People have asked why I stopped posting in A Cup of Tea with Momma G. I had always wanted my blog to in some way, make people’s lives a little better. Maybe stories of my life would bring a smile, or a tear, or in some way, bind the reader and me together by that thread we call humanity. As the world (particularly the political climate) changed, it became harder and harder to find warm stories to share. I didn’t want my writing to reflect my dour mood. There were no thoughts that I felt were worthy to share. Like a vague remnants of a song I used to know, I tried in vain to hear that voice that put words to my heart. But the words didn’t come. The song was silenced.
This afternoon, for the first time in years, I heard my voice again. It is a different song, perhaps a bit jaded, perhaps a bit sad, but the words are from the heart. I hope you are moved.
When I was a teenager, I had a part time job at a men’s clothing store. I loved my work. I rang sales on the register, chose what music should play on the 8 track player, folded argyle socks and suggested which ties went with what bell sleeved dress shirts. Workers from other mall stores stopped in to say hello. Coworkers, most of whom were also teenagers, casually chatted between customers. It was fun.
Until it wasn’t.
One evening, the assistant manager pulled me aside and told me someone had been stealing from the store. As he described what was missing, I slowly realized he was accusing me.
“Hey, I’ve stolen things before,” he conceded. “Just tell me you did it. I’ll go easy on you.”
But it wasn’t me. The only thing I had ever stolen was when at five years old I snuck into a neighbor’s shed and stole a lump of coal. The guilt that ensued convinced me that I was not destined to lead a life of crime. My mouth turned to dust and my stomach churned. I claimed innocence to the store manager but he didn’t believe me, and even when a few weeks later, he caught another worker sneaking shirts out through the store’s back door, I never felt trusted again. Several weeks after that, I quit.
I thought of this when watching Shaye Moss and Ruby Freeman testify at today’s hearing on the January 6 insurrection hearings. They had served as election officials for years, honor bound to serve their country and their community by counting Presidential Election votes for the State of Georgia.
In an effort to overturn the 2020 Presidential Election, Shaye and her mother Ruby were falsely accused of rigging the Georgia results. Videos of the counting disproved Donald Trump’s accusations, but he and Rudy Giuliani insisted that Ms. Moss was a “professional vote scammer” who brought in and counted fraudulent votes for Joe Biden. As a consequence, Ms. Moss and Ms. Freeman were terrorized; their lives threatened and their reputations ruined. Listening to Ms. Moss explain how her life has changed brought tears to my eyes. She rarely leaves her home. She is fearful of being recognized. She will not return to her job. When Ms. Freeman stated, ” “The president of the United States is supposed to represent every American—not to target one,” the tears fell.
Several years ago I sat on a Grand Jury. For those who don’t know how this part of government works, the Grand Jury listens to snapshot presentations and then deliberate and decide if there is enough evidence for an indictment. At the beginning of our service, it was impressed upon the jury members to consider the evidence carefully, indict if compelled to, but be mindful that once an accusation is made the life of the accused is forever changed, even if found innocent of the charges. I will never forget that admonishment.
It is unknown where the hearings regarding the January 6, 2021 insurrection will lead us. It makes my heart ache to hear these testimonies, to see video and watch those directly involved tear up as they recount the days and weeks that lead up to that horrible day. It sickens me that our culture has become so cruel that it normalizes racist rants, violent acts and death threats, and that so many people considered the evils of the insurrection an act of patriotism.
But we cannot shake our heads and walk away. If we are not the catalyst for change, if we do not speak out, if we do not take positive steps to overcome evil, what are we here for? What life will we leave our children, and our grandchildren? For me, perhaps this means putting pen to paper.
I am only one voice, but I have one voice.
In college I had an English professor who cried every time he read Beowulf. Every semester, he stood in front of his young students and translated the story from its original Old English text, and then read the entire version in Old English, weeping profusely when he reached the part where Beowulf succumbed to the wounds incurred in his fight with the dragon, Grendel. It was a song. A dramatic performance. A delightful, poetic presentation. Once finished, he would pull a handkerchief from his pocket, wipe his eyes, blow his nose, and continue with the next assignment.
