Dr. Eleanor Cyrus

August 9, 2018

VINTAGE QUILTS


When I was about 7 years old, I visited my paternal grandmother for the first time. She lived in Sharpsburg Ga. about 50 miles from Atlanta. She lived in a small house with two or three bedrooms, close to the road and near the main highway.

She was a different kind of person that I had ever met, strong personality, positive, confident, tall, weighed about 95lbs, and felt she was overweight when she weighed 105lbs. She was an excellent cook and made a lot of dishes I had never eaten before. She was creative in the kitchen. She could saw, she made a lot of things, clothes, and quilts for the beds in different designs and in different colors using “feed sack cloth”. Sackcloth’s are cotton fabric saw into pillowcases filled with chicken and turkey dried food. My grandmother was a midwife, she delivered all the babies in her town both Black and White. Although segregation at that time was very prevalent, she was summoned to deliver all the babies. She was the only “doctor” for miles around. She could tell you what medicine (herbs) to use if you were sick and it helped. She was so well respected and admired.

My grandmother raised chickens and turkeys. The turkeys were the meanest turkeys on earth. The chickens and the turkey coops were in back of the house, as well as the “outdoor” bathroom called the “Outhouse”. If you had to go to the bathroom you had to walk through the chicken coop. When you did, the turkeys would lay and wait until you came through and start chasing you and try to bite you. You learn how to run real fast, so you wouldn’t get bitten. It was scary running from them every time I had to go to the bathroom. The outhouse was scary as well because when you looked in the round hole you had to sit over, you never knew what was floating or swimming in the cesspool. All kinds of animals you had never seen before, and had no names that you could tell or explain what it was when I tried to tell my grandmother. I hated going to the outhouse, but Mother Nature insisted on using it. In New York we had running water and a toilet that flushed.

What captured my attention, as a young person was my grandmother made beautiful quilts and pillowcases for her beds; it was like masterpieces of art. She would design something in her head and proceeded to create this one of a kind piece of art. Each bed had a different design in a different color and print. My grandmother introduced to me how to make so many beautiful things out of sackcloth, and she created many uses of this fabric; they were all so nice and pretty, my grandmother was so brilliant and talented.

Quilting told a story century ago, and still does today.

Dr. Eleanor Cyrus









July 12, 2018

THE PATH I TOOK


When I was younger, a century ago, I wanted so many things out of my life. I wanted to be a medical doctor. I found out early on that my parents did not have the money to send me to medical school, for me to pursue my dream of being a doctor.

After graduating from high school, I obtained a job with Kings County Hospital as a nurses’ aide. Wow, I thought that was exciting, I thought a City job with benefits was the best thing ever. Working as a nurse’s aide meant bathing and cleaning patients, emptying bedpans, and cleaning the patient’s area. Not a clean job, but a city job. After weeks of training the administration asked the new employees what unit areas did they want to work, for example: Pediatrics, psychiatric, medical, or the trauma units. I chose the psychiatric unit because they paid more money than the other units.

The first thing I experienced was all the doors on the wards were locked; the reason was to keep the patients locked in. I didn’t know or realize until then, how important and precious is one’s freedom. People take their freedom for granted until they are locked up, incarcerated, or hospitalized.

To have freedom to come and go as you please is precious. Working at Kings County Hospital I had to grow up instantly. My mother said my personality changed. I didn’t understand at first what she meant. What had happened was my eyes were open to the real world. I was no longer living in a child’s world. I had to see, hear, and act on a mature level. Lessons I had to learn almost in a moment’s notice.

Working at Kings County Hospital help me to grow up and focus on my life. As the years passed and opportunities came. I returned to school with a clear understanding on what I wanted to do with my life, one thing for sure, I didn’t want to continue being a nurse’s aide. I wanted to help people but in another capacity. I found my dream. I became a Social Worker. I truly wanted to be a medical doctor when I was younger, now I have a Doctorate in Social Work, still helping people but in a difference capacity.

Dr. Eleanor Cyrus, MSW, MPS, DSW









April 20, 2017

LOST BOOK


Today is the worst day of my life. Why, you ask? I lost my book of writings. It looked high and low for my book; some of my best writings are in this book. Trying to retrace my steps in my house, the only thing I couldn’t remember was I asked my daughter to empty the waste paper basket in my bedroom. I had one waste paper basket the for real trash and another for shredding papers and documents.

I believe I put my book in basket to be shredded, which I was going to do myself. I asked my daughter to empty the trash in my bedroom, and she followed my instructions however she threw out everything including the papers to be shredded. Oh my God. I panicked, the chance to become famous has just went down the incinerator garbage shoot. How can I retrieve these papers? The thought of going through the garbage thrown down the incinerator shoot from a 17-story building to me was unthinkable. How can I regain these masterpieces? Once-in-a-lifetime to be famous went down the incinerator shoot! I cannot recreate my writings. I can’t remember what I did to myself to make this happen. Once in a lifetime to becoming famous.

Where are you book? Why don’t you appear? I’ve done you no harm; we are friends, why are you punishing me like this? Help, help, people in the Universe. Spirits come out and rescue me. I know you are there, hear my plea. Speak to me softy; I can hear you; I am trying to stop crying to hear you. I really can hear you; I can, if only you speak to me . . .

Book where are you. I can see my name in lights; I can see my name DR. ELEANOR CYRUS, PULITZER PRIZE WINNER HAS BEEN AWARDED TO YOU.

(If I could only find my book)

Dr. Eleanor Cyrus









THINGS I AM PROUD OF


As I look back over my life and the many blessings, what I am most proud of is getting an education. When I graduated from high school, I attended a local college. I soon recognized my inability to keep up with my classes, so I dropped out, and I went to work. I experienced many challenges as I grew older, constantly thinking there was more to life than what I was experiencing. I knew the key to happiness was education. Education opened the doors to a better life financially, opportunities to travel, opened my eyes to things I never knew existed. Endless opportunities and endless possibilities. Deep down in my heart I felt if I could go back to school, study hard, focus on the prize, at the end of the tunnel my whole world would open, and I would be able to see what God had intended for me.

I was determined to make a change in my life. I looked for a school to meet my needs. I found Vermont College, where I could attend one weekend a month, do independent study, and this I thought was good because I had a small child. As I was preparing to attend Vermont College, something wonderful happened. My Union, DC37, merged with the college of New Rochelle and offered adults to return to school. I applied. There was a lottery for students to be chosen. Unfortunately, I was not chosen. I was working for the union and I was very close to one of the union officials. I expressed my disappointment for not being selected. He reevaluated my application and allowed me to register. (God was at work.) What a blessing to be granted this opportunity. The real challenge came when I started classes. I didn’t have a baby sitter so I had to bring my son to attend college class with me. Keeping my son occupied and quiet as I tried to hear everything the instructor was saying and take notes was not easy. God made it possible. And I made it through. Now, when it’s time to graduate and I find out that I lack two credits. I really wanted to graduate with my class. I asked the President, I really wanted to walk with my class, she said she would ask the Provost. This would be the first class to graduate from this merger with the union. The Provost said “No.” I could not walk. I took a chance and decided to go to the college and try to walk with my class. I found a cap and a gown, put it on and walked with my class. During the summer I completed those two credits and the following year I graduated again.

The following year I applied to Columbia University, graduated with a Masters in Social Work. That was a difficult two years. After that I applied to New York University, and received a Masters in Public Administration. Several years later I applied for a doctorate degree from the International University of Graduate Studies. I am so proud that I hold four degrees. With the grace of God.
1. College of New Rochelle: BA
2. Columbia University: MSW>
3. New York University: MPA>
4. International University of Graduate Studies: DSW









9/25/18

THOUGHTS

I attended a funeral Saturday, as I was listening to each person that came to the podium describing the personality of the deceased. What I kept hearing was she had lots of friends, her friends appeared to be loving and loyal to her, but most of all the deceased considered her friends as family and she embraced them as such. She included her friends in her immediate family and they too embraced her friends.

