Let Freedom Ring~August 28, 1963

“I have a dream that one day...little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today.” ~Martin Luther King, Jr.

"Oh God! Is there no redress, no peace, no justice in this land for us. You have always fought the battles of the weak and oppressed. Come to my aid at this moment and teach me what to do .... Show us the way." ~Ida B. Well-Barnett

  How I Got Over~Mahalia Jackson~1963 March On Washington
  Bob Dylan & Joan Baez~1963 March On Washington
  Joan Baez~We Shall Overcome/1963
  Peter, Paul & Mary~Blowin’ In the Wind/March on Washington
 Marian Anderson~He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands [She performed this at the March on Washington in 1963]
  Martin Luther King, Jr.~I Have A Dream Speech/August 28, 1963

Fifty years ago today, on a warm summer’s Wednesday, perhaps one of the most important and memorable historical events of MY life took place in Washington, D.C.: The March on Washington for Jobs & Freedom.   I was only two weeks old then.  As I listen to the anniversary celebration on C-SPAN today, I am reminded what it must have been like for those 250,000 people who descended upon our nation’s capitol on that day in the year of my birth, who had gone there to take a stand and make a point and let the world know that though 100 years had come and gone since Abraham Lincoln had emancipated black men and women from the chains of slavery, still they were treated as nothing more than second class citizens.   How long?  How long? How long must that injustice endure?  How long must African-American people be shackled by the bonds of segregation and discrimination?
It seems inconceivable to me that people have to fight for basic human rights of equality, justice, and fairness. We are all God’s children!  Each and every one of us.  I was taught as a child that God loves us all the same, as the words of that gospel song I was raised on proclaim, “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world. Red and yellow, black and white, all are precious in his sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world.”
Back in 1963, the list of goals was relatively small for what those who had gathered in Washington sought to achieve:

• Passage of a meaningful civil rights legislation.
• Immediate elimination of school segregation.
• A program of public works, including job training, for the unemployed.
• A Federal law prohibiting discrimination in public or private hiring.
• A $2-an-hour minimum wage nationwide.
• Withholding Federal funds from programs that tolerate discrimination.
• Enforcement of the 14th Amendment to the Constitution by reducing congressional      representation from States that disenfranchise citizens.
•A broadened Fair Labor Standards Act to currently excluded employment areas
•Authority for the Attorney General to institute injunctive suits when constitutional rights are   violated.

It doesn’t seem like an unreasonable list, does it?  I remember when I was a young girl, my grandmother told me once to always put myself in the shoes of another person to understand where they were coming from with regard to a position they were taking on an issue.  It was a great pearl of wisdom that she bestowed upon me, and one that I try to do no matter what the issue.  It is a humanizing exercise.  It is an exercise in compassion as well.
I remember these words that I learned in school from The Declaration of Independence:

“We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness...”