My two oldest children were avid participants in their school choruses. At their middle school Christmas concerts they looked like red-cheeked cherubs in black pants, white shirts and bow ties. Their renditions of multi-cultural holiday music melted my heart, and the tears flowed. By the time they were in high school, they both sang in the “Chamber Choir” and performed complicated, sophisticated pieces in several languages. At one such concert as I sat in the audience and prepared for them to begin, I could see Gabe nudge his friends to lay bets on how long it would be before I had to bring out a tissue. He was never disappointed. I cried at that concert. I cried when he sang at Carnegie Hall with the National Youth Choir. And at the end of Abby’s senior year when the band and chorus performed an extravaganza of Carmina Burana. I sobbed through the entire performance.
It’s December. The snow is falling. I’ve been hunting for the perfect Christmas gifts for my loved ones. The tree is trimmed and plans are made for reunions and celebration. Time to turn on Panus Angelicus and let the tears begin!
One summer night when I was a child, my parents allowed me to stay up late and watch the original version of “Carousel” on our black and white television. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this musical, the original show debuted on Broadway in 1945, and was made into a movie starring Shirley Jones and Gordon Macrae in 1956. It is a sweet and sad story of a jaded carousel barker and an innocent young millworker who fall in love at a Maine carnival. The fake New England accents are atrocious. The acting is stiff. But the dancing and music are stupendous. It is worth an afternoon on the couch just to watch the choreography.
Last Saturday while Abby and John did errands, I took care of my two little grandsons. Judah is four now and Abram fifteen months. We played with blocks and cars, ate peanut butter sandwiches, and hunted dinosaurs in the dark corners of my apartment. After lunch I looked at the crumbs on the floor and the half-finished milk warming in Judah’s cup. I usually don’t sit down until everything is cleaned up and stowed neatly away. But not this time. Instead, I captured both wiggly little boys and squished the three of us into my rocker. I rocked and started to sing old folk songs that my mother had taught me when I was Judah’s age. The boys snuggled close and relaxed into my arms, their heads swaying gently on my shoulders as we rocked and sang. Between verses of Bobby Shafto and Lavender Blue, I drank in the scent of these little ones, relishing every breath. Abram fell asleep. Judah sucked his thumb. It was thirty minutes of heaven- a golden chance that I will cherish forever. 
Abby was the was the queen of temper tantrums. I can say this with complete confidence. As the saying goes, it takes one to know one. I can still remember throwing my older sister’s doll down the stairs, stamping my feet and screaming “I’m not tired!” when my mother made me lie down for a nap.
them, and can’t take one more blow, they pull into their opponents and hug them close. Now, let it go on the record that hugging a half-naked, sweaty enemy whose main goal is to punch my lights out is not my idea of a good time. And sometimes, pulling a screaming, sweaty four-year-old away from the candy section of the grocery store is almost as bad. But these are our children we are talking about. The fruit of our loins. The product of our love. I have found that when our children are at their nastiest, we need to pull them in close. Hug them. Kiss their sticky, teary little faces. Talk to them in calm, reassuring tones. Remind them that when they are at their worst, we still love them the best. This is not rewarding bad behavior. It is digging beyond the surface to address the deep desire we all have to be loved, even when we don’t deserve it.
to allow you to give eye contact. They begin to listen to you, and wonder of wonders, they even start to obey. You may not exactly have won the round, but you haven’t lost either. And by the time the bell rings and you look at that soft, sweet angelic little person snuggled into your arms, the reason for the fight seems not important at all.
It’s 90 degrees outside, and the temperature is still rising. This is the second day of this heat; certainly not typical of June in New Hampshire, but sweltering none the less. Earlier in the week my daughter Abby mentioned that her downstairs air conditioner was not working.
