Three Truths

"Atticus-" said Jem bleakly.
He turned in the doorway. "What, son?"
"How could they do it, how could they?"
"I don’t know, but they did it. They’ve done it before and they did it tonight and they’ll do it again and when they do it- seems that only children weep. Good night."

                                                           -To Kill A Mockingbird

When I saw this excerpt making the rounds in regards to the activity in Ferguson, I felt it to be the most profound of all passages. Unlike Jem who was completely blameless, Michael Brown was not. The young man made some extremely poor decisions and those led to his untimely and most unfortunate demise.
But what struck me was that the same themes of a book published 54 years ago about a story occurring 78 years ago, are still very much prevalent in this particular situation.
The more I have read, listened, examined, and studied the details that have been released in regards to this horrific ordeal, I am concerned.
I am concerned by the system of checks and balances.
I am concerned by the intense racial divide that still exists.
I am concerned that both social and professional media are so quick to speak of unfounded truths. That they would so willingly fan the flames of  "supposed reports" to sensationalize a tragedy in return for views, hits, attention, and ratings.
I cannot imagine the weight of the blue uniform of those who pledge to protect and serve no more than I can imagine the burden of the stigma placed upon black males.
There are only two people that will ever know the accurate events of that day. One will live with his actions, while the other will rest with his.
This incident has left me with more questions than answers but the only things that I do know is that 1) Not all African-Americans are criminals. 2) Not all cops are bad. 3) Not all whites are racist.
And it is in those three truths that I find hope.

My Chicken-Man

Tina's daddy passed away this morning at roughly 5a.m. Tonight she sits in bed next to me wearing his pajamas, reading some of his written thoughts, and looking at old pictures while I type. She was gifted with a father who loved her very much and my heart breaks for her.
We, along with her brothers and extended family, have spent the last few weeks in the halls of hospitals and the corridors of hospice. And as we spent day in and day out in those quiet rooms, I couldn't help but think of those only a few doors down from us. In each room there was a family simply waiting on death.
I wondered what were those other patients lives like. Who were their loved ones? And what legacy were each of them leaving behind?
There is a quote that I adore by an unknown author (unknown to me) and it states: "The goal is not to live forever, the goal is to create something that will."
Terry Gragg leaves behind the bluest eyes I have ever seen as well as the tall, dark features that are found in his children. He leaves behind a sound of music that is forever recorded for the next generations to hear. He leaves behind the gift of seeing the beauty of nature as he taught others to respect the land. And most importantly, he leaves behind the love for all people no matter their station. For he was an example of how to never say an unkind word, and to always leave your door open as someone may be in need of shelter.
Terry also leaves behind a rooster. A gorgeous free range rooster that I was completely terrified of. He never let it come near me and instead distracted my fear by teaching me all about the chicken species. The first time Terry told me that chickens flew up into the trees at night to roost, I thought the man was crazy. But just as dusk began to fall, he pointed to roughly ten chickens in his trees.
Watching someone who was so kind to the world suffer, makes you question a great many things. Life becomes so unfair and yet so precious.
When Terry took his last earthly breath, I hope that he knew that all of his legacies were in that room with him. Those short 66yrs he spent here continue to ripple through time with the examples that he set for all of us.
And while a part of us is happy that he now gets to hug his mama and run through fields with his cousin Duck, there is an all encompassing grief for those still here. We find solace in the fact that he does get to see those who have passed before him, and that he is no longer suffering in pain. The memories we have will envelope our hearts until we meet again.
And the next time you see a tall, blue-eyed, woodsman playing a guitar in front of a rooster, know that there's still a little piece of Terry here and he will have his door open. 

p.s.
In regards to my previous blog, a massive thank you to everyone who shared, liked, tweeted, and donated to help pay for Terry's funeral costs. We were fortunate enough to have family, friends, and strangers to help put down a sizable amount of the cost. Although our hearts are heavy at this time, they are filled with love in knowing that so many out there care. xo

