Flash Back ~Renae Brabham

FLASH-BACK (condition when you find your hot flash isn't limited to just your neck anymore)

Ok, I'll admit I struggled with this story for a bit. I had a hot flash, left to go get some snacks, forgot what I was doing, remembered what I was doing and came back. I thought of the Jeff Foxworthy Line and replaced Redneck with Menopause. You might be going through menopause if:


You would like to start a focus group to study the benefits of providing menopausal parking spaces at the grocery stores, hospitals, malls and chocolate shops. Remember ~Tawanda~ in the movie (Fried Green Tomatoes)
You are absentminded, hmmmm, what was I saying? Oh yeah. Absentminded.
You are acting just plain stupid. e.g. Standing at the front door of my house clicking the unlock button on my car keys, trying to figure out why door won't unlock.
Your husband is sitting on the couch with a blanket rather than you.
You find yourself ripping open a bag of m & m's in the store before you get to the register.
You do things you wouldn't do, because what the hell, you're 50 and invisible anyway.
You feel sorry for your old make up brush when the hair starts falling out.
Won't pluck eyebrows for fear they won't grow back.
You don't want to brush the loose hairs off your shoulder, it's too final.
You think of spray painting your scalp to a more neutral color, like your current hair color.
You realize that you will have to go to prison to finish your latest projects.
You don't buy green banana's anymore.
 You wake up one morning and your hair has taken on the texture of a Brillo pad.
You talk to your body in the mirror, "What the heck is that!?"
You don't turn around when you hear a wolf whistle. Because you did once and it was a parrot.
You have a brief moment of "I've still got it" when a trucker honks his horn. Then pulls along side closer to motion that your gas cap door is open.
Your sister calls your mole a liver spot.

These were my "aha" moments. Everyone has their own I am sure. There were signs it was happening. You just ignored them, like you ignored that aged poofy person that mimicked your every move as you walked past the store windows. I'm not depressed about it. I just haven't embraced it yet. There are benefits I am sure. I just don't have enough material to write a page on it yet.

I Want To Hold Your Hand ~ Renae Brabham

Loving,Touching,Squeezing each other... I could belt out Journey's 80's hit as well as Steve Perry's clone.That's where the touchy feely ended. Frigidness founded in earlier years, add society's embedded etiquette of politically correct touching and wah lah! Hugging me was akin to a rigid fish stick standoff. Try to hold my hand, I would wriggle out of it lickity split. Touching or hugging outside of my immediate trusted family was about as anticipated as the dreaded command to ~Kiss and make up with my brother or sister~.

That was then, I do believe I could hug a Michelin tire now. A lot of the credit goes to a massage therapist/friend that I met at our NC herb shop fifteen years ago. We offered therapeutic procedures in addition to alternative medicine. Linda would come in twice a week to perform massages and reflexology. She always hugged me when we greeted and would touch my arm in conversation. I found both to be uncomfortable. There was no threat involved, but I perceived the touch as such or at least of questionable intent.
For the next six months I learned a lot about the art of reflexology, touch, and massage from Linda. I witnessed personally what touch did for her clients. One customer that intrigued me was a quiet demure lady that came in bi-monthly for a massage. After a few sessions I noticed that she would wipe silent tears away as she browsed the store. I asked Linda one night "Why does she cry after she comes out of her session?" Linda replied "A touchless marriage, she has to pay for what should be the free gift of touch." I watched this lady cocoon over the next several months. She was still saddened sometimes after her massage, but she became genuinely and expressively involved with familiar contacts in our classes and visits.

Linda gave sports therapy massages to some hockey players in the shop as well. I was taken aback on several occasions with the post-massage demeanor of these rough and tumble guys. Linda also visited the nursing homes in the area. She told me that the quality of their lives was enhanced by touch as well. The absence of spousal affection, children or grandchildren s touch removes them quickly from this world.

