bethybug's Open Salon Blog

Whisky Winds

Wed, 23 Jan 2013 23:01:13 -0500

Whisky winds angrily shout,

Fingers breaking free from tattered gloves.

Three souls huddled in a mass.

Hiding, freezing, fighting, clinging,

Starving, aching, hurting, wanting

Nothing more,

Than a warm place

To sleep.

Unleashing Compassion

Thu, 22 Sep 2011 09:09:21 -0400

You know those lumps of flesh you sometimes spot sitting on a park bench, napping on the sidewalk, or wandering the streets with bags or carts in tow? Have you ever paused to look at them? I mean, beyond the white face, black face, red shirt, blue pants sort of glance. I do. I have an unusual fascination with staring at homeless people.

I began my “study” of homeless folk from the backseat of my daddy’s car. He was prone to pulling off to the side of the road to speak with them. I’d watch, unable to hear, as my dad would engage them in conversation. Sometimes he’d point to a diner across the street and as the person he was helping headed that way, dad would come back to the car to tell me he’d be right back, lock the car doors, then dash across the street and enter the diner. Back then, it wasn’t a big deal to leave kids in the car. (And on that note, we didn’t wear seat belts or bike helmets either).

Sometimes my dad would grab their bags, toss in them in the boot (southern slang for trunk) and gesture for the homeless person to get in our car. The clean car smell would quickly be overpowered by the aroma of a person who’s gone days or weeks without bathing. My dad had taught me it was impolite to hold my nose or show my disgust with having to inhale body odor, so I’d often sit quietly in the back, practicing holding my breath and counting to myself to see how long I could go without inhaling. While my dad never left me unattended in the car with one of his “guests”, I often worried that he might. I was especially uncomfortable when our passenger would speak to me. Most didn’t, but when they did, I’d keep my answers to a minimum so as not to encourage further communication.

Somewhere along my journey to adulthood, my fear and trepidation of the homeless, made the transition to fascination. In my late teens, I began conversing with them. In my early twenties, a friend and I would get up early in the mornings to prepare bag lunches for them. If God would have been my facebook friend back then, my relationship status would have been “it’s complicated”, but despite that, we always included a handwritten enouraging bible verse. It was my friend’s idea.

Now that I’m much older, I want to spend time with them. I like to look into their eyes and talk about life. Some are on the streets due to a long series of really bad decisions. Others have become victims of a mental illness and our inability as a country to adequately deal with them leaves them with few choices. Its especially tough on those with little or no family support. More often, I’ve discovered that so many of them are war veterans who can’t stop mentally replaying their tragic memories of war. Spouses leave because they don’t understand how the person they married is suddenly a stranger. The kids are taken away. Living becomes a task of survival.

Of all the homeless that I’ve met or seen, the ones that seem to tug at my heartstrings the most are the children. They tend to be quick to tears when I ask them what they miss most about having a place to live. Just a few minutes into conversing with them, I feel my chin begin to quiver and I have to inflict some hardcore emotional discipline on myself to maintain composure.

Its pretty easy to donate to a charitable foundation that assits folks wih nowhere to go. It’s also quite simple to have the mindset that they can get a job if they want to eat. As the mother of a son with a mental illness, I know first-hand that its sometime easier said than done.

So what if we were to assume, just for a time, that they were all there through no fault of their own? What if we adjust or tinker with our attitudes a little bit? What if we were to dig deep within ourselves and rediscover the compassion that lies in all of us? What if we were to get our hands dirty?

What can we do? Perhaps when its extremely hot and humid, we could keep a cooler full of ice cold bottled water in the car to give to a parched woman. Imagine the surprise if we asked one to join us for lunch, our treat. (But wait, somebody might see us). Maybe we could make a batch of jumbo oatmeal rasin cookies, and, I dunno, engage them in conversation(the homeless, not the cookies). What if we dared to look them in the eye and make them visible? Maybe they’ve been kicked down long enough. How would it make them feel, if for once, they were lifted up? How would it make us feel if we were the ones doing the lifting?

