Hair Yesterday and Today

This morning I sit at the laptop with silky straight black hair.

Last Friday morning I sat at my laptop with curly, almost frizzy, multi-colored grey, black, brown and mysteriously, some tinges of pale orange hair.  It was past time for a shampoo, relaxer, color and style – not in that order, I’m thinking.

My beauty shop appointment was scheduled for early afternoon.  Arriving on time, five hours later I exited the shop, feeling pampered and refreshed – but to me resembling ‘someone else’, not me.

Facing the public, I felt good, knowing to ‘them’ I looked good.

I won’t feel like I look good for a couple more weeks when the relaxer has gotten ‘old’.

When I was very young, my father explained the difference between ‘white hair’ and ‘black hair’ was due to the shape of the hair strand.  European hair is cylindrical shaped; African hair is flat.  The cylindrical strand won’t curl without some help.  The flat strand will be curled, unless it is helped to be straight. 

So, we all (black, white, etc.) might use heat and, or some chemicals (treatment or additives such as conditioners) to achieve a beautiful hairdo we’ve decided our natural look didn’t provide.   In the end it is a matter of personal choice.  I like that.

I made an attempt to 'go natural' in the 60's when black activism called for black pride in our natural look.  (It wasn't and still isn't easy being black.)

I adore Gabby Douglas.  She is talented, charming and seemingly filled with grace at today’s difficult age of sixteen.  She is lovely from the top of her beautiful head down to her little toes.  She is unbeatable in several ways.

Congratulations to Gabby Douglas, the World and Team USA’s 2012 London Olympic Gold Medalist.

              *     *     *    *    *    *    *

Pick up my award-winning memoir, Black Star Girl and Read Chapter 7, page 29 for a detailed description of how mother took care of my hair when I was a little girl. 

It's Thursday?

I’ve lost a day.  I thought it was WEDNESDAY!  How did that happen?  I know.  Monday, immediately after my morning hygiene ritual, I grabbed this laptop and started writing.  Once I write, I’m lost in re-writing.  I’m having fun.  Remembering it all, on that day the next thing I knew it was approaching 7:30 pm and I hadn’t even thought about eating dinner.   By the time I got it all together, eating healthy, it was too quickly midnight and I was thinking about going to bed.  Day gone!   Today I’m thinking, what’s wrong with losing a day if you’re having fun?  And, you’re retired!!!!   

Tomorrow first granddaughter returns to Washington, DC and Howard University’s campus for her Senior Year.  Today I intend to get ready to participate in my (camouflaged) emotional good bye to the young lady.

Tonight I’ll not miss tuning in to the Olympics. Had fun watching last night!  Totally enjoying the delayed programming was a surprise.  (Read yesterday’s blog post, “Old News Is a Good Time?”)

Here’s wishing this day is a beautiful, fun, healthy Thursday for you and yours!

Old News is a Good Time?

I’m all out of sorts about the delayed presentation of the Olympic games.  How ridiculous is that.  I can’t do anything about it not being real-time programming.  It is what it is!

I tried to watch the opening ceremonies.  I will make another effort to enjoy NBC’s presentations because, as I was challenged, “Is it something you've already seen?”  No, but I know what will happen and I resent being managed to watch old news and encouraged to feel ‘hyped’ like it is exciting new news.  Still, thinking perhaps I’m becoming an old fogy – stubborn, judgmental, sour; I haven't given up, entirely.

Must I tolerate the excitement being interrupted willy-nilly by advertising?  Unannounced, the really important part of the viewing time becomes  the cute, heartwarming, colorful, and entertaining advertisements informing me about a product I should buy or the fabulous corporation that makes it available to me.  Nah. 

It was appalling when during the opening ceremony an advertising break was inserted as Sir Steve Redgrave made his way down the path approaching a curve running the torch to the Stadium.  I was emotionally with him, anticipating each of his steps and what would, could happen next.  Abruptly a commercial interrupted the run.  When I saw the torch the next time Sir Steve had arrived at his destination.  The TV producers obviously decided viewers wouldn’t miss him merely trotting on his way.  Wrong!  I was watching his body, feet and legs carrying him forward, arm elevated just so toward the sky, hand (fingers and palm) grasping that flaming symbol.   I was thinking about the torch bearers down through the years, the honor and responsibility of the tradition and for the deep meaning to that man doing the honors now, in the year two thousand twelve.  NBC’s advertising break sadly ruined the moment, broke my reverie.

