Akansas Delta Ramblings

Driving Miss Naomi

I knew I was in trouble when Miss Naomi, an octogenarian friend of mine, wrote me an e-mail recently. She promised me a meal out at Charlotte’s in Keo as an enticement to drive out to her house in Scott from Maumelle. Now natives of Little Rock all know that Charlotte’s has the most delectable pies in all the world to sell. On any given day, one can walk into the restaurant and see and smell in the bakery case beautifully-laden meringue pies of all kinds—coconut cream, chocolate cream, banana cream—along with several choices of cakes—chocolate, red velvet, and Italian cream. The sweet scents of chocolate and sugar waft through the air, and it is all one can do to wolf down a quick sandwich to get to the dessert choices.
On this particular day, Naomi asked if I would drive her over one day soon to Des Arc. I knew that she was working on a project to photograph dying towns in the Delta and to write about their past and present history. As I munched on my parmesan-encrusted bread with its filling of turkey, avocadoes, and a special dressing, I heard myself saying, “Well, I can commit to one trip perhaps, but I don’t know if I can for the other forty-nine towns you want to write about.” Miss Naomi was happy, I think, to have new traveling companions (my husband was invited also) since her previous partner, Charlie, had died unexpectedly the month before. “Now when we go on the trip, I’ll buy you the best catfish dinner you ever ate.” Once again, I knew she had me at the word “catfish” this time.
We started out for Des Arc the week before Thanksgiving. Miss Naomi was already emphatic that we would not be getting onto the interstate but would take the back roads instead. Miss Naomi’s assistant, Rhonda, who is a jack-of-all-trades, helps her by cleaning her house and taking her on errands to Wal Mart while at the same time working as a waitress at the 76 Station and being a full partner at her husband’s farm. She put one of Miss Naomi’s three walkers into the back of our little Vibe, made sure bottled water would be taken on the trip, and seemed happy when I told her I had brought along some sugar-less pumpkin bread since Miss Naomi has diabetes.
Our first stop in Des Arc was the court house where we took a couple of pictures and the sign in front of it with Miss Naomi’s throwaway camera she had brought for the occasion. I had hoped to use my digital camera to get some better pictures perhaps, but as usual, my batteries were dead. We next went to the Lower White River Museum for a few pictures and took photographs of a number of dilapidated, empty houses in the little town. By that time, we were ready for that “best catfish ever” downtown at a little diner named T. J.’s. The restaurant filled up quickly even before noon with all kinds of working men who had no doubt come for the blue plate special of hamburger steak, as well as many hunters in their camouflage since deer season was in full swing. The trucks outside the window were loaded with shotguns in the back windows and deer stands. We enjoyed the perfectly cooked catfish, hushpuppies, and cole slaw before we walked a few steps down Main Street to try the door of the thrift shop in town. The sign said it would open at 1 p.m.
Since we had about forty-five minutes to kill before then, we drove to another nearby town on Miss Naomi’s list for research—Cotton Plant. We took a number of pictures, finishing the roll, and headed back to Des Arc to “go junking” as Miss Naomi called it. When we arrived back in Des Arc, we noticed a number of ladies already in the shop, examining everything from clothes to old knives to designer perfumes. “These perfumes,” said the clerk to everyone who walked close to the counter, “sell here for $15 each; they are $75 at department stores.” I stopped to examine the brands and saw they were indeed name brands like Liz Taylor’s “Diamonds,” Calvin Klein’s “Escape,” and others. One woman put her wrist to my nose and said, “Here smell this; doesn’t it smell good?” She then proceeded to buy several bottles and then announced, “I want some more, but I’ll have to go home and pick up some more pecans to sell before I can come back.”
Miss Naomi discovered a number of small items to buy such as a Santa Claus mug for a relative who collects them, an old Elvis Presley LP of hymns, and a knife made in China for another. She was happy with her bargains. Even I could not resist the enticing items before me and carried out of the store two white sacks of dishes and bowls originally sold at Pier One. They were delicate glass dishes decorated with blueberries with green leaves surrounded by yellow trim. My husband, who is not a fan of thrift shops, had sat in the car while Miss Naomi and I were “junking.” He just shook his head as I deposited my sacks alongside the walker in the back of the Vibe.
Miss Naomi regaled us on the trip with many stories about her distant past as well as her present life. She was a student at the University of Iowa writing program years ago. Her doctor has just given her a bit more time since she was diagnosed with breast cancer a few years back. Miss Naomi told us that day that she had already visited Des Arc and Cotton Plant for pictures and research a few months back. My husband and I wondered each to ourselves, of course, what the purpose of our presence had been. Did Miss Naomi just want to have a day trip with good friends? Did she need someone to listen to her own memories of the past and to listen to her concerns about the shorter, darker days which lay ahead for her? Heck no . . . we both concluded it was all about the food. When we left her back in Scott, we knew once more we had been had with her initial promise of tasty, delectable dishes. We watched her as she plodded up to her doorstep with her walker, “Now remember, Miss Naomi, we want to try that other great catfish place in Georgetown soon.”