As I began to examine my life, I searched my memory and tried to reflect on people I called friends, the people I grew up with, my classmates, the people I met during my travels, the people who stood the test of time. Who did I befriend? Who befriended me? What does this say about me as a person, or my personality? Was I able to let gravitate people towards me, or did I push them away?

Friends, who are they? Where are they? Are they a figment of my imagination? As one grows and travel through the many stages of life you learn as a child you have childhood friends, some last some don't, your first experience in friendship.

During adolescence, your friends become a monumental need, you can't live without them. Young adulthood friends that come into your life appeared to be different, they brought different things to the table, different experiences, different exploration, love, hate, confusion, all of which made you discern what to accept or what to reject in the friendship.

As a mature adult you begin to realize what is important is what surrounds you besides food and fashion. Who is this person that has been by my side, who shares my thoughts, my concerns, my ups and my downs?

I opened n eyes and saw I have friends (not a lot but a few) that make a difference in my life.

Ann, a childhood friend, she was one of the people I considered my friend. I discovered over a period of time, I was her friend, but she was not mine.

Dolores and Joan came into my life when I found myself raising my grandchildren, these ladies much younger than me, we connected because our children were the same age, attending the same school and experiencing the same issues.

Lillian and I became friends when we attended the same church, we enjoyed the same things, and we grew closer. The friendship was mutual.

There are a few other people in my life that hold this very special title. What a blessing to have people in your life you can call friends.









CHAIN LETTER FOR WOMEN ONLY (a pdf)
(download)




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Joan O'Bryan

2018

THE NAME MY MOTHER CALLED ME


My mother was the only one I knew who actually ever called me JOAN ANN. Although everyone knew that Ann was my middle name nobody but my mother dared ever used it and I occasionally write my middle name instead of writing my middle initial. I have read that, Joan means "full of grace" and Ann means "strength". Thus, I was named by my mother to be filled with grace and strength without her even knowing it.

My parents had three children and I was the youngest. My older brother and sister were named after my father's relatives this then allowed my mother the freedom to give me a name without the input or other family members. My mother was originally from South Carolina; in1938, she left the farm and became part of an on-going migration of African Americans to northern cities which had followed a period of economic decline called the Great Depression. She came to New York City to find work, because she was reportedly told that the streets were paved with gold; however, she ended up in Brooklyn, where the streets were concrete covered by a dull, gray, cracked cement. She shared an apartment with her older sister Pauline until she met and married my father. They had one son before 1941, the year the United States entered World War II. My father was then drafted into the U.S. Army, where he remained until the end of War.

During the war, my mother worked as a machine operator in a metal factory where she earned a good salary. Almost all of her coworkers were women who had husbands or boyfriends deployed to the military services. The women shared their stories during their lunch hour. It was at this factory setting that my mother met and became friends with her co-worker named Joan. Although Joan had a fiancé who she planned to marry after the War was over, she was also saving her money for a college education. Joan wanted to be a teacher and she shared her aspirations for a career with my mother who encouraged her to pursue her dreams. My mother remained friends with Joan until the end of World War II, when they were both terminated by the metal factory and went on their separate paths.

My sister and I were "Baby Boomers" born after World War II. My sister who was the first girl in the family was named Alma Lee after my father's paternal aunt. My mother did not select this name, but she honored the request that was made by my father's aunt. My mother did not plan for her children to carry the ancestral burden of names attached to a history of slavery, racial segregation and inequality. Nevertheless, she couldn't refuse my great aunt's request to name her first daughter because she knew that the past will cross paths with the future and having a tribe of relatives who will support you because your name ties you to their legacy may be blessing in disguise.

A year later, my mother had her third child who would be her second daughter. My first name is Joan because it reflects the culture of the city she adopted as home. She named me Joan out of admiration for a friend and co-worker she met during World War II, who was seeking a professional career beyond the traditional role of being a wife and mother. Although my first name demonstrated her transition from a farm in South Carolina to industrial New York City, she bonded my first name to her southern heritage by adding the middle name Ann.

Thus, without the assistance of the village elders or her shaman connecting to the "ancestral consciousness" my mother called me forth to be filled with grace and strength, so that the task of reconciling a sordid past with a promising future would be passed on to my generation.









10/25/18

A BIRTHPLACE OR CHILDHOOD HOME


8/11/16

The first time I saw my mother’s birthplace, I was approximately four years old. When my grandfather died, my mother decided that she was going to take me, my sister, age 5, and brother, age 12 to the family’s farm in Bennettsville, S.C. Although my father was born in Bennettsville, he refused to return to the South because of the racial segregation policies that encouraged the persecution of people of color. Despite the protest of my father, my mother wanted us to see the place where she grew up.

After giving some thought to the safest way for a young mother with three children to travel to South Carolina, she decided to take the train. The passenger train known as the Silver Meteor left from Pennsylvania Railroad station in Manhattan and would probably get us to the nearby town of Dillon, S.C. in twelve hours. One of her brothers could meet us at the station and drive us over to Bennettsville.

Once at the railroad train station, we were herded into the segregated coach for the “Colored” People. It was crowded and my sister and I had to sit on our suitcases because there were no overhead luggage racks. There was one working bathroom and we were warned not to leave the train car until we arrived at our destination. When our train reached the Mason-Dixon Line which historically separated the North from the South, Negroes who were sitting in other seats on the half empty train had to join us in the segregated coach. During that period in time, a Negro traveler coming from the Northeast, knew that he was subject to laws that recognized and supported “Jim Crow,” a system of racial inequality, once the train crossed into the state of Maryland from Pennsylvania.

There was an authorized vendor employed by the railroad who walked through the segregated coach selling food, soda pop, candy and cigarettes. Most of the Negroes in the “Colored” coach brought food from home since their options were limited on the train and we were not allowed to eat in the dining car. My mother packed a lunch of fried chicken, potato salad and sandwiches filled with peanut butter and jelly. She purchased a few bottles of Pepsi-Cola from the train vendor which the four of us shared.

When we finally arrived at our destination, several people from the coach helped us off the train. A white station manager told us that we had to go around to the back of the station to wait for our ride. My brother picked up two of the suitcases and we walked towards a car that was waiting for us. My mother’s older brother had sent his neighbor to pick us up at Dillon Railroad station. My mother recognized the driver; he was one of her old high school classmates. We listened to their friendly conversation as we rode on the quiet, dirt, unpaved road.

Once we reached the farm, we were greeted by our relatives, their friends and neighbors. They welcomed us with open arms and lots of food. My older cousins played with us and shared interesting stories from the family folklore until it was time for us to go to bed. The farm did not have indoor plumbing, so we had to learn to use an outhouse which seemed smelly and filled with insects; however, one of the things I loved about the farm was the water pump. My brother enjoyed priming the pump, but my sister and I loved drinking the cool, sweet water from the nearby well.

The next morning, we were awakened by the smell of frying ham & eggs, hominy grits, corn bread, and fresh coffee brewing on the stove. After breakfast, we were washed, dressed and told to sit on the porch while the adults talked inside the house about our grandfather’s funeral arrangements. My sister and I both carried a piece of cornbread dripping in butter outside to the front porch. When my sister stepped down off the porch, I followed. I heard my aunt yell through the screen door, watch out for that rooster;” nevertheless, the warning came too late. The rooster grabbed the corn bread from my sister’s hand, and she started crying saying the rooster bit her fingers. I was distracted by what had happened to my sister and a group of hens attacked me; each one of them took a bite out of my morsel of cornbread. At that point, we were both hollering about losing our cornbread to a band of marauding chickens. Despite the heat, we were ordered to remain inside the house. When my aunt Pauline went outside and came back with one of the chickens, my sister and I followed her back into the kitchen. My mother then tried to block our view when my aunt quickly wrung the chicken’s neck announcing that we were going to have fried chicken for supper. My sister and I could not eat the fried chicken served at the supper meal, and we both felt shamed by our earlier tears over the chickens eating our piece of cornbread.

