V.M. Roberts's Blog
September 18, 2024
August Blog-MisAdventures of a Suffolk Teenager: Head and Grandma
Head and Grandma
It was late October 1977. I was a month into eighth grade, my first year of high school at John F. Kennedy, Suffolk, Virginia. How do I know this? There are things you simply remember because. . .
I bit into the butter cookie as I slowly turned it around on my left index finger. This was the first thing I had eaten all day. Earning .75 for running an errand earlier that day, I purchased .25 cents worth of penny cookies. The other .50 I would save to buy a pack of Krispy Kreme jelly donuts at school on Monday morning.
Our neighbor who ran a speakeasy hired a cleaning lady who often sought me out to go to the corner store for her. It got to the point where she didn't have to write things down for me. She usually had pretty long lists. Today, I walked to Mrs. Gladys' store on Fifth Street in Jericho to purchase Clorox, Fab, a Pepsi, a loaf of bread, a half pound of Bologna and cheese, and a box of Vanilla Wafers.
She used Head twice in the past, but he never went to the store. She normally left for the day before he returned home for the night. This is why she stopped using him. Head took her money each time and didn't go to the store. Momma was forced to pay her money back, or she threatened to call the police.
I sat on the back steps; we had no back porch. My long legs stretched beyond the four steps as my feet dug into the dirt. This was one of those serene days when Momma wasn't home. This pleased my soul and ears; no yelling was going on. Ninety percent of the time, Momma's form of communication was yelling (and screaming).
Our backyard faced Grandma's, which stretched about thirty-two feet from ours. The yards were separated by her field, where she planted corn, string beans, butter beans, squash, tomatoes, onions, rutabagas, and cucumbers annually. We wore a path to her back door. That patch of grass was barren, making it easy to cross between the yards quickly. She used to complain about the worn path because it prevented her from planting vegetables along the area.
I ate the last of the Butter cookie I had fixed on my index finger, then reached inside the bag for another one. Suddenly, someone ran out of Grandma's back door, flailing their arms and in an uproar. I think it was Grandma. I wasn't sure. I had never seen her run so fast or heard her scream. For an old lady, she could move.
I laughed to myself. It was Grandma moving like the speed of sound. I jumped up from the steps, stuffed the bag of cookies into my coat pocket, and met Grandma halfway down the path.
"Help! Help! Get that boy out of my house! Call the police!"
My heart began to pound. Her frightened eyes spoke volumes through the bifocals. Who was trying to hurt my Grandma? Who was in her house? Grandma's dentures looked funny. They were straight as a ruler and white as a sheet of loose-leaf paper.
"Calm down, Grandma. What happened?"
Grandma was short and dark-skinned. Her little arms and hands flailed in the air out of anger and fear. Exhausted from running, she spoke as quickly and clearly as possible, considering the circumstances.
"That boy is in my house going through things in my hallway and backroom. I need somebody to get him out of there."
"What boy, Grandma?"
"Your brother. Head." Cough. Cough. Grandma bent over at the hip to catch her breath. "Get in the house and call the police."
I didn't want to call the police on my sixteen-year-old brother. What kind of sister would I be having him arrested a few days after his birthday?
"Did he try to hurt you, Grandma?"
Grandma rose from her stooping and stared at me for a few seconds through those horribly thick glasses.
"What difference does that make? I want him out of my house."
"I can make him leave. Head won't hurt us, Grandma."
Leaving her to follow me, I tread across the field, the bag of cookies gripped in my left hand. It took me less than a minute to arrive at the back door of Grandma's house.
"Head. Head." I called. "Come out of here. What are you doing in Grandma's house? She don't have nothing."
Not a sound. Grandma hadn't entered the house. I wondered what was taking her so long. Fearlessly, I walked through every room in the house. Looked in each bedroom, under the beds, but not in the closets. They were too small for Head to fit into. He was over 6 feet tall. The closets were small, like little cut-out holes in the wall.
Before entering the kitchen, I stopped to take two pieces of candy off the gingerbread house, which sat in the corner of the living room near the window. Grandma wouldn't notice because I took it from the area that wasn't covered with plastic. Stuffing the candy in my pocket, I went into the kitchen.
Grandma was baking biscuits. A freshly baked pan of them sat on the stove. I peeked inside the oven. Another batch was almost done. I left them as they were. They smelled so good.
Convinced Head was no longer in the house, so I turned and walked toward where I had come in. Suddenly, I heard a noise in the back room. Silly me, why didn't I look in there first? The heat from the cast iron stove felt so good. Movement behind the curtain in the largest closet in the house caught me off guard.
Head. In four steps, I stood in front of the closet. Using my right hand to snatch the curtain back, the surprised boy stared at me angrily. I broke out in laughter.
"What are you doing hiding in this closet? You better come on out of here before Grandma beats you across your back. Then tell Momma you were in her house looking for stuff to steal."
"Shut up. I ain't thinking 'bout you or Grandma."
I yelled out to Grandma. She was in the yard, sitting on a worn wooden bench underneath the huge oak tree that was directly across from her back door.
"I found Head. Come on in the house, Grandma."
"Girl, you got a big mouth. What's so funny?"
"You are. You lucky Grandma didn't slap you across the face."
Head stormed past me, nearly knocking me down. I ran behind him. He purposely slammed the screen door in my face. Ignoring Grandma, he ran out of the yard, across the field, and never looked back.
"It’s safe to go in the house, Grandma. I’m going to call Momma at work and tell her what happened.”
“Tell Novella to keep that boy away from me and out of my house. I better not find nothing missing.”
Grandma entered the house, locked her door, and went on about her business. I skipped across the field and back to the steps. I thought about the biscuits as I ate one of my Butter cookies.
Head didn’t come home until late that night, around 8:30 or 9.
The next day, the police came to the house, claiming that Head used a gun to hold up an old man who lived on Bethlehem Street. I listened to the whole conversation. I was in Momma’s room, listening through the window. The window in her bedroom was directly next to the front porch.
Tilting my head to see the two policemen out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the old man sitting in the back seat of the police car. It was Mr. Charlie who lived in a stinking house that smelled musty of cats and urine. His home was across the street from the old lady sisters who were Jehovah's Witnesses.
One of the policemen asked Momma if they could search the house. She allowed them to look around. I was hiding under her bed while they performed their search. She was in disbelief and had nothing to hide. After about thirty minutes, they left and told her to bring him downtown to the police station when he returned home.
It took Momma two days to earn enough money cleaning houses to buy Head a pair of brown-suede Dunham-Trukkers and a pair of high-top sky-blue Chuck Taylor NBA sneakers from Kenny shoe store. This made me real mad!
I hadn’t had a new pair of shoes in over three years. The shoes I currently wore were from a lady that Momma cleaned house for over on Wilroy Road. Not many people wore a size nine narrow shoe. This lady’s daughter had a foot the size of mine. She was in her 40s, and the shoes said as much.
I felt like an idiot walking to school with the neighborhood children and Head the following day. He wore the NBA sneakers. The boys in the group marveled over the new footwear. I had an attitude as big as the Commonwealth of Virginia.
Different police came to the house around 4 PM that same day after school looking for Head. Momma was sick of them coming around, so she sent him to live with Daddy in Portsmouth for a while. She didn’t care if he missed school.
She was just happy not to have the police knocking on her door nearly every day. That didn’t last too long. The school board called and told her Head should be in school. If He didn’t return, Momma would be held liable.
She called Daddy that night to let him know she was coming to get Head and make sure his things were packed. We left the house at the same time the following morning. She walked downtown to the Trailways Bus Station on Saratoga Street. I walked to Kennedy.
Three days later, the police came to Kennedy to arrest Head. How did they know he was at school? Over two months ago, he had used the gun to rob somebody walking through the wood path that led to Be-Lo Supermarket and Constance Road. I don’t know if it was true or not. However, the thought did scare me. Why was my brother doing this?
The police spoke with Mr. Barnes, the vice principal. Then he called Miss Odom over the intercom so she could escort my brother to the office. She was his third-period 9th-grade English teacher.
That evening, around 5 PM, while I was doing my homework, Momma received a phone call telling her to come to the police station to see about Head. Momma slammed the phone down and never went.
It was more than a year later when I saw my brother again. He was sent to a reform school someplace in Virginia I had never heard of . . . Rockbridge County.
Grandma never knew Head was sent away until she asked about him many months later.
Continue to RIP Head (Clarence Woodrow Lee Roberts).
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
It was late October 1977. I was a month into eighth grade, my first year of high school at John F. Kennedy, Suffolk, Virginia. How do I know this? There are things you simply remember because. . .
I bit into the butter cookie as I slowly turned it around on my left index finger. This was the first thing I had eaten all day. Earning .75 for running an errand earlier that day, I purchased .25 cents worth of penny cookies. The other .50 I would save to buy a pack of Krispy Kreme jelly donuts at school on Monday morning.
Our neighbor who ran a speakeasy hired a cleaning lady who often sought me out to go to the corner store for her. It got to the point where she didn't have to write things down for me. She usually had pretty long lists. Today, I walked to Mrs. Gladys' store on Fifth Street in Jericho to purchase Clorox, Fab, a Pepsi, a loaf of bread, a half pound of Bologna and cheese, and a box of Vanilla Wafers.
She used Head twice in the past, but he never went to the store. She normally left for the day before he returned home for the night. This is why she stopped using him. Head took her money each time and didn't go to the store. Momma was forced to pay her money back, or she threatened to call the police.
I sat on the back steps; we had no back porch. My long legs stretched beyond the four steps as my feet dug into the dirt. This was one of those serene days when Momma wasn't home. This pleased my soul and ears; no yelling was going on. Ninety percent of the time, Momma's form of communication was yelling (and screaming).
Our backyard faced Grandma's, which stretched about thirty-two feet from ours. The yards were separated by her field, where she planted corn, string beans, butter beans, squash, tomatoes, onions, rutabagas, and cucumbers annually. We wore a path to her back door. That patch of grass was barren, making it easy to cross between the yards quickly. She used to complain about the worn path because it prevented her from planting vegetables along the area.
I ate the last of the Butter cookie I had fixed on my index finger, then reached inside the bag for another one. Suddenly, someone ran out of Grandma's back door, flailing their arms and in an uproar. I think it was Grandma. I wasn't sure. I had never seen her run so fast or heard her scream. For an old lady, she could move.
I laughed to myself. It was Grandma moving like the speed of sound. I jumped up from the steps, stuffed the bag of cookies into my coat pocket, and met Grandma halfway down the path.
"Help! Help! Get that boy out of my house! Call the police!"
My heart began to pound. Her frightened eyes spoke volumes through the bifocals. Who was trying to hurt my Grandma? Who was in her house? Grandma's dentures looked funny. They were straight as a ruler and white as a sheet of loose-leaf paper.
"Calm down, Grandma. What happened?"
Grandma was short and dark-skinned. Her little arms and hands flailed in the air out of anger and fear. Exhausted from running, she spoke as quickly and clearly as possible, considering the circumstances.
"That boy is in my house going through things in my hallway and backroom. I need somebody to get him out of there."
"What boy, Grandma?"
"Your brother. Head." Cough. Cough. Grandma bent over at the hip to catch her breath. "Get in the house and call the police."
I didn't want to call the police on my sixteen-year-old brother. What kind of sister would I be having him arrested a few days after his birthday?
"Did he try to hurt you, Grandma?"
Grandma rose from her stooping and stared at me for a few seconds through those horribly thick glasses.
"What difference does that make? I want him out of my house."
"I can make him leave. Head won't hurt us, Grandma."
Leaving her to follow me, I tread across the field, the bag of cookies gripped in my left hand. It took me less than a minute to arrive at the back door of Grandma's house.
"Head. Head." I called. "Come out of here. What are you doing in Grandma's house? She don't have nothing."
Not a sound. Grandma hadn't entered the house. I wondered what was taking her so long. Fearlessly, I walked through every room in the house. Looked in each bedroom, under the beds, but not in the closets. They were too small for Head to fit into. He was over 6 feet tall. The closets were small, like little cut-out holes in the wall.
Before entering the kitchen, I stopped to take two pieces of candy off the gingerbread house, which sat in the corner of the living room near the window. Grandma wouldn't notice because I took it from the area that wasn't covered with plastic. Stuffing the candy in my pocket, I went into the kitchen.
Grandma was baking biscuits. A freshly baked pan of them sat on the stove. I peeked inside the oven. Another batch was almost done. I left them as they were. They smelled so good.
Convinced Head was no longer in the house, so I turned and walked toward where I had come in. Suddenly, I heard a noise in the back room. Silly me, why didn't I look in there first? The heat from the cast iron stove felt so good. Movement behind the curtain in the largest closet in the house caught me off guard.
Head. In four steps, I stood in front of the closet. Using my right hand to snatch the curtain back, the surprised boy stared at me angrily. I broke out in laughter.
"What are you doing hiding in this closet? You better come on out of here before Grandma beats you across your back. Then tell Momma you were in her house looking for stuff to steal."
"Shut up. I ain't thinking 'bout you or Grandma."
I yelled out to Grandma. She was in the yard, sitting on a worn wooden bench underneath the huge oak tree that was directly across from her back door.
"I found Head. Come on in the house, Grandma."
"Girl, you got a big mouth. What's so funny?"
"You are. You lucky Grandma didn't slap you across the face."
Head stormed past me, nearly knocking me down. I ran behind him. He purposely slammed the screen door in my face. Ignoring Grandma, he ran out of the yard, across the field, and never looked back.
"It’s safe to go in the house, Grandma. I’m going to call Momma at work and tell her what happened.”
“Tell Novella to keep that boy away from me and out of my house. I better not find nothing missing.”
Grandma entered the house, locked her door, and went on about her business. I skipped across the field and back to the steps. I thought about the biscuits as I ate one of my Butter cookies.
Head didn’t come home until late that night, around 8:30 or 9.
The next day, the police came to the house, claiming that Head used a gun to hold up an old man who lived on Bethlehem Street. I listened to the whole conversation. I was in Momma’s room, listening through the window. The window in her bedroom was directly next to the front porch.
Tilting my head to see the two policemen out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the old man sitting in the back seat of the police car. It was Mr. Charlie who lived in a stinking house that smelled musty of cats and urine. His home was across the street from the old lady sisters who were Jehovah's Witnesses.
One of the policemen asked Momma if they could search the house. She allowed them to look around. I was hiding under her bed while they performed their search. She was in disbelief and had nothing to hide. After about thirty minutes, they left and told her to bring him downtown to the police station when he returned home.
It took Momma two days to earn enough money cleaning houses to buy Head a pair of brown-suede Dunham-Trukkers and a pair of high-top sky-blue Chuck Taylor NBA sneakers from Kenny shoe store. This made me real mad!
I hadn’t had a new pair of shoes in over three years. The shoes I currently wore were from a lady that Momma cleaned house for over on Wilroy Road. Not many people wore a size nine narrow shoe. This lady’s daughter had a foot the size of mine. She was in her 40s, and the shoes said as much.
I felt like an idiot walking to school with the neighborhood children and Head the following day. He wore the NBA sneakers. The boys in the group marveled over the new footwear. I had an attitude as big as the Commonwealth of Virginia.
Different police came to the house around 4 PM that same day after school looking for Head. Momma was sick of them coming around, so she sent him to live with Daddy in Portsmouth for a while. She didn’t care if he missed school.
She was just happy not to have the police knocking on her door nearly every day. That didn’t last too long. The school board called and told her Head should be in school. If He didn’t return, Momma would be held liable.
She called Daddy that night to let him know she was coming to get Head and make sure his things were packed. We left the house at the same time the following morning. She walked downtown to the Trailways Bus Station on Saratoga Street. I walked to Kennedy.
Three days later, the police came to Kennedy to arrest Head. How did they know he was at school? Over two months ago, he had used the gun to rob somebody walking through the wood path that led to Be-Lo Supermarket and Constance Road. I don’t know if it was true or not. However, the thought did scare me. Why was my brother doing this?
The police spoke with Mr. Barnes, the vice principal. Then he called Miss Odom over the intercom so she could escort my brother to the office. She was his third-period 9th-grade English teacher.
That evening, around 5 PM, while I was doing my homework, Momma received a phone call telling her to come to the police station to see about Head. Momma slammed the phone down and never went.
It was more than a year later when I saw my brother again. He was sent to a reform school someplace in Virginia I had never heard of . . . Rockbridge County.
Grandma never knew Head was sent away until she asked about him many months later.
Continue to RIP Head (Clarence Woodrow Lee Roberts).
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
July 28, 2024
July Blog-MisAdventures of a Suffolk Teenager: Firewood Woes
It was December 20, 1979. I had turned seventeen the week before (December 13). How do I know this? There are things you simply remember because. . .
My mother, Novella, had the best work ethic of anyone I knew. She was a strong and determined person. She cleaned homes for people and was a short-order cook. Whenever business was slow in either area, she took out the Suffolk, Virginia phone book and called people randomly looking for work.
She offered to clean their house or cook for them. Sometimes, she lucked up; sometimes, she was rudely dismissed as a prank caller. When she successfully gained the interest of a potential employer, they asked her to come by their homes so they could meet her.
Of course, they were white folks. Momma was uneducated (stopped school in the 7th grade). But she had steadfast qualities in other areas (meticulous, loyal, determined, great cook, and prideful about her work). That’s why employers loved her as an employee.