Time

Around four weeks ago I was sitting in the library like the good nerd that I am, when Tina came barreling up to my table, eyes wet, saying "We have to go. We have to go now."
A few days prior, her dad had went to the doctor due to neck pain. We were told it was arthritis. Thirty-six hours later, we were told it was cancer. Tina was at work doing her normal thing, her only worry was hoping that she finished in time to come pick me up before the library closed. But then her phone rang and everything changed. "Your dad has stage 4 bone cancer. In addition, there is a tumor on his brain, as well as cancer in his lungs. Call the family and have your preparations ready."
One thing I have learned is that cancer knows no particular victim. Old, young, black, white; it doesn't care. For years, Tina and I have supported St. Jude's. And every year she donates her hair to locks-of-love, trying to help in our own way. But now we are seeing the effects of this cruel and vicious disease first hand and it undoubtedly breaks your soul.
The first week was a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and days being spent at the hospital. The next week was spent at hospice and going back and forth to radiation treatments. And while hospice was phenomenal and contained a top-notch staff, her dad wants to pass away at home. However, his home was not an option due to his around the clock care. Thus we compromised and purchased a 35ft camper, placing it in our backyard. This way he still has his privacy, a beautiful view of the mountains, and peace with his children close by.
Death is inevitable for all of us but I guess it's when you are given a definite timeline, the reality of our demise body slams your conscious. Questions begin: Is there anything I still want to do? Is there anyone I need to tell I love you to? What really happens when I die?
We are forced to begin morbid plans of funerals, epitaphs, and eulogies.
Tina is fortunate in the fact that she has had a good daddy. It takes her only seconds to recall a plethora of memories involving her being hoisted upon shoulders, being taught about nature, or being simply loved by her father. And while she is close emotionally to her mother, Tina has inherited her father's height, his dark features, and his uncanny skill set for building things. They are both incredibly shy, yet are so caring and loving, that they are the peacemakers of the Gragg family. He has taught her to say only kind words, dispense positivity in everything, and to find joy in the little things. Her daddy has never been a man of wealth or materialistic items. Instead, he has showered his children with the only thing he did have: intangible feelings of hope, family, and love. I have yet to find a relative (and he has a ton) to say one negative word about this man who has opened his door every time someone has knocked.
His wishes have become our wishes. If he wants fruit cocktail or strawberry boost at 2am, then that's what he gets. And because he asked us one evening if I would write something on the "internet thing" for him, that is what I'm doing.
In Terry Gragg's words: "Before I die, I would like to ask forgiveness from anyone that I have ever wronged or offended in any way during my life. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, I am sorry. When you are young you do stupid things and make many mistakes. When you are older and facing your own mortality, you realize these things and you want to right any wrongs that you have done. I also want to say thank you to all of the family and friends that have loved and supported me throughout my life. I appreciate and love each and every one of you."
The doctors have given Terry a prognosis of only a few months to live. Each day he is weaker and more frail. It took him almost an hour to get out those sentences he has asked for me to post. Simply put, he is running out of mortal time.
A go fund me website ( http://www.gofundme.com/f6xk8g ) has been set up to pay for the costs of what will be Terry's funeral as he did not have an insurance policy in place. And while contributions are received graciously, the main point of this blog is to walk away with a dying man's words.
None of us are guaranteed tomorrow or even the next hour. Tell people that you love them. Show kindness. And just simply be grateful for time.

Winter

It's been said that the smallest coffins are the heaviest.
But I don't have kids. Instead I am one of those people that has pets and calls them her "fur babies." I used to think those type of people were annoying until I became one.
I've always been more of a dog person when it comes to pets. With their always happy to see you attitude, waggy tails, and their insistence upon licking your face, dogs reflect more of my personality. Not that I want to actually lick anyone's face because that's just gross, but I do wag my tail quite a bit.
Cats on the other hand have generally terrified me. They don't scare me nearly as much as chickens do, but I think it's the claw thing. And the pouncing thing, and the stalking thing, and the long hair, and the... well you understand. 
But three years ago a tiny fuzzy white head popped out from underneath a shed in our neighbor's yard and looked straight at me. It's mom was a stray cat that decided to have it's litter next door. Several days later my partner approached the cat and realized that the small white kitten was sickly. She took him to the vet and then proceeded to nurse him back to health in the guest bedroom of our home all without me knowing it. She knows I am not a cat person.
But somehow the long-haired white kitten with bright sapphire eyes found his home in my lap, in my shoes, and in my heart. A stray no more. He let me carry him, sing to him, and even give him the moniker 'baby boy.' How he became mine I'll never know. Tina was the one who rescued him after all. Shouldn't it be her lap, her arms, her ice cream? Yeah, I totally shared my ice cream with him.
It was hot as hell in August when we found the little fluff nugget, but I gave him the name Winter; a tribute to the starkness of his mane. I also invested a ton of money into lint rollers.
At the time, we had just gotten our yorkie-poo puppy and the two became fast buddies. They would nap together, wrestle together, eat together, and even chase each other around in the yard. Winter was every bit the dog he knew I wanted him to be. He was even house broken and would come tell me when he wanted to be let out. Then he would jump onto the back porch and hang from the window sill meowing loudly to let me know he was ready to be let in. He never did master the 'just scratch the door' technique. The other night we didn't hear him asking to come back in. He did not come when we called for him, nor did we find him when we went out searching through the night.
The next day he showed up on the front porch and while I wanted to be upset with him for the angst that he had caused overnight, I was simply too relieved to do anything other than hold him. Later that day he became violently ill. Poison, the vet said. I held him one last time.      
He was buried with red carnations (my heart breaks) in our back yard facing the window sill. I still find myself calling his name when it's time to eat, or I expect him to greet me at the door with the other dogs when I come home.
Everyone grieves differently- some cry, some get angry, and some act as nothing at all has occurred; denial. And while I have run through all of the above aforementioned, some also write. I figured if people can have obituaries, then why can't my cat have a blog post written about him? Maybe that makes me a crazy cat lady, or maybe it just makes me crazy, but I don't care.
Three years of memories is not nearly enough, but I am grateful for those thirty-six months. For someone who was not supposed to be a cat person, Winter taught me to not judge a heart by it's Taxonomy.
Good night 'baby boy.' Mommy loves you.

