The Newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world
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Oct 7, 2005?
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Today??™s Announcements:
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We have another new writer we are fortunate enough to have joined us.?
Please give a warm welcome to Beth Dargis, writer # 253 for Storytime Tapestry.
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Our Halloween Contest has been launched.? You have up until Oct 30th to send in your submissions.? Remember to include Halloween Contest in the subject line so that they do not get mixed up with the queue stories.
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? Carol,
? Just a note to let you know that Bob Shaw and I both have
stories published in Allen and Linda Anderson's? new book, Angel Dogs:
Devine Messengers of Love.
~ Pamela Jenkins?
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ANGEL DOGS, published by New World Library, with a foreword by Willard Scott, is a collection of some of the most remarkable stories we have ever received, including winners of the 2004 Angel Dogs Contest.? The book shows dogs changing people's lives for the better and gives a fascinating history of the canine-human relationship over the centuries.? It will be a featured selection of One Spirit Book Club's holiday catalog.? It is available in bookstores and at online bookstore Websites.
Willard Scott, of NBC's THE TODAY SHOW, says, "I love ANGEL DOGS. Its stories and messages will amaze and delight you.? Allen and Linda Anderson's book will make a wonderful gift for all your dog-loving friends, for anyone who is considering adopting or rescuing a dog, and for those who have lost a beloved dog.? Read it and marvel at what the world looks like through the eyes of some of God's most loving creatures."
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? New Orleans is my favorite city in the South.? Depending on where you come from you may pronounce it differently from the natives but most everyone knows it by the laid-back name, the Big Easy.? Everyone who visits New Orleans falls in love with the French Quarter, the artists and musicians around Jackson Square and the beckoning river at its doorstep.? And almost everyone takes a walk among the dead.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? Cemeteries in New Orleans are like cities of dainty tombstone houses laid out in rows with colorful gardens of sweet-smelling flowers in throwaway pots planted on the doorsteps.? These abodes face narrow streets with, like any city, intersections posted with directional signs.? Though no cars move up and down these lanes, tourists stroll their cobblestones with maps guiding them along their way, reading the names of people dead for a hundred years or more.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? Few mourners come here anymore.? The old folks
are too feeble to traverse the distance from faraway homes even by streetcar, definitely not by driving themselves.? Many of the family members too lie somewhere in some dusty cottage above ground.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? Young relatives of these ghostly saints shiver at the thought of scrubbing the face of one of the little depositories of their dead.? Most think it useless to plant new flowers in plastic soil; the caring for ancestors was something their parents believed was an honor.? They have no desire to carry on
the tradition.? They are modernists, smug in the assurance that if they don??™t acknowledge the bones of their dead, the past will remain buried.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? We, who have studied the history of these cemeteries and, believe in what we find, understand that something is going on in these antiquated cities.? After the musky-smelling breeze pushes in from the
swamps surrounding the CrescentCity.? As night shadows deepen, the swell of air picks up, rustles the treetops, floods the realm of St. LouisNumberThreeCemetery with sounds, the soft voices of loved ones not heard for a century or more.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? On August 29, 2005, the ancient God of Water silenced the tongues as He took over New Orleans.? He pushed water ahead of high winds, slammed the rising surge against a weak levee section of the 500 miles of floodwalls protecting the city??”and the cemeteries.? This particular god must have had a grudge against someone in the Big Easy because he didn??™t stop doing his mighty work until the streets of
the city were swallowed by his waters.? And the cemeteries were not spared.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? In the past, on moonlit nights if you dared to venture out on the little streets of the cemeteries, you could find lights behind the grillwork protecting entrances to the little houses.? If you listened closely you might hear the clink of imported silverware against old-country French china, laughter as voices from the past toasted each other to a new day.? If you sat on one of the benches you might actually have caught a
glimpse of a figure in white floating down the cobblestone street before you.? The TombstoneCity would have come alive.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? They are still there.? When the water is drained back
into the 300 square miles of Lake Ponchartrain, the villages for the dead will dry out, the little houses will be cleansed of water marks, and at night the lights will once again protect the people who have long inhabited these places.? And late in the night, they will once again sing and dance and gossip about the day the god was so angry he erupted in anger, attempting to wipe out a major American city.
