In Memory of My Father

THE DAUGHTER-WIFE At an age when most women were finally able to enjoy life, at least for a bit, I stood alone. Not because I have a child to care for anymore, or not because I live a secluded life, due to the unexpected needs of others; or because I am a divorcee or widow. I have a husband; however, in 1999, I felt totally alone because I was desperate to save my father from cancer. I described myself as the 'daughter/wife' -- daughter to a man I cherished, and now I felt like his wife due to all of the business of his illness and his care. Was it just a year ago this week when my life changed dramatically, without warning? Yes, I reminded myself, a little too quickly. A year ago this week! "Cancer?" I screamed hysterically. "Cancer? No! It can't be! He took such good care of himself. He ate the right foods…never drank or smoked. It can't be cancer. There must be some mistake!" Dr. Bones shook his head, nervously drumming his fingers on the dingy colored walls of the freezing cold, sterile atmosphere of Roper Hospital. I heard a noise echoing inside my brain, only to realize it was Dr. Bones's pager buzzing him with another emergency. Glancing my way, he rushed down the hall. My heart fluttered for a moment as the shock of Dr. Bones's diagnosis ricocheted again. I glanced to look at a brightly colored sofa, placed across from the elevator. Reluctantly I lowered myself to the plushness of it, only to realize the softness and comfort did nothing to help my mood. Esophageal cancer, I whispered, while the painful heartbreak swelled inside. How can that be? Dad never smoked cigarettes or partied, or ate the wrong foods. At a time when healthy living was not publicized enough, he was the epitome of everything healthy and right with the world. Dad was the model citizen. He strolled along his neighborhood daily, never driving a car, simply using the strength of his legs and demeanor. He went to church weekly. Prayed. Read his Holy Bible and strove to make up for the indiscretions of his lifetime. I heard a voice screaming in the distance and I wished that it would silence, only to realize the voice was quite familiar --- the voice screaming with pain with sorrowfulness was me. A smiling face, eyes filled with deep concern, and a smile with the whitest teeth I'd seen in years, approached me. "Excuse me, Miss. Are you okay?" She asked. I pulled away, my body arching with stiffness. "Okay," I repeated. "I don't think I'll ever be okay again. My world is ending, starting today."

Karaoke - One of My Little Moments

Last Friday, February 4, 2011, my husband and I went out for Karaoke. He loves to listen to me sing and entertain the group at the Point Grill, Mt. Pleasant. As for me, I simply LOVE entertaining. At five-years-old, I had my first experience singing in a choir at church. Never did I experience butterflies or knocking knees. I simply slipped onto the stage at church, took a deep breath, waited for the piano, and off I went singing, "Jesus Loves Me." I looked into the audience, glancing at my grandmother wiping tears from her eyes as she listened to me. That is the moment I knew I wanted to sing to the world.

Flashforward -- many, many years later. Never did I find the courage to 'sing to the world.' In high school I sang in the choir and for a brief time, I sang with a rock band, entertaining at community centers, schools and other events. At fifteen, my parents divorced. My mother moved us in with our grandparents in Bibb City, the cotton mill district of Columbus, GA and for me, the music stopped. My grandfather restricted us from playing rock music. When he found my records, he trashed them. Little did he know I was hiding them in a secret place that only I knew! Music was my therapy. The beat and rhythm of music embraced me and even though I no longer sang with a band, music was still inside my heart and soul.

Friday night I was not in the mood for music. This year has started with a dear friend ill and other moments in my life that just do not appear to be going in the direction I want them to, and so, I was down. The weather in Charleston -- the extreme cold temperatures, the grayness of winter and the lack of sunshine and tropical temps has left me so depressed I simply wanted to wrap myself in a snuggie and keep the world away from me. But my husband insisted that we go. Karaoke started. My friends waited to hear me sing. "Barbie, aren't you singing?" They asked. "Nope," I said. "Not in the mood."

I glanced into the audience, noticing a beautiful woman dressed in a simple, but elegant white dress, accented with pearl earrings, necklace and flowers in her hair. She looks like a bride.

Karaoke singers continued to belt out tunes, only by now, no one appeared to be listening. The partying groups were loud - having a bit too much fun.

I jotted down a song, gave it to the DJ and sat down. When my name was called, I decided it was time to awaken everyone and entertain. Grabbing the wireless microphone I whispered, "Uh Huh. Honey. All right!"

"Sweet Nothings," a hit record by Brenda Lee during my childhood was always a song everyone loved to hear me sing, and so I began, singing, rocking, dancing and working the audience. Gone was the blackened veil of depression, replaced by passion I have for entertaining and singing. The only noise in the bar was the music and laughter as I moved from one table to another, singing to the men and women and enjoying one of my little moments. When the song ended, several people thanked me for singing.

