Jude Stringfellow's Blog, page 113

My Favorite Color is Brown

True story; my favorite color is the color brown. Like anyone else, I have the right to determine and choose what my favorite color is, and I determined this many years ago.  I have always loved the color brown; with very specific reasoning(s) as to why I like it so much.  It’s such as basic question that everyone asks someone they don’t really know. 

I remember being on one of those flash-date things about 20 years ago because one of my friends wanted to go and participate but she didn't want to go alone. I personally thought the entire thing was both useless and foolish as I thought there's no way a person can "get to know you" in the span of a three-minute interrogation styled interview whether or not you're both asking questions or if only one of you is answering. It just isn't possible. There I was sitting before a man who most would call handsome by whatever that mysterious socially (awkwardly subjective) normal is - he was about my age, about average height and weight, but he had an air of confidence which I suppose made him more attractive. He looked intelligent. That makes a huge difference in my opinion.  He asked me what my favorite color was, and I answered him both quickly and honestly. I do that, I answer questions both quickly and severely honestly. He wasn't really expecting me to say brown. He certainly wasn't prepared for my next confession, which was to explain that the exact shade of my personal favorite color would be "Hershey's milk chocolate brown, the candy, not the wrapper." (I may have even stated there is a difference in the two.) 

Staring at me with a look of utter shock and confusion I noticed the man's eye lids begin to cover his pupils as if to protect them from anything I may be addressing spontaneously in the next few seconds. He then repeated my answer (both wasting time and reiterating what I had just said. Perhaps he didn't quite believe what he had heard.) as if he was asking me to reconsider my own personal preference. "Brown?" He asked. "Hershey's milk chocolate brown", I answered.  There was supposed to be a continuum of questions being bantered and answered, the man was dumbstruck and really had nothing to add or another question to ask. I really couldn't tell you why. I know why I wasn't asking him any questions; it was because I didn't want to be there and I couldn't care less to know what he may say. I was trying my best not to get up and walk away from the entire event - - the love of my good friend kept me planted uncomfortably in my chair as man after man got up and sat down after each buzzer. 

Brown. Hershey's milk chocolate brown, not the color of the candy bar's wrapper, but the actual color of the candy is in fact my favorite color. Why is that so hard to understand for some? I really couldn't tell you, but over the years I have done a bit of self-reflection and research. Here is what I found on the internet about it and to be honest, I actually agree with this assessment. Here you go: (from Empower Yourself)  

You are honest, down-to-earth and wholesome, salt of the earth people with both feet planted firmly on the ground. 

You are steady and reliable and quietly confident. 
 

You are friendly and approachable, genuine and sincere. 
 

With a personality color brown, you have a keen sense of duty and responsibility - you take your obligations very seriously. 

You are a home body - family and family life is extremely important to you. 

You like physical comfort, simplicity and quality. 
 

You are a loyal and trustworthy friend, supportive and dependable. 
 

You are sensitive to the needs of others and sensitive to criticism by others 

There you go! Describes me to a T. It's so much better than saying something like "Oh, you like pretty things that sparkle" No, give me dirt. Give me a rock. Give me a horse and a pasture, and let me go. Give me a brook, a hill, a tree, a book. The only thing I would disagree with on this assessment is the approachable part. I am quite approachable, but I don't do small talk and I don't do the whole "Hey Baby, I'd love to get to know you better" stuff.  I don't have time for it, and it's not going to happen unless I pursue it anyway -- sorry, that's just me. At least I'm honest, trustworthy, and down to Earth, right? (and yes, I do like Hershey's milk chocolate, but dark chocolate candy is my favorite. He didn't ask that.) 

Back in Good Hands - Hired at Allstate!

 Woot!  It only took one day to find a really cool job. God is so wonderful. Actually, just before being terminated at the last assignment for being too happy, I was planning on leaving after a few more days because my employment agent Kevin had found me a better (more suitable) position anyway. It was only a matter of time before I would let the sweet boss as the supply company know I needed to get back into selling and servicing insurance. I do a few things well, and insurance is one of those things. (It's like I'm polarized to it, and I keep coming back every time.) That or teaching...which really, if you think about it, is the same thing.

So Thursday morning Kevin calls me and tells me that a man named Evan P. is going to schedule an appointment for Monday (today) and we'll talk about what it would take to bring me on board. That's so much better than saying he'll contact Kevin to see what I know, and if I would be a good fit. Kevin had already sent over my resume and basic history regarding sales and service of insurance. (A quick run down for you: I was licensed in 1983 to sell Life, Health, and Accident insurance, worked it more than 10 years before becoming a paralegal, but even as a paralegal I remained licensed to sell and did so as a broker. I opened my own business in 2010 having been licensed in Property & Casualty, and I ran that for 5 years in Indiana.  After returning to my home state of Oklahoma in 2015, I worked for the state and went back into teaching. I thought about insurance of course, but the opportunities were not there. Now they are.) 

