Wednesday Short: Summer Farewell

The first day of fall slipped past me a couple of days ago. When does the season truly begin? When I turn on the heat.

Autumn started at 2:06 this morning. Now I bid summer a warm adieu.

Thanks for the memories. In living color.

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Credit: Catherine Hamrick, Sarah P. Duke Gardens, Duke University

Treat yourself to a leisurely stroll any day of the year from 8 a.m. to dusk. There is a lot of ground to cover in this 55-acre public botanic garden, so locals can indulge in a trek every season. The same but new!

 

Out of My Father’s Hands

vignette mask subtle sharpen mom and dad skin tone safe and vibrant_pe_peEarly this morning, 850 miles away in Alabama, my sister told me, “We are with Dad. He is ready to go see Nome [Mom]. He loves you.”

Today we document our lives in hundreds of digital images and store them in a “cloud.”  Like the wonder of the telegraph in the 1800s, we send words, billions every second, via a void called the Internet and instruments cleverly branded Android and iPhone.

Ah, branding. As a savvy New York writer/agent told me at a recent book conference, “You must become a brand, or you won’t make it.” To which I retorted, “I am a person, not a brand.”

Ironic. Perhaps hypocritical: I “storytell” things and people as brands for a buck—in a staccato burst.

Dad never “branded” himself. He was a person in full.vignette border Dr-Hamrick18_pe

The brain is beautiful mystery. Streaming images run in and out of our heads, faster than the race wrought by digital engineers.

For some reason, I have not yet perched pictures on a “cloud.” But I will likely upload in the near future.

Images of Dad flow through my mind. A bevy of pics and the 350-word limit of a blog post cannot keep up. This is my personal expression, for I cannot speak to the recollections of my brother and sisters. One image appears repeatedly in milliseconds: his hands.

They were short, with square palms and thick fingers. Unremarkable. Except for what they did:

Pulling on worn overalls and snapping the suspenders. Milking the cow at sunrise. Hauling sheaves of wheat and husked corn to Jim Dean’s mill, where a paddlewheel steadily lapped up a sliver of creek so ancient stones could grind out flour.

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Preparing cornbread (unsweetened, thank you) and keeping watch over an iron skillet as it browned in a wood-burning stove, committing to memory his mother’s recipe handed down over generations.

vignette cropped Latin_dictionary_pe_peBegging the principal of his country high school for a Latin class so he could qualify for pre-med studies—and then eagerly seizing the book after that dear man said, “Yes.”

Clutching a college catalog and crying to sleep because there was no money to supplement a partial scholarship.

Thumbing from Appalachia down to Atlanta for a job as an office boy and waiting for his 17th birthday so he could enlist.

Pulling the wounded and dead off Utah beach.

vignette cropped dad-in-sailor-suit_pe_pe_peLooking up at the sky as 30-foot waves curled over his LST and dreading the next wave of kamikazes or typhoons.

Mixing chemical recipes in a lab and awakening to the miracle of science.

Painting dorm rooms and supervising a frat house kitchen to bolster his GI bill education.

Exchanging love letters with my next-door college-coed mother—on scraps of paper pinned to a clothesline rigged between their bedroom windows.

vignette cropped detail clothespin Wood_Clothespin_pe_pePutting his head next to Mom’s as they turned the pages of histology textbooks.

Signing into a cheap motel on their first honeymoon night—with telltale wedding rice falling from his thick, black hair as my mother laughed.

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Enduring 100-hour work weeks during his internship and residency—and loving the touch of life-giving moments.

Treating any patient of any color ever since his first days at Atlanta’s Grady Hospital in the early 1950s.

Hitting the backyard brick steps with a “Humph,” signaling his return home to fork down fast bites of supper (“inhaling” his food, as Mom phrased it).

Greeting each of us after work with a lift over his shoulder and a slide down his back as we giggled in delight.

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Flash-cleaning and frying just caught fish on camping trips, at the lake, and in the kitchen of a rambling beach house at solitary Four Mile Village in Florida.

Yanking the bow of my straw sunbonnet to rouse me from a sunrise doze just as my fishing pole almost slipped out of my hands (fisher king and failed fisher girl).

Pacing the dock, with five fishing rods lined at the edge, to reel in a catfish feast (he tossed them backwards over his shoulder into a homemade holding tank—a hole sawed into the boards, with an underwater “cage”).vignette lightened-1024px-winslow_homer_-_leaping_trout_1892_pe_pe

Frying cornmeal-battered hush puppies—golden, crisp, and light.

