Do you believe in me?

A little over a week ago Kate bopped into the kitchen and looked me in eye then fired this question at me, "Do you believe in me Mommy?"


Wow! For a moment it was as if my breath had been sucked into my toes. I couldn't swallow. My body was a vacuum. How to answer this question of a five year old. Hum....


I took a moment with a mindful smile on my face. As long as I smile Kate is at ease; this is part of the magical knowledge of Mommies. How do I answer this question? I mustered, "Of course I believe in you. I believe in you with every thread of my being. I believe in you from the bottom of my heart. I believe in you." Kate responded with a smile and, "Great! I believe in you too Mommy."


The smile on my face was 'real' now. Ah, she believes in me. Great! What does all this mean?


On Sunday, July 1st the minister at our church preached a patriotic message. With the title "My name is America." I listened intently as I always do at church waiting to learn, be enlightened, be moved, emotionally connect, something! I WANT something when I'm in church. I don't turn off or become distracted; I'm an active participant. I don't always get something but it's okay, I'm sure I will eventually have an "ah-ha!" experience down the road when I'm SUPPOSED to get something.


On that Sunday I got something when the minister asked, "Do you believe in me?" He was asking this question for our country not for himself. And in that moment all those emotions that I had experienced a few days before when Kate had asked the exact same question with the exact same intonation rushed into my body, into my mind.  Wow! Of course I believe in America...from the bottom of my heart!


I believe in my country--I'm a radically patriotic person. I love being an American. I become very angry when folks put down our great country. I think folks think if you're a 'liberal' that you don't believe in our country; that's not true!  Now, I'm not defending politicians or stupid people or ignorance or evil. But that's everywhere. I'm talking about the good people who reside all over our beautiful country. I've worked and lived in many places and I love and respect folks from the far Northwest to New England to the Southeast as well as the West. Each part of the country I've lived in had folks with quirky culture and traditions AND how wonderful is that!?! I love tradition and culture.  I LOVE QUIRKY....I love America...


And I believe in our country as I believe in my daughter. She's amazing. And so is our country.

One night on the way home from Montevallo Kate said, "Oh look, that's beautiful!" I said, "What are you looking at?" Kate's reply, "An American Flag, Mommy, it's just beautiful."

I thought to myself, "It's beautiful that you think so Kate:)"

I wanta hold your hand.....

Last year on my birthday we celebrated my Daddy's life on earth. I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to say a few words about my Daddy that day. I thought I had lost the little story that I wrote for him but today I found it. I want to share it with you:



If you know Jack Killian’s sons you might think that my Daddy was the quiet one. But he was so much more than that.



My Daddy was encouraging, supportive, kind, generous, loving, mischievous, funny, argumentative, eccentric and artistic.



My Daddy was artistic and he shared that talent with me. When I was a baby and a toddler I had a red, five year diary. The entries in the diary started with scribbling on pages and then on some pages daddy drew elaborate pictures of farm houses and Santa Claus. Some pages he drew the pictures and I colored them. Instead of bedtime stories he would ask me how to build a brick house. We would list everything you needed. We would draw it in my diary. He taught me to be an artist.



My Daddy was encouraging and supportive. It was the fall of 1986; I had been accepted to Birmingham-Southern College. On a hot August day Daddy packed up two cars with my things that I had planned to take to college. We looked a little like the Beverly Hillbillies J I was so very shy and nervous. I remember walking out to the car where Daddy was rearranging the trunk for the 5^th or 6^th time; I stopped him and told him that I was wrong that I didn’t want to go to B-SC. I had decided that I wanted to stay at home and that I would go to the community college. I remember him telling me, “You have things to do and you can’t do them here. You have to go. Now go get your butt in the car.”



My Daddy was generous. There was this spot in my car under the front seat between the fabric seat cover and the metal frame. That’s where my Daddy would hide $100 in twenties every weekend I would go home from college. He said it was “just in case money.” Even after I graduated he would still leave twenties there each time I came home. This past year at Thanksgiving after Daddy got out of the hospital I was packing my car to go home. I opened the driver’s side door and there on my car seat was a twenty dollar bill.



