tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86359271721935432342024-02-20T18:11:16.683-08:00Psychobabblings of a Middle Child Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.comBlogger142125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-15737317352693636892024-01-15T06:24:00.000-08:002024-01-15T17:54:49.361-08:00"If I Can Help Somebody..."<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />It was Friday night, the beginning of a long weekend culminating with Martin Luther King Jr Day, so I decided to watch a movie.<p></p><p>I chose a documentary called <i>I am MLK Jr,</i> which celebrates Dr. King's career as a civil rights activist, starting with the day he happened to be in Montgomery, Alabama, when Rosa Parks was <i>arrested </i>because she refused to enter the bus, pay the fare, exit the bus, re-enter the bus's back door, and take a seat at the rear - the only section open to Blacks. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1mO0WWj992uRF7WD20MWHuq83GrBVv8h-_JilWRhYH2iWKaQzikwfcdaI0dFi0IeKFf-QEvDbmkYFlZJt95CI5a5cvIyRfgju6p6krySCw7cnNdQUdCUjO7jEAT-UYUcmX8oEcaYkfzJULtguZ0pxjahJGcuSKBWCJ22sp99wYThLnR8adTo_HR9e/s640/IMG_5460.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1mO0WWj992uRF7WD20MWHuq83GrBVv8h-_JilWRhYH2iWKaQzikwfcdaI0dFi0IeKFf-QEvDbmkYFlZJt95CI5a5cvIyRfgju6p6krySCw7cnNdQUdCUjO7jEAT-UYUcmX8oEcaYkfzJULtguZ0pxjahJGcuSKBWCJ22sp99wYThLnR8adTo_HR9e/s320/IMG_5460.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The documentary shows news reels of the day Bull Connor viciously turned fire hoses and police dogs on demonstrators, many of them students. It highlights the day Dr. King stood in front of more than 200,000 people in Washington to tell them about his dream.<br /><p></p><p>By 1968, Dr. King, who had been receiving death threats to himself and his family every day for years was so exhausted and so depressed he decided not to speak to the sanitation workers in Memphis who were fighting for their rights. His friends, however, convinced him to at least appear.</p><p>On the plane to Memphis, King, who had been beaten many times, stabbed, and threatened, told a reporter that in the past he had been so afraid that he had yielded to the <i>real</i> possibility and inevitability of death. </p><p>When he spoke that day, telling his listeners it is the right of every American to fight for their rights, he was, according to Travis Smiley, one of the documentary's narrators, looking around, his eyes darting from one person to another because he knew "his days were numbered," King told the crowd he "did not know what would happen now... But it really doesn't matter to me now because I've been to the mountain top. I've seen the promised land...I may not get there with you (but) I don't mind (because) mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."</p><p>And with that last word, and without finishing his speech, he turned and <i>collapsed</i> into the arms of his friend, Dr. Abernathy. </p><p>By the next evening however, he was "jovial and clowning and free...He was in a playful mood." He was standing on the balcony outside his hotel room when someone reminded him he was expected at dinner soon. Dr, King called down to Jesse Jackson, saying, "It's time to go to dinner, man. Get dressed," When Jackson responded, "The prerequisite for eating is not a tie but an appetite," Dr. King laughed - and a bullet struck his body.</p><p>As I listened to these words of Travis Smiley: "We have no control over when we die, where we die, or how we die. All we have control over is what we die for," I listened too, to the words of a song playing in the background, the one about helping somebody, and realized that, although I am not Black and have never had to suffer the way any Black man, woman or child has had to suffer in this country, I <i>have </i>suffered and if I can use my suffering "to help somebody, then my living will not be in vain." </p><p>And, that thing about helping somebody - it doesn't have to be something big. Sometimes just a smile will do.</p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-67269428581311575342023-08-24T07:06:00.014-07:002023-09-12T09:31:09.708-07:00If You See a Good Fight...<p><br /> </p><p><br /></p><p>A friend told me recently about a movie too few people have seen, a movie about a man too few people have ever heard of. The film, <i>The Story of Vernon Johns</i>, is about a minister who was a civil rights advocate before Martin Luther King Jr. rose to the pulpit, before the hideous death of Emmett Till, and before the Brown v. Board of Education ruling.</p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtDCaYZJ8Z8MGCB0GSDZRSvxtJvg29dM1VIcBeOM4lTgZM0fF5eaWWlZC27UvixCVLoMxuRqfZH149mv7FHgVpvhJs0rh096Tk_ePxyDV2hdnj3DgjXsr6-DhRzaA3gQA7XQmdbufR5LJROFcJpGUlRx-MTyqN_OUAT8V2P_ffnvwj6fuOo6YW5xH6/s6240/shutterstock_1811111944.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtDCaYZJ8Z8MGCB0GSDZRSvxtJvg29dM1VIcBeOM4lTgZM0fF5eaWWlZC27UvixCVLoMxuRqfZH149mv7FHgVpvhJs0rh096Tk_ePxyDV2hdnj3DgjXsr6-DhRzaA3gQA7XQmdbufR5LJROFcJpGUlRx-MTyqN_OUAT8V2P_ffnvwj6fuOo6YW5xH6/s320/shutterstock_1811111944.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Dr. Johns, who was proficient in Greek, Latin, Hebrew, and German was a man who fought against both white Jim Crow laws in the south and black indifference to change, a man who deeply believed that "if you see a good fight, get in it." <p></p><p>In 1947 Johns told the well-to-do parishioners of the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama, that "the nastiest and deadliest sin in the world is the hatred between the races. This innane and foolish hatred threatens to devour civilization like a moth caught in a hell fire."</p><p>In a sermon given after the death of a young black boy who was shot in the back for allegedly resisting arrest, Johns told the congregation that murderers act with impunity knowing the black witnesses would not come forward. "By not coming forward," he asserted, "you have become accessories to murder."</p><p>After Johns, who advertised the topic of his sermons on a bulletin board outside the church, decided to give a sermon declaring that "It's Safe to Murder Negroes;" after he is threatened with a lynching, after a cross is burned in front of his church, Johns decides to give the sermon anyway.</p><p>If you are wondering what happened to this fearlessly courageous man, I think that, like me, you will have to watch the movie, which stars James Earl Jones, and is currently streaming on Appletv. Or if you have Amazon prime, it will direct you to Freevee where you can watch it with commercials. Either way, it is a movie well worth your time!</p><p> </p><p> </p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-3798756925085284092022-10-26T15:29:00.005-07:002022-10-28T15:18:03.777-07:00Till, the Movie<div class="separator"><p style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img class="LazyImage_LazyImage__1YDAV LazyImage_isLoaded__3JO-C" height="400" src="https://cdn.britannica.com/10/196810-050-283F7FFD/Emmett-Till-photograph.jpg" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Helvetica Neue", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; max-height: 100%; max-width: 100%; opacity: 1; transition: opacity 0.2s ease 0s; vertical-align: middle;" width="223" /></p></div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">“Hate
is a virus in the blood…”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Roy Wilkins</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I
heard the words quoted above while watching the movie <i>Till</i>, a story
about a Black boy from Chicago who was abducted, tortured and lynched while visiting
his cousins in Mississippi in 1955 because he whistled at a white woman<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">This
powerful movie begins by showing us the excitement and vulnerability of a 14-year-old
boy as he gets ready for his trip. Three days later, Emmett was dead. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">After his
body was discovered in the Tallahatchie River, authorities in that area tried
to have him buried anonymously. It was Emmett’s mother, Mamie Till-Mobley, who insisted
her son’s mangled body be returned to Chicago and the casket remain open during
the public viewing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">During
the movie, Medgar Evers, who accompanied Emmett’s mother to the trial that
followed one month later, said the federal government was trying to pass a law
that would make lynching a federal hate crime.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">“It
wasn’t passed until this year,” I whispered to my daughter, who was sitting
beside me in the theater.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Why had it taken so long? </span></i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I wondered. As I sat
there watching the movie, I thought about the noose I’d seen on the Capitol
steps during last year’s January 6 riots and wondered if lawmakers had to
experience hate for themselves before they acted. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">“Hate