Take this idea a step further. How about instead of waiting for someone else to do something, we take the initiative on our own? Every year, a group of friends and I make scarfs for the homeless. Last year we filled gift bags with scarves, gloves, beef jerky and candy. This year, along with our scarves, we are going to collect backpacks for them as well. Perhaps your own circle of peeps can find a way to uplift the homeless in your town.

What if we stop pretending that we don’t see them? What if we stop making them feel invisible. Let’s stop looking in the opposite direction, and, instead look them straight in the eye, smile, and simply say “hello”. How ‘bout we go back to living by the golden rule?

Pot Liquor & Fine Cuisine

Thu, 3 Mar 2011 11:03:43 -0500

Usually when the words “pot” and “liquor” are paired, something involving college kids or the police will ensue. The two certainly sound like ingredients for a wild party. Unfortunately, if you’re reading this in anticipation of getting the directions for preparing a drug-laden beverage, you’re going to be disappointed. While I’m willing to bet that there’s a bootlegger somewhere out there who has mastered the art of pairing marijuana and booze, this little ditty is going in a completely different direction. So moving right along…..

I’ve always been intrigued by the various culinary delights found in other regions. Back before the age of online recipes or entire networks devoted to cooking, one often had to visit a particular region in order to sample its edible fare. I remember the first time I tried Poi (probably because it was also the last time) while in Hawaii. It was a purple glossy substance that made me think of a plum pudding. It tasted nothing like plum pudding, however. Its taste was more reminiscent of the paste I once swallowed while in kindergarten. I didn’t care for either one.

Growing up, we always went to my Aunt Ola’s for Thanksgiving. She and my Uncle Dalton lived in the middle of the boondocks here in the Tarheel State. We had to drive down a ten mile dirt road to get to their house. There were no neighbors for miles and the only sounds you could hear came from the dozen or so hunting dogs that Uncle Dalton kept out back.

Now Uncle Dalton liked to drink liquor, POT liquor. For those of you that are not familiar with this “drink”, allow me to explain. Pot liquor is the broth left over after boiling collards (now I’ve really lost you) or other greens. The broth is a blend of water, pork fat juices, and seasonings. It’s also typically pale green in color. What better beverage to serve for St Patrick’s Day, right (hint). While there’s nothing in the drink to make get one tipsy, it is rather warm and soothing on a cold winter evening. That being said, I’ll stick to hot chocolate!

My father had a unique liquid concoction of his own. He would take a piping hot cup of black coffee, stir in a teaspoon of sugar, then drop cubes of sharp cheddar cheese in the mug. I often indulged in creating and devouring this mixture alongside my dad, but looking back, I think I did it to have something in common with him. I’ve tried this stuff as an adult and find it rather gross, truth be told. The cheese would melt in the hot coffee and we’d dig it out of the bottom with spoons. Once all the cheese was eaten, we’d drink the slightly sweet, very greasy coffee. Mom would often get irritated with us as the cheese remnants would harden in the mug making her chore of washing the dishes more labor-intensive.

Sunday evenings were always interesting. After church, Dad would get out a tv tray and set out the ingredients for what I refer to as “Sabbath Snacks”. Some nights we’d eat sandwich relish (mayo & pickles) on saltine crackers. Other nights we’d have Vienna sausages dipped in peppered vinegar. Then there were the times that Mom would pitch in by baking a batch of canned biscuits. Yes, you read right. Biscuits from a can were unique (you can get scratch biscuits anywhere in the South). We’d split them open while piping hot and slather them with real butter and homemade peach or strawberry jam.

While I had the pleasure of experiencing fine dining with my parents…meals both prepared at home and those found in restaurants, there was something very special about the simplicity of southern fare, even if it came out of a jar or a can. I’ve not bothered to indulge in relish-laden crackers with my kids, but we do have our own little edible “fixes”. I hope when they look back, as I now do, they will realize that it’s not so much about what we ate together, but the fact that in doing so, we shared an intimate moment together.

What Happens When He's Gone

Sat, 12 Feb 2011 15:02:16 -0500

There have been times in my marriage that I've found myself feeling sorry for my husband. I mean really feeling sorry for him. Most often, it's because he's not in the best or safest of circumstances. This is not one of those times, however. He's currently in a two month training class in Florida, while I awoke to temperatures dipping into the twenties. I hadn't even started the coffee when the younger boys began asking for breakfast and both of our labs kept walking to their empty water bowl and back, impatiently beckoning me to refill it. The only escape I've had since his departure has been to work. Thank God I happen to love my job!

