Jan 13, 2012
(I promised you a post on The Fairy Queen, but the Fairy Queen was shy)
North of Macon, in the Oconee National Forest, the road to Sue’s cabin is a long drive, with towns and turns that fill a page of directions. At four o’clock one spring morning I loaded Oyster and Chilidog into the back of my Honda wagon and headed up the interstate. Driving in the dark with no landmarks but the exit signs, no traffic but the trucks, the time and distance passed quickly, and the sunrise on my right was soft and clear. We drove up I-75 and I-16 and over many country roads to Sue’s cabin.
OYSTER AND I; CHILIDOG
The wiggling and whining began when we reached the old bridge over Murder Creek, rusting iron and old wooden planks that made the Honda rattle. As soon as I parked at the end of Sue’s drive and opened the tailgate, the dogs burst out of the car, and Putnam tore up the hill, barking, to meet them. Then there was ass-sniffing and nose-touching, circling and chasing until they were all satisfied they knew each other.
SUE AND PUTNAM
The cabin is well below the road, and the unpaved driveway descends steeply, then rises to a clearing. Fog or rain turns the Georgia clay to slick mud, trapping the cars, so we always walk in. We trudged up and down the hill, mercifully dry on a cool sunny day, lugging water jugs and food.
Every trip to the cabin is a new adventure. It began as a pine box with a loft, beautifully crafted by Emery, an old man who works alone. The boards run diagonally up to the high ceiling, the wood gleaming yellow. In the twenty years since he built the basic box and dug the hole for the outhouse, he has added a screened front porch, and an open deck on the back and side. At each visit there are new souvenirs on the pine walls and wooden shelves: a tile with a hand-painted picture of the cabin, a turtle shell, a deer skull.
Sue has ten acres, and watches with dread as other tracts of land are cleared and sold off in large lots. But it’s almost twenty years since she built the cabin, and in that time she has only acquired two new neighbors and one new hunt camp.
Her one close neighbor, Gloria, was there first, up the creek from Sue’s land. She is a tall, scrawny, rural woman, missing some teeth. The man who knocked them out left a dozen years ago, with some legal persuasion from Sue, and now Gloria lives happily with her old dog, her garden, and her chickens, who run free through the woods. Free-range chickens, I suppose they are, but Gloria wouldn’t think of calling them anything so fancy. They’re just chickens.
Sue and I finished unloading the car, and I sat on the porch in the old Adirondack chair while she puttered: sweeping up a dead spider, pulling down a sleeping bag for my cot in the corner, bringing in wood for the stove. For Sue, housekeeping at the cabin is play, not work. After the long drive, I prefer to sit and gaze, breathing the cool piney air, listening to a cardinal sing three notes over and over.
There will be plenty of time for talk, as we bush-whack through the woods, or huddle in front of the wood stove with our wine. We have known each other since our twenties, when we were young lawyers fighting for the poor, young women struggling to be heard. We have grown up together.
JACKSONVILLE AREA LEGAL AID, 1975. SUE AND I AT LEFT.
The dogs had worn themselves out chasing up and down the hill. Putnam was helping Sue putter, while Chili and Oyster lay at my feet. Oyster was regal, her head high, her tongue out, panting. Chili was half-asleep, her head on her paws, ears relaxed, eyes closing, her tail wagging whenever I threw a remark her way.
Sue brewed coffee on the camp stove, in a nasty old aluminum percolator. I heard a rustling in the leaves. One of Chili’s long ears twitched higher; Oyster turned her head. Around the bend in the creek trail came three large hens in procession, pecking and chuckling and heading for the clearing.
Chili was up and out the door, down the cinder block steps in one wiry leap. Two chickens flapped and squawked into the safety of the woods, but the lead chicken was flat on the ground, Chili standing over her. I screamed, “Chili, NO!” and was at her side, holding her back by the collar. Oyster and Putnam and Sue were with us now, dogs barking, chicken lying flat. Sue dragged Putnam into the porch and threw me two leashes, and I hauled Chili and Oyster inside. We came back out and stood over the chicken. It was injured, but still twitching, and we knew we had to kill it quickly. We’d explain to Gloria later.
