#58 Beacon Hall Concert

A couple of years ago, my dear husband began circling an old dilapidated church in our neighborhood on a regular basis. He'd say things like, "There's got to be a use for that building."

He was right. It's a beautiful building, made ugly only by the years of disuse and misuse. The stained glass windows that once graced its facade were sold to a salvage company. Faded plywood filled the cavities. Pigeons -- thousands of 'em -- filled the bell tower. The inside bore the evidence of their presence. Landscaping was missing or overgrown.

A few weeks later we bought that church, taking the full purchase price from our savings. DH had a vision for a music lab of sorts, a place for kids to come for free music lessons, but more. Encouragement, self confidence, help with schoolwork, all these things. We named it Beacon Hall, with "beacon" obviously a metaphor for guidance, but also the name of the theatre in New York City where his favorite band, the Allman Brothers, performed every year.

The building has slowly but surely improved over the past two years. Hubby has resourcefully found windows in just the right sizes to replace the plywood. I marvel at the morning sun beaming in through the eastern windows --- sunshine the churchgoers never got to appreciate with stained glass impeding its beams. Better yet, he found the windows in a building about to be demolished and bargained with its owners to allow him to remove them and keep them for free.

Friends over the past 24 months have donated their time and skills to install the windows. Today the church has thirteen windows installed, fully functional with rope, where plywood once was.

We've developed a board, tasking 10 friends and acquaintances, each with a special skillset, to serve.

We (finally) acquired 501(c)(3) designation, after a long and arduous journey.

We've received our first grant, $1,000, to replace the doors on the church.

We're applying for more and beginning the first steps of a capital campaign to raise the money necessary to redevelop this building into the beauty she can be.

***

Late in November DH noticed on the Internet a blues artist, Scott Ainslie, who would be in our state in January. He had made a comment that he was looking for one more engagement to round out his trip to the state.

My shy, nervous husband reached out to him and shared the mission of Beacon Hall. Scott responded positively and they set a tentative date of January 25 for a concert and 26 for a Master Class in guitar.

Because our building is not (not nearly!) complete, we determined to see if we could hold the concert in the local high school auditorium, a plaster masterpiece from the 1930's that was recently renovated to the tune of $750,000.

The board rallied around and chipped in with tasks and errands. From placing posters to buying water, they all came through.

We hired a young promoter who worked on our website, used social media, designed posters, developed memes -- you name it, she did it. Her work reached into neighboring states and attracted visitors.

A local bed and breakfast agreed to allow the artist to stay "on them" as a gift to Beacon Hall.

One of our board members, incidentally my son, drove down from Washington DC only a day after flying in from a weeks-long stay in China. His wife and son came as well and helped in a million ways over the weekend.

Friends who helped in my political campaign offered to stand at the doors and greet concert-goers as they arrived. The principal of the high school ran the lights and sound, himself.

A local realtor (and friend) sponsored a scholarship so a college student could attend the Master Class.

The board had agreed this concert was for awareness of Beacon Hall and its mission only, and our goal was to provide the concert for free, with donations welcomed.

We set out (borrowed) glass jars and crossed our fingers, hoping to break even-- covering the artist's fee and the money we'd paid the promoter. .

The jars filled over and over. Our daughter in law loaned us her square and we took in hundreds with credit cards.

We're still adding things up but it appears we covered all our expenses and made a healthy extra as well.

Oh, the concert? Well. It blew our socks off. Scott wowed the audience. He shared the legends of blues and its beginnings and played on multiple instruments. People visibly nodded heads or tapped feet to the music. Many iPhones were held aloft to photograph or tape Scott. He gave, and gave and gave. He played and sang from 7:30 to 10, with just a 20 minute break.

Since then we've received calls, texts and emails thanking us for bringing him to town.

The master class the next morning was just as successful. He'd asked us to cap the class at 20 students, but they had some late arrivals and ended up with 24. One student was so impressed he wrote Beacon Hall a check for $100.