I have scheduled my exam to retake the Property & Casualty test next Tuesday, and following that I will be hired on full time at Allstate in Norman, Oklahoma!  Le me just say that again, NORMAN, OKLAHOMA! In case you're not all that familiar with my love affair for the City of Norman, it is both lifelong and runs through my veins as crimson as one of the official colors of the University of Oklahoma, which happens to be in Norman, Oklahoma. It's a thing. When you're born in Oklahoma you are not a boy or a girl, you are a Sooner or a Cowboy. It's just the way it is..Boomer Sooner, baby, Boomer Sooner!  My new office is about 2 miles from Campus Corner. It also happens to be about 2 miles from the best looking man on the face of this planet! (My son Reuben).  My new boss? Oh, you want to know about my new boss? Well, it won't be hard for me to show up every single day and work at that office, my new boss is a HUGE bearded man with Scottish roots! Can it be any better? WHAT?

We talked about it, and he's open to me opening up an office in Edinburgh, Scotland as soon as the Summer of 2021. Who knows, this could be the best of every world in my dreams. God is just too fantabulous to me!!  I'm servicing, which is what I love to do; I'm selling, and I'm in NORMAN!!! I'm surrounded by bearded men.  THIS IS HEAVEN!  (Thank you, Jesus) 

Let the Torture Begin!!!

 Yes! Yes! I have again, (yes, again) joined a gym and this time I think it may last a lot longer than the last two gyms I've joined. Though the YMCA was just steps from my house I thought it was for the employees and relatives of employees of the hospital which it shares a partnership with. The hospital is also only steps from my house so at least if I do die or fall off a machine of some sort I won't have far to travel to be put back together!  Go YMCA! The Y is huge, open, airy, full of great torture devices and it has dance studios upstairs. It even has a BAR...oh wait, that's barre. It has a barre. LOL. I can pretend to be a ballerina! I can't wait.

This particular Y is situated literally across from the Baptist Medical Center, or Integris Baptist, as they call it now. It will forever be Baptist Hospital to me. My three children were born there; Reuben and Caity had the same doctor, the same nurses, and the same delivery room! This Y is huge but it doesn't have a pool, nor does it have any hot tubs or sauna - which is a drawback, but it also doesn't have loud stupid music blasting through it's pipes to distract me from listening to my loud awesome music blasting through my earpiece. Nothing is more annoying than trying to crank up .38 Special in your ear while trying to ignore some boy band from the turn of the 21st Century! This Y has a patronage of mostly older people and that actually attracts me to it because I won't have to walk around giddy girls in their tight spandex or put up with overbearing power lifters dropping tons of weight every 30 seconds trying to show off what they believe is interesting. It's not interesting.  Do you, be you.  If YOU are that guy, you are not interesting.

There's a row machine, bikes, treadmills, and the standard course of machines that you work to pump up the muscles of course, but there is also a set of pulls, rings, a climbing rope, naval ropes to pump, weighted poles, boxing bags, an indoor track, and an outdoor track as well. This weight is coming off, let the toning begin! I've already picked out my new wardrobe which means Caity will need to find another one. I plan on raiding her closet around the first of the year. She won't mind and I'll be in style for the first time in probably many years - - I know I will be. I'll even let her do my make up so we can go out dancing to ring in the new year! 

Goals set. Goals will be met. There are no other options. There are no other outcomes. So let it be written in my soul, so let it be done! Bring it. I'll post as I dwindle and bulk.

Laughed Myself Out of a Job! Literally.

 Yeah, so there I was, minding my own business. You know I do that, right? I mind my own business all the time, and look what happens? I get fired!  Well, actually, since I was only technically working a temp assignment for a friend, and I wasn't even thinking or hoping of working for the company with anything resembling longevity, my assignment was "terminated".  How? Good question!

About a month ago I was again, minding my own business, laying about the house writing in my journal when the phone rang. The voice on the other end belonged to Kevin, a recruiter for an employment agency that my daughter Laura was registered with. I think I may have been registered with them about 20 years ago, but the call came in for me, not for my daughter. Laura was already working a long term assignment. I was enjoying being off work for the summer and living off of income I had squirreled away earlier in the year. To my calculations I had at least another four months to lounge about in my jammies reading books on Scotland which included my New Testament which was translated into the Scots language. Believe me when I tell you, I laugh my silly head off going over what the disciples said to Jesus and how he answered them. It's very different from what He said to them in my King James version of the Gospel.

Kevin was panicking saying he couldn't find anyone to take on a desperate assignment that may last up to two weeks. He had placed three (3) separate people into the role but each of them had bailed on him after being in the position less than one (1) hour each. One girl walked in, saw the work, shook her head and cussed Kevin on the phone when she called him back to let him know she was no one's slave! WHAT? What in the world was Kevin asking of these people and why was he calling me to help?  Kevin needed someone who (in his words) was mature enough regarding the importance of filing things in their proper place; he needed someone who was durable, steadfast, dedicated, bull-headed and saw a challenge as an opportunity. Kevin needed a Scorpio woman...Kevin called me.

