Honoring Those Who Served

(This post is also part of The Book of Me, Prompt #11 - Military)

Today is Veteran's Day. As the nation honors the thousands of men and women who served and who gave so much, I also look to my family history and think of the many in my family who also risked life to fight for freedom, not only for themselves but also for others. 

We sometimes forget that as we live our lives there are others who are risking their lives so that we may do the many things that we do without thinking. It is correct that we remember those who make what we do possible. And I am pleased to see how many in my own family have also been a part of the effort to see that the many rights we enjoy today are in place for all of us. 

I am especially humbled when I think of the ancestors who served in the World Wars, who sometimes returned to a country were they still were not granted all of the rights and privileges of being full citizens. Yet, these men who faced prejudice and limited opportunities still served the nation that at times did not always return full privileges to them. But--they knew that this was their country too, and so they enlisted, they served honorably and passed that sense of country to the next generation. Therefore, I thank all of them for their bravery to serve.

My brother Samuel served in Vietnam from 1970 -1972

My father Sam L. Walton served in World War II, in France and North Africa.

My grandfather Sam Walton served in France with the 809th Pioneer Infantry. He is buried at Oak Cemetery in Ft. Smith Arkansas. My uncle John Louis Bass served in the 309th Quartermaster Labor Batallion, and died in France. He is buried at St. Mihiel American Cemetery in France.

I have written about my Civil War ancestors from Tennessee. But I have several additional men who also became freedom fighters in the Civil War. They have all left an amazingly rich history and legacy. I honor all of them on this day.

My Bass and Oddaway ancestors served in the 111th US Colored Infantry. Berry Kirk served in the 61st US Colored Infantry, John Tuckington served in the 83rd US Colored, and Joseph Young served in the 59th US Colored Infantry.

* * * * * 

Since there is not much spoken about my grandmother's brother Louis Bass, and he gave his life during World War I, I share this video about his final resting place in France. Pvt Louis Bass you have not been forgotten and your service is appreciated.

The Book of Me: Prompt #10 Memory & Recurring Dreams

I hundreds of memories from childhood, from the people to the places and the many experiences growing up in a small family in a small town. But the the suggestion of a recurring memory was a real challenge for me. So I really gave some thought about memories---which I have many, but I kept asking myself is there anything that seemed to be there continually through the years either from experience or dreams. I did finally give it some thought and few did come to mind.

"I've Been Here Before"

Like many people I have always had that "deja vu" moment that never makes sense. I might find myself talking to someone in a coffee shop and while we are enjoying a pastry one of us says something, or mentions something and then I am immediately straining my brain to remember--as it seems as if I have been in the same place at the same time, doing the same thing before. I have often mentioned it to the person---and stopped the conversation and said---"this is so strange--I have a weird feeling that I have been here and done the same thing." That deja vu moment usually fades, and I never quite figure it out.

The Strange Big Hole and the Recurring Dream

When I was a child I used to have a dream about a big hole---a hole large enough to swallow a house. The hole was in the back of my grandmother's house. Now I know why I dreamt of the hole. I recall being at Grandma's house and there was some work being done in the alley. Big caterpillar tractors were there working on something--it could have been the water line, or something. I remember the big machine scooping up the soil, and I moved close to the edge of the fence near her property to see what was taking place. Though I was safe and not in the way of the work, I remember feeling that I was close to something dangerous too.  I remember looking into the hole and being amazed at the depth of it, and noting the ease in which this giant machine was breaking the earth, and my wanting to see what was inside.

I should mention that when I was a child I lived with a very simplistic view of the world. And there was a giant whole, that I remember thinking might give me a glimpse into the inside of the earth. What would I see? So I looked into that big hole in the alley--and I recall vividly that I wondered if  I would see people burning in hell. Now, keep in mind that I was a small child and assumed that hell was a place that was somewhere underneath the earth. So I had to look inside that big hole----and course I only saw soil, a few worms, and I recall that I noticed the huge pile of soil scooped up to the side.  My grandmother called me back to the house as she did not want me too close to the fence, and that was it.

