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Sunday, April 19, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
If you’ve known me for more than five minutes, you will know that my mother grew up in Michigan, my father in Texas and New Mexico. They met in middle Georgia, married, and moved when I was three years old to the west Georgia town where I still live.
I had to learn to say all this very quickly and always in the same way, so that it would be understood right away. I had to because I didn’t speak like my friends. My parents had different accents and they were both different from that of everyone else we spoke to. In my own way, it feels like different languages. I grew up learning to speak “red-neck,” “Atlanta,” what I called “little-old-lady,” and English with a capital E.
“Red-neck” was so that we understood our cousins in middle Georgia, where I was born. “Atlanta” was for our eight cousins who grew up in a lot of the poor neighborhoods in and around Atlanta. I heard “little old lady” when we visited my dad’s boss’s house, my great-grandmother’s siblings, and at the ladies houses who my mother would speak with occasionally. English (E) was for use at home and school.
I remember Mom saying, “I don’t care if your teacher used ain’t, I don’t want to hear it coming out of your mouth in my hearing.” I’m not sure if she ever used y’all unless we were around her sisters and brothers.
Atlanta is the home of Coca-Cola. That's all they drink there, so don't ask for any other soft drink unless it's made by Coca-Cola.
From: Miss Cellania
My family and I would just call all of them “Co-Cola,” even Pepsi. In my circle out here in West GA, it would go:
“Want a Co-Cola?”
“Sure, whatcha got?”
“Pepsi, Diet Coke, Tea, Water. Watcha want?”
“Oh, tea, of course! I just love your tea!”
Now, when the above conversation happens, I always find myself thinking we’re like those old ladies bringing out the coffee and the cream and the sugar. The richer she was, the more stuff she brought out, then the more you have to bring out to impress her, yada, yada, yada! These were usually my great-grandmothers siblings. That’s where I first saw this behavior, but I understand it a lot better now.
In my childhood, with my mom and her sisters and friends, it was offering the soft drinks, the “Co-Cola,” that was the most polite. But they had a sort of code about whether they could afford the store-bought drinks. The top thing they would offer was a glass of milk for all the kids. Sometimes, that would end up being a gallon of milk. So the code was to offer tea. That meant that the sister offering didn’t have the Co-Cola for everybody, but had the back up. Tea or store brand Kool-Aid. If it was the Kool-Aid, though, you could guarantee it was half-sugar strength. That stuff really dried your mouth out, and I usually picked water over that!
It became sort of a rite of passage for me and my cousins when we got to drink the Co-Cola.
In a strange way, this makes the term I’ve learned since resonates through my memories like having your head in the bell when it’s struck at noon. “He/She drank the Kool-Aid.”
I watched a program on PBS last week about Jonestown. I don’t think I’d ever known the full story behind that before in my life. My parents only ever gave me the bare bones of the story. What I knew was something along the lines of: Jim Jones was a preacher that convinced a lot of people to move down to Guyana and then told them to drink poison. They did and they all died.
We were only told there were children, too, if we asked. At least with me and my brother. We were forbidden to tell the younger ones. I was warned not to tell Ray, at least. Beyond that, I didn’t ask my parents anything else about it, because I could tell my mom was especially bothered by it.
This reminds me of so many things my children are asking me. Such as 9-11. Or sometimes when they’re watching the news with us.
I understand my mother’s look now. Watching that program made a big impact on me. If you want to see it, go to http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/jonestown/ and click on Broadcast Schedule to find out when it will be on in your area.
I had to learn to say all this very quickly and always in the same way, so that it would be understood right away. I had to because I didn’t speak like my friends. My parents had different accents and they were both different from that of everyone else we spoke to. In my own way, it feels like different languages. I grew up learning to speak “red-neck,” “Atlanta,” what I called “little-old-lady,” and English with a capital E.
“Red-neck” was so that we understood our cousins in middle Georgia, where I was born. “Atlanta” was for our eight cousins who grew up in a lot of the poor neighborhoods in and around Atlanta. I heard “little old lady” when we visited my dad’s boss’s house, my great-grandmother’s siblings, and at the ladies houses who my mother would speak with occasionally. English (E) was for use at home and school.
I remember Mom saying, “I don’t care if your teacher used ain’t, I don’t want to hear it coming out of your mouth in my hearing.” I’m not sure if she ever used y’all unless we were around her sisters and brothers.
Atlanta is the home of Coca-Cola. That's all they drink there, so don't ask for any other soft drink unless it's made by Coca-Cola.
From: Miss Cellania
My family and I would just call all of them “Co-Cola,” even Pepsi. In my circle out here in West GA, it would go:
“Want a Co-Cola?”
“Sure, whatcha got?”
“Pepsi, Diet Coke, Tea, Water. Watcha want?”
“Oh, tea, of course! I just love your tea!”