Life. Liberty. The pursuit of happiness.  There is a moral imperative contained in those words.  They do not contain a qualifier beyond the word “all”.  It was penned that way for a reason.  It’s important to remember what was and was not added to those few lines as it pertains to race.
Fifty years have come and gone and we have made many, many positive strides since the March on Washington for Jobs & Freedom.  We DO have a Civil Rights Act; a Voting Rights Act; a Fair Housing Act; schools were desegregated in the 70's; it is no longer illegal for black and white people to get married; the signs that said “white” and “colored” are no longer hanging by water fountains and booths in restaurants or seats on buses, et all. So many changes....
Still, so much work left to do.
It has been disheartening to see the ugly head of racism raise itself up so clearly in the last few years from the brazen attempts of Congress to thwart each and every attempt of our president to improve and repair a broken economy teetering our Nation on the brink of bankruptcy that he inherited from the previous administration, to every other proposal he has put forward that has been met with vitriolic discourse, to the recent decision in the Trayvon Martin case, and the U.S. Supreme Court’s recent gutting of the 1965 Voting Rights Act. It is clear that we still have work to do before we can honestly say that Dr. King’s dream has been realized.
We have to keep raising our voices for freedom.  We must continue to let ourselves be heard about those things that matter.  Once again, we must pick up the mantle that A. Philip Randolph, Bayard Rustin, Cleveland Robinson, John Lewis, Dr. King and so many others carved out on that historic summer’s day 50 years ago.
It is a noble thing to act — to take a stand for something you believe in.  I lived in the DelMarVa area of our country for 17 years, which surrounds Washington, D.C.; I have marched several times during the course of my life for causes/issues which I believed strongly in.  There is a sense of empowerment that comes when one takes such a stand.  Your voice gets stronger.  Trust me when I tell you that each voice counts!  One voice added to another and another and another builds a mighty choir that cannot be denied.
Our country, once again, is faced with a dire need for jobs. It is faced with a need for a renewed sense of security regarding the hard-fought freedoms that the men and women who marched in defense of those basic civil rights 50 years ago --- with each step they took, for EVERY American then and now, remain in place. Today, on the 50th anniversary of that momentous march, we must continue to fight.  Because, if we fail to do so, in the words of Dr. King: “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter...”

  Black and White~Three Dog Night

“Black and White” is a song written in 1954 by David I. Arkin and Earl Robinson. The most successful recording of the song was the pop version by Three Dog Night in 1972, when it reached number one on the Billboard Hot 100 chart.

The song was inspired by the United States Supreme Court decision of Brown v. Board of Education that outlawed racial segregation of public schools. The original folk song was first recorded by Sammy Davis Jr. in 1957.  The original lyrics of the song opened with this verse, in reference to the court: “Their robes were black, Their heads were white, The schoolhouse doors were closed so tight, Nine judges all set down their names, To end the years and years of shame.”