Furtively building my Christmas dollhouse in the basement and carefully measuring the height of the doorways to fit my Barbies (Santa Claus was a genius carpenter).

Lugging home a surprise box of my beloved Oz books “just because.”warming filer vignette The_Wonderful_Wizard_of_Oz,_006_pe

Carting home my first art history books—Raphael, da Vinci, and Michelangelo— “just because.”

Drying sage on the pool table, lending special flavor and aroma to Thanksgiving dinner.

Plowing his suburban “back 40″ so we could savor “real” vegetables year-round.

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Stirring up skillet after skillet of golden-brown peanut brittle and packing it in gaily ribboned split-oak baskets, along with homemade jams and pepper jelly—gifts for neighbors, patients, and preachers.

Making hog’s head cheese in the laundry room while my boy friend stared in shock.

Writing a rare letter, telling me to choose my major and career, indeed life, with no need for his approval.

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Signing check after check to ease my way through college and sending me to Europe to study long before he set foot on the Continent (excluding a few feet of Normandy).

Grabbing the wheel of a rented Passat, manhandling the Paris Périphérique, and then gunning 145 kilometers on the open road while my mother crawled into the backseat and never crawled out (he hid years of speeding tickets from her).

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Grasping the railing of Monet’s Japanese bridge at Giverny and wistfully reminiscing about the only art history class permitted in his crowded undergraduate schedule (the museum guards finally threw him out at dusk).

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Stashing my first essays in the top drawer of his office desk and passing them on to anyone patient enough to read (a major morale boost at age 24).

Writing his own eloquent essays and reading them aloud for a test run.

Penning the grueling medical details of the Crucifixion for a Sunday school class.

Hanging a watercolor inscribed with 1 Corinthians 13:1–13 on the wall opposite his desk—a gift from a cancer patient and the theme of his practice.

vignette Anna Frodesiak Gladstone_bag_made_of_ox_leather_peClasping the hands of families and praying before an operation.

Freely treating country folk, with medicines and syringes mixed among the hooks and lures in his tackle box.

Bathing and shaving my mother’s uncle after his stroke.

Loving every relative and in-law, down to every cousin six times removed.

Vacuuming and dusting the night before my mother’s parties and luncheons—without being asked—and creating charming arrangements of zinnias that bordered his garden.

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Beating a broom handle into a broken garbage disposer until 2:00 a.m. on New Year’s Day (I never could figure out that fix-it trick).

Installing four revolving fans in the bedrooms at 10:00 p.m.—drilling just as everyone was going to bed (they always spun wobbly).

Hauling home a Roto-Rooter to repair a stopped-up toilet at 10:00 p.m. (rousting us out of bed to hold long hoses in a drizzle).

Playing country cool when he listened to Johnny Cash’s beautifully cruel cover of Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt.”

jpeg papaw and sam_peCrooning to his grandbabies—in deep monotone—the ballads that never left his North Georgia soul and later cherishing the first great-grand.

Keeping close to my mother when Alzheimer’s stole her mind and voice but never her loving spirit.

Holding my sister’s hand when her husband died.

Living in a state of grace for 32,369 days.

vignette and darken mom and dad in garden_peDad's hands_peMy dad’s hands flipped through the Bible many times as he searched for a verse or two to insert into one of his talks about life (he did not call them sermons). However, a seven-book series about the world’s great religions sat on a shelf in his study. His hands held those, too.

Dad was a devoted Methodist and humanitarian. He never judged any righteous soul, whatever his or her faith.

At the end of his life, Christ said, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” A poignant sentence, yet I always return to what came out of Christ’s hands during his earthly lifetime. Healing. Encouragement. Strength. Love. And I remember what came out of my father’s hands.

Credits:

Latin textbook courtesy of Dr. Marcus Gossler

Clothespin courtesy of Alfred Borba

Garden vegetables courtesy of Liz West

Map courtesy of San Jose

Paris Périphérique courtesy of MD01605

Leather bag courtesy of Anna Frodesiak

Zinnias courtesy of Ahura21

 

Wednesday Short: To an Incense Cedar

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The young pyramid towered,

Boughs layered spoke on spoke,

Weave-and-fan foliage cloaked,

Octaves of birdsong showered.

Blacked-Capped Chickadee, Iona Beach Regional Park, Richmond, British Columbia http www.naturespicsonline.com 640px-Chickadee

Now centuries furrow fibrous bark—

Peeling cinnamon raw and rust,

Knobby elbow branches thrust

Day fading, silhouette stark.

