries.  One of my potential new accounts happened to be Minden Bank.  They had a new Vice President of Marketing. He was a really good looking man. Very polished. Very distinguished.  I wanted to impress him more than I can tell you.  He called me to set up a meeting so we could discuss the possibility of working on a major campaign for the bank. I was so excited.  I made sure that the outfit I picked that morning was just perfect. My make up was perfect. My hair was perfect. I put on lipstick which I rarely do. I was ready to impress this good looking man. I knew I needed to look and act professional. This was going to be a big account for me.

I walked into his big impressive office. He was sitting behind this big elaborate fine, polished walnut desk with a shine on it that picked up his reflection....a good looking reflection, I might add.  We shook hands and went through the formalities of introducing ourselves.  I sat down across from him and let him dominate the conversation as it should have been.  I politely interjected when asked to respond. I was so intimated and I was nervous as a cat. I’m sure he picked up on that. I tried to hide it with my politeness but it was still pretty awkward.

At one point in our conversation I began to get really nervous and when I get really nervous I begin to laugh at things.  Things that are apparently not funny. It’s kind of retarded actually and people probably think that when they hear me. 

I guess I didn’t know how to close the deal or something. I think he was waiting on me to react in some manner and I wasn’t getting the message.  I began nervously telling him how much I appreciated this opportunity and that I was looking forward to working with him. Yadda, yadda, yadda.  And in between all of this crap, I began to laugh for no reason.  It was quite insane.   I realized I needed to get a grip. I stood up over his desk extended my hand out to shake his so that I could finally put an end to this miserable moment.  While I was shaking his hand, I started to send out another one of those nervous laughs.  But I exhaled really big this time before throwing out my obnoxious laugh.   I exhaled at the same time that I threw out my first “Ha” when a piece of something moved up my throat out my mouth and landed on the desk. I could feel it pass over my teeth and across my lips.  My brain was saying ‘what the hell is this?’ 

It was a little white ball the size of a BB.  Don’t know what it was. Some kind of bread ball? Hell, I don't know and didn't want to know. But as it shot out of my mouth, both of our eyes caught it as it landed on his bright shiny desk and rolled slowly from one end to the other and then on to the floor. Our eyes followed the little white bread ball like it was some kind of sideshow until it landed in the carpet and then out of sight.  I wanted to dig a hole and crawl in it. I looked up at him. I couldn’t speak. I was in shock and I didn’t know what I was going to do. Do we talk about  it?  Do we both look at it closer and inspect it and see what the hell this alien thing was?  Or do we ignore it and forget it never happened.  We chose the latter.

I told him it was time to go. I thanked him for his time and walked out.  I was sure that he was never going to call on me again. And that was okay because I was so mortified.  I had hoped to never see him again. He called me the next week. We began to work on his campaign which turned out to be one of my most successful endeavors. We were both happy and the tiny bread ball was never openly discussed by either one of us. 

But I have shared this story with close friends and we laugh while I place my hand over my mouth.

My First Miracle

I witnessed the beauty of humanity and the ugliness of bigotry when Hurricane Katrina blew into town.  I was watching television just as the nation was when it became obvious that New Orleans had indeed been washed away.  I watched in horror as the days after the flooding were graphically displayed on national television. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.  Each day I cried and each day I prayed that someone would do the right thing and rescue ‘our people.’ 

On the fifth day, I had all I could take.  As everyone else in town, I was involved in bringing clothes and toiletries to the civic center for the evacuees.  (I never called them refugees)  I had decided that I could no longer sit idle.  I needed to do something.  It was in my gut. It was breaking my heart.  I called to find out who the Homeland Security guy was for Webster Parish.  I was told it was John Stanley. Never heard of the guy. Never knew the guy. I called John Stanley and told him who I was and that I needed to do something. …something more than what was being done. I told him “I probably sound like a crazy woman to you but I promise you I’m not. I am a very good organizer and I really feel that not enough is being done in Minden and I thought I was the one that could do it.”  Little did I know that he had another woman who called in about the same time with the same sentiments.   It was my dear friend Jenny Reynolds. Jenny and I had been in business together prior to this but had not been in contact with each other and had no idea we were both feeling the same way.

 Within a matter of minutes, we were meeting with John Stanley at The Children’s Center. We spoke candidly with Mr. Stanley on that Saturday following the hurricane. We explained that we needed his support and backing and that we were prepared to do whatever it took to make this happen. We explained that we would take full responsibility. He didn’t hesitate.  And he in turn had gotten the approval of the Webster Parish Police Jury to allow us to proceed.  Jenny and I had also discussed this with our extremely supportive husbands who stood by us faithfully and offered their help time and time again.

Jenny called Wal-Mart and received permission to use the old Wal-Mart building free of charge. That same day we had the keys to the old Wal-Mart building with all utilities paid.  With different colored masking tape, we marked off the different departments and laid out the plans for our Relief Center.  We created fliers that spelled out what we were doing and what we would need.  We taped them to the doors of every church in Minden in time for Sunday service.  We announced that we would be open that Monday, Labor Day, to receive goods and to offer help and welcome volunteers.