After days of random calling for a week before my birthday, she landed a job for a woman who owned horses out on Holland Road off of 58, about 25 miles just before the North Carolina border. Why was this important?
It meant this gave me at least an hour to clean up before she arrived home from work (even if the house wasn’t dirty). It also gave me time to do my homework in peace. It never failed. Ninety-nine percent of the time, if I arrived home from school before she arrived, there was always something to fuss and scream about within two minutes of her being in the house.
This morning, Momma had to report to work by 7:30. My sister Arlene (Leen) and I were the only two living at home. My oldest sister, Deborah, was married and living in the Hollywood section of Suffolk. Jerman, my second oldest sister, was married, residing in Trenton, New Jersey. My third sister, Mable, was in the Army stationed in Germany. My only brother Head (Clarence), was in prison in Mecklenburg, Virginia. All responsibilities of the house fell on me. Thus, I was blamed for everything from A to Z.
Rolled in a ball under the covers, my hands were clasped between my thighs for warmth. I knew it was time to get up the moment I heard Momma talking on the phone in her room. It was 6 AM.
I stretched, clenching my teeth, dreading the coldness of the house and its floors. That house on North Fifth Street was always cold (the draftiest house on planet Earth). I hated it! The cold months outnumbered the summer months, making me hate the house and Suffolk even more.
We slept in anything warm we could find that wasn’t school clothes. Honestly, any meager clothing we owned was for sleeping one week and school clothes the next week. The covers on our bed consisted of three blankets given to us by Grandma (maternal). A tattered, brown braided rug was thrown across the bed to cover our feet.
Leen was curled up, too, sleeping behind me. She was so stinking from farting all night. The smells made me sick to my stomach. Her sour breath didn’t help either. Sleeping with my head under the covers was out of the question. We had beans and hot dogs the night before that we begged Uncle Frank to give us. I threatened her if she told Momma we were begging for food.
My hand in a fist, I punched Leen’s left thigh to wake her up. “Leen, get up. Go look under the house and get some wood so it can be here for Momma before she go to work.”
“I left wood in the box last night,” she admitted in her squeaky voice. Leen turned twelve in September.
“Get up anyway. Pour some water into the wash pan so you can wash your face, then use half of it to brush your teeth. I am not toting no water before I go to school. Don’t use it all either 'cause I need to wash up after Momma.”
I shuffled a few feet into the sitting room, noting the empty wood box. “Leen! Get up. I thought you said it was wood in the box behind the stove. Dag! Y’all make me sick.”
Leen showed up in the doorway, wiping crust from around her mouth. Her big eyes and dark, ashy skin reminded me of a scary monster from Creature Feature. “I don’t know what happened to the wood,” Lil Sister.
“It don’t matter now. Put on your shoes and go look up under the house and bring in an armful of wood.”
I looked under the sink for some newspapers to start the fire. I figured by the time Leen returned with the wood, the fire would be well on its way for the morning.
Heating the bone-chilling, cold room usually took over three hours. At least Momma had hung an old curtain at the door that led to the kitchen and sitting room. That reduced a lot of air from the kitchen, living room, and dining room. The door on the other side of the wood stove, which led to the sitting room, hallway, and Momma’s room, was closed, thank goodness.
The back door slammed shut. Leen’s face appeared from behind the curtain. In a low voice, she said, “Lil Sister. It ain’t no wood under the house.”
My face went blank. Horrified, I yelled at her. “What happened to all that wood we got through the path yesterday and cut up?”
Momma burst through the door, rage in her eyes. Slapping me across the face, she screamed, “Who do you think burned the wood? I wasn’t sitting in no cold house last night. I had company. Git your things on and git some wood in this house. I ain’t comin’ home from working all day to no cold house. My company comin’ over again tonight.”
“Ma, we’re not gonna have time to tote no wood before we get dressed for school.”
Smack!
“Who you think you talkin’ to? Git outta here and git some wood up under that house before I break yo’ neck.”
Tears streamed down my face as I rushed to the room, dressing in a hurry. Leen did the same. Scared I wouldn’t make the first bell by 8:30 at Kennedy, my heart pounded fiercely. I had never missed a day or been late for school since I started Kennedy in 1977.
There have been several occasions when I had to gather and chop wood before school. Those times, Grandma and Uncle Frank came to my rescue. Grandma allowed me to haul wood from her woodshed several times with her wheelbarrow.
Uncle Frank gave me eight dollars once to buy a load of wood from Mr. Armstrong, who lived across the tracks on Fifth Street. Another time, he bought it and had Mr. Wynn take it to the house.
Momma beat me with a thick piece of oak wood from a wood pile for taking the easy route when she found out Uncle Frank helped us. But Grandma scolded her and forbade her to beat me again because I asked for help.
Dressed in some old clothes from the Salvation Army we found at the bottom of our beat-up wardrobe, Leen and I each put on two pairs of dingy, damp sweat socks we kept under the house for hauling wood. Since we only had a coat for school, we dared not tote wood in them. We doubled up on some sweaters that were too small for us, which made it difficult to move our arms.
Braving the harsh cold, I grunted, looking across the street at the beautifully decorated houses. Nearly all the houses in the neighborhood were ready for Christmas. Some of the lights were still blinking from last night. Our house was dismal. Christmas probably never crossed Momma’s mind. It wouldn’t be a first. I sucked it up, and we got busy.
The Be-Lo supermarket cart we kept in the backyard under the pecan tree was ready for action. Head had stolen the cart more than a year ago for us to use for this very purpose. It made the job somewhat easier than using Grandma’s wheelbarrow.
A path on Bethlehem Street, where Grandma lived, led to the other side of Suffolk and Constance Road. A lumberyard was through the path. When they threw out scraps of wood, that was our means of survival for the winter. When there were no scraps, we had to scrounge around and dig under clutter, dirt, and overgrown bushes for scraps from yesteryear.
Leen and I made our way down Bethlehem Street toward the path on our freezing venture before school. I planned to do two trips. So, what if I was late for school? I was confident I’d make my first period English class with Ms. Edwards, though. She would understand my lateness when I explained it to her.
In the first round, Leen and I packed the supermarket cart with as much scraped would that we could push. It had rained the night before, so moving the cart through the puddles was tougher. Leen fell a few times, pulling the cart while I pushed. After yelling at her indignantly until I lost my voice slightly, she got up and used all the energy her little body had to help me pull the cart out of the mud. She was such a whiner.
From the front of Grandma’s house, we looked across her field into our backyard. A taxi was parked in the driveway. Momma was getting into it while a tall, heavyset, Humpty Dumpty-shaped man climbed into the car.
I thought, “That’s probably the fool at the house burning up all the wood last night.” At that moment, I despised Momma and the ugly fat man.
They were gone by the time we dumped the first load in the middle of the yard. I ran into the house for a minute before going back through the path. The kitchen was the warmest I had ever experienced. The kitchen stove. The heat radiated from the kitchen stove.
Anger consumed me. Momma could use the oven to heat the kitchen but not to cook food for us (if we had food for her to cook). She complained often about paying a high-priced gas bill. Instead, we feasted on bologna sandwiches and Frosted Flakes many nights.
I exited the miserable house, slamming the back door. But not before I noticed four empty gallon milk jugs sitting on the sink. I huffed out of frustration.
Fuming, I yelled at Leen. “Leen, go in the house, get two empty jugs. Fill them up from Mr. Rawles’ outside faucet. Momma used up the water we needed to wash up before school.”
“How we gonna heat it if we don’t have no fire?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Listen, I have an idea. After you fill up the water jugs, look under the house, get the ax, and start cutting up the wood. I’m going back through the path by myself. I’ll sit the cart at the edge of the path and make some trips with armloads of wood so I don’t have to fight the mud puddles.”
Not looking back, I trusted Leen to do what I told her. Pushing the cart really fast, jumping on the back, lifting my legs, I used it as a racing mechanism. I moved quicker without Leen to slow me down.
In thirty minutes, I filled the cart the best I could. As I passed the front of Grandma’s house, once again, I saw Leen sitting on the back steps. I had no concept of time. I just wanted to get to school. I had already missed the free breakfast. I would go out of my way, stop at Blueberry Hill, and buy some penny cookies and a bag of Funyuns, which would be my breakfast.
My head began to pound. Anger built up in me again. I hated living in Suffolk and living with Momma. Why in the world was Leen sitting on her black butt and not cutting that wood?
I maneuvered the heavy cart over the muddy grass and down the crooked path to the
backyard. “Why are you not cutting that wood?” I screamed at Leen as I dumped the cart of wood next to the first pile. When I inched closer and closer, I noticed her right leg propped up on her left thigh, her sock soaked with blood on her right foot.
“What happened to you? Dag!” I was furious, yelling for the neighborhood to hear.
“I chopped my toe with the ax?” She replied through painful tears.
“You what?” I screamed again, snatching the sock off her propped-up foot.
I stepped back in horror. Her toenail was separated from the meat of its big toe. Blood ran like a raging river. I imagined Momma beating me half to death with the broom or extension cord for telling the girl to cut the wood in the first place.
Throwing the sock in her face, I yelled. “Why are you so stupid? Why was your toe near the ax? Girl, come on in the house so I can clean you up. Forget the wood. I’m going to school. Momma can get that fat man to cut it if they want to stay warm tonight. You better not tell her what I said either!”
I cleaned Leen’s foot with half a jug of water and poured Morton salt into the wound. Then I tore up one of the shirts she was wearing into strips. I wrapped her foot so tight it stopped the circulation. I remembered to toss the rest of the shirt in the bushes on the way to school.
“Go on and get dressed. When you get to East Suffolk, go straight to the nurse’s office and tell them you stumbled and fell on the train tracks on the way to school. The nurse will put bandages on it to stop the bleeding.”
“I’m hungry,” Leen responded. “You know they stopped serving the free breakfast at East Suffolk Middle by 8:30.”
At that point, I felt bad. I was hungry as well. “Get dressed, Leen. I know.”
I heated water on the stove and washed up while she dressed for school. It didn’t matter if she washed up. She was in Middle school. I was in high school.
I was not about to go to school stinking and sweaty. People already teased me daily, calling me ugly and Sasquatch. I wasn’t going to give them additional ammunition.
Leen and I left the wood in a pile in the backyard. We normally tossed it under the house. At least we gathered it. Uncle Frank had given me five dollars last week by mistake for dumping his night pot. He actually thought he gave me a dollar. I didn’t say anything to him or anyone else.
I spent a dollar when he first gave it to me and hid the rest under our mattress. I told Leen to wait at the back door while I took two dollars from my hiding spot.
“Go head out the door so I can lock it. Take this money. Stop at Rosa Williams store and get some cookies and a bag of Corn Chips. That should hold you until lunch.”
She limped up Fifth Street as I walked along beside her. I turned on Sixth Street and walked through Hollywood while Leen kept straight on Fifth Street and crossed the tracks. I don’t know if she made it to school on time.
I made it just in time for the first bell because I ran halfway there. School was my happy place.
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
My mother, Novella, had the best work ethic of anyone I knew. She was a strong and determined person. She cleaned homes for people and was a short-order cook. Whenever business was slow in either area, she took out the Suffolk, Virginia phone book and called people randomly looking for work.
She offered to clean their house or cook for them. Sometimes, she lucked up; sometimes, she was rudely dismissed as a prank caller. When she successfully gained the interest of a potential employer, they asked her to come by their homes so they could meet her.
Of course, they were white folks. Momma was uneducated (stopped school in the 7th grade). But she had steadfast qualities in other areas (meticulous, loyal, determined, great cook, and prideful about her work). That’s why employers loved her as an employee.
After days of random calling for a week before my birthday, she landed a job for a woman who owned horses out on Holland Road off of 58, about 25 miles just before the North Carolina border. Why was this important?
It meant this gave me at least an hour to clean up before she arrived home from work (even if the house wasn’t dirty). It also gave me time to do my homework in peace. It never failed. Ninety-nine percent of the time, if I arrived home from school before she arrived, there was always something to fuss and scream about within two minutes of her being in the house.
This morning, Momma had to report to work by 7:30. My sister Arlene (Leen) and I were the only two living at home. My oldest sister, Deborah, was married and living in the Hollywood section of Suffolk. Jerman, my second oldest sister, was married, residing in Trenton, New Jersey. My third sister, Mable, was in the Army stationed in Germany. My only brother Head (Clarence), was in prison in Mecklenburg, Virginia. All responsibilities of the house fell on me. Thus, I was blamed for everything from A to Z.
Rolled in a ball under the covers, my hands were clasped between my thighs for warmth. I knew it was time to get up the moment I heard Momma talking on the phone in her room. It was 6 AM.
I stretched, clenching my teeth, dreading the coldness of the house and its floors. That house on North Fifth Street was always cold (the draftiest house on planet Earth). I hated it! The cold months outnumbered the summer months, making me hate the house and Suffolk even more.
We slept in anything warm we could find that wasn’t school clothes. Honestly, any meager clothing we owned was for sleeping one week and school clothes the next week. The covers on our bed consisted of three blankets given to us by Grandma (maternal). A tattered, brown braided rug was thrown across the bed to cover our feet.
Leen was curled up, too, sleeping behind me. She was so stinking from farting all night. The smells made me sick to my stomach. Her sour breath didn’t help either. Sleeping with my head under the covers was out of the question. We had beans and hot dogs the night before that we begged Uncle Frank to give us. I threatened her if she told Momma we were begging for food.
My hand in a fist, I punched Leen’s left thigh to wake her up. “Leen, get up. Go look under the house and get some wood so it can be here for Momma before she go to work.”
“I left wood in the box last night,” she admitted in her squeaky voice. Leen turned twelve in September.
“Get up anyway. Pour some water into the wash pan so you can wash your face, then use half of it to brush your teeth. I am not toting no water before I go to school. Don’t use it all either 'cause I need to wash up after Momma.”
I shuffled a few feet into the sitting room, noting the empty wood box. “Leen! Get up. I thought you said it was wood in the box behind the stove. Dag! Y’all make me sick.”
Leen showed up in the doorway, wiping crust from around her mouth. Her big eyes and dark, ashy skin reminded me of a scary monster from Creature Feature. “I don’t know what happened to the wood,” Lil Sister.
“It don’t matter now. Put on your shoes and go look up under the house and bring in an armful of wood.”
I looked under the sink for some newspapers to start the fire. I figured by the time Leen returned with the wood, the fire would be well on its way for the morning.
Heating the bone-chilling, cold room usually took over three hours. At least Momma had hung an old curtain at the door that led to the kitchen and sitting room. That reduced a lot of air from the kitchen, living room, and dining room. The door on the other side of the wood stove, which led to the sitting room, hallway, and Momma’s room, was closed, thank goodness.
The back door slammed shut. Leen’s face appeared from behind the curtain. In a low voice, she said, “Lil Sister. It ain’t no wood under the house.”
My face went blank. Horrified, I yelled at her. “What happened to all that wood we got through the path yesterday and cut up?”
Momma burst through the door, rage in her eyes. Slapping me across the face, she screamed, “Who do you think burned the wood? I wasn’t sitting in no cold house last night. I had company. Git your things on and git some wood in this house. I ain’t comin’ home from working all day to no cold house. My company comin’ over again tonight.”
“Ma, we’re not gonna have time to tote no wood before we get dressed for school.”
Smack!
“Who you think you talkin’ to? Git outta here and git some wood up under that house before I break yo’ neck.”
Tears streamed down my face as I rushed to the room, dressing in a hurry. Leen did the same. Scared I wouldn’t make the first bell by 8:30 at Kennedy, my heart pounded fiercely. I had never missed a day or been late for school since I started Kennedy in 1977.
There have been several occasions when I had to gather and chop wood before school. Those times, Grandma and Uncle Frank came to my rescue. Grandma allowed me to haul wood from her woodshed several times with her wheelbarrow.
Uncle Frank gave me eight dollars once to buy a load of wood from Mr. Armstrong, who lived across the tracks on Fifth Street. Another time, he bought it and had Mr. Wynn take it to the house.
Momma beat me with a thick piece of oak wood from a wood pile for taking the easy route when she found out Uncle Frank helped us. But Grandma scolded her and forbade her to beat me again because I asked for help.
Dressed in some old clothes from the Salvation Army we found at the bottom of our beat-up wardrobe, Leen and I each put on two pairs of dingy, damp sweat socks we kept under the house for hauling wood. Since we only had a coat for school, we dared not tote wood in them. We doubled up on some sweaters that were too small for us, which made it difficult to move our arms.
Braving the harsh cold, I grunted, looking across the street at the beautifully decorated houses. Nearly all the houses in the neighborhood were ready for Christmas. Some of the lights were still blinking from last night. Our house was dismal. Christmas probably never crossed Momma’s mind. It wouldn’t be a first. I sucked it up, and we got busy.
The Be-Lo supermarket cart we kept in the backyard under the pecan tree was ready for action. Head had stolen the cart more than a year ago for us to use for this very purpose. It made the job somewhat easier than using Grandma’s wheelbarrow.
A path on Bethlehem Street, where Grandma lived, led to the other side of Suffolk and Constance Road. A lumberyard was through the path. When they threw out scraps of wood, that was our means of survival for the winter. When there were no scraps, we had to scrounge around and dig under clutter, dirt, and overgrown bushes for scraps from yesteryear.
Leen and I made our way down Bethlehem Street toward the path on our freezing venture before school. I planned to do two trips. So, what if I was late for school? I was confident I’d make my first period English class with Ms. Edwards, though. She would understand my lateness when I explained it to her.