Seeing how the job was literally only a couple of weeks, and it paid something I could squirrel away for later, I decided to agree to take on the assignment. How bad could it be?  I took photos.  I sent these photos to Kevin's email with an emoji crying its eyes out laughing. ARE YOU SERIOUS KEVIN? Mounds and piles upon mounds of piles of papers to be filed; mostly filed one or two at a time. It was going to take a least a month to get to the bottom of this mess and that's if they agreed to leave me alone in the file room and give me full autonomy to restructure, plan, strategize and create a full scoped plan on how this was going to happen. Not only were the mounds insufferable, but the existing files inside the drawers were often found to be out of order! WHO does that? Challenge accepted. I've got this.

Ken Jones was the "boss" at what we'll call CSC - he has been with the company two decades and has made his way to being called the Director of Operations. My first line of questioning with Ken was to ask how the files became so disorganized and I asked him how long they've been in such a state. His answer was that he couldn't keep anyone in the file room long enough to make heads or tails of it, and needed it to be straightened out. He wanted to know if I wanted the job permanently. "Ken," I told him, "you can't afford me sweetheart. I'm not a file clerk. I hold a Ph.D. in Administration, own my own business, and am here only as a favor to a friend. I will however straighten this mess up, and we'll see if I can have Kevin find you a good honest soul to keep it moving once I've ironed it out straight."  He agreed. 

As the month passed and the piles dwindled many CSC employees watched from the far corners through the windows in the doors leading to the file room. I literally barred them all from coming into the room unless they had a definite need to be in MY room. I had work to do, and they didn't need to mess up my chaos. I had piles stacked in so many places with need of being refiled, labeled, put into date order, pulled and stored in boxes, and literally if they were over 6 years old, they were going to be destroyed. This was my room, my domain, my project, my rules. If they didn't like it they could call someone else. I had books I could be reading. They knew this. Ken knew this.  He kept everyone (except Summer and Rylan, and of course himself at bay).  

While I worked I danced. I danced and I filed. Filed and dance, swirling, twisting, moving, bending, pulling, stacking, dancing, you get the picture. I burned several hundreds of calories while filing and was the source of entertainment for most of the employees from one curious salesman to the CEO, receptionist, warehouse worker, it didn't matter, they all made their way up to the file room to see the new file clerk - to watch the new file clerk.  Summer, Rylan, and of course Ken, came in from time to time to talk time. Ken because he was the boss, Rylan because he was the janitor and needed to clean things, and Summer because she was also a temp and thought they ask her to take over the position after I had straightened it out; she was correct in her assumption. She became like a daughter to me, Rylan my new baby son. I had more than a purpose and reason to get up each morning. It wasn't about the filing, it was about these two now. They needed love. I have love in spades, so I gave it away.

After 5 weeks of work the filing was complete and Ken asked me to stay just a while longer to help with a new project that again, was left unattended for literally months causing an incredible backlog of work for the next person who, if they hired another temp, would no doubt do a half-assed job leaving the project in want again. Yes, I'll do that too Ken, as long as I can be in Summer's office where we can talk and listen to music, dance, and have mother to daughter conversations....he agreed. What else was he going to do? He needed to the work done and there was little hope of making that happen!  I was in Summer's office three (3) hours before a witchy bitchy office mole named Cindy decided Summer and I were simply too happy for there to be any actual work to be completed. Cindy complained and Ken told her to mind her own business! Thank you Ken!

The next day (yesterday) I found that Ken had moved me out of Summer's office and onto the sales floor with the five or six others who had open air cubicles who were making calls and generating leads for product sales. Ken thought it would be best if I made my calls from the "floor" so as not to distract Cindy in any possible way, and yes, he wanted to be sure Summer was on task as well. Even though while I was in her office we both worked, we both laughed, and joy was being brought to the office again! God forbid JOY be brought anywhere near the curmudgeon Cindy!   After about my fortieth call to alert customers that their tax exempt card(s) were/was expired, and asking them to please e-mail me a copy of their new card, Ken approached me and said "I can't believe you're reaching so many people. We don't usually have such success, what are you doing?"  My answer was, that I was being polite. I don't know what anyone else may have tried in the past, but I was using good old fashioned Southern charm, calling and leaving messages, and of course they'd call me back when they realized I wasn't calling to ask them to pay me what was owed on an invoice.  We talked. I met many good people and obtained promises of tax exemption renewals -- because I was asked to do so. That was my job.