Chili was my dog; it was my problem. But I had no experience with killing chickens. We had no gun. Sue has No Hunting notices posted all around the perimeter, and a couple of Wildlife Refuge signs for good measure. I would have to smash it with a shovel. Sue went to fetch it, and I breathed deep to find strength. I raised the big shovel up and over my head with both hands. As I swung it down, the chicken leapt to her feet and raced into the woods.
Jan 6, 2012
All happy Christmases are alike – compounded of food, friends, memories, and most of all, family, complete with love and aggravation. We had a quiet one this year – no Twelve Days of Houseguests.click Only Luli for four days, overlapping with Joe’s daughter Leah for three, overlapping with a day visit from Rick (Joe’s brother) and Catherine, plus two cousins and a girlfriend.
Before Christmas we went south for visits with family. Tuesday night was a big Hanuukah dinner at Joe’s Dad’s house in Delray. Fifteen people, matzoh ball soup, brisket, latkes, broccoli, apple cake and rugeleh. The three children lit the menorah, played dreidel, and received generous money gifts. We did not get to read the Hannukah story (the kids were a little out of control), but the menorah made an impression on Amanda, and each time we saw one in the following week she would tell me which day of Hannukah it was.
BY TERRY KATZ FROM 123RF.COM
The day after we returned from south Florida, I picked up my sister Luli in Jacksonville. Her plane was late, but not very, and we were home in time for dinner with the Hilkers. Mary Anne and Larry are our only old friends with a young child. Ariel is eleven, and she and Amanda have been friends since Amanda was born. They call each other sister, and play and fight as though they were.
We spent a balmy evening outside in their back yard, with pizza and half a bushel of oysters. Joe and Larry shucked most of them and fed them to Luli in a steady stream. Amanda rode Ariel’s scooter around and around the patio, stopping on each circuit for another oyster warmed on the grill.
BY LENA GROENHALL AT WWW.123RF.COM
On Christmas Eve, Luli, Amanda and I went to the children’s service at United Church of Gainesville. I made Amanda leave her book in the car, and told Luli she should leave her battered daypack, which serves as both luggage and purse. I had no good reason for either of these rules, just a fuzzy feeling that it was not respectful or appropriate – shades of my mother! My bossiness made all of us cross, but it couldn’t ruin the service.
Sandy, one of the ministers, greeted Amanda at the door with a Wise Man figure to put on the creche when they came to that part of the Christmas story. Amanda took it reluctantly, and told me “I don’t want to do it.” “Okay, you can just take it back to Sandy.” Which she did, after choosing seats for us in the front row.
Andy, another minister, told the Christmas story, with frequent pauses at the appropriate place for children to bring up their creche figures, or for all of us to sing a carol. The children, many of them barely walking, many in lavish Christmas dress, carried their lambs, shepherds, and angels to the creche table, where Sandy helped place them. Amanda’s figure wasn’t missed, as there were about a dozen Three Wise Men.
BY KATERINA STEPANOVA AT WWW.123RF.COM
The brief sermon in doggerel was accompanied by a slide show of Mary and Joseph, played by a very pregnant church member and her husband, searching in vain for a room at Gainesville’s seedy motels. The service ended with everyone gathering in the courtyard with candles to sing Silent Night. We sang many traditional carols that afternoon, with not a Rudolph or Santa in the bunch, and I was glad for Amanda to be learning the Christmas carols that I love.
We usually decorate our tree on Christmas Eve, so we had waited to buy one until we returned from South Florida. But on December 22 all the tree lots were empty, and the tents were coming down. Finally, at Home Depot, Joe found four trees, and rather than take advantage of having the last trees in Gainesville, the clerk gave him one for free, and sold him a lopsided bare pine wreath for a dollar. I had found a bag of decorations – ribbons, small pinecones and a few balls – for 25 cents at the Children’s Home Society thrift store. So I wrapped the ribbon around the wreath, added a rumpled red tartan bow, some small pinecones, and a teddy bear and shiny balls. Joe worries that I will turn into Martha Stewart.
After Joe wound the lights around the tree, Amanda hung all but the highest ornaments. She promptly broke the blown glass ornament Joe and I bought in New Orleans, and I told her “It’s a tradition – we break one ornament every year – it’s good to have it over with.”
