The Beginnings of My Funeral File

I'm not sure why I decided to write this now.  I'm in no hurry to have this matter but here's the beginning of my funeral file.  Take note, To Whom It May Concern.

Music:
"Looking for Space" by John Denver. Start the service with this.
 "Nearer, Still Nearer."  It might set the mood once everyone gets seated.I have always wanted an a cappella version of this.
"Blessed Be Your Name" by Matt Redmon
"Holy, Holy, Holy" traditional
"Days of Elijah" to end the service.  I want it to go on and on and build and build.  Sing "behold he comes, riding on the clouds" until everyone is just in raptured praise.  Greg will know what to do.
Anything else that you think I would like, To Whom It May Concern.

I want stories told: funny stories, embarassing stories, inspiring stories.  I'd really like it if someone I'm friends with speaks and if there is someone I have mentored or inspired to do something life changing to also speak.  If my kids want to talk, great. If anyone wants to speak, I'd welcome it. 

I'm sure I'll think of something else but for now, let's file this one away.

Held Captive by Miss Lyla

Last night we had family over to celebrate the passage from underage to legal status for this young man right here.

For some reason after dinner Miss Lyla was in an unusual state.  She was holding court with all the grown ups present.  She was playing teacher and everyone was her student.  We all were given the chance to select nicknames.  The Birthday Boy was called "Fancy Broadway." My brother-in-law selected "Dirty Diaper."  He refused to change. *bah dum bum*  She called us all babies.

After 30 minutes into this forced capitivity, it came time to bring it to a close.  So "I Do Not Care To Play" (dad) came in and sat down. He said, "You know this is only going to end one way.  She is going to melt down and run upstairs crying."

 I looked at Lyla and said, "OK.  One more game of Simon Says and we'll have to quit for tonight."

Her face crumbled.  She buried her head on my shoulder and started crying.  Sure enough, she almost ran upstairs but I stopped her and made her stay.

Nana said, "Oh, Lyla.  Come here and sit in my lap.  Tell me what's wrong."

"They wouldn't play right.  They were all talking over me and not cooperating."

"Oh, dear.  Well you just sit right here with me and let's see what we can do about this."

The room collectively shook heads and smirked.  Then the quote of the night came from my new son-in-law.

"Nana is an enabler."

The In Town Conference

So the new buzz phrase going around is "staycation."  You know, going on vacation without leaving home.  There are all kinds of suggestions and ideas for this concept.  Staycations usually turn into farting around the house and getting on each other's nerves.  I digress.

This week we had our semi-annual Violence Against Women Conference in our home city of Big D!  So it was a "stayconference?"  I'm struggling with what to call it. Not quite the Hawaii experience of February.  The daily temps exceeded 100 degrees.  Summer isn't the best time to show off Dallas but no one really cared what I thought.  I"m sure this is considered the "off-season" for Dallas and this conference goes for off-season bargains. I digress again. Because I actually do have a point!

These conferences are a challenge for me.  They push me, make me think and get me rattled.  We had a lunch (paid) speaker who used the platform as an opportunity to complain about pay inequity on the speaker's circuit.  Seemed odd to me, frankly.  She's still being paid more than I've ever made in my own time as a speaker.  Most of my gigs have been freebies.   Hmmm... She also complained that if a man gets up to speak about violence against women he is viewed as a sensitive, caring man whereas a woman speaking is seen as a loud-mouthed bitch (pardon me).  Hmmm... I've been speaking for about 18 years and only once someone criticized my motives and that was a dumb-headed 15 year old kid!  I've never been called a derisive name ever.  Ever.

Another guy put together a presentation about rape in the movies.  Once he got to HIS point, it was pretty good, but his PowerPoint was awful.  He had so many typos it was distracting.  PLEASE PROOFREAD YOUR MATERIALS!! And he tried to set up the presentation with some sociology mumble that I had trouble following. He was saying that we marginalize certain groups that we find socially unacceptable (tracking, following).  He said that these groups serve a social purpose- latent marginalization (hard to wrap brain around but I'm trying).  Take the poor.  We don't want to be poor.  That is seen as bad but many good things come from having- as Jesus put it- the poor always with us.  The poor can encourage social responsibility and charity (good things, right?).  But he was trying to say that no one wants to BE the poor.

He said, "I'm sure no one's parents said, 'I hope that when you grow up you are poor.  I hope you have to share a single cup with the entire family and carry your waste bucket from the house to the ditch. "  I'm sure no one's parents said, 'I hope you grow up to shovel manure or do the dirty work that the poor do."

I nearly raised my hand (but he was already off track and off his timeline).  While it is true that my parents never told me they hoped I was poor and I was given a college education (which mostly came about by my father's and grandparents' deaths!), my parents did instill a kind of mindset about being poor that was not negative.  They said things like, "There's no shame in being a garbage man or a ditch digger."  "Whatever you do, do it wholeheartedly, no matter how much you think the job stinks."  "Never be above a hard day's work."
And to prove it, I spent 12 years as a cleaning lady, a job clearly seen as something "the poor" do. OK.  I wasn't trying to prove anything. I was serving my family in an honorable way no matter what people think of the job.