Later, someone requested "At Last." I dedicated this tune to the bride and groom. Later that night as I gathered my things to leave, the bride approached me, carrying a bouquet of roses, babies breath and hydrangeas. The bouquet was beautiful. She thanked me for singing, telling me how great I was. I thanked her, shrugged it off, and started to leave. "These are for you. I'd like to give you this bouquet."

She elaborated on how special I had made her night. Never have I heard such kind, touching words and I thanked her for her charm. She thrust the bouquet in my hand, insisting that I take them home to enjoy. At first, I declined. She refused to take the bouquet back, telling me how special I had made their wedding party celebration. "You deserve these and I want you to have them. It's a tradition in my family. We always find someone special to give our bouquet to, so please take them and remember how special your gift of singing and entertaining is for those who listen to you."

"But it's only Karaoke," I said.

"Not for you," she smiled. "You entertain, making the audience feel special."

Today, is Sunday. Super Bowl Sunday. Today, while writing this blog, I glance over at the bouquet. I doubt I will ever forget the beautiful bride and that special moment. For me it was only Karaoke. For her -- perhaps the beginning of a new journey with marriage and the future. I am hopeful someday she will read this blog and discover how touching her words were to me at a depressing moment in my life. The generosity of a bouquet given to someone just for singing a song. The expressions of encouragement and appreciation, just for singing a song. Life's little moments. Perhaps that is why I sing. To some it is just Karaoke, but for me -- singing is an expression of life's precious moments.

A Toast to 2011

10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1....Happy New Year. Phil and I toasted the New Year at exactly midnight with our special group of friends in Mt. Pleasant, SC. It was a joyous occasion. Hugging each member of our group. "Happy New Year..." Kisses. Hugs. Special moments of cheer. Welcome to a new decade -- 2011.

On this morning of a new year, I awaken to rain outside. My left wrist predicted it yesterday when I noticed the slightest movement, reaching for my coffee cup, washing dishes, lifting a weightless piece of paper, gave my wrist such pain I almost screamed. "Rain is in the air," I said out loud. My wrist is a great weather forecaster and as I look outside I notice the dampness on the ground. Sun is peaking through the trees. A new day. A new year. Happy New Year.

What are the predictions for 2011? World peace? Improvement with the economy? A better world? I doubt it. Let us hope our economy does improve, along with the unemployment. 2010 was a dreadful year, with the Gulf Oil Spill, corruption, and so much more to report it would take an unlimited amount of space to write about all of it. And so, I will not report about all of the issues of 2010. I am moving forward, not looking back.

For 2011, I have new hope for the world, and for myself. I plan to work hard to finish many projects I am working on, including "Chattahoochee Child" -- a project so near and dear to my heart that I find it impossible to write. Who wants to read it, I say.

2011 is a year that I will work hard to finish things, including losing weight, exercising more and working hard to be the best person I can be to those close and dear to me.

Happy New Year. 2011 is a fresh, new year of hopes and dreams. The ten year anniversary of 9-11. Let us never forget that day. Happy New Year baby 2011.

Oil Spill in the Gulf

Last year, I was blessed to travel to the Gulf Coast, falling in love with its pristine beaches, the amazing food and people and all the ecotourism. While it is all still there, including the sugary soft sand that squeaks when walking on it, BP has managed to threaten tourism and the beauty of the area. Daily, I watch the stories pouring in, almost as quickly as the oil gushing along the shores and my heart breaks. Pelicans are my favorite birds. Now, they are dying, covered with crude oil while ingesting oil into their bloodstream.

Yesterday, I watched Tony Hayward testifying. Excuse me?.? Did I say -- testifying? What a joke he was, and what a fine example he revealed -- without saying anything. His actions were robotic. His demeanor -- without expression. What exactly is wrong with BP?

Fortunately, I have gorgeous photographs of the Gulf Coast -- before the oil spill. As a travel writer, I am still marketing the Gulf Coast, encouraging tourists to go -- to see the beauty, and now, the history of a tragedy that should not have happened. I have heard people express that the Gulf Coast region will not survive this. My response is -- oh, yes the people and the region will survive. Those people are strong. They have seen many storms and they have survived. Regardless what others say, the Gulf Coast will truly be one of the most beautiful, photographic and caring regions I have traveled. Like storms, this too shall pass. The region will survive. It is up to all of us caring Americans to pull together and make things better.