But that wasn't it. Off and on for many years---the image of that hole would appear in my dreams.  But in my dreams the big hole was always filled with water, and the water was always blue, and swirling around like a whirlpool. I was always a bit afraid of the swirling water. I would never get in it, but it always made me a wee bit nervous. And then---I would wake up. This dream of the swirling blue water in the great big hole would occur off and on into adult life. Never was sure what that was all about.

"It's a Twister!"

There is one other dream that was inspired by life's circumstances. I grew up in the tornado belt. And in the spring, if you live in the heart of the country, you are used to sirens, telling you to take cover immediately! These sirens sound like an air raid sirens from World War II movies. But in reality they are weather sirens alerting the local population of approaching danger from the skies. If you have not experienced this, then simply believe me---this is frightening! 

I grew up with those sirens, and lived for many years in fear of blowing away, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. And of course like many children, the tornado scene in that movie was one of the scariest scenes. (Apart from the flying monkeys!) 

The twists and turns of the tornado in the distance from the movie, plus the real memory of sirens going off in the middle of the night and having to get out of bed and run to the center of the house where there were no windows, since we had no basement is a vivid memory.  Sometimes there was real damage, so this was no fantasy--tornadoes are real and they are dangerous.

Tornado Scene from Wizard of Oz - MGM Production, 1939

The end result is that I have become a constant weather watcher---and I am very aware of changes in the weather, and when conditions are such to lead to unstable weather conditions. 

But the other result---tornado dreams! I usually have one or two a year---just brief dreams where there may be funnels in the distance. And of course I admit to watching the Wizard of Oz with nieces, nephews, whenever it comes on, and that scene usually inspires at least one tornado dream per year. Yes, it's true---I still have tornado dreams! They are sporadic, but at least once a year I have a dream where there is a tornado coming or way off in the distance.

I often laugh about these odd dreams, and though I have other dreams that never make any sense I guess it is a good thing that I am truly not haunted by some truly dark sinister secret from the past. (Even thought the swirling water is kind of weird.) I think of how there are countless other people who have truly deep seated fears and thoughts from terrible events in their lives. And I know that for many these memories come to them when they sleep.

I think about these dreams and if nothing else I realize how lucky I am. I lived in the south, during the terrible years of the Civil Right struggle. And growing up in an African American community, in a harsh southern world, my parents kept many horrible things away from my eyes, so that the innocence of childhood would not be impaired by the stresses of living in a world of turmoil.

I was so lucky that any recurring dreams or memories were not brought about by any acts of violence or hate to my own family. But I have met others over the years whose parents were in the fray of the movement, and the turmoil of the 1960's, and these individuals were truly affected even to this day by recurring dreams of violence. They have talked about how the terrorist acts in their community have left permanent scars on them though they are now adults in their 60s and 70s.

I was so fortunate to be simply a little girl amazed at the big hole in the back, and sometimes having the memory of the storms blowing through. And since no major weather tragedies occurred during those years, I have only a child's memory that occasionally visits me in my adult years.

Those simple times, even with the recurring dreams, eventually would lead to years in which I was more aware of the real world and its harsh realities. But, I am so glad that when I needed the time of innocence, and wonder, I was fortunate to have them, and no harm came to me.

Memories of Halloween The Book of Me Prompt #9

Some of the candy that I gave out this Halloween.

Halloween!

Hmm......I admit that I was scratching my head wondering how this came to be a prompt for the Book of Me. This is one of the holidays that really makes one wonder----where did this all come from?

Now, my memories from childhood Halloween outings are good ones, but I also have to admit that I began to enjoy the holiday more when I was the one coming to the door to give out candy, more than going from house to house. 

As a child, I can recall my mother working with my brother and me, making our own costumes. And we only went within about a 2-3 block area from my house. I usually wore a half mask, the kind that always limited my peripheral vision and had the cut out holes for the eyes, and the bridge of the nose. I recall usually getting a pink onem though one year I got one with lots of glitter on it.