****

The weekend is over and all the houseguests have gone home. Sweet husband's car is overloaded with the detritus of the weekend -- folding chairs loaned from his workplace, tools, tables, etc.

We are exhausted and overjoyed with our initial success. I'm in the process of writing thank-you letters, but if you came or helped, or wished us well, THANK YOU.

#LoveMyLife

#57 Who’s Gooder ‘n We Are?

In the fall of 2003 I attended John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, TN for a three-day watercolor workshop. As I recall, the class was comprised mostly, but not all, of middle-aged women. Among us was an older woman from Maggie Valley, NC, who would soon die from liver cancer.

She was very at peace with her situation and had taken the class to help in documenting her memories for her grandchildren.

As we painted, the class sometimes engaged in idle chat. One subject was using one’s good china and crystal at home.

“I use mine every day,” the cancer patient said, “and you should, too. Who’s gooder ‘n we are?”

Little did she know her words would resonate with me. She’s long gone now, and still I carry her words.

I’m trying to draw every day, and today I went through my art supplies looking for a nice portable sketchbook.

I came across a lovely choice, a book my Dear Son #2 found down a dark alley in Vietnam, where he had read about a woman who made her own paper and bound it into sketchbooks.

On one hand, it seems too special to draw in. On the other, what will give my children more pleasure after I die— coming across the book empty, or filled with daily sketches?

I drew my first picture in it this evening, because, of course, who’s gooder than we are?

#56, Thankful

I had Thanksgiving solo this year. With Lyme I was not feeling like a 6-hour trip each way to visit hubby's Momma, so he went and I stayed home and made shrimp gumbo.

It's a week later and my heart *and head* are full of gratitude for my life. Hey, better late than never, eh?

I'm so very grateful that I have the opportunity to write, something I've loved since I was big enough to hold a pencil. My parents bought me a red "Tom Thumb" child's typewriter, manual, when I was 7 or 8, and I wrote many poems, stories, plays and newspapers on the thing. I have no idea what happened to it. In our house, things just vanished: baby dolls, old clothing, I guess when we were at school our Mom purged our stuff. But I loved that typewriter and today I am thankful to be able to remember an icon of what I love to do.

I don't pretend to be a journalist like the seasoned writers at our local newspaper. They have real talent and real experience. I am clear-headed enough to realize I am a hobbyist.

That said, having the opportunity to write on a professional basis gives me the opportunity to have experiences I never would have had otherwise. Further down in this very blog you can see in October 2008 I got to ride on the back of the garbage truck for an article about the workers. I actually got to stand on the little ledge on the back of the truck and hold on. (I think that date is close to right.)

I've gotten to do lots of cool things with the writing gig, but yesterday may be the cherry on the whipped cream on the top of the icing of the cake.

I got to ride in a helicopter.

As a free-lancer I have to think up ideas to pitch to the editor. If she likes an idea, I get to interview the people and write the article. I send it in by email and invoice at the end of the month. I almost never enter the newspaper building, and almost always do my writing in my pajamas. It's sort of a heavenly setup.

A week ago, one evening it seemed helicopters were flying non-stop over our little town. I grabbed my phone and emailed my editor: "When the helicopters fly, our imagination goes on fire wondering who was in an accident? Who is ill? How about an article on the air-medic crew?"

She liked the idea and yesterday I interviewed a pilot, nurse and paramedic who work in our local hospital's helicopter.

Then we got to go up.

Our photographer, the nicest person I know, acceded his seat to an intern who has aspirations of being a pilot one day. So the seasoned photographer got shots from the ground and the intern got shots from the air.

This is definitely one article where the photos will outshine the story.

As old as I am, when I'm really happy or sad or confused or creative, I feel in my heart like I'm still nine years old. Yesterday was one of those days. It was hard to sit still and be silent when my heart was soaring out of my chest. It was BEAUTIFUL in the sky. We flew over our little town and then made our way over the local lake. The air from the rotors caused ripples on the water and we were just floating in the sky.

