Four Months Later, am I Listening Yet?

     Today I hit that wall again- even more hard. It was physical and spiritual, yet not mental. Thankfully I’ve had wonderful counselling in recent years that’s helped me to cope and “hold it all together”.

     As many of you know, in the nineties I had a major vehicular accident involving several automobiles which resulted in a very serious head injury. In 2011 I was in a trainwreck. Once I recovered (now when I say “recovered” I mean functioning enough to look normal on the outside) I became hyper-social. On top of raising children into young adulthood, I joined book clubs, hiking groups, maintained jobs (and I will admit they were part time for a school district, subbing in several capacities from teaching, aiding in resource and lunch-lady duties) and I wrote books.

     Several years ago, my family and I downsized and moved home to Michigan to a log cabin. I have chickens, rabbits, fruit trees, berry bushes and a vegetable garden. I love the sound of birdsong and the feel of the wind on my face as it gently whispers through the trees. The woods give me a sense of calm. I need that peace because I work at a mental health clinic, part time, and put on a happy face for our clients, many of which I’ve grown fond of. I type transcripts, make appointments, file, and say silent prayers for several of the patients. Many share their stories. Many do not. Some I know personally. I come home mentally exhausted.

     Last week, I sat at the dinner table and blurted, “I am so, so tired!”

     My youngest daughter set her jaw and rolled her eyes. My husband asked what I had to be tired for. I answered, “I was at work today. Yes, I know that it is only part time, but it was work. I get up, feed our animals, get ready for work, dress professionally like a modern-day Jennifer Marlowe, figure out a new route to work several times a month because one road or another is closed, I feel our clients’ palpable emotions in our waiting room, make executive decisions, drive home, change clothes, feed and water the animals again, tend to our garden, exercise and lift weights, do scripture study and art, play the piano, decorate our home for each and every season, cook many meals from scratch, tend the garden, fertilize the flowers and trees, weeding, see our grandchildren sometimes, go out with my ladies’ groups to socialize, do yoga on Fridays, Bible study group, brush the animals, clean the hutches and coop, find time to do my nails after those cages are clean, drive my senior friends to events, hospitals, emergencies, appointments, volunteer to do their shopping, do our budget, make sure the bills are paid, go to church, walk our dog and go to our service-animal training together, write books and stories, proofread, edit, my vision is becoming more blurry every week so those tasks are getting more difficult, go shopping, pick up milk in between shopping trips because, well, it seems like nobody else can do that even when it’s down to the bottom of the carton, shower, shave my legs, all while I’m in pain, aching, stiff and crying on the inside. I drive to my on-going physical therapy appointments or my body could lock up. On top of that my physician left his practice, my therapist moved on to be a school counsellor and my dentist is retiring. So now I get to seek out another mental-health provider, switch dentists, find a new doctor and hope that they are actually accepting new patients and then hope and pray that these businesses actually accept my insurance! All while looking good and keeping my husband happy!”                                      

(If it was difficult reading those run-on sentences, just think how breathless I was after saying all that!)

     My sweetheart countered with, “I’ve worked full time for nearly forty years, I vacuum upstairs and do my own laundry.”

     I acknowledged that. (I will add, he cut the grass three times this year.) I’d asked him to maintain his man-loft upstairs when I started working again: first at a senior citizen home as their activities coordinator and most recently at the mental health office. I love my job, and the paycheck helps with the never-ending medical bills and their co-pays. I could do all the laundry, but my lover kindly volunteered to do it. Before long, I asked him not to wash my delicates because they were becoming shrunken, damaged and unwearable.

     My husband told me, then, that I was choosing to be a grumpy old woman. I silently vowed to be more pleasant around him, even though our conversations center around politics and the world’s problems. I’d rather get compliments on my cooking or talk about something sweet and romantic with my man, but these are the things he chooses to talk about during our precious moments together. I smile, until he himself gets all grumped up and then I just lose my patience. Yes, my choice. I should counter with gentle words, but by then I am burnt out and looking for a soft place to land.

     Yes, I’ve been living a very Proverbs 31 existence, with the only exception being that if anyone asked me to rise before dawn, at 6 am, in my dream-state, I’d probably hurt them every way my zombie-like body could manage. I’ve really been rocking verses 10 through 31, specifically, and looking good while doing it. I’ve been a river, flowing into the big lake, peacefully flowing along, giving…giving. All the while my currents were churning beneath the surface; deadly and silent.

