Angel of the Morning

 I have been writing human interest essays for 10 years, 7 or 8 of these with Charleston Grit. I base all of my stories on life experience, so my family has trolleyed along with me. I know that if I can't eek out this story, I'll never be able to pen another one. My daughter died 3 weeks ago. 

Breathe in — June 14, 1977. 10:15 pm. I heard her gasp for air as she took that first breath. 6 pounds 12 ounces.  I counted all appendages quickly. She was delivered by forceps, a routine procedure in the late 70's. Did she have brain trauma that caused her progressive myoclonus seizures later in life? My days are a plethora of Why's and If's. 

My brown eyed girl. Van Morrison penned my lifetime theme song for her a decade earlier. She too loved Morrison, her favorite song of his was "Into the Mystic." Michelle loved 70's rock and would jam in front of the huge Marantz stereo in the living room with her dad singing as he played his bad ass air guitar. Bad Company, AC/DC, Styx, Journey, the whole gamut. 

Michelle loved HARD and often. She gave everything of herself to everyone, keeping just enough to get her to the next checkpoint for "fuel."  Over the years the check points became farther and farther apart and she was giving more and more and keeping less. Eventually every little thing became overwhelming. 

Was the disease more debilitating than we thought? Did she hide it better? Was cognitive reasoning affected? I question everything these days.  

But still — still, to the very end she fought the illness, loved deeply and was benevolent beyond anyone I ever knew of. Her beautiful smile could melt ice. Michelle brightened days for many as hers fell apart. The lights dimmed inside those 37 miles of nerve endings. My girl committed suicide. 

I have heard it said all my life. Reach out, there is one person who can turn that tide. We wish we knew who that person was. We do know that a loving husband, mother/father, aunts and cousins, sisters & brothers, beautiful children, brand new granddaughter couldn't do it. 

Now my days, hours and minutes are filled with memories. I see her everywhere and all the time in all things. This is the memory from this morning. Blackies campground on Folly Beach for a full summer in 1981. The campground had a nice large pavilion. The sounds of the party time bands playing shagging music lulled Michelle who was 4 and her sister to sleep on the weekends. During the week a juke box rocked some of the decades best; Peter Frampton, CCR, Styx, Eagles, Lynyrd Skynyrd.....  but quiet time came early at the campground, 10 PM. 

One morning I was up at the crack of dawn with a pillowcase full of clothes to take to the laundry which was housed behind a wall at the pavilion. We walked quietly down the sandy path to the pavilion which housed a laundry room behind one of it's petitions. As I sorted the clothes Michelle wandered off to the Juke Box to check the coin slot and mash some buttons. All of a sudden Juice Newton started playing "Angel of the morning" at party time decibels. I came running around the petition to find her smiling, her eyes big as saucers. People started yelling out of their tents and campers at us. I couldn't find out how to stop the music. I finally got it pulled out from the wall and snatched the cord out of the wall. It was a memory we spoke of often. Michelle wasn't an angel of the morning. She preferred to wake up naturally and around 10 o'clock would have been her preference. But, school, work, life didn't fit that schedule. I would sing "Angel of the Morning" to her and she would snarl. Eventually she began to like the song again AND the morning. 

My heart feels as if that juke box is plugged back in and memory after memory, side A & B are being played. I will never be able to unplug that juke box, nor will I ever want to.   

The morning after she died, the sun was brilliant, the sky was Tarheel Blue. I wish she could have held out for daylight. I believe it may have changed her mind. 

Breathe out —January 13, 2021, 7:02 pm. 

Bad Ass Cat kind of year.

 

 

I have never uttered "I'm bored," not for a day an hour or a minute of my life. When a thought becomes a stitch, a stroke of the brush, a paragraph on paper, we give it life. We have created something that didn't exist, out of the blue, just like that. To me those creations are little miracles in this world. Whether it be the seed a farmer put into the ground that became a beautiful squash on my counter, origami birds, a child's drawing on a frig, a new guitar riff that rippled out into the universe — A zillion little things that weren't here yesterday came into existence today. 

My mind runs continuously and I know it will until I take my last breath but it wasn't always like that. Unsupportive comments from family de-railed and many times stunted my desire to create. It took years for me to learn that their lack of support was more about their inability to dream than my ability to create. You should never let someone else's voice be louder in your head and heart than your own. 

It doesn't matter if what I do will ever be seen. The joy is in the creating. I don't even try to legitimatize the time I spend doodling on a power bill or scribbling random words in a notebook. I just know that if I wait until everything is perfect in my life to do what I like to do then most of what I have done or ever will do wouldn't materialize. 