At least 11

The other day a guy walked up to me and offered me ten dollars to sleep with him. Ten whole bucks. Now if that isn't a self confidence booster, then I'm not sure what is. Granted, I am no runway model and I use a walker, thus he probably deducted pay assuming my flexibility isn't what it used to be. Despite my faults, I would like to tell myself that the guy was just poor.
I proceeded to tell him that I was worth at least $11 and that he should step the fuck back. Sometimes moments in life call for the "f" word. It just probably wasn't in the context that he was hoping for.
But the incident did make me think of those that sell their bodies on a daily basis. The rare are by choice, while most are disgustingly forced by the hand of another or are oppressed by an addiction. I will admit that I am no expert when it comes to those involved in the underground of prostitution. I have always found it completely ignorant to pay for something that you can easily get for free. I think that if a man or woman is dumb enough to pay for sex, then by all means I encourage the prostitutes to make as much money as they want.
So I don't understand why prostitution isn't legal? As long as all parties involved are consenting adults, then I don't see a problem with it. Besides, legalizing prostitution would bring protection from violence and better health care to both proprietor and consumer. Those soliciting could have regular health screenings and regulations could be enacted so that there would be a level of safety for the worker. Economically, it could also bring in revenue for the state via taxes.
Sex is natural. Sex should be good... err great, and it should be healthy and safe. Plus, I know a few people who would be much happier if they could just go get laid.
But back to the big spender that inspired this blog. Why he felt that he could solicit me, I have no idea.
However, I do know that the next time that you are feeling bad about yourself, just think of me and the money that I was offered. Then look at yourself and know that if Char can make ten bucks, you could get at least $15!

mission accomplished

This is an open love letter in honor of the kindness of strangers and for the loyalty of friends. Maybe I'm too optimistic about the world, but I do like to believe that people in general are good at heart and will choose to help others.
In my last blog post I wrote about my niece, a college kid who has been presented with an amazing educational experience. A kid that has been knocked down financially more times than she can count, but continues to thrive even if it really is on ramen noodles alone. She needed $3,300 in ten days to go on a trip with her ASU Anthropology class, and prior to my post she had managed to raise $40 in addition to having a jar full of coins that had undoubtedly came from looking under car seats and couch cushions. In a little over two hours of my posting the financial plea on her behalf, donations began to occur.
People I had not seen in over 15yrs, people who/whom (I never know which one to use) had never even met Jorden, were contributing to her trip. And those who could not give financially were sharing and reposting my blog all over the place. Within days her site as well as mine, had over one hundred views and shares. That outpouring of promotion and consideration far exceeded anything that I had imagined. I seriously did not expect nor anticipate the support in which it received. I was sitting there looking at my notifications thinking of how blessed I am to know the most awesome people ever.
At the end of her ten days she had a total of $1,000! I'm horrible at math, but that's like way more than $40. In addition to the funds raised, she was awarded a scholarship by ASU to cover her outstanding balance. So now she has not only the trip completely paid for, but also enough for any additional travel expenses. Oh, and she can now afford to send me a post card from the jungle!!
In all seriousness, I cannot even begin to thank everyone who has made this trip possible for her. Between the likes/shares/donations there is a message to be gained from you all. Everyone of you took the time and energy to not only read my blubbering mess of a blog, but to also help out a kid you don't even know. It speaks volumes about your character and of how you genuinely care for others. My words of thanks will never be enough, and I ask that if there is anything that I can ever do for any of you then please do not hesitate to ask. And then I'll make Jorden do whatever you need. Really, I will. No, because she's going to be too busy doing jungle-y stuff. But in all honesty, I will be here and will be glad to lend a hand or even a word if need be.

