Showing posts with label In Memoriam. Show all posts
Showing posts with label In Memoriam. Show all posts
April 20, 2013

Observations from Bettye-ville

Here are some observations I've made this week:


  • Joint efforts can be powerful...as evidenced by the swift identification and capture of the suspects of the Boston Marathon Bombing by local and federal authorities, and the lockdown of the metro area by the governor, mayor, and local authorities to keep residents safe.  Bravo!
  • That said, one week ago there were many more healthy people, alive and with all their limbs, than there are this week.  May God rest those who perished in the bombing and heal those who were injured.  I think we all hurt from this, but these people's lives are changed forever.
  • The terrifying events in the Boston area were the leading story, but let us not forget the natural (as opposed to man-made) disaster in Texas.  That community has been decimated; it will take years to recover, if it ever does.  Not only are houses destroyed, but the air quality is damaged.  Remember them in your prayers.
  • It must truly be springtime in Wisconsin--the roads are torn up with detours everywhere, roads are closed to accommodate flooded streets, and the bikers are gathering by the dozens in the parking lot of Harley-Davidson.  Before you know it motorists will be hearing people screaming on the roller coasters as they drive past Six Flags Great America across the Illinois border.
  • NookPress is a pain in the ass.  I remember rolling my eyes when I read that if you want to re-upload your book file you first have to take it off sale, then re-upload the new version.  No more simply uploading a new version and having it become effective 12 hours later.  It takes hours just for the original file to be removed.  I found out firsthand how disruptive this is when I noticed that the cover art for my new prequel, Lost That Lovin' Feeling, was picked up twice I'm not liking this...
  • Most of the people who accepted my invitation to read Lost That Lovin' Feeling prior to publication and put reviews up right away have already done so on its Amazon product page.  Why didn't I do this sooner?
Until next time!  How are things in your world?

January 21, 2013


Grateful


I can't think of a better way to express how pleased I am that the first black President is taking the oath of office on the day designated by the Federal Government in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. than by posting this photograph:



Dare to dream!



The Week in Review
















Lately I find myself thinking a lot of the old Bible story, where God was so disgusted with mankind that He instructed Noah to build an ark, load it with his family and a male and female of every animal species, then decimated the earth with flooding. It's starting to feel as if He is about to do it again, between the deadly earthquakes, tsumanis, and tornadoes that have been striking all over the planet. Hurricane season starts next week. Heaven help us.

The worlds of poetry and music lost an icon this week. Gil Scott-Heron, master of the spoken word and self-described "bluesologist," passed away after becoming ill upon returning from Europe at the young age of 62. He was a talented and deep-thinking brother who, like so many artists, struggled with addictions throughout his life. RIP.

In politics, Sarah Palin announced a motor trip through the East Coast, fueling speculation of her intent to run for President. Personally, I think she's just looking to shine the spotlight on herself, as Mitt Romney becomes the latest Republican to announce that he's going to announce his candidacy (a redundancy reminiscent of those old "pre-engagements") next week, and Michele Bachmann's people say that she will announce, either yay or nay, sometime in June when she visits her hometown in Iowa. I expect it to be a yay. As for Palin and her oxygen-sucking tactics, she's just a female version of Donald Trump, with better hair but no intent of running.

Some folks criticized the President for traveling to Europe, including a trip to a hamlet in Ireland (population), where a maternal ancestor lived before emigrating to the States. Imagine the flak if he'd dared to venture to Kenya to view his paternal roots!

This is Memorial Day weekend, honoring those who lost their lives while in service to our country, God rest them.

This weekend is the traditional kick-off of summer. On this holiday weekend three years ago we moved into our current home. I was stunned to see that we had to run the heat at night/early morning, and yes, the heat kicked in last night as well. It gets cold in Wisconsin. But at least it's supposed to be about 70 on Monday, plenty warm enough to barbecue.

A bit of personal news: Our family has new baby twins, a boy and girl (pictured above), just home from the hospital. This is especially meaningful for me, because this is the centennial of my father's birth. He would be so tickled by his great-grandchildren, none of whom he ever saw in person...the ones who just entered the world; the oldest one, who, incredibly, graduated high school this week (pictured above on his prom night), and all the ones in between.

So how was your week?


