SISTER CLARETHA, A GREAT SOUL

My husbands Sister and my sister in-law, our closest supporter Claretha passed away. She was seventy years young. She was bold, courageous, most of all beautiful. At times a comedian telling me that she was afraid of nothing. She said that she had locked her dog in the bathroom so he could not roam around the house as she had did so many times. This one night a burglar broke in, waking Claretha, jumping from her bed retrieving her weapon of choice.  her 38 reasons why you should not disturb. Fully dressed in her night gown without shoes. Thank god it was a summer night and the streets were empty. Chasing the assailant six blocks all the while the dog was still in the bathroom. She stopped to discover her dress code, a night gown. no shoes would get her arrested along with her 38 reasons.

Although she never caught the assailant, she still pursued him, nevertheless. I admired her courage. She loved her grandchildren with out a doubt, always in the mix of them, correcting where needed. She would always have one of them with her. Claretha express that she wanted to go to the upcoming flower show. She brought Simone who she micromanaged. Simone took it all in stride. We had the best time. It was the first time I got to know her as a woman, mother as a grand mother. What really was interesting is she was a daddy’s girl and expressed it so many times. She was his protector and felt he just belong to her exclusively.  A nurse for the better part of her life. Claretha’s big brother Ed was a constant phone exchange of just to call. Ed would look at his phone and say, “my sister.” with great affection.

No matter what, she would call to make sure he was alright. She would phone him on his birthday reminding him that he was getting older. When he called her he could not get her on the phone because of her ministry on her answering machine about the power of god.  Claretha was a traveler of the world.  Places that we could only dream. She bought a ranch style home with three bedrooms in Brown Mills New Jersey.A house I wish I could afford to buy. This ranch style 3 bedrooms, large kitchen, bathroom. Outside-was acres of land for miles. At least 20 50-foot-tall trees, a pool and a plant nursery. Claretha lived rich and on her own terms. She lived life no matter what anyone thought or cared. On this day her birthday I choose to say thank you for being a presence in our  life.

Writing What you love

My manuscript is ready for publishing. So I decided to write a how to book on my adventure In writing. This lesson in writing my novel has been a way to educate myself. This book documents some of the techniques I used to write my novel. It was a great adventure learning to do something I love to do. So if you love writing here are some ideas for your experience. Coming 2020.

One Writer’s Journey

At the sensitive age of nine I lost the two main characters in my life, my grandam and the illustrious rajah who created me. I had never known that type of love until I had my progeny. As an undeveloped child, I inscribe my name in the cursive it completed me.  I designed letters so artistically beautiful. Connecting shapes and angles as I practice to perfection.  Writing words just to see how they would turn out. I began writing sentences to express my feelings and tell stories.  It was the first stage of learning of the self. I yearned for my grandmother and my father and as I sobbed through the pain. My trusty sword, a well sharpened #2 pencil and an excellent pen were my weapons against tribulations.

As, the spirit would have many of my feelings were cursively written without punctuation, organization or editing and lyrically sounding, leading me to sometimes write someone paper, and then in a composition book help me to put my tragedy in perspective. I knew nothing about being a writer, but I was writing.    This happened in 1959 during a time when racial issues were not something, I was aware of as a child.  Writing about my feelings helped me to express all the emotions that came from missing a grandmother who through religion read to me a bedtime story. The holy bible from genesis to revelation.  Helping form pictures in my immature mind. Many of the words written were designed and put in poetry form. My poetry was crafted from the poetry written in psalms and proverbs; I learn lyrical poetry. Hidden in the words that she read to me is a lesson on how to act. Hidden in my subconscious was everything that I needed to know.

Time went on I learn to put my feeling into poetry being my psychoanalysis. A journal of all my pain. After moving several times, I lost the rare book of my poems.  I hope if anyone read my words, would help them to solve their issues. My mind, would, play out these stories, mostly science fiction and romance genres.  I always loved movies. All this happens before the desktop computer comes into the home. When I received my first computer in the 1990s. I was learning this bewildering machine and the software was a magical entity. A writer that assisted me to put my words, into action.  I started on my first book of science fiction and created short stories.  I was privy to its surprising talents. I lived for using this instrument to write.

Writing requires you look at other writings and find what you are trying to convey. Some have written and re-written at least a hundred times to get that sentence accurate. You go through an emotional roller coaster of queries that at times make you ask, “Who tells you that you can write?” Then I read a paragraph of my writing and recognize you can compose with practice. You recognize your talents, then research the details that will help you write deeper. Bookstores are bliss and every Friday I would visit my preferred. Borders taught me how to search the shelves of this store to find the information you seek. As you go through floors and shelves you find this character called the writer’s corner. This area houses books on character, plot and dictionaries and the human trait. Leading magazines of writing built the story for me so perfectly.

Writers who were dispensing words  to help others with specifics. My imagination, of identifying an author’s hand that reaches for another lost writer. Inside she had so much fear, showing them how fear affects you and who. I would go back into my work and realize it needed better wording, design and greater clarity. Fast forward to my future and find that all my writing is in the future and it has given me great courage.