Now, when the above conversation happens, I always find myself thinking we’re like those old ladies bringing out the coffee and the cream and the sugar. The richer she was, the more stuff she brought out, then the more you have to bring out to impress her, yada, yada, yada! These were usually my great-grandmothers siblings. That’s where I first saw this behavior, but I understand it a lot better now.
In my childhood, with my mom and her sisters and friends, it was offering the soft drinks, the “Co-Cola,” that was the most polite. But they had a sort of code about whether they could afford the store-bought drinks. The top thing they would offer was a glass of milk for all the kids. Sometimes, that would end up being a gallon of milk. So the code was to offer tea. That meant that the sister offering didn’t have the Co-Cola for everybody, but had the back up. Tea or store brand Kool-Aid. If it was the Kool-Aid, though, you could guarantee it was half-sugar strength. That stuff really dried your mouth out, and I usually picked water over that!
It became sort of a rite of passage for me and my cousins when we got to drink the Co-Cola.
In a strange way, this makes the term I’ve learned since resonates through my memories like having your head in the bell when it’s struck at noon. “He/She drank the Kool-Aid.”
I watched a program on PBS last week about Jonestown. I don’t think I’d ever known the full story behind that before in my life. My parents only ever gave me the bare bones of the story. What I knew was something along the lines of: Jim Jones was a preacher that convinced a lot of people to move down to Guyana and then told them to drink poison. They did and they all died.
We were only told there were children, too, if we asked. At least with me and my brother. We were forbidden to tell the younger ones. I was warned not to tell Ray, at least. Beyond that, I didn’t ask my parents anything else about it, because I could tell my mom was especially bothered by it.
This reminds me of so many things my children are asking me. Such as 9-11. Or sometimes when they’re watching the news with us.
I understand my mother’s look now. Watching that program made a big impact on me. If you want to see it, go to http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/jonestown/ and click on Broadcast Schedule to find out when it will be on in your area.
Playboy
My husband has some old Playboys from the 60's and 70's. Would you be interested in seeing some scans? I won't go to the trouble unless I get a comment!
Feeling Morbid?
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Created by OnePlusYou - Free Online Dating
Created by Recipe Star
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39%
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Sunday, April 5, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Marijuana: should it be legal?
Over at Curious Read, there's a great blog entry about the issue.
He makes some great points. Our government would make a lot of money and save a lot of money if pot were legalized. Make money through taxes and save money by not chasing, prosecuting and jailing the growers, dealers and users.
He makes some great points. Our government would make a lot of money and save a lot of money if pot were legalized. Make money through taxes and save money by not chasing, prosecuting and jailing the growers, dealers and users.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Personal FAIL
The top bookcase in my shed finally broke the bookshelf under it. I read way too much!
Monday, February 16, 2009
Like the logo?
I've been busy with school lately, so I know I've been letting this slide. One of the classes I'm taking had us design a logo, so why not?
I'll have more time over spring break, I get two weeks at the end of March and first of April.
I'll have more time over spring break, I get two weeks at the end of March and first of April.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
'Air and Simple Gifts' John Williams at Obama Inauguration
This was so beautiful and I have to share it. If you can't play the video, it's also here.
The entire inauguration was so beautiful and emotional. I have to admit I cried with joy. I'm finally proud to call myself an American again!
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Saturday, January 3, 2009
I am a chronic pain sufferer
I found this site, the Pain Relief Network.
CREDO
by Ian MacLeod
I am a chronic pain patient. There is no time in my life when I am not in pain. After many years of mistreatment, non-treatment and finally some honest attempts at proper treatment, I am as stable as I can get, for the time being at least. Now I help others when I can.
I don’t offer my help from a sense of guilt or for profit, save perhaps emotional. Others who are where I was or are where I am have helped me and do help me, and that is as it should be. I don’t help because she is pretty – I have never seen her face. I don’t help because he may further my career – I have none; pain took that away long ago. I help because our common humanity makes us the same creature; I help because our common pain makes us brothers and sisters; what diminishes them diminishes me, and makes us all less.
I have stood at that precipice he stands at now, the terrible abyss yawning beneath my feet. I know the voice of the darkness that surrounds her, calling her name in the voice of helplessness, telling her how useless the single, dim candle of her life is in a universe of suns. I know the the desolate isolation of being alone, the pain screaming above all else in a voice only he can hear. I know the feeling and the sound of another strand in a frayed lifeline snapping as yet another doctor, a rare hope in such lives as ours, or a loved one, a source of safety most people can take for granted, disbelieves, even mocks. I too have the same bowed shoulders of one who waits, bound, as every stone-heavy, passing moment settles and adds to the mountain that she must carry, hoping that this one is not the last of an unrelieved accumulation that she will crumple under. I know the snide tones of the unimaginative, healthy professionals, family and friends that erodes his pride and sense of worth.
