Getting Published

 Everyone keeps telling me to publish.  I want to, and I am, but putting pen to paper and getting someone to publish it are two very different tasks, so bear with me.  It's coming, but I can't say when.  With the exception of my sister and brother, I've been secretly writing longer than I've known any of you, and I'm pretty sure my sister and brother only became aware of it recently.  

I owe my ability to Martha Hammond, my beloved neighbor, who knew I had trouble reading but continued to give me books anyway, and to my mother, who didn't give up on me and, instead of sticking me in a special education class, taught herself the Montessori Method so I could learn to read despite my dyslexia, and one day had the brilliant idea that if I couldn't learn to write properly, maybe I could learn to type instead.  I also owe a great deal to my teacher, Madora Mcintyre, who said, "Boyd's not stupid.  Something else is wrong." and got me tested for dyslexia.  

Writing is my strongest art, and making art is my strongest motive.  Writing is also my therapy.  Sometimes I have to write things down to get them out.  That means I sometimes write about painful, uncomfortable, or embarrassing things.  If it's about me, I'll let you read it.  I don't care.  You can look at my spleen if you want to.  If it's painful or embarrassing to someone else, you may never see it.  I'm not out to expose or exploit anyone.  I've seen writers who did that, and I don't approve.  Sometimes, I can't change the names or the details and keep people from knowing I'm telling their story, so those stories may exist in my computer somewhere, but you'll never see them.  No one will.    

My Friend Tim

  If you're lucky, and if you live long enough, there will come a day when it's your turn to watch over those who once watched over you. For most of the world, we were just kids, but my very first friends, who were also grownups, were named Sarah and Tim, and today it was time to say goodbye to Sarah.

Most goodbyes have little impact on me. They mean: "Good to see you! Let's do this again soon! Tell your neighbor I said hey!" But, there's one goodbye that means: "I'll never see you again. We'll never do this again. Your neighbors are here with me."

Final goodbyes are more than difficult for me. They make my weak parts tremble and make my strong parts irrelevant. I've avoided many of these, believing they were just too much and it'd be better for everyone if I weren't there, but when I heard my friend Sarah crossed over, something inside said I had to go. I needed to go. My first thought was to go and sit with my sister. I'm a lot stronger with her, but she would be out of town. "Alone," a voice inside me said. I had to do this, and I had to do it alone. It was time for that. This is important.

I lied and told the nurses at St. Catherines, where I'd been convalescing, that my family would be there to take care of me, so they approved and made arrangements so I could go to the funeral. There would be dozens of people I knew there, and I wasn't that far from my apartment if anything happened, so it wasn't a total lie. They also knew that the strength that completely left me just months before was now returning faster every day. They're not just my nurses, they're my friends, and by now, they know there are times when I will not be denied. Still in a wheelchair because my returning strength was so new, I looked improbable, but I knew I could accomplish this, and I needed to do it. I thought I'd be alone, but sometimes life has other plans.

My plan was to sneak in early and sit in the back where nobody could see me, then slip out quietly. That way, I could say goodbye without a ripple and satisfy the urge that made me come. Whatever I felt, whatever happened, no one would see me, and I could return to the safety of anonymity soon. After I settled into a far corner, some misguided soul saw my wheelchair and came to me and said, "Hey, we need you to sit up front."

By "up front," he meant the very, very front where everyone could see me, and I had to tilt my head back just to see whoever was speaking at the lectern an arm's length away; then he said, "we're going to move Tim next to you." Hearing that name, the pieces fell into place. I came to say goodbye to Sarah, but my heart would also be with Tim, and he would be next to me. I knew he'd been ill and didn't know if he'd be at the service with us, but once I knew I was to sit with him, it didn't matter who could see me or where I was sitting; it was my turn to watch over him as he'd once watched over me. Being next to Tim was where I needed to be. Tim was in a wheelchair like mine, but his was more permanent. Together we sat and said goodbye to Sarah.

The service began. One daughter delivered remembrances of her mother in what I couldn't help but hear as her mother's voice. I hadn't seen her since she was a teenager, and today she delivered her mother, my friend, to another place. Another daughter, who was our class favorite from childhood, said a prayer. Her voice quavered. She was once the very first girlfriend for two of my teammates, and her smile often delivered us all. Today she did what she must do. This was a difficult transition, but she was always one of the strongest amongst us. A third daughter, now the age her mother was when I got married, sat behind me with her family. When she was barely two months old, her mother, Sarah, asked if I wanted to hold her. My arms had moved thousands of pounds of iron and, through the years, would move more, but they'd never held a baby before.

The priest who said the prayer before most of our football games and later officiated the service that married me delivered the sermon for our mutual friend Sarah. This was a very personal service, not only an important moment and connection for me but for my entire class. Many of them were with me. We met more than fifty years ago, and today we gathered together to say the last goodbye to our class mother.

I could tell the friend next to me was in distress. His hands fidgeted, and his eyes watered. So did mine. He was in pain. I patted his knee, but it didn't help. A young man, I learned, was Tim's grandson, pulled him to the side, away from the front, where he could have some privacy. A young woman I'd never met but recognized immediately as Tim and Sarah's granddaughter came to comfort him. I moved my chair next to his. "It's ok, buddy." We held hands.

Only Sarah Nelson could arrange such a class reunion at a funeral. There were so many faces I knew before they could shave, now with white beards and hairless scalps like mine. Somehow only two of us still had hair. Maybe there was something in the water at St. Andrews in the seventies. This was the best service and farewell for our friend Sarah, surrounded by those she watched over when they were small.