At 10:15 a.m. yesterday morning Kevin called me. He let me know that Human Resources had called him and asked that my assignment be terminated. The reason was given that I was having too much fun and distracting the other sales people. Mind you, I wasn't dancing, I wasn't singing, I wasn't even twirling in my chair. I was making calls, meeting customers, talking with customers, and reiterating good customer service!  I accepted my closure with the same professionalism that I did when I was on-boarded, I smiled, and I simply reported to Ken to let him know I was being terminated. He was devastated! He was my supervisor, he had not made any complains. The sales people were queried and no one had made a complaint, in fact, it was quite the opposite! (GUESS WHO COMPLAINED!! It was Cindy!)  

Ken and I talked for a few minutes in his office with the door closed. He called Summer in so she could get a hug, and then he called Kevin himself, so as to give me the best reference possible. Kevin thanked him and noted that he knew there was something a foot, that no one really complains about someone being happy unless they truly are miserable; Cindy is beyond miserable. I've decided to pray for her rather than become angry with her. She can't help it, she's suffocating from depression and low self esteem. It must be a terrible thing to face every morning when you wake up and every night when you lay down. I choose joy! I choose to dance. I choose to love.  Well, as it turns  out Summer will in fact take over the tax exempt project and clear it up so she can start on the filing upkeep and maintenance. She'll be a good warrior for CSC and maybe someday Cindy will realize she can win more hearts with joy than she can with fear. 

What's my take away?  I met Rylan, shared Christ with him, and I met Summer and shared some good motherly advice. I'm good. I'm ready for the next thing Jesus has in store for me.

Planning My Escape - Edinburgh, Scotland

 I've only been interested in Scotland since about the day after I was born, so not that long, right? Truthfully, about the time I began to read (4 years old) I began reading about places. I thought of places I wanted to go to of course, but because I am one who tends to live in a fantasy based reality, I formulated a detailed interest in the home of "my people", Edinburgh, Scotland. No place else will do. 

Stringfellow (my last name) has a rich and interesting backstory like most surnames. My father's line came from the Lowlands of Scotland, the area bordering England, so there were English Stringfellows as well as Scottish...sort of like the Red River separates Oklahoma and Texas, to be born on the north side of that border is best; always best to be on the right side of history if at all possible. Boomer Sooner!

With it's personal haunting history Edinburgh has been in my dreams, my thoughts, my writings, my hopes for decades and now it seems I may have the wherewithal to make it happen in a reality based reality as well as in my mind. I will probably still need to hire a guide or join a church immediately so that I can find friends who will show me about when it happens. I aim to stay a minute when I do go, not one to board a plane back for the states too soon. I have work to do. I have things to see. I have things to learn, and I have a culture and people I want to love. (fair warning)

Housing will be the first thing to contend with, followed by employment. The two may have to go hand in hand, but my thought process is to work from home so that I may be able to so as much on my own as possible and not be late for work because I missed the bus! I won't be able to drive for a while since I have no idea how to do that in a country where even the steering columns are on the other side of the car. No one will want me behind the wheel in Edinburgh! I'll be safe and take the rails or bus until I gather enough outsided-ness to think beyond the rather orthodox mentality set firmly in my skull presently regarding driving on the left. 

No doubt because Edinburgh is a larger city there will be plenty of places for me to choose from, but it isn't exactly by the sea. I wanted to be closer to the water and near the bigger city, so I may find a place where the rails go straight into the city without too many changes. Before that happens I'll need to study the currency exchanges, how to buy tickets to ride, where to buy food, how to pay utilities, and a host of so many more things that I won't want to find out on the fly. I prepare and I prepare well. This will be a calculated move for sure. 

I'm being told I could go as early as January 2021 if I wanted to take on a position of teaching English. The Scottish government even has a partnership with a teaching union or organization that will willing to pay costs and expenses of the flight and first month's stay if a person signs a one or two year contract. Before taking that plunge I would need to know more about the students and potential hazards of accepting a position I can't wiggle out of easily; being an American I may come off as being a bit brash and being terminated wouldn't be best. I must take it all into consideration. (I am brash, I will say that, they wouldn't be mistaken if they thought so.) I just don't want to end up jobless the first week.

Edinburgh has everything I'll need really, though I know I'll travel the heights, depths, widths and every inch of Scotland, Edinburgh will be the one place I would never mind calling my home. Of course, I'll try to find every remnant of the 13th century Stringfellows and Strongfellows that I can find. I want to make that connection, but I'll be open to new friends with new names and bigger, brighter smiles. Maybe some of them will even think I'm the one with an accent and ask me to say "thank you" a few more times. It seems to make my friend from Northern Ireland happy when I say "pink", "think", "thank" and "really".  She giggles. I giggle at her, and we move forward. 