After our trick or treating, my mother always had to inspect the candy, in case some evil soul was dropping razor blades in our bags or committing some other frightening deed. And of course all loose candy had to be tossed, though I always wanted the popcorn balls that the lady up the street, would give out. But by the time trick or treating was over, the popcorn balls were breaking apart, and they too got tossed.

However, by the time I was 10 or 11, I actually got bored with the trick or treating, and had more fun looking at the costumes of others and I remember telling my mom that I didn't want to go anymore, and so, I made a conscious decision that I would be at the door from that time forward. There was no real reason, but I guess I was always kind of an old soul, and found looking at the faces of the smaller children far more entertaining than getting candy, much of which I did not eat, anyway.

But then came my college years! Wow---what a surprise---I was dumbfounded to find out how many big kids----meaning folks my own age---were really into Halloween! I mean drop dead serious---from carving pumpkins to making truly elaborate get ups---serious costumes. I never had friends who were artistic, so I never knew people who were so creative with costumes. It was one of those things that still leave me a wee bit perplexed. The costumes I recall went far beyond just wearing a mask and some funny clothes---I mean people were insects, or inanimate objects that they wore to somebody's party. I guess it was a cultural thing---I just had never known folks who did this beyond childhood.

Adulthood came fast enough and once again--enjoying giving candy to children, I was stunned to find myself at a university where lots of colleagues took the day quite seriously. Several colleagues put lost of energy for days preparing for their day to come to work as a book character, or movie character, or even at times a biblical character.  I am always entertained by it, but still amazed at something that I still see as a fun thing for children, to be dabbled in as much as it is by adults.

Of course I have tried not to look to closely at the origins of the holiday, for it has a very dark and sinister origin. I take comfort in that it has morphed into something to delight the children.

And I guess Halloween is something where you make your own day of it, and for me, I find simple pleasure in reaching into my container of candy and distribute to the children, who seem so anxious to get the candies that await them.

The Book of Me Prompt #8 The Items for My Time Capsule

Items for My Time Capsule: Laptop, E-reader, Cell phone, Camera, flash drives.

I was admittedly a bit stumped by the idea of a time capsule. There was nothing that I really wanted to put in an object to "save for future generations" that would really reflect who I am now or how my life is. 

But then I gave it some thought and decided to describe the items that I would put in a capsule, if I didn't need them now. In other words---my time capsule is an imaginary one, but these are the items that I cannot live without. At the same time---I know that 50 years from now no one will really use items any of these items that look like them. Within probably 3-5 years---they will all be obsolete and look quite different. They will follow the path of vinyl records, 8 track tapes, and Polaroid cameras. We will still have some version of them around, but they won't look like the ones above. My guess is that they will all be lighter in weight, sleeker in design.

So my imaginary time capsule would contain these items.

1) Laptop computer.  The large black item, upon which the smaller items rest, is my laptop. I don't go out of town without it, and if I am home, it is on, even if I am busy with a non-computer related task. If something occurs to be to scribble down--or if I want a quick look up---it is handy, and turned on and at my disposal.

2) Cell phone. I currently use a Blackberry. (I imagine that in the future when they read the name Blackberry they will think I am using some kind of fruit.). Obviously I never leave it behind and beyond phoning friends and family, I also use it for email, and the camera feature is handy for quick uploads to Facebook and Twitter.

3) Kindle FireHD The pink object on the right, is my Kindle Fire HD tablet. I also have a regular Kindle E-reader, but I use the HD for so many more things than reading. I use it for a quick check of what's happening on Facebook. In addition I love the video feature. (I have watched all seasons of Downton Abbey on it as well as all season of Doc Martin!) Occasionally I check email and have played only two games on it, but I keep it handy. When traveling, I do find it quite handier than my laptop when I want to go online while on a long flight. (Assuming they have wi-fi.)

4) My Digital Camera Like my phone, I never leave home without it. I find having it handy assists me sometimes with some rare photo ops, and even some video opportunities as well. This one is a Canon and when collapsed, it fits easily into my purse.