My Daddy was funny. A few years ago Daddy decided to go through all the boxes of pictures that he and Mom had accumulated over the years. There were boxes and boxes and boxes of pictures. Daddy took on the task of writing the names of people in the picture on the back as well as the date if he could remember it. He spent hours and hours on this project. He loved doing it. He and Mom vowed that if they didn’t know who the people in the picture were they would throw the picture away. Daddy would do just about anything not to throw a picture away. He would save the photos of the unknown family members in a box and ask everyone who came in the house if they recognized the people. Finally Daddy threw away the box. But there were about 20 ancient black and white photographs that he couldn’t bring himself to throw away. The photographs are amazing. They are of interesting looking people doing really bizarre things. Daddy named each person in all the pictures as well as documented what was happening in the pictures. Daddy created a branch of our family tree. He named that branch “The Gordons”. He chronicled their lives. He was so funny.



My Daddy was eccentric and argumentative. Daddy was a conspiracy theorist. He was weary of the government. He believed that the bird flu would get us all. He asked me one day what I thought about him mounting some kind of gun on either side of the driveway. I asked why he would do that and he told me, “So everyone will know how crazy I am.” Recently he painted the hallway in the house. He asked me how I liked the color he chose. I said I didn’t really like it and he replied with, “Well, I do.” Daddy loved to talk about politics. Really he loved to argue about politics. He would find the one thing that would set you off and then he would not leave it alone. He would push your buttons.



My Daddy was mischievous. Daddy was very, very hard of hearing. That’s a nice way to say he was deaf. He wasn’t completely deaf and that was probably the problem. He could hear just enough of a low roar to drive him crazy. Several different types of noise would bother him: high pitched screaming, everyone talking at once, and high pitched screaming while everyone was talking at once. Christmas was hard for Daddy; everyone at the house talking and laughing and the children running and screaming. One Christmas Daddy couldn’t get anyone’s attention so as he sat in his chair he would occasionally set off his car alarm. Everyone would stop talking for a few moments. Children would stop screaming. When it got loud again Daddy would set if off again. It took us quite a while to figure out what was going on. Once we did we all had a good laugh which was probably pretty annoying for Daddy.

My Daddy was loving. Last Thanksgiving Daddy had an accident and was in the hospital. After he got out of the hospital as Kate and I were leaving his house to go to ours he opened the gate for the car as we backed out of the driveway. As I drove by him I looked in the side mirror and I saw him blowing kisses at us! I love my Daddy.

It's been a difficult year without him. I've missed his wonderful advice, his silly sense of humor, his laugh, his strength in everything, his eyes and I think most of all his hand holding mine. When I miss him most I remember what it felt like to hold his hand.

Jell-O Molds

When I was a kid my grandmother who we all called "Nanny" had several brass Jell-O molds that hung on the wall in her kitchen. Do you remember those? The one I remember best was a fish. I remember her making lime-green Jell-O in it. When it was chilled she turned the little fish mold over and tada! The yummy green fish slipped out perfectly and it was if there had never been anything in the mold. We greedily ate the Jell-O up! Jell-O isn't even that good but as little kids Jell-O is the best thing ever or at least back then it was.

Interesting.... I've been thinking a lot about that Jell-O.

Recently I've written things on my facebook wall and I've posted funny cartoons and pictures that have offended people. These offended "friends" rather than writing their opinions on their walls have put comments, some really uncalled for comments, on my wall. On my wall. Wow! I'm sure this is a discussion we could have about social media and how the general populous feel free to write offensive things because we are almost anonymous on social media, yada, yada, yada. But that's not where I want to go tonight. I want to talk about Jell-O.

I'm not Jell-O. I'm not green Jell-O. I'm not even red Jell-O. Life might be easier if I was but I'm not. I don't fit in a little brass fish Jell-O mold. You might turn over the mold to tump me out and I'm probably going to stick and I'm certainly not going to make a perfect little fish.

I'm different from you. I have talents, skills, I'm funny, and I know a lot of trivia. I can be cranky, I'm easy to anger, I've been called fiery and I'm occasionally argumentative; well, maybe more than occasionally. I like country music, I like Italian opera, I love blues and jazz, I love Led Zeppelin, and I love Billy Holiday, Bessie Smith and Nina Simone. I dislike Rap and I'm not really into Hip-hop music. I love Jesus and rock-n-roll and beer. Can you love all those things? I do. I'm a Christian and I read a lot of Buddhist books and I mediate. Can you do all those things? I do. I practice yoga not voodoo though I've been accused of doing both. I love the movies A STREET CAR NAMED DESIRE, BRAZIL, THE PIANO, V FOR VENDETTA and THE LITTLE MERMAID. I'm a democrat and I love peace and I have a very strong work ethic. I hate prejudice, guns, weapons of mass destruction, judgment, poverty, ignorance, narrow-mindedness, crimes against women and children, and violence in general. I believe in kindness, love, understanding, charity, laughter, family, spirituality, education, hugging, the future, art, art, and art. There are a few that agree with me and some that disagree (and I'd argue that they are wrong :) ).