We had our receiving stations set up. We had created a check in system for evacuees. We had our plan of action and now all we needed were volunteers and donated goods.  We had established almost without discussion that Jenny would be in charge of the office and general administration. I would be in charge of the volunteers and receiving and shipping. It was a spiritual connection, too, that kept Jenny and I mentally connected with each other. We knew what the other was thinking and instinctively acted on it.  Part of the miracle was that volunteers with different skills offered up their time and experience.  Almost like it was pre arranged and everyone already knew what part they would play.  All the volunteers came in…took their rightful place and this huge Katrina-Mart now had a staff of hundreds and they were all working like a well-oiled machine. It was truly amazing. All the volunteers were amazing.

On that first day, one of the first people to walk through the doors was an older, small, frail- looking black man.  He was carrying several clothes hangers draped with freshly pressed jeans.  He approached me rather timidly and asked if this was the place where you donate clothes for evacuees.  I said enthusiastically,  “Oh, yes sir!”  He handed the clothes hangers of jeans to me while apologizing that they were not new.  He said that these were all he had other than the ones he had on and that he had stayed up all night washing and pressing them. “I figured nobody would want ‘em if they weren’t clean and pressed,” he said.   I fought back the tears and thanked the gentlemen more than once for his thoughtfulness and generosity.  I proudly carried the pressed jeans to the men’s clothing department and hung them on the rack while inconspicuously wipping the tears from my cheeks.  This would be the first of many kind gestures that I would witness during this experience.  But it was the thoughtfulness of this man who obviously didn’t have much to begin with but was willing to give what little he had that impressed me the most.

By the end of the day, we had half the building filled. From groceries to clothes….from shoes to toys…. from toilet paper to shampoo. …all the shelves were filled.  During the days to follow, I would find myself at the front of the building near the registration desks helping people check in and managing our new army of volunteers.  Jenny was in the office making calls and receiving calls from all over the country.  She had even managed to secure a live interview on a major radio station in Chicago and by the next morning more than $50,000 in donations came pouring in. We used these funds to hand out much-needed gas cards to every evacuee that registered in the days to follow.

Huge semi trucks were pulling up in the parking lot asking for instructions on where to unload.  It all happened so fast that it’s hard to remember when and what happened first.  But I do remember that the nation was feeling like Jenny and I had felt that first week and they were determined to do something.  And boy did they.  Caravans from across the nation drove up in trailers, vans and trucks full of donated goods. Area business men offered their heavy equipment.  There was a constant flow of goods and money coming in. 

The black ministers from the black churches in Webster and Claiborne were some of the first to come and offer up their prayers and donate money. The largest individual contribution we received throughout the entire ordeal came from an area black minister who provided very generous cash gifts to every evacuee in town just in time Christmas. We would love to tell you who that was but he swore us to secrecy.  All area churches were wonderfully supportive.  By the end of the first week, more than 200 people were on hand at any given time sorting through donations, unloading boxes and stocking the shelves. 

I had not witnessed anything like this in my life.  We posted a sign at the registration desk that read “Can you feel the love?”  And for anyone who worked there and for any of the evacuees who passed through those doors, the love was definitely there.

One of the first family to come to the center for help was the Plaisance family from St. Bernard Parish. Glenn Plaisance sat down at the registration table in front of me and began to tell me his story.  It would be one of many stories we would hear during this entire experience.  He, like many of the good people from the New Orleans area, thought they would be going back home after the storm blew over.  He had driven up in a friend’s van, leaving his personal vehicle behind. He and other members of his family had carpooled and caravanned up to Lake Bistineau State Park.  He had borrowed another car to drive to the relief center in hopes of finding someone who could help him and his family.  After hearing his story, I reached into my pocket and handed him the keys to the Children’s Center van.  Without even thinking, I told him that he could borrow my van and that would get him and his family the transportation they would need. But it was conditional.  I would need to have it back every day before 2:30pm so I could pick up Children’s Center kids at school. I won’t ever forget the look on his face when I handed him the keys.  “You don’t even know me,” he said.  Didn’t matter.  At this point in my life, I figured that anything I had was there for anyone who needed it.  And I know that I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. I witnessed many people making similar gestures.

Each day Glenn brought the van back and after I finished picking up the kids, I handed the keys back to him.   But while I was picking up the kids, Glenn looked around the Children’s Center and found various things I needed cleaned or repaired and he did it.  He brought his sweet wife, Denise with him and the two of them would spend their day cleaning the center for me.  We developed a close friendship and they are probably one of the biggest blessings to come out of this tragedy.  The Plaisance family became a part of the Minden community for more than a year and donated their time and gave back more than they ever received.  We are still friends today and while I’m ashamed to say that I don’t communicate with them or see them as much as I want, they are forever in my heart. 

We registered officially more than 10,000 evacuees. We eventually became the official FEMA disaster relief center for the area.  The relief center was open from the beginning of September to nearly the end of December.  After a huge community Thanksgiving event, many of the evacuees started to return home.   

I witnessed many miracles during that time. So many good people stepped forward to help. Too many to name here because I’m sure I would leave someone out.  There were many stories of horror and heartache that also came out of this experience.  But it was the love that was given unconditionally to all who walked through those doors that I will forever remember.

I know there are many of you with stories of your own. I would welcome you to share them with us. Please feel free to comment.