I will not patronize BP, but I will do all I can to market the area of the Gulf Coast. The food is incredible. The people -- some of the most interesting and entertaining I have ever met, and we cannot forget their talents. Just look at Jimmy Buffett, his sister Lucy, the author of "Crazy Sista Cooking, Cuisine & Conversation with Lucy Anne Buffett," and all that they have done, and are still doing, to promote the area. I must say, I have a copy of "Crazy Sista Cooking," and I've cooked many of the recipes. Her Gumbo is the best! I followed her recipes and every dish is terrific! If you are looking for a great recipe book filled with unique, delicious recipes -- get a copy of this one! You will not be disappointed! If you are in the area, make certain you dine at LuLu's. Sit on the deck, enjoying the view of the coastal waters, enjoy a delicious margarita and appreciate all that this talented and amazing Buffett family is doing for culinary cuisine, hospitality, tourism and the Gulf Coast.

The Perkins Family

Recently, I decided to work on the history of my family -- The Perkins Family. Wow! Never realized how demanding it would be. Genealogy is an interesting study, but quite intimidating. I confess, I cannot find the time to dedicate to it, and so I have many of my father's documents that I have rewritten into a document titled, The Perkins Family, starting with the history from the 1600's. I admire anyone who dedicates to the task of studying their ancestry and heritage, but for me, I think I will simply find a place where all of these informative pieces can be placed -- perhaps a historical society of the Perkins Family. Does one exist?

I understand my family came over from England on a ship called the Lyon. How ironic! "Lyon!" Or, could it be "Lion?" Why not "Tiger?"

Well, perhaps not "tiger," that nickname has certainly taken a beating lately!

While writing a blog, sometimes I do wonder if anyone actually reads this, and if anyone cares, but today is a slow day for me. I am working on an article that I cannot seem to appreciate.

Perhaps it is the environment I am in today. Spring is in the air and I have been bitten by the spring fever bug, but I must get busy and be productive.

This epistle started as a conversation about the study of genealogy and it seems to be taking a different spin. See what freewriting does to a writer!

Okay, enough of this. It is a beautiful day in the City of Charleston. Pollen is in the air, and I hear birds chirping. I've seen the first sign of spring recently when the robins returned to my yard and I welcomed them. Last week, I took off to visit a friend and I spent some quality 'girl time' with her. This week -- can't get going. Spring is in the air and I have been attacked by it, welcoming the budding of trees, the musical chirping of birds, especially my robins.

Um-m-m! Smell the aromas of springtime. Ah-choo! Excuse me - springtime is calling me and so I must close. The Perkins Family will have to wait! There's too much to do!

Spring cleaning is calling my name.

Plagiarism at the New York Times

Working frantically this week on assignments, I heard an interesting discussion on Fox News. Plagiarism at the New York Times. The New York Times??? How could that be? I was under the impression that a New York Times reporter had credentials and conducted themselves as professionals.

Yes, it is true -- I am from the old school -- the school of hard knocks. All of my achievements as a writer have been from the blood, sweat, tears, and pain of sitting at a desk, researching, writing, proofreading, reading aloud and working into the late and early hours, just to make certain my words are presentable and credible. Can't even tell you how many queries I've sent out, and let's don't even discuss rejections. They are a part of my life as a writer.

OK, maybe I'm not Jenny Sanford, or Sarah Palin -- but I am a writer and I do have stories to share.

Most professional writers work frantically to make certain their words are not plagiarized, and that they are not plagiarising. Yes, as stated on Fox News, writers do research, make notes, [and maybe it is easy to cut and paste, or print out a story, but it certainly should be credited]. I wonder how those reporters would feel IF their words were plagiarized. It would be easy just to take the words from a source and not give the credit. Nevertheless, that is the cheating way of conducting business. While I have seen it done, I work hard not to do this. When I take notes, I jot down the sources, making certain I give the credit where the credit is due.

During the newscast, one of the speakers said the plagiarism was a simple mistake. Probably copied from a source and forgotten to give the credit.

DUH?!?!?

Aren't reporters/writers/freelancers/authors supposed to conduct themselves as professionals?

Researching, especially on the Internet, we should be more accountable and responsible for what we are doing. I was astounded a few years ago when touring with a group of writers. One of the travel writers who has credentials and has spoken at several workshops actually stated, "When I do a guide book, I take everything from the Internet."

I gasped. "Aren't you afraid to do that without confirming the sources and data?"

"Nope. Publishers don't pay enough for me to waste my time."

Writing a guidebook prior to that discussion I remembered how much time I spent researching and calling all the locations. I certainly did not consider it a "waste of my time," just a responsibility. I suppose I am from the old school -- where my credentials and reputation are something to be cherished. I would rather spend a bit of time confirming, noting, and documenting simply because if my name is attached, I want the respect I deserve.

