We miss Dessie Carter

Dessie Carter was one of those unusual people who became a part of our lives. She lived on Germantown Road in a little white house on property that had been in her family for generations. Her modest home was obviously in desperate need of some attention.....clearly something that was not in her means to address.  I had always admired the multitude of purple irises she had planted all around her little home. The irises mixed with the bright yellow patches of daffodils added to the charm of her little rustic homestead.  Dessie was one of several black folks that we befriended and became quite attached to. 

I first came to know Dessie when she cleaned various offices of local businesses around Minden. My husband's business was one of them. It was clear she had some mental challenges.  Knowing what the minimum wage was and how much you owed her for her time wasn't one of them. She knew to the penny what you owed her.  You dared not pay her one penny more or less. She wanted the exact amount and no tips were acceptable. 

She cleaned in a most peculiar way. She was thorough and you knew it was clean when she was finished. Only problem was, she would move the furniture from the wall in order to clean behind them and some of the office furniture would end up against the opposite wall, only backwards. Even when you pointed it out to her, she would do it the same way. Those businesses who hired her appreciated her cleaning skills and were tolerate of her little quirks. 

I came to know her a little better than most because we both lived on Germantown Road. Highway 534 on the map.  Germantown Road is one of several rural road that connects Claiborne Parish to Webster Parish. But it  is the only road that leads to The Germantown Colony, a nationally recognized historic settlement  The locals also know this road  for it's gift of color in the fall when the leaves of the many hardwoods that line the road would change.   I drove this road to town each day to drop my infant son off at daycare on my way to work.

Dessie didn't have a car and probably couldn't pass the drivers license test anyway. She hitched a ride into town as often as possible but not with just anyone. She was careful about who she chose to ride with. My husband tried many times to pick her up and she would refuse, even knowing that he was my husband. She walked the ten mile trek into town most everyday.   I  picked her up many times and took  her wherever she needed to go. She always insisted on paying her own way,  even after telling her that I was going this way anyway and it wasn't necessary. And when I would try to drive off, she would toss her money through the car window. It was always the same amount, $1.54. How she came up with that amount was any one's guess.  Dessie was careful with her money. She wrapped her dollar bills and coins in a cotton handkerchief, tied off  and carefully placed inside her bra. I remember during the summer months  trying to dodge the sweaty dollar bills and change I knew she would hand off.  

I loved picking her up because it was always a surprise as to how I would find her. On one occasion, I noticed that she had baby blue eye shadow on her eyes. Now the baby blue color wasn't the only thing that stood out. She had applied it under her eyes instead of on top of her eye lids.  I commented on how pretty she looked that day. She beamed. She seemed so proud that someone would notice. Dessie was not a young woman. Her age was not know to many who knew her. She was average height with a somewhat husky build. She always wore dresses and seemed quite intent on looking her best on her trips to town. She and I were quite comfortable with each other and she seemed to be quite fond of my son, Ben, who found her fascinating. She commented often about what a good baby he was.  He seemed to have gotten  comfortable too with our frequent passenger. 

On another occasion, my husband, Rick, stopped to check on her. She was dragging a big pine top down the road. He stopped and asked if he could help. She thanked him and said no.  And while carrying an ax and a  big pine top down the road wasn't enough to draw attention, she also had a big blooming rose bush, roots and all, wrapped around her head. When asked her why she had a rose bush in her hair,  she didn't answer. She just touched the roses as if to once again appreciate that someone had noticed.  Dessie had short black hair.  We often saw her with one of her kitchen forks stuck in her hair. We assumed she used it as a comb. We never asked.  

 Dessie was an avid church goer. Her church home was also located on Germantown Road. As we befriended many of the folks who live along Germantown Road, we discovered from some of our neighbors that Dessie wasn't always challenged. Seems the story was that she was once married and her husband abused her often. We were also told that 'he used an iron skillet on her to get her straight.' 

We loved Dessie Carter. She was her own person.  My husband and I offered to bring her firewood for her wood burning stove only to be turned down. She had many offers from local folks who knew Dessie and knew her struggles.   She insisted on paying her own way or she wasn't having any part of it. We later figured that pine top she was dragging home earlier must have been for her pot belly stove.

It's been years since we've seen Dessie. Last time we checked on her, she was in the parish jail. She was accused of attacking a bulldozer with her ax. Seems she thought her family still owned much of the land around her home and when a logging company came into log, she attacked the bulldozer with her ax.   We called the sheriff's office to plea for her release. We worried that they would not be sensitive to her mental challenges. And we worried that she would not understand why she was being locked up.  We were relieved to find out that she was no longer in the jail and that her brother obviously bailed her out. She left with him.  