I help because others helped me, and not to pass this on would be a callous, greedy use of such a gift. I help because the journey through that place called pain that makes the valley of the shadow of death look like a sweet promise is one that should never be walked alone. I help for the courage of those who, from the midst of their own pain, reach out their hands to help others who stand a fraction closer to the edge of that abyss we all face, every moment of every day of our lives, yes, but especially every doubly and trebly long moment of the long, long nights, alone in the dark with the pain.
Sometimes there is little I can do but listen and believe, but I know the value of that. It seems a small thing, but a small thing in a void is like a candle in a dark room: small to the one who lights it in the sunlight and carries it in, but a great gift to one who has lived in darkness so long that light is all but forgotten.
I help because I will allow that precipice to claim no one without a fight, I will permit no soul to be lost in that void if by some means I can help guide it back to the light that is our mutual nature, beginning and destiny. I help because I have learned to love myself, and that love is a wellspring from which all who are decent and caring may draw. I help because love acts, and I will not be still in the face of such abuse and such need.
I help because I can, and being able, because I find I must if I am to remain true to my self. I help because where one alone is a weak victim, many together are strong, and can accomplish anything.
This passage I found in the Chronic Pain Forums at the Pain Relief Network site really spoke to me. I've had constant chronic headaches and other pain since starting puberty at 13 and I'm 33 now. That's more than half my life in constant pain. It waxes and wanes, but it's always there. I've only had two moments in my life since turning 13 that were pain free. The doctors won't give me the medicines that actually help because of DEA restrictions. I couldn't afford them anyway, because Medicaid won't cover them without a long, involved fight. I know, I've had to fight with them about nearly every medication I take, and I'm on more than a dozen of them. I pray every day for help. Without my understanding and loving husband, I would have left this world long ago by my own hand. Believe it or not, my children help, too. Love helps.
CREDO
by Ian MacLeod
I am a chronic pain patient. There is no time in my life when I am not in pain. After many years of mistreatment, non-treatment and finally some honest attempts at proper treatment, I am as stable as I can get, for the time being at least. Now I help others when I can.
I don’t offer my help from a sense of guilt or for profit, save perhaps emotional. Others who are where I was or are where I am have helped me and do help me, and that is as it should be. I don’t help because she is pretty – I have never seen her face. I don’t help because he may further my career – I have none; pain took that away long ago. I help because our common humanity makes us the same creature; I help because our common pain makes us brothers and sisters; what diminishes them diminishes me, and makes us all less.
I have stood at that precipice he stands at now, the terrible abyss yawning beneath my feet. I know the voice of the darkness that surrounds her, calling her name in the voice of helplessness, telling her how useless the single, dim candle of her life is in a universe of suns. I know the the desolate isolation of being alone, the pain screaming above all else in a voice only he can hear. I know the feeling and the sound of another strand in a frayed lifeline snapping as yet another doctor, a rare hope in such lives as ours, or a loved one, a source of safety most people can take for granted, disbelieves, even mocks. I too have the same bowed shoulders of one who waits, bound, as every stone-heavy, passing moment settles and adds to the mountain that she must carry, hoping that this one is not the last of an unrelieved accumulation that she will crumple under. I know the snide tones of the unimaginative, healthy professionals, family and friends that erodes his pride and sense of worth.
I help because others helped me, and not to pass this on would be a callous, greedy use of such a gift. I help because the journey through that place called pain that makes the valley of the shadow of death look like a sweet promise is one that should never be walked alone. I help for the courage of those who, from the midst of their own pain, reach out their hands to help others who stand a fraction closer to the edge of that abyss we all face, every moment of every day of our lives, yes, but especially every doubly and trebly long moment of the long, long nights, alone in the dark with the pain.
Sometimes there is little I can do but listen and believe, but I know the value of that. It seems a small thing, but a small thing in a void is like a candle in a dark room: small to the one who lights it in the sunlight and carries it in, but a great gift to one who has lived in darkness so long that light is all but forgotten.
I help because I will allow that precipice to claim no one without a fight, I will permit no soul to be lost in that void if by some means I can help guide it back to the light that is our mutual nature, beginning and destiny. I help because I have learned to love myself, and that love is a wellspring from which all who are decent and caring may draw. I help because love acts, and I will not be still in the face of such abuse and such need.
I help because I can, and being able, because I find I must if I am to remain true to my self. I help because where one alone is a weak victim, many together are strong, and can accomplish anything.
This passage I found in the Chronic Pain Forums at the Pain Relief Network site really spoke to me. I've had constant chronic headaches and other pain since starting puberty at 13 and I'm 33 now. That's more than half my life in constant pain. It waxes and wanes, but it's always there. I've only had two moments in my life since turning 13 that were pain free. The doctors won't give me the medicines that actually help because of DEA restrictions. I couldn't afford them anyway, because Medicaid won't cover them without a long, involved fight. I know, I've had to fight with them about nearly every medication I take, and I'm on more than a dozen of them. I pray every day for help. Without my understanding and loving husband, I would have left this world long ago by my own hand. Believe it or not, my children help, too. Love helps.
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