Please.  Spare me this elitist, intellectual mumbo-jumbo. 

It might be a dirty job.  But someone's got to do it.  It might just be you.

Jukin' and Jivin'

The other day I had a serious flashback.  It was something I hadn't thought about for years and years and years.  A person from my hometown mentioned The Jolly Joy.

I was telling Greg about this and how I suddenly was flooded with memories of old black folks talking about this or that thing that happened "down 'tu The Jolly Joy."  Greg asked me what in the world that even meant.  I told him it was our town's Juke Joint.

So I got curious to see if I even knew what a Juke Joint was and if I was even using the term correctly.  So I went to The Most Trusted Source of Information on the Internet. And sho nuf! The Joy Jolly was a bona fide juke joint.  I guess the only difference between the description given on said reference site and The Joy Jolly was that The Jolly Joy wasn't some backwoods shanty.  It was right in the middle of town.  And it was notorious!  There were two places in town where violence (and the gossip of violence and nefarious goings on) took place: The Jolly Joy and the VFW Post.  My brother once suffered a baseball to the skull bone (now known as a head injury or a concussion) and was taken to the emergency room.  While he and my mother waited it out, they wheeled in a man with a bloody knife wound from the VFW Post.  And of course, he was drunk.

But The Jolly Joy was so known for violence and debauchery that good folks didn't even go down west Goliad after 10 at night for fear of what might land on the street in front of The Jolly Joy.  My daddy owned a gas station/car garage on the edge of "that side of town" and employed a few black men over the years. I remember how they would talk about the goings on 'tu The Jolly Joy.  It was interesting the the reference in  The Most Trusted Source of Information on the Internet that they made the claim that some blacks, those seeking white approval, opposed the amorality of the raucous "jook crowd".  I'm not so sure that was the case but I guess it could be true.  I know The Joy Jolly was usually mentioned in sermons about immorality in churches across town.  Many of these churches were populated with some of the same faces that had the night before been down tu The Jolly Joy.

I looked at Google Earth the other day to see if I could find the corner of Goliad and 2nd street where The Jolly Joy stood.  The Jolly Joy has now become a place called "Platinum City."  They host Latino Night every Saturday. Times, they change. 

And it reminded me that for much of my childhood I lived in a town divided and separated by race. And morality.

ADDENDUM:
Over the weekend, I made a super quick trip to Crockett to attend a fundraiser for a childhood friend.  It was held out in a barn on the outskirts of town.  I drove down with an old friend, Darrell.  We were the only white people there- which was cool.  I saw people I haven't seen since high school!

We got to town too early so we went to a restaurant on Goliad.  We were both surprised that Crockett had gone "wet" and the restaurant was serving alcohol at a real, honest, no membership needed bar! I said, "Well, they've just brought it out into the open."
As we were sitting there, I reminded him that The Jolly Joy used to be almost right across the street.  He started laughing and asked if I had ever been inside.  "Of course not!"  I answered.  He said he never had been either but knew friends who had and he had heard all the notorious stories.  We talked about whether or not they were true. We drove around town afterward and recalled so many things. His memories were different than mine but really, really similar (of course). We talked about where people lived.  We drove by our old houses.  We tried to go see his mother but she was in Arizona visiting his brother, John. I tried to get him to push me on the old merry go round that shockingly is still in the park (that thing was always dangerous!!). He turned me down saying there were limits to his nostalgia!  We passed what I thought was the VFW post but it was actually an American Legion post. And a crowd had already started to gather for the night.
Later, after the party as we headed back home, we drove past the old Jolly Joy site.  On all four corners, people were congregated and hanging out.  It was such a stark contrast to the quietness of the rest of town!  We laughed and Darrell threatened to stop.  The spirit of The Jolly Joy must still be strong.

Jaded

This morning I was engrossed in the news of the day.  Of course I am still a dinosaur and love having an actual piece of newprint in my hands as I read.  I know I should work on getting used to the online news but it's hard for dinosaurs to adapt.  I should ask the croc or the gila monster how they did it.  They probably were the first to quit licking rocks for nurishment or somesuch.

As I read, I was reading one disturbing story after another. ( And no, it wasn't the "where are they now" on Bob Tilton that disturbed me, although I did get a giggle when they described him now as " lowering his evangicoff!" ) No, there was this story.  And this one.  And this one.  I had a conscious thought that, wow, I must have a heart of stone because I'm not surprised, grossed out, distrubed or even chilled by these accounts.  My emotions were more apathetic than I thought.  Until I read this. 

Reading about how Melanie Goodwin's parents embraced the mother of the son who help Melanie's killer got to me. How they had worked to reconcile in love with the grief and pain of losing children just really got to me.  What an example.  Humility and love and forgiveness.  We should all live so well.

"I come to give life and give it in abundance." 

Bob Tilton has no idea what that means.  The Goodwins do.