A Memory From the Past at Year's End

The Legend of Addie Faye

I haven’t thought about Addie Faye for over fifty years until recently. It was at ZaZa’s when my granddaughter and I started talking about popularity, always an important subject for a twelve-year-old. When asked my advice about how to be popular, I immediately began telling Caitlyn that she should be a friend to all people, regardless of race or class. She should work hard to make sure no one was excluded. She should speak to all she knew in her middle school hallways and call them by name. It was only then that I remembered where I myself had learned such traits; it was from Addie Faye Sullivan, a senior in my rural delta high school. She was indeed a queen and a legend at West Tallahatchie High School in 1957.
My grandfather had died in the spring of that year, and my worn-out, depressed waitressing mother decided the three of us—she, my sister Judy, and I—should move in with my grandmother to live. I was just completing my seventh grade year at E. E. Bass in Greenville, Mississippi, and was in that pre-adolescent stage of life. Not only was I gawky as a 5’9” kid of around 100 pounds, I had naturally curly dirty-blonde hair with the highest forehead ever recorded in history I was sure. My hair frizzed frequently in the damp fall days in the delta. I had also just started wearing glasses since my vision was near being considered legally blind. Nevertheless, I was determined to make the best of the move and began meeting new friends as an eighth grader.
I noticed Addie Faye immediately as a cute, short vivacious senior. As she walked down the hall every day, she would call each person by name and say hi. I am still not sure how she learned my name, but soon I was added to the list of junior highers who admired her greatly. Oh yes, I had heard about Addie Faye that fall—how she had just had a baby girl out of wedlock (it was after all 1957, and no one, except Addie Faye, kept their babies back then. Other girls went away to visit their “aunts” for a few months and then returned all slim and trim with no babies in their possession). The whole experience though had cost Addie Faye the head cheerleader’s position since a mommy cheerleader couldn’t be expected to yell, “Can you make it? Can you take it? Can you Tallahatchie shake it? Can you boogy to the left? Can you boogy to the right?” It would not be appropriate according to the school administrators.
I continued to observe Addie Faye’s friendliness to all in spite of her own exclusion in some circles. I did not have much success making more than a friend or so that first year since I was still unbearably shy. Not many people back then lived with their grandmothers who were in their 60’s without a mother (ours had decided to work by that time in Memphis) or a father (ours had been absent since we were quite young). With Judy’s encouragement, however, I decided upon a bold step: to run for the position of student council treasurer. I decided to ask Addie Faye to be my campaign manager. We put posters everywhere throughout the school; we glittered letters to hang across the hallways saying, “Sims for Treasurer.” We even had cards printed to promote my candidacy.
The final day of the campaign was to be for speeches. Mine I knew was rather dull and standard, “Please vote for me for treasurer; I’ll do the best I can for you,” I stammered as my knees clapped together in a strange rhythm which I was sure could be picked up over the microphone. My voice, never strong and confident at that time, was barely above a whisper.
Addie Faye’s speech on my behalf, however, was magnificent. While I can’t remember all the great things she said about me personally, I knew that I was swelling with pride as I heard those words. She ended the speech with Rudyard Kipling’s poem “If.” You remember how it goes, “If you can keep your head when all about you / Are losing theirs, and blaming it on you, / If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, / But make allowance for their doubting too / If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, / Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies. / Or being hated don’t give way to hating. / And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise.” By the end of the poem, the rural students, who weren’t exactly college material, were on their feet clapping thunderously. The next day, of course, the election took place, and the votes were counted. I waited nervously for the votes count, hoping that I would get enough votes not to be humiliated.
I lost the election that day by seven votes to a sophomore boy, but I gained something much more important: a newly-found confidence for myself and a respect for all the women who go through tremendous odds and still emerge as victors. In my eyes, Addie Faye has always been, and will always continue to be, a delta legend.

