Lessons from my hick town: never judge a man by his memorial

I've driven past this Civil War Memorial hundreds of times. It is just up the street from me. Each time I would have the same thought, racist redneck. Then a few days ago I got a call from my friend Tina. She let me know that the Confederate Pyre, as we had come to call it, now had an Obama poster in front of it.

Hmmmmm.

My curiosity began to bubble and within a few hours I was on my way over there to take pictures of this juxtaposition. I felt weird taking pictures without leaving my name, so I dropped a note in the mailbox. That is when I noticed that the memorial honoree and the current resident shared a last name: Tatum. Curiouser and curiouser.

David Tatum Jr. called the next day and was open to a visit from me and my camera. During our comfortable hour, David shared precious artifacts such as his great grandfather J.C. Tatum's official release papers granted to him from the capturing Union Army, and an 1845 edition of Howe's Virginia complete with a hand written description of the fall of Richmond. He also explained that his great grandfather, JC Tatum, does not yet have a marked grave because no one knows where he is buried. JC Tatum was a member of the 1st Company Richmond Howitzers.

David's genealogy is fascinating- the first Tatum to come to America was an English orphan, sold as an indentured servant the same year the first African slaves came to American soil: 1619. Once we warmed up on the comfortable subjects, I jumped to the one that brought me here: What's with the Obama support?

"You thought I was a racist redneck, didn't you?"
I didn't deny this. Mr. Tatum expressed what many of my Obama supporting peers do: our country is falling apart and it is time for a change.
"I close my eyes," he said, "and listen to what the candidates have to say. It has nothing to do with color." I wondered out loud if this causes any ripples in his social organizations, Sons of Confederate Veterans in particular.
"There are racists in every organization. That doesn't make the organization racist. Sure, I may get flack from some folks. But I don't care."

He had a startling collection of replica cannons- including one being used as a flower pot. I couldn't understand how that was a cannon. So David, without a moment's hesitation, put out his cigarette, took the flowers out of the cannon, and opened a small chest that contained tins of black powder. I was sure we were all going to get blown up when he started tamping it down.
"Don't worry. The tamper is plastic. And if it does blow up, we'll all be in the next life before you even know it."

He stuck in a fuse and announced to his daughter, "Big Boom." She confirmed back, "OK, Big Boom." I was impressed with the safety routine. Walking outside, he rang a loud bell before firing the cannon. I knew it was coming, knew it was going to be loud, even covered my ears. But still could not help screaming in reaction to the Big Boom.



Just as shocking as the Big Boom were some Civil War interpretations I had never heard before: Lincoln was racist and used the Emancipation Proclamation as a political maneuver to prevent France and England from allying with the South; Lincoln wanted to deport all blacks away from American soil and create a white-only nation; Slaves were sold to the Southern states before the Northern states abolished slavery. While I cannot confirm or deny Mr. Tatum's interpretation of history, I resonated very strongly with his sentiments on slavery.
"Slavery was a national sin. It cannot be laid at the feet of the South alone."

The whole experience was liberating for me. I get nervous about living in a hick town. Afraid sometimes, even. So much so that I seriously considered moving just to be in a more "sophisticated" local. Gratitude to David Tutum Jr., my neighbor, for reminding me that there is no place like home.

When I thought Mr. Tatum could not possibly surprise me anymore, he tells me about his Civil War poetry. This is a genre of poetry I had never heard of. Here is a sample of Mr. Tatum's work.

The Locket.©

At last the war was over, Now Johnny was on his way home.
And silent as most of the others - Passing a wasteland of ashes and stone.
For once on that land stood proud “Dixie” a lady that Johnny loved true.
At the station at home waited Heather, A jealous woman, but John loved her too.

Yes Heather was jealous of Dixie- because Dixie had taken “Her Man”
In her heart Heather tried to forgive her- But Dixie had ruined her plans.
At her church Heather planned to get Married- Then raise children to play in the yard!
But Dixie stole Johnny for four long years-so finding forgiveness was hard.

But now he was “HOME” it was over- yes sweet Heather was waiting for him.
With flowers in hand, she’d wait for this man- Then caress those coarse hairs on his chin.

But at the Station there were so many- in fact it took Heather a while.

When she saw him she greeted him gently- a silent kiss blended with a sad smile.

Close she sat as they rode back of carriage- past Her Church that was burned to the ground
Then through a charred frame, its all that remained- of what once was there small southern town.