The Week in Review

Eddie Fisher and Tony Curtis passed within 7 days of each other. Let's see...Eddie Fisher wrote in his autobiography that his first wife, Debbie Reynolds, was a shrew; and that his second wife, Elizabeth Taylor, was a slob who allowed her children and dogs to poop anywhere. Tony Curtis's autobiography contained blunt remarks like, "I fucked Yvonne DeCarlo." (That's Lily Munster, y'all, and underneath that ghoulish makeup she was quite the beauty).

I wonder if God enrolled them in the same class on what a gentleman says?


When the past is sharper than the present

My godmother passed away last week. Unfortunately, I was unable to travel to Florida for her homegoing services, but her family seems to be taking the loss well. She was less than two months away from her 93rd birthday and had been in failing health, and as so often happens, she just slipped into the next world.

My godmother and my mother, who will be 92 later this year, have been friends for over 60 years, at a time when they were both young mothers living next door to each other in Elmsford, a hamlet in Westchester County, New York. My mother was somewhat numbed by her friend's passing. I've been thinking a lot about both of them the past few days, as well as my mother's sister, herself looking at turning 94, and the subtle changes about them that I've noticed.

The major change is in their memories, which have shifted from present to past. My godmother told me how vividly she remembered the day she first laid eyes on the man whom she would eventually marry, who was 17 to her 12 and quite handsome. She always referred to him as "My Gordon," which was probably as much as an endearment as it was to distinguish him from his best friend, my father, who was also named Gordon. When looking at a picture of her two oldest daughters as children, she recalled the ruffled dresses they were wearing and how difficult they were to iron (this was before cotton blends or the steam iron had been introduced). But sometimes she had difficulty remembering much more recent events.

Similarly, my aunt can rattle off happenings dating back to her childhood, but often cannot remember things that happened five years ago.

My mother cannot remember where she was or what she was doing when word came through that President Kennedy had been assassinated back in 1963, but she can remember exactly where she was when she heard that President Roosevelt (Franklin, not Teddy...she's not that old) had died in 1945, 18 years earlier. (For the record, she was waiting tables at a Chock Full'O'Nuts restaurant in New York City, and she said how everyone cried and the restaurant promptly closed for the day. She even remembers how the other waitresses were unfriendly toward her - I think they were jealous of Mom's good looks.)

The last time Mom was visiting she was watching a classic Bette Davis film, The Little Foxes, and she remarked, "I always loved Herbert Marshall." (He was an actor, largely forgotten today, who played important, if not necessarily leading man, roles in the Thirties and Forties.) I was amazed that Mom remembered his name...I had coached her several times when friends visiting from England came to dinner on their names, and when she asked the husband to pass the butter she trailed off, unable to remember the simple name of Paul.

The next day we driving somewhere and I had one of my home-burned CDs of standards playing (you know, the type of music my parents used to listen to while we were growing up). When a duet between an icon performer and a young performer on her way to becoming an icon began to play, Mom said, "Oh, that's Judy Garland. I'd know that voice anywhere." When I asked her about who Judy was singing with, a singer still active today, she struggled to remember, snapping her fingers and saying, "Oh. Oh. Oh." Finally she said, "She's got a big nose." Yeah, it was Barbra Streisand.

I wonder, if I live that long and am fortunate enough to still be lucid, if I will remember the past more accurately than the present. I don't remember the JFK assassination at all, although most of my friends do (I was 6 when it happened). Will it come back to me? I guess I'll have to wait and see.

Have any of you noticed this in the elders you know?


The Last Word on The Last Day

This has been a bittersweet year. Many of us have lost loved ones. For me it was my last surviving uncle, who passed away last August at the age of 88, suddenly and quickly (the way he always said he wanted to go), after a long and full life. Saying goodbye was hard. But on the other hand, my mother is still with us, recently celebrated her 91st birthday (and she's got an older sister who's still kicking at 93, so watch out for the new Delany sisters).

The rest of my family is well. I thank God for reasonably good health. I transcribe medical reports for a living, and it's shocking how many people my age have been stricken with heart disease, MS, cancer. I will never, ever take health for granted, and this is mentioned in my prayers every night. This is a comfortable time in my life, with my stepchildren grown and a rapidly growing grandchild. My husband and I are blessed to both have jobs in these uncertain economic times, our rental property is occupied after being vacant for a year (a very long year of paying two mortgages), and I have been presented with a wonderful professional opportunity that I plan to do everything in my power to make happen.