We're all different. It's true. We all have strengths and weakness. We all have opinions, loves, and hates. Isn't it better to celebrate our diversity than to try and force our differences on one another? Isn't life a little more interesting because we are all different? Isn't it cool that we live in a country where we are allowed to express our real, authentic selves?

Or at least that's the theory--that we are free to do that. If I express myself and people shoot me down on my own Facebook wall just for being me what does that say about our country, our society? Well, I'll tell you what my Aunt who lived in the house with my Nanny and those Jell-O molds would say, "Don't let the bastards get you down." So rather than have my mind changed by those comments or become angered by those folks on Facebook, I defriended them. I continue to defriend folks each day. It's a sad day when someone doesn't want to let me be me or you be you. But it's okay; don't cry for me, they were "fake friends" anyway. And I bet they wouldn't fit in that Jell-O mold either!

How early is too early to smoke crack!?! I mean, really?

I wrote this a few years ago. I referred to it a few days ago in class. So for all my students out there who are curious :)

This morning I was driving along on my way to work which I was really happy about because yesterday I was at home all day long with Kate. I love Kate but 24/7 with her can be taxing especially if she has exploding diarrhea which she had yesterday--I would go into detail but perhaps you would like me to spare you that, I'll just say this....I had to cover the sofa with a blanket!

And anyhoo--I was driving listening to Piper's brother Ace on the radio and I noticed that the car in front of me was swerving and that the driver had a pipe in his hand. I checked the clock and indeed it was 7:55am. I'm very cautious these days because I was just in an auto accident (not my fault! thank God) and it totaled my car and almost totaled me. And when a driver is acting erratic as this one was it is very disheartening. HOW EARLY IS TOO EARLY TO SMOKE CRACK?!

Kate's grandmother, Margaret, has a theory about drinking; you never drink before 5:00pm or before you walk from one end of the beach to the other. I'm in complete agreement with Margaret, except that I think on Sunday you can drink when the game starts which might be before 5:00pm. But CRACK at 7:55am?! I mean come on....have some klass people......

To be or not to be....honest?

So I recently read a blog entry about being honest. In the blog the writer wrote of one of the dilemmas of blog writers; of whether to be completely honest or not to be honest (by withholding information). And I'll be completely honest, here for a moment, I often stifle myself from writing here because I wonder what my audience will think of me.

I'm not really sure who reads this but I do know that people DO read it because I track my "stats".  Most folks don't comment on my blog--well, my close "grown-up" friends feel free to comment.  I welcome comments and it's especially good to hear from friends I haven't heard from in a long time. My dilemma is to be  honest or to color the writing with "positivity" because I don't want people to feel sorry for me or think I'm not strong or in control because of what's going on in my personal life.

So with that said, I'm going to be completely honest tonight. Will folks at my office look at me and then look at the floor tomorrow when they see me? Maybe but I think there are times when we should be honest and there are times when we NEED to be dead honest. Today is one of those days for me.

I'm afraid. I don't think this makes me weak or stupid, or non-artistic. I don't think people should feel sorry for me nor do I want people to. I'm afraid because I have been the victim of violence in my life. The violence was NOT MY FAULT. It is not the victims fault but I do see where it could have been avoided if I had made wiser choices. I've made some really bad choices and I hope that someone who reads this makes better choices because of what they read here.

My ex-husband was verbally abusive, emotionally and mentally abusive. He even pushed me and scariest of all he kidnapped (and yes, I'll use that word) my daughter twice.  The first time he took her it was for a few hours. He took her to the bookstore and they played and got a cookie. They had a good time but I was insane with worry. He wouldn't return my phone calls or text messages. I waited at home having no idea where he was or where he was going....with her.  I was afraid.

The second time was for 20 hours and it was on Christmas eve/Christmas day 2009. I called the police. I begged someone to help me...anyone but no one had the power to do anything. He refused to answer my phone calls or my text messages. He called me while I was on the phone with the police and in the message he left he told me that my daughter would stay with him that night and that I couldn't do anything about it.  He was right. I was powerless. I was up all night long. I paced. I cried. I hated myself for not being able to protect her. She wouldn't wake up and run down the stairs to see what Santa had brought. She wouldn't see that he had eaten her cookies and drank the juice she had left him.  I was so afraid for her safety, for her happiness, for her.