Plagiarism at the New York Times.

Now, I understand why it is so difficult to be a successful writer, especially when there are writers and reporters who feel they are wasting their time by crediting their sources.

Humph. Food for thought? Perhaps.

Have You Found Yourself Camped Out

As a teenager, I found myself visiting the Atlanta Airport lots -- I had an inside contact who would phone to let me know when the celebrity groups were arriving. I managed to meet Peter & Gordon once and there were other celebrities I rushed to greet. I imagined how exciting it would be for me when I took my first flight. I imagined sitting in first class or the budget class, eating lunch on the plane and getting great service. How silly. That would never happen now. Gone are the days of hanging out at the airport, and gone are the days of special treatment -- now, it is more like camping out -- just to catch a plane to your destination.

Now that I am a travel writer, I have experienced camping out at the airport many times. Once, I left Des Moines Iowa on an early morning flight. Arriving in Atlanta, I sat at the Atlanta Airport awaiting my plane for over seventeen hours. When I arrived at Atlanta Airport, I rushed to the gate because my plane was scheduled to leave in twenty minutes. Rushing to the gate, I arrived, expecting to hop on the next plane to Charleston. That did not happen. The gate had changed and so off I went -- rushing to another gate -- expecting that I would miss my plane. Upon arrival at that gate, I was informed the plane hadn't arrived and it would probably be here at 7:20pm. I looked at my watch -- 6:45pm. So, I had time. I settled down in a chair, plopping my carry on luggage next to me. The wait began. At 7:20, we were informed our flight hadn't arrived again. And so the story goes. I waited. I chatted with other frustrated people. I watched children dancing around the gate, obviously restless and tired. I read a newspaper left by someone. Recognizing my own boredom, I reached for my Blackberry and I did something I detest. Text messaging. I am of the generation who believes a telephone is for conversations, not texting, but it is a great way to communicate -- if you prefer the language of RU there? LOL. And all of the other acronyms used in texting. Sometimes when I get a text, I have to decipher what is being shared in those abbreviations. Texting? No, not me. But on that night, since I was so tired and restless, I texted every friend I had in my cell phone.

7:20pm passed. The flight was changed to 8:45pm. And 9:15pm. 10:20pm. Enough of this. I approached the desk to inquire as to what was the delay. "We're waiting for the plane to arrive. If it doesn't arrive before 10:30 we will have to cancel until tomorrow morning. The Charleston Airport is under construction and flights are not allowed to land after midnight." Since I am a bit of a skeptic, I decided that my arrival home, to snuggle up in my bed probably would not happen tonight. Yes, it was a rainy night and I realized that storms such as a rainy night in Georgia create delays, but I was tired. I wanted to go home. I had been at the Atlanta Airport since 6:15. Charleston was only a five hour drive from Atlanta. I should've rented a car, I thought to myself, but then I remembered one piece of my luggage was on a plane. Just what plane was the question.

The clock continued ticking away. I watched two lovers smooching and touching. Young love, I thought to myself. How nice and sweet. An older gentleman was snoring two rows away from my seat. The life and times of camping out at the airport.

Seventeen hours after arriving at Atlanta Airport, my flight loaded. Finally I would get home to rest. When the plane finally landed in Charleston the rain was torrential. Awaiting my luggage at baggage claim I noticed many people complaining about how wet and heavy their luggage was. I was thankful my luggage was light, containing only three outfits. When I lifted it from baggage claim it felt as if it contained bricks! When I got home, I opened it, discovering everything inside was soaked! The luggage had been left outside on the tarmac and was filled with rain. Two blouses were faded and ruined. I contacted Delta only to be told, "Sorry for the inconvenience." So much for customer service and hospitality!

Last weekend a friend's husband was scheduled to leave Greensboro, NC in route to Nashville, TN. He left for the airport in ample time. His flight was scheduled to leave at 4:15, he entered the airport before 2pm. His flight was delayed due to weather, so he would arrive later than expected. My friend stayed in touch by checking the flight on Delta.com. and texting her husband. Each time she realized the flight was delayed she sent anothe text, and all during the day she phoned me to let me know of his delays. She knows I don't like to text! The phone is so much more convenient! Earlier in the week I suggested he might consider driving, instead of flying. My rule is if I can reach the destination within ten hours, I will drive. He spent the night camped out at the airport -- arriving in Nashville the next afternoon. No apologies from the airlines. No compensation. Nothing. Exhaused, my friend told me the next time he would drive to Nashville, not fly.

Years ago, flying was so convenient and quick. Didn't we have torrential storms in those years? And who would ever believe that you might actually 'camp out at the airport?' So much for flying. I think I'll drive, or take a train.