5) Flash Drives I keep all of my power point presentations on flash drives and make sure that when I am traveling, they are close to me, usually also in my purse. These drives have so much storage, that I am putting more and more documents online as well as I am finding that at some archival repositories, that documents can be downloaded right to a flash drive as well. As small as these are, I remember when I thought that floppy disks were small.

6) Eye glasses Since my eye glasses got in the picture I decided to keep them there and not crop them out---because without them I could not see many of the documents and images that I store on lapstops and flash drives.

So that's it----these are the items that I can't live without and if I had a time capsule and was not in need of these every day---this are the essential items that would go in it.

Remembering the Grandparents The Book of Me: Prompt #7

For this prompt I am focusing on my paternal grandparents- Sam and Sarah Ellen Walton.

What were their names? 
Samuel and Sarah Ellen Walton

Where were they from?
She was born in Arkansas and he was born in the Choctaw Nation.

Were they related?
No.

Where were they born?
My grandmother was born in Horatio, Arkansas, and my grandfather was born in Skullyville, Choctaw Nation, Indian Territory.

Photos Yes, see above images.

What did they do? As a young man, Grandpa Sam worked first as a teamster driving a team of horses. He later developed a profound love of cars. He then served in the Pioneer Infantry during World War I. After the war, he worked a number of jobs, but frequently as a chauffeur and driver.

Did I know them?
I knew my paternal grandmother only. Grandpa Sam died years before I was born. But knew my grandmother Sarah Ellen very well.

What was my relationship with them?  
I had a close relationship with Grandma, and spent a good amount of time with her in the years before she died.

If I didn't know them what have I researched about them? Grandpa Sam's family history provided many surprises with the strong ties to the Choctaw Nation. Although I did not know him, I have learned so much about him. And in addition, his mother, my gr. grandmother had a strong influence in my life. Both Grandpa Sam and Grandma Ellen,had a very strong interest in education, and worked tirelessly for the next generation to be educated. And of course researching my grandmother's history led me to several Civil War Union soldiers all closely related to her. I have researched both sides in great detail.

But because Grandpa Sam died long before I was born, I only got to know one of my grandparents - Sarah Ellen Walton. And I have truly enjoyed researching her family history. She was born into a large family though based in southwest Arkansas, her family had Tennessee roots. When following the history of her Tennessee line, I was more than surprised to find four civil war soldiers closely connected to her family. Later research would also reveal the exact location of the family and where they lived in Tennessee, and where they had been enslaved. The estate still stands today.

Slave holder's estate, Giles County TN

In addition--I was able to add more names to the family line, when a valuable estate record was found when the slaveholder died. The estate inventory listed all of the slaves by name, including my gr. grandfather. And this research opened more doors to the family history.

Grandma and Nannie
Some of my fondest memories were those of my grandmother Sarah Ellen, as well as those memories of my gr. grandmother Nannie, as we called her. They were actually mother-in-law and daughter-in-law and not mother and daughter. But they lived together for over 40 years, even after Grandpa Sam had died. My memory is of them working together, on massive quilting projects together.

(One of my own quilt projects, influenced by the two quilters--Grandma and Nannie)

 I also fondly recall their working in their large backyard garden where they seemed to grow everything from turnip greens, to corn, to tomatoes, to string beans to purple hull peas. And I always remember the lovely "bachelor buttons" pretty wild flowers that lined the fence with sprigs of mint in between.

My life was influenced and enriched by both of these beautiful elder women, who brought with them their country ways, their methods of cooking and their stories.

 I wish Grandpa Sam had lived, as I would have loved to have heard his voice, but these two ladies made my childhood rich and filled with many joys and adventures. They both filled that grandparents's space so well. I miss them both.

My Journals and Diaries The Book of Me Prompt # 6

Three of my many journals kept over the years

From the beginning, I loved writing, and from childhood onward, somehow the art of picking up a pen, putting it to paper, and watching thoughts transform magically into words on a cream colored tapestry was like magic. From the time I learned to write, I loved the feeling and smell of a new tablet, and would write my name, and random words, and sentences--ah, the art of writing!  