My grandfather owned a Billy goat who grazed in the field near the house. One of my older cousins said the goat had developed a mean streak and liked to chase the little children in the family. Reportedly, the old goat would run up onto the porch to get attention. On the morning before the funeral, my sister and I were playing on the front porch when we saw the Billy goat eyeing us. When he started running towards the porch, we both ran inside the house through the swinging screen door. You can imagine our surprise when goat followed us in the house. We exchanged a look of sheer terror and then started screaming. The goat immediately charged through the front room, down the hallway and ran out the kitchen door. My aunt Pauline ran behind him with a broom in her hand warning the goat to stay out the house. Well, my relatives laughed about the goat at the supper table, and they laughed at both my sister and me for screaming. After dinner, we were visited by several neighbors who came to offer their condolences regarding the death of my grandfather. Once again, the old goat followed someone inside the house and ran out the kitchen door. At that point, my uncle decided to tie him to a post near the shed. I guess he had enough goat drama for one day.

The next day at the funeral my sister and I were placed in the line behind my mother and brother. We were dressed in crisp white cotton dresses, bleached by the sun, hand starched and pressed by an iron until each pleat stretched out to its fullest capacity. The procession moved down the aisle to our seats at the front of the church. It was a hot, humid day in South Carolina and everyone in the congregation had a fan in their hand. I decided to get out my seat to admire the flowers and my sister followed me. It was not my intention to interrupt the preacher. This prompted two members of the church to remove us from the service. I overheard one of the women say, “these city chillun’ can’t take the heat.” She was right because we were glad to get out of that hot, fanning church. After the funeral service, we walked with other family members over to the nearby graveyard where they planned to bury my grandfather. As the pallbearers lowered the casket into the grave, my sister leaned over to get a better view. My mother’s youngest brother, uncle Daniel, whispered in her hear; “if you don’t behave, we’re going to put you in that hole with Papa Henry.” My sister burst into tears yelling, “Don’t put me in the hole with Papa Henry.” I joined her in her protest creating a scene at the gravesite. My cousin Phyllis led the two of us away so that the family could finish my grandfather’s committal.

The next day my mother packed our suitcases and we were taken to the railroad station in Dillon, S.C. Our relatives said their goodbyes inviting my brother to return to the farm for summer vacation. They didn’t extend their invitation to include me and my sister. Once on the train, my mother scolded the two of us stating that she was shamed by our behavior; “you’ll be grown-ups before I take you back to my home again.” I was sorry that our behavior humiliated my mother; nevertheless, I was glad to leave the place that she called home.









5/30/19

BETRAYAL


So what do I do when I feel betrayed by a family member or someone I thought I could trust?

The first thing I do is allow myself to feel a gut-wrenching pain in my lower chest which is then accompanied by a flood of unrelenting tears.

The second thing I do is sit back and ponder why? What has changed? Did they change? Did I change or did we both change? Can I blame it on the uniqueness of the situation?

Thirdly, when I finally stop the mental masturbation, blame game and self-pity, I realize if they changed, they are satisfied with their decision. The only thing that I can do is trust what my own feelings are telling me.

Do I let this situation change me? Do I put them on a do not trust list and become more guarded about sharing my thoughts and feelings? Or do I withdraw mentally taking refuge in a dark cavern in my mind?

Well, I am tired of cloaking my feelings and vulnerability to pacify someone else’s needs. This is about changing my response and I choose to remain true to myself by validating my own feelings. This act gives me the power to grieve for what is lost and accept my separation from it. For it is through this process of grief that I can truly know who I AM.

I embrace myself as the center of my own universe and I will not yield to fear, denial or the incarceration of my thoughts. Betrayal can only exist if I choose to surrender my values to it.









7/26/18

FRAGILE


Fragile is like the tears that run down my emotion filled, crumbling face when I feel betrayed by someone I Love.
Fragile is like lying still in sinking sand and being too terrified to move as the water washes over my body.
Fragile is like trying to stop time on a clock that keeps on ticking away.
Fragile is like trying to hold onto a snowflake that melts in my hand.
Fragile is feeling isolated, broken and held captive by the events in my past that I cannot change.









AIN’T AFRAID TO WEAR RED


I ain’t afraid to wear red anymore and it has taken me several decades to declare it. When I was a little girl, my mother would not let me wear red unless it was a blended, boring plaid pattern which she then made into a skirt or jumper. Sometimes, I was allowed to wear a sweater or hat that had a mixed red murky color called maroon or crimson. I was never allowed to wear a bright red which was viewed to be a provocative color for a young girl’s wardrobe. When a young girl wore bright red clothing, her intentions were always questioned by others. She was associated with the Ladies of the evening (Femme du Soir) whose morality was seemingly compromised by their bad behavior. The stereotypical image of the women who wore red was often characterized in the lyrics of the songs I grew up with like “I’m gonna’ put on my red dress and go downtown” or the male singer who croons “The Lady in Red is dancing with me cheek to cheek.”

Unfiltered red is bold, dynamic and sensuous; it is the vibrant color of the blood that flows through our veins and warms us like chili pepper. It is one of only three primary colors and is often depicted in the paintings of Hell with heated red flames destroying the evil-doers; nevertheless, it is an essential power-enhancing color in a vixen’s ensemble which can transform a girl into a woman.

My Aunt Edith was a woman who knew how to wear red. She was my father’s younger sister and my mother thought that my father and my paternal grandmother were too indulgent of her whimsical behavior. My aunt was a beautiful lady with many male suitors, and my sister and I loved going over to grandmother’s apartment while my aunt was dressing for a date. She would dab us behind the ear with her expensive perfume and then let us paint our fingernails with her best red nail polish. By the time the red fingernail polish had dried on her own hands, she was ready to pin her hair up and put on her red satin dress with matching shoes. Carefully, she applied her bright red lipstick after gently patting her cheeks with a pink powder puff; she then put her signature red ruby ring on her right-hand ring finger accenting her outfit with a rhinestone necklace and matching dangling earrings. Before grabbing her silver fox jacket from her closet, she slid her hand into her top bureau drawer pulling out a folded straight edge razor that she placed in her bosom. As she padded the razor she had tucked into her bosom, she winked at us while adjusting her bra, “my protection,” she said. She then smiled placing the silver fox jacket around her shoulders and strut out from the bedroom into the arms of her anxious date. My sister and I watched with a trans-fixed gaze as my ”razor-cutting auntie” left us behind in her bedroom; we played dress-up with her clothes and shoes until my grandmother told us that it was time to go to bed.

Nevertheless, whenever I had the opportunity to play dress-up with my aunt’s permission, I would start by placing my feet in her red satin high heel shoes. When I walked in those shoes, I felt empowered by a woman who wasn’t afraid to wear Red and knew how to use it.









6/28/18

EVERYDAY THINGS

The everyday things that I hold in my hands appear ordinary to others but are sacred to me
I drink coffee from my mother’s cup and sip hot soup with my father’s old spoon
When the hot soup burn my lips, the spoon moves forward into my mouth slightly scorching my tongue
I then gently lay down my spoon on a red crocheted tablecloth made by a dearly departed friend while resting my eyes upon a framed photograph of my newborn nephew
While spinning the silver ring on my left hand’s ring finger, I lower my head to read out loud the inscription carved onto the ring:
“HEAR MY SOUL SPEAK”
I then sit back and wait for confirmation to come forth from the voice inside me
Slowly, I sip the dark red Merlot from my grandmother’s wine glass as I eat a slice of goat cheese with raisin bread consecrating my daily ritual with Life.