And when you visit New Orleans, you must visit the cities of the dead. If you open your heart and mind to the history, adventure and intrigues of the Big Easy and its cemeteries, you will believe the words whispered by ladies such as long-dead Madame Marie LaVeaux and her modern-day followers:
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ???The dead don??™t remain dead in New Orleans.???
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? And the City of New Orleans will not either.
Barbara Deming lives and writes in San Marcos, California.? But once upon a time long ago she wrote stories to read on a school bus going to high school in Houma, Louisiana??”many wonderful times were spent in nearby New Orleans
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tejasbabs@aol.com
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? Bio: Barbara Deming lives, volunteers and writes in San Marcos, CA. Her next collection of stories, "Pink Poodle Pie (and Other Tales of How Women Get Even) will be released soon.
Use to be a lot of family operations. A special store, sold one thing, or things that related together out of this little hole in the wall. Sometimes they rented space in say a hotel lobby. Times has changed, those no longer are here, died with the times I guess.?
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I remember the news stand. Here in Beatrice, it was a family operation.? Had a little store cross the street from the Paddock Hotel. Wasn't very big, hole in the wall one might say. You went there to pick up a newspaper. You would find Omaha, Lincoln, or the Beatrice? paper. Those was today's papers. They also had Kansas City, St.Louis, Chicago, New York, and other papers. Those would be yesterdays papers, took a day to get here. Those would be just a few copies, didn't have much call for those.
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They had racks of magazines, all kinds of those, for grown ups to small fry. No Play Boy or Play Girl.? This was before that time, also this was family.? Mother Doyle would not allow such trash in her store. You seen all kinds of people in looking for a certain magazine. Saturday Evening Post was a big seller.? ? Mr. Norman Rockwell might have the cover picture.
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Son Harry would load up the little delivery truck, and make the rounds. They had? a place? in the two hotels, and a couple other places. Sold papers there and the Post and a couple other magazines. You would be staying at the hotel, bought and paid for? them at the desk.
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Guess they seen times was changing, about 1958, sold it out, and moved away.? It lasted about another year or? two? and it was all done. The little hole in the wall was no more. They made a living, it was a seven day a week job, the News? Stand, one of the
Doyles was always there, if the door was open.
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Then there was the Beck boys.? The Becks was one of the five respected colored families of Beatrice. There was Washington, and Jefferson.? They had a barber shop. were related. Thomas, he was shop foreman at a car dealer ship, also the coach for the Legion Boys Baseball team. He took them to Hersey a couple times. One time made it to the Championship game. Lost by a couple runs. That isn't bad for a little town like Beatrice. Then the Scotts. All good people.
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The Becks, well if you needed your boots polished, stop over at the Paddock. They had a stand there in the lobby.? They could take the worse beat up pair of boots and make them look brand new. Now as I remember they only worked the stand 6 days. Sunday you found the Becks in Church. One of the boys went to college,? studied to become a teacher.? Well even in this state, that was a no no.? ? We can't have a colored man as a teacher of white kids. So? he landed a job on the city street department. It was a good high paying job.? But Richard every once
in a while would be seen helping out in an evening at the shoe shine stand.?
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The Becks, Washingtons, Jeffersons, Thomas, and Scotts are all dead and gone now. Gone just
like the Doyles and many other small family operations of the Good Old Days. I think the world is poorer because of the loss of such small family types of operations. These people worked hard, and long hours at times.
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America grew up on the work, sweat of the little family operation and farmer. Those is the ones that built this nation. Back in the Good Old Days. We have lost a lot by the big buy outs and take overs of the small little people, and their operations. That is the holes in the wall and the small family farms are
no more. Every day a small business closed the door for the last time, can't make in no more, eat up by the big chains. They sell for less you know.
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Got one other store I recall. It too was family operation. Lang's fine food store. You needed a special something for dinner, go to Lang's.? Don't even think about Safeway, they never heard of it. Chef? O.J. Walker would go there to get a can of some special something for Mrs.D.W. Cook's dinner party. If it was a almost unheard of food, you could bet your last dollar, Mr.Lang? had
it in stock.? Those too are long gone.. Gone With The Wind
Why is it someone "interprets" differently than I do ? One man recognizes that many more lives were lost in WWII than those of the one group we hear most about - no matter what number one accepts. Why is that ? Why does one group - even one individual - seem to matter more in anyone's view ?