Welcome to the Jungle

So I have no desire to go traipsing through the Amazonian jungles of Ecuador. I barely have the urge to go into my backyard, and if I do then I'm covered head to toe in bug repellent along with my walking stick aka weapon of choice. I once had a moth land on me at night and I totally thought it was a bat therefore taking off through the field screaming like a girl with my arms flailing about. The back yard can be scary.
However, I have a niece who'd rather sleep in a tent then with a dude and I can't tell you how proud that makes me. Jorden is currently enrolled at Appalachian State University and this girl is serious about her education and her career aspirations.She does not come from money and has had to make her way through school financially on her own. Instead of attending parties or meeting guys (like hello, I totally did... um not the guy part but) she's busy trying to get someone's burger order right because she truly wants her education and she is willing to do anything/take any shift to keep it.
Right now Jorden is working on a double major in Anthropology and History, thus the whole she'd sleep in a tent thing. I can hardly type the word Anthropology without the help of spell check, but homegirl is wanting to make a career out of it. I thought it was just a really chic clothing store (they have some amazing stuff) but apparently this involves the study of humankind, past and present.
Throughout her coursework, certain opportunities have arose and last summer she was able to travel to Alaska with her class.  And the girl even ate whale blubber. I mean the girl ate whale blubber. That is commitment on a whole new level to the the mantra 'When in Rome.' I won't even let my food touch on the plate and she's standing there wrapped in a mosquito net gnawing on a piece of uncooked fat. Those were the pics of her trip I decided to pass on seeing.
This year another educational excursion has come across her desk through the Anthropology department. The students will be traveling to the Napo Province of Ecuador so that they may conduct research on indigenous activism with a focus on the impact of oil extraction, eco-tourism, and community development on identity and representation.Yeah, honestly I don't know what all of that means but it sounds super smart and really important just like Jorden. The students will also be learning about "shamanism," forestry conservation, biodiversity, and environmental identities. She may even have a bat land on her.
The total cost for the trip is $3,300 which will cover housing and three meals a day for the three week duration of the trip. Right now, Jorden has exactly $40 raised and only ten days to raise it in. If I were financially able, this kid would want for nothing and I'd fly the plane to Ecuador myself. Everyone has a 'great kid' in their family and Jorden is definitely it. She has made education the most important part of her life, pushing other things aside to guarantee a walk across the stage and a diploma in hand. So many students take for granted their education, but to Jorden it truly means everything.
And that is why I am writing this blog for her. She didn't ask me too, and she'll probably be embarrassed once she finds out, but how am I to remain her favorite 'Uncle Char' if I don't find ways to embarrass her? The following is a link to her campaign raising efforts and if you would like to donate to making her trip become a reality then we would be beyond grateful. No contribution is too small when it involves paving the way for our future leaders. Besides, she has $40 you guys.
So Jordy, I have no idea if this simple effort will bring in even a dollar, but for you I had to try.  

Here's the link. And because I'm technologically challenged, let's hope this works!    
http://www.youcaring.com/other/send-jorden-to-ecuador-/153692

Rocket Science

And while this woman may never grace the pages of a History book, I can't help but believe that she has made an impact worthy of honoring. For Women's History Month:

It is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge.

Albert Einstein

Science has always been my worst subject. I do not understand protons, atoms, or photosynthesis. Hell, I can't even comprehend how the telephone works with all of those sound waves and electromagnetic something or others? Mind blowing. Let's just say NASA will never call me for anything.

In the 8th grade I went to a very small school out in the country. The entire 8th grade class consisted of about 50 kids but I enjoyed the smallness because it made us feel like a family, or at least that's how I perceived it. School was the safest part of my day, allowing me six hours escape from the torment of home. Therefore it was not unusual for me to visualize my teachers as surrogate parents, aunts/uncles or even grandparents. In the afternoons riding the school bus I longed to get off at anyone else's stop other than own, but it never happened.  

The best way to describe my 8th grade science teacher would be to say that Ms. Frizzle had come to life. I'm still not entirely convinced that author JoAnna Cole did not indeed base her character off of one Mrs. Loudermilt, whom wore white lab coats so she could carry both a snake and a piece of candy in her pocket. Her walls were covered in posters and quotes of Albert Einstein and the counters were filled to capacity with chemistry beakers, bunsen burners, metal pans, snake aquariums, student microscopes, and in the corner I swear there was a miniature version of the hubble telescope. One look into this woman's classroom and you knew she was serious about Science and thus, I was doomed. I knew it wouldn't be long before I'd be the one she was feeding to the snakes because there was no way I was going to live up to this woman's expectations. Just looking at her classroom made you believe that the cure for any disease could be created in there. 

Turned out I was right, Mrs. Loudermilt was serious about teaching Science. She had taken Science and turned it into almost a way of life for us during the 90minute block we had with her. Science was not simply reading from the text book, it was about making ice cream to teach about temperatures, to showcase the demonstrative properties of  water being a solid/liquid/gas. But we did more than just make ice cream; the biggest lesson of the day was that learning could actually be fun. One other time we dissected a frog and I'm not gonna lie, someone threw up a little. I don't know how many other teachers can take the act of barfing and turn it into a teachable moment, but after the student  finished gagging she managed to show us via the frog in the pan, the path the stomach contents took before landing into the trash. By doing that, the focus was no longer allowing the other students to laugh at said kid for hurling and instead we were all drawn back into the lesson at hand.      