Return

Roberta McBride-Robinson

FOUR WOMEN COME TO NEW YORK


Many years ago, my maternal grandmother along with her two sisters and a female cousin traveled from Charleston, South Carolina to New York City. All these women were single when they arrived but later found husbands as they settled down to new lives.

I have assumed that these ladies could neither read nor write English, since I never saw books, newspapers or even a Bible in their house. The most fantastic accomplishments of these four caring females was learning to survive in a strange land and becoming adjusted to severe weather changes.

My grandmother was able to find the Fulton Fish Market where she obtained fresh fish which she brought home to our apartment at 226 Myrtle Avenue. She cleaned and prepared fish for sale as well as for the home on two days per week. She also found the place where trucks and boats brought in fruits and vegetables which she also sold to the neighbors.

My grandmother was the oldest of the four ladies and obviously the most respected. She had a strong sense of right or wrong and the neighbors often came to her for advice in family matters; for this she was paid.

When I found this out from my father, I began to pay attention to the strangers that visited the home. The front door would close, and my grandmother and the visitor would disappear in the front room.

When I was young, I took everything and every family person for granted; I accepted each person's presence in my life as just where he or she belonged.

I most miss the grandmother who vanished from my life without sharing her knowledge and her being in my life.

I recognize now that I had a fractured family; everyone was a loner, apart from the next, especially where children were concerned.

I don't know why my family was reluctant to share knowledge. When I hear people speak reverently of relatives, mother's, aunts, cousins. There are voids in my life which will never be filled because of the separateness of my elders.

It is only now that I realize that every act of your childhood leaves an imprint on your being which makes you who you become later in life.









LOOKING AND SEEING

What I realized quite recently is that I look at many things without really seeing them.

In front of my building there is a huge tree that I think is an oak specimen. The girth of this tree is so large that you can't put your arms around it. The height is way past my sixth-floor window. I marvel at its structure and beauty. What surprised me, while looking at this beauty one day, happened when the wind blew, and I watched the leaves flutter. I noticed that the tops of the leaves were dark green, while the bottom of the leaves were light green. I figured that the sunlight touched only the top of the leaves while the bottom stayed without direct sunlight. Seeing this I began to look at my neighborhood more carefully. I noticed who cleaned up behind their animals, who talked to their minor child as they walked together rather than letting the child run carelessly happily down the street, who threw used paper on the sidewalk while some others place their refuse in the appropriate receptacle, who walked slowly, carefully watching purposefully every step, who walked aimlessly.









INEZ
Many years ago, as a teenager I met a group of girls who lived in my neighborhood of East New York. We all lived within walking distance of one another. I was sort of the outsider, since I did not attend the same New York high school as the group did. I graduated elementary school from the 8th grade and went straight to high school.

One of the group was a girl named Inez. I gravitated more toward her since she was friendlier and more open than the others. There was then and still is now something different about her. The group formed a social club in which we all wore sweaters and beanie hats of colored maroon and gold. Our club name was the Algonquin, an Indian name. I can't remember its origin. We met regularly, went on trips, and generally palled around together.

The only one of the group who remained my friend until this day is Inez. I could always talk to her. She was neither judgmental nor argumentative. She listened without disagreeing. Even though she attended a different high school than I did, we were together during the weekend. As we grew older, each of us married and we lived separate lives, but Inez always managed to visit me since we did not have cell phones in those days. Inez was the linchpin that kept in touch with all of the rest of the members.

Inez lives on Staten Island. She is retired just as I am. She still calls me when she hasn't heard my voice in a long time just to check on me. We commiserate with one another over our encroaching body problems.

She is six months older than I but she never rubbed my nose in that fact. She has always extended herself to me by doing kind thoughtful things that I would never have thought of.

When my first daughter was born my husband, who was in the Navy at the time, was aboard a ship in the Mediterranean. Inez purchased a full outfit for the baby without asking me and presented it to me without fanfare. She even helped me tidy up.

She has always been there for me even when I didn't know I needed her.

She even drove from her home in Staten Island to Brooklyn to pick me up.









FIRST JOB

My first job was at a clothing factory when I was 14 years old. My mother was a sewer at this place, and I filled in for absent workers during the summer months.

I sat at a narrow long table that had a metal contraption fastened solidly on to it. In the middle of the box-like contraption was a metal piece with a teeth-like fixture protruding. When I flipped the machine switch to start work, a blast of air would come from the protruding teeth part. My job was to take a garment and run it under the sucking and cutting machine-teeth to cut off all loose threads.

It was so boring, but at 14 I was proud to be making my own salary.









JINX


When I was a young girl my father nicknamed me JINX. He did this because I was always tripping over the smooth floor when no one else would; or I would cut my hand while washing dishes; or break dishes while trying to wash them. I really was clumsy even though I tried not to be so inept.

I remember an item my mother had. It was four-sided beautiful wastebasket used for the living room. Each side of this basket was glass. This basket was like a magnet for me. Every time that I went into the living room, I kicked this basket. I tried to avoid it as if it was a snake, but that basket drew me to it. Every time I kicked it and more pieces of glass broke off. I tried to avoid the living room, but it was large with comfortable big chairs and I liked to sit in there to read. I finally had kicked the wastebasket so often there was no more glass and my mother threw it away.

I also shattered a glass coffee pot while washing it I tried to hide it but when my mother went to look for it, she found it in the garbage. I couldn't blame my father and there was no one else in the apartment but us three. So, by process of elimination—I was it.

I cut my right thumb by leaning against the stanchion of the elevated train which was in front of our house. There was a broken glass bottle in the well of the stanchion, and while I leaned against it my hand slipped into this area and straight across the glass. I bled profusely but I did not cry.

At one time I was walking home and fell on the sidewalk resulting in a deep cut on my forehead. I still have a remainder of that accident.

I really earned the name Jinx.









MOTHER My mother would describe me as someone she did not like. I say that because that was how she acted toward me. She thought nothing of slapping me while in the street; or beating me at home. I vividly remember her attacking me with a pair of scissors once. She was coming toward my eyes.

I don't know why she was doing this, but I remember my maternal grandmother yelling from the living room to my mother to stop hitting me. She said clearly “Martha, Martha stop beating that child” and my mother stopped. I cannot remember what I had done or what my mother imagined that I had done to beat me the way she did. I imagine her saying about me, “Why did I have her so young? Why is she so overweight? Why won't she go away? Why does she wear eyeglasses when no one else in the family does? Why? Why? Why?”









QUOTES I ALWAYS CARRY

From The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy. 1986.

“If your parents disapprove of you and are cunning with their disapproval, there will never come a new dawn when you can become convinced of your own value. There is no fixing a damaged childhood. The best you can hope for is to make the sucker float.”

“Love has no weapons; it has no Fists. Love does not bruise, nor does it draw blood.”









THIS POINT IN LIFE

I have reached a point in my life which can be described as a downward spiral. This really should also be considered a happy time of reflecting on children and my many accomplishments . . . Being proud of being able to survive.









LINEAGE

I have four children two boys and two girls. The oldest child has one child. The next three children have two children each. From the seven grandchildren, I have 17 great-grandchildren. It took me three times over two days to designate who belongs to whom:

So here goes:

Oldest daughter has one girl who has three daughters.
Oldest son has two girls - one of whom has two daughters and one son.
Next son has one girl and one boy. This girl has 3 boys and 1 girl.
The youngest daughter has two daughters, and one of the two has one son.









LEARNING TO DRIVE

I learned to drive when I was an adult. It was not something that I had planned to do in my life, but one day while talking to a co-worker we both decided to go for the gold and try this. I obtained the necessary documents and took the driving test and passed. I then began lessons.