I stayed with Tim until the driver from the VA drove away with him. Together, we'd said goodbye to the mother of his children, friend, and mentor to us all. Today I visited with more of my classmates than I'd seen in twenty years or more. It wasn't an ideal reunion, but it was somehow perfect for us.

After everyone was gone, I sat alone, waiting for my ride, having said goodbye to those I'd loved so long. Through the years, I've learned to restrain my tears because it's embarrassing, but it makes my nose run. I brought an extra handkerchief, just in case. The technique isn't foolproof, and the tears still came anyway. What a sight I must have been, in my convalescent wheelchair, crying alone across from the Governor's mansion, in front of this ancient church. An office worker stopped to ask if I was ok. "I'm fine. Thank you. I'm stronger than I look." I'd listened to the voice inside me and reconnected with my past. I should listen to that voice more often. I watched over my friend Tim while a man drove him away to a place where they take care of him. Somehow, a circle that started long ago was completed. I was home.

Homeless in Jackson

 

There's a perception that part of the "problem" with Jackson is that there are so many homeless people.  When I was fourteen, my church and six others joined together and created an entity that became known as "Stewpot."  My mother volunteered to be the first manager of Stewpot, which meant she volunteered for us four kids and my dad as well.  I literally grew up coping with the homeless in Jackson, and here is my perspective:

1) The homeless go where you go.  Food doesn't fall from the sky like it did for Moses, so at some level, just like you and I, the homeless must be around enough people for them to find food.  Many would rather not socialize or have difficulty socializing, but no matter how you cut it or who you are, food comes from other people; it's the same for the homeless as it is for you and me.  If you haven't noticed, the homeless are now in Ridgeland, and soon they'll be in Madison.  They go where the people are.

2) Many of the "vagrancy" laws that used to keep the streets clear of the homeless were struck down in court, making it difficult to keep them off the streets.  To be honest, many of these laws and practices were cruel.  Often the only legal way you can keep the homeless out of your neighborhood is by gating it, which is one of the reasons why gating has become so popular.  

3) This isn't a liberal issue.  Jackson was a very conservative city when the downtown churches banded together to do something to alleviate the homeless problem.  Being conservative doesn't make the homeless go away, and being liberal doesn't attract them.  They go where the people are.  As Jackson's population shrinks, the homeless have been moving to cities in Rankin and Madison counties, very conservative cities in Rankin and Madison counties.

4) I've known hundreds of homeless people, and I've yet to meet one that I thought was lazy, and I've never met one that I thought was evil, not even the one that shot Matt Devenney.  Having a stable home means you're able to regularly complete complex and difficult social tasks, and some people aren't capable of it.  As a person who's had difficulty socializing at times, I can appreciate this.  They're not all addicts, either.  Some are, but sometimes the addiction is a symptom of another disease.  

5) In his last sermon to the people of Israel, Moses says: "the poor shall never cease out of the land: therefore I command thee, saying, Thou shalt open thine hand wide unto thy brother, to thy poor, and to thy needy, in thy land."  I'm not asking you to believe Moses is real or God is real or anything like that.  You have to make your own decisions in that regard.   I am telling you that people hundreds of years before Julius Caesar was born were concerned enough about the homeless to include instructions about it in their sacred texts, and you see this all over the world in every culture.    I've spoken to people infinitely wiser than I about this, and they don't know a solution to the homeless issue either.  It is a condition of our life together and has been for thousands of years.  

Goodbye Friends

 I'm no good at obituaries, so let me tell you a story.  I had kind of a rough week.  My best friend was out of town, and I lost two women who featured heavily in my youth.  I had a loving family and the best friends in the world, but I was a painfully shy kid.  I had a significant stutter that made it difficult for me to talk in front of people unless I was cutting up, and a reading deficiency kept me in constant fear of being moved to special education classes.  Finding a way through that prickly shrubbery made it difficult for most adults to reach me, but there were two who made it effortlessly.  

If you're on my list, there's a good chance you knew both of these women.  The first was Sarah Jones Nelson.  Sarah was our perennial class mother.  When you're small, most grown-ups treat you like children, but Sarah treated us like friends, like somebody she knew, and that made a huge difference.  She was with us on field trips, camping, and cross-country journeys by bus to the nation's capital.  She helped us through the rough years between childhood and the universe of teenagers.  Sarah ended up moving next door to my sister and her family, where she spent her final years.  I'll be there Friday when we say goodbye to Sarah.  I probably won't say much, but I'll be there.  

I never met the other woman, but I saw her every Saturday night.  Her name was Annette Stutzman, and every Saturday night when I was a kid, she drove to the WAPT studios between Jackson and Raymond, where she played the role of Scarticia on Horrible Movie.  In 2009 I wrote an article about her on my blog that, even now, is the most viewed page on the blog:  https://boydslife.blogspot.com/2009/01/jacksons-horrible-movie.html

I was a devoted Scarticia fan, even though she was something of a mystery in those days.  Through people who read my blog, I would learn that her name was Annette, and she was the secretary for the station manager at WAPT.  She was a few years younger than my mother and involved in what was then known as Hinds Junior College.  She loved music and participated in coral music most of her life.   Annette retained several friends from Jackson but made her way to California, where she made a living in television production and raised a family.   I never knew her, but she has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.  

I commit these friends to the hearth of memory.  You made life much better for a frightened little boy, and you live in the hearts of my generation.