Category: Commentary

Old White Cars

My subconscious has been working overtime during many mangled hours of sleep. Since Trump secured the electoral college numbers to make him president-elect, I’ve awakened from uneasy dreams multiple times in the middle of every night with a horrible taste in my mouth and a lead ball feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m pretty sure that along with the nightmares I’ve developed an ulcer. Note to self: Buy stock in Rolaids.


A couple of nights ago I had a dream that keeps nagging at the corners of my mind. I know it’s political, and not even very subtle. Tell me what you think:

I’ve gone into a shopping mall leaving my beautiful blue car in a parking spot at quite a distance from the building, the better to get my 10,000 steps in for the day. After walking around the mall and trying on clothes in various boutiques, I return to the parking lot only to find my car has been taken. I’m devastated. The car was my favorite. 

I flag down a security guard on his little golf cart and we make several loops around the enormous parking lot with no success. Finally we call 911. When the police officers, Bill and Jill arrive I give them a detailed description of my car:

Medium blue, 2008 model, Chevy Allegiance.

“Ma’am,” Officer Bill says, “We’ll get right on that.”

“Can we give you a ride home?” asks Officer Jill.

As I’m getting into the officers’ patrol car, two older white men suddenly appear beside me. 

“We found your car!” exclaims Man #1.

“It’s right here!” enthuses Man #2.

And sure enough, there’s a huge car covered by a white cloth just a few parking spots away. I follow the two men who are so excited about showing me my car. With a flourish, they pull the covering away to reveal a beautiful antique car. It’s a gleaming white  Duesenberg.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” crowed Man #1. “It’s the 1933 model.”

“Yes, it’s lovely, but it isn’t my car.”

“It is now,” intoned Man #2. “Enjoy the ride.”


That’s when I awakened. Isn’t it amazing what one’s mind can do? A Chevy Allegiance? No such thing. A ’33 Duesenberg? 1933 was the year Hitler became chancellor of Germany. Coincidence? 

As Trump assembles his team of alt-right racists and hard core hawks, this dream has become even more nightmarish. I just want my blue car. 

Peace, people.



Facade


flawless illusion
reality intervenes
eroded facade


behind the bright mask
uncovered with a flourish
truth cloaked alibis



one fine victory
a fallacious feast for eyes
gives what isn’t seen

The word “facade” is another I ploddingly mispronounced for many years. Until I was 16 or so I thought it was /fu•kāde/. I’ll tackle “docile” next.

Peace, people!

WordPress Premature Publication or Textual Dysfunction

I’m having an issue with premature publication on WordPress. Often, I’ll have several pieces queued up to publish on future dates. If I go into a piece to edit it, WordPress totally ignores my original date of scheduled publication and publishes it immediately when I click the update button. 

This makes me say bad words as I rush to change the date and delete the post from my Facebook page. I’m becoming fluent in bad words. Ok, I was already fluent in bad words, but the ones I’m using are beyond the pale. 

Any suggestions for preventing premature publication, viagra, perhaps for textual dysfunction?

A Lincoln Perspective

Vice-President elect Mike Pence had his precious little snowflake feelings hurt when he was booed while attending  a performance of the Broadway musical, HAMILTON, this past weekend.

What did the homophobic Pence expect? A standing ovation for advocating conversion therapy for gays? A ticker tape parade for denying the rights of gay couples?

Gosh, poor Pence was really treated disrespectfully. 

Privilege


Of course his racism affects, or will affect, all of us in some way. Only time will tell how deeply.

Stand up, speak up, don’t let the bullies win.

Studly’s New Toy

Studly Doright thought I should share photos of his new toy. It’s a ’72 model 350 Yamaha R5, a two cylinder, two stroke. He bought it for himself and then told me it was his birthday present from me. That’s how you cut out the middle man. Or middle woman, in this case.


It needs a bit of TLC, so I’ll be supervising the work. I do have a stake in the thing, after all.

Peace, people.

You Don’t Get to Decide

In response to one of my Facebook posts about the increasing number of hate crimes committed since Trump’s electoral college win of the election:

I obscured the friend’s name to protect her privacy. I’ve known her since kindergarten and we’ve managed to remain friends even though we are on opposite ends of the political spectrum.