On my first lesson the instructor came to my job on Duffield Street and told me to get behind the wheel. I told him I couldn't do that because I would have to drive, and I didn't know how. He told me this is how I would learn.

Lesson 1 was a revelation. Turning the car on, putting the car in gear, keeping my foot on the brake. It was a lot to concentrate on. I drove all around downtown Brooklyn through the crowded streets more scared than I have ever been in my whole life.









COLOR COORDINATION

My young relatives agree that I always wear color coordinated clothes. Especially my great-granddaughters who live with me. If blue is the dominant color for a particular day, I would wear pair blue suede shoes for the winter and fall seasons. I had brown shoes which I would wear with a brown suit or brown pants. Black was also a prominent color since it was more neutral blend with either gray clothes, tan clothes or even white items.

If I couldn't make my clothes match for a particular affair, then I would change my whole outfit. My great-granddaughter is even teasing me about matching my slippers with my clothes when I go to the laundry room to wash clothes. I now have a black pair of slippers, a blue pair, and am waiting for my tan pair to come in the mail.

I order my clothes via catalogs. So, I am always looking for special colors or something new to match with something old. I feel comfortable when I go out and have a blended outfit— even shoes and pocketbooks.









SMART PACKING

My first cruise to Nassau in the Bahamas was an unforgettable one. I packed every piece of clothing that I could think of to cover every season and weather condition. Even when I was rolling it, my bag was so heavy that my arms, back, and legs were tired before I reached the island.

Years later when my daughter and I went to San Francisco, I took a medium size bag packed with rolled-up clothes including jackets, long sleeve shirts, and pants to walk in the cold Frisco conditions of being sandwiched between two large bodies of water. I learned to wear undershirts to protect my upper body and heavy denim jeans to cover the lower half. The rolled-up clothes were successful because I could pack more items and leave small areas for souvenirs.









CORNERS OF MYRTLE


Myrtle Avenue is a very long Street where I lived as a youngster. It is the street I remember most. Even now I can picture every store and every building from Fleet place to Washington Park along Myrtle.

I lived at 226 Myrtle Avenue which was my maternal grandmother's apartment. My mother, father, my grandmother and her second husband, my aunt and her son all resided in this large apartment.

There was a Corner Grocery located on the corner off Fleet Place which had burlap bags of different kinds of beans sitting on the wooden floor. There was also a bag of rice on the floor. The owner of the store used a small type shovel to scoop up these Foods and put them in small brown paper bags then weighed the bags on a large scale to determine the cost of what you purchased. This was a long time before plastic bags came into being.

On the opposite corner from the grocery, on Ashland Place on Myrtle Avenue, there was a combination store which had ice cream, sodas, candy, magazines newspapers, and the only telephones anywhere around.









FIRST SEWING MACHINE


Many years ago, I moved into an apartment where the former tenant had left an old Singer sewing machine. This machine had a foot pedal and a spinning wheel which both had to work together to keep the threaded needle moving up and down to be effective.

Since money was so tight in my life at that time, I realized that I could learn to sew. There is a street named Belmont Avenue where patterns, materials, threads, and every item needed for sewing were available. I convinced myself that I could do this, I could make myself some clothes.

Beginning with having to make an apron in 8th grade in addition to having to make our own graduation dress, I did have the basic knowledge of cutting material, threading, and simple sewing. If we hadn’t made and worn my own graduation dress, we would not have been allowed to attend the graduation ceremonies which were held at the Academy of Music.

When I moved from this small apartment to a larger one, I began to sew in earnest. I made simple suits and blouses. I worked on Duffield Street in downtown Brooklyn. On Bridge Street there was a material shop which I visited every two weeks on payday. I obtained the pattern from a pattern book and bought the materials and all of the fixings that were needed to complete the article of clothing. When I came home, I would see to my children's homework, dinner, and then put them to bed. I would then begin to sew. I often could make a simple skirt and blouse or dress in one night to wear the item to work the next day.

My prized moments were of clothing that I made for my youngest daughter. She was built very small, so her clothes were easy to make. Three-piece suits and an Easter outfit of a cape and dress. My products were finished with details that I added on to increase the look of professionalism. No-one knew that the items were home-made. The more clothes I made the better the items looked.









NO WELCOME BACK

The boss that I most remember was a lady that created a turmoil within me that I still vividly recall.

I had been promoted to the position of Administrative Manager Level Three and she was Level Four. My job required me to oversee Income Support Centers to ensure that all statistics for completed work were in an acceptable range for the city. I had 13 Income Support Centers to keep tabs on in the 4 boroughs except Staten Island.

In February of 1996, I had to have surgery on my left hand to repair a carpal tunnel problem. I was out of work for 6 weeks. When I returned to work in March I was met with a bombshell of news.

I entered the office of the Deputy Administrator and my immediate Superior was with him. No one said “good morning, how are you feeling” or any niceties that one would expect upon returning from a 6-week medical leave.

My immediate Superior simply stated:
“Give up your centers.”
“Give up your staff.”
“Give up your office.”

When I asked why she said, “for medical reasons.” I was dumbfounded. There had been no warning, no indication of my work being poor and my Centers’ statistics were excellent. The Deputy Administrator said nothing.

I left that office in a daze. I don't remember speaking to my 4-person staff, 3 assistants plus a secretary. The only thing I did say was, “she took away everything.” I don't remember functioning that day or the days after.

The entire floor was quiet, and I knew that everyone had known already what was to happen to me that day.

The ultimate insult to me was to know that the person who took over my office, my Centers, and my staff was the young man who was extremely close to my former lady boss.

She was Caucasian married with three children and he was Black and single. This man never did any work. He had been in the little office that I now had to use. To keep myself occupied I read and completed crossword puzzles. Sometimes I was asked to attend special meetings that the other 7 managers couldn't or didn't want to attend. I even attended a meeting that mayor Giuliani chaired. I would write up the proceedings of meetings then forward them to the appropriate person.









POTATO


How I learned to cook was through trial and error. There was no one to teach me the do's and don’ts of different things pertaining to cooking. As a youngster I was not really allowed back in the kitchen after the result of when I peeled a potato. I was given a large white potato and the knife and told to “peel this.” Never having had either item in my hands I began to peel, and when I was through, the potato had shrunk from a large baseball size to that almost of a small plum. That was the end of my peeling potatoes because during those days there no double-bladed vegetable peelers.

Later in life I wanted to teach myself how to cook, so I began reading cookbooks. There was no television to watch cooking shows, so it was a trial-and-error process. I would cook something and taste it along the way. At 12 years old I managed to learn to cook simple meals by myself since my mother was not around to show me what to do. I really learned to cook well after I got married. And when the children came on the scene cooking became more of a necessity.









GOOD NEIGHBORS

During January 1964 I began working for the Department of Welfare for New York City. My office was located in Manhattan on East 5th Street between 1st and 2nd Avenues, and at that time I lived in Brooklyn on Reid Avenue. My travel routine was to ride a bus which stopped in front of my house to the bus depot in the Williamsburg area, at the foot of the Williamsburg Bridge. After work I reversed the route which meant I had to ride over the Williamsburg Bridge crossing the East River.

Going home one evening riding the train I was standing up holding the overhead bar when—without warning—the train lurched to a stop and the bright light went out. All the passengers including myself were dumbfounded as to what had happened. There were some small lights which remained lit, but they were very dim. Some of the passengers began to ask out loud what happened but no one had an answer. From the train windows we could all see that the city’s lights were out too. We could see the train staff running toward the depot, but it was some time before they came to the car where I was. All this time I was concerned about my four children who were home alone.

When the train personnel finally came to our car, they used a metal bar to force open the doors, then they lifted each person off the train, and other train staff assisted us down a wooden landing to the bus depot so that we could find the appropriate bus. I was panicking thinking of my children home alone in the dark. I kept praying that the Lord watch over them.