I am my biggest critic but I have been working on that for the last several years. I used to crumble up a page I had just written on an essay or manuscript and I've been known to  paint a huge red X across a a painting that I felt I messed up. 

But lately I have found that if I leave it, walk away from it like a jig-saw puzzle, I can get past the ugly and when that doesn't work — I sign it and laugh before throwing it out. 

I have tried my hand at watercolor painting for years and every 4 or 5 years I will twist the caps off of those paints and give it another go but, it never ends well. The last attempt was of a cat, easy peezy I thought. Uh-uh. What happened in those few minutes between the vision in my head and the tip of that brush was nothing short of sabotage. What I ended up with mostly resembled the dead cat from Stephen King's Pet Cematary. It was REALLY bad. 

I couldn't not make myself throw it away even thought the muddled water in the rinse glass was prettier than the painting.  I laughed, signed my name to it  and named it "Cats gone bad" why plural? I thought I might make a triptych series.  

So for 2021. I'll try not to be so hard on myself. There's enough criticism in the world without self-inflicting it. It will be alright if I color outside of the lines, paint bad pictures, make ugly Pinterest projects, do it all wrong — as long as I enjoy the process. Happy New Year to you all, I raise a glass to all of your bad ass cat's this year. 

Tidings of Comfort and .......

 

A trip to the post office can kill your comfort and joy buzz — IF you let it. 

Don helped me carry heavy boxes into the post office this week. As we got in line, a lady behind with an enviable resting bitch face and eyeroll muttered something that didn't sound like a greeting. I looked behind her and realized the actual end of the line went on a good ways behind us. We moved to the back of the pack without taking my earrings off.

 

Literally moments later another "lady" in front of us felt that she needed to dictate to another where she should stand, the other lady told her she was just fine right where she was.  I believe those damn aisle arrows that have been removed from the grocery store floors have thrown these wanna be traffic police into a tizzy. 

As we moved through the line at an acceptable holiday pace, it was clear to see that there were two kind of people in that room. The patient and impatient. Sighs and mutterings could be heard behind me if someone took longer than a minute with the postal clerk. 

And then — it was my turn. I was greeted by a jolly postal elf with a ginormous Christmas Santa hat on. While he was scanning my packages I  fixated on his hat. It had bulbs on it and looked like it may be a little uncomfortable.

 

I knew the minute it left my mouth I was click bait. "Does you hat light up?" I asked. 

He grinned wider than a Cheshire cat and said "Well yes it does." he answered. 

He pulled a bell hanging down near his ear and the hat moved up and down on his head and the bulbs all lit up and elf ears popped out from the side and it sang "We wish you a Merry Christmas." and more verses of it than I knew it had. 

I scanned the room behind me, sneers and jeers, I was clearly the bane of their existence. I've always been the one to mash a button on a toy in the store to see what it does and then fumble to find the cut off switch hurriedly. I couldn't get behind the plexiglass to do so and just suffered through the imaginary projectiles being thrown at my back.  

But, the song eventually ended and the postal clerk wished me a Merry Christmas with a wink and a nod for the next person to come to the counter. 

A little reminder, we don't have to tell everyone how we feel about them. Sometimes we can just go along with it and be better for it. 

That Kitsch Shit Going On

I don't believe the true magic of the universe can be conjured but I do believe it will present itself if I am open to it. I realize with Covid that I can fall into a much smaller world (rabbit hole) which closes the portals to that magic. I have to fight that, I will ALWAYS fight that. I can take a ride, walk, phone call, write, spill into a journal, cook, paint, etc.

On our way home from a trip to the mountains to meet a precious new life, our 4th generation great-grand girl, I thought of how fortunate I am to even utter those words. 4 generations of women in one room. How divine. 

The night before I was to meet Tinley I climbed into the foreign cabin bed in the foothills of NC, my soul's home away from home. My furry girl Zoe sighed and finally fell asleep curled up beside me, un-settled herself and looking for comfort from my body heat, I — the same from her. Both of us are accustomed to the creature comforts of our home. 

Sleep was not as quick to come for me as was with Zoe. I tossed and turned. I was absolutely positive the ancient cabin logs housed creepy crawlers just waiting for the lights to go out. Finally, my eyes couldn't focus, my sub-conscious put guards at the gate and I drifted off.  

Around midnight I rolled over and noticed a glow in the bedroom. A dream catcher hung in the  window. I didn't pay any attention to it when when we first arrived. Aren't they in every cabin in the mountains? So kitschy that they have lost their wonder. Or have they?

