Loving Mr. Moore

When our son was born, I knew that it would be a challenge to raise him without prejudice especially around here where prejudice seemed to be the norm. I know that sounds like an unkind statement to make about the place I call ‘home’ but it was true and I would come to realize later just how deep it runs.

When Ben was around three or four years old, we took him to visit our closest neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Davis Moore, who lived a mile or so from us. We had visited with the Moores before but on this day, we decided to spend a little more time. Big Daddy and Big Momma is what their family called them. And they insisted that we called them that, too. It was not unusual to drive by and see Big Daddy and Big Momma sitting on their front porch waving at passerbys. We decided to stop by one Sunday afternoon. We drove up and joined Big Daddy on the front porch. Big Momma was still in church. There were only three chairs on the front porch. I took the seat next to Big Daddy and Rick sat next to me. Ben instinctively climbed up on to Big Daddy’s lap. Big Daddy seemed to be pleased with that.

Big Daddy was in his eighties at this time. He was a big man. He had the sweetest nature and we always felt comfortable around him. While Ben was fiddling with Big Daddy's bluejean overalls, we began to visit like we always had but our conversations seemed to include more questions about his past and his life. He shared with us that day that until recently he had never ventured out of the parish or the area for that matter.. He told his stories about picking cotton in the field across the road from his home. While he was sharing the details of his younger days, we noticed that Ben was focused on Big Daddy's face. I saw how Ben was looking at him and I worried that he would say something inappropriate. Then it came. “Big Daddy?” Ben asked. “Yes, sweet baby boy.” “Why do you have seed ticks all over your face?” We all just busted out laughing. Big Daddy laughed harder than anyone. He laughed so hard his belly shook up and down and the motion of his stomach lifted Ben up and down. He finally caught his breathe and said. “Oh chil, you are precious. Those aren’t seed ticks.” Big Daddy paused and said with such kindness, “those are little moles on my face. You get ‘em when your old.” Ben seemed satisfied with that.

We would visit with Big Daddy over the years and he would always bring up that time when Little Ben asked about his seed ticks. It would always make him laugh. We didn’t visit as much as we wished we had over the years. We watched them grow older and we watched their children and grandchildren grow up and grow older.

We came to realize that the Moore's were foster parents to more than 24 children. They raised their own and found time to help others in need. Many of their children and foster children grew up to become college graduates and many if not all live successful lives as educators and professionals.

Big Daddy died in January of 1998. He was 92 years old, just one month shy of his 93rd birthday. Rick and I both attended his funeral. And like every other time we were with him, it was a moment in time that we would look back on and feel privileged that we knew Big Daddy and Big Momma. We miss seeing Mr. Moore cross the street to his vegetable garden with his rake in hand. We miss the slabs of ham and bacon they would send over to us everytime they 'rendered' a pig. We miss seeing them wave at us from their front porch. We loved them and they loved us.

What speaks to your soul?

While I was moved to share with you the secret of Br. B.F. Martin's generosity, I am moved to share with you another act of kindness. This act was also a secret. Not because I was instructed to do so but because it was experienced only by me and the donor (whose name I don't know).  While I spoke of it privately to friends and family, it was an experience that moves me to tears every time I tell it.

It was the opening day of the Hurricane Relief Center. We had circulated fliers to all the churches requesting donated items for our Monday morning opening.  The first person to walk into the Relief Center that Monday morning was an elderly black man. He was carrying three hangers with clean and meticulously pressed jeans. Used jeans. I approached him and asked him how I could help.  He handed me the jeans on the hangers and then went on to explain how he had stayed up all night washing and pressing them. "They're old jeans," He said. "But they're clean. I figured someone could use them. These folks got nothing."

I took the jeans on the hangers from him. While he also apologized for not having anything else to give. He said that he only had four pair of jeans to his name.  Three of which hung starched and ironed on the hangers. The forth pair he was wearing.

I could hardly speak. Tears were rolling down my cheek as I accepted his sweet offer.

There were many acts of kindness to follow including that of Br. Martin, but it was this single act of generosity that spoke to my soul. While I figure that the old gentleman was limited in his means, he was certainly not limited in his selflessness.

It was this gesture of love at the beginning of our efforts that shaped the way we would close the relief center at the end. Once the holidays were over and we went about our business closing the relief center down. We opened the doors to area churches, smaller relief efforts and we even shipped clothes to Texas. We still had racks and racks of clothes.  We called around to see what other relief efforts were doing with the mounds of clothes they had left over. Many told us they just carried them to the dump.

I remembered the jeans. I remembered the little black man who stayed up all night and pressed those jeans. I remembered his sweet face as he apologized because he had nothing else worth giving, so he thought.   I felt the love. And I felt that it would be disrespectful and unchristian to throw any piece of clothing away.