After I was lifted off the train, I had to search the depot for the bus that travels down my block. There were long lines for each bus, so I had to wait my turn. After a long wait I was finally able to board the bus.

When I arrived home, I ran up the three flights of stairs to the top floor which is where I lived. There was no one home. I went to my neighbor's apartment directly underneath mine, but there was no one there either. I then went to my neighbor's apartment on the 1st floor and there I found my children safe with my friends.

After hugging and kissing all of them I found out that even though everyone was scared, my oldest son had found the matches we used for the kitchen stove. He got his brother and two sisters out of the apartment, locked the door, and led everyone down to the first-floor apartment by striking one match at a time to light the way two flights down.

My friendly neighbors kept my children safe until I was able to get home. I am truly grateful that the ladies were home to keep my children. I could not thank them enough. And I could not say Thank the Lord enough either.

Return

Yvonne Bodrick

THINGS MY MOTHER USED TO SAY


I have eyes in the back of my head.
All that glitters ain’t gold.
It’s a dead rat that only have one hole.
Don’t keep all your eggs in one basket.
Never gamble more than you can afford to lose.
Scared money can’t make money.
Never burn your bridges. Cause you never know when you have to cross that bridge again.
You catch more flies with honey.
Rise and shine!











SOMETHING I WAITED FOR FOR A LONG TIME


I waited for this time in my life for a long time. This is where I always wanted to be, here now. Right now in this moment. This is where I am right now making it happen. I always liked to write about things and right now I am writing about things. It’s amazing!

I could not wait to be retired so that I could do the things that I wanted to do with my time—it will be 10 years in August since I retired and I am happy about how I have reached this stage in my life because I have waited so long it seemed—but time moves so fast it seems like yesterday. I am glad that I can say that something I waited for is what I have right now.

There are things that I want, that I am waiting for, but those are the material things that can be purchased—but the feeling of happiness that I feel right now is what I waited for for a long time, and it’s here right now I am happy absolutely!









PLACES I LIVED IN BROOKLYN

1. Crow Hill Prospect Heights – Franklin Avenue
2. Bedford Stuyvesant - Clifton Place
3. Crown Heights - Crown Street
4. East New York - Cozine Avenue
5. Five Clinton Hill – Clinton Avenue









THINGS ABOUT YOUTH I DO NOT MISS
or: THE COAT


I do not miss the youthful days of not being able to get the things I wanted. I had a strong desire to shop and wanted to buy things to dress up and accessorize. I always liked to coordinate. Shoes, handbags, scarves, earrings, etc.

I came from a large family and my parents could not afford to buy the things I wanted. So, I would get what I needed, not what I wanted. I decided to earn my own money to buy the things I wanted. I would save my allowance whenever possible. I got my first job at 11 years old—off the books. I was a babysitter. I was very resourceful as a child. I danced for family and friends for a fee. I produced plays, I put on performances—for a fee. And other neighborhood friends and their families were the audiences.

I purchased a sewing machine from a pawn shop at the age of 12 and taught myself how to sew. I feel as if I was always struggling as a youth. I struggled to get the things I wanted. I worked hard.

I can remember wanting a coat for the winter, and the coat I wanted was at A&S. I needed a coat, so my mother was taking me to Mays to get a winter coat. I convinced my mother to go to A&S instead, to see the coat I wanted. She went with me but told me that she could not afford the coat at A&S. She saw the coat, and she left me at A&S trying on the coat. She left me without carfare to get home. She left me and never bought me the winter coat at A&S or at Mays.

So, I learned how to make my own coat. I taught myself how to sew. I made my clothes, and I became a seamstress for others in the neighborhood.









JOBS

1st job – standing outside of clothing store watching the clothes that were displayed on the table in boxes (like a watchdog/security)
2nd job – babysitting in the neighborhood
3rd job – sewing for people in the neighborhood
4th job – Regal Paper Corporation
5th job – temporary work assignment/clerical worker (Morgan Guarantee, Tiffany’s, UN, and other companies)
6th job – Collins and Aikman’s
7th job – CETA Program – NYC Department of Probation
8th job – Medgar Evers college
9th job – Health and Hospitals Corporation
10th job – Budget and credit counseling services
11th job - Long Island University
12th job – Brooklyn Navy Yard Corporation
13th job – community chef
14th job – New York City College of Technology









REMEMBERING THE BLACKOUTS

I can remember to blackouts in New York. The first blackout was in the 60s—I cannot remember the exact year. I was sitting at home that evening doing my homework assignment when the lights flickered and dimmed. And then darkness. I thought that the fuse blew out. My parents were not at home, so I went outside, and it was totally dark. Other people and neighbors were outside too, bewildered because their lights were out.

The lights stayed out. It seemed like a long time—there was no phone, radio or TV available at the time to find out what had happened. I think it was a neighbor with a transistor radio that informed us of the fact that it was a black out.

The second black out happened in the 2000s. I was at work. It was a Friday late afternoon the lights flickered and then darkness. Everything just stopped, like a major breakdown—the computers and the light sound of the humming of the machines stopped. I think it was the computer technician that informed us that it was a blackout.

I remember a coworker friend of mine was not able to get home, she lived in New Jersey. I offered her to stay at my place, until she was able to set transportation home. She agreed to stay. But then I remembered that the elevators were not working because of the blackout and she would have to walk up 14 flights of stairs (I am on the 14th floor). That would not work for her because she had a bad knee problem. So I escorted her to her friend’s home in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. The buses were running slow and every bus was packed with people. It was summer and it was hot. My friend who was elderly and had some health issues was complaining about the heat, walking, standing too long, and being out of breath. It was scaring me. I didn’t know how I could help her—I just wanted to let her get her to a comfortable place. When we finally arrived at her friend’s home, I was so happy. She could sit down and put her feet up.

After I made sure my coworker friend was safely and comfortably secured, I started to chart my way home. The buses were running slow and each bus was packed with sweaty people and most people were frustrated. I decided to get on the first bus available because I was tired of waiting and tired of walking.

The bus I did get was going in the direction of my brother’s house, so I decided to go there instead. When I arrived at my brother’s home, he was sitting on the stoop outside, looking very cool and relaxed. I had to go to the bathroom and get a drink of water. I washed my face and relaxed outside with my brother. I stayed there for a few hours then decided I wanted to go home. It was getting late around 10 PM. My brother said, “if you want to go, take this flashlight with you.” It was a large heavy flashlight, big and bright. I said “Thanks. This is a two-in-one, a flashlight and a weapon.”









THE SMELL OF COFFEE


The smell of coffee reminds me of my parents. When I was a child I would wake up with the smell of coffee in the air. My parents would be in the kitchen sitting at the table having a cup of coffee with a honey bun. I thought that the coffee was so good, because they enjoyed it. I tried to get a taste of the coffee and they said I was too young. So, one day I took a sip from a partially empty cup. And to my surprise it was horrible. I hated it. From that experience on, I didn’t like the smell of coffee.

My parents were married over 65 years and it was always their morning ritual to drink coffee before breakfast. They would sit at the kitchen table have coffee, bun and conversation.

When my mother became ill with cancer and bedridden in her 80s, she was no longer able to sit at the table. My dad continued the morning coffee ritual until he was no longer able to do it. He was in his 90s.

Sometimes I might drink a cup of coffee with cream and sugar, if there is absolutely no other choice of beverage.









TIMES I WAS LUCKY


I was lucky lots of times in my life.

I can remember almost being in a car accident. A speeding vehicle suddenly stopped just before hitting the passenger side door where I was sitting. Another incident was when the car, speeding out of control came up on the side median where I was sitting on the bench and it stopped just before hitting the bench I was sitting on.