Randy

                                             Hop On, Hop Off Tour Bus


“Plunge boldly into the thick of life, and seize it where you will, it is always interesting.”
                                             ~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Eleven days ago, I met a most interesting man in New Orleans.  His name is Randy Bibb.   He was our tour guide, and I must say that we hit the Motherlode when we stepped upon his bus! Randy is one part comedian; one part entertainer; and one part true historian ~ add all of that together, and it makes for one, incredible docent.
The first impression that I had of Randy is that he loves his city, and he knows it.  He knows it well.  He has spent a lot of time pouring over archival material and old records to clarify the history of New Orleans that he shares with people like me who come to visit his fare city.  And, he takes great pride in setting the record straight on inaccuracies that may be out there and enlightening visitors on little bits of trivia that we may or may not have known about his town.  He’s a walking encyclopedia of anything cultural about the Crescent City.  He’ll even tell you how New Orleans came to have that moniker.  The Randy Bibb experience is worth the cost of admission! I’ve done several guided tours in various cities that I’ve visited, and Randy is by far, THE best tour guide I have ever come across.
The first thing I noticed about Randy that I immediately liked is that he wanted to know who we all were.  Each person who stepped onto the bus, he asked our name and where we were from.   There was a warmth to the gesture, and it set a friendly tone–mood among all of us.  
Do you like to laugh?  You won’t be disappointed.  He likes visitor participation, so be prepared to give a little.  After all, it’s true....you have to give a little to get something in return.  He gave so much of himself during the few hours that we spent with him.  People like that make an impression, and Randy certainly did.
Case in point, I was on the lower deck of the bus when he asked a question of everyone, and I hollered up to him to sing us something from “South Pacific”. {You had to be there} We didn’t get South Pacific but we got a little ditty that he penned to a tune from the Broadway Show “Annie”.  Oh. My. God.  It was a rip-roaring good time on that bus!  It was belly-aching laughter!
Randy was up and down that bus — giving all of us his undivided attention, spending time on both levels, making us know that he was overseeing the show — making certain that we were all having a good time.  He cares about the job he’s doing.  That was quite evident.  It was one of the highlights of my NOLA experience!
Whether he was telling us little tidbits of Hollywood trivia about Jayne Mansfield, Kitty Carlilse, Anne Rice, or regional history; whether he was explaining the differences between Cajun and Creole or informing us that the influence in the region wasn’t merely French, that there was also a strong German influence there as well; whether he was debunking the perceived image of Mardi Gras with what the true meaning of that family-oriented, religious carnival is vs. the drunken, often-times, X-rated party-hearty raucous time that most of America has come to associate it as being, he taught us things—important things about New Orleans. He did it with grand style and good humor and a large dose of fun.  That’s what makes one remember things: when a teacher approaches history in a manner such as Randy’s method.  It stays with you, because you enjoyed the experience that came along with the learning.
One of the purposes of these bus tours is so that people can hear a little history of the area and decide that they want to get out and investigate that particular area, so they get off the bus.  After they spend some time perusing that spot for awhile, they get back on another bus on the same tour and go to another spot and repeat the process.  Not us.  We hung with Randy for two loops around the city, because we had such a great time hanging with him.
When we finally got off, it was lunch time, and he recommended a place for us to eat: Crescent City Brewhouse  We took his suggestion, and it was terrific like I knew it would be.  If you can believe it, when the bus came back around to pick us up some time later, it was Randy and his driver, Denise!  Lord, he shook his head laughing in disbelief when he saw us waiting there at the odds, and we started to laugh too.  It did NOT seem fortuitous though it was a lucky break for us!
Eleven days ago, I stepped onto a tour bus guided by Randy Bibb.  I told him my name and that I had come to New Orleans to celebrate my 50th birthday with family and a few dear friends.
“An August Baby!” he said joyfully.  “Mine is the 26th!”
I KNEW there was a reason I immediately liked him! {Wink! Wink!}
So, today, we celebrate Randy Bibb.  Tour Guide Extra-Ordinaire!  I sent him an email this morning and told him if we were there, we’d have bought a round of banana daiquiris for the bus!  I’d have also belted out a little ditty from South Pacific just for him.  Since we’re not, I’ve attached both below, because good times should be shared.
If you are ever in NOLA, look him up.  You will NOT be sorry.  Let him entertain you; charm you, and teach you a thing or two.  Randy will rise to the occasion...each and every one of them.

Happy Birthday, Randy!  Blow the lid off, Baby!

  A Wonderful Guy~ from South Pacific/Mitzi Gaynor

Banana Daiquiri Recipe
Serves 4

2 large bananas, sliced, divided
1 cup coconut milk, divided
1 lime, juiced, divided
½  cup sugar, divided
6 cups ice, divided
4 ounces white rum, optional, divided

Directions:

Into a blender add 1 banana, ½  cup coconut milk, ½  of the lime juice, 1/4 cup of the sugar, and 3 cups of ice and add 2 ounces of rum if desired. Blend until smooth, about 1 minute. Pour into 2 tall glasses, and repeat for 2 more drinks.


For NOLA tour information, contact Randy at: www.tourcreole.com   {Look for his name when you get inside the website}

All That Jazz

“What happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas, but what happens in New Orleans, goes home with you.”  ~Laurell K. Hamilton


 Tom Hook~Charlie Fardella/Old Rocking Chair
 Charmaine Neville/The Right Key, But You Stuck It In the Wrong Keyhole