Several years before the attack on the logging truck, Dessie's brother had the old family home demolished. A new brick home was built for her. She lived comfortably there for years until her arrest. We tried several times to make contact and check on her. Sadly, we never saw Dessie again. We were told by the locals that her brother moved her in with him. And her brick home became rental property for the family. 

We miss seeing her walk down the road with her coat on even in the heat of summer. Summer days in Louisiana can be brutal. With temperatures climbing upwards to 100 degrees Fahrenheit , we never understood why she insisted on wearing her black, wool coat. She was such a sweet soul. We miss Dessie Carter.  We miss seeing her walking down the road with a fork stuck in her hair. I miss the unusual conversations we would have on our many drives into town.  

Dessie Carter passed without notice. That sweet little woman touched our hearts and even now we can't drive by her house without smiling and remembering her fondly. 

We miss you  and love you, Dessie Carter. 

The power of the line

It came to me that I had not done an adequate job in explaining the importance of a particular process while teaching art this week.

I started teaching art to 4th and 5th graders at Richardson Elementary this past month. Their first project was a fairly easy one that involved understanding the creative use of lines and basic shapes like circles, squares and the like.  With no prior art in the school for these little guys, they struggled with the process. So much so that it bothered me that it might be the teacher and not the student.

So, I set out to explain it again. "There is power in the line," I told them. "You hold the key to creative expression in your hand and if you can capture it, it will change your understanding of yourself and the world that surrounds you."  As I drew a frantic line on the board, I asked them if they could sense how I was feeling. Hands immediately flew up. "Anger," said one. "Frustration," said another. "Yes." I said. "I have felt frustration in trying to explain to you how you can use a line or several lines to express yourself on paper. And I was able to tell you this without saying a word, without writing a word but by drawing a single line."

Then I drew a wavy line and offered the same question. Now how do I feel I asked them. "Calm," said one. "Relief," said another.  "Yes, I said. These lines and their direction and whether you mix them up with shapes to create patterns can give you such satisfaction as you create your own original piece of art I told them.

Creative expression is so hard for many people to grasp especially if they've never experienced it.  Even though I had given them plenty of samples and had drawn several patterns and designs on the board, they still struggled with the concept. In fact, it was their frantic lines on paper that clued me in on their own frustrations.

For those that got it...they really got it. And you could see their happiness and self satisfaction in their faces and in their work. And for those that struggled, it was painful and disappointing.

I shared with them that there will be sad days, happy days, tragic days and confusing days. But if they could master the creative use of the line, they could take control of their feelings..... Put them down on paper and the release of emotions and the peace that could come from this could feed their spirit and calm their fears. I shared some of my early fears with them and how I had found my 'neverland' in my own art.

I don't know if they all understood but I did see some happier lines at the end of the day.

If you are looking for a way to express yourself creatively and struggle with basic drawing skills, may I suggest Zen Tangles.  Search the internet for samples of Zen Tangles and you'll be amazed at the creativity that can be expressed with the creative use of lines. They're also called Creative Doodles. 

Mondays with Mom

My relationship with my mom has been off and on for years.  Cutting apron strings was harder for her than me. As the mother of four children and the wife of a military man, she spent a lot of her time being both mother and father to us.

As a little girl growing up and one of three sisters, my mom spent much of her time making clothes  for all of us. She was an incredible seamstress. I don't remember ever having a store bought dress or even knowing how to buy one even after I left home. I remember trying to buy clothes while in college and I didn't even know what size I wore.

She spent many hours either laboring over our clothes or the canning she did every summer.  We'd spend hours under the old tree in the back yard with an enamel pan in our laps shelling peas. My fingers stayed purple all summer long.
She would can up more vegetables than we could possibly eat. Her green beans and potatoes were probably my favorite. Even today, I cherish a jar of her stewed tomatoes. And Ben would make himself sick on her canned applesauce.

As I got older and she got more demanding, I found myself pulling away. Her inability to cut the strings and let me live my life was rather difficult for her. Her constant calls and inquiry into my personal affairs led me to slowly and cautiously cut her off.

