Tag, You're It

Yesterday I was tagged in a post on Facebook. But this wasn’t one of those lovely memes that tell you to tag someone you think is awesome. No, this was ugly family drama. Because where else but social media should you post your dirty laundry?

My biological grandpa is 77, a Pentecostal Holiness preacher, and the proud owner of at least three Member’s Only jackets. He can actually rock them tho.

Needless to say when it comes to anything religious, we view things differently. That’s mostly because I’m an Atheist homosexual. 

Now, someone decided to post a biblical scripture meme on my grandpa’s wall that was displaying the LGBT community in a negative light. My grandpa didn’t even know it was on his wall until another relative decided to hatefully point it out to him. Because fighting bigotry with bigotry is always the best policy??

My grandpa immediately deleted the post and even apologized to the offended individual publicly on their page. And that is what I have a problem with. He owes no one an apology.

Let’s ignore the fact for a minute that someone else took the liberty to post the meme. My grandpa has every right to post what he wants because it is HIS wall. He is entitled to his beliefs just as I am to mine.

But this is the thing: My partner and I have always had a place at my grandpa’s table. He has never once told us we were living in sin, going to Hell or that we should attend church. Not ONCE. In fact, I was even allowed to carve the turkey at Thanksgiving. It wasn’t pretty, but still.  

My grandpa is a man of humility, compassion, and peace. He’s like a hippie but without the drug use or Birkenstocks. Although, if he did wear sandals he’d put them on with black socks.

And while I am not a Christian, he has shown me what a true Christian should be. He’s just a man that keeps his door open and welcomes all.

So Grandpa Epps, please see this as an open love letter to you. I have no idea why I was tagged in someone else’s disrespectful rant, but know that I would never condone a harsh word directed towards you. Continue to post, like, and share without hesitancy because I am more concerned with what your heart displays than what appears on your Facebook wall.

A Fowl Situation

The idea that some lives matter less is the root of all that is wrong with the world. 

Paul Farmer

We all know why the chicken crossed the road, but why did the duck freak out in the street?


On our Sunday morning donut run, Tina and I drove past a frantic looking fowl that was continuously running back and forth between the curbside and out into oncoming traffic. I thought for sure duck a l'orange was going to be on the roadkill menu.

Sugar-coated cravings- for the donuts, not the duck- were tossed out the window as we turned around and pulled over to check on the distressed creature. Approaching closer, we could hear a chorus of tiny quacks but their source went unseen. Following the faint sound led us to a ditch drain along the sidewalk and upon further inspection, we could see ten fuzzy little coal colored heads looking skyward, crying out their confusion.

Immediately, Tina laid on the ground and stuck her arm through the rusted grate, trying in earnest to reach them. But the drop was at least 5ft below, making it impossible to even touch the ducklings.
Hoping to obtain the assistance of Animal Control, I dialed 411. However, because it was Sunday, my call was rolled over to the local police department. I quickly explained the situation to the lady dispatcher and simply asked if she knew of a telephone number I might contact for our predicament.

She informed me that even if Animal Control had been open, they would not have helped me since they will only deal with domesticated animals. So she gave me the number for Raleigh's Wildlife Services. Their location is approximately 3hrs away, but I assumed they would put me in touch with someone local.

Thanking her, I hung up and promptly called the 919 number only to be greeted by a gruff voice telling me he knew nothing of wildlife, but did know that I had interrupted is morning sleep-in.

Meanwhile, a few kind strangers had stopped and were all brainstorming rescue plans for the ducklings. One lady parked her van in the middle of the road to slow down traffic since the mother duck was constantly waddling into the street. A gentleman had purchased a 2x4 at the nearby hardware store thinking the babies could use it as a ramp out of the hole, and another lady helped by physically lifting the cast iron grate (she was hella-strong!) so that Tina could slide her body down into the concrete tunnel.

After several other 411 searches, and having zero luck on the phone, I finally called the police department back in hopes of obtaining a proper number for the Wildlife Services. Once again, the same lady answered and I conveyed to her my dilemma, asking if by chance there was an alternate number I could try.

Instead of double checking the number, she began a tirade, vehemently explaining that she had given me the only number she had, that it was the number the police department had been giving out for twenty years, and that it was correct. (I thought that in the time it took for her to say all of that, she could have just repeated the number).

At the end of her defensively toned spiel, she finally gave me the number again, which by the way was different as she has transposed two of the digits. Then she proceeds to tell me that the police department had "real emergencies" to deal with.

I was also very impolitely told that every single squad car and emergency resource available to the city was in current use due to a highly important phone call waiting on the other line. Now, I did not ask for a squad car, a police officer, a fire truck, or even a security guard. All I asked for was a telephone number. A correct telephone number.

Not once did she ask for my name, location, or even my cell because I would hate to think she might actually say something like, "I can't offer you any assistance at the moment, but I may be able to find out something later and call you back at a more convenient time." I guess it's asking to much for common courtesy or civility these days while searching for help.