There was a tactility to her teachings, and with it also came the best sense of humor. We all thought she was a bit crazy, a true mad scientist if you will, but there was nothing mad about her. No, there was a kindness behind that sneaky grin and she was constantly pulling pranks. It was not unusual for Mrs. Loudermilt to throw candy in classrooms as she walked down the hall just so she could disrupt the the other educator's teachings. After one such instance our English teacher vowed that she would retaliate. Now, I may or may not have suggested to our English teacher that we concoct a plan to have all of us walk out of Mrs. Loudermilt's class while she was in the middle of teaching. So the next day when the clock hit a certain time, we all just stood up and walked out of her class leaving her speechless, but laughing all the same. 

But Mrs. Loudermilt was never one to be bested so in response she had the English teacher's classroom furniture removed while she was at lunch. And once again I may or may not have suggested the idea to Mrs. Loudermilt. And because I may or may not have participated in such removal of furniture, it did not mean that I didn't completely adore my English teacher. 

However, now I was in the middle of the these two pranks so it was only natural that the very next morning both my English teacher and my Science teacher had called me into the school's office. Together they had cooked up an elaborate scheme citing I had been the cause of everything from vandalism of school property to blatant insubordination. I was horrified! I mean for crying out loud they had just as much a part of those pranks as I had and here they were telling me that the principal had found out and that they weren't going to take the blame but instead shift it onto me. But it was when they got to the sentencing of my alleged crimes, that Mrs. Loudermilt finally started laughing. She honestly laughed until she had tears in her eyes before she hugged me and said "You are good, but I'll always be the master at pulling pranks." That was the day I knew I had the best teacher in the world, even if it was for Science. 

The rest of the school year passed with more classroom experiments, Nova videos, and yes even pranks with squirt guns and silly string. On the last day of school I rolled Mrs. Loudermilt's car with toilet paper and while we laughed about it, on the inside I was crying. 

 I knew I'd never have another teacher who carried around snakes (nope, never did), I'd  never have another teacher who made a lesson out of puking, I'd never have another teacher who had a life-sized cut out of Albert Einstein, and I'd never have another teacher who made me like Science. But more importantly I was going to just simply miss Mrs. Loudermilt. I had become attached to hearing her cackling laugh, seeing her friendly smile, and participating in her wicked sense of humor. So with a heavy heart, and one last hug goodbye, I faced summer break.

It was December and I was now a senior in high school. I had been working on some homework with the t.v. playing in the background when Dixie Carter's character had made some snide remark and instantly it made me think: that sounds just like something Mrs. Loudermilt would have said. Instantly I wrote down the quote on a piece of notebook paper along with the words, 'I heard this, and couldn't help but think of you.' and something like 'I hope all is well with you'. Honestly, I have no idea what compelled me to do so because I hadn't seen nor spoken to Mrs. Loudermilt in almost four years. In my eyes the woman was old (she was really only in her 30's) so she had probably taught thousands of kids by now and more than likely she didn't even remember me. But then I was fetching the phone book to see if there were any Loudermilt's listed. I didn't know which Loudermilt was her, but I figured since there were only 4 listed they must all know each other. Randomly picking one, the letter was mailed with no real expectations other than hoping it made it to the right Loudermilt. Much to my surprise, two days later I received a Christmas card. Mrs. Loudermilt did indeed remember me, and more than that she had missed me; well more like missed my antics, but I'd take it. And thus began a series of correspondences. One afternoon Mrs. Loudermilt even showed up at my job to take me to lunch so we could discuss my collegiate opportunities. 

Over the years, I had become a master of disguises. Whether I was hiding actual bruises or the emotional trauma, I had never let anyone know what my home life was really like. However, Mrs. Loudermilt seemingly had a sixth sense and she began to ask questions. Nothing invasive, but it was enough to place small cracks in the facade I had held together for so long. I didn't, nor could I tell her everything, but she was smart and she eventually read through the lines. 

On May 30th, 1997, I walked through the front door of Mrs. Loudermilt's home. She took me into the living room and said "We have two guest rooms. Pick one." I was astonished, initially not believing the gift that was being offered. But for Mrs. Loudermilt, it was not Rocket Science or any Science at all; it was about saving a child. Less than two months later, her and her husband legally adopted me.

It's been 21yrs since I first walked into that Science classroom. Mom retired this year in January, and I couldn't help but feel saddened at the loss for the future students that would have went through her doors. There was a time when I wanted to grow up to be just like her, and in a very small way I did, but there were never snakes in my classroom.

Additional Note:

My biological mother lost me at a very early age. Through no fault of her own, she was intimidated, threatened, and out maneuvered when it came to being a part of my childhood. I am happy to report that she is very much a part of my life today. Forgiveness was never granted because forgiveness was never needed.