This love of new tablets and simply writing continued as I progressed through school. I loved any and all subjects in school that required me to write---from spelling, to English grammar, to book reports! There was something about retreating and having a private relationship between me, my pen, and paper. But at that time I was not journaling---I was simply enjoying the mechanics of writing.

I remember how thrilled I was when Scheaffer made the ink cartridge pens. This was real writing---with ink! No rolling ball point for me---I had ink! My parents had ink pens, but those required dipping and pulling a lever to suck the ink into the rubbery balloon compartment. But when the ink cartridges came--life was simple. One could have the beautifully smooth lines in either blue or black, and no levers to pull. The process of writing with ink was simpler and neater.

The old Scheaffer Pens

But I wanted a reason to write---but sadly, no poems lay inside of my soul, and I had no stories to write about that I knew of at that time. So I doodled with no direction. And when I was not doodling, I was reading. It was eventually through reading that I got my inspiration! It was a sobering story written by a young girl about my own age. She wrote about a trying time when she and her family had to living in hiding, and she wrote about her life living upstairs in a secret apartment in Amsterdam. It was the Diary of Anne Frank!! 

Actual Anne Frank Diary Image

Source of Image

She told a story of tragic times. And like all young people who read it, I was mesmerized by her story. But for me there were two things---the story of her family living in refuge, during during the years when Jewish people were persecuted. And also for me there was another story or rather another lesson that I learned from Anne. It was a simple one, but I got it---she told her own story! And I wanted to tell mine.

Now for me, as a young adolescent I wasn't sure that I had such a story to tell in my small Arkansas town. But the act of telling one's story, and writing it down captivated me. So, at 15, I tried my hand---and I began with a small pink diary, the kind that came with a key. I did not have a lot to talk about, but I had the space to write my own thoughts in my own special place. Quickly I was frustrated as I tried to record things every day, finding myself without words and incidents that I felt were noteworthy. So I quickly abandoned this desire to write for some time. I didn't keep that journal and dismissed those small musings, but yet I still wanted to write.

I didn't write regularly during my college years, but took it up again during my graduate school years. During those times as I was exploring life and trying to define myself, I found that without a real confidante, I would simply try to work things out on my own---and thus began my real journaling journey. I found that during times of stress, the relief that I sought would come when I found the time to settle down and write.

Journaling took me through the career choices that I made and the many friendships formed and lost over the years.  I was able to map my directions in life and sometimes during major milestone events, the journals were there to simply give me a chance to pause, record and reflect.  

Sample pages from some of my journals

There are many gaps in time---some gaps span months and some gaps span years. I have gone from the beautiful expensive leather bound books, to colorful spiral blank books, to simple academic composition books, and back to bound books with gold leaf edges. In some journals I ran out of space, and in some I simply got tired of the binding and switched to another, leaving the previous one half-filled.

I told very few people that I kept a journal and I rarely met anyone else who did. I often wondered if there were other women of color who kept diaries and had any of them ever been published? I would not have that question answered till the mid 1980s when Gloria Hull published a journal kept by Alice Dunbar Nelson. And what a journal it was! Alice Dunbar Nelson, was at one time the wife of one of my favorite writers--the poet Paul Laurence Dunbar. The book was called Give Us Each Day, and this was her journal that spanned many years of her life.

The Journal of Alice Dunbar-Nelson

Reading her journal was the breath of air that I needed. This woman was amazing--she was an activist, a lecturer, a teacher, and an advocate for the vote, and for women's rights. And she kept a diary! I knew that my journaling was a good thing and this was the inspiration, that encouraged me to continue to make my journal over the years the companion that sometimes became a good launching pad for some of my projects and ideas.

Now as a mature adult, I am of course no longer enthralled by pretty lines artfully made on nice paper. The magic now comes from the outlet of emotion and thought that journaling has provided for me over the years. And also, at times the journal was what got me through difficult times. 

I am often surprised when I find one of my journals in odd places throughout the house---wondering why I last left that particular volume in that particular place or room.