So, we made the decision to keep the clothes. Not for ourselves. But to use as future quilts. The Quilting Queens, made up of Relief Center volunteers, was formed.  And the clothes were rendered into scraps and quilt after quilt were crafted by these sweet amazing women. Many of whom had never quilted before.

The love shown during this tragic time in our State's history was sewn into every quilt and either donated or raffled to raise more money for the continued relief efforts.

Three pair of used jeans and $30,000 in cash were the smallest and largest contribution to the Relief Center. Both were equally astounding. And both spoke to my soul?

I'm not good at keeping secrets.

Perception is a funny thing. For some people it is 'their truth.' And I guess that's where we all fall into the trap of making assumptions based on our perceptions. I would like to share a truth with you all now.  This is not about me but about someone who swore me to secrecy. And I kept his secret until his death a little over a year ago.

The story starts like this. Following Hurricane Katrina, Jenny Reynolds and I opened the Hurricane Relief Center in the old WalMart building in Minden.  As overseers of the donations, we knew first hand who was contributing to the relief center. Many donors did not request to remain anonymous and not that we required it or that it made their generosity any less appreciative. But I found it strange that most people thought that the majority of the donations, the sizable ones anyway, 'came from the well-to-do white folks in town.' And some people were pretty vocal about it, too. 

We operated the relief center for three months. Right up to Christmas. While we were fortunate to have received some donations from a very generous community, the evacuees still had to pick from what was there. And sometimes it didn't mean that we had something for everyone. 

Just a few weeks before Christmas, a gentleman walked into the Relief Center and asked if we could come out to the car.  I went to see what was up. There was another man sitting in the back seat of the car with the door open. He had one leg out and turned around as if to get out but remained seated. I approached the car and saw who it was. I shook his hand and he asked me if I had time to talk to him for a minute. 

He told me he knew that Jenny and I had kept up with the evacuees that remained in town. He asked what that number was. I told him that we knew of 30 families that were still in Minden following Katrina.  With his checkbook in hand, he began to write. And while he was writing he told me that he appreciated everything we were doing for the evacuees. He went on to say 'but  they deserved to be able to go the store and buy their family presents.'  He said he appreciated what we were doing here but that it just wasn't the same as being able to go out and buy it for yourself.  He asked if we could process his check and see to it that each family receive his kind donation. 

As he finished writing his check. He tore it out of his checkbook and handed it me with one condition he said." You can't tell anyone where this came from. No one is to know that I did this. Not the evacuees. Not the public. Not anyone. Do you understand? "   "Yes, sir," I said. He folded the check in two,handed it to me and said "God Bless You." He sat back in his seat, shut the door and drove away. 

The man was Rev. B. F. Martin and the check was for $30,000. We saw to it that each family received a $1,000 check to spend as they saw fit. We never told them who the donor was.

 Rev. B.F. Martin was Santa Claus for them that year. And he was our hero.  He had made the single largest contribution ever to our relief effort. And we kept it a secret. Until today! 

I'm not good at keeping secrets. And this one was meant to be shared. 

Ashes to ashes.

Comedian Billy Crystal has written a book. He was on Sunday Morning this morning talking about the one thing that most people don't talk about but should.  And something many of us think about when we reach our sixties.......and that is death.

He wrote about a subject that Rick and I actually do talk about.  And that is, who will go first? We joke about it.  How else can you talk about it without sinking into an abyss of sadness?   Rick says I should go first because I am oblivious to most things and life would be too hard for me. He seems to think that I wouldn't be able to know how to get out of the house, should he go first. He does work hard to keep everything around us in working order. So, he might be right on that one.

We have also discussed how we want to be buried...or not.   And we joke about that, too...for all the same reasons as mentioned.  We have both agreed that we want our deaths  to be easy on our loved ones. We don't want a big fancy funeral or a big fancy coffin. We don't even want to be buried. We have both opted for cremation. It's easy. It's inexpensive and we won't be taking up precious land for a burial plot and a tombstone that someone is going to be expected to keep up.

I want my ashes to be spread among the wildflowers or made into some kind of neat stone that someone might pick up one day and take home...like the many unusual stones I've picked up and taken home over the years. Rick wants his ashes put in a mayonnaise jar and carried up to our cabin in the Ozarks and tossed over one of the many cliffs we've hiked.  Rick jokingly tells me, he'll put my ashes in Toby's liter box. (Toby is one of our cats that  obviously prefers Rick over me.)  I guess in truth, we would both want to be tossed off a cliff or sprinkled over the creeks we have found so much pleasure in walking all these many years.

The truth is that everyone at some point should have this conversation. It's not like it's not going to happen.And if you can get past the sadness associated with it, it does feel good to know that someone knows what to do with you after you're gone even if they question what to do with you when you're here.

All kidding aside, what we do want is for our family and friends to celebrate our life with stories and memories that we all shared. We want laughter and love. We want tears of joy, not tears of sorrow.