It didn't happen overnight. Linda probably doesn't even know that she helped me. I mentally evaluate how far I have come. I can grab a friends hand and walk, hug and mean it, receive hugs, believe them and determine intentions of a hug. The simple act of hugging, coupled with the proximity of closeness eradicated the stigma of bad touch, replacing it with endearing endorphins.

The senses associated with close life enhancing touch come back to my mind. The heads and necks of my children and grandchildren in the crook of my arm, the finger placed under the nostrils of my sleeping children to feel their breath, the clutch of the arm of a friend signifying a funny event or a fright, the soft skin of my grandmother's forearm, an aunt that was really glad to see me. I am reminded of my oldest granddaughter. One of her first signature character traits of personal expression to me was to hold my hand and try to wedge her tiny fingers into the space underneath my fingernails at the early age of 6 months. I believe she wanted to be closer to me than touch could actually bring her. She still does this sometimes and she is 15.

I have learned the immense pleasure of a heart felt hug and to give one that says the same. Sometimes I am not giving you a hug, I am taking one away.I could learn something as well from the animal kingdom. I am not saying we should preen each other like monkeys, but they are so familiar with their tribe or herd that they can sense compassion, passion,threats and fear through touch and smell. There are about 100 touch receptors in each human fingertip. For all intents and purposes touch is the connector and receptor that links us to well being.
“Our task must be to free ourselves by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature and its beauty.” — Albert Einstein

Bohemian Rhapsody Parody ~ Renae Brabham

If I see one more social media share of the ~Arrested Drunk Guy Sings Bohemian Rhapsody ~ I am going to scream. The You Tube video has forged those verses into my head for several days now. I thought I had conquered the beast yesterday and expelled it from my subconscious. It returned this morning with a vengeance. Freddie's Back! My eyes scan the first several pages of the newspaper, the familiar tune crept back in. Freddie Mercury had found another venue! I burst out laughing at my kitchen table as I made the paradoxical summary of Bohemian Rhapsody's lyrics to the headlines of the paper. Governor Haley's remarks on contraception, weather, the Republican presidential candidates, Obama, murder, mayhem and on to the Charleston Scene. I filled in the top five, you'll get the drift. Lord help me I am thinking in music this morning. Now I have Stevie Nicks ~Landslide~ stuck. I got a kick out of a similar situation recently when I received a note from a lyricist/musician,some words were broken into syllables..and some capitalized in the middle of a word. He told me later that tells him to hold the note when he is writing a song and it spills over into his general writing.
Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?(Gov on contraception, really Haley?)
Caught in a landslide, No escape from reality, (Obama)
Open your eyes, Look up to the skies and see, (Weather)
I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy, (Santorum)
Because I'm easy come, easy go, Little high, little low, (Romney)
Any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me, to me, (Gingrich)
Mama, I just killed a man,
Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger now he's dead
Mama... life had just begun,But now I've gone and thrown it all away
Mamaaaaa oooh, Didn't mean to make you cry,
If I'm not back again this time tomorrow, Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters
Too late, my time has come, Sends shivers down my spine, body's aching all the time
Goodbye, ev'rybody, I've got to go, Got to leave you all behind and face the truth
Mamaaaaa oooh,I don't want to die, I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all
I see a little silhouetto of a man, Scaramouche! Scaramouche! Will you do the Fandango?!
Thunderbolt and lightning, very, very frightening Galileo, Galileo, Galileo, Galileo
I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me, He's just a poor boy from a poor family,
Spare him his life from this monstrosity! Easy come, easy go, will you let me go
Bismilah! No, we will not let you go (Let him go!) Bismilah! We will not let you go
(Let him go!) Bismilah! We will not let you go