One more time, though, tonight at 8 PM (1 AM tomorrow in the Olympic village -- London time being 5 hours ahead of us on the east coast of the USA),  I will tune in to try and joyfully involve myself in what happened earlier in their day; what has already been partially broadcast and editorialized on by those who make their money in the business of communication.

It seems, when I was raising my family, we planned for middle of the night watching  the Olympics in real time.  Two, three in the morning, we were in the living room with the popcorn or whatever, watching anticipating, involved in the action as it happened.

Could I be wrong?  Has my memory gotten creative? Didn’t we, years ago, have the option of being real-time television observers of the long awaited Olympics?  Why not now? 

Sharing Community - It's a Challenge

The morning Internet headlines tell me a sea turtle tangled in lobster lines was set free. I feel good.  I read they’ve assessed it to be 1000 pounds and at least six-feet long.  A magnificent animal, I’m thinking.  And, “once it was free it calmed down and swam away”.   One community helping another, doesn’t that make you feel good?

This morning I also learned a neighborhood resident (not my neighborhood) is so upset about a ground hog burrowed under the neighbors out building she wants them to get rid of the animal.  The sympathetic neighbor contemplates contaminating the burrowed entrance to the rotund rodents home with a toxic substance.  I don’t feel good about that.  It is secluded from expected human traffic.  In this instance I wish both parties would keep and eye out and strive to ‘live and let live’. 

I am also near an area where deer peer at us from stands of trees providing a lovely wooded ambiance in an area of lovely homes.  Dear God, please don’t let me see a deer lying prone, at the side of the street one day.  It happens because we’ve moved into their environment with all the human-made hazards we bring to what was life in the wild.  

An exterminator told me squirrels are taught by their parents to find nesting places in our homes.  We’ve cut down trees, removed what was their natural habitat so they have adjusted.  They learn to use what is available.

Once, searching for the source of a foul smell emanating from my own basement, a dried carcass of a squirrel was found.  Then a small squirrel inched out to almost snuggle against my daughter’s shoe.  It followed her out doors but lingered nearby as we stood discussing the orphan we found and how it must have happened.  Could the mother have died giving birth? How did the squirrel manage to survive?  We did decide the squirrel knew our voices and was comfortable, having lived in our basement since it was born.   Even months later, we would see the squirrel sitting on the deck railing holding something between its front paws, munching as it faced the back door.  If he/she came around after that summer, I didn’t recognize our former housemate.  This one, shown here, enjoyed Autumn at my house.

 When I was a kid, squirrels were only cute, “Oh look, a squirrel!”  No more. Too many of the bushy tailed invaders have had to be removed from inside my home.   What’s more the difficult attempt to secure the building against their determined search for nesting space is too much for me to ‘like’ them.  Once a contractor assured me the vent window under the peak of the roof had been securely fortified.  “I did ‘this’ inside; I did ‘that’ outside.  Squirrels will never get entry through here again.”  A couple days later we saw a huge red, brown and muted black squirrel up there working on that window, gnawing away.   The local squirrel community had sent for heavy-duty help.  He didn’t break through.  That was several years ago.   I’m not feeling totally secure, although I am smiling.  I’m winning, so far.

Blessed Assurance

“Everything’s gonna’ be okay.”  That’s my mantra today!

In fact it’s a softly quiet Monday.  There is no rain, no wind and low humidity.  Even though the morning sun is only periodically changing the pallor of the outdoors from gray to sun bathed, it appears weather-wise we’ll have a fine day.

GE will most likely call soon to arrange for their Authorized Technician to come see about my once revered washing machine.

Just two years ago I splurged to make the purchase.  It was a top-notch appliance as advertised everywhere top-notch washing machines are advertised.  Although, I’ll admit, from the beginning the bright and beautiful household necessity (as far as I’m concerned) was a puzzle to me.

It is my first front loader.  It’s an environmentally efficient machine.  I had not become happily accustomed to the smaller amount of water it took to clean a load of dirty laundry.  I was far from confident it used enough water to get grungy garb, linen and any filthy stuff really clean.  But it did.  Modern was nice!  (It had replaced a 15 – 20 year old washer.)