I also wonder someday what future generations may think should they ever endeavor to read them and should I ever choose to leave them where they can be found and linked back to me. It's funny that I have never thought about that before sitting down to write this piece about the journaling experience. 

But, I often wish that my own ancestors had left journals and diaries for me to read, so perhaps in a sense of obligation to the future descendants, I shall label each one with some basic genealogical data so that they will know from whom those words in multiple journals come.

I guess I journal because I can, and because I have a story to tell.

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My House - Sweet Memories The Book of Me Prompt #5

My childhood home, Ft. Smith Arkansas

As I am told, we lived in a rented house until I was born, and a few months afterwards, my parents purchased an old house on a hill in Ft. Smith. It was the only home I ever knew, and it was, for me, my kingdom!

The house sits on a corner, in Ft. Smith Arkansas, on North 13th are R Streets, and the property actually occupies two and a half lots, with a small rental house on the side street. It was that house where my dreams were born. In that yard I learned to ride my bike--first with training wheels and then later, when I got a sense of balance, I rode the real bicycle that I got for Christmas when I was eight.

The sidewalk on the front below the hill  was where I learned to skate, and where I would draw the hopskotch markings and entertain myself. And I got plenty of skinned knees on that walk way. I also recall that many times the sidewalk on the entire street would be wet on a very dry day--stemming from an underground spring said to be someplace in the vicinity.

The sidewalk in front of house

For many years, we had a garage in the back--where I would sometimes get my nerve to walk upstairs and look at the old relics of the past-- including my old baby bed, discarded pieces of furniture, and memorabilia that I only wish that I had now. But it was later taken down and a car port was added to the back of the house instead.

The property at one time had lots of trees and shrubs---including my favorite plum tree that I used to climb and feel that I was on top of the world. A pecan tree and the plum tree provided shade in the backyard, in the hot humid summer. The side of the property had two massive elm trees, with two beautiful lilac bushes that always made spring so beautiful--not the mention the jonquils that would miraculously appear between our house and the small rental house on the side.  Today the only remnants are one elm tree, one tree stump, and the old walnut tree that is immediately next to the little rental house on the side street.

Gone are the many trees and shrubs

The house was my place of refuge, and in my mind--my way to explore the world. Inside was the entrance foyer, a room to the left side was the front bedroom--my parents room. To the right, the living room, with french sliding doors separating it from the dining room with a built in china closet. The kitchen was in the rear, and my brother's bedroom was off the kitchen, and my own bedroom was in the back off another small hallway.

There, my dreams were made. My joys, and my imagination were filled with books, and music from classical to jazz. In the living room the piano was there, during my 10 years of classical piano lessons, but I much preferred music from my parents' record collections. When I was not listening to music, I was reading, and as much as I loved to be in that old house, because of the books that I read, I knew that I had to get out of the house, get out of the town and see the world that I had come to long for through the many books I read.

This was the place that soothed my soul.

When my mother died in 1997, the spirit of that house began to fade. Once her presence was gone, I knew that my own ties were fading. She had kept the spirit of my dad there, and once she left, I knew that a chapter was closing.

I look with memory at that house on the hill, and smile for it was a place that nourished me, that cradled me, and protected me, and that house on the hill planted seeds for me to go forth and see the world.

* * * * *

Remembering Spring Flowers Prompt #4 My Favorite Season

Spring is my favorite season. 

First of all, it means that weeks of being cold, and shivering and discomfort begin to melt away, and my senses are all soothed. My sense of touch is stroked by gentler breezes. The scent of sound is enhanced when I hear the early robins of spring announce the coming of warmer days. And I was always anxious to put my nose in early blooms once the smell of honeysuckle tickled my nose and like many children, I would pull out the middle part to taste the nectar of those tiny delicate blooms. But it was was eyes---they were always dazzled by the display of color. These sights of spring brought me the most, since in childhood. 

Whether I was playing in my grandmother's garden, or preparing for a May crowing event at my local parish, the flowers always captivated my attention. There was something almost magical about the touch, the smell and the sight of flowers. At my small Catholic church parish, when we had our annual May Crowing ceremonies, flowers let us all know that something was truly going on. 