The Ever-Changing Cast of Characters

This week we have heard on the news about the changing nature of families in the United States. It seems that the number of people getting married is actually decreasing. We are now at 51% married couples. Many do not choose to marry for a variety of reasons we are told. One of the most important as we know is the recession (or depression as Paul Krugman, the economist, would say). More couples in a higher economic class marry compared to couples in a lower class.

While visiting with my friend Pat yesterday, we were sitting in her den, and she was explaining the stockings on the mantle which were already waiting for Santa's goodies. I noticed that on several that instead of having an embroidered name on them, they had a large white card with the name printed. She went on to explain that the cast of characters in her family was ever-changing. While I don't remember the actual names, the conversation went something like this, "Patty was married to Jimmy but now she is married to John," and so on.

I began thinking about my own family and realized that her perception is very true. We began with four of us--us and our two children. Kimberly was with her partner Stef and later with her partner Sheri. They now have a six-year-old son Cole. Chris, our son, was with his wife Carrie and had two children, Caitlyn and Charlie. Now he is with Meera and her two children, Ethan and Emma. Most families in the U. S. are now blended in any number of ways. We simply do as Pat has done, keep putting new cards on the stockings.

Knock Knock Knocking on Heaven's Door

A popular topic in the past few years for filmmakers has been an end-of-the-world scenario. I am thinking of three that I have recently seen--A Serious Man, Take Shelter, and most recently, Melancholia. The latter is still haunting me. There is no question that the cinematography is outstanding as one watches a series of scenes at the beginning showing many figures literally stopped in their tracks as a small planet named Melancholia heads toward a collision with earth. Three characters are featured: one is a young bride suffering from severe clinical depression who cannot will herself to go forward each day, her sister who also suffers from giving care to this young woman, and a scientifically-minded husband who is assuring everyone that the planet will miss the earth and just be a beautiful spectacle in the sky. The ending shot of the planet hurtling toward earth is magnificent.

The theme of the film brings to mind several alternatives that one can have as he or she anticipates the end of life as we know it. The depressed woman becomes oddly serene and almost looks forward to the end of the world; she becomes obsessed with the wonder of it all. The sister becomes increasingly anxious as she wants her young son to have a life beyond the present moment and seeks all possible alternatives to escape death. The husband chooses to die early when he realizes his scientific calculations have been incorrect. An additional fourth character, the son, longs for a magic cave where all will be saved.

It seems that the director of the film has captured the reactions most of us would consider if we knew the world would be ending immediately. The symbolism seems clear that the son's view represents the hope of religion and faith that this life on earth is not all there is. Christians believe in a heaven where all will live eternally. Having no hope seems to be the saddest way to live one's life I have always thought.

An Oppressed African Refugee

While reading an advent book for Christmas, entitled Christmas Is Not Your Birthday by Mike Slaughter, I noticed that the author described Jesus as an oppressed African refugee. It seemed so appropriate since the Gospels speak of the time shortly after Jesus' birth where He and his family had to flee to Egypt in order to escape the wrath of King Herod. Africa was a place of refuge for Christ until the time came when He could be safely brought back to Nazareth.

In the conservative Christian community, we sometimes turn a blind eye to the needs of the African people. We typically use the excuse that there are so many needs in America to concentrate on--certainly not those in Darfur. I have probably been guilty of this type of thinking as well. Being able to picture Jesus, however, as an oppressed African refugee somehow changes the scenario for me.

Yes, we still have to be careful about the charities we send our donations to since there is sometimes corruption associated with them. We need to research those we choose to send our money to in order to ensure that the money will be used well.