I'm at a good point in my writing (note I didn't say writing career, just writing). I turned in Trouble Down The Road, and my editor was very pleased with both the content and the condition of the manuscript. I've put down nearly 50,000 words on paper since November 1st for my next independent project, which I have named The Heat of Heat and which I plan to bring out in the spring. The hook for a story I started outlining two years ago has finally formed in my head. Other new ideas are flowing, and I plan to continue to tell my stories, if not through a mainstream publisher, then through my own Bunderful Books. I've been working the last few days on edits for my first independently published project, Save The Best For Last, correcting a few typos I've noticed, before I make it available for bookstores to order for consumers (I don't expect them to actually stock it, but this does make for improved distribution for readers who don't like to order online). I'm going to continue to make strides to write faster so that I can maybe keep up with some of these ideas I've got, some of which fall into the strike-while-the-iron-is-hot category.

Another feather in my cap is that I've gotten a lot more organized this year, as I hoped to do. I can get my hands on just about everything in the house, now that I've assigned a place for it all!

One of the two areas where I came up short is keeping in touch with my friends. But we're all busy, and with me being home in the mornings (while they're at work) and working into the evenings, after which it's too late to call anyone, especially in the East, it makes it difficult. And we all have things to do on the weekends. But I'm going to try to get hold of some of them before this long weekend is over.

My other shortcoming was my weight, which is pretty much where it was at this time last year.
But this new year...well, maybe I shouldn't make any promises I'm not sure I can keep.

But there's no beating myself up. I've done well this year, and I plan to do even better in 2010.

What about you?

I'll close by wishing everyone all good things in 2010! Be blessed, and stay blessed!


Sweet children, infamous date

Forty-three years ago I was nine years old and didn't watch much news, but in recent years I've heard about how panicked expectant mothers begged their doctors to do something to extend their labor because they didn't want to give birth on a certain date. That date was the sixth of June, 1966. It was the 22nd anniversary of the famous Battle of Normandy during World War II, but what these women feared was giving birth on the date of 6/6/1966, a date associated with the antichrist.

This was a story that might not have even made the network news, which was much different in those days, carrying mostly hard news and little human interest stories. Besides, who wanted to talk about the antichrist?

Babies are born at any time. My own mother celebrated her eleventh birthday the day the stock market crashed in 1929 and plunged the country into the Great Depression. I've known people born on December 7th and November 22nd, the anniversaries of the attack on Pearl Harbor and the assassination of President Kennedy. Both of those dates have faded somewhat over the last 68 and 46 years, respectively. The date to avoid these days is September 11th.

My granddaughter was born prematurely on this date, three years ago today, on what was the fifth anniversary of the terrorist attacks in three locations of our country. Between the day of her birth and the fact that her mother's name is Katrina, one might think she's a disaster in the making, but she is one special little girl who happened to be born on the anniversary of a horrible event in our country's history. There are likely thousands of babies who are turning eight years old today, having been born on the actual day that so many people died. One can't help when they are born, and I hope they all celebrate this most special day in their lives without the shadow of the other event they share their day with putting a damper on their joy.

So, may all the victims of that day rest in eternal peace. On the same token, happy birthday, sweet children, especially to my Baby Girl! I can't wait to see her when she gets here this evening. We're going to celebrate her birthday all weekend long!


The Week in Review

RIP, Edward M. Kennedy. You made some very public mistakes, but you did your best to be a worthwhile human being. It was very big of you to let the world in on some of your private thoughts by having them revealed after you were gone. You would have loved your homegoing services. Your eldest son and namesake was particularly touching.

It seems like everything our president done is met with scorn and criticism by the opposing party, and it's really getting on my nerves. Now he can't even talk to schoolchildren without kicking up a fuss? Puh-leeze.

RIP also - somewhat belatedly - to Michael Jackson, finally buried 70 days after his death. The rumor mill is saying that the family is going to sell footage of the funeral service on a DVD. That seems more than a little crude to me, and I certainly hope it's not true. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this.

I wish everyone a wonderful holiday weekend! I still have 25,000+ words to write in my WIP between now and next Thursday, when it's due. Three guesses what I'll be doing this long weekend?


Heading for the Hamptons . . .

. . . sadly, to bury my uncle. It is a sad occasion, but yet a joyous one. Chester E. Morris lived for 88 remarkable years, and he wa loved by many. As my cousin said, we will shed a few tears, but we will also celebrate his life.