It was then that she noticed the “locket”- her auburn hair sticking out a small crack.

When she gave it to Johnny he Promised- that “Yes Dear- I’ll Bring It Back”

So true to his word Johnny had it - but as the carriage passed by the old well.
Heather looked in his face and saw the cold trace - of four years of fighting through Hell.
As the carriage pulled into the back yard - Johnny still had her locket in hand
Heather smiled and kissed him so Gently - closed the lid - Then she buried her man.

David Tatum JR ®

Gratitude 101 for agnostics, or Blinded by Coffee

I forgot to put the filter screen in my coffee maker. I watched it do weird things as it got hotter: sparks flew, steam streamed out the top. It wiggled around. I cautiously opened the lid and peered in.

I was talking on the phone with a friend and couldn't hear her properly with the coffee pot hissing and whatnot. So I walked away. And then it exploded, spewing pressurized, boiling coffee grinds and water in a five foot radius around the stove.

Because no one got hurt, this was incredibly funny. The whole house burst out laughing. We took pictures. We giggled. It was a party tale, like the split pea soup on the ceiling story someone's aunty told me. It was such a relief that no one was injured. We were celebrating. I was filled with gratitude. Gratitude for not having my curious, open eye over the coffee when it blew; for none of the children being in the vicinity; for this very dangerous thing to have happened any no one getting hurt. Being agnostic, I am not sure to whom or what (or if to anyone/thing) my gratitude is attached to.

Gratitude is a cyclic emotion. A Giver gives something, usually a Blessing, to a Receiver and the Receiver experiences gratitude. Without the Blessing (or the Receiver's perception of a Blessing) there is no gratitude. So. Where is the other end of my gratitude loop? To whom, to what, which way, how, do I express my gratitude for the prevention of blinding by coffee?

There is an ancient Jewish accolade, The blessing for a good deed is the good deed itself. God is not a necessary source of blessing- the act of being "good" is a blessing in itself. And being good, whatever definition I may apply to it, is within my control. Exclusively. No one else, not even God, can make me good. In effect, I create my own Blessing. If I can experience Blessing without God, then I can experience gratitude without God.

I live in an infinite universe, which must allow for the possibility of a Sky Daddy version of God. A universe with a God who watches us, closely, and interacts with us on a daily and personal level. Or I can live in my universe, where God is the manipulatable energy that defines reality. Either way, I don't need a higher power for for gratitude. I only have to experience gratitude. I become both the Giver and the Receiver. The experience itself is both the Blessing and the gratitude, in perfect union inside me.

Thank you Sasha, for coining the term Sky Daddy.

I love coming home

Back home and getting into my flow again. My travels were safe, my experience wonderful, and I'll be writing about it on my JoHo Ireland blog over the next few days. My excitement at leaving for this trip was matched only by my excitement to come home when it was done.

Dad- Thank you so much for helping with the kids while I was away.

Mashi- Nothing got dropped while I was away and I know this is because of how hard you worked while I was gone. Thank you for creating the space I needed to re-charge.

On feeling visible, or I do not work alone

My friend Rain once pointed out to me that most other people work with other adults, other witnesses, and they get to see one another's offices and go to meetings together. They get to see how different people do the same things, differently. Homeschooling moms, though, work alone for long stretches. We often work in groups, too. But not for 40 hours a week.

Sometimes, this makes me feel isolated.

Early this morning, feeling drunk on the first sunlight in a week, I snapped a picture of my fridge and tagged my blogging friends to do the same. As I was driving to co-op today, I thought, Hmmmm. That fridge thing is sort of personal. Seeing pictures of my peers' fridges was, surprisingly, incredibly intimate. Why is that?

This is an important aspect of my life, packed with emotional context and health consequences, and yet, one of the most isolating tasks I do. I call it foodage: the task of thinking about, preparing, serving, cleaning, storing, and re-serving delicious, nutritious, pleasing, healthful food to myself, my partner, and my children, at least three times a day, sometimes to-go.

I have lost things in my fridge, like a dozen Yorgo's Bagels, three tubs of homemade lentil soup, shrimp scampi, and five rotten pieces of ginger. Today I found something in my fridge: my sense of belonging to a community of working women, all of whom experience foodage in their own way. They have large bottles of katsup. They have edible flotsam in the freezer. They have miso and tofu and nuts. The have prolifically breeding condiments in their doors. They have animal food in their drawers. They have soda, chicken nuggets, cream cheese, and frozen prepared food. They have organic food that costs a small fortune. They have beer. In short, I AM NOT ALONE.