I've flown in commercial jets much of my adult life: around the US to speak at conferences for my work in IT, internationally for personal travel. I've even made the longest non-stop flight on earth, from NYC to Singapore, 22 hours over the north pole and back down.

But flying in a helicopter was like floating in the sky. No cramped seat, lack of legroom, germs or boring hours to fill. The ear protection kept out the noise so it was me and my headspace floating in the sky. Like a dream.

I got the story and will write about the heroic men and women who do this incredible work every day, but for one day, I got to fly. It was a day I'll never forget.

#55, Swimming Upstream

I have not posted in quite some time. Our family had a tragedy in July and we are still not fully recovered. That, coupled with my recent Lyme diagnosis, has left me in the shadows many days. Because I promised this blog would focus on gratitude, I've stayed away.

Some of you may know our relationship with my daughter has been virtually non-existent for many years, stemming from our having custody of her daughters, our granddaughters.

The bright spot of July's tragedy is that it brought my daughter and me to be close again. Since that day we have not missed a day of touching base, whether it's a visit, a call, or a quick text: "You good?" "Yep! You good?" "Yep!"

I know I hate it when a writer says, "Words cannot express..." but truly I cannot share the depth of how much it means to have my daughter back. I'm not sure I could have survived our shared tragedy without her support and wisdom.

Having served in Iraq, she suffers from PTSD, among other things, and has a challenge being in crowds. The dichotomy is that the sanctuary she seeks in her own home sometimes becomes her prison.

We agreed to swim together at the Y in the mornings. She can't or won't go without a companion and I am happy to be that for her. I need some gentle exercise after being idle from Lyme exhaustion for months. It's mutually beneficial.

The first day I swam ten laps. In eight of those ten, I had to stop mid-lane, catch my breath, and make my way to the other end of the pool. Only two of the ten laps were uninterrupted.

After a couple of weeks I am proud to report I'm swimming 20 laps and only 3-4 are interrupted for breathing. I do have to rest a moment after each lap before continuing. This is ok with me.

My goal is to reach a consistent 20 laps with no stops and improve on my technique before adding more laps. Eventually I would like to reach a mile.

As for my daughter, she has quickly achieved her goal of swimming a mile. An old swim team girl, she knows how to do flip turns, but doesn't yet have the stamina. She hopes to integrate this skill into her mile.

Her mile takes longer than my 20 laps so I happily slosh over to the Jacuzzi to wait for her to finish. She is fine with my being out of the pool as long as I'm nearby.

 Due to her fear of crowds we meet at 5:45am. The whole thing takes about an hour and it's an hour well spent. We are both happy with our progress and I treasure the time with her. It's a crowded pool with two high school teams practicing, but we are happy to share a lane.

The experience is healthy on a number of levels: emotionally, physically, mentally.

I. am. grateful.
#LoveMyLife

#54 Holiday Caravan

Two groups met at loggerheads and our community is missing out. But there's more: Some members of the community are responding, reacting in a childish and unacceptable way.

At last year's Christmas Parade a local pharmacy (one that sells HIV medications nationwide) showed up with a float and participants decked in rainbow spirit. Members of PFLAG (Parents & Friends of Lesbians & Gays) were on the float with rainbow clothing and flags.

The Christmas Parade has written policies that state, "Floats without a clear Christmas theme will be considered commercial and thus will be stricken from the parade." The policies are dated 2017. A simple google search will show them.

So the folks running the parade pulled the float from the lineup and it made people mad. Really mad. The leader is an African American woman and there were accusations of racial bigotry as well as bigotry against gay people.

The woman has been quite vocal about having been pulled from the parade. Today the board of directors for the parade announced they are terminating the parade. Forever.

The parade, which should be for children, has become an institution for all sorts of people. Running on the day before Thanksgiving, it kicks off the holiday season for everyone in town.