Just a lot of planning at this point. If you're from the area, please feel free to email me and let me know where the best and worst areas are. Tell me where to stay away from as well as where to visit. Tell me there's more to eat than what I'm seeing online because seriously, I'm not sure I can do haggis...not without lying about it to the host. I will try a few things, as I don't mind experimenting but there are those lines that I draw which will not be crossed. (Scottish stubborn from the beginning) WISH ME LUCK! (Who am I kidding, luck is for the Irish! Scots do things. We don't hope. We do!) email: jude.stringfellow@gmail.com

Making the Bed - Not Happening

 I only know a few people who will admit that they get out of bed and one of the first things they do is either make it up or change the sheets and then make it up before they go to work so they can say they've achieved something. They say it starts their day off correctly, and they feel positive the rest of the day. NOPE! If I were any more positive when I wake up people would shoot me. Can't have that. 

From the second the alarm goes off (and it doesn't matter if it's during the week or on the weekend) I have an 8-10 minute routine that includes dressing, taking Ginger out for her walk, coming back inside to give the dogs and cats their treats, making coffee, cleaning up any mess Laura has left in the kitchen (as the kitchen is my domain) and once all that is done I have journal time! Ten minutes of prep, walking, treating, and coffee making is achievement enough.  If I took time to make the bed the dogs would mess it up before journal time was over. There's simply no need.

Journal time cannot and will not be shortened or interrupted by anyone, anything, or any event other than perhaps the rapture. I will not complain if Jesus comes back during journal time. Albeit, if He does come back during journal time I won't have time to write about His coming back, so what I do, to cover that base, is to write about the potential of Jesus coming back at any moment, so that when He does come back (and He will soon) those who break into my house to steal my things after the rapture comes (please, feed the animals) will find my latest journal (I have over 130) and they'll no doubt pick it up off the floor where it has fallen and read about the fact that I don't ever make my bed. Why should I make a bed I alone sleep in anyway? Maybe if I had a man sleeping next to me I would attempt to make it up so he thinks I've achieved something, but then again, I'm not inclined to give a damn if anyone else thinks I've accomplished anything - - I am my own person. I care. If I don't care, I don't care. (Still, it would be nice to roll over and find a bearded handsome man laying in my bed - - at least he was there in my dreams, does that count? Oh, and in my dreams he doesn't care if I make up the bed or not. He's really cool like that.)

I like a really cold house too, so when I sleep I can cuddle the covers and be toasty (with dogs) and maybe hang a foot out the bottom of the sheets and covers to regulate the temperature. If you make a bed up correctly (I'm told, since I never really do it) you have to tuck in the corners of the sheets and if I do that I'd struggle with my toes poking out to keep me regulated. There would be a fight every night pushing and pulling, tugging, and wrestling with the sheets. I might disturb the dogs and in our family you just don't disturb the dogs. No, rather than making up the bed in the morning (afternoon, evening, or night) I simply throw the covers over the middle of it, sort of give it a tug and expect the animals to burrow, nest or dig through the mass of covering, keeping it all warm for when I return! Better plan.

If I want to feel as if I have achieved something I'll do something! I am not above taking a 2-3K walk in the morning, cleaning out a closet or learning a foreign language, but there's just no way (unless there's a man involved) that I'm going to take the time to make up a bed.  I would only do it if the man had some sort of an issue wherein if I didn't make up the bed he couldn't get on with his day. I would do that. I would help him out if he needed it. I am actually a fairly nice soul...when I try.

OK...I feel so much better now that I've said that, and I'll just be going to the big chair now to write about it in my journal. I write some of the most mundane things imaginable in those journals. One day someone will find them and think they've found a treasure trove of interesting details about a life so full and inspirational only to find out that I've been writing about students, co workers, kids, dogs, cooking, finding a cool rock on the side walk, or a tooth that's been bothering me. Oh well, at least if I do NOTHING else of a day, I've walked the dog, treated the animals, made coffee, and wrote in my journal! Life is good. 

I Am Benjamin Franklin - Stringfellow

Ha! I knew it!  OK, if you ever had a chance to read my blog  https://judestringfellow.blogspot.com/2008/07/spies-radars-and-ranges-stringfellow.html you would know exactly who Benjamin Franklin Stringfellow was. He is in fact one of my ancestors and looks nearly identical to my father Reuben Wayne Stringfellow.  Pictures posted. 

I took a test online called "Which Founding Father are You" and it turns out I am like the actual Benjamin Franklin. I laughed when I saw the results because I've often referred to myself as a "bit of a Benjamin" meaning I take risks, invent things, experiment openly, and take charge of any situation that needs to be wrangled (without asking or being asked to do so).  I am the type that will go out into the rain with a kite on a string with a key attached and just SEE what would happen if I just flew it a bit higher! I'm the type that would (and do) engage in philosophical conversations being held by others, inserting my opinion(s) and fully expecting to be invited into the mix. I don't know why I'm so forward and direct. I don't know why I think it's allowed, but there I am, nearly every time - - butting in where I don't necessarily belong. 