Maybe I just need to remind myself of their origin. I like to think an Indian maiden lying on her back, star-gazing on a cool mosquito-less fall night with a crackling fire nearby, framed the galaxy in her minds eye and then made a twig frame for it. Call it what we may it's really not the piece itself is it? It is what is behind it, seen through it, or the memory caught in it. 

I walked in my own yard a month earlier and there too was a perfect nature-made frame hanging from a few transparent webs. There is a constant in the universe, an earth-speak, subtle hints of wonder left just for me on my journey if I will just pick up the little pieces of puzzle it leaves me along the way. However, it's not a practice as easy as eating and drinking, etc. 

But — tonight, with the slivered light of a new moon, the dream catcher caught in it's web 2 huge glowing stars/planets of which I am not sure. I called Don in to see them, they were so bright!  We do that, we share the wonder. Don is a night-owl, he will come to me in the middle of the night and take my hand to walk outside into the darkness for a night-wonder;  a moon glow, an owl, a wood-line full of fireflies or the eyes of a herd of deer. 

Tonight I called him. Light fluffy pastel blue clouds wafted through the webbing of that dream-catcher, the symmetry of the stars in it was absolutely beautiful. 

Later I Googled the heavens to see what the phenomenon may have been. I really didn't know what to look for but Earthsky.org said that on October 16, 2020, the Eastern seaboard would have the year’s closest and largest new moon. 

Yes, a new moon she is, our beautiful little great-grand Tinley. Continuity, promise, hope. Shine your light little one. Your light, your life is your voice. 

2 nights after we came home from the mountains, just to prove it's not just a mountain thing, earth was showing off in the southern sky. Don again took my hand and walked me down the steps with a flashlight and then cut the light off to show me the big and little dipper. As a bonus, the Milky Way swept through the middle of the sky as if with a angled camel haired artist brush, dipped in blue-gray paint. 2020 ain't all bad y'all! 

Sands of Time

The first time I remember my feet touching the silt of the sea I was around 8 years old at Atlantic Beach in NC. I remember the scary tug of the disappearing sand as the tide pulled it from under my feet, I felt I would fall. I crave that tug annually. We have never lived more than 4 hours from the coast but it seemed like forever away sometimes. I once put sand in a box and brought it home. Then one cold winter day in North Carolina I warmed it in the microwave, took the box to my office and jammed my toes into it while I worked at the computer.  

In the late 70’s I was pregnant with my first daughter but wasn’t about to let that keep me from the sanctity of putting my ass in the sands of Key West. I dug a hole in front of a probably now defunct sand bar blaring Peter Framptom and Bog Seger. I then placed my rotund belly in the cool concave. About a half hour into my sunbathing I was hit on by a dude. I put down my book and rolled over to address him, he stopped mid-sentence and took off when he saw the swollen orb that had been hidden in the sand. 8 weeks later when I went into labor I walked the sands of Isle of Palms in SC because walking the halls of a hospital was so much less appealing.

When I go to the beach I seldom go into the ocean but I love the waves, the tug in the shallow surf. I adore how the sand makes me feel. I have come as far as one can go, to the edge of my terra-firma without being consumed by its majesty, the ocean.  

I have wizened to the idiosyncrasies of beach people now that I have become one: 

• Those  with the faraway look in their eyes. I used to walk past them and look out to see what they were looking at. Nothing and everything.
• The buried feet people, these are the ones that came out the day before and didn’t put sunblock on.
• The combers, the people who walk like they have a certain intention—  straight ahead, they pass you again a half hour later with the same intent. 
• The seekers, those hunch backed young and old with solo cups full of shark teeth and shells.
• The builders, those who make towers to say they were here, with moats and windows of shells. 
• The losers, the people who don’t know the tide and come back to find their chairs, flip flops and towels have been consumed by the Atlantic. 
• And lastly, sweet baby Jesus, bless their hearts — The sea gull feeders.

I can also tell you that sand is the best pedicure you can get. I always come back from a beach day with pristine pink bottomed feet. Sand isn’t always kind though. I would pack band-aids for Don and the boys for their boogie board irritated nipples. And there is nothing worse than sand in any crack if you aren’t near a shower when you leave the beach. I swear I almost made an oyster once in the car ride home once.  

Over the sands of time I have been all of the above. Today, on Folly Beach, I am just lost in the awesomeness of it all. I began seeking for elusive sharks teeth. I am sure I didn't look that distruaght but a kind man came over to me and held out his hand which was full of sharks teeth. He gave me three of them. A lot of people had walked by this man and he chose me to reach out to. I freaking love kindness!! Don then found one and gave it to me. 