Why Not Chimney Sweepers?

While on my morning walk up to Majestic Point yesterday, I heard a discussion about presidential candidate New Gingrich's 100 ideas an hour. I was reminded of the famous line from Romeo and Juliet about Mercutio--that he speaks more in a minute than he will listen to in a month. This time Newt indicated that poor children, ages 14 to 16, could be used as janitors in order to replace the union janitors currently employed. My mind went back immediately to the William Blake poem entitled, "The Chimney Sweeper," in which the persona is in heaven already and lamenting that fact. It's common knowledge that young children in pre-modern times were used because of their size to clean chimneys. As a result, many did not live until adulthood.

I tried to apply this possibility to my own childhood as a poor child growing up in the Mississippi Delta towns of Greenville and later Tutwiler. My current primary care physician tells me now that my chest x-rays show a lesion caused most likely by childhood tuberculosis that mysteriously calcified over. I wonder if I could have survived as a child working as a janitor around a lot of dust, asbestos, lead, and so on.

Newt's idea is simply ludicrous. There is no need to return to Charles Dickens' Nineteenth Century England.

Words Fail

My neighbors continue to take their three dogs out into their front yard without a leash. Our little town though has a leash law, and most of the neighbors abide by it. I wouldn't be so annoyed if I didn't walk by this particular house at the same time every morning for my daily walk--7:30 to 8:30. In my old neighborhood I was bitten by a boxer once while walking and have been somewhat dog shy when large animals start barking and chasing me. These dogs include two golden retrievers and, yes, one very big boxer. For the first couple of times that the dogs displayed antisocial behavior, I was polite and did not complain. The third time, however, I asked the owner if he would please keep the dogs on a leash. He did not respond and simply took them inside the house only to let them out again once I was a half-block away. What's a person to do? It was obvious that words were failing me.

In recent days, I have tried non-verbal communication to let the owners know of my annoyance when the dogs are out. I have tried displaying certain signs--like counting from one to five fingers as each incident occurs. When I displayed two fingers, the owners returned a peace sign to me as well. When I was up to five, they gave me a full-fingered wave back. I have not chosen to use any obscene gestures. I gave up--at least until this morning. As I approached the house from a block away, the owners--sipping their coffee with the dogs on the porch and in the yard--noticed my arrival. They quietly went inside the house with three dogs at their heels. When I passed the house, I gave them a thumbs up and a big smile. I hope they were watching.

Nothing New Under the Sun

I have read and seen a couple of literary books and movies in the past few weeks. Unless one is familiar, however, with a substantial number of plots, the intertextuality could easily escape one's notice. The first is David Wroblewski's The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, and the second is the film The Way starring Martin Sheen. One is the retelling of Shakespeare's Hamlet, and the other is another version of Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales. Again, we are reminded of Solomon's lament in the book of Ecclesiastes, there's "nothing new under the sun."

The Wrobelewski novel does offer some novelty in the retelling of the famous tale of Hamlet. In this case, the protagonist is a young boy who is mute, though he does have the gift of hearing. Ophelia is not a young woman who, at least as Hamlet perceives her, is disloyal but instead she is a pet dog. Horatio is not a peer but an old man who offers sage advice after the death of Polonius (a veterinarian in the novel). The ending, of course, is tragic as is the original piece.

The film features a group of pilgrims walking the road between El Camino and Santiago de Compostela in France and Spain. At the end of the walk, one finds the statue of St. James where spiritual peace is achieved. Like Chaucer's characters, they each need a physical or psychological healing which must take place, i. e. healing from physical abuse in a marriage, healing from grief over the loss of a son, healing from the abuses of the church, healing from obesity, and so on.

The book and the film were both well done, yet one yearns for originality still in art.