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The leaning trunk and swelling base

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERADistort ancient geometry,

Brown creepers scale crevice face,

And small branches sporadically

Break and sweep, late summer trace—

Palm-rubbed twigs breathe pungently.

200px Alan Vernon Brown_creeper_(Certhia_americana)

 

Credits:

Tall incense cedars courtesy of Daniel Mayer

Black-capped chickadee courtesy of Alan D. Wilson, http://www.naturepicsonline.com

Brown creeper courtesy of Alan Vernon

Photos of Coker Arboretum in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, by Catherine Hamrick

Wednesday Short: Florida Postcard

croppedyellow-pinkChristopher T Cooper Dubai_Fountain_performing_'Bassbor_Al_Fourgakom'_pe_pe

 

Fountains spritzed,

Receding then arcing

In pink-and-yellow play.

 

 

From city-center splendor

Into hazing noon,

A GTO muscled

A crotch rocket

Until it shot far

Into scorched-tar mirage.

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She leaned hard,

Into the wind-rush,

Hair stringing tangled.

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Her jeans tugged,

Her butterfly peeped

Then spread,

A mosaic

Of purple-green scaling

Her butternut skin.

235 nebulize 1280px-Lightning_strike_jan_2007_peStump pines scraggled

Against a low-rumble sky,

Great with rain.

A burning white light

Split the clouds,

Heaven’s underbelly,

And God’s fingers

Sought Adam

But he was not there.

 

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Credits:

Fountain courtesy of Christopher T. Cooper

Highway (white line fever) courtesy of http://www.tysto.com/

http://icondoit.wordpress.com/

Fir0002/Flagstaffotos

Bike Week courtesy of BlackBikeWeek, http://www.blackbikeweek.us/pictures

 

Funky Decorating Do’s—Sign On!

Dime lemonade? Those were the days.

Dime lemonade? Those were the days.

Hang this hot sign behind your bar.

Hang this hot sign behind your bar.

Decorating scoop—here's a cool playroom prop.

Decorating scoop—here’s a cool playroom prop.

Road trip! US 1 stretches through Pennsylvania—from Maine to Key West.

Road trip! US 1 stretches through Pennsylvania—from Maine to Key West.

Pretty is as pretty does for a lady's boudoir. Loop your beads here.

Pretty is as pretty does for a lady’s boudoir. Loop your beads here.

Pronunciation? It's "puh-kahns" down Georgia way. Period.

Pronunciation? It’s “puh-kahns” down Georgia way. Period. Per my family.

Pump up your weekend! Head for The Terry Craddock Hotel and Shoemakers Grille in Lynchburg, Virginia.

Pump up your weekend! Head for the Craddock Terry Hotel and Shoemakers Grille in Lynchburg, Virginia.

Some of my pics go South. Where else would you find a tractor seat that functions as furniture?

Some of my pics go South. Where else would you find a tractor seat that functions as furniture?

Roadside prayer. Bless your heart.

Roadside prayer. Bless your heart.

"Shave and a haircut. Two bits!"

“Shave and a haircut. Two bits!”

Brad Paisley is smokin' hot. Check out "The Cigar Song" below.

Brad Paisley is smokin’ hot. Check out “The Cigar Song” below.

Photo Credits: Catherine Hamrick

The “Selfie” Movement Hits Print

Kim_Kardashian_2010Last night Bravo TV host Andy Cohen knelt in a selfie homage to Kardashian’s derrière.

The trailblazer of the “selfie movement,” Kardashian now sets her sights beyond Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook to print. Her book, aptly named Selfish, practices the “art” of clicking personal self-photos—hence a highly questionable aesthetic tome with airbrush geniuses on call.

The countdown is on! Kim Kardashian's selfie "Selfish" tome hits bookstores on April 7, 2015. Sales projections? Good question: Kardashian-obsessed fans are too busy Googling and ogling for free.

The countdown is on! Kim Kardashian’s selfie “Selfish” tome hits bookstores on April 7, 2015. Sales projections? Good question: Kardashian-obsessed fans will be too busy Googling and ogling for free.

Mark your calendars! The photo-finish pub date is April 7, 2015, as announced by Universe, the pop-culture imprint of Rizzoli. Billed as a “hardcover coffee table book,” its trim size is 5 x 7 inches, hardly worthy of a diminutive side table.

What “never-before-seen” bod parts will Kardashian flash?