Last week was a milestone in my life: I turned 50.  For my celebration, we decided we wanted to party BIG - blow the lid off so to speak.  We’ve not done that in a while, and it seemed like the perfect occasion to let loose and get a little rowdy.  When life presents you with a perfect opportunity to do such a thing like that, take it.  We did.  I couldn’t think of a better place to accomplish this than the Motherlode {from what I’d heard} of rowdy~good times and letting loose than “The Big Easy” itself.  So, that’s just where we decided to go.  Having never visited there before, let me just say this: Boy, it did NOT disappoint!  We met up with family and some dear friends for a grand celebration.
If you’ve never been to New Orleans — NOLA as it’s known to the locals, then I encourage you to visit there just once in your lifetime.  It’s a fascinating place.  The food isn’t the only thing rich with flavor!  The people, the culture and the overall attitude all have that same essence about it.  Some places are more interesting than others.  NOLA is definitely one such place.
I don’t know which is more fabulous – the food or the jazz.  You visit and decide for yourself.  Both merit writing home about as far as I’m concerned.
The first day that we were there, we had lunch at a little outside café where, you got it, jazz was played.  It set the tone for the rest of the trip.  Afterwards, I took Richard Simmons’ advice and just walked the French Quarter for awhile.  My sister-in-law and I perused the shops while my husband and brother-in-law-in-waiting followed along.   Later that evening, we went to a little jazz club on Bourbon Street called Fritzels where the jazz was hot and the Jack Daniel’s was smooth and we "Laissez les bon temps roulez" {Let the Good Times Roll} Yes, indeedy! And, roll they did...
There is something about good jazz — it touches places deep in the soul — stirs feelings and emotions that are way down inside.  Sometimes, you don’t even know such feelings are there until a chord is struck or key is hit or a note is played.  Then, it resonates inside and pulls it forward and up, and you FEEL it.  It can make the heart smile or cry or both.  It’s an experience, I tell you.  Tom Hook and Charlie Fardella were masters on Monday night when we partied with them.  They were a hoot and we provided the holler, and it was a good time.  Every set was better than the next. By the end of the evening, we felt like we’d made new friends.
After we left Tom and Charlie, we moved over to Frenchmen Street and ventured into Snug Harbor Jazz Club.  We caught about 20 minutes of another band—a quintet led by Charmaine Neville.  Her personality was like a fire cracker, but her voice had a flowing velvet quality about it. She was big into audience participation.   Oh my God!  And, they had cow bell!  Can you say “AWESOME”?  By that time, it was late in the evening.  The audience was happily mellow and feeling no pain.  So, when the last song came, and she asked everyone to do this crazy dance, I don’t think anyone cared how silly we all looked.  We weren’t going to see each other again, and those of us who were knew how to keep a mum word.  We threw caution to the wind and performed her dance as she asked.  I’m quite certain I looked especially “Puttin’ on the Ritz” with my cane in hand.  Hey, I went to NOLA for the experience, Baby, and I intended to get it!  It was a riot!  We blew the lid off the place just laughing as we all busted a move and grooved with the band, as the dawn of another day approached.  Not just ANY day, mind you!  The 13th of August — my 50th birthday! WOO*HOO!  That’s how it felt for me being in New Orleans for my milestone birthday with family and friends.
After we closed Snug Harbor, there was a guy [his name was Matt] sitting on the sidewalk about a block down, with an old, brown Underwood typewriter with the keys that each had that perfect circular disc that old-time typewriters use to have.  He wrote poetry.  For $10 or $20 dollars, he’d write a special poem just for you.