So many of the ornaments carry memories. The yarn ornaments I made with Amanda’s mother and uncle when they were young. The punk snow man my son made, with a red mohawk and a safety pin in his ear. On the mantel, tiny creche figures from Amanda’s uncle, and Amanda Angel, a little figurine I bought when she was three. Missing is the ornament that was dearest to me – the angel Amanda’s mother made out of a toilet paper tube and a styrofoam ball decorated with glitter and spangles. It topped our Christmas tree for fourteen years, until our relationship deteriorated and she took it for her own tree. Now we have three ornaments made by Amanda, including a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows.
On Christmas morning Amanda opened her stocking presents with great enthusiasm and appreciation. Among other treats were a tree made of cardboard, which, placed in a magic solution, grew fluffy crystals in 24 hours, and a small rubber rhinoceros which floated in a bowl of water until it became a large rubber rhinoceros, after passing through a slimy stage.
After breakfast (eggs, sausage, bagels, lox, cream cheese, grapefruit, strawberries and Calvados) we opened the presents under the tree. Again Amanda took time to appreciate each gift, even the slippers and calendar, and then cheered us on as we opened our own. I was thrilled by her graciousness and joy. Although I am her mother now, I am still a grandmother, and easily impressed.
We gave her a dance program for the Wii, so after presents we all danced. I flopped after about five minutes (no stamina, MUST resume regular exercise). Joe lasted thirty minutes, while Amanda and Luli continued for a full hour.
Leah arrived the next day and we had another gift exchange. The highlights were stick-on nails for Amanda, a book of poetry by Lucille Clifton for me, and for Leah, an invitation to accompany Joe to South Africa for two weeks this summer. Amanda and I had both declined to go, but now she said, “When I said I didn’t want to go again, I didn’t know Leah was going.” She adores Leah, her big sister, who indulges and plays with her while using all her middle- school-teacher tricks to keep her in line. It’s a lovely relationship.
We always save our big Christmas dinner for the day when Leah arrives, and it was our best dinner ever. (Steaks, spicy grilled vegetable ratatouille, garlic greens (mustard and chard), mashed potatoes, apple and pumpkin pies with butter crusts and tangerine zest in the pumpkin. Whipped cream and ice cream, OF COURSE.) Luli and I love to cook together. She is a professional cook, and I frequently seek her advice, but she insists that at my house she is the sous chef. The pies were worthy of the holiest of holidays.
Bruce and Iris came for dinner. We have had many Christmas dinners with them and their two children. But now Jordan lives in New York, and Casey has moved to Paris. Iris had just returned from a visit, and told us that Casey has made her home there, and intends to stay. Bruce said ruefully, “I guess our new hobby is visiting Paris.” Leah has chosen New Orleans, and is making it her own. With all the Muu Muu Mamas, I rejoice when the children grow up and create their own good lives.
When Rick and his family came, we went canoeing on the Santa Fe River, after a feast of cold cuts and cake. We all enjoyed it except Leah, who remembered too late that she hates canoeing. It didn’t help that Amanda didn’t paddle much, and in attempting to splash Joe, had splashed Leah instead. The day was way too cold for water fights, but Leah was very good-natured in her complaint. We all went out for sushi, Leah and I ordered bizarre and very alcoholic drinks, and then Rick and his family took off.
There were more feasts and celebrations. On New Year’s Eve the Hilkers came for supper (salmon, parslied potatoes, greens and fruitcake). On New Year’s Day Sh’mal and Linda, old HOME Van friends, came for lunch out on the deck (egg salad, green salad, cheese, pumpernickel and oranges) and then we went to Peggy’s big retirement party in High Springs, where I saw most of the Muu Muu’s and many of their grown kids. And that night, with Amanda in bed, Joe and I celebrated in the living room and danced to Beau Soleil, with a fire in the fireplace and the Christmas tree lights blinking.