The Invasion of the Earthworms and the Caterpillars

Last week I heard a report from the Fayetteville, Arkansas, NPR station chronicling an invasion of some 100 plus earthworms into one of the campus building at the University. After several scientists were interviewed, they attributed this invasion to the recent 5.6 earthquake in central Oklahoma a few weeks ago. Their reasoning was logical--that a disruption in the underbelly of the earth would naturally cause these little beings to try to escape--much like all of us that Saturday night. I was sitting on the sofa in our house in Northwest Arkansas waiting on my son and grandchildren to return home from the football game. Since it was a windy night, I at first thought the rumbling in the house was a tornado since we are known for these in our part of the world. I soon, however, decided it was an earthquake and turned on the nightly news immediately for confirmation. They reporters were discussing the flickering lights in the studio caused by the shaking. I called my son, who was in Taco Bell with the family, who hadn't felt anything. The next morning the grandchildren asked my husband, already in bed at eleven, if he felt anything. He simply said that he felt the shaking but thought "it was Mom B. getting into bed."

The caterpillar invasion followed shortly after the earthquake as well. Again, the wind continued, and I attributed the downed baby caterpillars to being blown from the trees. My husband assured me, however, that there were no bag worms this time of year. The streets, as well as our living room, seemed to have many earthworms and caterpillars around.

Many of our states have been hit hard this year by the bizarre weather from last winter forward--unbelievably cold weather in the deep South (20 below zero), numerous spring floods deep enough to close Interstate 40 for a period of time, severe drought in the summer, tornadoes, hail, and now earthquakes. What's a person to do?

Guess Who's Coming to Thanksgiving Dinner

While taking my usual walk on the neighborhood paths this week, I heard music critic Milo Miles of NPR fame discuss his dream guests for Thanksgiving dinner. His choices were not unexpected and included Bach, Mendelssohn, and Leonard Bernstein. I begin to also think about possible guests of my own for a Thanksgiving dinner. Mine would be Jesus, Paul, and Mary Magdalene.

Jesus, of course, for Christians would be an obvious choice since we would all have so many questions to ask of Him. What, for example, does He think of the modern social issues which are the topics of our discussion in Protestant churches, i. e. abortion, homosexuality, divorce, and so on? I suspect that His answer would be that, if He thought them extremely important, He would have specifically addressed them in His teaching. It is enough perhaps to know of His suffering, His extreme patience with all who would be His followers, His sacrifice for humanity, and His unconditional love.

The apostle Paul, however, might be more of a challenge to those who have for years questioned his position on women in the New Testament. Was it, for example, only in the context of specific New Testament churches that he cautioned women not to speak? Or was it a universal, everlasting admonition? He has been labeled as a sexist for years by feminists.

Mary Magdalene has also suffered in reputation through the past two thousand years and has been labeled a prostitute, though she was one of Jesus' closest disciples. Is it true that the hierarchy of the Catholic Church simply developed this myth to shrink the role of women in the church?

The dinner would be an intimate gathering of just four people. We would skip the ham, of course, and serve turkey only to this Jewish crowd. By the end of the evening, I would hope to be far more enlightened on the mysteries of their lives and teachings. I would also hope to be a better person in the future because of it.

Killing Clyde

My extended family in rural Kansas is facing a dilemma common to many farm families every year--to kill or not to kill the pet turkey for Thanksgiving. The pet's name is Clyde and has been raised by my sister-in-law and her two daughters for the past few months. They vote to pardon Clyde, similar to the two turkeys set free each year at the White House. They believe it would be unconscionable to eat Clyde on the holiday. On the other hand, one of the alpha males in the family has volunteered to shoot Clyde and dress out the breast meat only since he considers working with the dark meat "too much trouble."

I know that the usual advice to farm families in similar situations is to simply suspend one's emotions and go ahead and sell an animal such as a steer at the auction. It's also not that hard to kill the chickens on the farm since one does not get so attached to them perhaps. The whole incident has led me to question whether there are famous birds in cartoons that we grow attached to. I know there is Foghorn Leghorn, but he's not exactly a lovable character since he's always pestering all the other animals in the barnyard.

I lean on the side of buying a fully-dressed turkey, unknown as a personality to the family, at the grocery store and allowing Clyde to live. Oh, by the way these girls are not small in the family, 23 and 27 respectively. More on the story will follow--after Thanksgiving.

"Baby is its own excuse for being."