In the first round, Leen and I packed the supermarket cart with as much scraped would that we could push. It had rained the night before, so moving the cart through the puddles was tougher. Leen fell a few times, pulling the cart while I pushed. After yelling at her indignantly until I lost my voice slightly, she got up and used all the energy her little body had to help me pull the cart out of the mud. She was such a whiner.
From the front of Grandma’s house, we looked across her field into our backyard. A taxi was parked in the driveway. Momma was getting into it while a tall, heavyset, Humpty Dumpty-shaped man climbed into the car.
I thought, “That’s probably the fool at the house burning up all the wood last night.” At that moment, I despised Momma and the ugly fat man.
They were gone by the time we dumped the first load in the middle of the yard. I ran into the house for a minute before going back through the path. The kitchen was the warmest I had ever experienced. The kitchen stove. The heat radiated from the kitchen stove.
Anger consumed me. Momma could use the oven to heat the kitchen but not to cook food for us (if we had food for her to cook). She complained often about paying a high-priced gas bill. Instead, we feasted on bologna sandwiches and Frosted Flakes many nights.
I exited the miserable house, slamming the back door. But not before I noticed four empty gallon milk jugs sitting on the sink. I huffed out of frustration.
Fuming, I yelled at Leen. “Leen, go in the house, get two empty jugs. Fill them up from Mr. Rawles’ outside faucet. Momma used up the water we needed to wash up before school.”
“How we gonna heat it if we don’t have no fire?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Listen, I have an idea. After you fill up the water jugs, look under the house, get the ax, and start cutting up the wood. I’m going back through the path by myself. I’ll sit the cart at the edge of the path and make some trips with armloads of wood so I don’t have to fight the mud puddles.”
Not looking back, I trusted Leen to do what I told her. Pushing the cart really fast, jumping on the back, lifting my legs, I used it as a racing mechanism. I moved quicker without Leen to slow me down.
In thirty minutes, I filled the cart the best I could. As I passed the front of Grandma’s house, once again, I saw Leen sitting on the back steps. I had no concept of time. I just wanted to get to school. I had already missed the free breakfast. I would go out of my way, stop at Blueberry Hill, and buy some penny cookies and a bag of Funyuns, which would be my breakfast.
My head began to pound. Anger built up in me again. I hated living in Suffolk and living with Momma. Why in the world was Leen sitting on her black butt and not cutting that wood?
I maneuvered the heavy cart over the muddy grass and down the crooked path to the
backyard. “Why are you not cutting that wood?” I screamed at Leen as I dumped the cart of wood next to the first pile. When I inched closer and closer, I noticed her right leg propped up on her left thigh, her sock soaked with blood on her right foot.
“What happened to you? Dag!” I was furious, yelling for the neighborhood to hear.
“I chopped my toe with the ax?” She replied through painful tears.
“You what?” I screamed again, snatching the sock off her propped-up foot.
I stepped back in horror. Her toenail was separated from the meat of its big toe. Blood ran like a raging river. I imagined Momma beating me half to death with the broom or extension cord for telling the girl to cut the wood in the first place.
Throwing the sock in her face, I yelled. “Why are you so stupid? Why was your toe near the ax? Girl, come on in the house so I can clean you up. Forget the wood. I’m going to school. Momma can get that fat man to cut it if they want to stay warm tonight. You better not tell her what I said either!”
I cleaned Leen’s foot with half a jug of water and poured Morton salt into the wound. Then I tore up one of the shirts she was wearing into strips. I wrapped her foot so tight it stopped the circulation. I remembered to toss the rest of the shirt in the bushes on the way to school.
“Go on and get dressed. When you get to East Suffolk, go straight to the nurse’s office and tell them you stumbled and fell on the train tracks on the way to school. The nurse will put bandages on it to stop the bleeding.”
“I’m hungry,” Leen responded. “You know they stopped serving the free breakfast at East Suffolk Middle by 8:30.”
At that point, I felt bad. I was hungry as well. “Get dressed, Leen. I know.”
I heated water on the stove and washed up while she dressed for school. It didn’t matter if she washed up. She was in Middle school. I was in high school.
I was not about to go to school stinking and sweaty. People already teased me daily, calling me ugly and Sasquatch. I wasn’t going to give them additional ammunition.
Leen and I left the wood in a pile in the backyard. We normally tossed it under the house. At least we gathered it. Uncle Frank had given me five dollars last week by mistake for dumping his night pot. He actually thought he gave me a dollar. I didn’t say anything to him or anyone else.
I spent a dollar when he first gave it to me and hid the rest under our mattress. I told Leen to wait at the back door while I took two dollars from my hiding spot.
“Go head out the door so I can lock it. Take this money. Stop at Rosa Williams store and get some cookies and a bag of Corn Chips. That should hold you until lunch.”
She limped up Fifth Street as I walked along beside her. I turned on Sixth Street and walked through Hollywood while Leen kept straight on Fifth Street and crossed the tracks. I don’t know if she made it to school on time.
I made it just in time for the first bell because I ran halfway there. School was my happy place.
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
June 19, 2024
June 2024-Blog - Misadventures of A Suffolk Teenager - Friends Burgers and Cemetery Night
Misadventures of a Suffolk Teenager:
Friends, Burgers, and Cemetery Night
It was the last Wednesday of October 1979. I started work as a dishwasher. How do I know this? There are things you simply remember because. . . you just do. Some experiences impact us more than others.
Every Wednesday night, I walked from North 5th Street in Jericho to First Baptist Church of Suffolk on Main Street to wash dishes. The congregation usually ate supper in the main hall before their 7 PM service. The job meant eight dollars in my pocket to last until the next week.
My oldest sister, Deborah, recommended me for the job. She was employed full-time as the primary housekeeper and knew they could depend on me. I was delighted at the opportunity.
I was a tenth grader with no money, job, decent clothes, or a way to keep my hair looking nice. I tried many times to find a job in Be Lo, Woolworth’s, People’s Drug Store, Rose’s, Montgomery Ward, and other established places, but to no avail. I even tried Cato at Suffolk Plaza Shopping Center.
Turned down every time for a good job, that’s partly how I ended up cleaning houses. I hated being poor. My sister looked out for me whenever she could.
I loved my job. It meant being out of the house every Wednesday night from 5 PM to 8 PM. I normally walked home afterward. The darkness didn’t bother me too much. However, once I got past Holladay Street, things seemed creepy. The darkness took on a new meaning as I neared the bend in the road and Sheffield Lumberyard. I would start running down Mt. Horeb Street until I reached the corner of 5th Street.
One night, while dumping the trash outside, I ran into one of my friends, Pat. She was standing outside the back of the church talking to some dude. I later found out he was on the football team at Suffolk High School, located directly behind the church.
Whatever their business, they were finishing up when Pat saw me. He kissed her and left. The guy looked at me before walking away and snickered. Pat laughed. She could get any guy she wanted. I wasn’t jealous. When my time came, I would also attract some handsome guy.
“What are you doing here? I know this isn’t your church?”
“I come here every Wednesday night to wash dishes.”
“Really? You get paid?”
“What a stupid question. Of course, I get paid.”
“You never told me this. We walk to and from school every day. Why am I finding out about this now?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
Pat laughed. “What time are you done? I can hang with you so we can walk home together.”
I thought about Pat’s idea. Having someone to walk with for a change would be nice. “I’ll be done soon. Come on. I’ll tell Mr. Billy. You can wait for me in the kitchen.”
“Who is Mr. Billy?”
“The guy that hired me to wash the dishes. He cooks for the people each Wednesday night before they have service.”
She followed me down two flights of steps to the large kitchen. Mr. Billy had stacked a lot of pots and pans in the industrial-sized sink.
“Mr. Billy, this is my friend, Pat. She’s going to wait for me until I’m done.” He looked at Pat, barely said hi, and ignored her after the introduction.
Addressing me, he said, “I got to get upstairs. Service is about to start. Mrs. Anne is cleaning up the condiments and other odds and ends in the social hall. She’ll pay you tonight 'cause I’m going to be at the service.” With that, he sashayed out the door and down the hall a few feet to the elevator.
When Mr. Billy was out of distance, Pat laughed so hard her eyes teared up. “My boy got a little sugar in his shack. Ooooh, he sweet.”
“Why don’t you stop talking about people?”
I scurried about the kitchen, wiping off the long table and putting leftover food in containers before I settled in to scrub the pots and pans. It took me an hour to clean up the kitchen.
Mrs. Anne paid me and then left for home. She had no intentions of going to the service. More people than normal signed up for the dinner. Mr. Billy called her in on short notice to help him cook.
Pat and I left the church at 7:30. I was tired. It was good that I did my English homework for Mrs. Odom and my Social Studies homework for Mr. Dobbins. They were two great teachers. Thank goodness they didn’t give homework often. I was thankful.
“I’m hungry. Did you eat any of that food they were serving?” Pat looked at me sideways. I knew something was baking in her mind.
“I had a slice of that nasty blueberry pie.”
“You got money. Let's walk to McDonald’s.”
“I’m saving my money for something. I’m not walking to no McDonald’s, tired as I am.”
“Well, I’m hungry. I’m going whether you come along or not.”
“Everybody don’t get twenty dollars a week like you do. My Momma can barely afford to keep the lights on.”
Pat laughed. “This don’t have nothing to do with your Momma. Go on home. I’m going to get a cheeseburger. You have eight dollars in your pocket. Spending two dollars won’t hurt you.”
We ended up walking down North Main Street to Constance Road. I was relieved to see the golden arches come into view, so my pace picked up. Besides, the temperature dropped. The cold was settling in for the evening.
Standing in line, I noticed a cute guy making burgers behind the counter. He must have felt me staring at him. When he looked up, our eyes met. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty.
By the time Pat and I purchased our food, he was sitting alone in the back of the restaurant near the entrance to the parking lot. He was smoking a cigarette and smiled at Pat and me
when he noticed us preparing to sit at another table.
“Why are you sitting all the way over there? I don’t bite. Come sit with me until my break is over.”
“Come on, Vi.” Pat urged me.
She sat next to him while I sat across from them. Pat flirted with the guy right away. I didn’t say two words. My food was more interesting. The guy was about five feet tall. He was cute, but not that cute. I was two inches taller than him. Pat flirted with the guy so much that she forgot about her cheeseburger.
I excused myself and went up front for ketchup. Pat was sickening. Fawning all over a guy she didn’t know. I thought, what about the Suffolk High dude she was with earlier?
If Momma saw me behaving like that, she would have dragged me out of that restaurant by every nappy strand of hair she could muster in one of her rough-hewn hands and slapping me upside my head with the other.
I got ketchup from the girl at the register, turned around, and bumped smack into Tammy, the youngest of the Parker sisters. Tammy’s sister, Regina, was actually my best friend since first grade at East Suffolk Elementary. Tammy was my friend by default.
I only had three friends – Pat, Regina, and Tammy. I was so happy to see the Parker sisters I couldn’t stop grinning. I just knew I had a ride home. “Where’s your Mom?” I eyed Regina’s pretty, doll-like face, waiting to ask my next question.
Regina smiled, displaying bright, beautiful teeth. She said, in her soft baby voice, “Momma at work. Tammy and I put our money together and walked here. We have to hurry up and get back before she finds out we left the house.”
My heart sank. But then I realized I had someone else to walk home with. The Parkers lived on Seventh Street, behind Sixth Street Baptist church. They walked from Seventh Street, past my house on North Fifth Street, down Mt. Horeb past Sheffield Lumberyard, to Holladay, down North Main Street to Constance Road. Back then, as teenagers, that wasn’t too much for us. We walked a lot of places in Suffolk. City transportation sucked.
“I’m going back with y’all. Pat is here. Let me tell her.”
“Hurry up,” Tammy yelled. “You heard Regina. We’re not waiting for you or Pat.”
Regina slapped Tammy on her hand. “You didn’t have to say all that. Make up your mind about your food so we can order and get out of here.”
They think I didn’t see them kissing because people entered and exited the back door. I saw them plain as day, locking lips. Pat was only sixteen, and that guy was way older than her.
He saw me out of the corner of his eyes. He released Pat’s lips immediately. “Tammy and Regina are here. I’m going with them.” I hurried to pack my food back in the bag.
“Really? We got a ride home?”
“No,” I responded harshly. “They’re walking. If you’re going with us you better come on. They gotta get home before Miss Ophelia knows they left the house.”
Pat laughed. “That’s funny. Momma and Daddy don’t know I left either. It’s almost 8:30. I’ve been gone since I got home from school.”
I huffed. How did we ever become friends? “Regina and Tammy should have their food by now.” I didn’t say anything to the old guy when I turned to leave. I heard Pat kiss him again before she ran to catch up with me.
Weird thing, Regina and Tammy waited loyally for me by the other entrance. I guess they didn’t want to walk home by themselves, either. Pat joined us for our venture home.
We were odd friends. Regina and Pat were the boy-getters. Regina was really attractive. Pat was semi-attractive, but she had a way of talking to guys. The girl was truly wild. Regina was the boy-shy type but also had some wiles about her. There was nothing shy about Pat. Tammy was pretty but a slow thinker. However, she was one of the nicest people I ever met.
I wasn’t attractive, a boy-getter, or shy. I had no trouble holding my tongue. Regina and I were honor roll students. Pat and I were comedians. Tammy and I were friends by default.
We crossed over Constance Road in front of Safeway. Then we waited for the light to change to walk past the jail and courthouse on the other side of North Main Street. Laughing and giggling without a care in the world, eating our food, we forgot the next day was a school day.
I focused on finding something to say to Momma if she asked me why I was late getting home. Pat and Regina walked shoulder to shoulder as Pat whispered to Regina. I knew exactly what the conversation was about – the two guys she encountered today. She shared it with Regina because she already knew I didn’t want to hear it. Tammy lagged along, shivering.
Suddenly, a car on the other side of the street rode by, and a guy yelled out the window at us. “Where y’all going? Can we go?”
Pat yelled back. “Take your ass home and stop yelling at us!” We broke out laughing, being silly on our casual trip home. We didn’t see the car ease up next to us a few minutes later. The driver had made a quick U-turn. The same guy hung out the window, grinning.
“You two are cute.” He pointed at Pat and Regina. Two guys in the back seat rolled down their windows and began howling obscenities at us. We dropped our food and took off running. Neither of us recognized them. All hell broke loose when we went our separate ways.
Passing the cemetery on North Main Street across from the post office, I cut through, moving like a greyhound. My legs and feet didn’t disappoint me.
Regina called after me, “Viola! Viola! Wait up?”
The car stopped, and three guys got out and began to chase us. “Why are you worried about her? Come here, cute thing.” One of them called Regina.
I hid behind a dusty, cracked statute three rows deep into the cemetery. By then, I heard somebody running through the cemetery, too. I peeped from behind the statue. It was Pat. I didn’t know she could run so fast. Tammy was fast on her heels, screaming at Pat.
“We can’t leave Regina! If something happens to my sister, my Momma will be real mad.”
Out of breath, Pat sat on a headstone near where I was hiding. Tammy stopped, too. Exhausted, standing in front of Pat with her hands planted on her hips, Tammy growled at Pat.
“Some friend you are! Why would you run away and not help my sister?”
“Shut up, Tammy. You sure can talk loud when you want to.” Pat was pissed. “Do you want those fools to find us?”
I cautiously inched out from behind the statute. Pat and Tammy saw my shadow moving toward them and screamed so loud they could have awakened the dead.
“Oh, my goodness. Shut up. Both of y’all have big mouths. Stop talking. You want those weirdos to find us?”
“You scared the living doo doo out of me,” Pat confessed. Tammy’s big eyes said what she was feeling. About that time, the wind started blowing hard. Cold and windy, the night was getting worse.
“Listen. Somebody is coming.” My ears honed in on the sounds in the cemetery.
The wind picked up while the footsteps were inching closer. We took off running again deeper into the cemetery, covering our faces from the wind and dust kicking up. After running for five more minutes, Regina called out for Tammy.
“Tammy. Tammy. Where are you?” Regina cupped her hands to her mouth. “Come on, girl! There’s only one way out of here. The back fences are locked. We have a ride.”
“That’s Regina.” Tammy stopped once she heard her voice over the wind. “We have to go back for my sister. Don’t you hear her calling me?”
Pat and I looked at each other. How did we know she was telling the truth? It could be a trick. We didn’t know what to do. Being in the cemetery seemed safer. Could we forgive ourselves if we were wrong and something happened to Regina?
I’ve seen many people take shortcuts through the cemetery on the corner of North Main Street and Constance Road. But that was during the day. The Mahan Street entrance at the back of the property housed monuments, a cannon, and mausoleums, where the fence was chained. There is no way out. All this excitement frightened me right down to my bones.
I was willing to take my chances and stay in the cemetery. My mother used to say, “The dead can’t hurt you.”
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
Friends, Burgers, and Cemetery Night
It was the last Wednesday of October 1979. I started work as a dishwasher. How do I know this? There are things you simply remember because. . . you just do. Some experiences impact us more than others.
Every Wednesday night, I walked from North 5th Street in Jericho to First Baptist Church of Suffolk on Main Street to wash dishes. The congregation usually ate supper in the main hall before their 7 PM service. The job meant eight dollars in my pocket to last until the next week.
My oldest sister, Deborah, recommended me for the job. She was employed full-time as the primary housekeeper and knew they could depend on me. I was delighted at the opportunity.