     This week, even after physical therapy, my neck was stiff. I cancelled my yoga date with one of my best friends today and just sat in my recliner, with a cup of warm cherry-chocolate coffee in my hands. I contemplated, lost in my own thoughts, hearing the never-ending screeching in my ears that sounds like I’m sharing a wall with a machine shop. Without warning, above the ringing, I heard the words, “I’m concerned about you.” It was external and at the same time, internal. Was it my own exhausted brain telling me something? Was it an ancestor reaching out to guide me? Was it the Holy Ghost? The verse from Psalms chapter 46 verse 10 came to my mind:

                                          “Be still, and know that I am God.”

     It’s time that I listened.

     It’s time to embrace. . .stillness.

#Stillness  #BibleStudy #BreakDown #HyperSocial #Tired #PTSD #Accidents #ManitowenPress #Exhaustion #SmallFarmLife #Volunteer #VolunterBurnOut

                                          Stiff Neck, Served with a Smile

 

TheTick

 

     Have any of you hit the proverbial wall? I just turned sixty. I realize that for some this is not old. I take care of myself, but on top of on-going medical issues for decades and the occasional health crisis, I was in a multi-vehicular accident in 1998 as well as a train wreck thirteen years ago. I am not lazy. I am bone weary.

     I cook supper from scratch three days a week, usually something from my small farm is in the main dish. Two nights a week, other members of my family cook and some nights we have leftovers. My husband made fajitas from scratch yesterday, because I was out and about with my two youngest grandchildren and one of my adult children.

     Since I recently was hired part-time at an office, my husband does his own laundry. He'd do mine, but after a mishap with some dress pants in the drier, I said I can handle my own clothes washing. I do the farm chores. He does the mowing. My youngest daughter helps when she can. The work is pretty evenly distributed. I feel blessed.         

     Then there are some days I just cannot drag myself out of bed. I hurt that bad. Then I feel guilty because: rain, snow or sunshine, animals are dependent upon their human caretakers. I refuse to take painkillers because I'd be even more useless.

     I keep plugging along. Yes, I take time to rest, create, get a massage to stretch what's become locked into place. Somehow I do it "With a Little Help from My Friends" as Sgt. Pepper would say.

     I take time every summer evening to pick the Japanese beetles off of our fruit trees and bushes. It's like meditation to me. I take time to ponder and breathe deeply. I am dedicated to this lifestyle. Sometimes I'm treated to a flock of turkeys marching through my yard, or a herd of deer making their way in and out of the woods.

     Birdsong greets me in the morning. I listen to the cries of a couple of hawks during the day and the calls of owls and quail at night.

     Twice a year my taxes go up. That's stressful. My township changes the zoning and handbook frequently— less animals, more subdivisions. That stresses me out. We no longer have agricultural land where I live. All blueberry fields are now designated rural residential. The ten-acre horse farm down the street got a rude awakening last year.

     Last week my doctor put me on diabetes medication so now I feel EXHAUSTED. Also, I doubt that the recommended guidelines for how many carbohydrates a sixty-year-old woman is allowed to have take into consideration people like me. I’m not sitting in front of a TV all day ironing and folding laundry, eating potato chips and sweeping the crumbs off of the towels before I stack them in the linen closet. Sometimes several days go by before I even go upstairs into the loft to sit down to catch up on a couple shows.

     Then last night, there was a tick IN MY BED. With the exception of my housecats, I do not allow any animals on my bed, indoor or outdoor. How that little sh!t bug got in my bed, I do not know. I've encountered ticks before (more and more frequently as the years go by) and I deal with them. This was different. My bed is my sanctuary where I can finally begin to unwind.

     After my daughter got the little eight-legged vampire off of me, I had a meltdown. This morning, after I fed the animals, I went back inside, crawled under the covers and rested. It’s now late afternoon. I still have to clean coops and hutches. I still want to get some fresh air and walk my dog. . . but I have shut down in every way. I want to care, but suddenly I JUST DON'T! I want to move away from ticks. I want to relax with just my dog in some city far away from farm animals, orchards, gardens and most of all, ticks.

     That little bloodsucking demon was my last straw this weekend. I have hit the wall -- and it isn't pretty.

(My mood today)

A Roller Skating Patrick Swayze & Maureen McCormick in a Shiny Red Bodysuit. (Jessica Wore it Better)

     It was a long, cold, snowy weekend, a great time to catch up on shows I haven’t seen and books I haven’t read. I was also craving A. silly fun, and B. a warmer climate. For the silly element, imagine “rolling” one of the Beach Blanket Bingo (the Harvey Lembeck years) with Saturday Night Fever and a pinch of Dirty Dancing. There’s no better setting than sunny California. With that boiling pot of ingredients you get the motion picture that might have, arguably, started the whole Roller Derby craze: Skatetown USA, set in a Los Angeles roller rink.

