Motley Moose – Archive

My maternal grandfather (1889-1966) was a racist. You won’t read that in his obituary, of course; they only talked about his “noted and controversial” legal career and the fact that he was a Big Cheese in the Roman Catholic laity, honored by two popes. I have the actual cutting from The Houston Chronicle in front of me, still in good condition, so I know there is no mention of his activities with the John Birch Society, his clandestine support of the KKK, or his nightly dinner table diatribes about “those Colored people.” I’m sure he thought his three daughters were thoroughly and safely indoctrinated.

One of those daughters, my mother, went to Rice Institute at the age of fifteen and fell in love with an engineering student from Colorado. Daddy was also the liberal son of liberal, activist parents, and by the time they were married, they were making monthly contributions to the NAACP.

My earliest memories of the Civil Rights protests are not bad ones. When I pulled my head out of my childhood ass and asked questions about what I was seeing on TV, my parents reassured me. They were part-time activists in Texas, fighting to get the hated Poll Tax revoked, registering voters, and monitoring what went on at the polls for the League of Women Voters. “Don’t worry about it,” they told me. “We’re going to make sure things change.” I was proud of them, and proud of the accomplishments of JFK and LBJ.

In January, 1977, I adopted a beautiful baby boy. He was a biracial infant (literally Black Irish) and I was a single white woman. The only thing considered remarkable about the adoption was the fact that this was the first time a single parent was allowed to adopt a baby in Harris County, TX. When someone asked me if I worried about racism I, in a moment of appalling ignorance, said no. “It’s just a matter of time,” I said. “We got the laws changed; hearts and minds will follow.”

Well. Of course it wasn’t long before the crap started. My co-workers decided there was no need to have a baby shower for “that” baby. I ended up buying a gun when I received anonymous threats on his life. Certain white people would see me with him in stores and I could tell their minds made the jump from a pretty brown baby to the mother in bed with a Black man. I later learned that my oldest friend, who often went with me to the grocery store, would sometimes follow those staring, judgmental racists and, when I was out of sight, demand, “Just what the hell do you think you’re staring at?!”

Fortunately, everyone who took the time to get to know Michael fell in love with him. Certain family members who had been using the N-word behind closed doors began calling and asking me to bring him to their homes. I kept him in the same racially diverse neighborhood for most of his childhood, attending schools with children of many racial and cultural backgrounds. Not all hearts and minds may have changed, but we chose to live our lives with people who saw sweetness, not color.

My son grew up, got his degree, and married his college sweetheart, a young woman whose parents came from the Philippines. Their bloodlines produced a breathtakingly beautiful son six years ago, and they continue to live productive lives in their community in North Texas.

That photo, taken last Christmas, doesn’t include the most recent addition to our family. A second son was born in June:

On this Memorial Day I am remembering the members of my immediate family who served in the Armed Forces.

Colonel Norwood Hughes

11/10/1914 – 09/25/1992

My Uncle Bud was a career soldier. He served in the Western front in World War II.

Private Eugene Hughes

10/01/1924 – 07/04/2006

My Uncle Gene lied about his age to join the Army in World War II. He was captured by the German Army and spent time in a prisoner of war camp.

Sergeant Hazel Adele Wilson

05/19/1917 – 12/08/2001

Aunt Hazel was one of the first women to join the Women’s Army Corp.

General Jack Lloyd Wilson

01/30/1919 – 05/04/1999

My Dad was in Tinian in the Pacific during World War II. Dad helped to develop the encryption device that was used during the war. He remained in the Army Reserve all his life and was made a General.

Master Sergeant Michael Eugene Wilson

12/03/1946 – 05/29/2013

My brother Mike was a Vietnam veteran. He served two tours of duty in Vietnam as a Chaplain’s Assistant. He won the Bronze Star for bravery when his unit came under attack and he rushed out and threw two of his fellow servicemen onto his shoulders and carried them to safety.

They are all gone now but on this Memorial Day I am remembering them with love and pride.