I was a tenth grader with no money, job, decent clothes, or a way to keep my hair looking nice. I tried many times to find a job in Be Lo, Woolworth’s, People’s Drug Store, Rose’s, Montgomery Ward, and other established places, but to no avail. I even tried Cato at Suffolk Plaza Shopping Center.
Turned down every time for a good job, that’s partly how I ended up cleaning houses. I hated being poor. My sister looked out for me whenever she could.
I loved my job. It meant being out of the house every Wednesday night from 5 PM to 8 PM. I normally walked home afterward. The darkness didn’t bother me too much. However, once I got past Holladay Street, things seemed creepy. The darkness took on a new meaning as I neared the bend in the road and Sheffield Lumberyard. I would start running down Mt. Horeb Street until I reached the corner of 5th Street.
One night, while dumping the trash outside, I ran into one of my friends, Pat. She was standing outside the back of the church talking to some dude. I later found out he was on the football team at Suffolk High School, located directly behind the church.
Whatever their business, they were finishing up when Pat saw me. He kissed her and left. The guy looked at me before walking away and snickered. Pat laughed. She could get any guy she wanted. I wasn’t jealous. When my time came, I would also attract some handsome guy.
“What are you doing here? I know this isn’t your church?”
“I come here every Wednesday night to wash dishes.”
“Really? You get paid?”
“What a stupid question. Of course, I get paid.”
“You never told me this. We walk to and from school every day. Why am I finding out about this now?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
Pat laughed. “What time are you done? I can hang with you so we can walk home together.”
I thought about Pat’s idea. Having someone to walk with for a change would be nice. “I’ll be done soon. Come on. I’ll tell Mr. Billy. You can wait for me in the kitchen.”
“Who is Mr. Billy?”
“The guy that hired me to wash the dishes. He cooks for the people each Wednesday night before they have service.”
She followed me down two flights of steps to the large kitchen. Mr. Billy had stacked a lot of pots and pans in the industrial-sized sink.
“Mr. Billy, this is my friend, Pat. She’s going to wait for me until I’m done.” He looked at Pat, barely said hi, and ignored her after the introduction.
Addressing me, he said, “I got to get upstairs. Service is about to start. Mrs. Anne is cleaning up the condiments and other odds and ends in the social hall. She’ll pay you tonight 'cause I’m going to be at the service.” With that, he sashayed out the door and down the hall a few feet to the elevator.
When Mr. Billy was out of distance, Pat laughed so hard her eyes teared up. “My boy got a little sugar in his shack. Ooooh, he sweet.”
“Why don’t you stop talking about people?”
I scurried about the kitchen, wiping off the long table and putting leftover food in containers before I settled in to scrub the pots and pans. It took me an hour to clean up the kitchen.
Mrs. Anne paid me and then left for home. She had no intentions of going to the service. More people than normal signed up for the dinner. Mr. Billy called her in on short notice to help him cook.
Pat and I left the church at 7:30. I was tired. It was good that I did my English homework for Mrs. Odom and my Social Studies homework for Mr. Dobbins. They were two great teachers. Thank goodness they didn’t give homework often. I was thankful.
“I’m hungry. Did you eat any of that food they were serving?” Pat looked at me sideways. I knew something was baking in her mind.
“I had a slice of that nasty blueberry pie.”
“You got money. Let's walk to McDonald’s.”
“I’m saving my money for something. I’m not walking to no McDonald’s, tired as I am.”
“Well, I’m hungry. I’m going whether you come along or not.”
“Everybody don’t get twenty dollars a week like you do. My Momma can barely afford to keep the lights on.”
Pat laughed. “This don’t have nothing to do with your Momma. Go on home. I’m going to get a cheeseburger. You have eight dollars in your pocket. Spending two dollars won’t hurt you.”
We ended up walking down North Main Street to Constance Road. I was relieved to see the golden arches come into view, so my pace picked up. Besides, the temperature dropped. The cold was settling in for the evening.
Standing in line, I noticed a cute guy making burgers behind the counter. He must have felt me staring at him. When he looked up, our eyes met. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty.
By the time Pat and I purchased our food, he was sitting alone in the back of the restaurant near the entrance to the parking lot. He was smoking a cigarette and smiled at Pat and me
when he noticed us preparing to sit at another table.
“Why are you sitting all the way over there? I don’t bite. Come sit with me until my break is over.”
“Come on, Vi.” Pat urged me.
She sat next to him while I sat across from them. Pat flirted with the guy right away. I didn’t say two words. My food was more interesting. The guy was about five feet tall. He was cute, but not that cute. I was two inches taller than him. Pat flirted with the guy so much that she forgot about her cheeseburger.
I excused myself and went up front for ketchup. Pat was sickening. Fawning all over a guy she didn’t know. I thought, what about the Suffolk High dude she was with earlier?
If Momma saw me behaving like that, she would have dragged me out of that restaurant by every nappy strand of hair she could muster in one of her rough-hewn hands and slapping me upside my head with the other.
I got ketchup from the girl at the register, turned around, and bumped smack into Tammy, the youngest of the Parker sisters. Tammy’s sister, Regina, was actually my best friend since first grade at East Suffolk Elementary. Tammy was my friend by default.
I only had three friends – Pat, Regina, and Tammy. I was so happy to see the Parker sisters I couldn’t stop grinning. I just knew I had a ride home. “Where’s your Mom?” I eyed Regina’s pretty, doll-like face, waiting to ask my next question.
Regina smiled, displaying bright, beautiful teeth. She said, in her soft baby voice, “Momma at work. Tammy and I put our money together and walked here. We have to hurry up and get back before she finds out we left the house.”
My heart sank. But then I realized I had someone else to walk home with. The Parkers lived on Seventh Street, behind Sixth Street Baptist church. They walked from Seventh Street, past my house on North Fifth Street, down Mt. Horeb past Sheffield Lumberyard, to Holladay, down North Main Street to Constance Road. Back then, as teenagers, that wasn’t too much for us. We walked a lot of places in Suffolk. City transportation sucked.
“I’m going back with y’all. Pat is here. Let me tell her.”
“Hurry up,” Tammy yelled. “You heard Regina. We’re not waiting for you or Pat.”
Regina slapped Tammy on her hand. “You didn’t have to say all that. Make up your mind about your food so we can order and get out of here.”
They think I didn’t see them kissing because people entered and exited the back door. I saw them plain as day, locking lips. Pat was only sixteen, and that guy was way older than her.
He saw me out of the corner of his eyes. He released Pat’s lips immediately. “Tammy and Regina are here. I’m going with them.” I hurried to pack my food back in the bag.
“Really? We got a ride home?”
“No,” I responded harshly. “They’re walking. If you’re going with us you better come on. They gotta get home before Miss Ophelia knows they left the house.”
Pat laughed. “That’s funny. Momma and Daddy don’t know I left either. It’s almost 8:30. I’ve been gone since I got home from school.”
I huffed. How did we ever become friends? “Regina and Tammy should have their food by now.” I didn’t say anything to the old guy when I turned to leave. I heard Pat kiss him again before she ran to catch up with me.
Weird thing, Regina and Tammy waited loyally for me by the other entrance. I guess they didn’t want to walk home by themselves, either. Pat joined us for our venture home.
We were odd friends. Regina and Pat were the boy-getters. Regina was really attractive. Pat was semi-attractive, but she had a way of talking to guys. The girl was truly wild. Regina was the boy-shy type but also had some wiles about her. There was nothing shy about Pat. Tammy was pretty but a slow thinker. However, she was one of the nicest people I ever met.
I wasn’t attractive, a boy-getter, or shy. I had no trouble holding my tongue. Regina and I were honor roll students. Pat and I were comedians. Tammy and I were friends by default.
We crossed over Constance Road in front of Safeway. Then we waited for the light to change to walk past the jail and courthouse on the other side of North Main Street. Laughing and giggling without a care in the world, eating our food, we forgot the next day was a school day.
I focused on finding something to say to Momma if she asked me why I was late getting home. Pat and Regina walked shoulder to shoulder as Pat whispered to Regina. I knew exactly what the conversation was about – the two guys she encountered today. She shared it with Regina because she already knew I didn’t want to hear it. Tammy lagged along, shivering.
Suddenly, a car on the other side of the street rode by, and a guy yelled out the window at us. “Where y’all going? Can we go?”
Pat yelled back. “Take your ass home and stop yelling at us!” We broke out laughing, being silly on our casual trip home. We didn’t see the car ease up next to us a few minutes later. The driver had made a quick U-turn. The same guy hung out the window, grinning.
“You two are cute.” He pointed at Pat and Regina. Two guys in the back seat rolled down their windows and began howling obscenities at us. We dropped our food and took off running. Neither of us recognized them. All hell broke loose when we went our separate ways.
Passing the cemetery on North Main Street across from the post office, I cut through, moving like a greyhound. My legs and feet didn’t disappoint me.
Regina called after me, “Viola! Viola! Wait up?”
The car stopped, and three guys got out and began to chase us. “Why are you worried about her? Come here, cute thing.” One of them called Regina.
I hid behind a dusty, cracked statute three rows deep into the cemetery. By then, I heard somebody running through the cemetery, too. I peeped from behind the statue. It was Pat. I didn’t know she could run so fast. Tammy was fast on her heels, screaming at Pat.
“We can’t leave Regina! If something happens to my sister, my Momma will be real mad.”
Out of breath, Pat sat on a headstone near where I was hiding. Tammy stopped, too. Exhausted, standing in front of Pat with her hands planted on her hips, Tammy growled at Pat.
“Some friend you are! Why would you run away and not help my sister?”
“Shut up, Tammy. You sure can talk loud when you want to.” Pat was pissed. “Do you want those fools to find us?”
I cautiously inched out from behind the statute. Pat and Tammy saw my shadow moving toward them and screamed so loud they could have awakened the dead.
“Oh, my goodness. Shut up. Both of y’all have big mouths. Stop talking. You want those weirdos to find us?”
“You scared the living doo doo out of me,” Pat confessed. Tammy’s big eyes said what she was feeling. About that time, the wind started blowing hard. Cold and windy, the night was getting worse.
“Listen. Somebody is coming.” My ears honed in on the sounds in the cemetery.
The wind picked up while the footsteps were inching closer. We took off running again deeper into the cemetery, covering our faces from the wind and dust kicking up. After running for five more minutes, Regina called out for Tammy.
“Tammy. Tammy. Where are you?” Regina cupped her hands to her mouth. “Come on, girl! There’s only one way out of here. The back fences are locked. We have a ride.”
“That’s Regina.” Tammy stopped once she heard her voice over the wind. “We have to go back for my sister. Don’t you hear her calling me?”
Pat and I looked at each other. How did we know she was telling the truth? It could be a trick. We didn’t know what to do. Being in the cemetery seemed safer. Could we forgive ourselves if we were wrong and something happened to Regina?
I’ve seen many people take shortcuts through the cemetery on the corner of North Main Street and Constance Road. But that was during the day. The Mahan Street entrance at the back of the property housed monuments, a cannon, and mausoleums, where the fence was chained. There is no way out. All this excitement frightened me right down to my bones.
I was willing to take my chances and stay in the cemetery. My mother used to say, “The dead can’t hurt you.”
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
May 19, 2024
Misadventures of a Suffolk Teenager*The Boy In My Typing Class
It was the second week of September 1979. How do I know this? There are things you simply remember because.
First, I dreaded my typing class at John F. Kennedy High School. Miss Martin was a good teacher – kind, patient, and caring. It was the second week of peck-the-peck exercises we had to complete in beginner typing. It bored me to tears. Second, Ring My Bell by Anita Ward and Good Times by Chic were released in the summer of 1979 and were still being played on the radio. People were coming to class singing the songs. I was about sick of Ring My Bell. Third, I couldn't stop staring when he walked into Miss Martin’s typing class.
That feeling hits everyone. I don’t care where you are, what you’re doing, or who you’re with. Mine hit in 10th grade. Yep. The love bug hit me like a cinder block right upside my head. So, the story about “The Boy In My Typing Class” began.
He was the most handsome guy I ever saw in my life. Attractive, dark-skinned, quiet, and mysterious. His smile was so smooth and warm it could melt 20 inches of snow on a winter Philadelphia day.
I didn’t have a best friend to confide in. I was scared to admit to myself that I fell head over heels for this boy. It was a strange feeling. I had gone through high school up until now without a crush on anyone. I intentionally blocked it out of my mind. I made myself immune to such nonsense.
No decent boy would be interested in me, especially how I looked and dressed. My clothes came from the Salvation Army, the white people my mother worked for, or hand-me-downs from my sister and her friends. Nothing fitted me properly. Plus, the clothes were outdated.
By the time I was in 10th grade, my foot was a narrow size 10, my arms were skinny, and my legs were long. My butt was so flat you couldn’t tell my back from my front.
My hair…Ugh! I did my best when I washed it and used Grandma’s old straightening comb to pull out the kinks. The edges were awful. I was too afraid I would burn my hair out or leave a scar on the side of my face and temples. I wore my hair flat so no one would see the kinky edges. My mother didn’t have money to send me to a hairdresser, and she didn’t do it. So, I was left with no alternative but to handle it myself. Once again, what decent boy would be interested in me?
I had two things going for myself: I didn’t bother anyone. I was a quiet, nice person until I fired back at someone for bothering me first. I was also smart; an honor student. My name was always printed in the Suffolk News Herald each semester. How foolish of me. I thought those two things were enough. I wasn’t in any cliques. That was another plus. That said, I pursued this guy my way.
The day he walked into Miss Martin’s class, I sat at one of the Royal typewriters in the back of the class. All that was left in the right corner of the room were those old ones with jacked-up ribbons and a bell that dinged when you came to the end of your typing line.
He went to sit down and wasn’t pleased with the leftovers. That’s when he spoke. “These things don’t work. I can’t do my assignment.”
“Come up front and sit with me,” Miss Martin responded. “You can use my typewriter.”
“I’ll stay here.” He replied.
I got up, took one of the old typewriters, and let him sit at mine. He looked at me, continued chewing on his toothpick, moved his things to the desk, and never said thank you.
I struggled with the old typewriter while he finished his assignment on time, left class when the bell rang and never gave me a second look or thought. After that, I didn’t politely give up my Royal typewriter. He was always late and was lucky to get a good typewriter. I don’t care if he did or not. I stand by my first impression, though. He was good-looking and sexy.
After that, I always saw him around Kennedy with his friends. I knew the guys from East Suffolk (they never passed up a chance to tease me and call me ugly). The others I didn’t know. I wondered where he had come from. I know he wasn’t a product of East Suffolk. Perhaps he went to Driver Elementary and Driver Middle Schools?
One day, when I returned home from school, my mother handed me a letter. It was from the Suffolk School Board. The neighborhoods had been rezoned. Anyone who lived in North Jericho was reassigned to John Yeates. I was horrified. My days of seeing this boy were numbered. I had to do something to get him to notice me.
I found out his name and learned that he lived in Oakdale. I wrote it all over my notebooks. Of course I guarded my notebooks like Fort Knox. If they fell into the wrong hands, I would be the school's laughing stock. I was already unpopular because of where I lived, how I looked, and being poor.
One day, the drill team was behind Kennedy practicing. The loud, uncouth football team burst out the gym door and headed to the field for their practice. He was in the bunch. When I saw him in his uniform, drool spilled from my mouth. One of the (pretty, popular girls) on the drill team pointed at me and broke out laughing.
Of course, it was spread over the school that I had a crush on someone on the football team. Geez! My secret was no longer a secret. The girls on the drill team told their friends. I was laughed at and teased for months. They never found out who the boy was. I wasn’t that stupid.
The drill team was responsible for creating a fundraiser to pay for uniforms and a spot in the Suffolk Thanksgiving Day parade. Many of the girls decided on a “Tag Dance.” The girls in the school had to tag a boy for the dance. The tickets were blue and pink.
We each had to sell 5 sets of tickets for $10 – a ticket for him and a ticket for her. I worked cleaning houses for two white women on weekends. I asked Miss Briggs (on Wilroy Road) and Miss Howell (on Constance Road) for extra work so I could earn enough money to pay for my tickets.
Yes. My bravery came out of nowhere. I spotted him at his locker near the gym days before the dance. I walked up to the locker and handed the ticket to him. Not knowing what to expect, I stood there waiting for a response. He took the ticket and walked away. I guess he was embarrassed. I don’t know what was going through his mind. A simple thank you would have sufficed.
The night of the dance, he walked into the dance, hugging a ninth grader. I was so hurt. I spent the night of the dance up in the bleachers crying. I did all that work so he could attend the dance with a ninth-grader.
This didn’t deter me. I always looked for him when I went to the school dances at Kennedy, Booker T. Washington, and the Suffolk Armory. If his friends were there, I knew he would be too.
A strange thing happened at one of the dances at Booker T. one Saturday night. I was on the floor dancing to One Nation Under a Groove, and when the song ended, I sat down on the first row of the bleachers (the dance was held in the gym). The DJ put on a slow song. I never danced to those. I usually went outside for air or to the ladies' room.
Next thing, I realized he had come over and asked me to slow dance. He took my hand and led me to the floor. I had no clue how to slow dance. It didn’t take him long to find that out. He left me standing in the middle of the floor and looked for someone else.
I felt tall as an ant. I was ignorant about many things. My opportunity to put my arms around this guy left as quickly as it had come. My heart sank.