is a virus in the blood.” Wilkins words reverberated in my head throughout the
rest of the movie. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">“Does
this story need to be told again?” someone has asked. The answer is “yes.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Emmett
Till was only 35 days older than I was in 1955, and I have known about his
murder almost since the day it happened. His brutal death <i>is </i>a story
that must be told again and again and passed down until racial violence and injustice in this country are finally eradicated.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p></div>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-10557407324939672232022-08-04T03:35:00.018-07:002022-11-24T05:22:38.611-08:00Termoli, San Giacomo, Venice and Padua!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> From Rome to Termoli with its view of the Adriatic,<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM8Sb-EkQ_VEs9df2TKp7B-z-tMFWU5ufRxx3uLvKXRedK2eP1XWEXdPc4fMm8mamRmGrI7Gwn_TQ2jCKBcnt0Gc8SgEI_OFza4g1T2AjczEu3ERz3ypgOjlRVq0JCIF1ENhdGjnYu-GQm8o7sBBfTG9Krbbd2VURYljSpU_9WNMtqgudB9v_axw/s4032/0042B94B-0658-4E4B-914E-FF3F8A39A7CD.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM8Sb-EkQ_VEs9df2TKp7B-z-tMFWU5ufRxx3uLvKXRedK2eP1XWEXdPc4fMm8mamRmGrI7Gwn_TQ2jCKBcnt0Gc8SgEI_OFza4g1T2AjczEu3ERz3ypgOjlRVq0JCIF1ENhdGjnYu-GQm8o7sBBfTG9Krbbd2VURYljSpU_9WNMtqgudB9v_axw/s320/0042B94B-0658-4E4B-914E-FF3F8A39A7CD.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>we drove “just over the hill” to San Giacomo degli Schiavoni, the town with the long name and only three streets. The town with a population (today) of less than 1500, where my father lived between the ages of three and eighteen. We went to find the house he built in the Sixties.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4HFzqjFFcfT-YZDRgGMQN2OtxRwwufw36W0AAZ2USVpoRgQOuns7vcvDO1LjW63iWoi1JUER3mAVXbKEISe2smM8Kb0dhUApftZX2As0esxhspk424uSuTByWrGacQvQ9FJ2bbGnL5dhVY5c9OIEsoSyo8eemUrK3rfpq534ppn2df2Nbz45osA/s4032/D80198CC-843A-4CC8-A4E3-0E6ED9BDEFD6.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4HFzqjFFcfT-YZDRgGMQN2OtxRwwufw36W0AAZ2USVpoRgQOuns7vcvDO1LjW63iWoi1JUER3mAVXbKEISe2smM8Kb0dhUApftZX2As0esxhspk424uSuTByWrGacQvQ9FJ2bbGnL5dhVY5c9OIEsoSyo8eemUrK3rfpq534ppn2df2Nbz45osA/s320/D80198CC-843A-4CC8-A4E3-0E6ED9BDEFD6.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Afterward, we drove to Venice. </p><p>I didn't like Venice. I didn't like the canal. It was just a body of water, and I'd seen better bodies of water in Paris six years earlier, and in Switzerland as we drove passed the mountain lakes near Luzerne. </p><p>But then we went to the old part of the city, to that part of the city that had no water and no tourists either. To that part of Venice (called Mestre) where I ate smoked salmon and (would you believe) Philadelphia cream cheese on a croissant, and where I bought a blue dress I fell (quite literally, but didn't get hurt!) in love with.</p><p>Then we went to Padua because I wanted to pray in the church dedicated to my patron, Saint Anthony. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaK64k_PyzKKHrLN4Jd4F3ZIjrY6tI3R-7R4M7ySdS8askOYFTzG_-PY5qF44tq2btyBAE2uk6LjQdRE1OffTt_gYhH8RiZfFXe8AiPDhZc08HsTzhy505xbOvJ4VemmV6xJ7N2MiTGc4g1P1xCw1vUcImbD8Qd965gYhQXXzkVzmhxcdOrL9T3w/s4032/0B70E1D2-1EAC-491B-BD72-6FF9C39A6B27.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaK64k_PyzKKHrLN4Jd4F3ZIjrY6tI3R-7R4M7ySdS8askOYFTzG_-PY5qF44tq2btyBAE2uk6LjQdRE1OffTt_gYhH8RiZfFXe8AiPDhZc08HsTzhy505xbOvJ4VemmV6xJ7N2MiTGc4g1P1xCw1vUcImbD8Qd965gYhQXXzkVzmhxcdOrL9T3w/s320/0B70E1D2-1EAC-491B-BD72-6FF9C39A6B27.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>And finally, we started the long drive back to Darmstadt!</p><p> </p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-34381438353338177732022-07-31T02:35:00.015-07:002022-08-14T02:22:12.148-07:00Arrivederci Roma!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> We have spent our five days in Rome and have just arrived at a seaside city close to the town my father grew up in. It is heavenly here, much nicer than it was in Rome.<p></p><p>Oh, Rome has all the sights, all of what Irving Stone once called “the agony and the ecstasy.” It has the Vatican:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlKweZpKPlAryef9ZVDuQWsHHaDSrvYoBMNOHfLrkCplL_K6vwo_QTtq3n7TiLgGxG8o3YIW5qEGoAdKBFdr93zzpwRWPg-16ju8OlAku0Pnrfg0kXNDywTNgHKo6FHYO2xdens1jl0-Fd942ByZxDYZy7MxXuOyZtdRnvOT8RZLr5bnO6og9Fkg/s4032/1C8521C7-806F-43E1-AFF4-C401C7BB6955.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlKweZpKPlAryef9ZVDuQWsHHaDSrvYoBMNOHfLrkCplL_K6vwo_QTtq3n7TiLgGxG8o3YIW5qEGoAdKBFdr93zzpwRWPg-16ju8OlAku0Pnrfg0kXNDywTNgHKo6FHYO2xdens1jl0-Fd942ByZxDYZy7MxXuOyZtdRnvOT8RZLr5bnO6og9Fkg/s320/1C8521C7-806F-43E1-AFF4-C401C7BB6955.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>The Trevi Fountain: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv4u4TroXLysAo1s7xpuciAwQUSNkkUfTss_uZ58lsBFOIVnMeQMm-Y4VX7tSyNDhgBemsh5rIaq3PNf7ZzGIdJnJ_H5vwMFArIs8yiivt2G_UqNqeI2JjFqjWtJ65RF--nU8ASIifw1WV7Hg7Ct5DTTKilHgD7FneF_nLoRlT0z4zSdrmyQzyeg/s4032/DC04630E-5144-42C0-9F14-D65CBD0BE8E9.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv4u4TroXLysAo1s7xpuciAwQUSNkkUfTss_uZ58lsBFOIVnMeQMm-Y4VX7tSyNDhgBemsh5rIaq3PNf7ZzGIdJnJ_H5vwMFArIs8yiivt2G_UqNqeI2JjFqjWtJ65RF--nU8ASIifw1WV7Hg7Ct5DTTKilHgD7FneF_nLoRlT0z4zSdrmyQzyeg/s320/DC04630E-5144-42C0-9F14-D65CBD0BE8E9.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>a view from the top of the Spanish Steps:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkVPIeS41XcKSQstlLl1s6VLs6P2Vo7N4W5dtg47W7M5DhmhNx1sZTOGYrYG3kzNVxWlwuFenhBDvg-Hcv2epWxU1q175zT_1_2gUJ_io5nOx1m16LfQfs7Rc1ZkZItMIxWe-4OF7sxd2csjB43-igIVjTUF2T4rjaxvPE1TrQNJz_aMEyNwEneQ/s4032/A19CE6AF-1289-4146-BB20-9D4530C57356.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkVPIeS41XcKSQstlLl1s6VLs6P2Vo7N4W5dtg47W7M5DhmhNx1sZTOGYrYG3kzNVxWlwuFenhBDvg-Hcv2epWxU1q175zT_1_2gUJ_io5nOx1m16LfQfs7Rc1ZkZItMIxWe-4OF7sxd2csjB43-igIVjTUF2T4rjaxvPE1TrQNJz_aMEyNwEneQ/s320/A19CE6AF-1289-4146-BB20-9D4530C57356.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> And, of course, the Colosseum:<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIAFplvrqGVLWGNGv7uuKGl-1tCW9mADFucGPG0rL1bf3nd5m1mSXFBNlgO8N0LRORf7VpW-WXbfjE5qONGI4hgn1xEx60Hrsuc9NIAI2Pe65XBDHmm4GFqhwg-J6OF84qnLvrmV15NQOHWWjkBsxbDmPjT_uoCQm7PD1-9Jq4qDatO3aBHpgtgA/s4032/BF2B1454-1BC8-40EF-91E8-AF2457E8611E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIAFplvrqGVLWGNGv7uuKGl-1tCW9mADFucGPG0rL1bf3nd5m1mSXFBNlgO8N0LRORf7VpW-WXbfjE5qONGI4hgn1xEx60Hrsuc9NIAI2Pe65XBDHmm4GFqhwg-J6OF84qnLvrmV15NQOHWWjkBsxbDmPjT_uoCQm7PD1-9Jq4qDatO3aBHpgtgA/s320/BF2B1454-1BC8-40EF-91E8-AF2457E8611E.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><p></p><p>But Rome was hot, hot, hot - which is why all my photos were taken at night- and this little city, called Termoli, has little more than a beautiful view of the Adriatic, and a delicious sea breeze! </p></div>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-40785809966633254852022-07-26T04:34:00.007-07:002022-08-08T02:02:21.030-07:00Florence!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My pictures say it all! </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3MGeXcKf_gz3HyCRv5fErNLG-m3I45LDz4DFzTv-LDDQf-HoRuWOzx2i6NU2J6LtZGV-n-3phl2VIcVuU7vQFfKe5_-I2cRMo5zvhKXe9hbQbf8KTsZ5shGOXnLF2bio8UfsfoQda0eeqw9LRbQ8ae4SD5hrJTyxd3MasrLouASUus91ITshWfw/s4032/C15E4CA3-3831-4439-A9E7-3CD691D9876A.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3MGeXcKf_gz3HyCRv5fErNLG-m3I45LDz4DFzTv-LDDQf-HoRuWOzx2i6NU2J6LtZGV-n-3phl2VIcVuU7vQFfKe5_-I2cRMo5zvhKXe9hbQbf8KTsZ5shGOXnLF2bio8UfsfoQda0eeqw9LRbQ8ae4SD5hrJTyxd3MasrLouASUus91ITshWfw/s320/C15E4CA3-3831-4439-A9E7-3CD691D9876A.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Basilica di Santa Croce<br />(Basilica of the Holy Cross)<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaCB9L3u_Ip-w5pj5Vz_j_Uav2s0AbEU5-IBSzndMPLiLeTvCVrzgE1-Es2DNl6VP2nhPpWuUMtNuGssIfhk6WjMXK_Q24Vend9lDAPwPSUk25YlAICzZpeOOZrTazJHow3fS7upVd3XQn3dHgSzLCb1Q6ZMRYgAP68Z03Oi7TyJWcbHCkgeonpw/s4032/C95078F5-9C60-4400-802C-8F090C6F2061.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaCB9L3u_Ip-w5pj5Vz_j_Uav2s0AbEU5-IBSzndMPLiLeTvCVrzgE1-Es2DNl6VP2nhPpWuUMtNuGssIfhk6WjMXK_Q24Vend9lDAPwPSUk25YlAICzZpeOOZrTazJHow3fS7upVd3XQn3dHgSzLCb1Q6ZMRYgAP68Z03Oi7TyJWcbHCkgeonpw/s320/C95078F5-9C60-4400-802C-8F090C6F2061.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michelangelo's Tomb <br />(inside the Basilica)<br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSfBlfZ893H_aYcvmCRdHdBSYekQffxbsHQ3NNxNWu0RBSainvKTlhsjVx6AOPE5s_jZyc4rHQfcFT7UXW5NBRLw7ZTmjjtseea718w_AvHokF1Q5RAfu14a_UPxxB_IKIgLXJSQc3aLMH8yFlI3HKWUDCr2K6cjtG1hl4FAc3wLgEpe6O-etwSg/s4032/BEC78A6E-094B-45A4-955D-A694551B453A.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSfBlfZ893H_aYcvmCRdHdBSYekQffxbsHQ3NNxNWu0RBSainvKTlhsjVx6AOPE5s_jZyc4rHQfcFT7UXW5NBRLw7ZTmjjtseea718w_AvHokF1Q5RAfu14a_UPxxB_IKIgLXJSQc3aLMH8yFlI3HKWUDCr2K6cjtG1hl4FAc3wLgEpe6O-etwSg/s320/BEC78A6E-094B-45A4-955D-A694551B453A.