The thing is, I’ve gotten several comments like this, and my first thought is, how dare they?

I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone to get over something they’re feeling intensely. Maybe I’ve thought the words, but I would never presume to tell them that they don’t have the right to grieve or to feel something.

After my mother’s funeral, after everyone except my dad, my brothers and their wives, along with my husband and I had left the church Daddy pulled us all together in a massive hug and told us he loved us. As we all sobbed he reminded us to always tell our spouses that we loved them. We took a private moment to grieve as a family.

Later I received pointed criticism from someone outside my immediate family. Apparently it was inexcusable that we’d kept everyone waiting for a few extra minutes. You know what? Screw them. 

That time was a part of our grieving and part of the way we found the strength to move on. My family doesn’t always speak about its deepest feelings, and to have denied my dad that moment with us would have been a terrible mistake. 

No one gets to decide how I grieve. No one. Not a Facebook friend, not a family member, not a co-worker, not a smug acquaintance. I’ll be ok, but today, I’m still grieving. So back off. Seriously.

Peace? Yes, peace, people.

Note to Shop Owners

Dear Shop Owners,

On Saturday, November 12, as I wandered in and out of shops in Juliette, Georgia, I noticed confederate flags and merchandise featuring the flags available for purchase in several establishments. In a couple of shops I had amassed an armful of souvenirs, as reminders of the little town where Ruth and Idgy were brought to life in Fannie Flagg’s novel, Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe. 

As soon as I noticed the flags, symbols of the ugly racist history of our country, I returned the items to their proper places and left. I didn’t raise a fuss, but neither did I spend any money in these shops. 

As protests go, it was a small one, but important to me. Maybe I didn’t get to come home with a Towanda t-shirt, but the spirit of Towanda was with me.

Sincerely,

Leslie Noyes

Fight racism however you can everywhere you go. It’s as important now as it ever has been.

Peace, people

Whistle Stop Cafe

Studly Doright bought a new old motorcycle as a gift to himself for his upcoming birthday necessitating a quick trip to Atlanta, Georgia, on Friday evening. About 50 miles outside of Atlanta I saw a billboard for the Whistle Stop Cafe, made famous in Fannie Flagg’s novel, Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe and the film, Fried Green Tomatoes. 


I’ve read the book more than once, and I’ve seen the movie enough times to be able to quote entire lines of dialogue from memory, so being something of a kid I began an earnest campaign for us to make a side trip to the cafe on our return to Doright Manor on Saturday.

“Please, oh please, oh please can we visit? I want to yell ‘Towanda!’ at the top of my lungs and eat fried green tomatoes!”

Studly, being the patient man he is grumbled something like, “Hmmmph.”

I took that to mean, “Certainly, sweetheart, whatever makes you happy!”

Of course he was driving in Atlanta traffic at the time, so my interpretation might’ve been off by a word or two.

We spent the night in Atlanta, picked up the motorcycle, which happily met Studly’s expectations, at 10 a.m., and then plugged the address for the Whistle Stop Cafe in Juliette, GA, into the GPS. 

Juliette is about 55 miles south and slightly east of Atlanta, nestled in the gently rolling farmland and forests of southeastern  Georgia. Turning into its main street felt like stepping back in time.


Studly and I arrived just in time for lunch. That’s his “new” ’72 Yamaha R5 in the photo.


For an appetizer we had the famous fried green tomatoes. So delicious!


The cafe isn’t large, so be prepared to wait for a table should you ever visit. Studly and I sat at the horseshoe shaped lunch counter. 

He had fried chicken and I ordered grilled catfish and a glass of sweet tea. Both meals were seasoned and cooked to perfection. The prices were reasonable as well.


I kept expecting Idgy and Ruth to come strolling in the door.


After lunch I wandered around main street for a bit, but I knew Studly was eager to get his purchase home to see if it would run. I did buy a brand new Brighton bag, retail price $145 that I bought for ten dollars before we started home to Doright Manor. That was my Towanda moment. Here’s Kathy Bates with hers:

https://youtu.be/lx0z9FjxP-Y

Peace, people!