I'm taking some time for R&R while I'm up there (it is, after all, the Hamptons). Will be back midweek next week.


Honoring Hilton White





Hilton White was the father of my best friend, Kim (not the Kim who edits my books, who is much younger than us). I am so proud to say that a street in the Bronx was named for him this past Saturday, August 1st. (The photo above is of Derrick White holding the newly minted street sign identifying his father's namesake street, Hilton White Way.) Unfortunately, I was unable to get to New York this weekend . . . but I was there in spirit.

Those of you who've read my older books might think that name sounds familiar. With the permission of his family, I named the hero of my second romance, A Love of Her Own, after him.

Here's the text of the article reprinted from The New York Times about a tribute to a wonderful man:

August 3, 2009
More Than Playing Ball on a South Bronx Playground
by JASON GRANT


The small patch of concrete in the South Bronx features slides and swing sets, along with a large fountain where neighborhood youngsters frolic happily through the spray. But the basketball hoops, and the legendary coach and recreational leader who once presided over them, have vanished, part of the ever-changing demographics of this gritty neighborhood.


But every once in a while, some local residents say, the deep baritone of the unforgettable Hilton White can be heard echoing across the old playground, and his muscular, 6-foot-3 frame can be seen stalking the former sideline. For it was here — on a small concrete playground near the intersection of East 163rd Street and Cauldwell Avenue — that the locally renowned community leader and coach taught some of New York City’s greatest 1960s and 1970s basketball players (like the former N.B.A. star Nate Archibald) how to become both outstanding basketball players and responsible adults.


It was also where White, who died at 57 in 1990, put together one of the most successful recreational teams in city history: the famed Bronx Falcons, who became local legends by often winning well-known amateur tournaments, like the Rucker in Harlem.


On Saturday, dozens of White’s protégés, most now in their 50s and 60s, returned to the Bronx from across the United States to pay homage to a man many called their surrogate father. Against a background of thumping soul music and speeches by elected officials, an enthusiastic crowd of about 170 — including roughly 30 members of White’s extended family — beamed as the little fenced-in park was renamed Hilton White Playground and an adjacent street received a new moniker, as well — Hilton White Way.


During White’s decade-long career as the reigning youth basketball coach at tiny Cauldwell Park and Playground in the South Bronx, White taught the fundamentals of the game to hundreds of teenagers — including Willie Worsley, Nevil Shed and Willie Cager, three Bronx youngsters who later gained national fame as starters on the 1966 Texas Western College team. That year, Worsley, Shed and Cager helped lead an all-black starting lineup to an astonishing upset victory against Adolph Rupp’s all-white Kentucky team to win the N.C.A.A. championship.


On his small outdoor lot, White insisted that his young charges learn the value of education, discipline, hard work and respect for others. By combining basketball instruction with fatherly guidance, he helped mold hundreds of teenagers into socially responsible adults. Many went on to become doctors, judges, social workers, educators and coaches.


During the ceremony Saturday, many attendees said they missed White and the other “parkies,” former city recreational workers who had helped to shape their characters. They also lamented that these recreational positions were eliminated in New York during the 1970s by budget cuts.
“What I remember was the sense of excellence he instilled,” said Walter M. Braswell, 59, now an administrative law judge in New Jersey who sometimes sought out White for advice. “He looked you in the eye, and he was a big guy, tough. He was very convincing that you could accomplish whatever you want.”


Braswell, whose son plays basketball at Yale, looked around the park and added: “And the results he got. He told us how good we could be, and then the Falcons went out and were that good. And the kids started getting college scholarships. That’s what I think really woke everyone up in the neighborhood to the fact that, there was a way out.”


Standing near the little park’s iron fence, the former White disciple Robert McDonald described how he ran into the coach in 1987 at an educators’ conference in Washington. There he asked White why he had put so much extra time and effort into working with young people.


“The main thing,” McDonald said, “is he wanted to help our community get more scholarships for the underprivileged kids — he wanted these kids to get a fair shake and he thought education would be their road out. He used basketball as a tool.”


At the renaming festivities Saturday, the players hugged and slapped hands, some of them looking ready to tip off in shorts, T-shirts and shiny high tops, others in slacks and collared shirts. Shed, now 66, stood tall at 6-8 and flashed his chunky, gold N.C.A.A. championship ring on one finger and his diamond-inset Naismith Hall of Fame ring on another, while Archibald, a longtime N.B.A. star, warmly greeted old friends.