The Houseboat Trip

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I’ve been watching mornings silently unfold on this lake and over these hills snuggy against the four a.m. chill in my faded yellow, Dale Hollow hoody, perched under the rooftop canopy of a 60 foot houseboat in our favorite cove, tied to the same worn, barkless trees for twelve years. Even as nothing really changes here and as familiar as it always was, like a favorite childhood memory, this view never gets old. The huge expanse of water and trees and open sky is so absolutely still, it takes waking to a few of these silent mornings to be truly comfortable with what quiet really is.

I pine the entire year for those moments, alone;

being a very early riser has it’s benefits.

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The only sound is the occasional sipping of that first and always best tasting morning cup of coffee, brewed in a dented, blue and white speckled enamel, campstyle percolator pot. That old coffee pot has been stared at anxiously for the blup, blup, blup of coffee to bubble up in the little glass dome for decades. Woefully small considering the number of empty cups that need filling when everyone finally wakes up, not surprisingly, not a single one of us would ever suggest buying a new one.

No, we all like things just the way they are….and just the way they’ve always been.

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Ms. O. (my wife for the uninitiated) has been accompanying her parents, her brother and invited friends on this trip every summer since she can remember and she just turned fifty this year. No, we’re not exactly roughing it but there’s certainly nothing fancy about the accomodations on these old houseboats that were built sometime in the ’70’s.

It’s…well, let’s just call it close knit family style cozy.

Five small bedrooms, a bare bones, corner kitchen, dining table for 8 connected to an open living room, a bathroom with a tiny shower, a small t.v. with a dvd player and all the entertainment, food and drinks you’ve remembered to pack.

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Planning is paramount; there are no grocery stores, no towns actually for miles, no cellphone or internet service either, only the C.B. marine radio to the Dale Hollow harbor where we rent the boat, connects us to civilzation.

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We are in one of thousands of inlets and coves of natural, steeply sloped, shoreline that contains 27,000 acres of water, surrounded by 24,000 square miles of mostly untouched, undeveloped land.

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from WIKI:Dale Hollow Reservior

Dale, or Lily Dale, no longer exists. The community was one of those flooded to create Dale Hollow Lake, yet its name endures in the choice of the lake’s name.

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Dale Hollow Dam and Lake was authorized by the Flood Control Act of 1938 and the River and Harbor Act of 1946. The project was completed by the United States Army Corps of Engineers in 1943, making the lake the oldest artificial lake in Kentucky.[1] Hydroelectric power generating units were added in 1948, 1949 and 1953. The project was designed by the Corps of Engineers and built under their supervision by private contractors. The hydroelectric generators of Dale Hollow Dam are used to supply power to the surrounding countryside. The dam, powerplant and reservoir are currently operated by the Nashville District of the Corps.

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This isn’t everyone’s ideal vacation but I was hooked, lined and sinkered the very first time I was invited. I fit in immediately. It helped that I knew how to waterski because we always rent a small powerboat and a giant rubber tube too. If you’re a waterskier like most of us, there isn’t a site more beautiful than still water. Water still as ‘glass’ is why this is the cove we return to, year after year.

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It’s a good half hour from one of the many choppy, well traveled thoroughfares that connect the larger lakes, by midday choppy is perfect for a bumpy tube ride.

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We explore, we hike, we spot wildlife, we float around, we read and write, play games, sing songs and play guitar, sunbathe and at sundown everyone joins in to cook dinner then watch a movie or two before retiring, usually before midnight.

March is the month I always find myself daydreaming about Holly Creek. I imagine it all again and again on these cruel cold days, feel the warm clean air on my skin, hear the clear water gently slapping the sides of the houseboat, taste the quiet 4am coffee and remember the good natured small talk and giggles with my family. I love knowing these 10 days are already crossed off the work calendar.

It’s important having things to look forward to.

August is waiting, it always is.

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The owner of the catcher’s mitt was born on October 16, 1882 and was named James Francis Wilson. He was called Frank. I never knew him personally because he died before I was born. What I know of him I know from my Dad. Frank was his father and Daddy loved him dearly.

Dad had this to say about his father and baseball.

