moon landings, birthday cake, and hope

Today is a special day - my brother's birthday. Ray and I are more than siblings. We're friends, confidantes, partners-in-crime, each other's best audience, best critic, best support, best humorist, best ear, best shoulder. In his honor, I am posting a story from my book "Leaving The Shallows", a story I wrote about his 2nd birthday. Happy Birthday bubba - I love you to the moon. And back.

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It was the summer of ‘69. July 20th to be exact.

I was 5 years old. I lived in a small, safe town in a small, safe house, with my little brother Ray and with our parents, who loved and cared for us, who loved and cared for each other.

I was unaware of the tumultuous world outside, of Kennedys and assassinations and Chappaquiddick, of presidential elections and Zodiac killers, of Vietnam and civil rights, of sit-ins and bed-ins, of oil spills and invasions, of midnight cowboys or that Dorothy was dead.

I didn’t know people with darker skin were treated different from me.

I didn’t know people hurt each other. Especially not people in families.

But I did know two things: It was my brother’s second birthday. And it was a night when the world was going to change forever.

stories and gems and cake

I wrote something new.

That shouldn't be monumental news. I write every day. After all, I'm a professional writer.

But I don't write for myself enough. Don't write enough about the things that move me, that move you, that matter at a heart level.

I decided the only way to change that is to put myself in situations where I have no choice, commit myself to a deadline and either sink or swim.

Apparently passion and ability and the whooshing of time flying by are not great motivators for me. But embarrassment at not fulfilling a commitment? That will motivate me every time.

I had great success with the piece I wrote about my experience with postpartum depression. I read this at the Sottile Theater in May as part of Listen To Your Mother Charleston.

But I haven't written anything since. Not really.

So when I heard about a reading sponsored by Truth Is and set at a brilliant dessert place in West Ashley, I didn't even stop to think it through. I contacted fellow writer and organizer Karen Mae Black and said "count me in!"

weird as me: friends, stories, and David Sedaris

I wrote a story for David Sedaris.

Let me clarify.

David Sedaris is a pretty good writer of stories. If you haven't heard of him, he's sold a few books (9 books, >7 million copies), traveled a bit (lives in North Carolina, England and France and shops for culottes in Tokyo), shares his humorous tales with a few audiences (sold out houses), speaks regularly on a few radio stations (NPR and BBC ring a bell?), and has been featured in a few local magazines (local if you live in Manhattan or, you know, the world).

So David Sedaris does not need my story. But when I had the chance to meet him in person a few weeks ago, I had one ready for him, just in case. Because he collects stories like some people collect, I don't know, whatever collector type people collect. And I like to be prepared.

creativity, fear and the dream deferred

Is it ever too late to be what you might have been? To take your dream out of the box and put it back in motion?

Sometimes, unfortunately, it is.

If you dreamed of playing for the NBA but you are now 43 years old and overweight, then yeah, that ship has sailed. Sorry...

But what about the other things we aspire to, desires we've long held, dreams that aren't limited by age or weight or time?

In A Dream Deferred, poet Langston Hughes speculates about what happens to dreams and desires that are put aside for later.

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

When I first read this poem in high school, I assumed Mr. Hughes had covered all the options. When a dream is deferred, it is somehow destroyed, ruined, kaput. Get it, got it, good.

But now that I have lived longer, I think maybe there are other possibilities.

a post about flags

I hate politics. I hate confrontation. I hate divulging my innermost thoughts because that means I might get hated on.

But there are times when I have to take a deep breath and dive into the frey. Because sometimes taking a stand is more important than protecting your own feelings.

I have two thoughts on flags right now. As much as I care about other people, these thoughts have to do with me.

THOUGHT #ONE -  South Carolina has one of the most beautiful flags to fly over a state capital. It is a beautiful flag for a beautiful state full of beautiful people. We have our problems, sure. Not everyone or everything is beautiful all the time. But there is no denying that, just as our flag represents, we are hopefully resilient and always looking up.

In the aftermath of the horrific shooting at Emmanuel AME Church, Charleston artist and friend Gil Shuler​ did a brilliant job of interpreting our flag in a way that helps us all visualize our feelings. Which is why we need art (and brilliant artists) in our state. Keep it up, dude.

    Art Credit: Gil Shuler Graphic Design Inc.

THOUGHT #TWO -  South Carolina flies another flag on its capital grounds that does not belong.

I do not give one freaking fig whether CEOs of companies who come to SC from-off like or dislike it. Companies are not people, regardless of what the tax laws say.

I, however, am a tax-paying citizen of this state. I am a Carolina girl born and bred. I am a white woman with a rainbow coalition of friends and family. And I have the blood of CSA soldiers running through my veins.

The flag my ancestors fought and fell under is part of my heritage. They did what they thought was right.

Now it is my turn.

Take it down.

the high price of cell phones, Russian style

In life, there are givers and there are takers. I usually pride myself on being a giver. Except for today. I was an unwitting giver. And I would like to punch the takers in the throat.

I'm a long-time Verizon customer. Like, "since they were 360 Communications and I had a bag phone" long-time customer. I'm not sharing that because I'm proud of it or because I own Verizon stock or think they hung the moon. I'm just one of those "ain't broke don't fix" kind of people.

Lately I've been a little torqued about the amount I pay monthly for two smart phones. The signal is good, the phones are good, the service is good. But I seriously was thinking about going to one of those pay-as-you-go deals you see at Target. Because I really hate paying this much money for freaking cell phones. 

Well, I wondered if Verizon had figured out my ploy because lately I've been getting a lot of calls from them. I don't usually have my cell phone with me during the day, so the calls went unanswered. There were no voice messages just "missed call from Verizon" on my screen. Whatever.. let 'em call.

Today I just happened to be working where I could have my cell phone nearby. Around 11:30 am, it rings. Verizon. Ok, I thought, I'm game, so I answered. They were calling to do a brief survey about the quality of the service, and by completing it I would receive a $20 credit per line on my account in the next billing cycle.

Ah, a credit? From Verizon? Love it! Now we were talking.