See what I mean about the flavor–the character of the people there?
My soon-to-be brother-in-law, Paul, thought it was too special an opportunity to pass up and told Matt that he had 10 minutes to write me a special poem because I was about to hit the BIG 50.
“Oh, yeah?” the guy asks, brushing his nose as he inhaled a cigarette.
“Yep!” I say.  “It’s coming for me!”
He chuckled.
“What’s your name, Hon?”
“Jhill,” I tell him.  “With an ‘h’.”
“Mm,” he replied, glancing at me sideways.  “Different.  I like that.”
I laugh.
“Well, I can’t take the credit,” I tell him.  “My mother is the one who did it.”
He winked.  “She musta known you were gonna be special.”
I think I blushed.
My husband agreed with him.
He began to pound on the keys of that antique typewriter.  I gotta tell you, for a writer, it was music to the ears.  I folded my hands to my chest and waited with excited anticipation for him to give me the few lines that had been penned just for me.
I rested my cheek against my husband’s chest as he wrapped his arm around me while Matt read me my poem.  It was a magical moment....like catching a snowflake on your tongue from the season’s first snowfall.  I thanked him, and he wished me a happy birthday as the clock struck midnight. In that moment, I got a kiss from my husband and hugs from my sister-in law and brother-in-law-in-waiting.  Good times.  50 had started off on a high note.
We had a big celebration waiting for us the following day, and I knew I needed to rest up for it.  We hailed a taxi and headed back to the hotel and anxiously awaiting puppies.
Before the evening concluded, however, it got a little more interesting.  Our cab driver was a cool cat named Wellington Courredge.  I kid you not!  Isn’t that a GREAT name?  Wellington Courredge.  I couldn’t make that up!  He had just as much flavor and spice about him as all the other characters in our three act play that evening.  He was 60 years old, and told us he’d been driving a cab for 35 years.  And the stories he had to tell.  Lord, he started to tell us a few of them and we were awestruck listening intently to the unusual bedtime story that was being recited to us in a taxi cab cruising the streets of New Orleans.  God.  I LOVE that city!  He said he’d started to write some of them down but stopped.  He wasn’t sure why he stopped?   I told him that he MUST continue to write his stories down because they were too good not to share with the rest of us.  He thanked me for that vote of confidence.   I also asked him for his name, because I told him that I was a writer, and he was too good a character not to share with the rest of the world.  I wanted to make certain that I attributed his story accurately when I wrote of my experience in my blog, which I assured him that I fully intended to do.
He blessed me for wanting to include him, and told me his name.  When he found out it was my 50th birthday, he was all over it —  wishing me blessings and happiness for my day.  He reached his hand out as I stepped out of the cab, and when I took it, he squeezed it hard.
“You have a great day – a Happy Birthday!”
“Thank you!” I told him, squeezing back.  “You’ve started it off rather nicely!”
I think when you meet interesting people you should share them with the rest of the world, and I met some fascinating ones on August 12th as I eased into my birthday.  So, if you’re ever in NOLA and Tom Hook and Charlie Fardella are shaking things up at Fritzels, or Charmaine Neville & her quintet are riling up the audience at Snug Harbor, if you see a guy named Matt on a sidewalk with an antique typewriter writing poems or you stumble upon a cab driver named Wellington Courredge, take my advice,  spend some time with each and every one of them.  It’s an experience that will touch deep places in your heart.  THEY will affect you in a special way just like those jazzy sounds that NOLA is famous for.  It’s the kind of experience that you’ll take home with you.  Trust me on that...