Honor In Infamy? Renae Brabham

I wrote this last year on the morning of the 150th anniversary of the first shots of the Civil War. I slipped out the back patio and onto the wooded path with Snowy for her early morning walk. The thick fog quieted the morning. At first I thought it was thunder. But after hearing the consecutive short blast that didn't wander off into the horizon, I knew what it was. It was the sound of the ancient cannons sitting on Fort Sumter and Fort Moultrie firing to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the first shots of the Civil War. It was both exhilarating and scary, I shuddered. The pre-dawn fog, lack of first light and Spanish Moss hanging like apparitions down the path transcended me to a time that I couldn't know of. I could sense what that morning must have felt like. I tried to imagine what my ancestors were doing the moments they heard these booms. My maternal lineage would have my ancestors farming in a community near the Myrtle Beach area, Conway. They would have not heard the cannons. But were stirred nonetheless by the impending war. Not wealthy by any means. Hardworking farming family. I don't have records of their opinions of the war, but I do have records that show their support. My Great-Great Grandfather was the sixth child of 9 children. 5 boys and 4 girls. I can only try to imagine the tears of the mother and sisters, the pride of their fathers as they watched their sons and brothers walk down a dusty dirt road on August 7th, 1961. Walking together to enlist in one of the bloodiest battles we have ever known. The Civil War. On that day SC 1st Infantry (Greggs Company F) took the handwritten signatures of enlistment of three brothers and two nephews of my family. Leaving behind a brother who enlisted months later in another company and my great-great grandfather who stayed at home for three more years before enlisting in the same company. I wondered if this were a family decision brought about by rules of engagement. I often heard that one son needed to stay at home to care for the needs of the family. Of those boys, five brothers, three were killed. Two killed in action, one sent home with wounds that eventually killed him. My great-great-grandfather came home after the war. I have not located any papers to this time that show they owned any slaves. This is not to say that they didn't. It is probable. I have found papers where my great-great-great grandfather Lowrimore owned 300 acres of a plantation in the Marion County District. Even though I have the proof of their bravery, battles and death’s on cold gray tombstones...I am left puzzled. What were they fighting for? The question still looms today, why so many conflicting opinions? Some say, We weren't fighting for the right to keep slaves, I believe this to be both true and false. I believe for some, they were indeed fighting for their right to keep slaves. The huge plantation owners would lose everything without their workforce of indigenous peoples. I believe for the majority, they fought for protection from oppression themselves. They weren't going to allow anyone to take away what was rightfully theirs (property, not people). For others it was the blood, guts and glory of war. For some, pure patriotism...remember this was only 85 years after becoming independent from England. Also, there were still Indian battles occurring all over the US. I don't guess I will ever know the motives of my family. But today...I imagine that if I were the same person I am right now and I were a little girl on a plantation, a farm, a dock...wherever I was on the morning that I heard those booms, I would be scared for myself, my family going off to war and my little black girl slave friend. I know that I would have been just as confused at the motives of this war then as I am today. It is a very weird sense of being living in Charleston. When your ancestral roots forage deeper into the ground than the oldest Live Oaks, we innately know which of the motivations of war we sympathized with and that knowledge gives us either enormous pride or painful shame. Or as in my case, both. I honor with all of my heart the memory of those family members and all of their brothers that lost their lives fighting this battle. I hurt for the wrong doing of others that brought this on by ever trying to control or own a person in the first place. I love the South...I am not ashamed of it one bit. I am ashamed of those few, through greed and in darkness, slipped ships stealthily into our harbors and brought the curse of this war. I am ashamed of the men in fine suits on the foggy docks of our ports that traded money for lives.

Ebb & Flow~ Renae Brabham

When I couldn't think of anything to write this week, I grabbed a beach chair and notebook and headed to Sullivans Island. I walked down the path while the dew was still on the ground at Station 18. The sun filtered through twisted limbs that hung over the boardwalk, blinking beauty like a strobe light onto the boardwalk. I noticed the contrast between the light and the dark and the sense it gave the journey. When the rays shone through, my focus was up on the last blooms of spring's alarm clock, Yellow Jasmine and the scent of wafting Wisteria. When the rays went away and darkness filled the path, I focused below on my steps, smelling the wet marsh and pungency of wild animal urine. Same pathway, different views. I saw the message the morning was playing out immediately.