Many remembered White’s incredible dedication — how he would follow them home at night to make sure they stayed out of trouble or would call their parents to discuss both basketball victories and potential behavior problems.


Speaking earlier at a Bronx reunion dinner in honor of White, Shed remembered receiving a hug from his old recreation-league mentor at Cole Field House in Maryland, moments after the 1966 victory over Kentucky.


“He was beaming, and I hugged him,” Shed said. “We didn’t have to say thank you to him, because we knew that he was proud of us.”


Then, tears coming to his eyes, he added, “I would say that I’m a child of God, I’m the son of Lillie Mae and James Shed, and I’m a product of Hilton White. He helped make me into a man.”

###



A Dark Day in the World of Literature: Bestselling author E. Lynn Harris passes away

Donna Deloney (I should call her, "the AP") informed me of this breaking story:

"A Random House executive has confirmed to The BV Newswire that best-selling author E. Lynn Harris has died.Harris was 53. He was currently on a book tour of the West Coast promoting his 11th novel 'Basketball Jones,' which involved an NBA player and his gay lover.A cheerleading sponsor/coach for Arkansas and a passionate Razorbacks fan, Harris' books dealt with black, gay culture. Most recently, he served as served as a visiting professor for the English department at the University of Arkansas."

This story is still unfolding, but there is word of an unspecified "health event" that led to Mr. Harris' death.

What a shocker. My sincere condolences to his friends and family.

Do You Know Him?

I confess, when I heard about Michael Jackson's untimely death last week, I thought, as I usually did whenever I saw a picture of him, of how different his life might have been had he not started tinkering with his looks, and that led me to think about another celebrity who came out of Gary, Indiana. This man had a nose that could have stood some repair work, being both oversized to begin with and broken a couple of times. He left Gary and became one of the busiest character actors in the business and years later was the star of one of the longest-running advertising campaigns, a commercial for American Express in which he began with the question, "Do you know me?" (an appropriate opening for a man whose face was well known even if his name wasn't.

His not-exactly-handsome looks didn't keep him from finding personal happiness as well as professional. He married, had two kids and in what may well be a Hollywood record, stayed married to the same woman for 70 years.

The man from Gary whom I thought about last week, the man who kept his original nose and from all indications had a very happy life, was named Karl Malden. He died today of natural causes at the ripe old age of 97.



I guess some things are pre-ordained, but still I can't help thinking about how things might have been for Michael without all the alterations to his looks.
I'm signing off until next week. I'll be celebrating my birthday tomorrow (which is about 5 minutes from now) and preparing for weekend guests on Friday. Enjoy your Fourth, and for God's sake be careful with those fireworks!


The Week in Review

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm actually starting to feel sorry for the Republican Party. One more of the so-called Golden Boys has fallen by the wayside. South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford stood before the cameras earlier this week and confessed to having an affair with a woman in the Southern Hemisphere. Apparently the guv was quite surprised to learn that there was so much interest in the fact that he'd slipped away (for 5 days, yet). And this man's name was being tossed around as a possible Republican Presidential candidate in 2012?

One refreshing thing about this was the absence of Mrs. Sanford at the press conference. I don't think I could have stomached yet another political wife standing by her man and looking like she'd rather be undergoing a breast biopsy. I haven't seen such defiance since Gary Hart's wife Lee claimed that an ear infection prevented her from joining her husband at a campaign event just days after news of his cavorting with a much-younger woman on a boat became public way back in 1988 (the Harts are still married, if anybody's interested). What a nice change from Mrs. Spitzer, the former Mrs. McGreevey), and Mrs. Craig (her husband of the famous toe-tapping restroom shenanigans).

Jerri Nielsen FitzGerald passed away this week, with remarkably little press. As the lone physician at the South Pole station in 1998, she found a lump in her breast during the half of the year when the bottom of the world is inaccessible. She had to perform her own biopsy, and when it proved to be malignant she had to train some of her non-medical colleagues to assist her in administering chemotherapy treatments that had to be dropped from a plane because it was too frigid to land. Ms. Nielsen made the most of her remaining time after her 1-year South Pole contract ended, writing a book about her experience, traveling extensively, and remarrying. Her cancer returned in 2005, attacking her bones and brain, yet she remained active until her last 90 days. This brave woman was just 57 years old.