Gratitude to all the brave women who flashed their fridge and
to Mashi for taking over the grocery shopping.

Inspriational quotes

Every once in a while, I hear something that strikes me right to the soul. It is an inspiring experience. Here are my latest three waaaa waaaa waaaa full-body-goose-bump quotable moments. Every time I read them I feel validated and happy and REAL.

Janis Dean
[We try to]... find a balance between accountability to class objectives and accountability to our ideals about enjoying learning.

Hot (anonymous) homeschooling mama
My husband watches porn on his laptop on one side of the bed. I read some well-crafted erotica on my laptop on the other side of the bed. We're ready to rip each other's clothes off when we're done!

Matisyahu
... Jah please take me up so Babylon don't take me shopping.

Thank you John Larkin

Gratitude to John Larkin for helping me translate old useless data into fresh useful .PDF format.

Weekend getaway works it reliable magic

Larry and I try to have a Just Us get away every three months. Sometimes we go to a local hotel. Sometimes we drive to the beach. I think we may try camping at some point. Once a year we go for a week, the rest of the times we go for 2 or 3 nights. There are lots of reasons we take these trips: break from the kids; time to be alone and intimate; privacy to have personal conversations; opportunity to connect more closely with each other; chance to do long-term goal planning; a break from telecommunications. Basically, these trips are like corporate retreats, but for a couple. We are the Board and the family is our Company. We go somewhere beautiful to re-charge. Then, with a fresh mind and full heart, we review our goals and our progress towards them. And we try to eat sushi. This time we went to Ocracoke, North Carolina, for 3 nights.

The drive from Suffolk to Ocracoke was stunning. Blue skies, puffy cotton ball clouds, and the endless flat smoothness of the Outer Banks coastline. It got cloudy and wet as we continued south. It took us all of 4 hours to get the the free Hatteras Ferry, including stopping for lunch.

The ferry system of the Outer Banks is part of the North Carolina DOT, and jobs with the Ferry system are highly coveted by the locals for their security, benefits, and lack of commute. We missed the 8pm ferry by 5 minutes, and waited in a completely deserted parking lot for the 9pm ferry. The wind blew. Dirty Dicks was closed. We took a nap. The ferry ride itself was uneventful, with the exception of a nauseating last 5 minutes where we scarfed down ginger mints. We got stopped less than a mile off the ferry by the Ocracoke Sheriff's Office. They were conducting routine license checks for all 4 of us on the 10pm ferry. The Sheriff mumbled this around an enormous wad of chew in his lower lip.

We got into Ocracoke village half an hour later, circling the main drag several times before finding Crew's Inn, our B&B for the night. It was 11pm. We crept in through the porch, as the Innkeeper had instructed, and found directions to our room taped to the door. It was like a scavenger hunt, the end of which was a hidden folding door that opened up onto a steep and tiny staircase. It smelled of fresh wood. We tiptoed up and found ourselves in the childhood room of my dreams. Slanted ceilings, little reading nooks tucked into dormers, a claw foot tub, and soft rosy light. We were asleep in 10 minutes. I didn't even roll over until 6am the next day, when my grumbling belly and desire for country sausage woke me up.

In the bright light of morning we discovered that the bathroom was gorgeous, but not quite clean. After a lovely chat with a fellow guest down stairs, we also discovered that breakfasts served at Crews Inn are not hot. Our first breakfast was cold cereal and self-toasted English muffins. The coffee was excellent. Everything was served with a generous helping of Ocracoke welcome from Mary, the Innkeeper. Breakfast the next day included fresh baked muffins. The standard policy of the Crews Inn is for a fresh baked breakfast, not a country breakfast. Read: no sausage.

We wandered around town, discussing our long-term goals and how we are progressing with them. We hugged a lot. We had entire complete conversations. We did not eat a single chicken nugget. We ate lunch at Howard's Pub. The Ocracoke clam chowder was so good I ordered a second bowl. We took a nap. We looked for the beach and found a sign telling us we needed 4-wheel drive for the beach. We spent most of the time hanging out in our beautiful room, gazing out at the foliage. It had been raining and everything was wet and shiny and deeply green. It was like being in a tree house after a storm. By far, the highlight of the village was the Flying Melon Cafe, a hip, foxy, trans-fat-free, vegan-options, local-seafaring-life-supporting, little venue with great parking. We had the grilled blue fish and corn chowder. Both amazingly delicious. My brain, now devoid of things like raising children, emails, to-do lists, and schedules, was focused on the important stuff: what were we going to eat tomorrow?