After about an hour we made our way back to the public access. I saw my granddaughter sitting in the sand, her 7 month pregnant belly swollen. With a little imagination I can see my great granddaughter Tinley rising butt up to greet the sun and surf. Continuity, no where says it more clearly than the edge of America.  

Magnolia Plantation & Gardens Chinese Lantern Festival

When we arrived at  Magnolia Plantation & Gardens for the Lights of Magnolia display in collaboration with The Zigong Lantern Group the lights were competing with a brilliant fuchsia sunset to the east. In no time at all the sun set and the production proceeded to steal the show.
I had been excited since before Christmas to see the display and avoided looking at pictures (the best I could) of friends who posted on FB and Instagram of the event. That worry was unfounded, there isn't a picture out there, anywhere, that could replace seeing this in person.
My husband, two friends and I were greeted near the ticket booth by one of Magnolia’s own colorful beauties. Mr. Peacock was lackadaisically foraging the grass for a late evening snack. Minutes later he flew to one of the magnificent moss laden oaks and posed as one of the most beautiful silhouettes I have seen.
As we entered the arches the “oohs and ahhs” began. The 3/4 mile stretch of phantasmagoric eye-candy was filled with people of all ages. Glee, amazement and gasps of awe were heard from the smallest to the oldest around me in addition to my own. I slowly moved from one display to another through the slack-jawed, wonder-struck crowd. I talked to strangers too overcome not to speak about what we are seeing; The colors, the miles of silk, the weight of the bent steel, the precision, the perfection, the art, the intensity, the backdrop of Magnolia Garden’s dripping moss and towering oaks. It was an amazing marriage between the lights and Magnolia’s natural flora; the lighted alligators among the low forest, huge butterflies alongside the winter blooms of camellias. 
We wound our way around the fairy tale children’s section, the ark, the fields of butterflies, ladybugs and more. The trees and paths were filled with brilliant Avatar sized blooms and dripping icicles formed a canopy overhead along with the hundreds of LED lit Chinese lanterns. The panda, lion and zebra displays were just dazzling. The wall of Chinese Zodiac tiles was a huge hit with the crowds as everyone searched out their birthday year and sign to take a picture with. And then — there he was, the  200-foot dragon.
The dragon being one of the most magnificent lantern displays was built on-site by The Zigong Lantern Group. The artisans, use a variety of materials including silk and chinaware, LED lights, bent wire, plates and cups.
Hong Jun Deng's magnificently created dragon "is really the biggest dragon I have ever made." he said through an interpreter to Herb Frazier, Magnolia Garden’s Public Relations Director.
Its head towers 45 feet into the moss-draped trees. The dragon's scales are made of 26,000 porcelain plates. Deng and Wu carefully attached each plate on the dragon's body with thread. I stood transfixed at this piece for a long time in wonder. I crept up as close as I could get and was admiring the plates, the thread-work, the silk, the wire fabricating, the bracing. I turned to find my husband to find an Asian man smiling at me across the path, I smiled back. I think he was pleased to see the work of his culture so greatly appreciated by the crazy lady about to tip over the rope to get a better look.
For more stories about the fabrication, the process and the people behind it, please check out Herb Frazier’s stories based on interviews of the artisans here. https://www.magnoliaplantation.com/lights_of_magnolia_stories.html

As we exited the last arch, my friend touched my shoulder. "Look back." she simply said. As a whole the lights were just as gorgeous, but narrowing and dimming with each step away. A perfect close to 2019. Hello 2020.
Thank you to the powers that be at Magnolia that brought this beautiful lantern festival to us. Get your tickets and don’t let this event slip by.
The hours are 5:30 to 9:30 PM Wednesdays through Sundays. Tickets are $28 with fees for adults, $13 with fees for children ages 6-12 and free for children ages 5 and under. Additional fees for on-site parking and shuttles apply. For more information and ticket options, visit www.lightsofmagnolia.com

Lions & Panthers and Eagles, Oh My!!

I was scrolling through social media one morning when I saw a photo of the last known Barbary lion, now extinct. The grainy photo was taken out of the door of a plane by it’s pilot in 1925. The year they actually went extinct is disputed but this appears to be the last actual photo. Proof in hand (or on film) is not always good enough. There are disputers to this day.
Lions with similar DNA touted to be Barbary’s in zoos around the world are likely mixed descendants. Barbary lions were huge! 600 pounds and over 6 to 9 feet long with a defining dark mane on it’s head and chest with a light colored body — think Scar from Lion King, only not as skanky. My gosh they were a magnificent species. Sadly the reason for their extinction was un-restricted hunting.