Another brave woman was Farrah Fawcett. I admit to never being a fan of hers, but I'm glad she insisted upon playing more substantial roles than the fluff that was Charlie's Angels. But where she really impressed me was with her warts-and-all chronicling of her illness and the sharing of her private thoughts. It's rather sad that her only child's life is on its way to becoming the same train wreck as his father's other children (have any of Ryan O'Neal's children not had substance abuse problems?), but the one I really feel for is her elderly father. Like Luther Vandross' mother, he is the last survivor of the family he created with his spouse. It's got to be hell to have to bury your children as well as your spouse, especially when you're past 90.

The cynic in me wonders how Ryan O'Neal feels about Farrah being kicked to Page Two by the unexpected death of a superstar. His widely circulated account about how he asked Farrah to marry him and her acceptance of his proposal, but dying before they could carry it out just seemed a little too publicity-driven for me (who the hell marries on their deathbed . . . not to mention it suggests Farrah was in denial about her terminal condition (she reportedly promised to marry him when she "felt stronger.")

It was when a co-worker about to leave for the day on Thursday was surfing the net and remarked that Farrah Fawcett had died that I checked the New York Times website for more information. The headline was not of Farrah's passing, but that an unconscious Michael Jackson had been rushed to the hospital. Not five minutes later, when I turned on the TV in the break room to watch the NBC Nightly News, that I saw a picture of Michael with the dates "1958-2009" underneath. My jaw dropped, but I managed to recover quickly enough to run to the door and shout out the news to my co-worker, who had just gone off duty and was getting into her car.

Now, maybe I shouldn't admit this, but after the initial shock wore off I realized it wasn't all that surprising to me. Michael Jackson struck me as being a very unhappy person for many years now, and that usually isn't conducive to a long life. He also had the look of someone who swallowed a lot of pills. This aside, my condolences go to his family, and I fervently hope his children don't inherit his eccentric ways. Incidentally, there will be some very large royalty payments issued to somebody, likely the person or persons who ultimately end up with custody of the kids. Is a custody battle to follow the money on the horizon? Let's hope Michael left a will and not just a lot of bills, which happens all too often in the black community.

The media has gone completely goofy in their coverage of the passing of these two icons. I personally thought Farrah Fawcett unusual in that her looks were both wholesome and sexy, but hearing her described as "extraordinarily beautiful" made me gag (very reminiscent of the ridiculous praise of the "beauty" of the ordinary-looking Jackie Onassis). And spare me from any more reminisces about Michael like the one by Quincy Jones, in which he stated that Michael told him he's had people standing outside his house hoping for a glimpse of him from the time he was 5 years old (I'm sorry, but in 1963-64, when Michael was 5, I don't think anyone in Gary, Indiana, even knew who he was other than a cute kid in a house with many cute kids).

I don't know about you, but I'm hoping next week is quieter!

Enjoy your weekend.


Looking for Mellow (plus, pick your favorite version of this week's classic song)

Less than two weeks after a doctor who performed late-term abortions was killed at church, there was a shooting at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC. In one of the most ironic details I've heard in a long time, the security guard who was killed, rest his soul, opened the front door for the 88-year-old white supremacist gunman, who repaid his kind act by fatally shooting him. Talk about bad things happening to good people.

Today is the big changeover for television. Are you ready? All of our sets, the LCDs we purchased when we bought the house last year as well as the older models (including one that was purchased way back in 1987 by my parents and given to us years later), so we shouldn't have a problem, but I've got this creepy feeling that all we'll see is snow on our screens at noon this afternoon. We'll see . . . .

My husband, bless his heart, flew to Washington on Tuesday and didn't think it was worth mentioning to me that his flight's departure from Milwaukee was delayed by hours due to storms in the Washington area (men . . . .) When I started wondering why the heck I hadn't heard from him two hours after he should have landed I tried calling his cell, only to find out that his phone was still turned off. After calling his hotel and learning he hadn't checked in (by now it was nearkly 9PM Eastern Time), and then calling the car rental place and learning he hadn't picked up his vehicle, I had a terrible feeling that something bad had happened. Fortunately, someone at the car rental place informed me that Reagan Airport had been closed for a few hours due to storms and was nice enough to look up his flight for me and give me the revised arrival time. Needless to say, Bernard called as soon as the plane arrived at the gate because he knew I'd be worried. Instead of landing at 6:30PM local time, he landed at 9:05.