Last night my son, his wife, and myself were at the Gameday celebration of the opening game for the Oklahoma Sooners 2020, on Campus Corner in Norman. People walking by, hustling and bustling by, some with beers, some with water, some just trying to take in the smells and sounds as they passed each other -- all of us wearing our beautiful crimson and cream! (Boomer Sooner!)  Along came a few girls in short skirts and cowboy boots; I asked them if I could take their picture and they all giggled and said yes. I didn't expect them to say no, otherwise I would not have approached them.  I asked clowns, men with beards, police personnel, security, workers, anyone and everyone who was out and about just having a good time. My daughter in law shook her head in amazement and asked why I thought I could just interrupt a gathering (or five) and take photos.  My answer was "People like to be remembered. They don't mind." She said she would have told me no. I reminded her I didn't marry her, my son did. 

Benjamin Franklin was an awesome founding father, but he's not the Benjamin Franklin I think I associate with the most. Benjamin Franklin Stringfellow would have to the man I find myself most likely to be related to in more ways than one. A Confederate spy from before the Civil War, Stringfellow was assigned to the 43rd Virginia Cavalry. According to Wikipedia: "When war broke out, Stringfellow sought a commission in the Confederate Army. Despite four denials due to his fragile health (and 94-pound weight),[3] Stringfellow eventually secured a commission as Captain in the 4th Virginia Cavalry (his brothers also served the Confederacy, although his cousins Pleasant and Robert Stringfellow served in the U.S. Army). Stringfellow rode with General J.E.B. Stuart at Seven Pines, Cold Harbor, and the raid at Catlett's Station. Stringfellow also rode with Colonel John Singleton Mosby of the 43rd Virginia Cavalry, most notably in the raid at Loudoun Heights on January 9, 1864."    
 
 In 2008 I traveled to Manassas and literally stood in the forest at Bull Run where Benjamin Franklin Stringfellow had arranged for a meeting between himself and his cousins who found on the Union side. For them it may have been their last meeting on Earth; at least at that time they believed it may be. I found the very tree where he placed a metal marker. The cousins were to walk 100 feet to the west and 20 feet south to their actual meeting place where Stringfellow had forged a little hidden "fort" where the three could bow and pray together for God, country, and family.  I knelt there on the ground holding my cell phone in my hand with my son Reuben on the other end of the phone; he was in Alaska, serving in the 180th Cavalry. We prayed and we cried a bit too. 

I will admit that from time to time I would love to have my face on the 100 Dollar Bill, that would be really cool, but if you gave me the option of being known for being one of the forefathers of our great nation or the descendant of a brave soldier, it's a no-brainer.  I am always going to pick the soldier every time.  When I took the test, I thought I would end up being like Thomas Jefferson, a writer, a critic, a philosopher, a person who sees both sides of the story before making a decision. Turns out I'm more pragmatic. Turns out I place value on the masses being held accountable rather than trying to persecute the few for their injustices.  I see that. It's just funny how a bit of reflection can bring back a flood of truth. I am my father's daughter.  We are Stringfellows through and through. 

The Written Word - The Hidden Truth

 So, I am a graphologist. ("But of course, you are." you say.) It's true. From my early years of education I have been interested in the way people write so I began studying it. Remember, I'm a thinker and thinkers think. People who tinker will always tink, people who write will always write. People who choose to watch birds have probably done so since before they can remember, and I (Jude Stringfellow) study words.

WHAT is a graphologist? Well, it's not the easiest thing to explain really. The best short answer would be that a graphy will look at what is written and then determine the mood, attitudes, hidden thoughts, secrets, even overlooked details of a person's life and habits just from what or rather HOW they wrote out the letters of their words. I said "HOW" because it really isn't about "WHAT" the person wrote, it's the way they literally form and construct each letter of each word. You'll never ever ever never write the same thing the exact same way twice no matter how hard you try. There will always be a small distinction. Therefore, a graphy looks at the entirety of the sample for characteristics which are mostly similar and forms an opinion (and it is only an opinion) as to what lies beneath the scratched ink or pencil marks. You could write the same sentence over and over intentionally if the graphy needed to see a particular letter for further examination; for example, to determine if I believed you were hiding a secret I may ask a you to write the sentence "I am often able to analyze art" so that I may see the way you form your "a" on a consistent basis. What I do then is look at your "a" and "o" to see if they are open at the top or not. If your "o" is LOCKED and your "a" closed, you may very well be holding an enormous personal secret. 

Over the years I have used my skills in positive ways only. I don't believe in parlor tricks and abusing the skill by making money off the handwriting of others. I have literally given away my opinions about others' handwriting(s) so as to help others who may need to seek help with their mental conditions and/or prisoners in jail be examined who may otherwise may simply be ignored when they have bottled up anxiety or are in severe needs they may not be aware of. Yes, I can see manic behavior in a person's script. I can tell if a person has recently been fighting with their significant other, as the curve of the "y" will point downward or be completely non existent, straight, and short rather than the loopy type of a "y" that we were all taught to write in grammar school.

