When (the late) Bill Withers crooned, "Grandma's hands clapped in church on Sunday morning, Grandmas's hands played the tambourine so well Grandma's hands used to issue out a warning, She'd say Billy don't you run so fast Might fall on a piece of glass," Grandma's hands." he could've been describing Velma Beatrice (nee Lambus) Taylor. Except everyone---blood relatives, neighborhood kids, adults, merchants, even medical professionals---all knew her simply as "Granny." A self-made Southern woman from the Mississippi Delta, Velma couldn't finish high school. For us, though, she came closest to fitting our definition of a Renaissance Woman that the Near North Side of Chicago could produce. We believed she could do anything . We wondered where she got it from. Yes, her mother, "Mama," personified strength in the face of untoward obstacles. And for certain, the "acorn doesn't fall from the oak tree." Yet,...
"On the touchy and often misunderstood act of Forgiving" Dear Squabbling Kinfolk, ( I readily include myself as a blood-engaged grandmother, in ongoing conflict with an adult grandson). Over decades, I've watched the debilitating effects, great and small, between and among families corrode, erode, and weaken the DNA (and more) of an ordinary family. Things that began as mere "specks" when left to ferment have become "beams," or logs that mar our civil interactions. Honestly, I cannot recall when a minor run-in became a major issue! Nor can I remember the month, date, or season of the year an initial skirmish reared its head (to mix a metaphor or two) and ended up in a McCoy-Htfield draw. Most incredibly, I wish I could tell you who or when "forgiving" or "forgiveness" entered my personal vocabulary, first as a concept and later as a possibility to be embraced. Surely, a Sunday school teacher introduced me to the notion of ...
My dear, loving Nephew-Son, I love you, Robb. I hope you know your value to me and the love I hold for you are opposite sides of the same coin I've sat here for some time trying to sort out my feelings since I received the startling news of the choice (which really was not a choice!) that you had to make yesterday. Rufio has been "put down!" Euphemisms drive me bonkers, even as I understand why we use them. "Put down" attempts to soften the gut-wrenching, heart-splitting truth. Rufio. Is. Dead. How harsh and impersonal a declaration. Yet, "dead" falls far short of this permanent turn of events. Your mom didn't have to tell me how you agonized over the non-choice: You couldn't bear the thought of life's final ending for the "gentle" giant of a friend. Your dependable, best friend, and literal "Road Dog." I was visiting Chicago fourteen years ago when you chose each other and the team coalesced. Just that ...
Now that's deep🌼
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