Strength in Numbers and A Bear in the Car

There is strength in numbers. And I gained some strength this past weekend by sharing it with 135 mothers who are estranged from their child/childern at a Mother’s Day conference for estranged mothers and grandmothers. An essay of mine was published on Story Circle Network Substack about coming to the conference, A Mother’s Gift to Myself.

I arrived late in Lake Tahoe, after driving my rental car from Reno airport in the dark, on winding roads, thankful for google maps. But google maps was no help in finding my room. There were twenty or so buildings that housed rooms set amoung pine trees. I couldn’t even find the lobby. Finally I did. The young man at the front desk was oblivious to my tear-filled, tired eyes, handed me a map saying, “just turn here and then here and then here.”

So I did, finally finding a door that said #75 but I was #75B. I wanted to cry, to crawl into a bed. I did cry as I went back to the lobby asking the oblivious young man to show me my room. In the passenger seat, he said, “imagine how hard this would be with snow.” I didn’t want to imagine it! As we walked up the poorly lit walk to #75, he unlocked the door to a foyer, room 75A to the left, 75B to the right.

In my room, I had a good cry. At the bottom of my tears, I realized I was pissed that I was attending a conference for estranged mothers. Mother’s should be spending Mother’s Day with their child or at least having a phone conversation. I have a mother’s heart and I miss my daughter (in spite of all that has transpired). That’s the ambivalence of estrangement. At midnight, it was such a relief to crawl under the covers.

Rising at 6am I drank a weak cup of coffee in the room while researching coffee places nearby. As I walked to my rental car, I noticed the door on the driver’s side was wide open. Oh no, I was so upset last night I must have left the door open. A man and a woman were circling the car, excitingly saying, “it was in your car!” I quickly learned their names and that they were staying in the room above me. Fredrick had caught it on video – a bear opened my car door, it was unlocked, got in, checked it out to find there was nothing of interest to him or her and got back out.

That bear not only opened my car door, it opened up laughter, brought connection to the couple and gave me a message to lightened up.

My friend Susan’s death was getting closer this time last year. When I sent the video to her daughter, her reply was, “Seems to me like some Susan trickster energy! Bears in a car but no one gets hurt. I mean?! We love you and hope you are feeling relaxed now.”

Another friend also commented that Susan came to mind when seeing the bear video. And it’s true, Susan was always good at getting me to lightened up around the estrangement with my daughter, to not be so hard on myself. So thank you Susan. We all miss you.

More on the conference and strength in numbers to come. I have to get ready for my flight home now.

Thanks for reading and hope you had a good weekend.

Content warning: strong language

Bear in Car

Conversations We Need to Have

A few weeks ago, I was helping out at a fund raising garage sale for a BIPOC organization. Kenya and I struck up a conversation. Somehow it came up that I grew up in Mississippi. She exclaimed that her grandmother was from there.
“We are probably cousins.” she giggled. I giggled right along with her. Kenya is black. I’d love to be her cousin.

I shared with her some of the unpleasant, that’s putting it lightly, actions of my family. Actions I grew up with and ones I learned about from researching my ancestry.

“Hey, these are conversations we need to have in order to heal, learn do things differently.” she said. I couldn’t agree more. She came over the next week to do some digging on ancestry, showing me where her family lived in Mississippi. We found some slave stories, one being from a great, great grandmother of hers. We could have used a few more hours. Her dad is creating a podcast, about when you woke. Kenya will be interviewing me. Don’t know when it will go live. You’ll be the first to know.

On this 4th of July, let us not forget the words of Fredrick Douglass in his famous speech:
“What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciations of tyrants, brass fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade, and solemnity, are, to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy — a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices, more shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour.”

Descendants of Fredrick Douglass read his speech


And Maurice Carlos Ruffin on Being a Patriotic Black Southerner
I love Maurice Carlos Ruffin. On twitter, he is such a light, giving positive words to fellow writers.

Stay safe. Thanks for reading.

Real love

F76BF8BC-6098-4E1E-9FA5-E72AB5306192

This picture came up as a memory today. Elizabeth has been at the forefront of my mind lately. She raised me from infancy until 6 years of age. We had the days to ourselves in the midst of a chaotic, dysfunctional family. I was the youngest of 4 and there were 7 years difference between me and the next sibling.
Once everyone was off to school and work, she put me on the kitchen counter, served me toast with honey and coffee with cream and sugar. (I’m drinking my coffee with cream and sugar as I write this) I was content as she went about cleaning the kitchen. I was her side kick all day. Life was peaceful and full of love during our hours together.
A friend of mine is doing ancestry.com. I asked her to look Elizabeth up. After no avail, I am going to start my own research on her background. She is who I am interested in. The woman who loved me, sacrificed time with her own daughter and gracefully put on a white uniform, got on the bus and arrived at our house to help make it appear beautiful on the inside and out.
I already know my grandfathers on both sides were corrupt. My maternal grandfather was director of war bonds under President Taft. My paternal grandfather became sheriff in the south during prohibition. He had a check on his desk the day he went into office from the bootleggers.  No pride in that.
I’ll let you know what I find out.