We children found relief from the heat in many ways. We hiked up Academy Hill to the town library, and sat inside the cool granite walls, turning the pages to lose ourselves in adventures of exotic people in far-off lands. We sat beneath the shade of the catalpa tree, drawing tic-tac-toes in the earth below the eaves on the north end of the house on Green Street. We checked the pay phone at the corner of Main and Lincoln Streets for spare dimes and bought Popsicles to split and share. And on rare occasions, ended the day with a swim at a lake, hanging our bare feet from the back of the station wagon on the ride home.
Certainly reminiscences of the Days-Before-Air-Conditioning are more pleasurable done in the comfort of my apartment, where central air is included in the rent, and window fans are forbidden. However, I do believe that given uncomfortable circumstances, most people will find creative solutions. As I learned from my mother, Abby learned from me how drawing the shades and keeping the house neat, clean and calm lends itself to a cooler environment for her little boys. Yesterday she filled a wading pool for Judah and let him splash until his toes looked like prunes and his hair formed spikes that dripped pool water over his face. She took him out for sorbet…before lunch! She found a spot in the shade for Abram, who undisturbed by the sound of traffic and his brother’s happy shrieks, turned his face toward the breeze and settled into a relaxed summer snooze.
let them sit on the table, just as they are. They won’t be anything but lemons. They’ll look like lemons, smell like lemons, and taste like lemons as long as they are left untouched. Or until they rot. Then, they’ll turn brown, smell awful, seep into the bowl, grow mold, and lose their shape. You can enjoy- even relish fresh lemons, just as you can bask in the sadness of life’s disappointments. But only for a season. It’s up to you to determine how long that season is. Just know that the longer the season, the less fresh the fruit.
began to set the table for dinner. The plates were stacked on a shelf that was just above my shoulders, and in my attempt to juggle enough for our family of ten, the stack began to slip from my grasp. One by one, the plates fell to the floor, smashing to ceramic shards, until there was one lone plate in my hand. I turned to my horror-stricken mother. Her eyes were wide and her mouth open, but no sound escaped. I knew the next moments were not going to be pretty. I looked at the lone plate in my arms and without a word, let it fall too. Some things are not salvagable. When you meet the end of the road, call it quits and find another route.
ability to turn negatives to positives. We don’t always understand why, and it’s not that trials won’t come. But we are never alone. And in the end, it all comes out in the wash.
It was not long before Elizabeth summoned me to her door to give my opinion on the dress she was trying. As usual, she looked beautiful; tall and willowy, with huge gray eyes fringed with thick lashes. The dress, silky and black, set off the tattoos I have come to embrace. She is exquisite. And unique.
I love technology and social media. I check my Facebook wall several times a day, read my WordPress stats as soon as I post and take my cell phone with me whenever I leave the house. But sometimes I feel as if our love for technology does more to isolate us than to bring us together. Time with our loved ones is something we take so much for granted. Every minute we have with each other is a chance to share a slice in time. A chance to share opinions. A chance to listen. To watch. To affirm. To cherish. Let’s not miss our opportunity.
When we turn 60 people stop remarking that we look tired, and start saying things like “she looks good for her age.” This means we can spend less time on our hair, or makeup. We can finally let go of the Wall Street myth that tells us we should look like the photo-shopped model who is really only 17 but is playing the part of a 35-year-old who runs a successful business, raises genius children who don’t get messy and has a husband who washes dishes and put his smelly socks in the hamper.
When we turn 60 we may look like fat old ladies on the beach but nobody judges us, because we are fat old ladies on the beach.
When we turn 60 we realize that most of what we thought were of value- career, money, fame, notoriety didn’t really bring us the happiness promised. But the people we touched- family, friends, strangers in need- they are the jewels of our lives. The jewels were always there. We just forgot to look for them. But the good news is there’s still time to go mining.
and turquoise where men lose their souls. Her laughter is contagious; her gentle hands soothing. She pens poetic verses that twist my heart until tears trickle down my cheeks. She owns and operates a barbershop where men wait for hours for her to sculpt their hair and listen to their stories. Elizabeth- my youngest child- suffers from Bipolar disorder.
A Cup of Tea with Momma G 