Then six weeks ago it stopped working.  The tiny bit of water came into the contraption but after less than two revolutions of the tub, it stopped! Devastation came into my being and hasn’t left.  I mean, this was not a cheap item.  And, nope, I did not buy the warranty insurance.  

I’m one of those who practice putting my money where my confidence is – with the manufacturer.  The warranty included in the purchase price was for a year.  That’s enough. “Mr./Mrs. Major Corporation, I know the quality of the product you put out in the market place.  I’m not wasting my money paying a premium to take it home and use it for more than a year – simply for peace of mind.”  To date, I had not been burnt.  Now, I have.  I’m faced with the possibility of paying almost 50% of the purchase price to get it running again. 

I’m appalled from two perspectives.  Number One being the manufacturer let me (a faithful consumer) down by shipping, to sell to me or you, a machine with a defective part.  I say a defective part took my washing machine off the job.  Number Two is the obvious, in the future I must ‘say yes’ to the passionate sales associate making the energetic case for me to purchase the warranty insurance.  It doesn’t matter that I’ve spent an inordinate amount of effort and time researching to select and locate the best product to hand over my hard earned money to own.  I will pay additional to make certain I will not pay even more for it to work beyond a year.

I think my learning from this experience is -- the best is not good enough. 

Tears are coming into my eyes.

(And, I know, this problem of mine is nothing – on any level, considering the mind-boggling issues in our problem intensive world.)

But . . . .         

MUSING

Shootings, Shootings, Shootings

Sex, Sex, Sex

Politics, Politics, Politics

That’s the news these days.

Be careful

Be discerning

Vote.

Just Thinking.  What about You?

A Bird Story

He (she) was sitting in the absolute middle of my wide, tree-lined street.  Beginning to drive down the block, I saw it almost at the end – perhaps it was a squirrel.  They are everywhere in our town.  And, they are daring.  A squirrel might stay in place until the approaching vehicle has to have brakes jammed on to keep from killing it.    Then it scampers away.

This wasn’t a squirrel. It was a rather chubby, sizeable black bird, sitting there, on both feet (big feet, too), casually blinking its dark eyes but otherwise not moving.

I pulled over and parked.  Maybe it was sick?  Wary of catching an exotic (or not) bird disease, my further inspection was from inside my car through the open window. 

I wasn’t alone on the essentially deserted street.  A man, a painter or plasterer – I guessed, was organizing materials in the back of his van parked at the house on the opposite side of the street.  From the top of the street I noticed him approaching the 'something' that wasn't moving.  In fact, as I approached he made several  almost hands-on attempts to encourage the street-bound bird to fly.

“Is it your bird?” I asked.  No, it wasn’t. He wanted him to move before a car hit him.  “I think he might be sick,” he said.  Standing so close to the bird his shoe likely touched his feathers, I was scared for the man.

From my safe vantage point I cautioned against touching the troubled bird, adding I would call the police and ask them to send animal control.

The police said Animal Control would be along within an hour.  I wanted them there sooner but kept my unhappiness to myself. 

Nervous about the bird’s safety I returned to park on the curbside near him.  This is relevant to my story because . . . in only a few minutes an agitated, bird-chirping ruckus interrupted the quiet morning. The man at his van called it to my attention.  They were two small, shades-of dark and light grey-birds in the trees flitting from limb to limb talking violently.  Then, noisily and aggressively they started flying back and forth over the stranded black bird; one darting toward him as if he would be pecked if he didn’t move. Our bird wouldn’t move. I rolled up my window afraid getting pecked was quickly becoming my destiny as the attackers flew in a wider circle.  

Animal Control was there within ten minutes.  What a relief.  “You pesky birds,” she directed to the obnoxious attackers.  She told us they were mockingbirds.  She said they are territorial and don’t like their environment upset.  Then looking at the fat stranded black bird she said, “Oh it’s a baby crow.”  Whoa!  It didn’t look like a baby.  Gloves on, she picked it up, examined it and put it in a crate in her van.  She said it looked like it would be fine.

At home I researched both birds . . . saw pictures of mockingbirds identical to the ones we faced.  I also read it’s not unusual to find baby crows stranded on the ground and in the street. They have been pushed out of the nest to learn how to fly (and live) on their own.  Type “baby crows” in your internet search box.  You'll find quite interesting reading.

Without a doubt, I’ve got much to learn about many things.