In a coincidence, my agent took that same flight home just two days earlier (she had a 4-hour layover, and I picked her up and we had a leisurely lunch). Fortunately, her trip home went without incident. What a difference 48 hours makes!

The singer-songwriter Kenny Rankin passed away earlier this week of lung cancer. Funny thing about Kenny. People either loved his music (I know that easy listening has a reputation for blandness, but Kenny wasn't bland) or they hated it, similar to people's feelings about the sound of jazz singer Michael Franks. He had a wonderful mellow sound that was always welcome to my ears. I all but wore out his Kenny Rankin Album in LP form, then years later purchased it on CD.
Unfortunately, I couldn't find any clips on You Tube of any of my favorites Rankin performances, but because some mellow music would hit the spot after a frantic week, so I'm doing something I haven't done in a while, giving you two versions of the same song and asking whick is your favorite. This is a gem of a song written by two of the Burke brothers who made up the group The Five Stairsteps and recorded by them around 1977, a time when the four brothers were performing without their sister and used the name The Stairsteps. The song did not get the recognition I felt it deserved, but did achieve a wider audience shortly after when it was recorded by the group Pockets. In my opinion, I think they're both excellent, but I give the edge to the Stairsteps, because I really like the flute, and I've always loved their voices.

So my question to you as I wish you a good weekend is, which one do you think is the best?




The Stairsteps (original)




Pockets (cover)


Elsie B. Washington, Trailblazing Black Novelist, Dies at 66

from the May 17th edition of The New York Times:

Elsie B. Washington, whose 1980 book, “Entwined Destinies,” is widely considered the first black romance novel, died on May 5 in Manhattan. She was 66 and had lived in Yonkers in recent years.

The cause was multiple sclerosis and cancer, her brother, James E. Peterson, said.
The 575th title in Dell’s Candlelight Romance series, “Entwined Destinies” was published under the pen name Rosalind Welles. It tells the story of a beautiful young black woman, a magazine correspondent, who after many travails finds love with a tall, dashing black man, an oil company executive.

In 2002 Black Issues Book Review said the novel was “the first known romance featuring African-American characters written by an African-American author.”
“Entwined Destinies” was Ms. Washington’s only novel. Primarily a journalist, she wrote two nonfiction books, “Sickle Cell Anemia” (Third Press, 1974, with Anthony Cerami) and “Uncivil War: The Struggle Between Black Men and Women” (Noble Press, 1996).
Elsie Bernice Washington was born in the Bronx on Dec. 28, 1942. She received a bachelor’s degree in English from the City College of New York and afterward was a writer and editor with The New York Post, Life magazine, Newsweek and Essence magazine.
An essay by Ms. Washington in the January 1988 issue of Essence attracted wide attention in the news media. In it she deplored the trend among black people to conform to white standards of beauty by using tinted contact lenses to change the color of their eyes, among other things.
Besides her brother, Mr. Peterson, Ms. Washington is survived by her parents, Samuel Washington and Kathleen Peterson Erby.

The black romance novel is today a thriving genre that includes several publishing imprints devoted to it exclusively and that features books by Sandra Kitt, Beverly Jenkins, Rochelle Alers and many other writers.

***

I'd often wondered why I heard nothing about Ms. Washington's other works. Now I know that she was primarily a nonfiction writer and only wrote one novel. I'm glad she did see what came out of that one novel she wrote so long ago.


Easter Wishes to One and All

About to head out to work for the last day this week. I'm off tomorrow and Friday . . . just in time to work on the tax return from Hades.

If anybody in the blogosphere is located near Racine, Wisconsin, I'll be doing a signing Saturday morning at the Upscale Salon & Studio (yes, a book signing at a hair salon), so stop on by! I'm hoping that everybody getting their hair done for Easter will want something to read while they're waiting for an operator or sitting under the dryer.

My father passed away April 12, 1999, so this Easter will mark his tenth anniversary in Heaven. We all miss him so much.

Have a glorious Easter, everyone! I'll be back to the blog next week. BTW, is there anyone else there like me who waits until the last minute to do their tax return (or get it done), or are all of you sickeningly organized?


I'd like to fly away

It's happened again. A woman in the earliest years of middle age has died suddenly, leaving behind a heartbroken husband and two young sons without a mother.