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The River Arno at night<br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgieqfzteDcpj90Od_WsNFyPMXh1Mo2UNcIKgISaZlqnRZPltDigbbGhBFukgbnZeMxXZQjfN13C8W52MKoJEtrv2-cQ1_1Z0OKzPBG1pewHtqNdyLj-B4r1dOPhtblCMZftIadCJIIXJvZ_u-bUUDc_hgXwnOXq3m9ilK03vjmx35Z5A4mBM5a2w/s4032/B9B91BBD-A237-4DE9-BD61-AAC54348731C.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgieqfzteDcpj90Od_WsNFyPMXh1Mo2UNcIKgISaZlqnRZPltDigbbGhBFukgbnZeMxXZQjfN13C8W52MKoJEtrv2-cQ1_1Z0OKzPBG1pewHtqNdyLj-B4r1dOPhtblCMZftIadCJIIXJvZ_u-bUUDc_hgXwnOXq3m9ilK03vjmx35Z5A4mBM5a2w/s320/B9B91BBD-A237-4DE9-BD61-AAC54348731C.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a typical street<br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfoh8yXkg4QPtORKHmfHTnarX-0tpSL52LSYuPgeADQ_AOFnygA_QGE5j9i_3L5lcTz96asx27lelPP_xn9RccmJptVXFgmJXzSMfy3ssfSz625tOHA9YyXK9L-diSdYPLK26z93jEYu2O00HL8gIW-7bmVn2XqSfU87aY_SxHPgCDhXljZYLLYw/s4032/3852C506-9F1B-42B2-8E77-0A987A4FDD5C.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfoh8yXkg4QPtORKHmfHTnarX-0tpSL52LSYuPgeADQ_AOFnygA_QGE5j9i_3L5lcTz96asx27lelPP_xn9RccmJptVXFgmJXzSMfy3ssfSz625tOHA9YyXK9L-diSdYPLK26z93jEYu2O00HL8gIW-7bmVn2XqSfU87aY_SxHPgCDhXljZYLLYw/s320/3852C506-9F1B-42B2-8E77-0A987A4FDD5C.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The River Arno again<br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgfgNdz0t_ZIk_dG_4qBbUbO4HWF4GRvyd4oIEyx2TzJgua6T_AIylyKpMwegixp6U5EaMgiMwDfR-ksizehvKtpApZn2WkGyIDq8pV-EKTJgW09hVOYsbBmq-FYrgmHd9EryrJUnlSRBUePUuUFVKmZ3szEGNeLdWz-kYyQYWCf_ZN3yLP_4EeA/s4032/9F2A0DBD-6FB3-4E7C-90C2-34F01D0CC52C.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgfgNdz0t_ZIk_dG_4qBbUbO4HWF4GRvyd4oIEyx2TzJgua6T_AIylyKpMwegixp6U5EaMgiMwDfR-ksizehvKtpApZn2WkGyIDq8pV-EKTJgW09hVOYsbBmq-FYrgmHd9EryrJUnlSRBUePUuUFVKmZ3szEGNeLdWz-kYyQYWCf_ZN3yLP_4EeA/s320/9F2A0DBD-6FB3-4E7C-90C2-34F01D0CC52C.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the view from our front door<br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGYGdT1uxFPwJlO8IXYQbPiJpL5oS5b31pPTNDL49PX6IQklWPMIGazI1XFjT8GUzeMj0gJQYP64uCQ__bvCmDfbIABLBqXmnJygHHcnQNe8Q9SEuTSQRquZEDZvfH2pWI5Ilw-z4P4FDTuM9nv0zcB_uC-c0utUGjM9-IKpRCVC23BlO2fyB3Bw/s4032/8DB5F7E5-1554-46C0-9325-8E83F44A3118.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGYGdT1uxFPwJlO8IXYQbPiJpL5oS5b31pPTNDL49PX6IQklWPMIGazI1XFjT8GUzeMj0gJQYP64uCQ__bvCmDfbIABLBqXmnJygHHcnQNe8Q9SEuTSQRquZEDZvfH2pWI5Ilw-z4P4FDTuM9nv0zcB_uC-c0utUGjM9-IKpRCVC23BlO2fyB3Bw/s320/8DB5F7E5-1554-46C0-9325-8E83F44A3118.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a wider street<br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXu09xRQWfv4ImEBGcG_hlJ4X6Ibd1ZYu0a9AXfQhPd5ln0XGZWhj8mXHDxy6iHVGWh4J4ygKY5fS3oYKXTeRMJzctaM6w31dxjjANEf-WyGT5X0H47mzcM6wqr8m77zMDojTHKsiloC_34swakaHYNmTch7WzWD5rI4YmzaU8UmXyum7_G81dwg/s4032/6E72C094-06C7-4E86-B2D2-E4B486B2F706.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXu09xRQWfv4ImEBGcG_hlJ4X6Ibd1ZYu0a9AXfQhPd5ln0XGZWhj8mXHDxy6iHVGWh4J4ygKY5fS3oYKXTeRMJzctaM6w31dxjjANEf-WyGT5X0H47mzcM6wqr8m77zMDojTHKsiloC_34swakaHYNmTch7WzWD5rI4YmzaU8UmXyum7_G81dwg/s320/6E72C094-06C7-4E86-B2D2-E4B486B2F706.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dante!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-64125393577323614342022-07-14T12:40:00.014-07:002022-07-27T09:21:33.623-07:00On the Beach <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqh4TEc7hcya2taSWDbqxBsfe1iUoECIN7vz_pk_FrkwzqGClw8WNvLr5G3zOLgnURGuWvxD7mrW3Ln7IzeaGiTHWkJGOfjRNURmJLqsXYHwQBr4rsnVRRRDvfEeXHSBAtXE-cfUvyxW32igcxQyGP1x3EfPucbYPTvc902z6aZt3Ghqq55roCbg/s5949/shutterstock_655379971.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3965" data-original-width="5949" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqh4TEc7hcya2taSWDbqxBsfe1iUoECIN7vz_pk_FrkwzqGClw8WNvLr5G3zOLgnURGuWvxD7mrW3Ln7IzeaGiTHWkJGOfjRNURmJLqsXYHwQBr4rsnVRRRDvfEeXHSBAtXE-cfUvyxW32igcxQyGP1x3EfPucbYPTvc902z6aZt3Ghqq55roCbg/s320/shutterstock_655379971.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">I’m on a beach. In Delaware. A mini-vacation before the longer one I’ll begin next week. I’m sitting under an umbrella, most of the time with my eyes closed, listening to the voices of strangers while a breeze skips across my skin, moving from one shoulder to the other.</p><p style="text-align: left;">There are people all around me - an older woman with short gray hair sitting alone with a book; an Asian family of three - mother, father and a teenage son who never leaves their side; a young black man with long thin locks that frame his face majestically; and a man behind me talking incessantly on a cell phone, his voice rising and falling with the cadence of the waves, a voice I’m surprised I miss after he packs up and leaves.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Children screaming. Women laughing. All of it muffled by the mantra of the waves that lull me into bliss, until finally, I pick myself up to head home, to finish packing for a trip across this ocean to Germany and beyond.</p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-29405915005691910022022-07-06T08:42:00.018-07:002022-07-12T18:21:54.956-07:00ELVIS, a Movie Review<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjompjd507-LjK2QAvrvPrZpVKF9hdJA7FdOxMIcRo59Z2o9uXFOjQEP1CJGCY1N98OrA65h_PEZzbMEqW0JZXllv9h1ZobXuJPdrqTRV55MnUWxu4QkxBLvPvtdoIY5BO-X3NZkHHGpncOoisFz0hU2_3BpbGFbFKv5Rzq9aCHZrBK3PgUa3LNZQ/s8984/shutterstock_514724293.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6732" data-original-width="8984" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjompjd507-LjK2QAvrvPrZpVKF9hdJA7FdOxMIcRo59Z2o9uXFOjQEP1CJGCY1N98OrA65h_PEZzbMEqW0JZXllv9h1ZobXuJPdrqTRV55MnUWxu4QkxBLvPvtdoIY5BO-X3NZkHHGpncOoisFz0hU2_3BpbGFbFKv5Rzq9aCHZrBK3PgUa3LNZQ/s320/shutterstock_514724293.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />. I've seen Elvis impersonators before
-thin men and fat men, men in white jumpsuits or black leather jackets, and I’ve
disliked them all. But Austin Butler’s performance as Elvis in Baz Luhrmann’s
2022 film version of the king is nothing short of electrifying.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The two-hour and thirty-nine-minute
movie, which covers every facet of Elvis’ life and career from his birth in
Tupelo, Mississippi to his death in Memphis, is narrated by Colonel Tom Parker
(played by Tom Hanks), Elvis’ manager who tries to convince us that he “is not
the villain in his story,” when, in fact, he is. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">But before Colonel Parker, there was
Elvis standing on a stage in one of his earliest performances. When the girls
begin to scream, Elvis turns to his guitarist, Scotty Moore, and asks “Why are
they yelling?” “The wiggle,” Moore answers, and, at that moment, ELVIS was born. And in a scene that is nothing less than genius, we see how and where that wiggle originated.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt;">During most of the movie (to which
I took my thirteen-year-old granddaughter Chloe, who loved it. Indeed, when I
turned to whisper something to her, she couldn’t take her eyes off the screen),
I found it difficult to remember that it was Austin Butler on the screen and
not Elvis himself. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt;">Unlike the Beatles, Elvis never
made political statements. But when Robert Kennedy was assassinated during
rehearsals for the 1968 Comeback Special and, with the memory of the assassination
of Martin Luther King Jr., two months earlier, still fresh in his mind, Elvis
sang “If I Can Dream” with a passion and purpose that only Butler could match. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt;">Throughout the movie, Parker tries
to lay the blame for Elvis’ death on anything and anyone except Parker himself - Elvis’
heart, his drug use, and even the love Elvis felt coming from his audience, one that could not sustain him when he wasn’t
on stage.</p><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt;">But, if this movie begins with the
circus-clown-like antics of Parker, it ends with the real Elvis on stage singing
“Unchained Melody” in concert in June of 1977, just weeks before his death. While