The ironic thing is while she is describing this supposed apocalyptic, highly important phone call holding on line 2, an actual city police cruiser drives by us. He slows down to a crawl, observes the chaos, but ultimately does not stop. Granted, I am no cop, but one would surmise seeing three vehicles (one parked in the middle of the street), a man with a 2x4, a woman lifting a grate, another woman with half her body inside of a drainage ditch, and a large duck weaving in out of traffic, would at least warrant a "Is everything ok here?" sort of question.

We would also learn later that not 30ft  from us atop the hill, sat two police officers playing on their iphones while watching runners go by for a charity 5k in the neighborhood. God help whoever is holding on line 2.

Dialing the correct wildlife number led to an endless menu of options that all ended with, "Our hours of operation are..." So yeah, they were closed.

Finally, the grate was removed completely which allowed Tina to jump fully down into the tunnel. She managed to capture one of the ducklings, but the others waddled away further into the drainage system.

Not to be deterred, Tina knew there had to be an outlet somewhere within the stone-walled labyrinth. Finding her way to a briar-covered culvert, Tina placed the rescued duckling at the above ground exit, using it as bait to coax the mama duck to her.

From this vantage point, the mama duck called out to her babies in a series of quacks. We all held our breath, but slowly a steady procession of nine fluffy heads appeared, making their way through the briars and into the winged embrace of their mother. The victorious reunion was cloaked in elation, and in that moment all was right with the world.

While I was flummoxed by the behavior of the dispatcher and officer, I can still easily believe in the humanity of strangers.

 A huge thank you goes out to the man who spent money on an unused board, to the lady who was late for work because she stopped traffic, to the woman with super human strength opening a way, and to the couples that pulled over checking on us, worried we were broke down.

A feathered family of 11 was saved that day. It may not seem significant to most or even to the eco-system, but I have no doubt in the importance of people working collectively.

The cry for help, no matter how small, should always be answered. If two separate species can come together, then surely those of the same cannot be indifferent.

Shoes and Gum

This past week was Teacher Appreciation Week, and like how most of my assignments were in school, this blog is late.

There are educators that give 110% of themselves to their students every single day, but I honestly believe that I got the ones that gave 120%. I have written about a few of them before, but in honor of the week, I would like to highlight one more.
  
Mrs. Barbara Williams- 8th Grade Social Studies


Mrs. Williams was the first teacher to ever give me in-school suspension. Yep, I was chewing bubble gum. Tough kid, hard-core stuff. But rules were rules, and one had to adhere to them.

I still have the signed yellow detention slip, dated 2/11/93. I use it as a reminder that a person is only as good as their word. Mrs. Williams had said that if anyone- apparently that meant me too- was caught chewing gum, then they would be assigned ISS. No exceptions, no excuses.

Evidently gum was making the rounds onto too many places- desks, floors, walls- basically everywhere except for where it belonged. It was for the best really because I would have been mortified if my gum had ended up on the sole of her Prada pumps. I honestly don't know if she wore Prada, but she looked like it. She was the epitome of sophistication who internalized a quiet strength, and could easily be called a figurehead for compassion. 

Always elegant in both her attire and composure, Mrs. Williams held court in anything but a stately classroom. We were at an old country school without air conditioning, and we had those radiators that every teacher said we'd crack our heads on if we didn't stop leaning back in our chairs. But Mrs. Williams believed that room to be the segue to greatness, and thus we did too. It was instilled on a daily basis that us, her handful of students, could and would change the world. She continuously encouraged us to blaze new trails, become leaders, and to live out our dreams. With every history lesson, we were reminded that it only took one person to make a difference.

Myself, along with a few others, were chosen by her to participate in a living history day at the local county museum. And while we were clothed in the costume of early colonial settlers, we were also draped by her devotion to make us believe that one day we would be just as important as those we were impersonating.

In my yearbook she wrote: "Madam President, Just remember me when you get elected to some high office. I appreciate your interest in politics and history. Additionally, you know how to speak your mind and offer your opinion in a nice way. I'm glad you came back to Cool Spring! Sincerely, Mrs. Williams."
See what I mean? 

I am undoubtedly a massive dork, so you can only imagine how that nerdiness drifted into my apparel. I had one earring, huge glasses, and always wore two different colored socks. On the day of graduation, Mrs. Williams pulled me to the side and pointed down to her shoes. Initially I was terrified that she had stepped in gum. But no. Instead, she had on two different colored shoes! She proceeded to give me the largest grin I'd ever seen from her and said, "I did this for you."

Now, a part of me can't help but think that she put her shoes on in the dark that morning, but a larger part of me wants to believe that she really did do that just for me. Either way, no one will ever be able to fill her shoes. She is retired now and I grieve for the kids who will never pretend to cross the Delaware, never participate in a mock Presidential debate, or never chew gum in her class.

This coming week when you send your kids off to school, how about sending along a simple note of thanks to their teacher? And if you are lucky enough to still be in contact with your own former educators, send them a note too (or a pair of mismatched shoes).

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.