Upon Turning 50

* I wrote this post in NOLA on my birtthday & need to transfer it over to my computer.  Having trouble transferring from my IPAD.
9/18 - As soon as I can get this entry off my IPad, I'll move it over...

A Perfect Day

 High Calypso~John Denver

“Then, some days you wake up and everything’s perfect...” ~David Nicholls

Today is my husband’s birthday.  He turned double 5's.  It’s a better age than 54, because now he can get the senior special in certain restaurants!  People ought to get an added perk like that as we get older, don’t you think?  Trust me when I tell you that he’s going to utilize that benefit too, wherever he qualifies!  Although, it is a sobering thought to be considered a senior at 55.  When, pray*tell did THAT happen?  When I was growing up, one became a senior citizen at 62.  I told him not to feel bad though.  I got an invitation last month to join AARP this year and I’m only going to be 50! What’s up with THAT?   But, I digress... ;-)
I knew when I woke up this morning that it was going to be a good day.  Sometimes, when you look out the window and see the level of brightness that’s already in the sky, you just get a certain feeling that the day is going to be good.  Today was that kind of feeling, and turned out to be just that kind of day.
I gave him a good morning kiss, and wished him a High Calypso kinda day.  It was the most perfect thing I could think of.  He smiled and thanked me.  I knew when we took the puppies out for their morning walk that we were going to be in for a treat with regard to the weather.  It was warm but cool breezes moved about it.  No humidity.  It was the kind of day made for a baseball game, which is where I was taking my husband to celebrate his birthday.  He got to pick what he wanted to do today, and when you leave something like that up to him, especially on a summer’s day, odds are, he’s going to choose baseball.  Fortunately, I love baseball, and that makes him extra happy.
We left the house at noon for an early lunch before we got to the ballpark at 1:00.  It was 70 degrees in full sun with cool breezes blowing, but it was warm — so warm.  Our seats were right behind home plate, and we settled in listening to the music while we watched people file in.  Directly across from us, where the scoreboard was, the American flag and our state flag stood side-by-side, waving gently in that blowing breeze.  It was a beautiful sight.  The smells were pure summer: hotdogs, popcorn, funnel cakes, cotton candy.  It was intoxicating.  I closed my eyes for a minute and let those aromas take me back to other summer places and times in my life.  Kids were squealing and laughing in delight as life-size animal characters walked around shaking hands and greeting visitors.
I inhaled deeply and silently thanked God for the simple abundance that was in that moment.  It was a true gratitude moment.  When they come to you, sometimes, they can overwhelm.  Simplicity and grandeur melding like that always has that effect on me — when a moment comes to you so full with goodness.  I never take them for granted.
Tom leaned over to me and whispered, “Thanks, Sweetie!” [I think he must have felt it too.]
I smiled.  It’s nice when you can give the guy you love a great day on this birthday.   It couldn’t have turned out any better if I’d specifically ordered it up, and I had the previous night in my prayers.
“You’re welcome!” I said.  “You want some ice-cream?”
He smiled, because I know him so well.
“Yeah,” he replied.  “That sounds good.”
I handed him a $20.
“Chocolate?” he asked.
I nodded.  Hello?~What else?
“Bottle of water too,” I added.
I’ve previously mentioned that there’s nothing better than ice-cream on a warm, summer’s day.  Let me amend that statement: on a warm, summer’s day when you’re watching a baseball game.  It was a great game, not just because the Richmond home team kicked some New Hampshire butt today and won the game 8-3, though that did help to add to the perfectness of the day.  It was great because everything aligned in just the right order to make it a totally feel good experience for my husband on his special day, and that’s what birthday’s should be about.
Later, we shared a piece of S’MORE’s cake after I lit a candle and sang him the birthday song.  It doesn’t matter how old you are.  Making wishes is mandatory AND important – at least in this house they are.  Word of advice: You are NEVER too old to make a wish, so NEVER pass up that opportunity, when given the chance!
As I was fixing his cake, he gave me a hug.
“Did you have a good day?”
He gave me a squeeze.  “It was a VERY good day!”
I sighed happily.  “I think it was a perfect day!”
“Yes,” he agreed.  “Perfect.”
“I’m glad you had a good day!”
He took his cake.  “I did!”
“We’ll have a bigger celebration next week when the family is together,” I added.
“I wouldn’t trade anything for this day!”
"Me either," I smiled, content.
As we walked into the den to have our cake, I thought back on a song I played for him this morning: Louis Armstrong’s, “Wonderful World”, and I thought to myself how wonderful mine is with him in it...


 Wonderful World~Louis Armstrong

Butterfly Kisses

''It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.'' - Anne Sexton

 Butterfly Kisses~Bob Carlilse

 Video Tribute I made to my father on the 1st anniversary of his death

It was four years ago today that I saw my father for the last time.  I remember it like it was yesterday, even though it’s been 2,102,400 minutes since my eyes took what was to be that final look.  He took flight two days later back to heaven.  The reality of it hit me last night, as if it were 2009 once again, and I stepped outside and looked up in the night’s sky for his star – the one that I think is him, while I had a good cry.