I've always joked that so many locals are IN the parade, there's no one left to WATCH it. But over the past eight years of participating in the parade, I got to see so many people lined up, camping out, tailgating, leaning out of office windows, packed on city sidewalks five deep, I rescind my statement.

It's a wonderful experience, and now it's over.

People are hot. HOT, people. Comments in the newspaper online as well as the woman's personal FB page run from 'I hate you,' to calling her a word that starts with a C. Threatening statements like, "I open carry and so do all my friends."

This is BEYOND.

I'm sad to see it play out and sad to see the bitterness and inappropriate behavior over a parade celebrating the birth of the Prince of Peace. I don't worship Jesus but I do respect the season as a time for kindness.

Namaste, y'all.


Postscript. Well. It seems I was a little too gracious in trying to analyze the motivations of the Parade Board. They have come out and SAID, in SO MANY WORDS, they cancelled the parade because of PFLAG. Now this is horse of a different color. I'm not deleting my post; it's still a shame that people are abusive over this thing. But I am commenting here to set the record straight.

#53 In the Midst of Crisis

In the midst of crisis I am thankful for so many things.

I live in a comfortable home. The home of my dreams, really.
I have a loving family.
I have everything I could possibly need and really, everything I want.
I have my health.
I have yoga and meditation.
I'm bright enough.
I seem to be able to function in the midst of crisis.

Sure, I'm forgetting things, saying words backwards, and yesterday I spilled a brand new bottle of Jubilee Wax. That slimy stuff is tough to clean up!

My mother used to say, "Duke women are strong." I think her mother was a Duke. That phrase has kept me going many times when I thought I was done. Mother never imagined such a simple phrase would sustain me in the toughest of times.

#52 Faithfulness

There was an article in our local paper last week about a young man who led the Pledge of Allegiance at his Town Council meeting as a Cub Scout 12 years ago.

It felt so good, he did it again, though this time without the rest of his pack. He went back and did it again. And again and again and again.

He led the Pledge of Allegiance at that Town Council meeting for 12 years, and this month, he led his last one before he leaves for college.

For years his mom drove him. Most recently, he drove himself. Standing at 6'2", he's quite a different guy than the little Cub who was there in 2006.

“I always wanted to do it, and I looked forward to doing it,” Huddleston said. “… I never thought I’d make it this far.”

I can't think of anything I've faithfully done for 12 years.

****
Last week our civic club honored teachers with our annual Teacher Appreciation Day. One of our longest-term members chairs the event each year.

As we walked out to the parking lot, I asked him how long he's been chairing the thing.

"Well," he said, "I volunteered for it in 1972."

(Lips moving) That's 46 years. He's been doing this every year since I was 16 years old.

There's certainly nothing in my life I've done with consistency for 46 years.

"Oh, sure," you say, "There's got be something."

No, the only things that come to mind are brushing my teeth and going to bed. Pets have come and gone. Kids have been in and out. Hobbies have waxed and waned. Marriages failed. Nope, there's nothing I've done -- particularly for others -- for any amount of time.

Sorta makes you think.

#50 The Cycle of Life

I had the good fortune to do an article about the new jazz radio station at the local HBCU, Livingstone College. It's WLJZ, 107.1. Check it out. You can stream it online through iheartradio.com or tunein.com, or at livingstone.edu/radio.

While we were in the studio for the interview, they were playing, "What's Going On," by Marvin Gaye. It was a hit in 1971.

While writing the article in my office yesterday, I googled the lyrics:

"Mother, mother / There's too many of you crying / Brother, brother, brother / There's far too many of you dying / You know we've got to find a way / To bring some loving here today…” 

The song at the time was about the Vietnam War. 

I was stricken yesterday by how relevant the lyrics are today. With young black men being shot for no reason,or  being arrested for sitting in Starbucks waiting for friends, it's surely true that "There's far too many of you dying."