listening and watching Elvis sing this song, I realized that Elvis’ greatest love was his love for music. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-indent: -1in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> D</o:p><i>ear Elvis, </i>my memoir of love and loss, is available at <span face="Roboto, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="color: #767676;"><span style="color: red; font-family: "times new roman"; text-align: center;"><a href="http://amzn.to/2uPSFtE">amzn.to/2uPSFtE</a></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"> </span></span><span face="Roboto, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="color: #767676;"><span> </span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></b></p><div><span face="Roboto, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="color: #767676;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-89447506845605501992022-06-26T11:26:00.015-07:002024-02-03T10:02:15.009-08:00Still Driving After All These Years<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiURxtknFj8DUT8GCn8dC2Vv9TI2neQPE2wzLo5eLpD2_h827YD87cWvybT3UIso0JEFQzda7ePQvCByGABPEUCPQbsp7pIG1VhNY_05CmwunekdujooC8W-wTmmbvjA2uIY0j0a8xjD0jxTm2gVojOeBSqiQdRsF7bBe0MkCDrYwspcHSokSU0iw/s5529/shutterstock_26485417.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3647" data-original-width="5529" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiURxtknFj8DUT8GCn8dC2Vv9TI2neQPE2wzLo5eLpD2_h827YD87cWvybT3UIso0JEFQzda7ePQvCByGABPEUCPQbsp7pIG1VhNY_05CmwunekdujooC8W-wTmmbvjA2uIY0j0a8xjD0jxTm2gVojOeBSqiQdRsF7bBe0MkCDrYwspcHSokSU0iw/s320/shutterstock_26485417.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Back
in the late '90's I was living in the mother-in-law suite of my youngest
daughter's house. While I lived downstairs, Jessi lived upstairs with her
husband and four kids. I had been living there ever since I called her one day
and told her how much I hated the job I had, working at a bank.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">“Quit,”
she said, “and come live with us Instead of working, you can do all the cooking.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Back
then, Jessi was driving a school bus, and for a while, that arrangement was
working. Or, at least, I thought it was working until the day she came home and
told me the school district was looking for another driver. I told her she was
crazy. I told her there was no way I was going to start driving a school bus.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">“What?
Why? It’s easy,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">“But
those buses. They’re so – long.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">“You
really don’t have to worry about that,” she said. “You just have to drive the
front of the bus. The back always follows the front.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I laughed at that and told her again she was crazy. But, after thinking about it,
I decided to try. And right away I loved it. I loved the hours- the early
mornings and late afternoons and having the rest of the day to myself. I loved
listening to the sound of children’s voices and sitting up high with the big
boys. I also loved the benefits. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But
after twelve years - by which time I was 72, I decided to retire. I put in the
paperwork, then changed my mind. Luckily, I was able to find another job in another
district. </span><i style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I’ll only work for a year or two, </i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I thought back then.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I
just finished my ninth year there. This time I fell in love with my co-workers. But sometime in the middle of those nine years, I moved with my daughter
and son-in law to a house twenty-five miles away, and lately that distance has
been getting to me. <i>Not to mention the increase in the price of gas.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Now,
I’ve found a job driving for a district whose bus garage is only nine minutes from my home and I’m going to work for a year. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Maybe two.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">But, no more.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I
think.</span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-63849393346420637472022-06-05T04:39:00.010-07:002022-11-24T05:38:06.330-08:00Automatic Weapon<p> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Like almost everyone</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I was shocked <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">after hearing <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">about the shootings <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">in Buffalo<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">and Uvalde.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It made me think <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">about a place <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I visited not long ago – <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">a church in Birmingham<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">where four little girls<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">were murdered <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">by men with <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">guns,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">and </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">bombs –</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">by men with <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">guns</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">and </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">bombs -</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">and <o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">hate!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQyNH5ZLJKW9xV2gI5i10xOYNR2C_mIk__xC_c0ynlNoVZaIb9yoD-7l_LgwtItjVJmanDJBAunmB3Ql_UinXYm_cjla6xj5l7K3PX29N_ovrK2C_UHsHy5xTjr6qwDMfkxv1A18zS4Mi5kMDV0eH21sZFwaBcK49acjYQSvi_hkeCOeVz01L2hA/s2268/shutterstock_1536094265.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="2268" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQyNH5ZLJKW9xV2gI5i10xOYNR2C_mIk__xC_c0ynlNoVZaIb9yoD-7l_LgwtItjVJmanDJBAunmB3Ql_UinXYm_cjla6xj5l7K3PX29N_ovrK2C_UHsHy5xTjr6qwDMfkxv1A18zS4Mi5kMDV0eH21sZFwaBcK49acjYQSvi_hkeCOeVz01L2hA/s320/shutterstock_1536094265.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-25205805050850482632022-02-05T10:50:00.007-08:002022-06-08T06:32:10.696-07:00Such a Fun Age<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjajt7tkFvXUpXG2ZN3Q7NuU2V9iBA4wbO1i2LmYHf3KLWpk6AzdN9ivZe_rp1X-XGNx5Mj1Z6rp7mZZ0IOH5MyqyxZy7E7MkIpWCaPDDMH4F_bLFtqNfZKxL7_CliMqT38a8h8UlHJAh1MWTXcTEbQ33m2WU73JF4v-j3Hii2MeCEoxwl75pQpsg=s640" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjajt7tkFvXUpXG2ZN3Q7NuU2V9iBA4wbO1i2LmYHf3KLWpk6AzdN9ivZe_rp1X-XGNx5Mj1Z6rp7mZZ0IOH5MyqyxZy7E7MkIpWCaPDDMH4F_bLFtqNfZKxL7_CliMqT38a8h8UlHJAh1MWTXcTEbQ33m2WU73JF4v-j3Hii2MeCEoxwl75pQpsg=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">It's
a cold Saturday morning outside my home, just twenty-five miles north of
Philadelphia, and I am about to sit in a chair in my room with a good book open
in front of me. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">The
book, <i>Such A Fun Age </i>by Kiley Reid<i>, </i>is a novel I began yesterday. It’s a story that starts with a late-night phone call made by a
young mother to her babysitter, asking the woman to take her two-year-old
child to a grocery store “to get her out of the house for a while” because “we
had an incident with a broken window.” and doesn’t want the child to see the
police" who are on their way. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Once
at the grocery store, the sitter, a young black woman named Emira, is
confronted by a security guard who accuses her of kidnapping the precocious child,
a child who asks questions like “Where is that squirrel’s mama?” and "Why don't we know that lady?" and who,
according to Emira, is “always at the edge of a tiny existential crisis.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p>
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">In
the second chapter, we learn that what the child’s mother didn’t tell Emira is
that the window was broken because of something her husband, a news anchor in
the city of Philadelphia (of all places), said on the air. It’s a remark that
is “slightly racist.” </span><i style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Is there such a thing as <b>slightly</b> racist,” </i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I
wonder as I get ready to settle in to a long afternoon of reading and, hopefully, some