My book club discussed John L'Heureux's short story "The Comedian" yesterday. The crux of the piece centers on a young couple, Corinne and Russ, who face an unwanted pregnancy. On the first page of the story, L'Heureux states, "Baby is its own excuse for being." Corrine is an upcoming comedian, and her husband owns a failing construction business. The story is complicated by the fact that Corinne thinks she hears her baby singing within her womb. She is the only one who can hear it. With the doctor's advice, she decides to abort her child and then changes her mind and decides to keep the baby after all. This "to abort or not to abort" decision also confronts many couples in today's society.

As we are aware, my home state of Mississippi is now in the process of adding a life-at-fertilization ballot initiative to their laws. It defines a fertilized egg as a person. The complicating factors here involve the possibility that the fertilized egg will be a result of cloning or some "functioning equivalent thereof," whatever that means.

My own values on this topic have evolved over the years. In the 1970's after the Roe vs. Wade decision legalizing abortion, I supported a woman's right to abort. My knowledge of the topic was very limited, but I was a feminist doctoral student who was convinced that women should make their own decisions on this topic. Later I became pro-life after reading a very convincing argument about the subject. My dilemma these days is whether I can be consistent in my position by continuing to say, "I don't think the law should be changed, but I personally do not support abortion."

At this point I am leaning more toward support for the Mississippi ballot initiative. This child is a person and should have the same rights and privileges as all citizens.

A Modern Day Prophet

I have been waiting for quite some time to see Arkansas director Jeff Nichols' latest film, Take Shelter. Although not set in Arkansas this time (after his Shotgun Stories), it certainly reflects the economic fears of the times. A young working class husband, Curtis, and his wife are rearing their daughter who is deaf when he begins to experience hallucinations regarding storms. The pattern of the dreams is very much the same night after night. The storm clouds appear, often accompanied by thousands of birds dropping from the sky, ushering in some type of harm. It seems that not only nature is causing harm but also those who are closest to Curtis--his dog, his co-worker, his wife even. The question is whether Curtis is actually a modern day prophet or simply one who has inherited his mother's mental disease. He attempts to warn the neighbors of impending doom, yet no one will listen. He is a Noah without an audience once again.

While the thriller is interesting in itself as a psychological study, for me the real importance of the film lay in its portrayal of modern day families. They work hard to pay their mortgages and house payments yet still struggle with the rising costs of health care, job retention, high gas prices, the lack of mental health facilities in a rural environment, etc. The drop of the stock market by some 500+ plus points in two days does not even enter into their thinking. They are not the 1% in America. They live from paycheck to paycheck. It's enough to make anyone somewhat paranoid as he or she reflects upon the future.

Personally, I seem to move from place to place in my thinking. Normally, I am optimistic regarding the future, yet the storm clouds on the horizon do seem to be growing as we watch from afar (like Curtis). Greece's monetary crisis continues to grow, the unemployment stays over 9% month after month, the housing markets continue to decline, and debt both personally and in the country rises to fourteen trillion dollars. The prophet we need will have to possess supernatural powers to help us. Let's hope to see that one on the horizon soon.

Nothingness Without End

I have been a fan of actor Ryan Gosling in recent years and believe him to be one of the finest young actors in Hollywood today. His versatility extends to playing a Jewish Neo-Nazi to a buff young man who sleeps with a different woman every night to a man in a troubled marriage to a political staffer to a mentally challenged man in love with an inflatable doll. Yesterday I watched The Believer about the Jewish Neo-Nazi. The plot resolves around a hater who is searching for a theology in which he can believe.

The problem, as Dan Balint sees it, is that the Jews as a culture were too docile and unmanly from the beginning. When Abraham is asked to sacrifice his son Isaac, he obeys God's voice without question. When the Jews suffered atrocities in World War II, they do not fight back against the Germans. Dan is rebelling against his religious heritage that asks him to obey the laws of the faith and to do good for others. There is no promise of eternal life after this one, just "nothingness without end." He longs for a faith he can understand, and he believes he finds it in the far right group to which he becomes attached. As the movie progresses, however, he finds his childhood teaching cannot be so easily shed.