     “Skatetown USA!” some of you gasp, “that poorly written, goofy, pointless mess?!” Well, yes, but I’ve never seen it before. Not once – EVER-- before tonight. This review is forty-five years in the making— Well, what can I say.  I couldn’t drive myself to the theater in 1979.

     I’ve wanted to see this film for decades for many reasons. The soundtrack alone was only rivalled by Saturday Night Fever’s record breaking LP album. When I was a teen, Tiger Beat was the magazine all my friends raved over and Scott Baio was on A LOT of their covers. (Yes, Chachi is in this film.) Other notable performers were Ruth Buzzi, Ron Pallilo and Maureen McCormick (in an outfit that looked A LOT like the gown that Jessica Rabbit later wore). In fact, this show was meant to be a post Brady Bunch vehicle for McCormick, as well as exposure for other young performers wishing to start their careers. 

     For the moment, let’s just focus in on one: Patrick Swayze. In this, his film debut, Swayze portrays Ace, an angry skater with a chip on his shoulder. Did you know Mr. Swayze could skate? I did! Seven years later he was in the hockey movie Youngblood with Rob Lowe and another, at that time, unknown actor, Keanu Reeves. (Swayze and Reeves would later star in Point Break). Roller-skate, ice-skate, dance, act, sing -- what couldn’t Swayze do? His performance alone is worth watching this crazy slapstick mash of nonsense. I always thought that the reason fans (and non-fans) have never enjoyed this motion picture on DvD and digital media is because of the nightmare to secure music rights, but I might be wrong. In my research, it turns out that Patrick Swayze purchased all the film rights to this jambalaya of a movie and prevented its distribution. He was embarrassed by Skatetown USA. Yet his intense performance is more than noteworthy. It’s phenomenal. It’s seething. It’s sexy.  I’ll even add that there is choreography that predates Dirty Dancing yet is nearly move-by-move identical in some scenes.

     Then there’s the crazy situation usually not seen in 1970’s flicks: an interracial couple! Flip Wilson plays two rolls: one as Harvey Ross, the manager of the neon emblazoned rink/ comedy club -- and HIS OWN MOTHER! (Think Wilson’s beloved Geraldine.) Yet here’s the unexpected part - Harvey’s daddy, Jimmy Ross, is played by the late character actor Billy Barty, a little man with more talent in his compact spirit than many other acting giants of the 20^th Century.

     Watch for other cameos such as (possibly) Richard Simmons in the opening credits in the conga line; and Dorothy Stratten… in a pizza line.

     

     I was able to find a copy of Skatetown USA online through a library archive. If after a reasonable search you still cannot find this motion picture in its entirety, I will send you a safe link.

Is Everett Reuss St. George, Utah's Mysterious Lil' Webb?

Are the remains found on Webb Hill In St. George, Utah those of Everett Reuss, a young artist who mysteriously vanished?

     As many of you know, in 2017 I published a book through Manitowen Press titled Windy's Last Ride about the remains of a young man found on Webb Hill in Southern Utah. There were several theories as to whom these bones and ragged clothes once belonged to and I went with the most likely possibility to pen my novel. The Utah state coroner speculated that the remains, nicknamed Lil' Webb or Webby, were those of someone who'd possibly died of the Spanish Influenza in or around 1918. I weaved my tale with historic figures from Washington County, Utah and included actual St. George townspeople living at that time. Most importantly, I encouraged readers to help solve the mystery of who this long-dead boy might be.

     Yesterday I read "Into the Wild" by John Krakauer. In his book he tells the true story of Chris McCandless who ventures into the Alaskan Wilderness where he eventually dies from starvation. About half way through his book, Krakauer recounts several instances of other adventurous men who risk death in their quest to face nature head on. Some were rock climbers, extreme hikers, off-grid foragers and even, in many cases, crack-pots.