intermittent napping.</span> </p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-37129410329371235032021-12-30T06:58:00.012-08:002023-10-01T14:46:13.273-07:00Dear Elvis, Kirkus Review<p>The following is a review of my memoir, Dear Elvis:</p><div class="b_entitySubTitle" style="background-color: white; color: #767676; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; margin-top: -9px; padding-bottom: 12px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWV3PAuG40qaxIWLvz7nMjV0pC8BH4g6mOCCL_1dh_doFaZvjollxaNmRmDI4WU6kugX5JKCLMhNUN_GtiutbGny7sPwuDET7gJb37rEILINUpBI7agTU7gEnQgKcSZvtQoOU5Y8Iuzkvbd2RaCBFbYp6U9VdmyxBCWK9zf_sdKM6HHxr_b1wYbg/s320/IMG_3839.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWV3PAuG40qaxIWLvz7nMjV0pC8BH4g6mOCCL_1dh_doFaZvjollxaNmRmDI4WU6kugX5JKCLMhNUN_GtiutbGny7sPwuDET7gJb37rEILINUpBI7agTU7gEnQgKcSZvtQoOU5Y8Iuzkvbd2RaCBFbYp6U9VdmyxBCWK9zf_sdKM6HHxr_b1wYbg/s1600/IMG_3839.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="b_entitySubTitle" style="line-height: 18px; margin-top: -9px; padding-bottom: 12px;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">McCloe presents a heartwarming memoir with fictionalized elements about dealing with the death of the man she loves by writing letters addressed to Elvis Presley. The author tells the story of how she, a middle-aged divorced woman, fell in love with Don, a widower. They met at work, where they both drove school buses for a living, and became close friends, lovers, and then just close friends again before Don’s death, due to heart failure. At the start of this work, Don has already died and McCloe is coping with her pain by writing missives in a diary, begging the spirit of Elvis in the afterlife to pass along messages to Don. This correspondence chronicles her feelings as she manages such emotions as denial, anger, heartbreak, hope, and finally, peace. She also begins a friendship with a priest named Father Chris (a fictional, composite character), who encourages her to find a way to move on. As the author reveals more about Don’s life and their connection, Father Chris affirms her suffering while also urging her to memorialize Don in her own way, and live her life in a manner that would make Don proud. Her letters then directly address Elvis, asking him about his life and telling how his music career positively affected her as she attempts to find catharsis. Over the course of this book, McCloe’s prose is relatable, likable, and highly sincere; she’ll make readers think about how one can easily take one’s relationships—and, indeed, one’s life—for granted. The changing format of the letters keeps the narrative engaging and propels the story forward in an offbeat way. This book will likely appeal most to those who are coming to terms with personal grief, as it accurately conveys the conflicting emotions that come with the grief journey, while also honing in on how one always has the ability to find joy again. A grounding and deeply human take on love and loss. <i>Kirkus Revie</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent;"><i>ws </i></span><span style="background-color: transparent;"> </span></div><div class="b_entitySubTitle" style="line-height: 18px; margin-top: -9px; padding-bottom: 12px;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"> </span></div><div class="b_entitySubTitle" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 18px; margin-top: -9px; padding-bottom: 12px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #351c75; font-family: "times new roman"; text-align: center;"><i>Dear Elvis </i>is<i> </i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #351c75; font-family: "times new roman"; text-align: center;">available at </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: red; font-family: "times new roman"; text-align: center;"><a href="http://amzn.to/2uPSFtE">amzn.to/2uPSFtE</a></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman", serif;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="b_entitySubTitle" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 18px; margin-top: -9px; padding-bottom: 12px;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div class="b_entitySubTitle" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 18px; margin-top: -9px; padding-bottom: 12px;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> </span> </span><i style="background-color: transparent;"> </i></div><div class="b_entitySubTitle" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; line-height: 18px; margin-top: -9px; padding-bottom: 12px; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="b_entitySubTitle" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px; margin-top: -9px; padding-bottom: 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: times new roman; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-26591682359584188002021-12-09T14:50:00.000-08:002021-12-09T14:50:54.154-08:00On Writing Again <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoXHVLxMHIRNs3bIc5sOhdFJWJ0t1SGuogQwdhIZV7eXOSlYhWdWKlI8OVIQuJX2cl3RrYXv6pQFL7WN5ISmov9_m6Gy7lTz8PeueHc2Lz-gj1cXFaUJ_2a1C0yaCg7akFqLEfXtQhTg/s6000/shutterstock_1589679010.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoXHVLxMHIRNs3bIc5sOhdFJWJ0t1SGuogQwdhIZV7eXOSlYhWdWKlI8OVIQuJX2cl3RrYXv6pQFL7WN5ISmov9_m6Gy7lTz8PeueHc2Lz-gj1cXFaUJ_2a1C0yaCg7akFqLEfXtQhTg/s320/shutterstock_1589679010.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">After
I wrote my last post (La, La, La) my daughter Cindi, who edits all my posts,
said, “It’s all over the place.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Is she right? </span></i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I wondered until I read it back and saw she was. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">“It’s
also fun,” she added, so I published it anyway, all the while wondering, <i>why
can’t I write? What’s wrong with me? </i>until
doubt – otherwise known as writer’s block - turned to despair.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">“Leave it alone and it will come back to you,” a
friend told me once when I complained about being unable to write. So, I tried
and failed, and tried and failed, until I finally left it alone – for a week, for a
month, for months until one day when I picked up something I wrote long ago and
thought, </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>I </i>am<i> a writer!</i></span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">
And I began, doggedly, to write again. And the block that had become a boulder began ever so slowly to dissipate and, finally, disappeared.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-4731607996467979782021-12-02T03:17:00.005-08:002021-12-09T14:52:09.426-08:00 La, La, La<p> Last week I got to enjoy five days off for the Thanksgiving holiday. There was a time when having five days off would have freaked me out. Like: OMG, how am I going to fill all this time?!?!! But since I turned 80, I am really enjoying time away from work. Being 80 is also a great excuse for getting out of work. Like: </p><p><i>My daughter:</i> Mom, can you empty the dishwasher? </p><p><i>Me: N</i>o! I'm 80.</p><p><i>My boss:</i> Can you do an <i>extra </i>(school bus) run?</p><p><i>Me:</i> Are you crazy? I'm 80?</p><p>Last Friday, which happened to be Black Friday, I ran out to (I don't remember what I ran out for!) and found this adorable (but large) bear for my youngest great-grandson's second birthday. Afterward, I sat</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTrc-jdiR4HU-o33XYgMxSCU2GKU3K2vFlSpU1lPUM0c1VaRDkOjH-jd4mSeii2BMG7NKjMHhUP1OiccLTP75Kzb8sOGffvbaQ-mVUsoO2lnDnvEjA_Dy5ezGj7asENgnh8zrqqQqJug/s320/IMG_2682.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTrc-jdiR4HU-o33XYgMxSCU2GKU3K2vFlSpU1lPUM0c1VaRDkOjH-jd4mSeii2BMG7NKjMHhUP1OiccLTP75Kzb8sOGffvbaQ-mVUsoO2lnDnvEjA_Dy5ezGj7asENgnh8zrqqQqJug/s0/IMG_2682.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>in the kitchen cooking scrapple ( a Philadelphia delicacy and a great alternate to turkey) and getting ready to watch <i>Get Back, </i>the new Beatles documentary.</p><p>It's funny but I never liked the Beatles much when I was younger, but now (that I'm 80), I love them. One of my favorite Beatles songs is <i>Hey, Jude</i>. I especially love the la, la la, in the middle. It's so typical of their silly but serious style (which is a lot like mine). Listening to their music and moving is a good way to get my daily 7000 steps, which I recently reduced from 10,000 (because after all, I am 80!) </p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-25066324651104728302021-10-18T16:48:00.006-07:002023-09-12T17:29:13.338-07:00"Late" Night TV(Land)<p> <span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 16px;">I used to watch the sitcom, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Everybody Loves Raymond</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 16px;">, every night until I knew every word in every scene in every episode. And then I stopped watching it. But the other night I wasn’t sleepy at my usual bedtime, so I turned it on. The episode playing was the one in which Raymond turns the bathroom over to his wife Debra who installs a dimmer switch and fills it with candles and flowers.</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 16px;"> </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW_t4133KLw9k6gQTHha7Fi0ggCYAEN_Ov8dKEnZeP9WyUiPzYAbTrJD4J4_JrsZcEy_ptG1FDDww0pss-3uiJ71HrHe4VGuvpdy5OR5izg2pVVe8G4eyoQq5wrLwQIIRb1C3lU-ev8A/s6496/shutterstock_371211580.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4872" data-original-width="6496" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW_t4133KLw9k6gQTHha7Fi0ggCYAEN_Ov8dKEnZeP9WyUiPzYAbTrJD4J4_JrsZcEy_ptG1FDDww0pss-3uiJ71HrHe4VGuvpdy5OR5izg2pVVe8G4eyoQq5wrLwQIIRb1C3lU-ev8A/s320/shutterstock_371211580.jpg" width="320" /></a><i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">This one isn’t so funny, </span></i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">I thought. But I put my phone down and started watching it anyway, and before long I was laughing – not just laughing but laughing out loud and long. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed like that. </span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">After it ended, I turned out the light, put my head on my pillow and, remembering the ending, I laughed again, which felt so good. It changed my perspective. It made me feel better, lighter, happier. It also helped me remember something from my past – a memory came back to me as clear as a bell and I re-lived it and felt it the way I did the first time it happened.</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Wow,</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">I thought as I felt that most wonderful, most elusive of all feelings – joy.</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"> </span></p><div><br /><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></div><p></p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-17387754973158612412021-08-24T10:15:00.001-07:002021-08-27T10:22:36.491-07:00August 28th Revisited <p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> This Saturday is August 28, 2021! Summer is