Two years ago a young black man was shot in the back while fleeing police. The vision of that video haunts me still today. They're supposed to shoot someone if he presents an immediate threat to police or others. HOW CAN HE BE A THREAT RUNNING AWAY?

There have been so many police-on-black shootings in the past few years I can't even remember where this one took place. Texas? I can't remember. Note. I looked it up after writing this post and the incident mentioned took place in SC.

I think it's time for someone to re-release this song. 

#49 Starbucks

I posted about Starbucks last week and ironically on that same day, a Starbucks store in Philadelphia made a grievous error in judgment. As 2 black men sat in the store waiting for their friends to arrive, the manager of the store asked the men to leave. The men refused. Management asked them to leave a total of three times before calling the police.

The friends arrived just in time to find the men in handcuffs. Police removed the handcuffs as the men's story was confirmed.

Film of the incident went viral.

Kevin Johnson, Starbucks CEO, issued an apology that stated the actions of the manager were not reflective of the company's values. All 8,000 of the company's stores will be closed for a day next month as the company gives racial-bias training to all its employees. The manager was fired.

"Not enough," "Too slow," people are saying as they boycott the stores.

I agree with voting with our pocketbooks. I've boycotted Chik-Fil-A for 6 years, and Cracker Barrel since the 1980's.

In the beginning of the AIDS epidemic, you couldn't turn on a TV or radio without being bombarded with news, speculation, and fear of this horrific disease. It was on covers of all the big magazines. Again and again.

Cracker Barrel took the initiative. They terminated all gay employees. Cooks, waiters, accountants. Didn't matter -- they fired them all.

Although I wasn't a big customer, I actively boycotted the restaurant and shared my feelings with friends and family.

Years later they got in trouble -- for ignoring African American patrons who dared sit at tables and expect to be served.

It didn't make much news at the time. I dug in.

In 2010, Chik-Fil-A gave over $8 million to its CEO's charitable foundation, oddly named Win-Shape. In 2012 Win-Shape refused to accept same-sex couples into its marriage retreats. The president and chief operating officer Dan Cathy stated on a radio show, "I think we are inviting God's judgment on our nation when we shake our fist at Him and say, "We know better than you as to what constitutes a marriage." I pray God's mercy on our generation that has such a prideful, arrogant attitude to think that we have the audacity to define what marriage is about."

No more waffle fries for me. Mr. Cathy has a right to his beliefs. I have a right not to support them.

So why am I concerned today that my friends are calling for boycotts of Starbucks?

It's a matter of origination.

In both the Cracker Barrel and Chik-Fil-A cases, decisions -- poor ones in my own opinion -- were made by owners and/or top management. They demonstrated that exclusion is their policy. They demonstrated values that are contrary to my beliefs.

The Starbucks case -- and I'm giving my own opinion here -- is different. A manager of an isolated Starbucks store, one of 8,000 in the US, made awful decisions. Top management has apologized and has taken the blame. "My responsibility is to look not only at that individual but to look more broadly at the circumstances that set that up, to ensure that this never happens again," Dan Johnson, CEO, said on Good Morning America. They're doing everything they can to fix the issue.

Our little town has 2 local Starbucks stores and, as I wrote on 12.Apr, I frequent them both. I have friends who work there, some of whom I've met as a customer, and some who I knew before they went to work at Starbucks. They all happen to be African American. And they're happy there. They feel they are respected. Treated fairly. Rewarded for good work. 

So I'm not boycotting Starbucks. It's my belief that the Philadelphia manager acted on her own, and her actions did not reflect the values of the company. It's my belief that the company itself has done no harm, not acted irresponsibly.

I can't say the same for Cracker Barrel and Chik-Fil-A. 

#48 I Just Need to Fly

In the year 2000 my sweet hubby built a swing for the granddaughter we were raising, and hung it from high in the old walnut tree in the backyard.

A broad, very thick board, a hole in each end, and a rope 1" thick. A couple of good knots.