     When Krakauer’s book comes to the mystery of Everett Reuss, my heart began to thump in my chest. My brain began, it seemed, to search through files within my grey matter. Reuss, a young man with a lust for rock climbing, was known to leave civilization for weeks and months at a time. The young man was an artist of some renown, but he was drawn to desert outcroppings and solitary sojourns. He'd been known to fall during some climbing adventures, dust himself off and continue. He was known to sleep on the desert floor and sometimes in shallow caves. Once, Reuss reached into a crack in a rock and was attacked by what he called, “wild bees”. This alone could have taken his life as he had a nasty allergic reaction. In 1934 at the age of twenty, the young adventurer vanished into the southern Utah wilderness. He was last seen with some pack mules and supplies. It was speculated that he'd been robbed for his mules or fell while rock climbing or drowned in a swollen river or settled down to life with a Navajo wife. (I apologize for the use of "or" so many times, but I used it to emphasize that there was a lot of speculation surrounding Reuss' disappearance.)

     In 2008, the decades-old remains of a murder victim were found close to Bluff, Utah. It was assumed these fragments belonged to Everett Ruess. In 2009, the DNA results proved these bones were not a match to any known family members. (https://www.npr.org/2009/05/09/103939764/solved-the-mystery-of-the-missing-artist)

     As my book Windy’s Last Ride says in the opening chapter, a skull, some bones and clothes were discovered by some kids in December of 1997. With a quick internet search of the name Everett Reuss, I found several photos of the missing artist. (https://www.ksl.com/article/82638/human-face-given-to-mystery-skeleton)

     When I put the images of the reconstruction of Lil’ Webb’s skull and photos of Reuss side by side, my heart raced. Yet, more than the images match: 1. Reuss had taken a few falls. Webby had cracked ribs that showed signs of healing long before the victim’s demise. 2. Signs of an active lung infection; might have also been scar tissue from anaphylactic shock (severe allergic reaction to insect stings). 3. Clothes found on Webby's remains might possibly have been from the armed services or could have been purchased at an army supply or camping store. The clothes and boots might also have been obtained during a trade.

     I do not know who to contact, but I would hope that DNA tests of Lil’ Webb will be compared to any willing members of the Reuss family to finally bring this mystery to a close.

     For more on the life of Everett Reuss, please consider reading Philip L. Fradkin’s book Everett Ruess: His Short Life, Mysterious Death and Astonishing Afterlife.

Left, reconstruction of face over Lil' Webb's skull. Right, actual photo of Everett Reuss.  

#WebbHill  #St.GeorgeUtah #Windy'sLastRide #EverettReuss #MissingPersons #SouthernUtah #KSL #ManitowenPress

JUST GOOGLE IT !

     The word “Google,” is no longer just a noun. It is also, for the last couple decades, a verb. To “Google,” something is to look it up on the internet, even if you’re using an alternate search engine such as Bing, Firefox, Yahoo or many of the other alternatives.

     I belong to gardening groups, log cabin aficionados, cooking circles, book clubs and history pages on Facebook. Many times, just like I do, people go to these groups and ask questions having something to do with topics of interest to other members. It’s not that people cannot do their own research. It’s so easy to surf the web. Within moments you have more knowledge before your eyes than any local library could have offered you even as recently as the 1990s.

     Yet, you have Jennifer and Jason, in their thirties, asking, “What are these little green insects all over my bushes and how can I get rid of them?” I mean, come on, they as children of the 1980s clearly grew up with technology from the day Grandma and Grandpa gave Jason his first Teddy Ruxpin and Dad gave Jen a Gameboy.

     I’ll tell you three reasons why they are reaching out: A. Just like you, they are in your Facebook gardening group called Roses for the People, B. their mothers were too busy at work to garden and show them the way, and C. they are wary of “Googling,” because in the past when Jason did a search about a pearl necklace that Jennifer really wanted, one that looked just like her grandmother’s, let’s just say, image search was not their friend. (There are some things that Jason can NOT unsee.) Likewise, Jennifer did a search about health care options and had to wade through legitimate looking sites that were actually sponsored, selling the equivalent of modern-day snake oil. Next weekend, when they have time, Jennifer and Jason might do an internet search together on driving through the Blue Ridge Mountains for their eighth anniversary, but right now they need to find out what kind of creepy crawlies are sucking the life out of their newly planted rose bushes.

     On Facebook the JaJen Johnsmith profile asks about the insects. A few people offer help suggesting sprays, powders or ladybugs. Without fail in the time it takes to scroll on by, some knuckle-dragging troll will type, “Why don’t you just use Google?” Yes, why? Because Jennifer and Jason share the love that everyone else in the group has for roses. They don’t need some revolutionary, new, expensive powder that a sponsored ad insists they must buy within the next five minutes before the two-for-one sale ends, and so on. They want to know what works for you and your bushes. They don’t want to have to try each and every product, watch each and every video and testimonial. They have work in the morning. Someone in their group can help them with experience and wisdom. Jennifer can purchase the recommended clippers and a carton of lady bugs on her way home from work. Their bushes will grow better, yield more roses and they’ll make friends with other helpful people who love to garden.