 

 

 

       

        

simple things

Having your hunny wake you up every morning with kisses is not a bad way to start each day. We have very little in the materialistic sense, but we do have each other. And when it comes to gift giving we really are those people that make cheesy coupons, write poetry, or paint pictures for one another. Seriously, when I proposed I had taken a pack of kindergarten writing paper and wrote the Story of Us on it. I had it laminated/bound and the last page of the story had "please check yes or know if you'd like to spend the rest of your life with me." The illustrations looked like I had a kindergartner draw them but she checked yes anyway. However, I did pull out an actual ring and not one from the gumball machine. She told me she would've said yes even if I had only spent 25 cents.
One of the best dates we ever went on was just recently when I picked up a cheap pack of water colors, two canvases, and found a pull-off along the Blue Ridge Parkway to just sit and paint. Mine of course makes Picasso's work look decipherable, but those simple canvases will always hang on our wall and be more valuable than any artwork we could ever purchase.
It's really all about spending time with each other versus spending money. Don't get me wrong, neither one of us would ever turn down a date to the mall, but the effort put into a simple handwritten note or a carefully drawn stick figure has become invaluable to me.
We often find ourselves taking little day trips usually no further than thirty minutes away from home. We'll take back country roads and spend a few hours snapping pictures of dilapidated barns or old homesteads that are long forgotten. I like to believe that us visiting those places lets the crooked doors and windows know that they are still appreciated. Life continues to breathe throughout their neglected cracks if only in our picture taking.
Or like today it was absolutely gorgeous so an impromptu picnic at the local park was perfect. We had ham sandwiches (she even put the mustard on mine in the shape of a smiley face) and a small bag of chips to share. There was no fancy wine, cheese, or picnic basket. It was just totally simple and totally perfect.
Maybe it's because I'm getting older, but now I understand what it means when people say that it's the little things that mean the most. When I would hear that I just thought old people were crazy and they were supposed to say weird things and sound like walking farmer's almanacs. But now I get it and sometimes in life all we really have to give one another is time or words.  
 

not tobacco

The first time I smoked pot I had no idea that's what it was. And yes, I did inhale. I was 20 and in a pub in England with a group of blokes I had just met that day. I had taken full advantage of the younger legal drinking age and so by the time I had made it to this particular pub, well let's just say I wouldn't have been able to recite any part of the alphabet. I was there on holiday for 2 weeks- it was a college graduation present and nothing quite shows off the labors of a good education like getting wasted at pubs all day. Although I did manage to redeem myself in the fact that I hit all of those historical landmarks like Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, and I even went super nerdy and visited the home of the Bronte sisters. But alas, I did have that one night of bar hopping.
So I was sitting there at a table when one of the guys asks me if I'd like to smoke a cigarette outside with him. Personally I had always found the smell of cigarettes to be nauseating and the act of smoking thoroughly disgusting. I'm going to assume that it was the copious amount of alcohol in my system, or maybe it was because he actually asked me if I wanted a fag (always learn the slang of the country that you're visiting because I was so disappointed), but still it's on me because I made the semi-conscious decision to go outside with him. I asked him why we had to go outside to smoke when plenty of other patrons of the bar were inside smoking. He said that it was because this was cannabis. See, I thought that was the name-brand of the cigarette. Hello, I signed up for horticulture in high school because I thought it was a class about different cultures of the world. Science has never been my strong point and after only one day in that class I transferred out of it and into Drama 101. True story. Also in my defense, the guy had taken an actual cigarette and scraped the tobacco out of it and replaced it with the cannabis so I really did just think it was a cigarette. A few coughs and a collapsed lung episode later, I finally got the hang of smoking. I don't remember how many cigarettes I had, but I do remember flying and there was a pink elephant. I vaguely remember finding a cab and being terrified that I would be a victim at the hands of the cab driver- he had a lone female buzzed out of her mind in the back of his taxi who had told him to just drive because I couldn't recall  the name of the place in which I was staying. I do remember asking him if he had a wife and daughter, I'm not kidding, I wanted him to think about them and not me. As soon as we passed one of those telephone booths I yelled at him to stop and after many failed attempts on my part of trying to figure out how to use the phone because I couldn't determine the proper coinage, I then drug him out of the front seat and demanded that he call the number on the slip of paper in my pocket. Thank god the family I was staying with had thought to give me their number since they knew I was going out by myself that night. After that, I made it safely to them and when they opened the door of the cab I face planted the road. Yeap, I just fell out of the cab- I don't remember this but that is what they told me the next day. That poor cab driver totally earned his fare that night. So my first experience with pot did not encourage any further usage of it. You'd think I would've never picked up another beer either, but no, and I can write a whole other blog on the stupid things I have done drunk- not proud by the way.
But why did I even decide to go out and try a "cigarette" in the first place? Clearly I loathed smoking, but I did it anyway. My judgement was already impaired due to the alcohol consumption, but what made me make the decision to continue drinking? I wish I had a good answer for it but I don't. People try/do stupid things all of the time. I still do stupid things. I mean, I smoked my second joint only a few months ago. Well, it wasn't a joint really, it was in a little bowl pipe thingy. I was told it might help my back pain so I tried it. This time I was in a much more controlled environment, and while I don't remember feeling my back pain, I don't see it as something I would like to partake of. I haven't tried the brownies though and I do love a good brownie. But the smoking left a nasty taste in my mouth and I felt like I had to literally scrape my tongue afterwards. Anyway, two pot experiences in a 14yr span seems to be a gracious plenty for me thus far. However, I am a proponent of legalizing medicinal marijuana and I wouldn't dismiss the thought of using it if it did enable me to live pain free. I already take enough narcotics to stay stoned and if I could eat a brownie over swallowing a bitter pill, then I'll take chocolate every time.
Personally I do not like being stoned out of my head all of the time. Maybe I'm too much of a control freak, maybe I don't like having my defenses down, or maybe I'd like to be able to speak without having to say um every ten seconds; but for whatever reason plenty of people find comfort in being strung out. But I don't blame or judge those who have become addicts. Just because I don't understand it, doesn't mean that I get to look down on those with this issue. Because although my experience with drugs was somewhat comical and ended up being harmless, I do not take for granted the fact that it could have went much differently. Had that cigarette been laced with anything, I could just as easily be dead or an addict myself.
Like with any drug, whether it be prescription or alcohol, there is an attachment of responsibility. I have seen drug abuse first hand. It has destroyed lives, crushed dreams, and has made people do unspeakable things, things that no family/person should have to endure. My heart goes out to those who have loved-ones dealing with addiction. You want to help the person, but it really does come down to whether the person wants to help themselves before anything can be done.
In May there is talk of a Bill reaching the North Carolina Senate to legalize medical marijuana. Between now and then I think I might just sign up for a class on horticulture after all. Or maybe a baking class...