Remember, we were all taught to write pretty much the same way, there was a WAY to write. We were taught to write in cursive at about the age of 10, and it is the cursive word that I study. The worlds of graphology took an enormous hit when teachers failed the world by refusing to teach children to write in cursive. The cursive word is an art form.

We were taught to WRITE not print. Printing was the start of our education regarding writing. We practiced it, we began our cursive training, and we all came to a means and way of our own after years of writing. We created within ourselves what would become OUR handwriting. It could be neat, it could be sloppy, and still have the same characteristics that a graphologist will seek out to determine what is hidden behind the word itself. The slant matters, the height, lack of height, roundness, even the density or the hardness of which a person presses the pen or pencil to the paper counts. The neatness isn't all that important to me when I read a writing - I'm looking for secrets, of course I'm going to look beyond the wrapping paper to find the prize!

In your writings you hold your life. In your hands script you hold your past, your present, and often your hopes and thoughts of the future. It literally changes nearly on a daily basis in some cases. There will be permanent markers of course, the height of the strike in your "d", "h" and "l" will remain similar, but the day to day differences in the way you form your "g", "y", and "p" will tell me how you are/were doing on the day you wrote the piece before me. Let's look at your capital "I" for example. Do you put a top and bottom strike on it? Do you print it instead of writing it out in cursive? If you do print it out, and there is no top or bottom strike, either both of your parents are deceased or you have been detached from them for quite a while, and STRIKING it out on your own. (again, it's conjecture, not actual science based)

Holding your emotions in may seem like a good thing but when you write anything out they all come flowing out of your head, our of your stomach, out of your soul, and onto the paper through your own hand. I wouldn't say your hand is betraying you. I would say, as a graphologist, that your hand is helping you cope with the realities that are occurring in your life and just maybe you're asking for help or letting the world know how happy you are if that pretty "y" has a big fat loopy bubble and a distinctive swirl at the end!  If you're having vivid dreams, lucid dreaming, I would be able to tell. If you're angry and just want to punch something, yes, I can tell that too.  I catch myself analyzing my own handwriting most days and then asking myself why I'm rushing, why am I in such a hurry all the time? I know the answer. I think the rapture is coming and having to get everything done NOW!  Before time runs out for good.

Why would it matter to you, the reader, if some obscure woman in an average little life of her own would be a graphologist? It may not matter one tittle to you, but if I am one you know there are others who also read your life in the words you produce. It's rather like throwing out the trash in some ways. Once you've thrown it out the trash becomes public property. Did you know that? Anyone can go through the trash you threw out once you discard it. Likewise, anyone can read your writing(s) and know what you're thinking, feeling, needing, wanting, dreaming, acting upon, etc.  It took years and years to perfect this skill, so it's not something I take lightly or throw around easily. I use it when I teach to see who I can trust, who will lie to me about doing their assignments, who will be a stand up student, and who may choose to slack off or need extra help. It can be pretty darn handy I may add when determining how to approach a class of 30+ people who come from every walk of life.

If I were to ask you right now to write out on unruled paper (because I can see how your letters relate to each other better if there are no lines to guide you) and your words are running close together from line to line - you are trusted. If your words are spaced evenly one right after the other, you trust others. If your words are far apart line by line but close together word to word, you are not all that trusted by others to complete a task or carry out a promise, but you do trust others and perhaps you trust too quickly.  It's an art. It's a science. It's an opinion, but one that has been proven worthy of my examination for years now.  You may never ask me to read your writing. You may be afraid to ask me now. You may think I'll make something up (parlor trick) or say something I already knew about you, such as your parents being divorced.Yes, you'll reveal that in your capital "I" as well. There are just too many things you let out without even knowing it - - so don't worry about it. Don't let it stress you. If you do your slants will change! LOL

Relax. There aren't many of us out there. Only a few of us, and most of us don't really look that hard anyway. When people think of handwriting analysts they typically think of the people brought in to determine if a check was actually written by the person they believe it was written by, or some letter being presented in court. The expert is also a graphologist, but their reputation is on the line when they go to court and they study an entirely different thing than what I study. They study consistency, size, angle, slant, density, patterns of loop, etc. in order to compare the likelihood of a document being written by the same hand. I look to see WHAT the person left in terms of their life's experiences inside those letters. Hope that clears things up!

Pyrate Flag's a Flyin' Again.

 Oh, if you only knew! Those of you who do know -- Arrggghhh!  Keep your whiskey close to ya and your women at home lest we come for them for a battle royale of the pen and parchment. Let there be laughter. Let there be fun. Let there be ladies with imaginations far too brilliant to be cooped up!

I'm thinking Friday, September 18th when the dusk gives her skirt over to the night, ladies. I'll bring the rum! (There will be cigars, but don't laugh at me if I cough my fool head off for not having smoked one in 12 years.) :)  FLY THE FLAG LASS!  Remember, poles are for more than dancin'.

No men allowed! (If you dare show up you may regret it fiercely. 

My Mommy!