Until the depression started in 1929, Dad played semi-pro ball for the company he worked for. He was an excellent catcher, and had played with many of the future major league stars. He had progressed up to Triple A Ball with both Beaumont of the Texas League and Milwaukee of the American Association, but was prevented from going on to the majors because of his size; he was only 5’8″ and 152 pounds. He was a better defensive catcher than Mickey Owens, and a better hitter then Wade Killefer, but he was just too small. The then New York Giants did have his contract in perpetuity though.

When cleaning up the house to sell I found a metal box. I had to break the lock to get it open to see what was inside. It contained My Dad’s baseball gloves from the time he was a child until he retired and no longer played. I distributed the other gloves to my brothers and niece but I kept the catcher’s mitt. Dad had very little from his Dad but that mitt traveled around the country with him.

I would have loved to have known my paternal grandfather. In knowing my Dad though I got to know this grandfather. Dad’s sisters said that Dad and his father were very much alike. They had to double check when one walked into the room to see which one it was. They looked and sounded so much alike that it was difficult to tell them apart at first glance.

Dad got his love of sports from his Dad. I got my love of sports from him. Being an only girl I loved to play catch with my Dad. He taught me to throw a baseball and softball as well as a football. When you are an only daughter with a sport’s nut Dad it helps to be a tomboy. To this day I love to watch sports.

Dad took us to many baseball games when we lived in the Bay Area. We cheered on both the Giants and the A’s. We watched football every Sunday. Dad was a huge Raiders fan but he also watched the 49ers.

When I look at that old catcher’s mitt it brings back memories of my Dad. It also connects me to a man I never knew but still love. My Dad loved him dearly and that is good enough for me.

James Francis Wilson

Dad and I

The Catcher’s Mitt

There are things that we all avoid.  Things we just can’t stand to be around. Things that just irritate us beyond our ability to play nice.

FOX stupidity is one of mine.

I live with my parents for various reasons right now. FOX is on the big TV in the living room all the time. It sucks.

But more than that, it gives my parents a completely fucked up view of the world.  Not a little fucked up – completely fucked up.

The latest point of stupid that Mum has been throwing around is that there is oil forever. Generations worth – all discovered recently here in America and we just don’t have to worry about it. Ever.

Conservatives keep saying that families in America have to live within their means and not spend more than they make.  I am not convinced that experience within a family can be extended to government.  I am not convinced that the goals are the same, nor do I believe the premise scales.  However, even if we give conservatives this premise, their argument fails.

So I’ve been here at my parents house in the swamps of Louisiana for almost a month now.  

For those new to the View From the Whatever – I lived on my broken down but eventually sailible boat in Oregon until just before Christmas. I had to come home because I needed help I just couldn’t find in Oregon and my condition was deteriorating.

But it’s been hella weird being here – and I really miss my boat.

So – my parents are “comfortable” (NOT wealthy by any means) FOXbot birthers. Yeah, I’m not kidding. My family was military – Dad was Army, I was briefly  Active Duty Navy until a medical discharge took me out – before I could score any awesome benefits or impress Dad.

But that’s not important right now – it’s this other thing I may have mentioned over at the Orange place in my series…

And hopefully you have a better time with Santa than my beautiful baby girl did!

I just wanted to pass on, to all of you who have joined our community here at the Moose, how thankful I am to have you guys here. This is truly a community, as tight-knit and firm a bond as any. Amazing, in this day and age, with the anonymity of the Internet and the distances separating us, that a group of people could come together the way we have. In that light, I’d like to share a prayer.

Heavenly Father,

In your name we pray. Amen.

Wherever you are this Christmas, and whatever you’re doing, God Bless you all- have a wonderful day

Have you ever sat down to do your finances, and come up with a negative number?

It’s not a fun experience. And certainly not one I’m used to.

It’s been a very hectic and exciting year for me. Two days before the close of 2007, I was blessed with the presence of a beautiful baby girl. I had never imagined being a single parent before- hell, I’d never even held a baby before I picked my daughter up, writhing and screaming and covered in gunk- but here I was.

And I never gave it a second thought. Here’s why: