World Beginnings

  When we arrived at Doris and James' expansive house—my brother’s in-laws—located in a rural area outside of Jackson, we found the oval driveway filled with their relatives' cars. It was a crisp, drizzly Thanksgiving day. Most of the leaves had fallen from the trees, and the scent of smoke from the fireplace signaled the warmth that awaited us inside. As we entered the beautifully decorated home, the sounds of laughter and cheerful chatter enveloped us. The aroma of roasting turkey mingled with fresh-cut flowers and scented candles, creating an inviting atmosphere. Even the bathrooms impressed, offering soft, monogrammed hand towels instead of paper towels, along with fragrant soaps and perfumed hand lotions. The dining tables overflowed with every Southern culinary delight, and Doris’s cornbread dressing—made without white bread or fancy ingredients—stole the show. This was more than just a meal; it was a feast for the mind, body, and soul. Plus, everyone took home leftovers,...

  Upon the untimely, early death of my father, we moved from Seattle to the tiny burg of Kilmichael, MS, population 300, on Saturday night. But when we first arrived, we stayed at our Uncle Doyle’s house out in Poplar Creek, MS, an even small community gifted with a small general store with a gas pump. We lay have well have been on another planet. Behind Uncle Doyle’s house, there was a smelly ditch with a big plank over it leading to the barnyard. In the late afternoons, we were allowed to cross the ditch to feed the chickens a few ears of corn that we would carefully scrub off. While this was fun, we were amazed to learn where eggs came from, we were warned to watch out for the “old King snake” that lived in the corn crib, so we never went very far into the dark corn crib. I can still smell the musty odor of the corn and the barnyard. But there was also a big bull that we were warned to stay far away from. Every evening the cows would come up for feeding and milking, and one of u...

Long ago, in a land far away, nope, such a place never existed. Yet it did and still does in my memory. This morning I saw this picture posted by my Lakeside friend, Charlotte Donaldson, of freshly shelled peas and snap beans, and I was transported back in time to my Aunt Janis’s farm in Poplar Creek, MS. That was a simpler time, much like Garrison Keillor’s Lake Woebegone. Kids never back-talked, and when we told to come and shell some peas, we did it. Bushels and bushels of them sitting on the porch, shelling and talking. Purple hull peas stained my fingers purple, and I hated when the butter beans came in; they seemed the hardest to shell and made my fingers sore. And if someone stopped by, seeing folks gathered on the porch, they were given a big bowl too and joined the conversation and shelling. There was a predictable urgency to farming back then. The fields had been plowed, made ready for planting, and at just the right time, the seeds went into the soil. And then the waiting fo...

Finally, enjoying the fruits of the  long hard years of toil, sunup to sundown, my father’s sisters, Aunt Janis on the left and Annie Mae on the right, sitting in the shade and enjoying homemade ice cream. Every time I see this picture, I wonder just what they are talking about or, better yet, who? To be a fly on their shoulders and listen quietly. Aunt Janis had three children, and Annie Mae had six, and I never forget this was before Pampers and baby food. Never a complaint, raised voice, or negative words about anyone that I know. They grew up during the Depression, and whenever that subject came up, my Aunt Janis would casually remark, “Is it over yet?” Because my father, their brother had died and my mother suffered very poor health, they often made room for us not only in their homes but hearts as well. Today children in our circumstances will end up in foster care, suffering bitterly for the experience. But they always were there for us.   Whenever there was a family ga...

Looking back on a fantastic 2021! Despite the pandemic, I was able to get the Pfizer vaccine here, so I feel protected, and no one close to me was sick. It was a year of milestones in so many ways, and I am so grateful to have lived to see the realization of many personal dreams and hopes for others come to fruition. June was a Red Letter Day for my son, Brett, who received his Masters's in IT from the University of Denver. Because I taught overseas and our end of the school year was mid-June, I could never attend any of his graduations, so this was more than special; it was a first! But I am also very proud of his research paper which focussed on improving the minority ratio in IT. It was a stellar paper noted by his professor and everyone who read it. After the ceremony, we drove to a luxurious condo in Aspen, and we were agog at the airport as we were driving into the town. I have never seen so many private luxury airplanes in my life and can only imagine what it must look like ...

Siren after siren pierced the hot August evening air, it seemed every local police and emergency vehicles were racing down the carretrra behind me. Within minutes, Facebook posts revealed the terrible news. A man's body was found at the entrance to Villa Nova, one of the exclusive areas here in Ajijic. Getting the Forensic department from Guadalajara takes hours and the body couldn't be moved from the rough cobblestoned road.  Since Villa Nova is just across the carreterra from my house, I often walk my dogs there, and soon after his murder, his family erected this memorial marker with his name, birth, and death day.  We pass this sad reminder of the violence associated with drugs and poverty; my heart always twinges for him.  No matter who the dead are, they were someone's son, brother, and probably a father as well. They celebrated birthdays, holidays, went to school, and had simple dreams. But those are all gone now. November 1 is celebrated in Mexico as the Day of the...

We are born into this world helpless and our path is unknown. Every parent wants the very best for their child and harbor secret dreams, but we never truly know what lies ahead for them. We cherish each success and share their sadness when things don’t work out as hoped. My daughter-in-law, Jira, was born in a small village, hours outside of Bangkok to a farming family. Little could her parents imagine where her path would take her on that April day. Gaining acceptance into Thai universities is not easy, but Jira was successful and earned a university degree. Sadly not recognized in the USA. Brett and Jira met in Bangkok where he was working and they fell in love. When he came back to the US, Jira soon followed and Brett navigated the maze of the immigration process. He said the naturalization ceremony was one of the most moving events he has ever experienced. The judge’s remarks brought tears. What adjectives would I use to describe Jira? Intelligent, determi...

The second week of the COVID quarantine meanders like a weed through our gardens. They are choking the breath. Here life is lived outside, yet this insidious weed has chased the retirees from the Plaza and the Malecon. Young men no longer gather on steps drinking cold beer and wafting marijuana. Every morning I enjoyed my coffee watching the hustling and bustling on the street below me as parents walked young children to school and women did their daily shopping. Now the street is eerily empty. Schools are vacant and businesses shuttered. Occasionally a woman will go the tienda next door and come back with a quart of milk or orange juice. This morning as I drank coffee and planned my day, laughter erupted at the house next door. Uproarious, deep belly laughter from the men and high pitched shrieks from women and children. The sound died down and then bellowed out again. Suddenly I was back with my Aunt Janis, Uncle Forrest, Aunt Annie Mae and Uncle Jim telling stories that bro...

Bobbie Morgan Livingston was my first cousin and one of my few idols.  My father died when I was ten and we moved from Seattle to a small town of 300 in Mississippi. I was an angry, defiant child in every way and when I was upset I ran away. My dad’s family was a lifesaver for my mother and her five unruly children; there was always room at their tables and hearts. In those days it didn’t take much to set me off running down the farm roads trying to reach the woods to escape the pain. Bobbie’s mom, my Aunt Annie Mae, would call to her to “go catch her and bring her back!” Bobbie and I both were married numerous times, ok, more than two and less than five, which provided endless gossip and speculation at family gatherings. We used to joke that we would put the names and dates of our marriages on the back of our tombstones so that everyone could keep it straight. At the yearly Memorial Service at the family cemetery, we would sit together and we could see distant relatives...

Over the years porches, such simple things, have changed and become mere ornaments.  One dictionary defines it as a noun “a covering over the front door of a house”; symbolic of protection from the elements and the entry into a family’s life. Today a “front porch” is a statement about how clever the lady of the house is and a testament to the family ’s earning power. It also creates “curb appeal” which translates in to value.  Various styles are used to convey something of the owner.  Some present a sentimental, sophisticated motif with wicker and Martha Stewart color coordinated cushions, where no one sits. In the more rural areas, the theme might be the Old West or mountain life and weekends devoted to scouring garage sales and junk shops for memorabilia. Yet no one sits in the rockers or straight back chairs. Signs by the door announce “Welcome” but families are seldom home and the doors are dead-bolted; protected from everyone. Back in the day,...