May Crowning Ceremony, St. John the Baptist School, Ft. Smith, Arkansas

 I recall Bachelor Buttons that lined the fence around Grandma's house, and when I would run outside, I was always pulled to the fence and was so intrigued by the colors and delicate petals that would draw me towards them.

I loved colors, and as I think of the changing seasons, I admit to enjoying the colors of fall, yet as brilliant as the vibrant colors are in the fall, nothing brings me more joy than seeing two of my favorite flowers emerge every year. Irises and Jonquils!!  Ahh.....Spring!

The sheer beauty of the Iris truly makes me stop! An when I see the multicolored ones, especially any that contain variations of purple, I can only stop in the tracks and be taken by the mere beauty of it all. This is nothing that human hands can create, and when I see the elegant soft velvety petals of a the purple Iris it truly takes my breath away!

Oh soft, subtle velvet iris, so elegantly you come.

Like an elegant dancer your fling your skirt

letting it ripple in the breeze, and your gentle top

flirts with the wind and tells the world 

that you are simply beautiful!

The one flower though that always made me smile was the Jonquil. They bloomed in my yard and when they appeared, I knew that sweaters could be shed and I would soon feel warmth on my skin when I played. Jonquils are slightly different from other daffodils, as their stems are rounded and not flat, and I knew that when I saw them, so pretty, and so vibrantly yellow, once again, my time of childhood joy had come.

Easter varied from year to year on the calendar, and my memory of Easter was that I was often quite chilly. My father would insist that we take our pictures on Easter and I always remember standing in the yard shivering to take the Easter picture. Usually Easter always came before the Jonquils, and I was not yet warm.

Easter Morning, in the 1950s.

But somehow, when the jonquils came, the chill gave into spring, and my childhood continued with joy.

A post script---one of my favorite songs is by jazz artist, Betty Carter, who sings a beautiful ballad called "Spring Can Really Hang You Up, The Most".

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The Book of Me Prompt #3 Describing Myself

Photo of a much younger me. (And thinner, too.)

Describing myself----not fun to do---who likes to think of their physical attributes?

But here are a few extra details:

Height:  5'0"
Weight: I'm not telling.
Complexion: Brown
Hair: Wavy-Curly
Unique features: A dimpled chin.

Observations---Being short has always been my identifier. But I have to admit---I never minded being the shortest one in school or work. It places you in the front of group photos, but more importantly---in school, I was always at the front of the line, whether for lunch or some other special treat! And in my more thinner days, being short enhanced my petite status.

Favorite Features---
Smile I am told I have a nice smile, and I never needed braces and have never had tooth problems.
A Dimpled Chin: In addition, having a dimpled chin always made me stand out when I was a child. I tend to forget that I have a dimple in my chin these days until someone actually points it out to me. It was a big deal whenever I took school pictures.
Hands: I have to admit that I like my hands---I used the play the piano--for 10 years in fact and always enjoyed looking at them as they moved along the keyboard.  I like writing--the old fashioned way with a fountain pen. And I love to use my hands to cook, to quilt, and to decorate.

All that being said---my hope however, is that my physical features are secondary.

My preferred features are my personality and personal traits, which I hope make others feel comfortable, feel good, and feel loved. My personal mantra at all times--do no harm to others.

* * * * *

The Book of Me - Prompt #2 When I was Born

I was born on a Saturday evening, four days after Christmas at Twin City Hospital in Ft. Smith Arkansas. In those days there were no birthing centers, and fathers were not allowed in delivery rooms. 

My mom said that she, being an avid reader, was deeply engrossed in a novel that she was reading and had felt some mild discomfort. My grandmother noticed that her "discomfort" was coming about every 5-6 minutes. Finally Grandma was the one who insisted that it was time to go to the hospital. So she put the novel down and was taken to the hospital. She already had a "hospital bag" packed since she knew that I was coming soon.

The hospital was Twin City Hospital, a small hospital built in 1942 to serve the African American community. The maternity ward of the hospital was in the back of the building and my mother always would point out that the ward was where the last window on the right, can be seen.