I was lucky to have good people in my life to help me get to where I am today. I am lucky to recognize that I am lucky most of the time. I have had so many lucky experiences I can go on and on.

I was lucky early one evening when I was standing at the bus stop waiting for the 54 bus at the corner of Myrtle and Washington Avenues. I saw Meredith also waiting for the bus. She informed me of the writing workshop at Pratt and asked if I would be interested in participating, and I immediately said yes, absolutely.

I had a lucky day when I found a large sum of money. It was a day when I was feeling down and out, I had the blues because extra bills were due that month unexpectedly. That lucky find was just the extra financial help I needed.

I am lucky to have a mentor in my life. His name is Daisaku Ikeda. He writes all the time, has written many books and received over 100 honorary degrees. His mission is world peace and the happiness of all people. This is my mission also. I was so lucky to find such a mentor 18 years ago (2001).

I was lucky to be here today and to meet all of you.

Return

Yvonne Hall

THINGS MY MOTHER USED TO SAY


My mother had a saying for almost every situation or event that happened. I am amazed at the clarity with which I remember them so late in my life. It seems more so now than earlier in my life. They seem to have shaped my later years more than my former. “Don’t cry over spilled milk.” “A stitch in time saves nine.” “You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” And whenever you had a decision to make, “Pray over it. God will give you an answer.” She would say her favorite “Don’t let no one stop the show” as she headed out the door to some event or activity. This seems to reverberate in my mind as I now emulate her independence by going places alone and not waiting to have someone go with me. I don’t always enjoy the activity as much as if I had someone to share it with. It’s hard forging your own path with someone else’s wisdom floating in your head. My life has been so different from my mother’s. So different in fact that I chose not to have the kind of life that she had. Now I’ve come full circle in total respect and admiration for her life, that in some way I am trying to embrace some of her more admirable accomplishments. I used to be a “order in” or “grab and go” person. Now I enjoy cooking and grocery shopping. Having all those sayings in my head may have begun to turn me into my mother. She prayed religiously every day. I now do, too. One thing that is my own, she never wore pants. It was “unladylike” she said. I wear them almost every day. I guess I am my own person in some ways. Probably in a lot of ways if I think about it more.









TRANSITIONS


Almost 50 years ago when I moved to New York, I lived in Manhattan in a back apartment on the sixth floor with no view. The apartment was close to my new job and cut down on my daily travel time. I could walk to Central Park, go to the concerts in the park, and easily get half-price tickets to the broadway shows. There was even a dollar movie theater one block away. I loved living in Manhattan.

Now, thirty years later, I am living in Brooklyn, in an apartment on the fifteenth floor with a terrace and a view of Manhattan and Brooklyn. Willoughby Walk is in close proximity to Pratt where I envisioned auditing classes and attending evening events. Unfortunately, one year after being here I became seriously ill and required surgery. What was promised to be a three months recovery has turned into four surgeries and more than a year of recovery. I am still in recovery and have managed to navigate the rough waters because of my fine neighbors and a terrific staff. I am greeted and frequently assisted by our Security Guards, Barbara, Randy, and Khiana. Our maintenance staff, headed by Superintendent James, is top notch. They are more than I could have hoped and prayed for.

It is the first time that I have ever lived in a cooperative apartment. And I have found it to be a warm friendly community. I call it a vertical neighborhood. We have a Seniors and Retirees Group that meets once a month to discuss issues that may be of interest to our age group. Also, each building has floor captains who monitor the activities in the building and address concerns. I didn’t know what a floor captain’s duties were, but I called upon mine, Rosalind Mayes, in an emergency situation. She is a Missionary at her church and took me under her angelic wings when I most needed them. At one point she helped me get transportation to the local hospital’s Emergency room, and when I subsequently was sent to a Rehabilitation Center, she came to visit me and eventually escorted me home three weeks later. It was very special to me because my family does not live here. After I got home, she even shared her dinner with me and brought it by to make certain I was eating properly. I count my blessings that I have a neighbor like Rosalind and our neighbor Paul, who has also befriended me in numerous ways as well. It has all paid off. Because now I am living my dream. I am taking a course at Pratt. It is a writing class. It is medicine to my soul. Maria, our teacher, is very skillful at guiding us to write about things, things we hadn’t contemplated, things on our mind. It really is therapeutic in a way. I know I feel stronger after every session. I am starting to enjoy Aging In Place. I love living in Brooklyn and at Willoughby Walk.









A LETTER OF GRATITUDE

Dear Rosalind,
I know gratitude is being grateful for someone’s kindness and thoughtfulness in a time of need. The word truly is inadequate to express my overwhelming sentiment for the favor you have given me. I feel God has led you to me, to lift my spirits and to keep my faith in human nature. I thank you for visiting me in the Rehabilitation Center; for seeing that I got home safely; and for the many home cooked meals you provided during my recovery. May you always be so favored in your walk. Many, many thanks for all that you have done to enrich my life. I salute you for being a person of strong faith and character.

Yours truly,

Yvonne









I’M LOOKING FORWARD TO

My niece, Jazmine, is getting married in August. She’s a very smart and accomplished young lady - an electrical engineer with a Master’s degree. She’s very religious and leads a young woman’s Christian group. One day, she called to say she would be visiting New York that weekend and wanted me to meet her new beau and go to church with them and have brunch. I was excited and told her I would be on my best behavior. Unknown to her, her beau had planned to propose to her in Central Park. So when I met him the next day, he was her fiancé. “He gets me.” That’s what my niece says about the man she is planning to spend the rest of her life with. I liked him, too.









MY BROTHERS


My mother gave birth to four boys. My brothers. One older than me and three younger. My oldest brother, by two years, became known as Father Rod because our father passed away when I was twelve years old. He would eventually walk me down the aisle at my first wedding, and forever be the one to give me pep talks when I needed them. His shoulder was always there for me, through my divorces, my surgeries, and my life transitions. He is the only living family member that has known me the longest.

My second brother, Maurice, was full of life, loved people and was a God-fearing man. He lived with me and my second husband for a summer. We became very close that summer. Years later he became a minister and Pastored a church of thousands. I lived with him, his wife and four children for a while. Several years ago, he became critically ill and was in and out the hospital for two years. The doctors called him the “Miracle Man” because the surgery they performed saved his life and they couldn’t explain what happened in the operating room. Everyone in my brother’s community knew it was the wide circle of ecumenical prayer groups that was responsible. I went to see him almost every day while he was in the hospital. He eventually passed away.

My third brother, Lamont, was the opposite of my second brother. He had an encyclopedic mind. Dates, facts, were his wheel house. Anything you forgot or wanted to forget he remembered where and when. He was always frail, but he too had a lot of friends. He suffered for years with a bad heart. He collapsed when he went to see his brother in the hospital, so I was back and forth between them for a few days. Unfortunately, six years later he joined his brother in heaven.

My fourth brother, Antonio, my baby brother, recently, did something quite special for me. He offered to be my Handyman for the Day and asked what tools he should bring. I was so elated that he volunteered without any prompting from me. I held my breath until he came. I was so anxious I went to meet him downstairs in the lobby. He got to meet two of my neighbors, Dolores and her husband Issac, they were friendly and he like them. I told him how they drove me to the voting polls. He was impressed. I said this is the kind of place I’m living in; people looking out for one another. After we spent two enjoyable days together, I cooked and he made repairs and put some furniture together, I suddenly realized how grown up he was. even though he has two children and is getting ready to be a grandfather. So I asked him to be my emergency contact person and responsible for my Medical Directive. He said, “Wow, I feel like an adult now”. We were both thinking the same thing, birth order does make a big difference.

My mother was the age I am now when she passed away. I am thankful and blessed that she had four wonderful boys that I loved and love dearly.