And have a beer on us! Well, beer for me.  A glass of iced tea for Rick. Everyone knows I turned out to be the lush in the family. So, maybe it's true that I wouldn't be able to find my way out of the house.

Pick your fights. Pursue your passions.

Fumbling through life can be a real challenge at times. And I say 'fumbling' because that's what it felt like to me. While I feel pretty secure in my choices now. I can't say that I always knew what I would do with my life or what career path I would take.

But two philosophies that I have tried to adhere to was to pick my fights and pursue my passions. With so many issues and causes in the world, it's unrealistic to think you can crusade for all of them. Social issues have always found me and while I try hard to stay focused, it's easy to get distracted with other causes that you think you might be able to 'make a difference.'  I know I can't save the world but there are parts of it that I would certainly like to change. And I guess that's been the thing that has driven me to volunteer and spend so much time on projects and programs.that I believe put people in a better state of mind....or maybe it just puts me in a better state of mind.

Being in love with the arts and finding great satisfaction in being creative was an easy fit for me.  Finding a career that fit was not as easy. It wasn't until I found myself challenged to develop a creative atmosphere for my son  that I discovered skills I didn't know I had.  

Staying on track and keeping focused hasn't always been easy. My drive and my desire to keep moving has resulted in my running over a few people on occasion. I've often told people, especially when I'm 'on a mission,' that they can either help me or get out of my way. I guess some didn't get out of the way quick enough for me. I regret those casualties but they can't say they weren't warned.

Today my fight and my passion are one in the same. I am fighting  for a better public understanding of the value of the arts. I truly believe that creativity is a gift from our creator and  it's there for everyone to enjoy and experience. You just need to open the package.

A Hairy Situation

A grooming ritual turned into a nightmare one day.  I was looking in my hand-held mirror one morning expecting to pluck my eye brows as I have done for nearly half a century.  My mirror these days is a heavy duty magnifying mirror. With failing eye sight that comes with age, so comes the need for magnification.

I was plucking away when all of a sudden I noticed a really long hair.  I was surprised.  I knew that it had been a while since I plucked my eye brows.  But I know I would have noticed this long, renegade hair even in a regular mirror.  I took to grasping it with my tweezers and began to pull and pull and pull. While making ready to do the final pluck, I noticed that the feel of the tug wasn’t around my eye.  I began to follow the length of the hair to find its origin. 

To my surprise, I followed it to a mole growing on my cheek.  I wanted to scream.  “How the hell did this long-ass hair grow out of there?”   “Why didn’t I see this before now?”  Then my mind exploded with questions. “Oh my god, who else has seen this hair growing out of my mole?”  “How many people have I repulsed with this witchy-looking hair growing out of my face?”

Then I began to panic and paranoia set in.  Were there more?   I frantically moved my big heavy duty magnifying glass around my face searching for other renegade hairs.  The lonesome, long, mole hair was a wake- up call for me. Not that I didn’t know that there would be new challenges with age but I never expected to have to do watch duty on my face for witchy- looking mole hairs.  

So, while I keep a watchful eye on my new mole hairs, I am also diligent in my efforts to rid my face of other unwanted hairs growing out of other unlikely places.  It’s not pretty and it certainly doesn’t make you feel pretty. So, what to do?  I have opted to poke fun at myself and laugh.

Ah, the joys of aging. Gotta laugh or you’ll go crazy. 

Love thy gun.

When did we get so angry? When did we get so selfish? When did we get so hateful? When did we draw the line in the sand and decide our side was “the” side?

When those little, innocent kindergardeners at Sandy Hook Elementary were gunned down, it should have brought us to our knees. It should have gotten our attention.  We should have been eager to talk about what we can do as a loving nation to make sure that this never happens again. Our babies deserve protecting. Instead of taking up the cause, we took up more arms. Instead of trying to understand how this could happen, we started to blame each other.  We blamed evil. We blamed the mentally ill. We blamed everyone and everything but guns. The truth is that we probably won’t be able to stop this from happening again. We will bury more of our children because we have created a gun culture in this country that is growing by leaps and bounds. Do we love our guns more than we love our children?  It certainly appears so. We believe more guns and more ammunition and more arguments as to why we should protect our right to carry assault weapons trumps the rights of our babies to live in a safe and loving country.

We have nurtured a culture of violence in our country and it’s killing our innocent.  Where does it end? When will we have exceeded the number of assault weapons we can own and then want or ‘need’ more? Will we seek out bigger and badder guns?  Will we then need to lift the ban on bazookas and tanks? What’s next? When will we as a nation have enough in our arsenals to feel safe again?

My prayer is that we can all open our hearts and our minds to understanding how we got to this point and do whatever we can go change it.  I’d like us to replace our arguments with respectful dialog.  I'd like to see us replace our love for our guns with our love for each other. 

 And may we replace our ‘piece’ with peace.