Time was running out. What was I going to do? He was a junior. I was a sophomore. This was my last year at Kennedy. He would graduate the next year and go live his life. I carried around his face in my mind for a long time.
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
First, I dreaded my typing class at John F. Kennedy High School. Miss Martin was a good teacher – kind, patient, and caring. It was the second week of peck-the-peck exercises we had to complete in beginner typing. It bored me to tears. Second, Ring My Bell by Anita Ward and Good Times by Chic were released in the summer of 1979 and were still being played on the radio. People were coming to class singing the songs. I was about sick of Ring My Bell. Third, I couldn't stop staring when he walked into Miss Martin’s typing class.
That feeling hits everyone. I don’t care where you are, what you’re doing, or who you’re with. Mine hit in 10th grade. Yep. The love bug hit me like a cinder block right upside my head. So, the story about “The Boy In My Typing Class” began.
He was the most handsome guy I ever saw in my life. Attractive, dark-skinned, quiet, and mysterious. His smile was so smooth and warm it could melt 20 inches of snow on a winter Philadelphia day.
I didn’t have a best friend to confide in. I was scared to admit to myself that I fell head over heels for this boy. It was a strange feeling. I had gone through high school up until now without a crush on anyone. I intentionally blocked it out of my mind. I made myself immune to such nonsense.
No decent boy would be interested in me, especially how I looked and dressed. My clothes came from the Salvation Army, the white people my mother worked for, or hand-me-downs from my sister and her friends. Nothing fitted me properly. Plus, the clothes were outdated.
By the time I was in 10th grade, my foot was a narrow size 10, my arms were skinny, and my legs were long. My butt was so flat you couldn’t tell my back from my front.
My hair…Ugh! I did my best when I washed it and used Grandma’s old straightening comb to pull out the kinks. The edges were awful. I was too afraid I would burn my hair out or leave a scar on the side of my face and temples. I wore my hair flat so no one would see the kinky edges. My mother didn’t have money to send me to a hairdresser, and she didn’t do it. So, I was left with no alternative but to handle it myself. Once again, what decent boy would be interested in me?
I had two things going for myself: I didn’t bother anyone. I was a quiet, nice person until I fired back at someone for bothering me first. I was also smart; an honor student. My name was always printed in the Suffolk News Herald each semester. How foolish of me. I thought those two things were enough. I wasn’t in any cliques. That was another plus. That said, I pursued this guy my way.
The day he walked into Miss Martin’s class, I sat at one of the Royal typewriters in the back of the class. All that was left in the right corner of the room were those old ones with jacked-up ribbons and a bell that dinged when you came to the end of your typing line.
He went to sit down and wasn’t pleased with the leftovers. That’s when he spoke. “These things don’t work. I can’t do my assignment.”
“Come up front and sit with me,” Miss Martin responded. “You can use my typewriter.”
“I’ll stay here.” He replied.
I got up, took one of the old typewriters, and let him sit at mine. He looked at me, continued chewing on his toothpick, moved his things to the desk, and never said thank you.
I struggled with the old typewriter while he finished his assignment on time, left class when the bell rang and never gave me a second look or thought. After that, I didn’t politely give up my Royal typewriter. He was always late and was lucky to get a good typewriter. I don’t care if he did or not. I stand by my first impression, though. He was good-looking and sexy.
After that, I always saw him around Kennedy with his friends. I knew the guys from East Suffolk (they never passed up a chance to tease me and call me ugly). The others I didn’t know. I wondered where he had come from. I know he wasn’t a product of East Suffolk. Perhaps he went to Driver Elementary and Driver Middle Schools?
One day, when I returned home from school, my mother handed me a letter. It was from the Suffolk School Board. The neighborhoods had been rezoned. Anyone who lived in North Jericho was reassigned to John Yeates. I was horrified. My days of seeing this boy were numbered. I had to do something to get him to notice me.
I found out his name and learned that he lived in Oakdale. I wrote it all over my notebooks. Of course I guarded my notebooks like Fort Knox. If they fell into the wrong hands, I would be the school's laughing stock. I was already unpopular because of where I lived, how I looked, and being poor.
One day, the drill team was behind Kennedy practicing. The loud, uncouth football team burst out the gym door and headed to the field for their practice. He was in the bunch. When I saw him in his uniform, drool spilled from my mouth. One of the (pretty, popular girls) on the drill team pointed at me and broke out laughing.
Of course, it was spread over the school that I had a crush on someone on the football team. Geez! My secret was no longer a secret. The girls on the drill team told their friends. I was laughed at and teased for months. They never found out who the boy was. I wasn’t that stupid.
The drill team was responsible for creating a fundraiser to pay for uniforms and a spot in the Suffolk Thanksgiving Day parade. Many of the girls decided on a “Tag Dance.” The girls in the school had to tag a boy for the dance. The tickets were blue and pink.
We each had to sell 5 sets of tickets for $10 – a ticket for him and a ticket for her. I worked cleaning houses for two white women on weekends. I asked Miss Briggs (on Wilroy Road) and Miss Howell (on Constance Road) for extra work so I could earn enough money to pay for my tickets.
Yes. My bravery came out of nowhere. I spotted him at his locker near the gym days before the dance. I walked up to the locker and handed the ticket to him. Not knowing what to expect, I stood there waiting for a response. He took the ticket and walked away. I guess he was embarrassed. I don’t know what was going through his mind. A simple thank you would have sufficed.
The night of the dance, he walked into the dance, hugging a ninth grader. I was so hurt. I spent the night of the dance up in the bleachers crying. I did all that work so he could attend the dance with a ninth-grader.
This didn’t deter me. I always looked for him when I went to the school dances at Kennedy, Booker T. Washington, and the Suffolk Armory. If his friends were there, I knew he would be too.
A strange thing happened at one of the dances at Booker T. one Saturday night. I was on the floor dancing to One Nation Under a Groove, and when the song ended, I sat down on the first row of the bleachers (the dance was held in the gym). The DJ put on a slow song. I never danced to those. I usually went outside for air or to the ladies' room.
Next thing, I realized he had come over and asked me to slow dance. He took my hand and led me to the floor. I had no clue how to slow dance. It didn’t take him long to find that out. He left me standing in the middle of the floor and looked for someone else.
I felt tall as an ant. I was ignorant about many things. My opportunity to put my arms around this guy left as quickly as it had come. My heart sank.
Time was running out. What was I going to do? He was a junior. I was a sophomore. This was my last year at Kennedy. He would graduate the next year and go live his life. I carried around his face in my mind for a long time.
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
April 16, 2024
At Stake - Part II- A Question Of Stalking
At Stake - Part II- A Question Of Stalking
Sunday, June 27, 2021, 7 PM
Rushford: Great evening, America. I'm Gates Rushford, your host. Welcome to Rushford's BarNon Inmate Talk. My weekly investigative news magazine program airs every Sunday. It advocates for those who believe they've been wrongfully accused. The show's concept is to bring in-depth inmate interviews to the public to determine if they were accused unjustly.
Rushmore's BarNon Inmate Talk's legal team takes on an inmate's case pro bono if new information is uncovered during the interview to warrant a new trial. This includes me, having served as a defense attorney for more than thirty years.
I'm at Belford Women's Prison in Hopewell Township, New Jersey. Our subject tonight is Giana Yvette Bonair.
As a recap, Ms. Bonair, a nursing student attending Ewing College of Allied Health, was accused of murdering forty-eight-year-old millionaire founder and CEO of Faylor Consumer Goods, Hannah Bolden Faylor.
Interview
Rushford: Once you accepted her dinner invitation to her house as an apology for the jar of gravy incident, did you have further encounters with her?
Giana: (She looks away from the camera, thinking). Yeah. I did. As a matter of fact, she showed up at my church on Cadwalader Drive in West Trenton. Took me for a loop.
Rushford: (Shifts in his seat). How did she know what church you attended?
Giana: (Leans forward. Looked Rushford directly in his eyes without flinching). Your guess is as good as mine. Come to think of it, that was strange. When she walked into the church, she was the center of attention, especially how she was dressed. She must have worn $3,500 worth of designer jewelry and designer clothes that day. I laughed inside. She obviously didn’t realize the neighborhood she was in. A white woman in the hood wearing that expensive stuff didn’t value her life or her property.
The fact that she was white was an afterthought. Looking like she had stepped off the runway of an international modeling show, she came and sat right beside me as if I was expecting her. The pew was overcrowded. People had no elbow or breathing room after she squeezed between me and toothless Mrs. Hazelwood.
Rushford: Did you sense that something was off about this encounter?
Giana: I can’t tell people how to live their life or where to go. This is a free country.
Rushford: (Huffing, he couldn’t believe the ignorance of this young woman). Would you say Ms. Fowler was stalking you?
Giana: Stalking me? Stalking me. Have you lost your mind? What reason would that woman have to stalk me? I didn’t know her, and she didn’t know me. We had a casual encounter in the supermarket where I work. I went to her house for dinner as a gesture of kindness.
Rushford: Has she ever been to your house? Tell me about additional encounters with her before you two became friends. I know she was sick. You accompanied her to the hospital. The staff believed she was your adopted mother.
Giana: After that first dinner, I didn’t think anything of it. She began showing up at my job more, buying things she didn’t need. I saw her several times in the parking lot where I go to school. Twice, when I was having dinner with my boyfriend, she was seated on the other side of the restaurant. I noticed it when I went to the ladies' room.
Rushford: That sounds like stalking to me. Or do you see it as a cry for help? She had no family in the city. Apparently, she saw something in you and did everything she could to get your attention.
Giana: (Shrugged). I told you once before, Mr. Rushford, that I can’t tell people where to go and how to live their lives. Get my attention? That sounds childish to me. Ms. Faylor was a grown-ass woman. I may be young, but I’m not stupid. You’re the one who sounds really stupid right now. Why would anyone want to stalk me for attention? The woman wasn’t gay. She’s told me about her steamy past lovers. Lonely, maybe, but in a weird kinda way.
Rushford: (Ignoring the fact that Giana called him stupid). What would you say if I told you, according to my sources, Ms. Faylor hired a private investigator to follow you?
Giana: (Her mouth dropped. Shock and disbelief registered on her face). You have got to be kidding me. What would she want with me? This is all too much. I want to go back to my cell. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.
Rushford: I understand this is difficult for you. However, the only way to clear your name, in my opinion, is to continue with this interview. Could the private investigator have killed Ms. Faylor?
Giana: This is sickening. Didn’t I just tell you I knew nothing about a private investigator? Besides, I was never told what actually killed the lady – the cancer or the Thallium.
Rushford: It was officially reported as death by Thallium.
Giana: Well. I didn’t give it to her.
Rushford: Tell me about your family. Did Ms. Faylor meet any of them? If so, were they aware of her wealth?
Giana: So what are you saying? Someone in my family could have killed her?
Rushford: Who do you live with? Your family. Tell me about your family.
Giana: I live with my forty-two-year-old twin aunts: my mother’s younger sisters, Victoria and Mallory. Aunt Vicky has a seventeen-year-old son, Golan. They wouldn’t hurt a flea –either of them. My aunts took me in after my mother passed away.
Rushford: Did she pass away, or was she murdered? You may want to pay close attention to your family. Your cousin has a sealed record of a felony he committed at fourteen. When did your aunts relocate from Augusta, Georgia, to Trenton?
(Giana’s face went blank. She didn’t have time to respond to the new revelations).
I’m afraid we’re out of time. Thank you for joining me this evening.
Let’s get together again next week to continue this candid talk with Giana Yvette Bonair, the nursing student accused of murdering forty-eight-year-old millionaire founder and CEO of Faylor Consumer Goods, Hannah Bolden Faylor.
Until next time, this is Gates Rushford, your candid host of BarNon Inmate Talk.
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
Sunday, June 27, 2021, 7 PM
Rushford: Great evening, America. I'm Gates Rushford, your host. Welcome to Rushford's BarNon Inmate Talk. My weekly investigative news magazine program airs every Sunday. It advocates for those who believe they've been wrongfully accused. The show's concept is to bring in-depth inmate interviews to the public to determine if they were accused unjustly.
Rushmore's BarNon Inmate Talk's legal team takes on an inmate's case pro bono if new information is uncovered during the interview to warrant a new trial. This includes me, having served as a defense attorney for more than thirty years.
I'm at Belford Women's Prison in Hopewell Township, New Jersey. Our subject tonight is Giana Yvette Bonair.
As a recap, Ms. Bonair, a nursing student attending Ewing College of Allied Health, was accused of murdering forty-eight-year-old millionaire founder and CEO of Faylor Consumer Goods, Hannah Bolden Faylor.
Interview
Rushford: Once you accepted her dinner invitation to her house as an apology for the jar of gravy incident, did you have further encounters with her?
Giana: (She looks away from the camera, thinking). Yeah. I did. As a matter of fact, she showed up at my church on Cadwalader Drive in West Trenton. Took me for a loop.
Rushford: (Shifts in his seat). How did she know what church you attended?
Giana: (Leans forward. Looked Rushford directly in his eyes without flinching). Your guess is as good as mine. Come to think of it, that was strange. When she walked into the church, she was the center of attention, especially how she was dressed. She must have worn $3,500 worth of designer jewelry and designer clothes that day. I laughed inside. She obviously didn’t realize the neighborhood she was in. A white woman in the hood wearing that expensive stuff didn’t value her life or her property.
The fact that she was white was an afterthought. Looking like she had stepped off the runway of an international modeling show, she came and sat right beside me as if I was expecting her. The pew was overcrowded. People had no elbow or breathing room after she squeezed between me and toothless Mrs. Hazelwood.
Rushford: Did you sense that something was off about this encounter?
Giana: I can’t tell people how to live their life or where to go. This is a free country.
Rushford: (Huffing, he couldn’t believe the ignorance of this young woman). Would you say Ms. Fowler was stalking you?
Giana: Stalking me? Stalking me. Have you lost your mind? What reason would that woman have to stalk me? I didn’t know her, and she didn’t know me. We had a casual encounter in the supermarket where I work. I went to her house for dinner as a gesture of kindness.
Rushford: Has she ever been to your house? Tell me about additional encounters with her before you two became friends. I know she was sick. You accompanied her to the hospital. The staff believed she was your adopted mother.
Giana: After that first dinner, I didn’t think anything of it. She began showing up at my job more, buying things she didn’t need. I saw her several times in the parking lot where I go to school. Twice, when I was having dinner with my boyfriend, she was seated on the other side of the restaurant. I noticed it when I went to the ladies' room.
Rushford: That sounds like stalking to me. Or do you see it as a cry for help? She had no family in the city. Apparently, she saw something in you and did everything she could to get your attention.
Giana: (Shrugged). I told you once before, Mr. Rushford, that I can’t tell people where to go and how to live their lives. Get my attention? That sounds childish to me. Ms. Faylor was a grown-ass woman. I may be young, but I’m not stupid. You’re the one who sounds really stupid right now. Why would anyone want to stalk me for attention? The woman wasn’t gay. She’s told me about her steamy past lovers. Lonely, maybe, but in a weird kinda way.
Rushford: (Ignoring the fact that Giana called him stupid). What would you say if I told you, according to my sources, Ms. Faylor hired a private investigator to follow you?
Giana: (Her mouth dropped. Shock and disbelief registered on her face). You have got to be kidding me. What would she want with me? This is all too much. I want to go back to my cell. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.
Rushford: I understand this is difficult for you. However, the only way to clear your name, in my opinion, is to continue with this interview. Could the private investigator have killed Ms. Faylor?
Giana: This is sickening. Didn’t I just tell you I knew nothing about a private investigator? Besides, I was never told what actually killed the lady – the cancer or the Thallium.
Rushford: It was officially reported as death by Thallium.
Giana: Well. I didn’t give it to her.
Rushford: Tell me about your family. Did Ms. Faylor meet any of them? If so, were they aware of her wealth?
Giana: So what are you saying? Someone in my family could have killed her?
Rushford: Who do you live with? Your family. Tell me about your family.
Giana: I live with my forty-two-year-old twin aunts: my mother’s younger sisters, Victoria and Mallory. Aunt Vicky has a seventeen-year-old son, Golan. They wouldn’t hurt a flea –either of them. My aunts took me in after my mother passed away.
Rushford: Did she pass away, or was she murdered? You may want to pay close attention to your family. Your cousin has a sealed record of a felony he committed at fourteen. When did your aunts relocate from Augusta, Georgia, to Trenton?
(Giana’s face went blank. She didn’t have time to respond to the new revelations).
I’m afraid we’re out of time. Thank you for joining me this evening.
Let’s get together again next week to continue this candid talk with Giana Yvette Bonair, the nursing student accused of murdering forty-eight-year-old millionaire founder and CEO of Faylor Consumer Goods, Hannah Bolden Faylor.
Until next time, this is Gates Rushford, your candid host of BarNon Inmate Talk.
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
March 24, 2024
Cul De Sac Diaries: Part II Girlfriend Secrecy
March 2024 Blog
"Quinn. Listen to me carefully. You need to stop talking so much. I don't care about those corny people on your job. I got something to top those silly people you work with five times over."
"You clean houses for white people. What is so interesting about that? They're all the same- filthy rich with their heads high in the clouds."
"Ha! Yes and no. What're you doing right now?"
"Kenda, sweetie, it's 5:30 a.m. Saturday. What do you think I'm doing? I was counting sheep until you blew my phone up."
"Get in your car and come over right now. I want to show you something."
"Bahahaha! You got jokes. I'm taking my black butt back to sleep. I worked twelve hours yesterday."
"What I have to show you will make us rich. Once you see them, the last thing you want to do is go back to sleep. Oh, big mouth, what I tell you from now on is strictly between us."
"Why can't you come here if it's so hush-hush? Norristown isn't that far from Philly."
"I had to leave my car at Maxine's last night. It wouldn't start. She gave me a loaner."
"Why can't you drive it over here?"
"I’m not driving that car around Philly! People will think I’m a drug dealer or a woman of the street corners. Just get up and come on over here. The next time I start that car, I will return it to Maxine. Bye!”
Kenda hung up on the person who’s been her best friend since seventh grade. They were like white on rice. Inseparable. Funny thing, the two ladies were opposite as night and day.
After high school, Quinn worked for a year in retail. She despised the job and decided it wasn’t for her. Something better had to be on the other side of selling clothes, accessories, and handbags.
Her parents agreed to support her when she enrolled in Philadelphia County Community College to study Medical Billing and Coding. They weren’t thrilled about her career choice, though. Neither understood how she could make money in the industry. On her first try, she passed her medical coding exam to become certified. Quinn found a job in a hospital billing office in West Philadelphia within six weeks, earning twenty-three dollars an hour. Sometimes, she worked overtime in the Health Information Management department, coding medical records charts.
On the other hand, Kenda still hadn’t settled on a “career”, yet. The only reason she’s still working for her mother is the job's flexibility. Besides, supporting her mother’s business was a grand idea.
Kenda showered and dressed. Within thirty minutes, her doorbell rang. She started the coffeemaker, made eggs, toast, bacon, and grits. Quinn’s stomach was like a bottomless pit.
“Hold on, girl. I’m coming. Stop leaning on the doorbell. Geez!”
“Whatever you have to show me better be damn good. I had plans this morning.”
“What plans? Please! You don’t have any plans. Why are you always making up stuff? Your life is boring as hell. You need to find a boyfriend.”
“Kenda, show me something, or I’m going back home. I don’t have time for your juvenile jokes today.”
“Get something to eat. I’ll be right back.”
Kenda scurried upstairs, snatched two journals from under her mattress, then raced back downstairs.
She poured a cup of coffee and sat at the table with Quinn.
“The car Maxine let me drive home last night belongs to her soon-to-be ex-husband, Macon. The journals are his. I found them stuffed in the trunk.”
She didn’t give Quinn a chance to say anything. Besides, her mouth was filled with toast and eggs. “I read one last night. They’re journals that Macon kept on all their neighbors.”
“So. What about them?” Quinn shrugged, uninterested.
“You can be very dull and thick sometimes, Quinn. I honestly don’t know how we stayed friends for all these years. Listen while I read to you. This is the one I read last night when I arrived home.”
Quinn helped herself to the food while Kenda continued to explain the journals.
“The people living on Maxine’s block are Greer & Mosley Powers; Hartley & Foster Montgomery; Donata & Stanley Lawrence; and Colvie Lansing. Macon wrote about each household in these journals.”
“Like I said, stuck-up rich white folks are all alike.”
Kenda threw her hand up. “We’re sitting on a gold mine. Blackmail. Just hear me out.” She opened the book and began to read . . .
Foster is a prick! The biggest one I’ve ever met in my life. I offered to help him hide the woman’s body for $300,000. He didn’t want to part with the money. Eventually, his son Griffin was caught trying to stuff her naked body in the dumpster behind the convenience store where she worked on Bryn Mawr Avenue.
It’s not like he didn’t have the money—a wealthy Wall Street banker with offices in Philly and New York. What people do for their children boggles my mind. That lazy SOB son is the second biggest prick I’ve ever met. This wasn’t the first time he’d attacked a date on his parent’s property, and they dismissed it. I’ll get into that later.
The junior college dropout is currently sitting behind bars waiting for a trial. Foster must have bedded every female judge in the tri-state area to ensure the jerk walks for stuffing Salmon down the girl’s throat, choking her to death. Why did he kill her? She refused to go out with him again because of his frightening temper.
Twenty-four-year-old Griffin punched the waiter for bringing him iced tea with no ice or lemon during their dinner date. Then he twisted the guy’s arm until he screamed and shoved the guy toward the kitchen in his butt with his left foot.
The boy definitely has anger management issues. Maybe he’s angry because his mother is so stupid she can’t pour water from a boot with the directions written on the heels.
Hartley is a dizzy, unattractive broad. I admit she’s got a banging body. I’ve thought about getting with her a few times. I would cover her head with a pillowcase so I wouldn’t have to look at her jacked-up face.
How in the world did she and Foster meet? It sure wasn’t in college. Hartley has said time and time again school wasn’t for her. When she lived in North Carolina with her grandmother years ago, she chose a college, went there every day for a year, and sat in various classes to get the feel of going to college. How idiotic is that?
Anyway, the fool woman wanted to give the dead girl a complete makeover before her husband and son were ready to dump her in the trash. Who buys a $1,000 outfit to put on a dead body of someone you don’t know just to toss her body in the garbage?
How do I know all of this? I’ve often played poker with Foster and his buddies in his home. I lost count. His social circle is certainly strange. (Don’t ask). I’m going to leave this topic right here for now. This is about Foster, not his weird friends.
Anyway, three days after Griffin was arraigned for murder, Foster called me to come over; said he had something to discuss with me. The man sounded desperate. This was around 7 p.m. Maxine was out with her girlfriends. I didn’t have anything to do. I showered, dressed, and strolled on over.
I smelled food the moment he opened the door. It was then I realized how hungry I was because my stomach betrayed me.
“Macon, come on in. Glad to see you.”
I stepped inside cautiously. Foster’s eyes were red as if he had been crying.
“No problem. I was bored anyway. Binge-watching Gomer Pyle.”
“I hope you’re hungry. I ordered food from Le Dejour Restaurant.”
Warning signs flashed before my eyes. This dude was up to something. “How’s Hartley?” I made small talk.
“She’s great; upstairs getting dressed. I imagine she’ll be down momentarily. In the meantime, can I offer you a drink?”
“Uh. How about a Vodka on the rocks?” We walked toward his elaborate bar, next to the enormous dining room with the ten thousand dollar gold chandelier.”
Feeling uncomfortable, I finally addressed Foster. I didn’t like the vibes he was sending out into the atmosphere. Before long, Hartley joined us. She eyed me with sensual eyes. Foster made her a martini with a black Olive. He didn’t care that his wife flirted with me.
“What’s this all about, Foster?”
The couple looked at each other and then back at me.
“We want you to do us a favor.” Hartley started.
“Shh, Hartley. I’ll do this.” Foster put his right index finger to his lips to silence his wife.
“What kind of favor?” My whole body became tense.
“We want you to claim the dead girl was your daughter from a past relationship. A friend of mine who’s a detective ran a background check on her. She has no family in the area. Her grandmother passed away three years ago, whom she was living with. Tell the court that her death was an accident, and you’re not going to press charges against Griffin. I know a pathologist who can put on her autopsy report that her death was accidental.”
I sat my drink down on the bar, looked at these morons with angry eyes. “You’ve lost your damn mind. Excuse me. Enjoy your dinner.” I left the room quickly.
“Macon. Macon! Please. I can pay you $500,000 in cash right now, and Hartley will sleep with you. She’s an incredible lover.”
I stopped in my tracks - $500,000 is a lot of money.
Quinn dropped her fork. Her mouth fell open. I had her attention now!
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
"Quinn. Listen to me carefully. You need to stop talking so much. I don't care about those corny people on your job. I got something to top those silly people you work with five times over."
"You clean houses for white people. What is so interesting about that? They're all the same- filthy rich with their heads high in the clouds."
"Ha! Yes and no. What're you doing right now?"
"Kenda, sweetie, it's 5:30 a.m. Saturday. What do you think I'm doing? I was counting sheep until you blew my phone up."
"Get in your car and come over right now. I want to show you something."
"Bahahaha! You got jokes. I'm taking my black butt back to sleep. I worked twelve hours yesterday."
"What I have to show you will make us rich. Once you see them, the last thing you want to do is go back to sleep. Oh, big mouth, what I tell you from now on is strictly between us."
"Why can't you come here if it's so hush-hush? Norristown isn't that far from Philly."
"I had to leave my car at Maxine's last night. It wouldn't start. She gave me a loaner."
"Why can't you drive it over here?"
"I’m not driving that car around Philly! People will think I’m a drug dealer or a woman of the street corners. Just get up and come on over here. The next time I start that car, I will return it to Maxine. Bye!”
Kenda hung up on the person who’s been her best friend since seventh grade. They were like white on rice. Inseparable. Funny thing, the two ladies were opposite as night and day.
After high school, Quinn worked for a year in retail. She despised the job and decided it wasn’t for her. Something better had to be on the other side of selling clothes, accessories, and handbags.
Her parents agreed to support her when she enrolled in Philadelphia County Community College to study Medical Billing and Coding. They weren’t thrilled about her career choice, though. Neither understood how she could make money in the industry. On her first try, she passed her medical coding exam to become certified. Quinn found a job in a hospital billing office in West Philadelphia within six weeks, earning twenty-three dollars an hour. Sometimes, she worked overtime in the Health Information Management department, coding medical records charts.
On the other hand, Kenda still hadn’t settled on a “career”, yet. The only reason she’s still working for her mother is the job's flexibility. Besides, supporting her mother’s business was a grand idea.
Kenda showered and dressed. Within thirty minutes, her doorbell rang. She started the coffeemaker, made eggs, toast, bacon, and grits. Quinn’s stomach was like a bottomless pit.
“Hold on, girl. I’m coming. Stop leaning on the doorbell. Geez!”
“Whatever you have to show me better be damn good. I had plans this morning.”
“What plans? Please! You don’t have any plans. Why are you always making up stuff? Your life is boring as hell. You need to find a boyfriend.”
“Kenda, show me something, or I’m going back home. I don’t have time for your juvenile jokes today.”
“Get something to eat. I’ll be right back.”
Kenda scurried upstairs, snatched two journals from under her mattress, then raced back downstairs.
She poured a cup of coffee and sat at the table with Quinn.
“The car Maxine let me drive home last night belongs to her soon-to-be ex-husband, Macon. The journals are his. I found them stuffed in the trunk.”
She didn’t give Quinn a chance to say anything. Besides, her mouth was filled with toast and eggs. “I read one last night. They’re journals that Macon kept on all their neighbors.”
“So. What about them?” Quinn shrugged, uninterested.
“You can be very dull and thick sometimes, Quinn. I honestly don’t know how we stayed friends for all these years. Listen while I read to you. This is the one I read last night when I arrived home.”
Quinn helped herself to the food while Kenda continued to explain the journals.
“The people living on Maxine’s block are Greer & Mosley Powers; Hartley & Foster Montgomery; Donata & Stanley Lawrence; and Colvie Lansing. Macon wrote about each household in these journals.”
“Like I said, stuck-up rich white folks are all alike.”
Kenda threw her hand up. “We’re sitting on a gold mine. Blackmail. Just hear me out.” She opened the book and began to read . . .
Foster is a prick! The biggest one I’ve ever met in my life. I offered to help him hide the woman’s body for $300,000. He didn’t want to part with the money. Eventually, his son Griffin was caught trying to stuff her naked body in the dumpster behind the convenience store where she worked on Bryn Mawr Avenue.
It’s not like he didn’t have the money—a wealthy Wall Street banker with offices in Philly and New York. What people do for their children boggles my mind. That lazy SOB son is the second biggest prick I’ve ever met. This wasn’t the first time he’d attacked a date on his parent’s property, and they dismissed it. I’ll get into that later.
The junior college dropout is currently sitting behind bars waiting for a trial. Foster must have bedded every female judge in the tri-state area to ensure the jerk walks for stuffing Salmon down the girl’s throat, choking her to death. Why did he kill her? She refused to go out with him again because of his frightening temper.
Twenty-four-year-old Griffin punched the waiter for bringing him iced tea with no ice or lemon during their dinner date. Then he twisted the guy’s arm until he screamed and shoved the guy toward the kitchen in his butt with his left foot.
The boy definitely has anger management issues. Maybe he’s angry because his mother is so stupid she can’t pour water from a boot with the directions written on the heels.
Hartley is a dizzy, unattractive broad. I admit she’s got a banging body. I’ve thought about getting with her a few times. I would cover her head with a pillowcase so I wouldn’t have to look at her jacked-up face.
How in the world did she and Foster meet? It sure wasn’t in college. Hartley has said time and time again school wasn’t for her. When she lived in North Carolina with her grandmother years ago, she chose a college, went there every day for a year, and sat in various classes to get the feel of going to college. How idiotic is that?
Anyway, the fool woman wanted to give the dead girl a complete makeover before her husband and son were ready to dump her in the trash. Who buys a $1,000 outfit to put on a dead body of someone you don’t know just to toss her body in the garbage?
How do I know all of this? I’ve often played poker with Foster and his buddies in his home. I lost count. His social circle is certainly strange. (Don’t ask). I’m going to leave this topic right here for now. This is about Foster, not his weird friends.
Anyway, three days after Griffin was arraigned for murder, Foster called me to come over; said he had something to discuss with me. The man sounded desperate. This was around 7 p.m. Maxine was out with her girlfriends. I didn’t have anything to do. I showered, dressed, and strolled on over.
I smelled food the moment he opened the door. It was then I realized how hungry I was because my stomach betrayed me.
“Macon, come on in. Glad to see you.”
I stepped inside cautiously. Foster’s eyes were red as if he had been crying.
“No problem. I was bored anyway. Binge-watching Gomer Pyle.”
“I hope you’re hungry. I ordered food from Le Dejour Restaurant.”
Warning signs flashed before my eyes. This dude was up to something. “How’s Hartley?” I made small talk.
“She’s great; upstairs getting dressed. I imagine she’ll be down momentarily. In the meantime, can I offer you a drink?”
“Uh. How about a Vodka on the rocks?” We walked toward his elaborate bar, next to the enormous dining room with the ten thousand dollar gold chandelier.”
Feeling uncomfortable, I finally addressed Foster. I didn’t like the vibes he was sending out into the atmosphere. Before long, Hartley joined us. She eyed me with sensual eyes. Foster made her a martini with a black Olive. He didn’t care that his wife flirted with me.
“What’s this all about, Foster?”
The couple looked at each other and then back at me.
“We want you to do us a favor.” Hartley started.
“Shh, Hartley. I’ll do this.” Foster put his right index finger to his lips to silence his wife.
“What kind of favor?” My whole body became tense.
“We want you to claim the dead girl was your daughter from a past relationship. A friend of mine who’s a detective ran a background check on her. She has no family in the area. Her grandmother passed away three years ago, whom she was living with. Tell the court that her death was an accident, and you’re not going to press charges against Griffin. I know a pathologist who can put on her autopsy report that her death was accidental.”
I sat my drink down on the bar, looked at these morons with angry eyes. “You’ve lost your damn mind. Excuse me. Enjoy your dinner.” I left the room quickly.
“Macon. Macon! Please. I can pay you $500,000 in cash right now, and Hartley will sleep with you. She’s an incredible lover.”
I stopped in my tracks - $500,000 is a lot of money.
Quinn dropped her fork. Her mouth fell open. I had her attention now!
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
February 15, 2024
At Stake-Part I Candid Conversation
At Stake-Part I Candid Conversation
Sunday, June 20, 2021, 7 PM
Rushford: Great evening, America. I'm Gates Rushford, your host. Welcome to Rushford's BarNon Inmate Talk. My weekly investigative news magazine program airs every Sunday. It advocates for those who believe they have been wrongfully imprisoned. The show's concept is to bring in-depth inmate interviews to the public to determine if they were accused unjustly.
Rushford's BarNon Inmate Talk's legal team, which includes me, takes on an inmate's case pro bono if new information is uncovered during the interview to warrant a new trial. Having served as a defense attorney for over thirty years, I’m on the side of justice.
This evening, I'm at Belford Women's Prison in Hopewell Township, New Jersey. Our subject tonight is Giana Yvette Bonair.
For audience awareness, tell us about your life before your unfortunate incarceration.
Giana: I worked in Daily Discount Food Store in Hamilton Township on Klockner Road and attended Ewing College of Nursing and Allied Health. I had a boyfriend, but he enlisted in the Marines after my arrest.
Rushford: Do you recall your first encounter with Hannah Bolden Faylor?
Giana: She was just a lady shopping at Daily Discount Food Store. I didn't pay her any mind. My goal was to do my job as a cashier, clock out on time, and go to the library to study for my Pharmacology final exam.
Rushford: Do you recall your second encounter with her? What were the circumstances?
Giana: She returned to the store an hour later and accused me of charging her twice for a jar of brown gravy and not putting it in her bag. She reported me to the store manager by insisting management deduct the charge from my pay and replace her gravy.
Rushford: What happened after that?
Giana: A week later, she invited me to her house for dinner to apologize for her mistake. The jar of gravy had fallen out of the bag onto her back seat. It was hidden under some clothes. She found it the day after.
Rushford: So, you’re in prison because of a lady and a jar of brown gravy?
Giana: No. I’m in prison because I was accused of killing her.
Rushford: How did you go from a jar of brown gravy to murder?
Giana: Hell if I know. I accepted her dinner invitation, and one thing led to another. We became friends. She was like the mother I never knew. One evening, while we were having dinner, she collapsed. I called an ambulance immediately. She had no family, so I lied and told them she was my mother. They permitted me to ride with her in the ambulance.