I called and called and called the next morning starting at 6am. She was always awake by 6. I knew she was awake. But no answer, no answer, no answer. I paced, I cried, I hated myself. At 11:00 he answered the phone. He had taken a bunch of pills when he went to bed and he had just woken up. I could only imagine my poor baby sitting next to his passed out body unable to get him awake, unable to get help, wearing a diaper that she had been wearing for over 12 hours.

He apologized. He handed the phone to my daughter and I was relieved, angry, sad, crazed to hear her. Her little voice said, "My Mommy!" Then she cried. He took the phone from her and said that he would bring her home. I doubted that he was telling the truth but about half an hour later he was on my porch with my precious baby. I reached out the door and took her from him and then closed the door and locked it. I didn't want to hear his response, his excuse. I didn't allow him to see her for four months. That was two years ago. I'm still afraid.

A month later he followed my car after I picked my daughter up from daycare. He called and demanded to see her. He demanded that I stop my car. I refused. I cried. He screamed at me through the phone. My daughter could hear him, she could read my emotions as I tried to remain calm as he followed us toward our home. My daughter started to pray, she prayed to Jesus that he would leave us alone, that he would stop. I changed my path. I drove to my brother's house but no one was there. He continued to follow us. I called my attorney who told me to go to the police station. I called the police and told them what was happening to us. The policeman on the phone kept me calm and told me where to go. All the while my daughter prayed. the police pulled my ex-husband over and gave him a ticket. The police came to my car and checked on us. I told him that I had tried to get a restraining order but that it was denied. He said that it was difficult to get one because it took away a person's rights. Specifically the right to carry a gun. REALLY! This person should be allowed to carry a gun?!



I'm afraid. Tonight I saw a car almost identical to his pass us by on our way home. My heart started to race. I was sure that it was him in the car. I looked in the rear-view mirror I saw the car turn around in a side street and follow us into our neighborhood. I turned down a random street. I made a big circle. My daughter kept asking where were we going. I said we were checking out the houses on that street.

My heart pounded. I couldn't breathe. I remembered the feeling of losing her albeit for a few hours but to me it felt like a lifetime. And I was more than afraid...I was terrified. That doesn't make me weak, or pitiful, or stupid, or southern, or non-artistic...it makes me a Mommy. And that's honesty.

Popcorn :)

So...I'm so grateful to be blessed with some of the most wonderful family members and friends. There are days that I'm driving or sitting at my desk or walking across campus and I can feel my body filling with love, energy, powerful light. I know it's coming from the thoughts and prayers of those folks who live near and far that love me. 

Today was one of those days. I was driving to the bank and I was filled with love. I decided to call one of the people who I know sends that feeling to me daily, Sam, my brother.

On a momentary side note: if you know me you know that Sam has had many nicknames in his life. I've called him: Bubba, Little Sam, Big Sam, Unka Sam and Bro. Today I call  him Bro. You should know that I always call him Bro. I never refer to him as Sam. It's just easier. My Daddy was Sam, my dog was Sam, my best friend's daughter is Sam, one of my best friends from Louisiana is Sam, my Cousin Clint's son is Sam. Many, many folks in my life are named Sam.

I called Bro. We talked about Mom and Kate and Abby. And somewhere in the middle of our conversation we started talking about Iowa. Bro said he would like to go back to Iowa. I on the other hand am not drawn to Iowa but talking about Iowa made me think of Idaho.  If you know how my mind works call me up and tell me because I immediately thought of my Daddy. When I think of Daddy I generally have a story.

Today I reminded Bro of a story-- After I moved to Louisiana Daddy started driving to Georgia each week to buy lottery tickets. He and Mom made it a weekly event; drive to Georgia, get lottery tickets and ice cream. It was nice. They played the same numbers each week; my birthday, Bro's birthday and Jaime's birthday. I don't think they ever won much money but it was an event.

One night when I was talking to Daddy he told me that he and Mom were getting ready to go to Georgia to get the tickets. I asked him what he would do with the money if he won. Daddy said, "Well, I'd build you a big beautiful house where ever you wanted it and I'd build Sam a house in Alabama and I'd build Jaime a house in Idaho." I was perplexed. I thought and then asked, "Daddy, why Idaho?" Daddy replied, "Because that's one place on earth I never want to go." Daddy went on to say, "I'd buy me and your Mom an RV and we would drive from Sam's house to your house. We'd dirty up all your towels and then we'd leave." Daddy used to joke that we only came home long enough to dirty up their towels.  Bro and I laughed hardily at that!

After I got off the phone with Bro I went to the bank and then I ran into Wal-mart. As I entered the store there was a display with those big cans of popcorn with images of Christmas on them. I thought I need to get one of those for Daddy and then I remembered.  He loved the caramel popcorn :) Maybe he was there and some of the love and light that I feel is coming from my Daddy.  Maybe I'll go back and buy one. I love popcorn too.

To Be a Redneck!

On Tuesday night the University of Montevallo held its Dancy Lecture Series. Brenda Marie Osbey was our guest lecturer.  Ms. Osbey has a long and prestigious history in the state of Louisiana. She's an amazing poet, historian, as well as fantastic lecturer.  Perhaps it was her poetry that inspired me the most. She writes about NOLA and her life as a young black woman there. She is authentic, brilliant, southern, uninhibited and truly AMAZING. 

I'm a playwright but I haven't written in at least a year. Many time constraints as well as personal issues have kept me from writing.  Ms. Osbey inspired to me to write again.  She inspired me to write with abandon, to throw the truth on the paper, to be who I really am, to be unafraid, to....write. 

I'm going back to the several plays I've begun but not finished. This time I will finish them. I will post them here as well for you all to read. Thanks to Ms. Osbey I'm feeling authentic today and I'm okay with that. After listening to her lecture I was reminded of a silly journal entry that I wrote a couple of years ago. This entry is a glimpse into the whimsy of my personality as well as a little of my back-story.  I call the entry "To Be a Redneck!" 

Hell yeah! I own a cowboy hat. The fact is that I own a large number of cowboy hats. I wear cowboy boots on a regular basis and I drive a truck. However, no one has ever accused me to my face of being a redneck.

To be quite honest, I’m a little disappointed. I’ve even accused myself of being one! I used to joke with my brother about being a redneck while standing next to my truck (okay, really an SUV) in his driveway and drinking a Miller light wearing my cowboy boots. But if you know Sam, you know that he shrugged it off and said, “Hell, I’m the king of the rednecks!” Whatever!

What message is being sent to kids who grew up in “traditional” redneck families and connect themselves with the concept of “redneckedness” but are not considered rednecks by their peers? Are there other social groups who disown their young in the same way just because they’ve become educated, attained goals, got good jobs, make a decent living and don’t have a hound dog sleeping under the couch on their porch?

When I was in college my cousins used to laugh at me because they said I talked funny. I guess because I had learned to write sentences where the verb and subject were parallel this made me different from them, however, all the while I wanted the “sameness” of our relationship. I wanted to retain my “authentic redneckedness.”

Yesterday I had the chance to regain my title of a redneck woman; a colleague told me that his 1992 Ford Ranger was stuck in the mud in his side yard and he was on his way home to push it out. I offered, immediately I might add, to hitch his truck to mine and pull him out. This created extensive laughter from his wife who said, “I’ve got to get home to charge the batteries in the video camera!” And that was when I realized; I own cowboy boots, hats, a truck but I have never owned a pair of Daisy Duke’s. Which I add, I probably should being wearing Daisy Duke’s with my cowboy hat, cowboy boots while pulling Marcus’s truck out of the mud and drinking a Miller Light in his driveway, Y’all! This attempt at regaining the “redneckedness” of my youth failed. Marcus was able to get the truck out on his own without the aid of my truck, boots, hat, Miller Light, etc. Sad.

So perhaps because of my lack of opportunity and lack of appropriate redneck attire I can no longer fit into the regional stereotype. This saddens me. But alas, back to the important question posed above, what message are we sending to young rednecks? I guess the message is: get out, you no longer belong.  Or perhaps, rather than get out, we should shout—RUN! FORREST, RUN!

After doing about 30 seconds of research on the subject of “disowned children” I found that society disowns children because of disability, sexual orientation, poverty, religious differences and for disobeying societal rules. All very sad stories, and true, but what about redneck children who are being ostracized for growing, learning, thriving? I found no stories of such children. Perhaps we are an under recognized group? Is there Federal Funding for such? I want my check!

After years of schooling, being disowned and other such events I believe that I am wise enough to give advice on this subject and my advice is this: drive a truck, wear boots, get a hat, buy Daisy Duke’s (even wear them if you are brave enough) and speak your speech with a strong “y’all” here and there!

We may not have hound dogs under the couches on our porches, we may not even have couches on our porches, we may take down our Christmas lights because the “association” tells us we must, we may hold advanced degrees from prestigious universities but no one can take from me or you the earthiness that lies at our core, no one can take my authentic self (and they will have to pry that Miller Light out of my cold dead hand!).

One of the many Cowboy Hats!