almost over, and I am getting ready to go back</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">to work on Monday (which happens to be my 80</span><sup>th</sup><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> birthday!).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I can always tell when summer ends and my birthday is approaching because we get so much rain here from the hurricanes moving up the coast from Florida. And, although I worked most of this summer, I did as usual get to read a lot of books. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My favorite was Tayari Jones' novel <i>Leaving Atlanta, </i>a story about how the 1979 - 1981 child murders affected the lives of other children and teenagers living in Atlanta at that time. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXsng0D00MQiqkDUeDXciHFE82ArmIb8nlLhh4oF4Q_EhfTuY3cEgt8T5s037Yz-PW1zg_v_CfmHMnRXp41RWy4Clf7DDTrLpouAWKirRBPZu1D4yT4j5OxUdCTm99IpVEwjXNuCEvgw/s3000/shutterstock_245965219.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="2353" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXsng0D00MQiqkDUeDXciHFE82ArmIb8nlLhh4oF4Q_EhfTuY3cEgt8T5s037Yz-PW1zg_v_CfmHMnRXp41RWy4Clf7DDTrLpouAWKirRBPZu1D4yT4j5OxUdCTm99IpVEwjXNuCEvgw/s320/shutterstock_245965219.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">In addition to Ms. Jones' book, I reread an old favorite of mine, <i>Behind the Dream</i>, although this time, instead of reading it, I listened to it on audible read by the author Clarence B. Jones (who like me, was born in Philadelphia.) It's a book I encourage everyone to read for a look behind the scenes of the 1963 March on Washington.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: -31.5pt;">In this book, Jones tells some little-known stories about events that occurred on this date fifty-three years ago.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: -31.5pt;"> For instance, Jones reveals the amazing story of how he happened to find himself inside a bank vault in New York City on a Saturday in 1963 - when the bank was closed; how Martin Luther King Jr. managed to convince Jones, a wealthy Hollywood lawyer, to join the civil rights movement; why John Lewis changed the speech he wrote for this occasion; and who wrote the headline for the <i>New York Times</i> which read: Today Washington was invaded by a Gentle Army. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: -31.5pt;">And finally even though - or rather - despite the fact that I am turning 80 in a couple of days, I am determined to continue reading, writing, and learning all I can during the rest of my time here on Planet Earth.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -31.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: -13.5pt;">Be safe Everyone!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.25in; text-indent: -13.5pt;"><br /></p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-43581591251318521932021-06-14T05:34:00.002-07:002021-06-18T07:24:00.511-07:00Stuck in First Gear<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjacjsGt50Om0fEJwhJ5qXXeFUtKKyTKz9gcWLDPRenIfxQqTAV9uQTpvkjZP_iVhJ8VaCwjrUmA1RsIvICghZvfzXOUcA0tqFs_4C92CBm77ZEcvhx8VlBFIfXHGHbMPc8SrWkbL-4zw/s4256/shutterstock_241714342.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2832" data-original-width="4256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjacjsGt50Om0fEJwhJ5qXXeFUtKKyTKz9gcWLDPRenIfxQqTAV9uQTpvkjZP_iVhJ8VaCwjrUmA1RsIvICghZvfzXOUcA0tqFs_4C92CBm77ZEcvhx8VlBFIfXHGHbMPc8SrWkbL-4zw/s320/shutterstock_241714342.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Have
you ever had a song get stuck in your head? I did last week, which was my last
week driving a school bus before summer break. It was one of those songs that
tells a story. It was Bobby Goldsboro’s “Honey” and I kept singing it while
driving - aloud when I was alone, and under my breath (mostly) when my students
were on board. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">That
song is a story about a young bride who, according to her groom, was “kinda
dumb and kinda smart,” a young woman who, after wrecking the car was “so afraid
that I’d be mad, but what the heck…and it was in the early spring when flowers
bloom and robins sing, she went away…” (She died.) <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">It
was the words to the chorus: “And Honey I miss you, and I’m bein’ good. And I’d
love to be with you if only I could,” that got stuck in my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">All
of which is funny because I’m a reader and not a singer (which you could verify
if you ever heard me sing), but since my literature class ended, I’ve been
having a difficult time finding a book I wanted to finish. I’d pick up one book
and then another and stop reading before I’d get very far into it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Then,
earlier this week, I decided I <i>would</i> finish the next book I picked up.
The funny part is that the title of that book is <i>Every Song Tells a Story </i>by
Edward Nugent. It’s good and I’m enjoying it, although there is a lot in it
about bike riding. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">It’s
a story about a young woman who goes to jail for possession. She’s the
girlfriend of a dealer and the mother of an infant who is put into foster care
when she’s arrested. It’s a story about a woman who may lose her child, a woman
who keeps running into walls – until she starts riding a bike. And every time
she talks about riding, I feel the same exhilaration she feels. But I can’t
tell you if she loses her child because I’m just nearing the end of this book
and I can’t wait until I get to read another.
</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2UrwhzD2ZlRWJB-9Yrm3luG7RQ9cRbK24LCJMcJofW-UU8RFFV3zIQmF6V32RDzgKq6FkPcvX3fj9l7QPRrBhaJE-kyzV_CjkPFdoLrXEgVILa8E4DqK5vfeNq6zvVbXQ0CR8vP-Okw/s4000/shutterstock_115211617.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="2666" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2UrwhzD2ZlRWJB-9Yrm3luG7RQ9cRbK24LCJMcJofW-UU8RFFV3zIQmF6V32RDzgKq6FkPcvX3fj9l7QPRrBhaJE-kyzV_CjkPFdoLrXEgVILa8E4DqK5vfeNq6zvVbXQ0CR8vP-Okw/s320/shutterstock_115211617.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><i>Dear Elvis, </i>my story<i> </i>about loss and grief, written as a series of letters to the king,<i> </i>is<i> </i></span><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large; text-align: center;">available at </span><span style="color: red; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="http://amzn.to/2uPSFtE">amzn.to/2uPSFtE</a></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span><p></p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-79554087199443638652021-04-27T15:22:00.001-07:002021-04-30T10:29:42.301-07:00Because It's Cathartic <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNO3jkeO58pUQRG30dbLhVkY-iVSRmUBzDd3W1TYeqdGoLJhuGHR3aSP1hkA2B1yjq9QfWSrbCF3yWBA_KmaB5leoL-r2UcWooXFzMKRED1xqIRmiwpJ_6ehT4-GiarmT5EKBUM006kg/s2001/Image-1+%25283%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2001" data-original-width="1125" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNO3jkeO58pUQRG30dbLhVkY-iVSRmUBzDd3W1TYeqdGoLJhuGHR3aSP1hkA2B1yjq9QfWSrbCF3yWBA_KmaB5leoL-r2UcWooXFzMKRED1xqIRmiwpJ_6ehT4-GiarmT5EKBUM006kg/w225-h400/Image-1+%25283%2529.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLmE3oW1ICoCQpQT8VWa1zrMH8gh940xWd3JLozC2t7NAkkvir_0qwxX0hzj1M40c6ANx8rwpcv9y3RzBUFd4hYr094TmSiB5EdKo_CxgUVdJ4zCcxna8FQewtXIGuKcv4dDB2zG3kCA/s2001/Image-1+%25283%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I
am reading - no, I’m re-reading a book. It’s a book by one of
my favorite authors, Anna Quindlen, whose work I have been following since the
summer of 2000 when I read a novel she wrote about spousal abuse, a book called
<i>Black and Blue. </i>Looking back, I remember how it felt so familiar.