The local Thai place was still closed for the winter, the few open restaurants served the same bar-food menu as Howard's Pub, and our B&B was pushing muffins. I wanted sausage. We were packed and out the door by 9am the next morning; theoretically a day "early" but we weren't going home. We were going on a Road Trip of Fun. And I felt really good. I was incredibly well-rested, and I have the sleepy nothing-to-do-ness of Ocracoke to thank for that. The sun was out, the birds were singing, and I was on a road trip with my man. Life is good.

We stopped at Taiko Sushi in the Outer Banks Mall for lunch, went and saw Leatherheads, and then stopped at a nail bar and got tandem manicures and pedicures. Leatherheads was slow and sappy and so funny that I thought I would pee my pants. Kind of like my trip. We were the last clients at the nail bar, and in between pumice scrubs and menthol clay wraps, we learned how to say hello (chiow) and thank you (coommg ong) in Vietnamese. We pulled into our driveway around 11pm; fat, happy, pampered, and restored.

Just as I need to sleep in order to function at my peak, I need to rest from my "regular" life in order to function at my peak. While this is not necessarily a trip itinerary I would want to repeat, the main purpose of this trip wasn't to find the perfect B&B. It was to have time. Time to check-in with my partner, time for my children to develop meaningful relationships with their Grandfather, time for napping, time for loving, time to sit down and just think until my thoughts are done. Time to create a focused plan for my next 3-4 months, which I can throw myself into knowing that in July we have another watering hole planned.

Gratitude to my father for watching the kids.

How to successfully complete an IRB at a conservative university

I attend the EVMS School of Public Health . As part of the MPH program students are required to get approval for a research project from the mysterious and powerful Internal Review Board. I am not really a student anymore. Now I am a pilgrim, paying my respects to the Temple of Internal Review. And Betsy Connor is my guide. The required forms have headings like "SECTION 10(b)(4)" and conditional rules like "If you check YES to Q.8(5)(b)(ii), you must also file a FORM 77563 and include supporting documents as listed on FORM 34355."

Thankfully, Dr. Benjamin Dobrin arranged for Betsy Connor from the Office of Research Subjects Protections to present information about the IRB process to our class. She spoke for a solid hour. I was rapt out of sheer self-preservation: this is as complicated as a tax return and Betsy's presentation was all the training I was going to get. By the time I completed filling out my IRB application I had referred to Betsy's handouts at least 500 times, and called enough that I know the number by heart. Then, when I just could not take it anymore, I made the decision to beg her for an in person meeting to verify my work.

She has been accessable, gracious, helpful. The literature she presented at her lecture was well organized, useful, and specific. How are my fellow students getting through this without her? I don't know. But I do know that I never would have been able to do it without Ms. Connor. Women like her form the backbone of administrative support in large organizations. I feel the efforts of those women are often taken for granted and I did not want to be guilty of the same mistake. Thank you, Betsy, for being so instrumental in helping my work group complete this task.

Earthship grows food year round in greenhouse

Gratitude to Mother Pat for helping my thumb turn green. These plants originally came from my summer garden. I never harvested any tomatoes from my summer garden due to tomato horn worms. Big green suckers. The only reason I have any plants at all is because Mother Pat, my botanist neighbor, came over one day and plucked all the horn worms off. There were 35 of them, give or take a handful. Chickens love horn worms.

Mother Pat was then good enough to explain to me how I can overwinter my tomatoes in the greenhouse:

• take a healthy looking cutting as long as your elbow to your finger tips
• bury it in a pot so that only the top 3" show
• keep it properly watered
• feed it regularly
• supplement with Epsom salt

I followed these instructions and got a beautiful harvest.

Law enforcement can access my library account without my consent

Gratitude to the Suffolk Public Library for informing me of this risk to my privacy.

This is a screen shot I took of my own online library account. I often use the online version of my brick and mortar library. Today I tried a new feature, the "save search" feature.

Before continuing, I was presented with a three line message:

The feature you have selected is associated with personal data from your patron account.

So far, so good.

Such information may be accessed by law enforcement personnel without your consent. Do you wish to continue?

Hell no, I don't want to continue. Not only do I not want to continue, I want to do some research and find out if this is... legal! And to whom I would address my concerns about this violation of my privacy? Shame on us for letting this happen.