It doesn’t get any easier –  him being in heaven and me being here.   I bear up under it most days —  cope with what I know I can’t change, and live my life normally – productively, but it’s not alright that he’s gone.  It never will be. For those of you who have lost a parent, a spouse, a sibling, a child, a friend, you know what I’m saying.  I know it’s part of life: we’re born; we live; we die.  Still, the dying part sucks!  Well, for those left behind anyway...    

I miss him.  I knew that would be the case, but, somehow, when people are still here with you, you don’t quite grasp how much you’ll miss them until they’re REALLY gone.  I miss his hug.  In the latter years of his life, he’s the one who hugged a little longer-held on for just a second more for good measure.  I miss being called “Sug”. {short for Sugar}   No one ever called me that except for my father. 

The last time I saw him, I pressed my cheek against the quilt that covered his chest and spread my arms around him.  I let my tears bathe that spot where I rested against him, because I knew once I left, I would never see him again in this lifetime.  I closed my eyes and listened to the steady rhythm of his heart beat: bum*bum; bum*bum; bum*bum....within those beats, I heard his voice clear as a bell telling me final thoughts: love you~bum*bum, be good~bum*bum, take care~bum*bum...and, I thought back on all the years that he’d raised me, and I’d raised him, because it is a reciprocal relationship in my opinion – that between a parent and their child.  I think children raise their parents every bit as much as parents raise their children—in different ways, mind you, but we mutually teach the other things that ONLY we can teach.  I know I taught my father things.  He told me that I did.  I take as much pride in that as I do in the things that he taught me.  He, like my mother, was a good teacher.  The fact that I live by the golden rule and strive to be a thoughtful and caring human being is testament to that fact.

When I was a little girl, he use to listen to my prayers at night before I went to sleep, and he made certain that no monsters were lurking in the closet of my bedroom, before he turned out the lights.  I remember him running behind my bicycle as I moved from training wheels to just a two-wheeler, which was a BIG deal moment in the life of a kid.  

“Promise you won’t let go!” I yelled to him as I peddled hard.

“I won’t let go, until I know you can do it!” he called back.

“No!” I realized his qualifier and felt a panic take hold.  “Don’t let go at all!”

And, then I’d begin to wobble on my bike.

“Go on, Sug!” he’d call, running behind me holding on to the seat.  “You can do it!”

And, even when he let go, he still ran behind me, so I wouldn’t get scared and sabotage myself into falling off and down.

After all was said and done, and I had my bike back in the garage, I unleashed my displeasure over how I felt when I realized that he’d not kept his promise and let go.   I started to cry over the betrayal.  

“You tricked me!” I pouted.  

“I did not!” he exclaimed.  “I was with you the entire time!”

“You let go!” I pouted more.

“That’s because I knew you could do it on your own,” he said.  “But, I stayed right behind you to make sure you wouldn’t fall.”

“You promised you wouldn’t let go!” my pout turned into a frown.

“I promised I wouldn’t let go until I knew you could do it by yourself,” he corrected.  “And, I didn’t!  I stayed right behind you the entire time even after I let go,” he reminded.

I blinked, letting what he said register.

“You’re never going to learn to do things for yourself unless you try to do them on your own, Sug!” he said, hugging me.  “But, I’ll never let you try something unless I know you can do it!  You didn’t need me to hold onto the bike anymore.   You just needed to know I’d be there to catch you if you fell, and I was.”

Life lesson.  Big one.

We had lots of moments like that over the course of my life.   It’s what a parent does: teaches their child to stand on their own two feet, while assuring them that they’re close by to catch them if they fall–to be there if they need a hand.   He was.  He always was.

So many thoughts–memories ran through my mind as I laid my head against his chest on that early August morning four years ago, I squeezed his hand as I remembered my wedding day and waiting in the vestibule of the church for him to walk me down the aisle.  

I remember he cleared his throat and asked if I was ready.

I smiled and nodded.