     In the meantime, Mr. Justin Googlyte made a few enemies and left the conversation with a big announcement. Within the hour he’s banned from posting, group members are breathing easier and getting on with their gardening.

     That, my friends, is why many people won’t JUST GOOGLE IT!

                                       Artwork by the author, Liesa Swejkoski (1985)

Women's History Month - Focusing on Emma Hale Smith and the Relief Society

    

                                                       Image via Carole Maguire

    

     Is it merely a coincidence that Women's History Month coincides with the creation of the Relief Society in March of 1842? Maybe so, but let me tell you about one of my heroes, Emma Hale Smith, founder of the organization.

     Emma Hale Smith was the creator of the Relief Society, one of the world's oldest and largest organizations of women. Founded in New York State, it has been in continuous operation since March 17, 1842. Emma was the gathering's first president, and its very first meeting, she predicted to all present they were about to do something extraordinary. This week in my studies regarding Emma, I found this quote by her mother-in-law, Lucy Mack Smith, “She has been tossed upon the ocean of uncertainty-she has breasted the storms of persecution, and buffeted the rage of men and devils, which would have borne down almost any other woman.” What did this mean, exactly?

     Many people reading Lucy Mack Smith's words, if they are unfamiliar with seafarers and their lore, might not understand the depth of admiration that this mother-in-law felt for her son's wife. They might not have grasped the many layers of meaning in the above quote if not for for the history I'm about to share.

     According to the research done by many historians and maritime aficionados like Debra Ronca, sailors tend to be more superstitious than the rest of us. The long list of nautical legends, folklore and superstitions may seem odd to us landlubbers, but when your profession exposes you to the elements and uncontrollable natural disasters, you're better safe than sorry. Good luck charms and omens of bad luck pertaining to sailing, boats and sailors have endured for centuries. Just two of these false beliefs are that a sea voyage which starts on a Friday is doomed, or whistling on a boat will conjure up a storm. One old nautical superstition held that women on ships or boats were very bad luck. Women were historically forbidden from sailing on military vessels or merchant ships because captains believed their presence would anger the sea gods who would cause rough waves and violent weather. (An alternate explanation might have been that bringing a woman on an extended sea voyage could be extremely "distracting" to the all-male crew — and probably cause problems for the woman as well. A distracted or jealous crew is an unsafe crew.)

     Yet, although sailors believed a woman on board would anger the sea gods, they also believed a bare-chested woman calmed the seas. A topless woman would "shame" nature into suppressing its anger. This is why you still see bare breasted female figureheads with their blouses wide open on the prows of boats and ships. (From “Why Were Women on Ships Considered Bad Luck?” by Debra Ronca)

     A fictionalized account of these unfounded, traditional fears can be found in the well-researched book Voyager by Diana Gabaldon (published 1993). The scenes themselves seemingly come to life on the televised Outlander series whose third season was based upon this novel. Another example of sailors’ traditions is demonstrated when, to ward off misfortune, the sailors of the Artemis must touch a horseshoe placed in a prominent position on deck. Regarding that horseshoe, everyone had to rub it before embarking on their journey. With the Artemis already underway, the strong-willed protagonist of the series, Claire, who has not as yet caressed the object, wishes to placate the seafaring men by making an obligatory touch of the metal shoe. Captain Raines says, "Too late for that. It must be done at the beginning of a voyage." She is quickly instructed on many of the traditions that ward off bad omens and sea demons and is told that during the voyage, women should be baring their breasts so that the sea-gods will perhaps show mercy upon the crew.

     Lucy Mack Smith was poetic and at the same time sincere in her praise of Emma. Her daughter-in-law was there as a beacon of prayer and mercy - a bit of a bad omen to tradition - who had weathered fierce storms of disease and persecution.

     Who was Emma Hale Smith, beyond her creation of an enduring world-wide sisterhood?? Most notably, her name is associated with her husband Joseph Smith Junior, founder of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  She had an active role in Church proceedings and advisement. Her discouragement of men spitting their tobacco onto her floors led to a health code called the Word of Wisdom. Decades later, many people such as the Kellogg Brothers took an interest in health codes and practices similar to the Word of Wisdom. Shortly afterward, physicians embraced the consumption of healthy food alongside the abstinence of hard liquors and tobacco.