Now she's 80 and has been diagnosed with Alzheimer.  What came with that disease was actually a blessing in disguise. My mother had never really discussed her upbringing. We knew that she had been raised by her Aunt and Uncle. And we knew that her mother had been head injured and placed in a special home. That's pretty much all we knew. But evidently life had to have been difficult for her. She learned from her last remaining brother now living in Kentucky that she had been handed over to relatives along with her other nine siblings by her father. And as the youngest of the 10 children, she was the one that no one wanted, so she learned.

Over the years, with the divorce from my father and a second failed marriage,my mother's interest in her children's lives grew along with her discontent. Her obvious anger and disappointment spilled over into our lives. She became very controlling and very demanding. And with every demand, I withdrew even more.

Following a  mini stroke last summer, she began to lose her memory. While that would concern most, it turned out to be a blessing for her. She has forgotten a lot of the disappointments in her life ...and ours.  And she seems happier now than I've ever seen her. She's less interested in controlling our lives now and more interested in just sharing time and making new memories.

I started spending Monday mornings with my mother. Starting with her favorite meal of Kentucky Fried Chicken, I realized how important it was for me to spend this time with her.  On my second visit, she taught me how to make her fried chicken.  We've spent the day talking about the good times. I see her face changing. I see the softness come back in her face and I see how vulnerable she is right now. Her sweet loving nature is coming back as her memory fades.

I am renewing my relationship with my mother. My love for her has been redefined. We're making new connections, new memories and I'm learning how to make fried chicken and homemade biscuits.

Mondays with Mom is just what the doctor ordered...for both of us!

Remembering Arley James

Autumn brings back memories for me that I am eager to always share with my young art students. Recently I shared the story about Arley James to one of my elementary classes. While using storytelling as another art form, I carefully provide details so as to  'paint' a picture in their minds.  Through my words, I hope they can see and feel  the true beauty of this sweet little old woman who enriched my life.

I have always found it pleasing that these little ones always seem eager to hear one of my stories.    They often beg for them. Telling the story about Arley James is probably one of my favorites. It is easy to describe her with her long handmade skirt and worn apron; her hair up in braids and carefully tucked under her handmade bonnet. I describe her modest house with only four rooms. And I detail the little living room we sat in together. With  only a couple of cow-hide bottom chairs, a rocking chair and a pot-belly stove in the middle of the room.  It's hard for them to imagine that that was all she had.  I usually have to stop here to explain what a cow-hide bottom chair is and a pot belly stove.

My story continues as I explain that she had never had her picture taken in her entire life until that day in November when Mr. Rick happened to drive by and catch a glimpse of her chopping wood. It's when I explain the sweetness and kindness she relayed to Rick and me that I see their eyes sparkle and a smile emerge on their little faces.

I guess the part that touches them most is when it's obvious to them that she touched my heart and that I loved her and was proud to call her my friend.  And that I didn't let the color of her skin or the poor conditions she lived in keep me from stepping over that threshold into her life.

The little old house that Arley lived in is gone now. The trees have grown up and in the spring you can barely see a few dots of yellow as the little daffodils try to mark the spot where her garden once was.  When we drive by her old home place, I can't help but look over and imagine her standing on the front porch with her little bonnet on, drying her hands on her apron, smiling, and giving us a big wave.

I love you, Ms. Arley!

A Tribute to Real Teachers.

I was in the fourth grade when I would discover the heart of a true teacher.

All my young life would be spent traveling from state to state and continent to continent while my father served his country as a military man.

I was a poor student. Withdrawn and shy but not shy enough to stop me from creating a disturbance in my class. I was acting up and playing the clown when my teacher Ms. Beard finally had enough. She had scolded me for the last time.

What she did next would change my world.

Instead of sending me to the office or sending home another scathing note about how poorly I had behaved that week, she tried something different.

She pulled an empty school desk next to hers and reached in her drawer and pulled out a new box of crayons. She opened our history book to a section we had not yet studied.  She summoned me to the back of the room to sit next to her.

She sat me down and gave me a job. She told me to draw one of the illustrations in the book. She told me to do it as good as I could and handed me the new box of crayons. She also told me she didn't want to hear another peep out of me.

That's not a punishment, I thought. A new box of crayons was like Christmas to me. I spent the day drawing and coloring my rendition of the artwork in our history book.  At the end of the day, she didn't say a word. And during the day, surprisingly, neither did I.  She picked up the drawing I had been working on. Walked to the front of the room and tacked it up on the wall above the blackboard. You know, that area where we all remember seeing the alphabet.