I believe I can write poetry and publish. What important information I have gleaned from designing words, I discovered the writer’s thesaurus and found it gives me stronger words with greater meaning, now it’s time to write that book that story in your head, about the alien ancestors who brought my humans to this planet to keep them safe. The question is where to start, who is my primary character and what is their mission. I need to research my idea. In the meantime, I am encouraged to start a short story, and search into great short works from well-known artists who have mastered, King, Poe, Hurston, Hughes.

Now I should have my own design. Hopefully it will fit, and my legacy is set, and my name will be uttered. I continue my journey to express my love for something given to me from the universe. A voice inside me is saying I learned from you and I learn from them, continue the voyage. Stories of me and my sister and my family and all the drama and character assassinations. All the while this wrote this remarkable character was doing something impressive, the words were healing my being. All the thoughts harbored in me, came to the surface.  I was starting to be another person. Shedding tears of pain and joy but leaving complete understanding.  I love the intelligent entity who gave the craft of writing and creativity. I never knew I loved writing so passionately. Daily I write something, even if it is a note to self, a reminder of what I need to do.

Going forward I find I have a novel, where others are finding it hard to put their butts in the seat, in that place to those stories out there. To embrace the greatness of communication. During all this movement of words, the world is changing and so are the sentences of creating a new one. I realize the so-called norm is no longer what I know and understand. People are telling a different type of story. They are outraged and no longer take it anymore. Dethroning monarchs with sentences and uplifting to those who need hope. Some of it masculine but the majority feminine and now they are not playing. The stories are about which I will not be changed. I will not be disrespected. The story is about the sentences written long ago and has become comfortable.

This achievement of writing has made me responsible for those who need my information. That I too must speak my truth in this new world is recreated. This writing is given me courage, especially since my silence otherwise has induced me complacent. This writing has made me come and face the truth of my pain and, how it happens and who cause the pain. Rivers from my eyes forge ahead to continue to work on my style. My journey has led me to conferences that has rooms of writers and authors at different levels of learning and publishing. Can I pitch a story idea, still building that courage? An agent gave a little advice, wowing he was interested in the story. My self-esteem is rising soon, only hoping to be a published author. The goal is to write great novels and short stories and continue to learn and meet people who have the same attitude.

Getting Better


   At the tender age of sixty seven I find myself forgiving me for my life and existence. I have lost so much , mainly my children. For almost a year I think about my son who would come and get me just because.  Never thought every time I passed the building he passed away in I could feel him. That passing his name in the contacts would make me cry because the empty movement would produce his voice. We talked about his children that made his world. That their mothers made him think deeper about their motives. He loved them……. I know that from our conversations. Yes, I had my opinion “pick one” but he could not his children made that impossible. I believe in my son, even when his opinion was wrong. His friends made his life worth while he told me about each one. Only one was his best, looking out for him as brother since they were young.  Yet he took another brother under his wing who considered him family.

His name is constant in his life. “Hey mom, going to make you laugh.” and he did. I hear his voice calling my name. I see the mist of his spirit right in my face and I cry like right now. It took me until now to be able to write these few words. We would ride pointing out the car he aims to possess. This would be a gift to himself. He wanted to have a house built in South Carolina, I would rent a room for vacation, “you don’t have to rent.” he said. What he did not understand is if I could pay a hotel to stay there I could pay him. Besides his accommondations would have been luxury compared. He had kids and they needed things. I admired him as a father who surprise me. He brought me his first born, she a newborn, with a then nylon blanket wrapped in the bitter cold. He  seeks me out to get advice on what she would need.  A large blanket, snow suit, sox shoes, lots of heavy blankets and without a doubt a hat to cover that soft spot at the top her head. I gave words of wisdom. “Son,  look at her. She looks to you to give her what she needs.”  Don’t wait for anyone to get or do for her, you come with what she needs. When she cries is because something is wrong. She cried every time she saw me.  Advice that he used amazingly with all his children.

I think that I am drifting through life like on a ship to nowhere. I wish that when you leave the planet that you should be able to call just to hear what’s happening with them.  That is all I have to say for right now. Stay tuned, there is more.

Memories

Memories This is just a small design of a memoir. History in its design, drama, and comedy. It reveals who you are while dealing with life’s ironies.  Think, how would you write a book. This book has so many memories of my life. I needed to tell someone about the things I experience as an African American child Born in Washington, DC  and ended up in North Philadelphia.  How the influences in my life define who I am as a person.  This book is a promise to God that I would write and publish my book. What would I write. I was already writing poetry.  Purging my inner thoughts. 1800 Indigo House  Excerpt from a life.  A history in poetry, self-published on LULU.com. If you are “writer” you must ask yourself, what is my book about and what is it I want to say. Sit quietly and listen. Memories of events were rising to the top, and I started writing in lyrical poetry that stream close to my heart.