I too have longed for some freedom through the years regarding the faith of my childhood, Southern Baptist theology, which like Judaism demands strict adherence to a set of do's and don'ts. While we give lip service to the idea that Jesus replaced the law with grace, we live as if we don't really believe it. In my search for more freedom I have moved to the Episcopal faith. I have found all the freedom I could ever want there, but it is a stretch to say there is a set of beliefs I can adhere to. Some have even joked that "Episcopal theology" is an oxymoron. Once more I find myself like my mother who continued to refine her faith until her death. I am now re-evaluating my membership in the Episcopal faith since I find it perhaps too intellectual--too much in the realm of the scientific, humanistic, and atheistic. The final straw could be the promotion of a concert Sunday night at the church which will feature witches and warlocks. I am still too much of a Southern Baptist to believe in the appropriateness of such an event within the church.

Can I too believe in "nothingness without end"? Thankfully not.

"It's On"

Last week a fourteen-year-old African-American boy in South Little Rock was in the wrong place, as we say, at the wrong time. He was caught in gunfire while standing in his neighborhood innocently. When interviewed by a person from a local television station, his sister described him as a boy who just loved to watch cartoons all the time. Since the bullets he received were in both legs, his life was not in danger. He sat surrounded by large stuffed animals on his sofa. His brother, however, was sure in his answer to the interviewer's question, "If you could say something to the ones who shot your little brother, what would it be?" The older brother did not hesitate before he answered, "It's on" while looking straight into the camera. The interviewer asked, "What do you mean by that?" to which the older brother responded, "They will know what I mean."

Once more it appears that the gang violence within our city (and others throughout the country and world) will continue.

Apple Bites

The world has been mourning the death of Apple founder Steve Jobs in the past couple of days. Tributes involve numerous Internet postings on a special web site created for that purpose, along with other Facebook and YouTube memorials. Our son has been in San Francisco for the week and reports that the Apple Store close to the site of his conference has been inundated with flowers, candles, pictures, and other mementoes. Unfortunately, here in Little Rock the tribute was of a different variety.

The new (and only) Apple store opened just recently in the Promenade Shopping Center in West Little Rock. Yesterday someone ran into the store and stole several laptops and IPads. At this point the suspect is unknown. Hardly a tribute to the founder of Apple Inc.

Yes, the times are tough for many people, yet that does not preclude the need for honesty.

The Poverty Experiment

Our granddaughter who is turning thirteen next week is privileged. Saturday night as we were "kid sitting," we marveled at her schedule of activities for the evening--Cotillion in her new red dress I bought her last week followed by two junior high parties at homes. She then planned to spend the night at a girlfriend's house with six or so of her friends. When I picked her up Sunday afternoon, she told me of the poverty experiment she was to participate in the next two days.

She and her classmates were planning to go to Heifer Farms in order to attempt to understand what being poor actually means. They were to be given one food item for their team (each representing evidently a third-world country) for the entire time. Other teams were to be given another food item. If the participants wanted variety in their diet, they would barter and trade with another team. They would sleep on the floors of the huts they were occupying for the one night. I asked her to write about her experience so that I could read her account later and see what she learned from the trip.

Upon her return to her school the next day just before lunch, the poverty experiencers would likely eat a hearty meal. That night privilege would be returning to her once again as she was to attend a Taylor Swift concert here in Little Rock with her girlfriends. Privilege--poverty--privilege.

I am concluding already that this experinment in poverty will likely be the closest she ever gets to really experiencing what the non-privileged endure each day. No amount of talking to her about my own poverty in childhood would ever be as effective I am sure.

What Matters Most

Texas has been experiencing the worst drought in its state since the 1950's. The lack of measurable rainfall combined with the extremely high temperatures this past summer have given rise to numerous wildfires. A couple of my nieces live on ranches in Texas, one in Columbus and one in Arp. They both have had to load their cars with their valuable possessions in order to evacuate upon a moment's notice. I was amused in spite of their crises to hear what mattered most to one of my nephews, a seven-year-old. When his mother told him that they might have to leave and to gather up what he considered important, he came out with two cowboy hats on his head, a spray bottle of men's cologne, and an armful of Dr. Pepper's.