Same Love

Last night something beautiful happened at the Grammy's and I don't mean Beyonce's outfit. 33 couples both heterosexual and homosexual were married during the performance of Same Love by Macklemore, Ryan Lewis, and Mary Lambert. Madonna stepped in with a few lyrics of Open Your Heart while Queen Latifah officiated. Almost 30 million people watched this display of love orchestrated perfectly against the backdrop of lyrical bliss. And getting Katy Perry to catch your bouquet is well, just pretty damn awesome.
As I sat there watching the event, I was both elated and crushed. The tears that flowed were filled with duplicity- happiness for those who were clearly overjoyed at marrying their soul mates and sadness for all of those who are still fighting for that basic right to marry.
I thought of Edith Windsor and her partner Thea Spyer. They lived together for more than four decades in NY but had to get married in Canada. Thea's impending death could not outlast the move for marriage equality in NY. I thought of Sally Ride and her partner of 27 years, Tam O'Shaughnessy. But once again death won the timetable against marriage equality and thus they never married.
And then I thought of my own love story. My partner of 8 and 1/2 years. Our own wish of marriage. My desire to wear a tux, look down the aisle, and see Tina carrying her bouquet walking towards me. The vows of sacred promises and the symbolic placement of rings. Our friends and family in attendance and me silently hoping that I don't fumble my words or pass out.
But on May 8th, 2012 our state of NC passed  NC Same-Sex Marriage Amendment 1. Same-sex marriage is already illegal in the state of NC but this measure added the ban to the state constitution. I can marry my cousin, but I can't marry Tina because I don't have a penis.
Those who would oppose a marriage between myself and Tina cite religious reasons. I hate to break it to them, but not everyone believes in their God or their religion. I certainly don't. And so I can't comprehend why my life should be dictated by someone else's beliefs?
In the mean time I will continue to live in a loving, committed relationship. And I will continue to be gay. Very gay. Like I mean flaming. Hopefully one day the fight for marriage equality will be over. There will no longer be the need for demonstrations or protests. There will no longer be the debate or argument of how it's ok for me to pay taxes, but not ok for me to receive the same basic rights. Instead there will only be invitations on heavy parchment paper announcing the date when two hearts can be one legally.