The holidays wore me out, and I yearned for an empty house, and solitude. I am thrilled to be back at work. Every year one of us says, "Can't we skip Christmas?" But I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
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NEXT WEEK: THE FAIRY QUEEN
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Dec 23, 2011
(I urge you to sing this to that fine old tune we all know and love)
On the first day of houseguests my true love said to me, “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the second day of houseguests my true love said to me, “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the third day of houseguests my true love said to me, “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the fourth day of houseguests my true love said to me, “Eric comes tonight,” “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the fifth day of houseguests my true love said to me, “TOO MANY GIFTS!” “Eric comes tonight,” “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the sixth day of houseguests my true love said to me, “I’ll never eat again,” “TOO MANY GIFTS!” “Eric comes tonight,” “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the seventh day of houseguests my true love said to me, “Let’s go get Leah,” “I thought you said you’d do it,” “TOO MANY GIFTS!” “Eric comes tonight,” “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the eighth day of houseguests my true love said to me, “Who’s coming next?” “Let’s go get Leah,” “I’ll never eat again,” “TOO MANY GIFTS!” “Get it yourself,” “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the ninth day of houseguests my true love said to me, “We should change the sheets,” “Who’s coming next?” “Let’s go get Leah,” “I’ll never eat again,” “TOO MANY GIFTS!” “Eric comes tonight,” “It’s not my family,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the tenth day of houseguests my true love said to me, “We should change the sheets,” “Whatta ya mean ‘we’?” “Who’s coming next?”“Let’s go get Leah,” “I told you I’d do it,” “TOO MANY GIFTS!” “Eric comes tonight,” “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Leave me alone,” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the eleventh day of houseguests my true love said to me, “Here comes Matt and Amber,” “We should change the sheets,” “Whatta ya mean ‘we’?” “Who’s coming next?”“Let’s go get Leah,” “Where’d you put my wallet,” “TOO MANY GIFTS!” “You forgot the onions,” “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the twelfth day of houseguests my true love said to me, “I’ll see you later,” “You forgot the onions,” “Leave me alone,” “Whatta ya mean ‘we’?” “I told you I’d do it,” “It’s not my family,” “You said you’d do it,” “GET IT YOURSELF,” “Where’d you put my wallet?” “Where’s my list?” “I’ll never eat again,”and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
The Feminist Grandma is taking a vacation - I'll be back January 6
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Dec 9, 2011
A few weeks ago I wrote about finding a church that I loved, but Amanda rejected. We continued our quest, visiting several, and now I believe we have found the church for us.
Two friends told me that the United Church of Gainesville had excellent children’s programs. I knew they were a progressive church with a social justice orientation. They were the source of our first HOME Van donation nine years ago: in a single service they collected 189 pairs of socks, 189 jars of peanut butter, and $189. They also participate in the Interfaith Hospitality Network, in which member churches take turns providing temporary shelter, food and services to homeless families. So I thought we’d give it a try.
The people mingling outside the church were all white, but in the entrance Amanda was happy to see a girl she knew from kindergarten, and we sat with that family. The sanctuary is a beautiful space of wood and windows. People were welcoming, and the sermon was thought-provoking. The children gathered in front for a story, we sang to everyone who had a birthday that week, and then Amanda went off with the children for Sunday School.
PHOTO FROM TRADITIONALMASS.ORG
As a child I went to an Episcopalian church. To me, church is dogma and ritual and music. The only dogma I’ve found at UCG is a commitment to welcome everyone no matter who they are or what they believe. A part of me asks, So what’s the point? The congregation has created lovely rituals, but they lack the mystery, history and solemnity I loved as a child. There is beautiful music of all sorts – classical, Dixieland, bluegrass -, but the hymnal seems to consist entirely of hymns written since 1960. The lyrics are clunky progressive pieties, and give me the willies, though there are few I would disagree with.
Still, Amanda enjoyed her time with the children, and wanted to return. I found, as I always do in church, that the program of listening, speaking, silence and singing is a calming time that taps into wells of memory and grief I rarely visit.
Of all the churches we visited, Amanda liked this one the best. I had my doubts, but I went to a meeting for prospective members. We sat in a circle to say why we were there, and listened to members and ministers who told us what the church means to them.