He looked at me differently in that moment, much the way he’d looked at me when I’d gotten off the airplane the previous October – engaged.  I was no longer just his daughter.  I was another man’s intended wife.  It was the first time I saw him hold me in different light.  

Softly, he said.  “Almost time for me to give you away.”

I looked at him when he said it.  He held my gaze.  I think both of our eyes misted a little.

“I’ll always be your daughter, Daddy,” I clarified.

He nodded.  “That’s right,” he agreed.  “But, it’s time to let you go.  You’ll understand that some day.”

I think in that moment he was referring to the children that we both thought Tom and I would successfully have and raise one day.  Unfortunately, that dream didn’t work out for us.  But, as I rested my head against my father’s chest on that August morning and recalled that conversation, I understood his meaning.  

I buried my face into the quilt as more tears came, nodding my understanding as I squeezed his hand.  

I knew it was time to let him go.  I didn’t want to.  It was a difficult reality to accept that his time was at hand.  

It was strange, but in that moment, I could swear that I heard him whisper to me, “I’ll always be your Daddy, but it’s time to let me go.”

It’s hard, sometimes, being a big girl — putting on those pants and pulling them up!  The truth plain and simple is that it doesn’t matter how old you get when it relates to your parents.  There is a part of you inside who is always that panicky, little girl calling to her father not to let go as he ran behind you when you learned to ride your bike.  Always.

The last time I looked at my father, I studied his face for a good, long time.  I wanted to memorize every detail of it.  When you know it’s going to be a long time before you see someone again, I think it’s something instinctual that your heart and mind do: preserve the details.  He looked peaceful.  I remember that, and it was a comfort as I bent down to give him a “I’ll see you another time...” kiss.  I scratched his beard and told him I loved him, because the older I get, the more I realize that you can never say that too much or too often, and I thanked him one final time for every thing.  Every. Little. Thing.   I was grateful for the father that God had given me — with all of his faults and imperfections, he had been a blessing to me for all of my life.  I wanted him to hear me say it one last time.

It’s odd that through Daddy’s death, a Jackson Browne song became our song - his and mine, but it did.  Those of you who have read my blog know how it came to be.  If you don’t know the story, go back and read “A Joyful Sound”.   In any event, on the night that my father went to heaven, I was in the audience as Jackson Browne sang a song that I had told my husband would let me know that Daddy had reached his final destination and was safe and sound where he belonged.  The song selection had been a longshot, but I believe in miracles, and I have faith bigger than a mustard seed.  And, so it was that it came to be that on the night my father died, Jackson Browne played “For a Dancer” to let me know that my father was safely back with God.  I offer it now in loving memory:   

  For a Dancer~Jackson Browne

Always and forever, it remains a joyful sound...

Reaching for the Dawn

I stumbled upon this poem back when I was in college in the 80's and kept it taped to the mirror in my room.  I always called it my"reaching for the dawn" poem, because it gave me hope that whatever the painful "growing into womanhood" circumstance I was in, there was always tomorrow - a brighter one ahead waiting for me.  I just needed to keep moving forward and taking the lessons with me - learning from them, growing because of them-despite them and thankful for them because they were shaping me into who I was destined to become.  I knew that I was in the "processing" years. You have to go through that stuff to form and mold into the person you will ultimately be.  It's a necessary part of life's journey.  I read it a LOT!  It was my growing into poem~my mantra of sorts.  I think it's an important message for EVERY woman to have; to remember and to hold onto to. I share it with you today.  Blessings~

After A While

by Veronica Shoftsall

After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul.

And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning and company doesn't mean security.

And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts and presents aren't promises.

And you begin to accept your defeats with your head up high and your eyes ahead, with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child.

And you learn to build all your roads on today because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain ~ for plans and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So, you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure!
That you really are strong! 

And, you REALLY do have worth...
And you learn, and you learn...
With every hello and every goodbye you learn...  [Amen...]