... but when it does matter, we begin pacing off to our respective positions in the dueling yard. No one wins. One is accused of insensivitiy to the group with which another identifies. Neither any longer sees
the humanity of the other. Nothing is accomplished - no progress.
What matters is that somehow a group, a "civilized" society, a political party - describe them how you will - allowed a madman to assume power, which resulted in millions of human lives lost, massive destruction of agriculture, infrastructure, resources ... worldwide waste of potential - elements not much mentioned as I can see ... all our energies diverted to rebuilding, restoring, or just bemoaning our loss.
Notice I did not specify any particular war in that sentence ?
What matters is: What did we learn ? ... what have we already forgotten ?
Who among us is learning ? What is being learned ? What is being taught by those in "power"
- teachers, legislators, politicians, athletes ... ?
What do we allow our own children to "consume" in terms of learning ? Are we reevaluating what we have already learned ? The world around us is not static ...
What matters is: How do we protect ourselves and our children ? Parents purchase the latest electronic toys to entice their children to stay "safe" within their own rooms. No longer worried about safety of one's own child, parent is one day murdered by an anti-social, impersonalized child who has spent years of "imbibing" violence from video games which have now evolved so that, with a secret key, one can watch the characters have sex with each other.
Children are "safe" from violence
on the streets, safe from explicit sex on television ... and parents are safe from responsibility.
From association with a past generation, one tosses out a term such as "towel head" - in reference to something internalized within that one individual; something without regard to its effect on any other individual. A preconceived "concept" from someone who has learned by wrote that it is politically incorrect to say "nigger" ... all goes back to who "educated" the child who is now adult - why were the "educators" values more acceptable ?
We scratch our heads, asking, "Why do others in the world see us [Americans] as arrogant ? Our sons and daughters on some mission to produce good,
should be seen as good, but their actions are overshadowed by the few who are incompetent in any culture - not just blatant abuse in a Baghdad prison, but the imbecilic manchild on a drunken binge throwing up on bystanders in a bus in Japan, or ... any one of you can recall an example of your own from your own experience - the hatred engendered by one stupid act of one moronic individual seems to overwhelm the good could be done by 10,000 others.
Who or what do we choose as teachers for our children ? If we have truly learned any lesson, how could we forget - yet we do, and allow our children to live as though none of it mattered - even as though it never happened.
What matters is: Where do you get your news ? Why is what you have
chosen a "trusted" source ?
Do you seek answers to questions raised by what is in the "news" ... ? Do you even ask ? Do you ask about what is NOT in the "news" ? ... and why not ? Too often, the answer is:
Not if you have to compete for a buck to feed the child you have no time (or are not willing) to get to know personally. One's values are sold at too low a price - gone. "I have no time." Is such a course different than committing suicide ?
If such failure occurs even once, it is too often - same as one death in war is too much ... yet that is how some of us live our lives ...
James M Booth
oneworld@idonate.com
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A Story
By Beth Dargis
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When I smell the delicate, lacy dress, still too big for me, I am transported to the attic of my friend Melissa's grandma. Though the opening was small, the attic was large.
Dust, mingled with a musty smell of things untouched for many years. On a rack hung old clothes: crinkled party dresses, turn of the century gowns, a red sequined flapper dress with fringe, dresses with satin ribbons. The wooden box next to it, spurted out the smell of ancient leather when you opened it. Black, heeled granny boots, white patent leather shoes, sparkly gold sandals, and lots of high heeled lady shoes. Hanging on nails were hats. Hats with feathers. Hats with veils. Party hats to wear with the long white gloves, stained long ago. That part of the attic was all ours. We dressed up in our dresses and heels. We dug through the box of jewelery for some clip on earrings and fake pearls for the occasion.
We danced, courted,
and sipped tea with queens. With a bonnet we became Laura and Mary Ingalls out in the prairie. Putting on the gingham dress I became Anne of Green Gables. We went from acting as farm girls to flouncing around as royalty.
Looking back, I am amazed at how she allowed up to play dress up with those clothes, which were probably worth quite a bit. Yet, how much is the value of inflaming an imagination?
When I moved away, Melissa and her grandma gave me that lacy dress to remember them by. And I do.