getting up

I ran into an old friend the other day and they said "What in the hell are you doing on a walker because I just saw your pic online and you were up a tree?" Truth be told, I was lifted onto that branch and it's really less than 4ft off of the ground. Over the last three years I have tried very hard to not have my picture taken with either my cane or walker .And if you look closely through my pics, because who wouldn't want to, I am usually sitting or leaning on something. I see these items as a representation of my weakness, a reminder that the doctor continues to tell me that I am disabled. I do take solace in the fact that at least my walker isn't ugly grey decorated with tennis balls. Nope, I have a sassy midnight blue model with the deluxe fold-out seat. I don't have a cup holder, but I'm positive I could roll the halls at the retirement center and score some serious jealousy, or at least some extra tapioca pudding.
Three years ago in a very ungraceful fall, I tore my sciatic nerve. Had it torn even a fraction more, I would be looking at paralysis. The doctors have told me that there is nothing that can be done to fix my back and believe me they have tried. There is a 50% chance that a spinal stimulator would improve my quality of life, but without insurance no one will do the very costly procedure. Quite honestly I cannot afford individual health insurance, Tina and I cannot marry therefore I'm unable to be covered on her insurance, and because the state has continued to deny me disability, I do not qualify for medicaid. This is in no way the life I had mapped out for myself.
Those of you who know me, know how much I loved to dance- we're talking everybody was kung-fu fighting with a dash of epileptic seizure thrown in dancing. But with this injury there has been no dancing. No biking, no golfing, no hiking, no driving. And I'd totally be a victim if someone chases me because there is absolutely no running either. There's no more playing soccer, basketball, or frisbee even though I mostly sucked at all athletic attempts to begin with. I never outgrew that whole last person picked to be on the team phase. Now instead there is help. Help with walking, with dressing, with bathing. There is financial help. Family and friends have come through so many times, and I have truly learned that stuff is just stuff. The day I had to hawk my college ring to buy groceries was heartbreaking. The irony that the proceeds from that ring went towards the purchase of ramen noodles did not escape me.
And there has been plenty of depression. I wake up every morning and wonder why- just so I can go sit in a recliner all day doped up? because there is constant pain and constant medication. It is quite the paradox to have all the time in the world and yet to have a body that does not allow the freedom in which to enjoy it. If my injury was my leg or arm, I would simply get a prosthetic or at least have an additional limb to work with, but when it is you back it affects everything.
But each day I do get up. I get up because I know that there are people out there a thousand times worse off than myself. People who would trade lives with me in a second because while my injury maybe life changing, their's is life threatening. I am incredibly fortunate to have an unbelievable partner who continues to care for me although I view myself as nothing more than a tiresome burden. So I get up for her because if there ever is any hope of normal functionality then she shall be the first to reap whatever rewards that might offer .And I get up because I haven't lived through all of the painful procedures, the erroneous paperwork of insurance companies, and the bureaucratic red tape of the state just to forfeit it all.
Somewhere inside of me I still believe that I have a purpose or some contribution to make in this world. It may not be the one I had planned or had hoped for, but I have to believe that one exists. I think we all have to believe that. No matter what our circumstances are, we get up for a reason. You may never know your reason, but others do. We all have the ability to impact someone else through our actions and words. It may not be of monumental proportions, but the possibility does exists and so should we.
Martin Luther King said: If you can't fly, then run. If you can't run, then walk. If you can't walk then crawl. But whatever you do, you have to keep moving forward. 

blogging

With the new year I have decided to slightly alter the look and name of my blog. Don't worry it's not anything overly fancy because I am unbelievably technologically challenged. In fact I won't be surprised that once I post this, none of the layout changes will have even taken. When I decided to set out and begin this writing journey I only had the high hopes that my mom might read it. I truly had no idea of the hits, follows, and interest it would receive. The messages of support, encouragement, and just flat out fan mail have astounded me. Granted I make no profit from my ramblings and I would certainly question anyone who would pay for my insight, but I am completely grateful for the gratitude that has been sent my way.
Blogging has been around for years. In the old days I think they called it keeping a diary. As a kid I had  diaries and I can't even tell you the number of times they were confiscated only to be destroyed. I'm sure they were full of highly classified top secret information alongside the heart and star doodles. No, mostly it was pages of how much I missed my mom and wished she was raising me. I'm guessing that's what cued the destruction? And there was probably the occasional crushing on a teacher- and no I won't tell you which ones because too many of you know me and my previous educators in real life.
But blogging is so much more exposing because it is your thoughts, your stories, and sometimes your memories being on display beyond the marginalized lines of paper. This form of written expression is online. There is no cute little lock and key that can be put in place to protect your words. Once the post button is clicked, it's out there for anyone to read. And I mean anyone. I have been fortunate to only receive positive feedback, however I only assume that those who have something um not so positive to say haven't figured out how to do so anonymously. Because let's be honest, my blog is far from perfection.
My English teachers would probably have mini-meltdowns of massive magnitude at my futile and failed attempts of alliteration, and if they saw how grammatically incorrect my sentence structures are they'd tell me to blow it out my colon. There are misspellings (even with auto correct) and there are a plethora of commas because I type like I talk. I would not even call myself a writer. But this art of blogging has somehow along the way allowed my simple and elementary words to resonate with others. I am not on some great mission to save the world with my words. I'm just sort of throwing a stone out there across the water and if the ripple happens to inspire action, invoke emotions, or encourage you to share your own words, then that may indeed be worth my online diary being read.