The next day I came to school and once again was asked to sit next to her and draw the next illustration in our history book.  That so-called punishment went on for a week until I had completed an entire series.  At the end of each day, she would do the same thing. She would pick it up and tack it above the blackboard along with the previous day's work.

On Monday, we all came to school and I was so excited to get back to school. This whole week of 'creative play' excited me like nothing else had. I took my seat at the desk near hers and couldn't wait for my next assignment.

It didn't happen.

Instead, she moved to the front of the room and while standing under the colorful collection of images that chronicled 'the way the west was won,' Ms. Beard began to share this history lesson with her students while using my artwork to tell the story. And at the end of the session, she gave me credit for having drawn this incredible rendition of American history.

She discovered my talent and I discovered myself.

Outside influences and inside pain.

My heart was crushed yesterday when I learned that it had been perceived by a large number of people that I had profited greatly by my works with the non profit that I helped to charter.  You would think after twenty years of working in the community,  I would be well trained in rejecting such nonsense. While I stated out loud " That's not true and I can't let that affect me."  It has.


I have given more than twenty one years of my life to an organization that I dearly love.  I love it because of what it has done for the children of this community. Having been one of those at-risk children myself whose early exposure to the arts changed my world, I wanted to offer the same.


So it has been perceived by many, I am told, that my work with this organization and my work in the community has all been for great personal gain.  Well, I guess some of that is true.  I have gained a great deal of pride and an ever greater sense of accomplishment. I have gained many wonderful memories along the way. I have gained many new friends. And I have gained a better sense of self.  But to say that I have gained financially is the biggest falsehood.  In fact, I have given my twenty years of service with no pay in return. And I have written more than a half a million dollars in grants with no compensation. I have raised thousands of dollars with not a dime returned to me.


While I know my spirit and my brain tell me that I don't have to explain myself. There is that sadness that wells up in me that makes it hard for me to choke it down. To spend two decades of your life giving to a cause that feeds your spirit, only to learn that many people think you did it only for money....and a lot of it....is just painful.


 I have used this blog to tell my stories, to share my loves, my pain and my life. It has helped me to write it down.  Putting it out there for the public has been part of the healing process.  I know I am not the only one to be the victim of rumors but sometimes it helps to learn you're not alone. We all have our challenges. We all struggle to find our place in society.  I have found mine.  I just lost my place in line. I'll dust my knees off. I'll straighten my hair, wipe my tears and suck it up. I've got more work to do and I can't let this distract me.


So, I have purged. I have explained myself. Defended myself, whatever you want to call it. And now I am done.      Back to work!




 

Advice for Young Women.

Getting old has been a journey that didn't come with special instructions. I don't remember anyone who is my age now, sitting me down and telling me about the facts of old age. Not to be confused with the facts of life. ...which you would think would include old age.

You would think that they would be willing to share their experiences with young folks. They sure didn't mind telling me how they raised their children. They didn't mind telling me how not to wear my clothes. They didn't mind telling me how they didn't like my music.

I had always heard that life begins at 40. I'm way past 40 now and I can tell you that was baloney. I heard that wisdom comes with old age. I'm not so sure that's true either.

So, I decided to take it upon myself to use my personal experiences to shed some light on a subject that should be shared:  "Getting old. "

First of all, let me just say to those of you out there who have been blessed with great legs.... Wear shorts. Wear them often and wear them, well, short. There will come a day when you can't show them off because the varicose veins and cellulite have made themselves at home.

For those of you who have been blessed with great boobs....Show them off. Show them off and be proud of them. Because there will come a day when you will find yourself looking for them under your arms, behind your back. Anywhere but where they use to be. And wrestling them into your bra will be your new Olympic sport.

For those of you who have been blessed with great hair. Flaunt it. Throw it around on your head and sling it with great pride. Because there will come a day when you find yourself paying less attention to the hair on your head and more attention to the hair growing under your nose. And we won't talk about what happens to your 'plumbing.' Let me just say that the fittings are loose and the pipes leak. And the gas lines are completely unpredictable.

For those of you who have never considered the day when your beauty will have faded and no one will give you a second look. Oh, you'll get second looks alright. And you'll question whether they are looking at the stuff you must have stuck between your teeth....or god forbid...hanging out of your nose.

Don't waste your precious time worrying about your weight. Be glad you're young. And don't hang around people who make you feel self conscious about your weight. They'll be the first to leave you when you're old.