Rushford: What was the cause of her death?
Giana: Cancer. She had Esophageal cancer. I didn’t know.
Rushford: According to news reports, her autopsy revealed Thallium in her system.
Giana: (Silence)
Rushford: Do you know how the Thallium got into her system?
Giana: No.
Rushford: When did you discover she was the founder and CEO of Faylor Consumer Goods, headquartered in Raliegh, North Carolina?
Giana: When her obituary appeared in the newspaper.
Rushford: This is the first time you realized who she was?
Giana: Yes. I don’t usually pay attention to stories about rich folks. I work. I go to school. I enjoy time with my friends and family. They’re in a different league.
Rushford: You didn’t know about her family?
Giana: Not a clue. I have some questions. Why was she living a secret life in New Jersey in a neighborhood of average working people? What was she hiding from? Why did she lie to me and tell me she had no family?
Rushford: Walk me through the day you were arrested.
Giana: It’s not much to walk through. The police asked me if they could search my house. I agreed. I had nothing to hide. One of the officers found the Thallium in my home. I was baffled when they took it from my kitchen cabinet and put it in an evidence bag. That’s when they arrested me for probable cause. That was a year ago.
Rushford: What additional evidence did they have on you?
Giana: Nothing. My lawyers told me there was no other evidence. They said I should get off easy.
Rushford: You were represented by attorneys from Galland, Haskett, and Mayes. They’re not public defenders or defense attorneys. They specialize in representing health care systems.
Why did you allow them to come to your defense? Could it be they want you incarcerated for life so they can take over the other half of Bolden Faylor's assets left to you in her will? The second half of her assets were willed to several cancer research hospitals. Two beneficiaries, you, and cancer research, will split over seven hundred million dollars.
Giana: I don’t know. I was a nineteen-year-old nursing student.
Rushford: Why do you think she didn't leave her family anything in her will?
Giana: I can’t answer that question either.
Rushford: They’re suing you, contesting her will. Claiming she wasn’t in her right mind.
Giana: I don’t know those people. Apparently, I barely knew Ms. Bolden Faylor.
Rushford: Are you afraid?
Giana: Of course, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t you be? There’s a possibility I could spend the rest of my life in prison.
Rushford: What are your plans if you're released?
Giana: If I’m not too old. I want to become a pediatric nurse.
Rushford: Thank you for joining me this evening. We’ll continue this interview next week. Join me then for another candid talk with Giana Yvette Bonair, the naïve nursing student accused of murdering forty-eight-year-old millionaire Hannah Bolden Faylor, founder and CEO of Faylor Consumer Goods.
© 2024 VM Roberts
March Blog: Cul De Sac Diaries: Part II Girlfriend Secrecy
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
Sunday, June 20, 2021, 7 PM
Rushford: Great evening, America. I'm Gates Rushford, your host. Welcome to Rushford's BarNon Inmate Talk. My weekly investigative news magazine program airs every Sunday. It advocates for those who believe they have been wrongfully imprisoned. The show's concept is to bring in-depth inmate interviews to the public to determine if they were accused unjustly.
Rushford's BarNon Inmate Talk's legal team, which includes me, takes on an inmate's case pro bono if new information is uncovered during the interview to warrant a new trial. Having served as a defense attorney for over thirty years, I’m on the side of justice.
This evening, I'm at Belford Women's Prison in Hopewell Township, New Jersey. Our subject tonight is Giana Yvette Bonair.
For audience awareness, tell us about your life before your unfortunate incarceration.
Giana: I worked in Daily Discount Food Store in Hamilton Township on Klockner Road and attended Ewing College of Nursing and Allied Health. I had a boyfriend, but he enlisted in the Marines after my arrest.
Rushford: Do you recall your first encounter with Hannah Bolden Faylor?
Giana: She was just a lady shopping at Daily Discount Food Store. I didn't pay her any mind. My goal was to do my job as a cashier, clock out on time, and go to the library to study for my Pharmacology final exam.
Rushford: Do you recall your second encounter with her? What were the circumstances?
Giana: She returned to the store an hour later and accused me of charging her twice for a jar of brown gravy and not putting it in her bag. She reported me to the store manager by insisting management deduct the charge from my pay and replace her gravy.
Rushford: What happened after that?
Giana: A week later, she invited me to her house for dinner to apologize for her mistake. The jar of gravy had fallen out of the bag onto her back seat. It was hidden under some clothes. She found it the day after.
Rushford: So, you’re in prison because of a lady and a jar of brown gravy?
Giana: No. I’m in prison because I was accused of killing her.
Rushford: How did you go from a jar of brown gravy to murder?
Giana: Hell if I know. I accepted her dinner invitation, and one thing led to another. We became friends. She was like the mother I never knew. One evening, while we were having dinner, she collapsed. I called an ambulance immediately. She had no family, so I lied and told them she was my mother. They permitted me to ride with her in the ambulance.
Rushford: What was the cause of her death?
Giana: Cancer. She had Esophageal cancer. I didn’t know.
Rushford: According to news reports, her autopsy revealed Thallium in her system.
Giana: (Silence)
Rushford: Do you know how the Thallium got into her system?
Giana: No.
Rushford: When did you discover she was the founder and CEO of Faylor Consumer Goods, headquartered in Raliegh, North Carolina?
Giana: When her obituary appeared in the newspaper.
Rushford: This is the first time you realized who she was?
Giana: Yes. I don’t usually pay attention to stories about rich folks. I work. I go to school. I enjoy time with my friends and family. They’re in a different league.
Rushford: You didn’t know about her family?
Giana: Not a clue. I have some questions. Why was she living a secret life in New Jersey in a neighborhood of average working people? What was she hiding from? Why did she lie to me and tell me she had no family?
Rushford: Walk me through the day you were arrested.
Giana: It’s not much to walk through. The police asked me if they could search my house. I agreed. I had nothing to hide. One of the officers found the Thallium in my home. I was baffled when they took it from my kitchen cabinet and put it in an evidence bag. That’s when they arrested me for probable cause. That was a year ago.
Rushford: What additional evidence did they have on you?
Giana: Nothing. My lawyers told me there was no other evidence. They said I should get off easy.
Rushford: You were represented by attorneys from Galland, Haskett, and Mayes. They’re not public defenders or defense attorneys. They specialize in representing health care systems.
Why did you allow them to come to your defense? Could it be they want you incarcerated for life so they can take over the other half of Bolden Faylor's assets left to you in her will? The second half of her assets were willed to several cancer research hospitals. Two beneficiaries, you, and cancer research, will split over seven hundred million dollars.
Giana: I don’t know. I was a nineteen-year-old nursing student.
Rushford: Why do you think she didn't leave her family anything in her will?
Giana: I can’t answer that question either.
Rushford: They’re suing you, contesting her will. Claiming she wasn’t in her right mind.
Giana: I don’t know those people. Apparently, I barely knew Ms. Bolden Faylor.
Rushford: Are you afraid?
Giana: Of course, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t you be? There’s a possibility I could spend the rest of my life in prison.
Rushford: What are your plans if you're released?
Giana: If I’m not too old. I want to become a pediatric nurse.
Rushford: Thank you for joining me this evening. We’ll continue this interview next week. Join me then for another candid talk with Giana Yvette Bonair, the naïve nursing student accused of murdering forty-eight-year-old millionaire Hannah Bolden Faylor, founder and CEO of Faylor Consumer Goods.
© 2024 VM Roberts
March Blog: Cul De Sac Diaries: Part II Girlfriend Secrecy
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
January 31, 2024
Cul De Sac Diaries - Discovery Part I
Cul De Sac Diaries - Discovery Part 1
Part I
“Ugh. This piece of crap car is going to be the life of me. Look, you clunker, I’m ready to go home. Maxine worked the slop out of me today, cleaning in the afternoon and serving at her party in the evening. I need a raise. It’s about time I asked my mother again. These rich folks pay her a contracted $1,500 a week for sending someone to clean their house. The measly $20 an hour she pays me isn’t enough to buy a new car. I can’t even afford to look at used cars.”
Aggravated, Kenda got out of the car and marched up the sidewalk to the front door of Maxine Cain’s Radnor, Pennsylvania, home with the little energy she had left after working a 12-hour shift. The 2019 gold Rolls Royce parked in front of the three-car garage house was a sign that not everyone had left the party.
Weary, Kenda didn’t care. Her feet ached. She wanted to shower, crawl in bed, and sleep until noon tomorrow. She heard the doorbell from inside the house. The loud, melodic, chime-like sound was pleasing to her ears for once.
Steady, heavy footsteps came toward the door. The strong, determined footsteps couldn’t have been Maxine. A five foot, one hundred thirty pound woman was incapable of producing such a sound.
A well-proportioned, attractive man sporting a thick but neatly trimmed beard, approximately six feet, two hundred pounds, answered the door. Kenda had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes. Her heart fluttered after looking into his face. She didn’t recall seeing him at the party. She surely would’ve remembered that face.
“Hello. Is Maxine available, Please?”
“Is there a problem?” He grinned, displaying a chipped tooth in the top-left front of his mouth.
“I’m her housekeeper, and my car won’t start.” He struck a nerve immediately.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Are you a mechanic?” Kenda responded with an attitude, perhaps too much.
“No. Can’t help you there. Hey, Maxine. Come here for a minute,” he yelled out, agitated.
Maxine stepped out of the bedroom adjacent to her kitchen, wearing a laced sheer sky-blue nightie. “What is it, honey lover? I’m waiting . . .” She stopped abruptly when the man stepped aside to allow Kenda into the foyer.
“Your maid’s car won’t start.”
“I’m not a maid.” Kenda twisted her face. “Ugh!”
“Goodness, Jup. Why didn’t you tell me what you wanted before I came out of the room dressed inappropriately?” It was too late to hide her embarrassment and shame.
“What’s going on, Kenda?”
“My car won’t start. Can I sleep here tonight and have my car towed in the morning?”
“It’s after 11 p.m. I have a better idea. Stay right there. I’ll be right back. Jup, can you shut the front door? Wait for me in the room while I attend to Kenda’s problem.”
Jupiter strolled away. “Hurry up, will you?” Angry, his evening was interrupted, he stared at Kenda with evil eyes and flipped his hand at her. Jupiter scratched his private area before he left the room.
Maxine rushed upstairs to the six-bedroom, five-bathroom house, returning with a set of car keys minutes later. Handing them to Kenda, she was happy to help the twenty-two-year-old woman who’s been her housekeeper for three years. She was fond of the woman and trusted her with every fiber of her being.
“These keys belong to the car in the garage that’s shielded under the black waterproof cover. Take it. Bring it back tomorrow after twelve. Then we can have your car towed to my mechanic.”
“You’re very sweet, Maxine. I appreciate you.”
“See you tomorrow. Lock the door behind you. I’ll open the garage. Press the button on the key ring to close it. Good night.” She rushed back to the bedroom, where Jupiter waited impatiently for her.
It took Kenda fifteen minutes to remove the cover, start the car, and pull out of the driveway. The dusty, two-year-old Mercedes was in excellent condition. Kenda marveled at the interior and smoothness of the ride as she drove home.
Grooving to a Stevie Wonder song on the radio while drumming to the song's beat on the steering wheel, she didn’t realize her right hand slightly tapped a button on the steering wheel. This motion accidentally popped the trunk.
She stopped at an all-night convenience store on Ridge Avenue in Roxborough. She felt awful. Her head throbbed so badly that she was on the brink of vomiting in the car. The store should have Excedrine or Tylenol for the pain.
Once she pulled into the well-lit parking lot and exited the vehicle, the popped trunk startled and surprised her.
“Wow. How did that happen?” Kenda approached the rear of the car apprehensively, full of curiosity. Maxine never explained why the car was covered, who it belonged to, and how long it had been sitting.
It suddenly occurred to Kenda that she could be driving a hot car. People in her neighborhood were sure to wag their tongues when they saw her in it. She inched closer to the trunk to peek inside. It was full of men’s clothing, shoe boxes, and other insignificant male paraphernalia.
She spotted a worn, black leather briefcase shoved tightly down in the corner above the rear tire, between some expensive-looking suits and mail thrown about. Maybe it has papers that will give her an idea of the owner.
She ignored the mail and reached for the briefcase's handle. The briefcase appeared more mysterious than some overdue bills. Kenda giggled, feeling silly like a child finding a secret treasure. What if the bag was full of money? Kenda yanked the bag loose from the pile of suits, sat it on the edge of the trunk. At first try on a push of the button, the lock clicked.
Opening it slowly, a stale odor escaped. Luckily, that was all that escaped. The briefcase contained five journals. She took one out. Neighbors was written on the front. She placed the journal on top of the pile of clothes and took another one from the bag. This one was labeled Neighbors 2.
The next journal she grabbed had Wife marked on the cover. The last two books read: Me 1 and Me 2. She opened the book labeled Me 2 and began to read. Her mouth dropped as she read the first paragraph.
The throbbing headache was long forgotten. Kenda hurried to put the journals back in the briefcase, slammed the trunk shut, hopped back in the car with the briefcase, and sped out the parking lot at lightning speed. She couldn’t wait to get home to discover what else was between the pages of the hidden books.
(C) VM Roberts 2024
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
Part I
“Ugh. This piece of crap car is going to be the life of me. Look, you clunker, I’m ready to go home. Maxine worked the slop out of me today, cleaning in the afternoon and serving at her party in the evening. I need a raise. It’s about time I asked my mother again. These rich folks pay her a contracted $1,500 a week for sending someone to clean their house. The measly $20 an hour she pays me isn’t enough to buy a new car. I can’t even afford to look at used cars.”
Aggravated, Kenda got out of the car and marched up the sidewalk to the front door of Maxine Cain’s Radnor, Pennsylvania, home with the little energy she had left after working a 12-hour shift. The 2019 gold Rolls Royce parked in front of the three-car garage house was a sign that not everyone had left the party.
Weary, Kenda didn’t care. Her feet ached. She wanted to shower, crawl in bed, and sleep until noon tomorrow. She heard the doorbell from inside the house. The loud, melodic, chime-like sound was pleasing to her ears for once.
Steady, heavy footsteps came toward the door. The strong, determined footsteps couldn’t have been Maxine. A five foot, one hundred thirty pound woman was incapable of producing such a sound.
A well-proportioned, attractive man sporting a thick but neatly trimmed beard, approximately six feet, two hundred pounds, answered the door. Kenda had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes. Her heart fluttered after looking into his face. She didn’t recall seeing him at the party. She surely would’ve remembered that face.
“Hello. Is Maxine available, Please?”
“Is there a problem?” He grinned, displaying a chipped tooth in the top-left front of his mouth.
“I’m her housekeeper, and my car won’t start.” He struck a nerve immediately.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Are you a mechanic?” Kenda responded with an attitude, perhaps too much.
“No. Can’t help you there. Hey, Maxine. Come here for a minute,” he yelled out, agitated.
Maxine stepped out of the bedroom adjacent to her kitchen, wearing a laced sheer sky-blue nightie. “What is it, honey lover? I’m waiting . . .” She stopped abruptly when the man stepped aside to allow Kenda into the foyer.
“Your maid’s car won’t start.”
“I’m not a maid.” Kenda twisted her face. “Ugh!”
“Goodness, Jup. Why didn’t you tell me what you wanted before I came out of the room dressed inappropriately?” It was too late to hide her embarrassment and shame.
“What’s going on, Kenda?”
“My car won’t start. Can I sleep here tonight and have my car towed in the morning?”
“It’s after 11 p.m. I have a better idea. Stay right there. I’ll be right back. Jup, can you shut the front door? Wait for me in the room while I attend to Kenda’s problem.”
Jupiter strolled away. “Hurry up, will you?” Angry, his evening was interrupted, he stared at Kenda with evil eyes and flipped his hand at her. Jupiter scratched his private area before he left the room.
Maxine rushed upstairs to the six-bedroom, five-bathroom house, returning with a set of car keys minutes later. Handing them to Kenda, she was happy to help the twenty-two-year-old woman who’s been her housekeeper for three years. She was fond of the woman and trusted her with every fiber of her being.
“These keys belong to the car in the garage that’s shielded under the black waterproof cover. Take it. Bring it back tomorrow after twelve. Then we can have your car towed to my mechanic.”
“You’re very sweet, Maxine. I appreciate you.”
“See you tomorrow. Lock the door behind you. I’ll open the garage. Press the button on the key ring to close it. Good night.” She rushed back to the bedroom, where Jupiter waited impatiently for her.
It took Kenda fifteen minutes to remove the cover, start the car, and pull out of the driveway. The dusty, two-year-old Mercedes was in excellent condition. Kenda marveled at the interior and smoothness of the ride as she drove home.
Grooving to a Stevie Wonder song on the radio while drumming to the song's beat on the steering wheel, she didn’t realize her right hand slightly tapped a button on the steering wheel. This motion accidentally popped the trunk.
She stopped at an all-night convenience store on Ridge Avenue in Roxborough. She felt awful. Her head throbbed so badly that she was on the brink of vomiting in the car. The store should have Excedrine or Tylenol for the pain.
Once she pulled into the well-lit parking lot and exited the vehicle, the popped trunk startled and surprised her.
“Wow. How did that happen?” Kenda approached the rear of the car apprehensively, full of curiosity. Maxine never explained why the car was covered, who it belonged to, and how long it had been sitting.