I heard the same words over and over: community, commitment to service and social justice, spiritual seeking. I thought desperately, “I don’t want community. I’m drowning in community!” I’ve been in Gainesvillle over thirty years, and have many old friends whom I see too seldom. As for service, my hands are full with the HOME Van and school volunteering, not to mention Amanda. I don’t want any more obligations, or any more guilt. Finally, when it comes to a search for truth and meaning, I am like someone born with no sense of taste. I don’t miss it, and in fact take comfort in the thought that we are tiny specks in an unfeeling, unthinking universe.
HUBBLESITE.ORG/GALLERY/ALBUM/THE_UNIVERSE
But Amanda likes going to this church, and feels she is part of the group. We go almost every Sunday now, and bit by bit I am less of a stranger. I’ve learned a few names, and I’ve signed us up to help host dinner for the homeless families who are staying at the church. I like the thoughtful, honest sermons of the four ministers, and my prickly, judgmental voice is becoming fainter. We may have found our church.
NEXT WEEK: The No Bird
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Dec 2, 2011
I don’t understand the passion for purses, but the passion for shoes? – I get it. I used to mash my feet into spiky toes, pound my soles walking on spiky heels. Three inches was as high as you could go back then, unless you shopped in specialty costume stores. Now heels are up to five inches. I see women in these tottery-high heels everywhere, and my toes hurt. I see a young woman in platform shoes and fear for her ankles.
High heels screw up your feet, your legs, and your back. They hurt us and hobble us. Why do we wear them? Because our self-images are still shaped by fashion and media. Along with thin and young, we think sexy means that look you get in high heels – long curving calves, buttocks and breasts pushed out. Feminism has only taken us so far, and when we’re on the prowl we’re still willing to suffer to look sexy.
OUCH
I always loved shoes, and have lots of shoe-memories. As a toddler I had to wear ugly brown oxfords instead of Mary Janes. In elementary school, I wore saddle shoes, in junior high I wore loafers and flats, and then it was boarding school and back to saddle shoes again. When our dog chewed on Luli’s flats my mother had the cobbler turn them into peep toes. I was jealous; my mother wore open toed pumps and they were very fashionable.We dressed up flats and pumps with clip-on bows and brooches. I held color chips against my fuschia dance dress so the white satin pumps could be dyed to match.
When I was fourteen I took the train alone into New York City. I wore slate-gray high heels with pointy toes. It was my first time navigating the city on my own, and I strutted down Madison Avenue until my heel went into a grating and broke off. It was white plastic with a spike inside. I fitted the spike back into the hole, and limped the rest of the way to my appointment.
My first sexy boots were knee-high fake patent leather, and made my feet smell terrible. I sprinkled talcum powder inside. When I pulled them off my stockings were covered with powder and I left little white footprints on my first lover's carpet. The idea that my feet could smell? Mortifying.
I bought black patent leather sandals with spike heels and an ankle strap. That was when I first heard “fuck-me shoes,” from a lover who liked fantasy sex, but was otherwise annoying.
RUDE SHOES (KIRIAKI BY NINE WEST)
I was close to forty when comfort trumped style. After that, it was light weight hiking boots in winter, thick-soled sandals for summer and Naturalizer pumps with one- inch chunky heels in many shades for teaching or dress-up. I didn’t stop wishing I could wear snazzy shoes, but the pain was persuasive.
A couple of years after I got my new knees, my left arch collapsed. My ankle was pulled out of alignment, swelled up like a balloon, and left me limping. I tried ice, braces, arch supports, cortisone shots. The podiatrist finally gave up and sent me to a specialist, whose custom-made orthotic inserts fixed the problem. There’s only one catch – the inserts are very expensive and are made to fit one particular shoe. So I wear the same shoe style all the time, with fancy dress and jeans. Old lady shoes are acceptable anywhere. They come in black, buff, and white. Until recently I had one worn out, knockabout pair, one kept-clean pair for dress, and one buff pair for variety.
I can’t go barefoot anymore – as soon as I get up in the morning I put on my shoes. I miss my bedroom slippers in the winter, and sandals in the summer. My feet are imprisoned except when I’m sleeping. But foot freedom is a small loss. Now I can dance again, and even hike up hills.
Still, every time I go to Zappo’s, where I buy my shoes, I linger over the “women’s heels” pages. One pair promises to “capture your prey with a memorable message of seduction” They even have a brand called Promiscuous (WHAT is the world coming to!) I yearn a while, and then I order another pair of Brooks Addiction Walkers.