I have been thinking about what I would gather up myself in such an emergency. Most of us go for the electronic apparatus along with the family photographs and heirlooms. Since I value writing, I also would grab a copy of my yet unpublished novel and the computer drive that houses all the digital pictures from the past few years. Family Bibles have also been important in our family through the years. I value my mother's Bible and my grandmother's Bible the most since they were prone to write notes in the margins about life in general, not just theological issues. My cabinet includes a Bible given to my mother in 1928 by her paternal grandmother with the admonition "to read and follow." There is a Bible given to my step-grandfather by my grandmother Ethel in 1951 with the plan of salvation written by hand on the first page. I have a Bible given to my daughter Kimberly when she was six by her paternal grandmother. I have a small white Bible given to me by the Women's Missionary Union at a ceremony before I was married forty-six years ago. I even have a Bible written in German from our trip to Germany seven years ago. I can't imagine living without these family treasures.

After I am gone, my children will find a number of writings in my Bible as well. I am fond of writing down quotations from the various books I have been reading in retirement. Some are cynical, some are serious. I also have a couple of essays that I haven't shared with anyone. Our lives go by so quickly that it's simply impossible to say all we want to in this life, but I am hoping these writings will be what my children also value most.

Southern Patios and More

On my walks around the neighborhoods in Northwest Arkansas and in Central Arkansas, I often notice what I call "Southern patios." Most of the homes in our respective subdivisions were built within the past fifteen years and do not have a traditional front porch that so many of us grew up with. When we were young, we sat on the porch at night anywhere from the middle of March until the middle of November enjoying the cooler air and sharing food, drink, and stories with our neighbors. Modern homes simply have a one step stoop that goes directly into the front door of the house.

What is a Southerner to do but create a new "Southern patio," which means opening the garage door and sitting at the front of it to watch what's going on around? I have to confess that ours in Northwest Arkansas is plain with just a couple of camping chairs surrounded by the usual tools and lawn mower. Still each chair has a cup holder for that ever-present glass of iced tea, and really, that's all one needs. We often wave at those either driving by or walking by the house. We do not seem unusual to anyone.

I have noticed some unusual "Southern patios" recently though. One had a poster of John Belushi with a t-shirt reading "College" on it. The garage was also filled with comfortable chairs and surrounded by road signs with varying slogans: Stop, Yield, Railroad Crossing, etc. I hope these were obtained legally. Others have very nice sofas made of leather with refrigerators within each for those cool drinks on a crisp, football type of night. Some stay decorated for any season--it's not rare to see wooden pumpkins on sticks, lighted wreaths, Easter crosses with artificial flowers stuck in them, or any other suggestion of a new trend. One house even keeps a Christmas tree in the front window forever lit any time I walk by. I have often wondered if this is simply a sign of laziness from the owner, if one feels he or she needs the Christmas spirit year round, or perhaps--and this is my imagination working overtime I'm sure--there's a child who needs to be convinced he or she will see another Christmas.

In any event, "Southern patios" are entertaining and certainly give a sense of the personalities inside the home.

On the West Memphis Three

I have needed several weeks to reflect upon the freeing of the West Memphis three. This case came to the public's attention in 1993 when three eight-year-old boys were brutally beaten (one sexually mutilated) and killed. The investigation and subsequent trial convicted three men of the murder--Damien Echols, Jessie Misskelley, and Jason Baldwin. They served eighteen years in jail before their release in August under the Alford plea, allowing them to claim innocence while admitting that the prosecution had more than enough evidence to originally convict them.

I have to admit that when the murders occurred, I did not follow the case closely. I just knew that supposedly the young perpetrators were involved in a satanic ritual when the murders occurred. Since I also knew of other young people in my town, Siloam Springs, Arkansas, who were rumored also to be engaged in such practices, I believed this explanation for the murders to be reasonable. In subsequent years, many high-profile stars had begun to believe in the innocence of the West Memphis Three and worked tirelessly to free them.

As a grandmother of two grandsons, eight and six, I shutter to think of the pain that the relatives of these young innocents have undergone in the past eighteen years. Even they are divided regarding the innocence or the guilt of the three convicted. I know only that these young boys seemingly have died without justice--there is no justice if the West Memphis are truly guilty of the crime and no justice if no one else is convicted in the future of the crime. These boys--like Caylee Anthony--deserve to have their lives vindicated.