It suddenly occurred to Kenda that she could be driving a hot car. People in her neighborhood were sure to wag their tongues when they saw her in it. She inched closer to the trunk to peek inside. It was full of men’s clothing, shoe boxes, and other insignificant male paraphernalia.
She spotted a worn, black leather briefcase shoved tightly down in the corner above the rear tire, between some expensive-looking suits and mail thrown about. Maybe it has papers that will give her an idea of the owner.
She ignored the mail and reached for the briefcase's handle. The briefcase appeared more mysterious than some overdue bills. Kenda giggled, feeling silly like a child finding a secret treasure. What if the bag was full of money? Kenda yanked the bag loose from the pile of suits, sat it on the edge of the trunk. At first try on a push of the button, the lock clicked.
Opening it slowly, a stale odor escaped. Luckily, that was all that escaped. The briefcase contained five journals. She took one out. Neighbors was written on the front. She placed the journal on top of the pile of clothes and took another one from the bag. This one was labeled Neighbors 2.
The next journal she grabbed had Wife marked on the cover. The last two books read: Me 1 and Me 2. She opened the book labeled Me 2 and began to read. Her mouth dropped as she read the first paragraph.
The throbbing headache was long forgotten. Kenda hurried to put the journals back in the briefcase, slammed the trunk shut, hopped back in the car with the briefcase, and sped out the parking lot at lightning speed. She couldn’t wait to get home to discover what else was between the pages of the hidden books.
(C) VM Roberts 2024
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
December 23, 2023
Making My Moves…That’s Wassup
Making My Moves… That's Wassup
I've procrastinated for nearly six weeks in writing this article. My primary reason – no one wants to read another article about exercising. So, I've decided to put my spin on it.
I had my annual checkup in early November. Things looked good. I was reminded to schedule my mammogram and to . . . exercise. My primary care doctor said I should have an exercise routine by the time I return in 6 months.
That was the only downside of my visit. I left the office thinking to myself . . . exercise? Ugh! Do you know how often I started an exercise regimen but quit after a month? I rode a stationary bike every day for 20 minutes in the morning. For some reason, I just wasn't motivated. I walked Piper during the summer four days a week in the mornings and in the afternoons. Then it grew too hot. She didn't like walking in the heat, and neither did I.
What a dreadful feeling. It's been bugging me ever since I left the doctor's office. I can't afford the expense of a gym. By the time I work for eight hours, cook, and clean, I only want to sit down.
Yeah, I work at a computer all day. But, it's a different kind of sit down. So, I did a little bit of research. Guess what? I love to dance. I still have moves now. Don't get me wrong.
The music on my iPhone is perfect for exercising. Who can go wrong with my collection: Marvin, MJ, Prince, Barry, Parliament, Commodores, O'Jays, Gladys, Isley Brothers, Luther, Whitney, Frankie (and any old-school funk group you can think of). You get the point.
I need to put a routine to the music that will allow me to move for 30-40 minutes. Where do I start? I did additional research on YouTube. I found some great stuff that can get me going.
YouTube Exercise Videos
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6lsG...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=enYIT...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYuw4...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xqA_T...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRWKY...
I also found information on exercising for seniors, which included dancing. Yes. I'm a senior. It's hard to believe. I made it to sixty-one years old. What a tremendous blessing. I'm going to do what's right. I'm going to exercise more regularly. It'll be an uphill battle. However, it's worth the effort.
Exercising For Seniors
https://www.seniorlifestyle.com/resou...
https://www.everydayhealth.com/fitnes...
https://seasonsretirement.com/dance-e...
I've known the Benefits Of Exercising for years:
-Controls Weight
-Combats Health conditions and diseases- prevents or manages many health problems and concerns, including:
*Stroke
*Metabolic syndrome
*High blood pressure
*Type 2 diabetes
*Depression
*Anxiety
*Many types of cancer
*Arthritis
*Falls
-Assist in improving cognitive function
-Exercise improves mood
-Boosts energy
-Promotes better sleep
-Strengthen muscles and bones
-Improve ability to perform daily activities and prevent falls
Even though I haven't consistently exercised over the years, it's never too late. Physical activity can improve health now and in the future. Exercising after a long break or exercising for the first time can make the experience seem scary if certain symptoms occur.
*Feeling: out of breath; nauseous; light-headed; clammy or sweaty; thirsty
*Burning muscles
*Urge to use the bathroom more than usual
*Body pain
*Sore muscles
*Fatigue
*Headaches
Exercise has the ability to reverse the damage done by living a sedentary lifestyle. The importance of exercising at least four to five times per week cannot be overstated. Exercise should be part of one's hygiene, like combing your hair, bathing, or brushing your teeth.
It's important that I exercise based on what I can do as an individual, my health conditions, and my age. Besides dancing, I can walk for 30 minutes daily, stretch, and do effective seat exercises. I've found seat exercise infographics on Pinterest that are appropriate for me.
There are a few notes to keep in mind regarding walking. A brisk walk is about three miles an hour faster than a stroll. I know if I'm walking fast enough if I can still talk but can't sing the words to a song. There are also free apps on your smartphone to gauge your walking measurements. The app indicates whether you're walking fast enough and suggests ways to fit in more brisk walking.
I have a notebook to record my progress. I'm ready!
If you don't exercise regularly and you're fifty-plus or older, it's not too late to start.
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
I've procrastinated for nearly six weeks in writing this article. My primary reason – no one wants to read another article about exercising. So, I've decided to put my spin on it.
I had my annual checkup in early November. Things looked good. I was reminded to schedule my mammogram and to . . . exercise. My primary care doctor said I should have an exercise routine by the time I return in 6 months.
That was the only downside of my visit. I left the office thinking to myself . . . exercise? Ugh! Do you know how often I started an exercise regimen but quit after a month? I rode a stationary bike every day for 20 minutes in the morning. For some reason, I just wasn't motivated. I walked Piper during the summer four days a week in the mornings and in the afternoons. Then it grew too hot. She didn't like walking in the heat, and neither did I.
What a dreadful feeling. It's been bugging me ever since I left the doctor's office. I can't afford the expense of a gym. By the time I work for eight hours, cook, and clean, I only want to sit down.
Yeah, I work at a computer all day. But, it's a different kind of sit down. So, I did a little bit of research. Guess what? I love to dance. I still have moves now. Don't get me wrong.
The music on my iPhone is perfect for exercising. Who can go wrong with my collection: Marvin, MJ, Prince, Barry, Parliament, Commodores, O'Jays, Gladys, Isley Brothers, Luther, Whitney, Frankie (and any old-school funk group you can think of). You get the point.
I need to put a routine to the music that will allow me to move for 30-40 minutes. Where do I start? I did additional research on YouTube. I found some great stuff that can get me going.
YouTube Exercise Videos
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6lsG...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=enYIT...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYuw4...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xqA_T...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRWKY...
I also found information on exercising for seniors, which included dancing. Yes. I'm a senior. It's hard to believe. I made it to sixty-one years old. What a tremendous blessing. I'm going to do what's right. I'm going to exercise more regularly. It'll be an uphill battle. However, it's worth the effort.
Exercising For Seniors
https://www.seniorlifestyle.com/resou...
https://www.everydayhealth.com/fitnes...
https://seasonsretirement.com/dance-e...
I've known the Benefits Of Exercising for years:
-Controls Weight
-Combats Health conditions and diseases- prevents or manages many health problems and concerns, including:
*Stroke
*Metabolic syndrome
*High blood pressure
*Type 2 diabetes
*Depression
*Anxiety
*Many types of cancer
*Arthritis
*Falls
-Assist in improving cognitive function
-Exercise improves mood
-Boosts energy
-Promotes better sleep
-Strengthen muscles and bones
-Improve ability to perform daily activities and prevent falls
Even though I haven't consistently exercised over the years, it's never too late. Physical activity can improve health now and in the future. Exercising after a long break or exercising for the first time can make the experience seem scary if certain symptoms occur.
*Feeling: out of breath; nauseous; light-headed; clammy or sweaty; thirsty
*Burning muscles
*Urge to use the bathroom more than usual
*Body pain
*Sore muscles
*Fatigue
*Headaches
Exercise has the ability to reverse the damage done by living a sedentary lifestyle. The importance of exercising at least four to five times per week cannot be overstated. Exercise should be part of one's hygiene, like combing your hair, bathing, or brushing your teeth.
It's important that I exercise based on what I can do as an individual, my health conditions, and my age. Besides dancing, I can walk for 30 minutes daily, stretch, and do effective seat exercises. I've found seat exercise infographics on Pinterest that are appropriate for me.
There are a few notes to keep in mind regarding walking. A brisk walk is about three miles an hour faster than a stroll. I know if I'm walking fast enough if I can still talk but can't sing the words to a song. There are also free apps on your smartphone to gauge your walking measurements. The app indicates whether you're walking fast enough and suggests ways to fit in more brisk walking.
I have a notebook to record my progress. I'm ready!
If you don't exercise regularly and you're fifty-plus or older, it's not too late to start.
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
November 7, 2023
Let Me Point Out A Few Things
Let Me Point Out A Few Things
I truly believe in being grateful and thankful for all things -
*Life
*Home
*Job
*Food
*Safe Travels (When I Go Out)
*Health
*Vision
*Family & Friends
*Favorable weather during winter months
*Et, al. . .
I know some people who probably don't give being thankful and grateful a second thought.
[Thankfulness is an emotion. Gratitude is an attitude of appreciation under any circumstance. Gratitude involves being thankful, but it is more than that. Gratitude means expressing Thankfulness and being appreciative of life daily, even when nothing exciting happens].
Here's an example of what I mean.
Constance and Stanley have three children (fictitious couple) – two sons and one daughter. Stanley is retired after working forty years in housekeeping at a hospital. Constance had considered retiring when she turned sixty-five, but something stopped her - adult children.
Constance and Stanley have chronic health issues, which worsen daily. Their disposable income is normally used for medication and co-payments for doctor visits. In the past three years, that disposable money has gone to their adult children, never to be seen again.
When the subject of money comes up during conversations, an argument ensues. Thus, Constance and Stanley barely speak to their adult children – not by their choice. Their children have chosen to distance themselves from their parents – until they need money.
"I need money for food. I used my paycheck for rent."
"Can you help me pay for car repairs so I can get to work?"
"My check is short this pay, and my electric bill is due."
"Your grandchild needs shoes, and I don't have the money."
"Can you loan me a few dollars so your grandchild won't be left out on the school trip?"
"Can you loan me a few dollars? I want to take out a new girl. I get paid next week."
"I lost my job. Can you help me out until I find another one?"
There's nothing wrong with helping adult children. However, I believe it causes serious problems when the money isn't returned, parents are ignored until money issues arise, and signs of ungratefulness are evident.
When adult children use their parents for their selfish needs, it makes me sad. Parents are precious. They should be treated as such. Show me a perfect parent, and I'll show you a perfect person. There's no such thing.
Adult Children
Regardless of your upbringing, you are where you are, partly because of your parents.
Maybe things were not ideal when you were growing up, but you made it. You're alive, and you are an adult now, paving your own way.
What would you do if your parents started saying "No" each time you reached out for money?
They haven't made any repairs on their house because the money is in your pocket. Why should they call a neighbor to drive them to the doctor or take them to the market when you are available?
When was the last time you called to say how are you? Is there anything I can do for you?
What kind of example are you showing your children? Yeah, I know what you're thinking – "My child is going to look after me or take care of me. I treated them better than my parents treated me."
Unless you can see into the future, I wouldn't count on one hundred percent loyalty from your children once they start living life and going their separate ways. Am I saying your children are going to abandon you? Absolutely not.
What I'm saying is, learn to be grateful and thankful. It's never too late. Practice it daily, genuinely from the heart. It goes a long way.
This article isn't aimed at anyone in particular. It’s been on my mind for a while. I wasn't sure how to approach it until now.
Being grateful and thankful is something that we work toward in everyday life. It grows as we mature and learn to care about the things that truly matter.
“The giving of thanks is powerful beyond what we may realize. It brings many benefits to our lives and to the lives of other people. Gratitude to God makes our relationship with Him better, and expressing appreciation and thanks to others certainly improves our relationships with them (Joyce Meyer).”
When we fail to give thanks and show appreciation for the sacrifices of others so that we may eat, have the means to travel to work, and pay our bills, we miss out on so much.
This is food for thought. Adult children, when you reach out to your (aged, retired, ill) parents who are on fixed incomes, please practice being grateful and thankful. A selfish attitude is the enemy and increases the wedge between families.
Problems are created when we forget our blessings or begin to take them and others for granted because we’ve had them for so long. Something goes missing when others are taken for granted. Hearts are in the wrong place.
If you haven’t been taught to be grateful and thankful, now is the time to learn.
If you live long enough, one day, when you’re older, you’re going to need help, everybody does. Should you feel slighted if you don’t receive the support you were counting on?
A thankful and grateful heart must be shown through our actions.
“As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words but to live by them.” —John F. Kennedy
“Gratitude is a quality similar to electricity: It must be produced and discharged and used up in order to exist at all.” —William Faulkner
“Appreciation is a wonderful thing. It makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well.” —Voltaire
“When you are grateful, fear disappears and abundance appears. —Anthony Robbins
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
I truly believe in being grateful and thankful for all things -
*Life
*Home
*Job
*Food
*Safe Travels (When I Go Out)
*Health
*Vision
*Family & Friends
*Favorable weather during winter months
*Et, al. . .
I know some people who probably don't give being thankful and grateful a second thought.
[Thankfulness is an emotion. Gratitude is an attitude of appreciation under any circumstance. Gratitude involves being thankful, but it is more than that. Gratitude means expressing Thankfulness and being appreciative of life daily, even when nothing exciting happens].
Here's an example of what I mean.
Constance and Stanley have three children (fictitious couple) – two sons and one daughter. Stanley is retired after working forty years in housekeeping at a hospital. Constance had considered retiring when she turned sixty-five, but something stopped her - adult children.
Constance and Stanley have chronic health issues, which worsen daily. Their disposable income is normally used for medication and co-payments for doctor visits. In the past three years, that disposable money has gone to their adult children, never to be seen again.
When the subject of money comes up during conversations, an argument ensues. Thus, Constance and Stanley barely speak to their adult children – not by their choice. Their children have chosen to distance themselves from their parents – until they need money.
"I need money for food. I used my paycheck for rent."
"Can you help me pay for car repairs so I can get to work?"
"My check is short this pay, and my electric bill is due."
"Your grandchild needs shoes, and I don't have the money."
"Can you loan me a few dollars so your grandchild won't be left out on the school trip?"
"Can you loan me a few dollars? I want to take out a new girl. I get paid next week."
"I lost my job. Can you help me out until I find another one?"
There's nothing wrong with helping adult children. However, I believe it causes serious problems when the money isn't returned, parents are ignored until money issues arise, and signs of ungratefulness are evident.
When adult children use their parents for their selfish needs, it makes me sad. Parents are precious. They should be treated as such. Show me a perfect parent, and I'll show you a perfect person. There's no such thing.
Adult Children
Regardless of your upbringing, you are where you are, partly because of your parents.
Maybe things were not ideal when you were growing up, but you made it. You're alive, and you are an adult now, paving your own way.
What would you do if your parents started saying "No" each time you reached out for money?
They haven't made any repairs on their house because the money is in your pocket. Why should they call a neighbor to drive them to the doctor or take them to the market when you are available?
When was the last time you called to say how are you? Is there anything I can do for you?
What kind of example are you showing your children? Yeah, I know what you're thinking – "My child is going to look after me or take care of me. I treated them better than my parents treated me."
Unless you can see into the future, I wouldn't count on one hundred percent loyalty from your children once they start living life and going their separate ways. Am I saying your children are going to abandon you? Absolutely not.
What I'm saying is, learn to be grateful and thankful. It's never too late. Practice it daily, genuinely from the heart. It goes a long way.
This article isn't aimed at anyone in particular. It’s been on my mind for a while. I wasn't sure how to approach it until now.
Being grateful and thankful is something that we work toward in everyday life. It grows as we mature and learn to care about the things that truly matter.
“The giving of thanks is powerful beyond what we may realize. It brings many benefits to our lives and to the lives of other people. Gratitude to God makes our relationship with Him better, and expressing appreciation and thanks to others certainly improves our relationships with them (Joyce Meyer).”
When we fail to give thanks and show appreciation for the sacrifices of others so that we may eat, have the means to travel to work, and pay our bills, we miss out on so much.
This is food for thought. Adult children, when you reach out to your (aged, retired, ill) parents who are on fixed incomes, please practice being grateful and thankful. A selfish attitude is the enemy and increases the wedge between families.
Problems are created when we forget our blessings or begin to take them and others for granted because we’ve had them for so long. Something goes missing when others are taken for granted. Hearts are in the wrong place.
If you haven’t been taught to be grateful and thankful, now is the time to learn.
If you live long enough, one day, when you’re older, you’re going to need help, everybody does. Should you feel slighted if you don’t receive the support you were counting on?
A thankful and grateful heart must be shown through our actions.
“As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words but to live by them.” —John F. Kennedy
“Gratitude is a quality similar to electricity: It must be produced and discharged and used up in order to exist at all.” —William Faulkner
“Appreciation is a wonderful thing. It makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well.” —Voltaire
“When you are grateful, fear disappears and abundance appears. —Anthony Robbins
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