     Emma was also a scribe to her husband at a time when many men, but women especially, could not read or write. (This was in a time before organized Women’s Liberation or the Suffragette movement.) Women did not advise their husbands in their religious callings let alone preach on the pulpit or transcribe sermons. The Relief Society was the beginning of something big, a movement with momentous repercussions.

     Many times, Emma witnessed the horrifying burns and injuries that her husband endured at the hands of angry villagers. She suffered the loss of several children, one notably after its birth. A chill wind blew into the room in which her infant’s cradle was kept after a door was left open during a home invasion. Local mobs, incensed by their hate, strove to pour hot tar on Joseph, and then cover his body in feathers. They burst in as he was singing to and cradling the child in his arms. Stories are told of removing such a mess from human skin. It could take a day, maybe two leaving tears, welts and open sores. Emma not only had to tend to her injured husband by peeling the tar from his raw skin, but comfort a sick and dying baby.

     Some people in this world would have considered it bordering on evil at the most, maybe poor judgment at the least, for Emma to be outspoken in the church, well educated, and by her husband’s side, through all the turmoil that came her way. Ultimately her husband was martyred. Perhaps more mercy could have been shown to Emma and her family by people inside and out of the church. Maybe mercy was shown more than we can imagine, as at one point the mob came to castrate Smith. Ultimately, through the storms that came Emma’s way: death, escape, polygamy, moving every several years from state to state, sacrifice and widowhood – this great woman’s prayers for mercy bared her very soul. She was a blessing and an example to the women of her time, and mine as well.

     Emma Hale Smith is one who endured.  She leads my personal vessel as a woman of strength, patience and prayer. Lucy Mack Smith’s words were an eloquent summary of Emma, whose countenance is carved in my heart; Emma Hale Smith leads the way as the woman I honor this Woman’s History Month.

Creating the Great American Fondue Pot While Counting and Measuring the Ingredients.

  

        Several days ago, I posted the above meme on my Facebook author page. By posting it, I wanted to see how many people were triggered by the words Arabic or forced. Just I as anticipated, I got some very interesting responses from some very appalled readers.

 

    Please, allow me to let you in on a little something I learned DECADES ago: Arabic numerals. They are the basic numbers that all of us used, learning how to count and do mathematics, beginning in pre-school and grade school. They are what we all used when counting for teams in gym class.  I for one felt forced to use them as a small child. For that matter, I felt like school was a prison until I reached seventh grade. I am grateful for Arabic numerals over the Roman numeral system.

 

     Until 1968 I was raised with Lebanese-American and Arab-American neighbors and friends - Christians- not Muslims as some of the neighbors I lived close to in later years assumed all people of Arabic descent must be. Thereafter, at least once a month, we'd visit an Arabic - American woman that prepared the most scrumptious lamb served in pita bread. Once a week, as a toddler, I faithfully watched a Lebanese - American woman as she graced the screen of my television: Marlo Thomas in That Girl on Detroit’s own ABC channel 7. (I wanted to be her and yes, I remember the sixties.) Her father, Danny Thomas, produced among other programs, a very iconic, very All-American classic: The Andy Griffith Show.

 

     I have Japanese-American sisters, a German born mother who obtained her citizenship before I was born, and had Mexican-American neighbors. My dad told me the history of traditionally African-American foods and although I am not African-American, those are my favorite foods. I can cook hot-wings and ribs and banana pudding - oh my!!! (In Detroit those dishes were called "soul food" but my family just called it Southern cooking.) I also enjoy making traditionally Mexican-American recipes such as tacos and fajitas. I make a great pico degallo also known as salsa fresca.

 

     Back to math, what is the common denominator in the nationalities I just mentioned above? "AMERICAN". When my family enjoyed all these wonderful friends, neighbors, relatives and their food, and by extension their cultures, we were not appropriating. We were appreciating. Somehow we all got along. Then about fifteen years ago, so-called do-gooders "doing good" came along and accused we-the-neighbors (AMERICANS) of culture appropriation. I guess divide and conquer is the mantra of their wrinkled souls. Please, for the sake of all that is Holy - DON'T LISTEN TO THEM!

 

     I choose to love, eat, pray and visit. If you do as well, ignore those that spew hate and divisiveness and just choose LOVE. Let's share a park bench, and a bagel sometime.

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arabic_numerals