Twin City Hospital

Source: Ft Smith Historical Society Journal

My father literally worked around the corner. He was a barber and had gone to work that day to the barbershop, as usual. When my mom was taken to the hospital, grandma sent word to him that my mother was in labor. As soon as he heard, he went around the corner to check on her, and was told that it would be a while. He returned to the barber shop--since fathers were not allowed. He decided to close the shop anyway, and returned to the hospital, and was then informed that he had a baby girl. within that short amount of time---a babe was born. Apparently my mom was closer to delivery than she had thought and so I arrived. Six pounds, eight ounces!

My older brother was only about 5 years old and he was quite upset that mommy was not at home, and was said to have been quite a tearful little boy as he did not understand why she was leaving home and going someplace to get a new baby.  However apparently he was a bit enthralled when I arrived home and for several days would tell neighbors as well as strangers, from the postman to the milk man, quite excitedly, "I have a new baby sister." I am always amused by this story when I think of the older brother who would tease me, or tell me to go away, when I wanted to play with his toys. 

However, childhood was a pleasant one growing up in a small town. My parents sheltered the two of us from a more hostile world in the American South, and many things from the outside world did not directly impact our lives for many years. Our childhood was a happy one, fully of laughter and love.

Thankfully though the innocence of childhood is gone, some of the old policies of the time have also gone. The building where I was born is now a business, and hospitals, serve everyone, with no regard to the color of the patients.

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My Book of Me: What I do, Who I am, & My Many Names (Prompt 1)

I have decided to put more energy into writing now that most of my travels are over. And one of the stories that need to be told is my own personal story. I have mentioned how important this is many times. Therefore when a good friend shared with me the wonderful blogging prompt of "The Book of Me" I felt inspired to write just to get myself going again.

I have modified the image and the theme to fit the points that came to my mind as I elected to define myself. These are some of the words than came to mind. I have divided them into categories: What I Do; Who I am, and My Many Names.

What I Do:
These reflect the activities that occupy my time now as well as how I describe myself, and think of myself in a professional category. I have worked for more than 25 years in higher education and still wear several hats from that arena. And as one who explores family history and community history, I have several hats that I wear as I pursue a number of interests in those areas. And there becomes as a result a very thin line between my vocation and avocation.

Writer

Author

Genealogist

Educator

Blogger

Teacher

Mentor

Lecturer

Podcaster

Scrapbooker

Quilter

Collector

Who I Am:

We all have different roles that we have in life. Our relationships can vary as we walk from room to room, and from place to place. But all of them are part of who we are. I see these many categories overlapping each other, for in many instances, I am a friend to to persons with whom I share other kinds of relationships as well. But I embrace and claim all of these categories as they reflect who I consider myself to be, and they reflect those categories that I also am honored to have.

Wife

Friend

Aunt

Great Aunt

Daughter

Sister

Granddaughter

Gr. Granddaughter

My Many Names
Like relationships, we answer to people differently. Likewise the names that I am often called vary from person to person and situation to situation. I was always called by my middle name, Yvette in my childhood home. But once I went to school, the nuns called me Angela and that became my out-in-the-world name. But as our status in life changes, again we take on new identities. Some students and mentees will call me Miss Angela, while others will call me Mrs. Walton. (I always look around for my mother when they call me that.) And some among my husband's friends and colleagues will call me Mrs. Raji.

Having nieces and nephews in different countries and from different cultures, also changes my name. But they are all names that I feel good when I hear them, and they connect me to family, friends and to those whom I love.

Angela

Yvette

Dear

Sweetheart

Aunty Angela

Aunt Yvette

Miss Angela

Girlfriend

Ange

Professor

Mrs. Raji

Ms. Walton

Aunty

Mum

Cuz

Cut'n Angela

As I embark upon this journey to tell my own story I emphasize that these are only a few categories that describe the many things that describe me. I hope however to provide a small glimpse into who I am, beyond my blogs. I look forward to more of these prompts to bring forth my own story.

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