So, my advice is this. Appreciate what you have. Appreciate what God has blessed you with. And work on your sense of humor more. Definitely work on your personality and sense of humor. Because at the end of your journey, when your beautiful hair is gone, your boobs are hanging around your waist and your legs will barely get you up a short flight of stairs, you'll need a sense of humor to get you through the day.

You're welcome.

Twenty Years In The Making.

This spring, the idea that I had twenty years ago will be celebrated. I still can't believe it.  Twenty years ago, we started the Spring Arts Festival.  I had waited for the arts to be included in the public school system because now I had my own little fella in the system.  Then I  realized that it probably wasn't going to happen. Instead of more concentration on the arts and validation that there was value in arts-in-education, I saw a decline and I saw more and more of what was offered slowly but surely being eliminated.

Having established the first afterschool enrichment center in Minden with the emphasis on the arts, I came to recognize an enormous opportunity to bring the arts to the community sans public education.  So, I pitched the idea of a festival for children to the board of Cultural Crossroads and it was an easy sell. Well, I say that now, maybe I didn't give them much of a chance to disagree. When you're talking about children and what they need, Minden is a great town to pitch.

We started planning and our first festival was held downtown with our now ever popular hands-on museum held in the same building that now houses City Artworks. We blocked the downtown area and brought in every imaginable arts discipline from music to theatre. Harmon Drew Super Group performed on the brick streets of Minden. Privately, I was disappointed in the turn out. I thought Harmon and his group deserved a bigger audience. But through the years, I would see disappointment again in many things that I thought would be cheered, celebrated, promoted and most importantly appreciated. And not that they weren't but not to the degree that I thought they should be.

It's been a labor of love and of heartache these twenty years. But I guess anything worth the fight is worth the battle. And I am admitting now that it has been a battle. As an advocate for the arts and certainly an advocate for children, I thought combining the two would be an easy sell. But to be honest, it hasn't.  Every year I would agonize over what could we do this year that would really get their attention? What could we offer that would really show them that this is truly a good thing? And when would the school system finally understand that they need Arts-In-Education?

So, now here we are 20 years later and I am looking over the many 'moments in time' that we captured on film and it makes me ponder. So, what did we want to accomplish? What benchmarks did we hope to reach? I guess in my heart of hearts, I was hoping that the town and more importantly the children would see the beauty in the arts. I thought they would come to understand as I have that the arts makes life so beautiful. And sometimes art makes life bearable.

As I gaze over the many photographs that captured the beauty of the moment, I realize that I was wrong. We had accomplished what I wanted. The children had embraced the beauty of the arts through their dance, music and spoken word or painted images. We captured it in time, at the time, for the moment and for the experience.

I am proud to tell you that after 20 years, I am still amazed at the talent we have in this little community. I am still appreciative of the many volunteers who seem to find the time each year to help us give to this town the gift of the moment!

It's our birthday! We're 20 years old and still growing! No gifts, please! ...just money, so we can continue to do what we love.

Love doesn't always come easy.

My father was a beaten man.   All my life I witnessed his addictions, his anger and his abuse.  I didn’t hate him but it did make it difficult at times for me to find that bond that I know exists between children and their parents. …a bond that I have with my own child.  

When I was in high school, I realized that if I didn’t distance myself from this life of abuse and addiction that I would fall victim to it, too.  So, without consciously knowing it at the time, I slowly but surely put time and distance between us.   It wasn’t hard to do at times since my father was a lifer. A decorated military man.  He spent more than 20 years in the military traveling around the country. Sometimes with his family and sometimes without us.

I don’t remember my father sharing his childhood experiences with us.  I would hear from my Aunts and Uncles of the abuse my father received as a child at the hand of his own father.  And when I heard about those incidences, it made me wonder if that is what made him so angry all the time.  My father followed in the footsteps of his father and his abuse towards his own children was another demon he had to face.

My father was a beaten man.  I read a quote from someone recently that said the bully and the bullied  are both victims. And I think that is true. 

My father passed away today.  His struggles and his sorrows are gone. He can rest now. While my emotions have been hidden or suppressed all these years, they surfaced today with a forgiveness  that I can’t explain and heartfelt love that I can’t explain either.

I visited my father this past Christmas Day for the first time in years. I don’t know what made me go. We had not exchanged words in years.  While it was strange, it wasn’t strained. And I was so glad. My last words to him were “I love you.” 

Today I am finding comfort in having had one last chance to ‘love’ him and tell him so.