In the three weeks since he left, so many things have happened... really exciting things that I would have loved to have experienced with him. Take, for instance, the day that not one, but all THREE of the toilets backed up at once!! I'm hardly a princess but there are some things that this old-fashioned girl chalks up to the "mans' job" category. Cleaning up after a poo-laden commode eruption is defenitely one for the guys. I've watched many a episode of "Dirty Jobs" but Mike Rowe had nothing on me THAT day.

I have an office in my home which allows me (forces me?) to spend more time with my younger sons. On a recent day, I stepped out to retrieve the mail only to return to the front porch to discover my mischevious four year olds had LOCKED me out! I played their silly reindeer game for a few minutes, then instructed them to let me back in. I wasn't wearing a jacket and it was really cold but my munchkins were having too much fun to worry about mom's impending bout of pnemonia! Realizing they weren't going to let me in, I began trying the windows, but of course, as most military wives do the first night their spouse is gone, I had locked them all. Next I went to the fence which was too high for this ol' gal to climb, and as you might expect, it, too was locked solid. Finally, after a promise of a leftover candycane from the holidays, they let me in.

Our men in uniform certainly have it rough sometimes. They spend days, months, years away from family, friends and the comforts of home. I'm in awe of their dedication to God, country and freedom, but at this very moment, I must admit, I'm finding myself a little jealous. The thing is, this morning while he was skydiving with lovely views of the Atlantic Ocean, I was cleaning out a toybox that one little boy, in his fear of the dark, opted to use as a urinal.

Of Mice...Fred...and Death

Mon, 8 Nov 2010 22:11:54 -0500

Fred sat beside me in English during my sophomore year of high school. He was much smaller than the other boys his age. While the popular males had long feathery locks of hair, Fred’s was always kept short, almost militant looking….out of style, like his name. I thought Fred to be an odd kid, but not in a scary way. Truth be told, I didn’t spend a great deal of time thinking about Fred at all.

On occasion, he would bring a pet mouse to class. I was fond of English Lit but I had an altogether different opinion about disease carrying rodents. Fred took great delight in making sure I was aware that his furry friend had accompanied him to school on those days. I recall it being hard to focus on Oedipus Rex and brown house mouse at the same time. Clearly the mouse won hands down. He always got my full attention….as did Fred.

So it went that entire school year. Fred and I may have spoken a mere dozen words to one another in those nine months, but we exchanged lots of looks. It usually went down something like this: I’d feel a deep, thick gaze coming in my direction from the right. I knew what was going down, and I’d fight it as long as I could, but eventually, I’d give in…(kinda like the way your tongue won’t avoid the hole of a missing tooth, no matter how badly you want it to. Or like how you slow down to look at the aftermath of a wreck, only to get someplace later and make comments about rubberneckers). The stare meant one thing. Fred had a mouse and he wanted to make sure I knew.

He’d carefully sneak the mouse from the pocket of his sweatshirt. He’d smile, no grin, as if quite pleased with himself. Sometimes he’d gently pet it or bring it up to his lips and kiss its head, as if to say goodbye before simulating a mid-air pass in my direction. Other times, he’d look around trying to appear frantic as if his beloved creature had escaped and might be headed my way. Back then I thought Fred to be quite odd, but harmless nonetheless. As long as his pet stayed with its master, all was well. The cycle continued. Fred kept trying to frighten me with the mouse and I kept trying to ignore Fred. Months passed until the end of the school year arrived. I went one way. Fred and his friend went the other.

I probably would have never given Fred another thought until something happened our senior year. That’s when Fred committed suicide. What was so awful, so painful that made him think death was his only escape? One never knows for sure what evokes the last straw. How sad to consider that the person we sat next to during the morning commute, the lady down the street who’s always feeding stray cats, or the teenager who rides in his car with the music blaring too loudly could be moments away from ending it all. What power might we have to bypass fate and change their outcome? Or, are we simply powerless? Do we even care?