Like the woman she was writing about was someone I knew well. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Now,
as I pick up the book I am re-reading, <i>Every Last One</i>, I wonder why I
have returned to it. It's about a woman to whom something egregious is about to
happen. <i>How does she not see what’s about to happen? </i>I wonder. <i>How
can she be so oblivious? </i>(And, as I think these thoughts, I think,
momentarily, of the pandemic and the way things were a little more than a year
ago.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Why am I reading this book? </span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I wonder for perhaps the third or fourth
time since I picked it up. I plow my way through the first half of the book and
then, holding my breath, I get to the climax, and finally to its aftermath of grief. <i>Why
am I reading this? </i>I wonder for the last time as I put my head down and
cry.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><br /><p></p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-59694022240018895192021-04-14T06:29:00.004-07:002021-04-15T10:57:23.750-07:00The Father<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZKIyXHYCwQ5s3ckw4194dWiawQ-BHE9FMxnVypHiUS0SAXjnBNxku4YM9YFPJWA3cC_tYaKowji8mbSPQpH_HhUFmwT8-9tZtSktGNjQSXeN4JzetUIszEN9nb4VUfR2FZd6pn_vi6Q/s3000/shutterstock_266323724.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="2033" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZKIyXHYCwQ5s3ckw4194dWiawQ-BHE9FMxnVypHiUS0SAXjnBNxku4YM9YFPJWA3cC_tYaKowji8mbSPQpH_HhUFmwT8-9tZtSktGNjQSXeN4JzetUIszEN9nb4VUfR2FZd6pn_vi6Q/w218-h320/shutterstock_266323724.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The last movie I saw was a terrifying horror
movie. Not terrifying the way people kept disappearing in the movie <i>Get
Out,</i> or the way the home invaders in the movie <i>Us</i> turned
out to be all too familiar. It was terrifying because of its brutal – and
brutally honest - depiction of an elderly man’s descent into dementia, and
because I am at an age when dementia may be looming on the horizon.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The movie, Florian
Zeller’s <i>The Father</i> starring Anthony Hopkins, is a story about
an independent and stubborn elderly man who is, at least in the beginning,
living in his own flat in London. When his daughter, Anne, arrives he refuses
to accept the help she is trying to provide in the form of a live-in caretaker.
Hopkins, whose character’s name is also Anthony, tells his daughter the
caretaker won’t work because, among her other faults, she has stolen his watch,
an instrument he obsesses over throughout the movie as though knowing the time
is something that can secure his (and our) grasp on reality. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">After Anne leaves,
Anthony emerges from his kitchen to find a strange man sitting in his living
room, a man who tells Anthony he is Anne’s husband and that they are
living, not in Anthony’s flat but in one that belongs to the couple. When Anne
returns to the flat, Anthony (and I) fail to recognize her. <i>That’s not the same woman, </i>I
thought as I gaped at her in confusion. <o:p></o:p></span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18px;">What’s happening here?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">My confusion intensified when an entirely different man is introduced as Anne’s husband (and I was left to wonder if Anne has divorced and remarried). This man cruelly accuses Anthony of ruining Anne’s life and his treatment of Anthony deteriorates from there. (When the same man appears in the background of another scene close to the end of the movie - this time not as Anne’s husband, but as an employee in a nursing home - a chill ran through me.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">In the final scene of the
movie, I watched as Anthony fully realizes the horror of the situation he is in
and, as he begins to cry out for his mother, I became aware of two things
simultaneously. First, of this man’s extraordinary acting ability, of how, as
one critic put it, “all of the magic happens <i>above his neck,” </i>and
second, of a real-life man who, with a knee to his neck, also cried out for his
mother.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">As the credits rolled, I
got up from my seat (Did I mention I was the only person in that theater that
afternoon?) and walked toward the lobby where I sought the eyes of anyone who
would return my gaze, needing at that moment to be, not just fully present, but
also seen.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-29574903544039552092021-04-07T10:05:00.006-07:002021-07-01T12:03:54.294-07:00By the Sea<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I
can’t tell you how excited I was as I headed for the Ninth Street Bridge. I had
a day off and decided to take a trip to the beach. I drove across the bridge,
passing the visitors center, the fishing pier, and the exact spot where an enormous
American flag had hung on a construction vehicle high above the bay the summer
after 911.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I
entered the city, parked my car, got out, and then backtracked wanting to be
sure I knew exactly where I’d left my vehicle when I returned to it later that
day. For a moment, a trash truck backing out of a driveway blocked my view. I
hurriedly walked around it and climbed the steps to the boardwalk where I saw
the sight I hadn’t seen in almost two years - the Atlantic Ocean stretched out
before me. I held my breath, taking in its beauty, and its breadth - its
steel-blue color, and the silver sheen the sun left on its surface. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKtu7NwrIYO88LADEkGpjKv66mZRMVgBc4dtATYycbydNAodFvuGF88xLHiggDp9xzXsY6KbAHsaHbwAkuXQXa6JHw9U16f_neyl3WrQaa-2wejUmoOAU7sNJKtcB4l1Jf2XehldYNXw/s640/IMG_2247+%25281%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKtu7NwrIYO88LADEkGpjKv66mZRMVgBc4dtATYycbydNAodFvuGF88xLHiggDp9xzXsY6KbAHsaHbwAkuXQXa6JHw9U16f_neyl3WrQaa-2wejUmoOAU7sNJKtcB4l1Jf2XehldYNXw/s320/IMG_2247+%25281%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></p>For
the next couple of hours, I walked first along the boardwalk and then on the beach determined to exceed my daily 10,000 steps. </span><div><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Feeling as though I wasn’t close
enough to the water (and maybe daring myself a little), I climbed up onto a rocky
jetty. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Two thirds along it, wondering why I had subjected my almost 80-year-old
body to this precarious path, I turned and started back.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5-qTiIXyYrUn9l9sKLFE07H4wdKmGNk8uI7uMfbdPuyOek-tFUSTC5YYVUiHm78iS5sNRBaysQ1diqm5Hit1uYtyE3C_05xbEICplhvKC6rxcFHua2zTj6O4-Gw15qS13A_2eck8TaQ/s640/IMG_2276.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5-qTiIXyYrUn9l9sKLFE07H4wdKmGNk8uI7uMfbdPuyOek-tFUSTC5YYVUiHm78iS5sNRBaysQ1diqm5Hit1uYtyE3C_05xbEICplhvKC6rxcFHua2zTj6O4-Gw15qS13A_2eck8TaQ/s320/IMG_2276.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">“Are
you okay?” a woman with a little girl asked as I got ready to jump back onto the sand.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">“I
am,” I said. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">And I was. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOjqebsyD5Qd0_tSSlDIFRwYILefQlGLZS8uN6lCBUh43N37MFznev_4zSo2IBioMhBsItECFXIQWvcc2UgAlf3AeRfn4BednAevrYg2NiwAEUE8VB5MXhjgaTkUPTrnA7Nxcm07ITtg/s640/IMG_2283.PNG" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="359" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOjqebsyD5Qd0_tSSlDIFRwYILefQlGLZS8uN6lCBUh43N37MFznev_4zSo2IBioMhBsItECFXIQWvcc2UgAlf3AeRfn4BednAevrYg2NiwAEUE8VB5MXhjgaTkUPTrnA7Nxcm07ITtg/s320/IMG_2283.PNG" /></a></p><br />Back
up on the boardwalk, I was tempted by a sign featuring an enormous ice cream
sundae. Knowing that to indulge would negate my 10,000 steps – today’s,
yesterday’s, and tomorrow’s, I kept on walking.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">After
lunch I headed back to my car aware that as beautiful as the ocean was, its
vastness had not done for me what it usually did. That is, it hadn’t caused me
to see myself and my problems as smaller and less consequential than
they seemed before I arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">But
maybe I thought, as I unlocked my car, I didn’t need the ocean for that. Maybe
the events of the last year – the virus that threatened everyone on this
earth - had already helped me to see how inconsequential I and my problems
were. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p></div>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-90885836975213142242021-02-27T06:07:00.001-08:002021-07-01T12:05:37.775-07:00What Thomas Wolfe Said<div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1lLwd4IwMq2_-r31Dg_RnkgVFGtPpDluyDGkbS7sQmUzohjBo75slcXd3yb0wYrL-YRSTkNh7tbYzpQ3Hh8UeEole9CY5Rzh67PzK5A31DL67N7368198jeqlKRyWNhZKJ2ITfqog_A/s7360/shutterstock_1190073490.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4912" data-original-width="7360" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1lLwd4IwMq2_-r31Dg_RnkgVFGtPpDluyDGkbS7sQmUzohjBo75slcXd3yb0wYrL-YRSTkNh7tbYzpQ3Hh8UeEole9CY5Rzh67PzK5A31DL67N7368198jeqlKRyWNhZKJ2ITfqog_A/w320-h214/shutterstock_1190073490.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I went back</span><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To my childhood home<br /></span></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Last night,</span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Remembering the first time<br />I drove there. </span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I went<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Like l was going back </span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">To my childhood -<br />Like all it would take</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Was a matter of distance, </span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And not </span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">A rever</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">sal of time. </span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p></div>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-37601811377972782362021-02-13T08:41:00.019-08:002022-06-21T20:34:16.911-07:00The Water Dancer, A Review <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigTGWFVDZhvS5BnKRnp8fObDy7gFkEkZlE7TOKS9BjvsxICfUo1m4KSdQxjiTstkpHBd7pkwe0AyIogovUx6DACV-OJ-O3ZRbnqxZ9C44s9OZA9K9PwHcFmZUKM0ZKJIegw6FSsRsdYQ/s640/IMG_2130.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigTGWFVDZhvS5BnKRnp8fObDy7gFkEkZlE7TOKS9BjvsxICfUo1m4KSdQxjiTstkpHBd7pkwe0AyIogovUx6DACV-OJ-O3ZRbnqxZ9C44s9OZA9K9PwHcFmZUKM0ZKJIegw6FSsRsdYQ/s320/IMG_2130.jpg" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">"Trauma erases
memory,” our instructor said during our most recent zoomed Literature/Discussion
Class. The book we were discussing was <i>The Water Dancer </i>by Ta-Nahisi
Coates who is </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">also the author of the memoir </span><i style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Between the World and Me </i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">and of a Marvel </span><i style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Black Panther</i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> comic book series. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">The Water Dancer, </span></i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Coates’ first novel, is the story of a slave
named Hiram Walker, who was born on a tobacco plantation called Lockless in
antebellum Virginia. But Hiram is, as one critic put it, no ordinary slave.