 Before my eyes hit the clearing across the dunes, my mind's eye had already etch-a-sketched a empty, quiet beach. I was ticked off. The foggy horizon was obstructed by a huge ocean liner bringing freight into the harbor. I forgave it a few minutes later as it slipped quietly through the sound. Solitude again. Seagulls scuffled out of my way, probably just as ticked at me for imposing on their quiet morning.

I dropped the chair and bag and took off for the shore. I walked for miles, my mind pleasantly empty. The beach chorus drummed out everything. I imagined the surf talking. Whatever it said, it did it repetitively. Maybe it says, Take Away.....Give Back......Take Away.....Give Back. Dolphins spouted and corralled their breakfast. Heron's dive and bring up fish bigger than I catch on my fishing rod. Stranded Jelly Fish struggle to catch the last tide out. I push some gently back into the foam. Some make it, some don't.

 They are always there, the constants of both worlds. I started snapping pics. I took pictures that day of both worlds. Just a little reminder to me that they co-exist. A sand covered Bi-Lo grocery bag, seashells sitting alongside cigarette butts and dog poop, another ocean liner. Constants, truths, parallels of life. Ever noticed laughter at funeral? Absurd? Maybe not. Continuity...

Take Away.....Give Back.......Take Away.......Give Back.......

Elton John, I Remember When Rock Was Young

Sir Elton John remembers when rock was young. I remember when it was a young adult. The stadium at his recent concert in Charleston proved that his music spans decades. It was obvious the generations he entertains bridges more than the four decades he has been performing. We were enveloped by fans from the Silent Generation, Baby Boomers, Gen X, Gen y and Gen Z!

I was painfully made aware of which generation I was in as I searched for a pre-concert Advil, for the ~touch of arthritis~ coming on. I was going to do the Crocodile Rock...be damned. We stood in the line at the head of the pack..pretty proud that we were some of the first there, only to relinquish our lead 15 minutes later in search of bathrooms at the Performing Arts Building. We found comfy cushion seats in the lobby outside the bathrooms and decided to wait out the count down here. A Silent Generation lady inched her way towards us, she eased herself down onto the cushion by me as she held the wall for support. I saw her two rows up later swaying and singing every word to Tiny Dancer, fist pumping the air at the end of song.

As concert time draws nearer we leave the comfort of the cushions to follow a pied piper who informs the crowd of another way into the coliseum. We wind around the coliseum, up the stairs and end the exodus at the beer garden. We gasp as we observe the price of wine ~shots~. At the same instant a coliseum staffer slips two drinking bands on our wrist. We opt instead for a Diet Coke and pretzel the width of our concert seat. A sober situation.

The lights are on and I watch the progression of ages fill the seats. I look at the crowd around us and wonder, who else is thinking about what their dog was doing or if ~Wheel of Fortune~ announced them as the spin ID winner that night. The lights dim as the 2 Cello's are announced as the opening act. That was no act! Those boys slung the chitlins off of those cello gut strings! And then he was there, Sir Elton John. The seats we thought were awesome became cumbersome after two and a half hours. When Elton went into his hit ~I'm still standing~ I sang it and meant it. Elton was phenomenal, extremely attentive and gracious to his fans. No, he didn't jump up on the piano like he did in piano solo's of his early years, but I didn't climb up on someone’s shoulder waving a bic screaming ~Free Bird~ either. I shook my hiney to the Crocodile Rock and everything else that he performed.

As we inched (literally) our way out of the coliseum parking for an hour, I imagined that Elton John was already soaking in a Jacuzzi at the Embassy we were passing. I thoroughly enjoyed the night. When my feet hit the floor the next morning, the memories of Crocodile Rocking were replaced with the reality of Lizard Limping. In a weird sort of way, a paradoxical reminder of a night well spent.