While I don't have a picture of the swing itself, I have a picture of her on that day, loving the swing for the first time of what would become thousands.

Since that seminal day, most of our grandchildren have enjoyed that swing. Even today, the children of Son #2, who are teenagers, head to the backyard soon after arriving at Nana's house, to enjoy the swing.

* Three of our grandchildren have not yet visited Nana's house. Two were born internationally and one was born just before the family left for Asia. So we have 3 grandchildren of the 12 who have not (yet) enjoyed the swing.

Even hubby and I have swung on it on occasion. 

There's something about swinging that takes your cares away. It's almost like I imagine flying would be. There's no fear, the breeze in your face, the rhythm similar to rocking, which of course reminds us of being in the womb. It's a carefree and magical experience.

Over the years the swing has aged. The once-yellow wood is now grayed. Raised lines of grain tell of  the years of weather. The ropes, which used to be white, have turned gray as well. Yet a good tug on the swing seemed to show it's still stable for another few good go's. 

Flash forward 18 years and we have yet another generation enjoying the swing.

A month or so ago sweet hubby balanced our granddaughter's 2-almost-3 year old on the swing and gave him a push. 

He was addicted.

He's just a little unsteady on it. We have to center his bottom in the exact center of the board. Over time he has learned to balance on it, not leaning too far forward nor too far back, and he holds tightly with his hands.

But, oh, the swing. 

He loves the breeze on his face. The features on his face actually soften and he becomes more... at peace.... which is a weird thing to say about a toddler, I know. 

He visits Nana's house quite a lot, 3x a week or more, but he never tires of the swing.

Yesterday after nap it's all he wanted to do. So we beckoned the dog to go with us and out we went. 

I centered him and pushed. and pushed. and pushed. 

We sang songs. Then we were quiet, the only sounds the creak and groan of the rope as it bore his little weight back and forth, back and forth.

After about 10 minutes I noticed the seat shift a bit to the left. I picked him up off the swing to see what was going on, and 20 feet or more of rope came spiraling down from the branch.

The swing had died. 

I am immensely thankful it didn't happen when he was in the arc of a good go. He would have been hurt.

He was crestfallen.

I promised him Papaw would fix it.

He stood in the yard, the end of the rope in his hand -- the end that belongs on the branch high above our heads. 

"I fix it," he proclaimed. He wanted to swing so badly. Now. 

He looked high up at the branch. Back down to the rope in his hand. 

"I need to fly." 

He tried to lift his feet off the ground. He jumped a few times. 

He looked at me very seriously. "I need to fly."

He moved his other hand through the air to demonstrate flying in case I had not understood. 

But  I understood.

I picked him up and said, "Does this help?"

"No," he said.

Together we tried to fly.

Finally I put him down and headed for the house, once again promising Papaw will fix it.

The vision of him, small him, standing in the yard with the lank end of the rope in his hand, trying to fly, will stay with me for a very long time.

It was the first time he discovered his inability to achieve something he really, really wanted, and it broke my heart. His crystalline faith that he could fly, that he could fix the swing, was so pure. And so fragile.

Of course it will happen to him many, many times in the future, but rarely do we have the awful opportunity to observe defeat happening in such a tangible way.

His world got a little smaller yesterday.

-----

Last night we got an urgent call from a family member just before midnight. Violence had occurred in the home. We were needed -- immediately -- to help in practical ways. 

We leapt from bed and left our home to lend a hand. 

The cycle of violence is never pretty, and we returned home shortly before 3am, exhausted and shaken from the experience. 

This morning after sleeping fitfully for a few hours, I am still exhausted and now pretty angry that the episode happened at all. There's no need for it. Some pretty awful behavior -- and injuries --  resulted from poor decisions and it never had to happen. 

This morning I am struggling with what to do with this anger in a positive way. I cannot fix the parties involved yet I see the damage for now and the harm in the future if it doesn't stop. 

I just need to fly.