Let me rephrase that. Hiram is no ordinary human being but is, instead, a boy
who can listen to others speak and transform their words into " pictures,
chains of colors, lines, textures, and shapes” and can then translate them back
into the exact words with which they had been spoken. Hiram has the gift of
perfect memory. The only thing Hiram cannot remember is his mother who was
taken from him at an early age when his father, the white master of Lockless,
sent her out “Natchez way,” putting her on an auction block to be sold.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">When
Hiram’s incredible gift of memory is brought to his father’s attention, the boy
is taken from the fields and instilled in the house as his half-brother’s slave
until a cold and rainy night, when the brothers are traveling by carriage over
a bridge and an unfortunate accident occurs. Both boys are pitched into the ice-cold river below. Hiram,
and only Hiram, survives and is able to survive because at a moment just
before impact, he is given an image of his mother, an image that is surrounded
by a blue light that leads him to safety.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Hiram
realizes the blue light came from somewhere inside himself and that his ability
to “conduct” himself to safety is another valuable gift, but not one he is able
to understand or control. He also knows that the memory of his mother is
fleeting and is once again gone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">It
is not until after Hiram has undergone a series of horrendous events, not until
after he runs away, reaches Philadelphia, and becomes an agent of the underground railroad, that he returns to Lockless and finds, among his father’s
possessions, a necklace that belonged to his mother.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">And,
with this, Coates shows us how, although trauma erases memory, a single object
– a necklace, a hairbrush, a vehicle, or even an intersection, can trigger memory, can transport and
connect us to an individual who was lost to us. And, finally, if what Coates
wrote in the novel is true - that “to forget is to truly slave,” then to
remember is to be truly free. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p></p><div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; line-height: 17.12px; margin-bottom: 7.9pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 7.9pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.9733px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 24px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">My memoir, Dear Elvis, can be found at </span><a href="http://amzn.to/2uPSFtE" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #0066cc; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 24px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">http://amzn.to/2uPSFtE</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 24px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">.</span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></span></span></span></div><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br /><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-size: 16px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 17.28px; margin: 0px 0px 0.11in;"></div><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"></span></div>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-12640145053178754532021-02-11T06:58:00.006-08:002021-05-22T07:09:42.270-07:00Arriverderci<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7yl5yOjN7AWfYDCzie-55GRn7uiW8h_ugGyXURohn75mTLBvynHLYaQFMifymWNKTJrrAzsvhzX4BYpHEZ4_0GVljalVQctaqv0YOaRvBICb3fUIDIMQ8Ek_BAjiilZFc5ovc5_Lwow/s640/IMG_2139+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7yl5yOjN7AWfYDCzie-55GRn7uiW8h_ugGyXURohn75mTLBvynHLYaQFMifymWNKTJrrAzsvhzX4BYpHEZ4_0GVljalVQctaqv0YOaRvBICb3fUIDIMQ8Ek_BAjiilZFc5ovc5_Lwow/s320/IMG_2139+%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">I sent this picture of the snow falling in our backyard to a friend of mine on February 2. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">When he responded, “Oh, Toni, I can’t survive that,” I laughed.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Lol,” I wrote back, “I’m inside. Besides, it will all be gone in a couple of days.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">It wasn’t.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">My friend, who has never experienced snow, is a Catholic priest studying Canon and civil law in Rome. He is originally from Malawi, the country called the heart of Africa because its people are so warm and friendly. Kondwani, who told me to call him Kond - because that’s what all his friends call him, certainly is. He and I have been texting back and forth for almost a year now and I have promised myself we will meet in person as soon as soon as his studies are done.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">But in Africa and not in Italy because when I spent six weeks in Italy back in ’85, visiting the tiny town where my father was raised, I understood not a word that was spoken to me. (Believe me, there is no point to speaking more loudly or enunciating more clearly!) Instead of interacting, I used to enjoy going to a nearby beach on the Adriatic Sea where one day when I was midway between sleeping and listening to the waves, I heard a dog barking and thought: <i>That’s the first thing I ve understood since I got here.<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal">While my knowledge of Italian is restricted to one or two words, Kond, is one of the most intelligent persons I’ve – well, never met! He is taking all his classes in Italian - even though his native language is English. The only words I know in Italian are “arrivederci” and something my parents used to say whenever they were upset with someone. I used to wonder what ‘a mitigon” meant until one day when I realized what my parents were saying when they threw their hands up in disgust was not a mitigon, but an American!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, Kond does not feel that way about me! I was only a couple of paragraphs into this post when he sent me a text. It was like he was reading my mind!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Well, my Friends, I am going to watch the new round of snow falling again outside my window. Arrivederci. May it be soon! <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-13811490881254367512021-02-04T14:48:00.004-08:002021-02-15T03:46:07.681-08:00Funny Valentine<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXCg4oWf6IlnNlddQ5Uwi1FOWcAc0SsMLUOEiooNXJ9ndIeQ_54uhBpsWoBJiPXUxlFCW_Lx4-RERGS6Argjj8yECQLPnqSsSuUaKWPscLJZIlKCJTkrahqwIbtfb4tYo-qSmVmAZWRA/s1632/IMG_2004+%25281%2529.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1632" data-original-width="1224" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXCg4oWf6IlnNlddQ5Uwi1FOWcAc0SsMLUOEiooNXJ9ndIeQ_54uhBpsWoBJiPXUxlFCW_Lx4-RERGS6Argjj8yECQLPnqSsSuUaKWPscLJZIlKCJTkrahqwIbtfb4tYo-qSmVmAZWRA/w150-h200/IMG_2004+%25281%2529.JPG" width="150" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">You may not know his name, but you would probably recognize his voice if you heard it. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Born in Brooklyn on February 10 in 1893, Jimmy Durante was an actor, singer, comedian, writer, and Jazz pianist who began his career in vaudeville in the 1930s, appeared with Buster Keaton
in silent comedies, and starred in his own radio show. But it wasn't until 1954 when he got his own television show that he came to my attention. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">If you are young, you know Durante’s gravelly voice as the
narrator and singer of “Frosty the Snowman.” </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">In
</span><i style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The Notebook</i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> he can be heard singing the immortal “I’ll Be Seeing You,” and if you
are a more recent movie-goer, you have probably heard him singing the classic “Smile” in
the 2019 movie and trailer for </span><i style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Joker.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But what
I remember most about Jimmy Durante was the way he ended his weekly television show. Standing at the stage door, Durante would put on his coat and hat, turn to his audience and say, "Goodnight, Folks. And good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">No
one knew who Mrs. Calabash was. For years people, including me, guessed at her
identity. It wasn’t until 1967 when Durante revealed that “Mrs. Calabash” was a pet
name for his first wife, Jeanne, who died suddenly on Valentine’s day in 1943. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Now,
if you're wondering why I am writing about this man, it is because I want to
imitate him, just once, with this: </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Be well, my great, good friend, wherever you
are.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">God
bless. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8635927172193543234.post-42332002635376445762021-01-29T17:42:00.004-08:002022-11-24T12:11:32.829-08:00Dinner, Anyone?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh27obGoCI2grqRKWmEQyKRmbQqzIiKghDo7uphmthyphenhyphenzryynZ3qRxMWJUU_RV6xPvBuDtk3VYg3ir3gFwZY_7L3HFQQgmafKHpGtI9ZH0ELshbJkPIDIhhrMxUYVZacymnid1OQbgeudA/s2800/shutterstock_126652091.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2152" data-original-width="2800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh27obGoCI2grqRKWmEQyKRmbQqzIiKghDo7uphmthyphenhyphenzryynZ3qRxMWJUU_RV6xPvBuDtk3VYg3ir3gFwZY_7L3HFQQgmafKHpGtI9ZH0ELshbJkPIDIhhrMxUYVZacymnid1OQbgeudA/s320/shutterstock_126652091.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The world is filled with
so many mysteries. Like what keeps the stars from falling? Or how big is the
sky anyway? And, if I count all the leaves on all the trees on earth, will I
reach infinity? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Most of these questions
are riddles I enjoy contemplating, but there are others less pleasurable. Like
the one I asked in my last post: will this (expletive) pandemic ever end? When
I wrote that, my daughter who is also my editor, responded, "It will,
Mom." And although I appreciate her attempt to reassure me, I think she
may have missed the point, which contained two more questions: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">1) When? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">2) And, when it does
will I, and everyone I love, still be standing?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Even though some of the
questions I ask seem to have no answers, I have been busy getting on with my
day-to-day life. Doing things like cooking and cleaning seem to have become
less mundane than they were before the pandemic began. Doing them consistently,
and perhaps a little bit more slowly and deliberately has given them more
meaning. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And now that I've gotten
all of that off my mind, I wonder what I shall make for dinner tonight. The
possibilities are endless. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; line-height: 17.12px; margin-bottom: 7.9pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 7.9pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.9733px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 24px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">My memoir, Dear Elvis, can be found at </span><a href="http://amzn.to/2uPSFtE" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #0066cc; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 24px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">http://amzn.to/2uPSFtE</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 24px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">.</span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></span></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-size: 16px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 17.28px; margin: 0px 0px 0.11in;"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;"></span><br style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;" /></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p>
<p><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Toni McCloehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17398716942376764973noreply@blogger.com0