The Strategy of Craft: An Interview with Artist, Lyricist, Musician John Brannen Renae Brabham

The Strategy of Craft: An Interview with Artist, Lyricist, Musician John Brannen
Renae Brabham

On an overcast morning last week I pulled into the Sea Biscuit Cafe on Isle of Palms. Opening the door of the cottage style café, I am greeted to a lively breakfast chorus. Spoons clanged against coffee cups, forks and knives drummed percussion to lively, caffeine driven conversations. I pick a table in the corner near the window, pull out my talking points, set the recorder on the table and ordered coffee. Minutes later he was there. John Brannen; ageless, agile and confident. For the next 1 1/2 hours, the hubbub of the cafe subsided into the background. I thought later that the interview went something like an album, a moment of silence between tracks. Talking points lay idle as I lean back and absorb.
John Brannen charges the air around him with a zeal for contributing to life. Described in terms of craft as a Heartland Rocker. A true Rolling Stone, he’s always been there, gathers no moss or wrinkles for that matter. I tell him that he has held up well considering the span and era of his career. "I shouldn't have" he says with a reminiscing smile. His career and endeavors have taken him across the continent and the US, but like the ebb and flow of the Atlantic, he is pulled back to his southern roots. "I don't like to stay in big cities too long. The icker begins to grow on you." he says, while rubbing his arms. He talks about meeting with legendary music icon Danny Goldberg. Danny started his career as a journalist for Rolling Stone magazine. A few of the names Danny has managed over the years; Led Zeppelin, Nirvana, Steve Earle, Allman Brothers, Alannah Myles. "Danny Goldberg gets it" John says. You get the sense that John is more honored and humbled than proud to say that he signed an exclusive writer/publisher deal with Goldberg in October this past year.
When I ask about accomplishments, it is obvious that his eight year old is his crowning life achievement. He recalls episodes of her endeavors like lyrical mantra, usurping all other worldly substance in his life. And there is a lot of substance! 6 albums under his belt. A US tour as equal with Toby Keith and Shania Twain in the 1993 Triple Play Tour, The Eagles wrote and recorded John's song "Somebody" on their first studio record in 28 yrs, Screenplays, benefits. A movie, "The Black Dove" written by director Michael Caporale recently accepted in The Houston Film Festival with award status, features John's music from three different albums. John’s original, rare pre-1986 black Gibson Dove guitar was the catalyst for Caporale writing the screenplay. John's Black Dove can be seen in several of the videos.
I ask about his creative influences. The name dropping wasn’t meant to impress, but did nonetheless. John tells of conversations, inspirations, phone calls, sessions with some of the greatest musicians ever! In near reverence John tells me “I considered Waylon Jennings a huge inspiration, from a genre that transcends time. He actually played bass with Buddy Holly, a first generation rocker. Playing with him was the only time in my adult life that I could say I was nervous. My hands trembled.” “Joe Walsh? One of the most caring individuals you will ever meet. Sick, wicked, stupid talented. My tape lands on his desk, the next thing I know, I am being called my his attorneys and told to be at such and such airport Where I am picked up by his limousine driver holding a sign with my name on it to meet him in Memphis.” John tributes Walsh as a wonderful mentor who spring boarded his career.
We talk about the flood of ~Resurgence~ albums by lifer musicians. In order to re surge, you’d have to go under. That can’t be said about John Brannen. Perpetually revolving into this next decade, after belting the last two. The south anticipates it’s prodigy’s new endeavors and they are exciting indeed. John is writing and directing the film Midnight Rain ,set to shoot in April here in SC. He is also recording a new album in the spring. The long awaited DVD "One Night In Charleston" recorded last year at The Footlight Players" should be available by Christmas. It is Johns first LIVE recorded film and performance.
We readily romanticize everything in the south, even our specters. Every artist has a few that keep their guitar strings bleeding. “Absolutely” he agrees. “I set out to identify emotions and if all goes well something emerges that hasn’t been apparent. It’s something like throwing a sheet over a ghost and finally the ghost has a form, something we would not have seen otherwise.”
Who says something like that? Smoky room in the 70’s after reading Poe, I might have. I can’t remember.