Has this world gone celeb ass-backwards?

A selfie? Novelty? No. Victorian women shot early selfies with mirrors and boxed cameras--usually fully clothed.

A selfie? Novelty? No. Victorian women shot early selfies with mirrors and boxed cameras–usually fully clothed.

Pre-FB/Instagram Selfies

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Credits:

Kim Kardashian by The Heart Truth (http://www.flickr.com/photos/thehearttruth/4366241448/)

Coolest selfie: Nadar autoportrait tournant courtesy of Bibliothèque Nationale de France

Self-portrait in a Convex Mirror (c. 1524) by Italian late Renaissance artist Parmigianino courtesy of Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Austria

Self-portrait by Johannes Gumpp, 1646, shows how most self-portraits were painted.

Pieter Claesz, Vanitas with Violin and Glass Ball, 1625 (The artist is visible in the reflection.)

Wonderful Wednesday: Hot Spots

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by John Clare

 

Now swarthy Summer, by rude health embrowned,

Precedence takes of rosy fingered Spring;

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAAnd laughing Joy, with wild flowers prank’d, and crown’d,

A wild and giddy thing,

And Health robust, from every care unbound,

Come on the zephyr’s wing,

And cheer the toiling clown.

 

Happy as holiday-enjoying face,

Loud tongued, and “merry as a marriage bell,”

Thy lightsome step sheds joy in every place;

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And where the troubled dwell,

Thy witching charms wean them of half their cares;

And from thy sunny spell,

They greet joy unawares.

 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThen with thy sultry locks all loose and rude,

And mantle laced with gems of garish light,

Come as of wont; for I would fain intrude,

And in the world’s despite,

Share the rude wealth that thy own heart beguiles;

 

If haply so I might

Win pleasure from thy smiles.

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Taking snaps of summer in Coker Arboretum (The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill)–one of life’s great joys.

Photo Credits: Catherine Hamrick

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Freedom Summer: Sing Till the Spirit Moves in My Heart

Andrew Goodman, James Chaney, Michael Schwermer

Andrew Goodman, James Chaney, Michael Schwermer

On August 4, 1964, the FBI unearthed the bodies of Andrew Goodman, James Chaney, and Michael Schwermer, buried 15 feet under a red clay dam. They were part of the Freedom Summer project to register blacks to vote in Mississippi.

On June 21, they had driven to Philadelphia, Neshoba County, to investigate the burning of Mount Zion Methodist Church. Deputy Sheriff Cecil Price arrested them for allegedly driving over the 30-mile speed limit. He hauled the three activists to the Neshoba County jail, booking Chaney for speeding and putting Shwermer and Goodman “under investigation.”cropped Burning-cross2_pe

Chaney paid the fine. After release, they were ordered to leave the county. Price followed them to the county line, and the trio headed to Meridian. Two carloads of KKK members stopped and murdered them on an isolated rural road.

X-rays immediately taken of the bodies were later destroyed. However, some reports indicate that Goodman and Schwermer were beaten and then shot through the heart. Before slain, African American James Chaney allegedly suffered a left broken arm in one place, a right broken arm in two places, a broken jaw, a crushed shoulder, and trauma to other parts of his body.

The activists' burned-out station wagon abandoned on a logging road

The activists’ burned-out station wagon abandoned on a logging road

In early December 1964, the FBI arrested 21 men in the case, including local Klansmen and several police officers. They charged them with conspiracy to violate the three activists’ civil rights. Prosecutors took the case all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court to ensure clarification and validation of laws used in the case.

In 1967, a federal jury of Mississippians found seven of the defendants guilty. They received sentences of up to 10 years.

Lyndon Jonson signed the Civil Rights Act in 1964, 11 days after Goodman, Chaney, and Schwermer disappeared.

President Lyndon Jonson signed the Civil Rights Act in 1964, 11 days after Goodman, Chaney, and Schwermer disappeared.

On June 21, 2005—the 41st anniversary of the disappearance—a Mississippi state court convicted Klansman Edgar Ray Killen of manslaughter. He had organized the conspiracy. Killen appealed. In 2007, the Mississippi Supreme Court upheld his sentence of three times 20 years in prison.

“I’m Gonna Sing Till The Spirit Moves In My Heart” (arr. Moses Hogan)

Credits:

Abandoned Ford station wagon courtesy of Federal Bureau of Investigation Workers

President Lyndon Johnson signing the Civil Rights Act courtesy of The Library of Congress (American Memory Collection)