I'm referring, of course, to the actress Natasha Richardson . . . but I'm thinking of the author Katherine D. Jones, who passed away suddenly nearly two years ago. Does anyone else see a parallel here?

About 15 years ago I remember reading how the matriarch of the famous Redgrave family of actors had passed away, not in a hospital, not at the homes of any of her children, but at the home of her granddaughter, Natasha Richardson. A haunting photograph taken by her granddaughter just hours before the woman passed on accompanied the obiturary, showing a 93-year-old woman lying in bed, ravaged by old age and unable to do anything else but simply wait for death. I never forgot that stark depiction of extreme old age. I remembered being touched that the granddaughter took over the care of her grandmother in her last days. And now, sadly, that granddaughter will not be here to see any grandchildren she might one day have when her sons are grown.

Celebrities often use their fame bring the spotlight to areas of their personal interest, whether it be genocide, famine, disease . . . but the way celebrities die often raises awareness. It happened just last year, when Tim Russert's sudden death made everyone want to know more about heart disease. It happened about 10 years ago, when Sonny Bono and one of the Kennedy family died within weeks of each other after skiing head-on into trees (which will probably be mentioned again, since Ms. Richardson's head injury occurred during a ski lesson). The famous anti-smoking ads Yul Brynner and the director John Huston made that aired after their deaths from tobacco-related illnesses had everyone talking back in the 1980s. Look for all the news shows to feature segments on head injuries, and perhaps learn something. It will be Ms. Richardson's last gift to us.

Rest in peace, Ms. Richardson. And Katherine, you have not been forgotten.

P.S. When I left work a little while ago and turned on the car radio for the 6-minute drive home, they were just beginning to play the Commodore's classic, Zoom. I took that as a personal message. Whatever you may do with your life, make sure you enjoy it.


Remembering Dr. King











Our country and the world have changed so much since that day 80 years ago when he was born, and also in the 41 years since his death.

Next Monday, the 19th, we will observe the official holiday marking his birth. And the very next day, President-Elect Obama will become President Obama.

Remarkable, isn't it?




Mama Africa is Gone

South African singer Miriam Makeba passed away after a performance in Italy, of an apparent heart attack. (Since she was performing in support of a journalist under death threats for writing a book about organized crime, I have to wonder if she could have been poisoned, but I guess that's neither here nor there.)

Ms. Makeba's talent was recognized early, and she performed before Queen Elizabeth II. Her outspoken criticism of the South African apartheid system resulted in her being barred from re-entering South Africa after an international concert tour in 1959. With true heartlessness, the government did not allow Ms. Makeba entry to attend her mother's funeral the following year. It was not until after the end of apartheid in 1990 - over 30 years later - that she was allowed to return to her homeland.

Two of her husbands were American activist Stokely Carmichael and fellow South African and fellow exiled citizen Hugh Masekela.

Miriam Makeba is best known to American audiences for her 1967 hit song, Pata Pata. I remember running to get that record as a 10-year-old and playing it over and over. Even now I have it on CD. I dare you to listen to this song and keep still. It's impossible.

Rest in peace, Mama Africa.






Remembering Levi

I just heard of the death of Levi Stubbs, lead singer of the Four Tops. He was 72 years old. No cause of death was given, but he had been in declining health for years now, having suffered from both a stroke and an unknown type of cancer. I saw a photo of him in a wheelchair in Jet magazine a few years back.

I always admired the Four Tops. Unlike The Temptations, there seemed to be no squabbling or infighting among group members, and their lineup remained consistent until they began to pass away (only one original member, Duke Fakir, still survives). They were a little older than most of the Motown acts and maybe more mature.

Success came to the group rather late, in 1964 (by which time most of the groups had already been established). A string of hits followed their first, Baby, I Need Your Loving, most of which required Levi to sing at a higher pitch than his natural baritone, to make his vocals sound more heartfelt and desperate (he was, after all, singing about lost love much of the time).

Levi Stubbs stayed with the group for his entire career, taking on a memorable solo job as the voice of Audrey, the man-eating plant, in the movie version of Little Shop of Horrors.


Unfortunately, by the late 1970s, the group was pretty much turning into an oldies act, with few new hits (I read once that Joe Jackson feared his boys would meet the same fate, a factor in the Jackson Five's move to another label).

Here is my all-time favorite tune recorded by the Four Tops. Rest in peace, Levi Stubbs. Enjoy!