Then one day as I was whining to Luli about my shoes, she suggested I paint them. Immediately I googled shoe paint, found a site with instructions, and ordered about $30 worth of supplies – 8 colors, leather cleaner, and an acrylic finish. Iris and Amanda and I had a happy morning painting, and since then Amanda and I have painted my two remaining pairs.
AMANDA'S CREATIONS
PAINTING SHOES
THE FG COLLECTION
I’m amused by how my shoes cheer me up. Every time I look down and see them peeking from my pants I smile. It’s not all good. I don’t have any shoes left for somber or formal occasions, and I know if I buy another black pair, the temptation will be too great. (I’m dying for zebra stripes.) But dress codes for funerals have seemingly disappeared, and I’ll never be invited to the White House. I'm glad to have shoes that say, "I am still here.”
NEXT WEEK: An Infidel in Church: The Church Search, Part II
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Nov 17, 2011
I was looking for a church for Amanda and me. I am not a believer, but she attended church sporadically before she came to live with us, and her belief in God and Jesus are important to her.
FROM "A CHILD IS BORN" BY MARGARET WISE BROWN. ILLUSTRATIONS BY FLOYD COOPER
click
Amanda has been self-conscious about her white grandparents, and undoubtedly will be again. I wanted a church where we could both be comfortable, where a white grandma was accepted. More important, I wanted a church where Amanda would hear more about love and forgiveness, about doing good works and rejoicing in God’s creation, than about possession by demons and the fires of hell.
It was a puzzle. Where could I find a church for both of us – black Christian child and white atheist woman? I heard of two “integrated” churches, and went on their websites. They were big evangelical churches, and their photo albums didn’t look very integrated to me – a smattering of black faces among thousands of white. And their missions and messages disturbed me, insisting that Jesus is the one and only Way. Maybe searching for a Christian church that doesn’t focus on Christianity is unrealistic, but it can’t be good for Amanda to think Grandma and Grandpa are headed for hell. We ended by visiting four different churches.
Twenty years ago I took my foster children to a black United Methodist church. I really like the minister there, who told me, “God doesn’t see color.” The Methodists seem to accept that there may be various paths to truth, and they sing a lot of the hymns I grew up with. So on Palm Sunday, Amanda and I dressed up and headed to church.
Amanda chose a pew in the middle. At first she sat stiffly, two feet away from me, looking a little worried. But as the familiar sights and sounds sank in – the praise choir clapping and singing, people waving their hands, swaying – she began to relax.
PITTSBURGH GOSPEL CHOIR from IMAGES.GOOGLE.COM
I sang enthusiastically. At home I sing constantly, and it often aggravates Joe and Amanda. He says, “Please stop singing,” and she simply says, “Grandma.” But in church she didn’t object, and soon she was singing too.
The minister welcomed all the visitors, saying, “You are in the right place, you are where you belong.” She looked right at us.
It was a special day. They were baptizing a baby, maybe a year old. She had a great mop of soft black hair, and creamy tan skin. Her black father and white mother were surrounded by family in all shades. They passed the baby to the minister, and when the water touched her face, she cried. Amanda watched closely.
The minister introduced Michelle Duster, a descendant of Ida B. Wells. She told us that while she was proud of her great grandmother, the anti-lynching crusader, all our ancestors were strong. They were fighters and survivors. They survived the Middle Passage, slavery, Reconstruction, Jim Crow. And none of them did it alone.
IDA B. WELLS
click
As far as I know, these were not my ancestors, but in this church Amanda would learn the values and history I hope she will cherish. In this church I heard the messages that matter to me – messages about service, community, justice. Church is for believers and seekers, and I am a comfortable atheist. But gospel music makes my soul sing, and I love to be in a place where people are rejoicing and trying to be good. Here Amanda could find community and strength, and this is the church I would choose.
Unfortunately, our next visit was a disaster. The minister called all the children up to the front, and Amanda of course went too. But they had been rehearsing a reading, and the group leader sent Amanda back because she didn’t have a role in it. She was mortified, and NEVER wants to go back. I had to resume my search.
NEXT WEEK: One More Day for Thanksgiving
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