The story struck a chord with me, it reminded me of my own “sighting” over 40 years ago of the thought to be extinct Eastern black panther. I was working at a tiny country store in Dorchester County when a young man that I knew pulled up and came in. I saw his tailgate was down and figured he must have a deer on it which wouldn’t have been unusual, a lot of the local fellows paraded their deer on the way back from a successful hunting trip.

“What did you bag today?” I asked him after I rang him up for his drink.

“Come look.” he answered

There were no customers in the store so I followed him out of the door. When I stepped past the porch column I saw it, that mythical sleek black cat on the tailgate and gasped. I ran my hand across it’s body. It was still soft and subtle. I was speechless and fought back the tears that were threatening to spill down my face. I was both the saddest and luckiest girl to have seen it but I wish more that I spied it darting between pines in the straw covered terra-firma rather than lifeless on the back of a pick-up truck.

There is no question, no doubt whatsoever that it was a black panther. And no, it was not a melanistic cat or mistaken identity. It was in full sun beneath my hand. Jet black with no mutation of color anywhere. It had a lithe slinky body and long tail. My guess is that it weighed 60 - 70 pounds or thereabouts. It’s black coat was very shiny. It’s eyes were open and the most beautiful aqua color.

I looked up at the young man in disbelief. He didn’t act proud or chatty and maybe even became a little solemn when he saw my reaction. I think he wished he hadn’t asked me to come look. He moved the panther back and shut the tailgate. Of all of the questions to ask, the only thing that came out of my mouth was “What did you kill it with?”
He pointed to his bow hanging in the truck over the back window.

I sympathized with the young man as he pulled off and I walked back into the store. I thought of the Mockingbird that I killed with my brother’s BB gun when I was 9 or 10 years old. I don’t think I believed that I could possibly even hit it when I pulled the trigger. I was sure that it would fly away and I would talk about how close I got to it or something of that nature. But — no. It fell to the cool sand under a oak tree and I buried it there. I hoped that when the last handful of dirt covered it I would never think of it again —but that wasn’t the case. I was sick and heartbroken for the longest time and it still bothers me to this day. What in this world made me do that? To show my brother that I was a better shot?

The night after I saw the panther I called my Dad. He told me that he had heard of local hunter’s spotting them since he was a little fella but had never seen one or heard of one being killed.

If this had been present day I am sure it would have been all over social media. The tiny little country store would be a busy convenience store today with every person there snapping a pic with the camera. The headlines would read “Young man kills phantom thought to be extinct black panther, maybe the last of its species.”

I am glad it didn’t go that way, it would have done no good. I believe with all of my heart that he wishes he had not reached into his quiver for that arrow. It was possibly an impulse reaction from the adrenaline induced by seeing the magnificent animal.

Even though we lived in the same town and still know each other, it is something that we have never mentioned again. I did however reach out to him several years ago when there was a sighting of a panther near Edisto Beach. I told him that we both know they are/were out there. I didn’t hear back from him and didn’t really expect to. I don’t worry about credibility with telling the story. I know it’s a few notches shy of saying I saw Sasquatch but — it happened. The truth is always stranger than fiction. I did see an Asian Black Panther up close and personal for a photo shoot in NC once. It was definitely NOT that Panther. It was much smaller, but with the same features.

In the early 70’s my parents received an urgent request to hurry to my grandmother’s house. When they arrived my cousin was sitting in the living room with his rifle between his knees looking proudly at his kill. Stretched across my grandmother’s tiny living room was a Bald Eagle. It’s wingspan was nearly 7 foot across. My cousin showed no remorse for killing the eagle which was actually still on the endangered species list in the 70’s. He bragged about what he was going to do with the feathers and talons.

I have to admit that I didn’t feel a bit sorry for him the next year when he lost a toe on a hunting jaunt. A rattlesnake crossed his boot and the dumb ass shot his own foot.

I am not against hunting legally at all, on the contrary. I anxiously await a freezer of venison as I write this. But I would never, ever again in my life pull the trigger on an animal that I wasn’t going to eat with the exception of  poisonous snakes. And — other than the Palmetto Bug, (roach on steroids) I can think of no species that I would want eradicated from the planet.

My kids would chime in here and say “What about those two hamsters?”
They were accidents and that’s a story for a different day. As I look at the photograph that started this morning of retrospect I found myself in the seat with the pilot in 1925, far above the now extinct Barbary lion as he looked through his lens at what he believe was the last of it’s species. I know how he felt.

I think of the still quiet body of that Eastern Black Panther on the tailgate of a truck and how it felt to my hand. I wish that it too would have been shot by a camera like the Barbary Lion that day as well as the Eagle and the Mockingbird.