 Rebecca Ruth Edwards was born an Aries. She was born in the afternoon I was told, on April 5, 1935, and that makes her 85 years old at the time of this writing.  Becky, as she was always known, is my mom. We don't usually call her "Mom", "Mommy", or even "Mama". For years she's been "G'ma" (pronounced G-ma) to my kids and myself, and Gramma to the rest of the grandchildren. My siblings do actually call her Mom, so she has a few names. Daddy used to call her "Sweetheart" most of the time.  I like that.

G'ma has lived almost three solid years without Dad now, and you can see it in her eyes just how sad it makes her feel to know she's still on this side of Glory waiting to see him again. Although we've both discussed that when they do meet again, they'll not be husband and wife, they'll both be in their new perfected bodies and possibly looking about the same as they did the day they met in September (this weekend actually, the first weekend in September) 1955. Let me tell you about my mom, then maybe you'll learn a wee bit about me in the telling.

E4 Navy man Reuben "Wayne" Stringfellow was just freshly out of his Naval duties. So fresh was he that he didn't even have additional clothes to change into really. He attended church in his sailor's outfit and if you're anything like me, which apparently she is, and that's where I get it, you'll understand what took place next.  There he was sitting in the church minding his own business. My dad was forever the unwitting one, the one who was continually taken off guard by Mom.  

Mom walked into the back of the sanctuary (it was her family church that he happened to pop into that day) as the back of the church had the entrance doors to the congregation. If you went around the front you'd head into the classrooms and offices. To enter the auditorium you came through the back door. There on that glorious September morning, Becky (red headed, sassy and green eyed) and her pretty younger sister Naomi walked through the back door just slightly late as to be sure and draw a little attention to themselves. After all, they were adorable girls, both single, and why not let the handsome men in the room see who was coming into the room. "You're late again Miss and Miss Edwards", called the pastor.  My mom and my aunt smiled and waved. One head didn't turn around to look at the two giggling girls - - only one head.  Guess who that was! Dad.

Seeing that the potentially handsome and possibly single sailor had not turned to see her, mom made a proclamation to her younger sister at that time. She said "That man, that sailor, I'm going to marry him! He'll look at me then!"  Naomi, who was busy looking at the handsome airman next to my dad, his brother Bill, merely waved her little wave, probably batting her eyes a bit, and agreed with her older sister that marrying the silent one was probably a great idea. She may have added that it would be best to introduce herself first, however.

Before the end of the service Becky looked up from her bowed head and noticed the sailor was gone. He hadn't stayed for Benediction. Who does that? She asked herself. That's not going to happen again she promised her heart. If I'm going to marry him I have to at least meet him!  A week passed and Naomi had managed to speak to the airman Bill and had asked him to bring his brother back to church the following Sunday, which he did, and there they were again - - intentionally late by just a few minutes. Again, my dad did not turn around to see the girls coming in. Not having a place to sit with the boys, the girls sat behind them. Again, as before, just before last Benediction, my dad decided he needed to leave. He's not a public man, and not needing to go down front to pray or wait on others he simply left the pew and turned into the aisle. (Not so fast SAILOR BOY!) 

With an extended foot to the aisle just in front of him, my father literally tripped and fell on his face in the middle of Benediction, in the middle of the far right aisle. The culprit? You know it, Becky. "OH, dear, I'm so sorry" she said to the man, "I hope you're alright!"  He stood up and a bit embarrassed because others were looking, she helped him scoot in out of the aisle and of course, next to her. "I'm Becky Edwards" she said. "Wayne" he answered.  "Does Wayne have a last name?" she asked. "Yes" he answered. "Stringfellow".  Mom tells me that upon hearing the name Stringfellow she began wondering what her name would sound like spoken out loud...Becky Stringfellow. Becky Stringfellow. She liked it.

It may have taken 3 entire months but the woman was in fact successful at both convincing the man to marry her and to live the rest of his natural life with her. On December 3, 1955, they married and they remained married until October 5, 2017, when my dad decided he simply had to go see Jesus. It was a Wednesday. I was born on a Wednesday; it has always been a bitter sweet day, and now it is even more so. Mom (Becky) is an Aries; flirtation comes natural, ramming things with her strong head ways is just what she does. Can you guess what Dad's zodiac sign may be? Let me help you out. He's stubborn, seems cold, but in reality just isn't all that into things others are into. He's not easily moved, but once tripped and trapped feels that he has no real choice but to fall in love and stay in love because there is really no reason to not love this adorable woman.  He's a Taurus. 

Being married nearly 62 years taught dad a few things about women. Having three daughters all completely different from each other kept him guessing about what he probably thought he knew. Giving into Mom wasn't hard; she had his back. He knew it. What Becky wanted Wayne delivered. This was the plan, and it worked for 62 years.  We children said it out loud at the funeral in one way or another, each of us mentioned it; it was best that Dad go first. He could never have survived without his Sweetheart. I love that green eyed lady.