THE SMELL OF THE GRILL


The smell of the grill always reminds me of happy times. Of friends, of family coming together to celebrate a holiday or a special occasion. Usually, it was one of the men at the grill showing off their skills. Telling us how they par boiled the ribs and marinated them in the special sauce the night before. There were stories about the preparation for the hamburgers, the hot dogs, the roasted green peppers and the corn on the cob. Everything had a story. Usually we had heard them many times before, but enjoyed hearing them again, because the food was always superb. The women made the usual side dishes of potato salad, macaroni salad, greens, and string beans. Just the thought of the smell of the grill always warms my soul.









SOMETHING I WAITED FOR FOR A LONG TIME
My great niece, Kiara’s twins were to be born on my birthday last year. They came two weeks early. In preparation for the big day, she had a Reveal Party, that’s the new thing the girls have to announce the gender of the baby they are carrying. Boys it would be. A while later she had a shower and then the delivery of the twin boys. I missed all these activities because she lives in Houston, Texas and I am unable to travel. We emailed, talked on the phone and she posted hundreds of pictures of the twins on Face Book. They are very photogenic and look happy in most of their pictures. I was hoping to get to see them before they started walking and running.

They had their first birthday party three months ago, and I missed that, too. My niece was anxious for her boys, Karter and Kasson to meet me, so she arranged a Face Time session for us to meet. The day came and I was very excited. They responded to me through the phone as if I or the phone was a curiosity. They kept touching the screen as if they were trying to understand why I didn’t come out. They apparently liked my cooing language and kisses. After a while, Karter squirmed off his mother’s lap and starting running to his motorcycle. Kasson quickly followed and I got to see them moving, running, and laughing, all the things you can’t see in a picture. After a half hour we concluded our Face Time Chat. I felt as if I was there with them.

I got to revisit this Face Time experience again on Memorial Day evening. This time she had them confined to their high chairs. They smiled and responded and waved as I called their names and asked how they had enjoyed their time in the pool. They seemed to remember me. My heart was filled with joy. I like Face Time. For me, it is the next best thing to being there.









A YOUNGER PICTURE OF ME

The picture was taken fifteen years ago by my Godson Ray. He and his sister Kiara came to stay with my sister, Marilyn, their grandmother every summer. I stayed with them, too. Immersed myself in the activities they would enjoy: the wave pool, the basketball court, the library to get books and videos, the park to ride their bikes, and, of course, shopping. During rainy days we read books, played video games, watched Hannah Montana, Mary Kate and Ashley, Barney and Home Alone. We ended everyday by playing badminton in the back yard. For the whole summer I lived in their world. I loved it! I loved them.

I had this picture enlarged to a 5 x 7 and placed it in an 8 x 10 frame. I’ve hung it on my bedroom wall, so it is the first thing I see when I awaken in the morning. It reminds me of a happy time and to get up and keep fighting.









FIRST MEMORIES OF SCHOOL

I had an older brother and sister who went to school every day. I couldn’t wait to join them to see why they were so happy to go to school. Finally, my time came. I put on my new dress and shoes, and my mother braided my hair with ribbons. I felt so pretty with all my new things. Off I went, skipping happily with my brother and sister. “Hold her hand”, my mother yelled. I felt this was the happiest day of my life. But it was even happier when I went to my kindergarten classroom. It had paints and easels, rows of books, and the tables were filled with crayons and paper to color. My teacher smiled as she welcomed me to her classroom. All the children were my age and seemed to be as excited as me except for one boy who was crying and clinging to his mother begging her not to leave him. He didn’t want to stay with us. I couldn’t understand why not with all the wonderful things we had to do. Eventually he stopped crying. I went on to the have a glorious first day at school. I think I’ve always liked school because of that wonderful first day in kindergarten.









THE WAY WE WERE


I long for the days of my youth where values and civilized behavior were the norm. There were three entities reinforcing each other to make productive citizens - the church, the school, and primarily the family. We had prayer in the schools and without it, there seems to be a coarseness in our youth that has become commonplace and acceptable.

Now we have labels placed on people to define who they are. What happened to Martin Luther King’s wish for the day when we would be judged by the content of our character.

In my day people gathered together and enjoyed each other’s company with shared interest in sports, critiquing the latest movie or discussing an interesting book. We were more than the one-dimensional person that many people are now defining themselves as or allowing others to define them.

At President George H. W. Bush’s recent funeral, Senator Alan C. Simpsons reminded us that hatred corrodes the vessel it resides in.

How do we change things now? One way is to just stop allowing the political scene to consume you, your thoughts, your every waking moment. Enjoy life. Enjoy other people for who they are and what they have to offer. Acknowledge the good things in your life or the good people in your sphere of living. Put things in perspective. Remember for everything there is a season. Take time to smell the roses. Tell someone that you value them, you cherish them, and you love them.









VALUED FAMILY RELATIONS

My niece, Vanessa, came to visit me several weeks ago. She had business to conduct in the city and asked if she could stay with me. I was so looking forward to her visit because I thought she was also coming see how I was coping with my medical limitations. Over the two days, she never asked how I was feeling, and after she left, I felt so sad and lonely. More than I had already. During her visit she admired some of the pictures I had of her father, who had passed a few years ago. She took pictures of them with her smart phone. A few weeks later she posted one of the pictures on her Facebook account with the caption, “My Dad has been on my Mind”. A lot of people commented with favorable remembrances including me, saying “He was the best brother ever.” In the meantime, I had sent her some other photos of him and some silver photo frames that I no longer needed. When she called to thank me, I inquired about her job and how things were going. “Not well”, she said. She is going to have to look for another job. Wow, I thought to myself. She was probably coming to visit with her father’s sister for strength, comfort and love. She was going through a rough patch, too. I thought, how unfortunate it is, that we can allow our own problems to totally engulf us. That we forget others may be hurting but in a different way. It was a wake-up call for me to stop constantly looking inward and to remember that I still have a vital role to play as an Aunt in my nieces and nephews’ lives.









LIFE CHANGES

I am in the final chapters of my life and wanted to have an apartment where I could age in place. That’s the new phrase that’s used for people who don’t plan or wish to go to a retirement village or a nursing home. I had my bathroom remodeled to include three grip bars. I had the tub removed because it was becoming difficult to step over the height of the tub. So, all I have is a shower. The room has white walls and floor tile accented with magenta walls. My niece sent me a calendar with positive messages, and I have two of the months framed and hung on the walls to remind me of Happiness and Joy. My bathroom has now become my dressing room. Everything I need to start the day is there. It’s a very warm and pleasant room. I don’t have music or a radio to listen to. I listen only to my thoughts - what happened yesterday, or to thoughts of what lies ahead. I do this all while I am showering, brushing my teeth and putting on my clothes I call these mindless activities that allow me to focus on other things. Oh yes, the last thing, I did was add a clock. It was needed because I am so relaxed and can spend too much time taking my time.

I, also, remolded my kitchen so I can do almost anything in less than ten steps. I’m still adding things that will make my life easier to manage. My sister and brother both have the Keurig coffee maker and didn’t understand why I hadn’t gotten one. I finally bought one with my gift cards from Christmas and my Birthday. It has certainly helped me to simplify my morning ritual. What else can I simplify?









WHEN IT IS WARM OUTSIDE

When it is warm outside, it is time to start to enjoy the smell of the green leaves on the tree and to see the blooms on the flowers. Warm weather is my time to truly appreciate the beauty of the outdoors as I am confined to the inside during most of the cold weather. I will enjoy taking walks and visiting with people. I will enjoy sitting on the bench, just relaxing and taking in all the wonders of God’s beauty. I look forward to having vanilla ice cream on a waffle cone while I’m sitting there.

I guess most of all, I will like not wearing heavy coats, boots, gloves, and scarfs, because I will feel light and free to move more easily about. I will feel more in control of my environment rather than it in control of me. Oh, how I do look forward to the warm weather.

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