 

Continue reading “Memories”

Young Adult Fighters

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I watch young people going to school and remember how my friends long ago laughed and joked on any given day.  Most of the people I knew wanted to hooky school to hangout in the park or over someone’s house. Yes, killing happen to young people but not to the kids who wanted their education.  We dreamed of being something great.  Although that did not happen for many of us we did not worry about someone taking a gun and shoot at us with a perfect aim. As a African American mother and a grandmother, great grandmother I am horrified by the things that young people witness. America has changed to a melting pot of murder and killing on a scale unheard of by parents. It is almost like genocide of our children. How many of those young adults killed were visionaries of our future.  My future robot is in jeopardy, taking a trip out in space for a vacation.  Young adults are planted seeds of life.  As I sit in a room of young adults wanting to be doctors and lawyers I say to myself are they going to make it? We older adults have to look at the future, not live in the past or don’t want to give up the past, because you did not live your dream. it is the new generations time to forge the future and bring us to a place of unity.

I saw the face of a young girl after she witness other students being killed it touched my heart so deeply.   Faces of our children, tears, shaking and trying to explain what they just experienced.  My heart goes out to those families who lost their child, friend, teacher, former. My heart hurts for you. I have experience lost of a child, but not like you. hearing their voices, remember the jokes or even the last time you scolded them about something that they did.  if only,  we could be given a second chance.  “If i could say abracadabra and give them back I would”.

Governments and politicians can not help us.  They sit in safe houses, house of representatives, house of congress, the white house. While we are out here in the world taking our lives in our own hands, Vote, bipartician, fake news, the truth, this is all terminology that only confuses the lay person.  None of that matters when you loose a child.  I applaud the young adults who are out here trying to have their voices heard.  I would like to be in the background to help you scream loud “I’m mad as hell, we are not going to take it anymore!”

Those who voted for the people in office,  were your children apart of those school shootings?  If not, think about this the next mental health issue that takes up an automatic gun and shoots a child it could be your school, remember it is not about us, it is about all of us.

For those young adults who looking through this window of pain how does this effect you is the question. Fight with all your might. Get out there and raise your voice, hands, signs, stomp, tribal dance, whatever it takes. “This America belongs to you.”  Dry my tears young people make them accountable, make them take action. College students remember the college protest of the 1960-and 70’s. Remember your brothers and sisters who are coming behind you, fight for them. People talk about the NRA, don’t stop there find the guns hidden, shut down those who sell guns to anyone who has a penny. I wish that every gun on the planet would disappear, to bad that won’t happen.

The House of Songster

The most beautiful house I had ever experience is the house of Songster. Where Ed and I spent our Christmas. Created on the west coast in Portland, Oregon. Its charm is Japanese.  I notice the atmosphere of a family embraced everything simple about life. Lupia practice the skills given to her by her mother and made her home inviting. Decorative pieces made the atmosphere serene.  Fengshui ever so present to the creative conversation by Cole the young elite and future political analysis.

Seeing her as a mother amazed me, she is the baby girl visiting her father when we first met. For me time stopped when she left.  Lupia made every effort to keep close, to not loose that connection. I understand the purpose of the daughter to stay close to the man who created her. How passionate thoughts travel through their minds. Sometimes synchronization can cause a build up and that both parties have to express what they feel.

Lupia and Ryan having the nurturing trust for their two sons is so apparent. She is a protective parent with a resilient sense of purpose.  Oregon a place so spiritual, Its diversity is so beautiful,  even those who are residence express its love in the motion of life through corridor streets.

A holiday dinner served to a United Nation of People. Rod and Naoko and  their beautiful daughter Nyah where the greatest host, Songster Senior the father in law who created, tiramisu,  deep dish apple, and banana cream pie unknowns to all, my favorite. The youngest grandson Caden who rename himself “Cola” made the chocolate on chocolate cake and is a basketball star, Bravo young man. Although they had never met me they embraced my being.

They had a ritual for the holiday gifts would be exchanged by family members to the children the day before the holiday. Happiness of what they received was so appreciative.  I marveled at the calm beauty of just being with family. Something that’s not practice in my neck of the woods. I went on journey with deep conversation about programming, all the while speaking of how he would not abandon his Friday night essence. I admired his veracity when it came to his creative genius. My take, never let go, it will pay off in the end Ed Jr.

Portland captured my heart and immediately I wanted to live and experience its essence. Writers were everywhere even when they did not admit as much. Its bookstore ravaged by people who love the written word. They perused shelves of books and literally said “read me.”  Four floors calling my name. Even with a map I did not have the chance to delve in every part of its nooks and crannies. Although I did promise Powell I would be back and would give them more time to express its volumes. I experience the traditions of Portland taken through neighborhoods and arrived at Peacock lane. Children take in lights of design, a wonderland of fantasy an agreement of happiness for those little people. Old factories and innovative structures are being restore to glory. A school blueprint for the modern student in mind. Two basketball courts, and plenty of things to climb and swing on. Dinner at a sushi restaurant and found my love, shrimp tempura.

This gift is something I gave myself and Ed my husband who did not know how to act with happiness. Not until we returned he realize its something he needed. Tokiko brought Japan to America and instilled it in her children and grandchildren. She gave me permission to share what she created.  I accepted,  and she answered with a beautiful journey and a peaceful stay. Many blessing my sister wherever you are,,,,,,,,