O no

So the other night I was chatting with Erica over the phone and she asked if I ever watch anything on Oprah's network, OWN.

"Nah," I said.

Basically I find Oprah appalling.

Besides, the only channel I ever watch during daylight hours is TCM.

If someone wanted to torture me, all they'd have to do is make me sit through a daytime talk show. I'd spill my secrets just to get away.

The reason Erica inquired was because even as we spoke, OWN was running a segment in which Oprah interviewed Chris Christie at his house in New Jersey.

We like Governor Christie so I perked up and tuned in to OWN. When Erica and I were done talking, I watched the end of the Oprah/Christie interview.

Silence Should Be Goldie

Then it was Goldie Hawn's turn and I had to switch channels or risk becoming nauseated.

It's funny to me that the biggest, most bloviation-prone heathen in the world often think they live on some spiritual plane that the rest of us cannot hope to attain on account of we're so narrow minded.

Which being interpreted means, unless you're a knee-jerk liberal and think anything goes, anything whatsoever, no matter how godless and immoral, you have no hope of ever becoming "enlightened."

Or of escaping mental illness, apparently.

Color Me Rootless

A night or two later I decided to flip over to OWN and see who Oprah had in her crosshairs. Don't ask me why.

Lo and behold, she was interviewing the cast of Roots to celebrate the miniseries' thirty-fifth anniversary.

Now let me first own up to the fact that I've never read Alex Haley's Roots.

Furthermore, I didn't watch Roots in 1977 -- I was a college student -- and I've never watched it since, and I have no intention of ever watching it.

But I know what it's about, because I'm smart that way.

Not that you'd have to be Einstein to figure out it's another vehicle for "African" Americans to guilt Whitey over events that transpired three hundred years ago, which nobody alive today had anything whatsoever to do with.

Hello people. Slavery was abolished in this country a hundred fifty years back. Nobody living today was ever a slave or a slave-owner. Neither were their parents or grandparents or great-grandparents.

The practice, while undeniably reprehensible and utterly indefensible, is non-existent in the America we know and love.

Except for when the blacks doggedly, stubbornly resurrect its memory in order to stoke an already outrageous sense of entitlement.

Their blindness is as epic as their collective ego.

Real. Estate. Bubble.

Take Oprah. Please?

She feted the Roots cast on her questionably tasteful $85 million 45-acre estate in Montecito, California (only one of her palatial homes). Dubbed "Promised Land" because Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., said that's where his race were ultimately bound, the 23,000 square foot main house is barely big enough to contain the ignorance and the arrogance.

Not to mention the ... never mind. Snark train leaving the station. All aboard.

Promised Land's grounds feature six hundred rose bushes -- the tending of which requires employment of a dedicated master rosarian (at least Oprah's creating jobs, unlike her Dear Leader) -- because Oprah believes roses are a portal to the Great Beyond.

There's also a "tea house" where Oprah likes to hang out when it rains. The structure has no indoor plumbing but rather an "upscale outhouse."

?????

Oprah's random sampling of the one percent were never more enamored of themselves than during the Roots interview.

God Is In The Details

Remember a few years ago when Sarah Palin was excoriated globally for daring to say with respect to the war in Iraq that "... there is a plan and that plan is God's plan"?

The truth-scorners and heel-nippers and baby-killers and other assorted liberal bottom-feeders had a field day with that one.

How dare that upstart Governor Palin invoke the name of God when speaking of our warmongering imperialistic nation, hotbed of outdated puritanical mores and evil all-consuming greedy capitalism?

One liberal blogger went so far as to assert that Sarah Palin's remark constituted jihad.

?????

So imagine my surprise and disgust when Oprah and the Roots cast, fifty minutes into a smarm-drenched back-patting fest, agreed that by virtue of their appearing in the miniseries, they were and remain "messengers from God."

Messengers from GOD, y'all. The Roots cast truly believe they were angels sent to bring the message of the Almighty.

It couldn't be that in 1976 they were black, they were actors, they were talented black actors, they were talented black actors of the correct age, they were talented black actors of the correct age who had halfway-decent agents, and they simply got the gig?

Either way, the liberal media did not come a'running to burn them in effigy for claiming to represent God.

It's Right Here In Black And White

Oprah cited as proof of their lofty contention -- and held up a Nielsen ratings report to illustrate -- that Roots to this very day holds the record of the third-most-watched TV show in history.

Surpassed only by the final episode of M*A*S*H and the "Who Shot JR" spine-tingler on Dallas.

May we then assume the casts of M*A*S*H and Dallas were even greater messengers from God? Anyone? Bueller?

I'll answer that with another question. Could it be that because they were white, their message didn't matter?

Other ironclad evidence of the Roots cast's celestial mission was the weather on the night the show aired.

"God made it snow so hard, nobody could go anywhere," Ben Vereen proclaimed with Moses-like authority.

However, in the days before cable networks, this may not be so remarkable. As I recall, in 1977 there were, like, three channels to watch and millions of folks still didn't have a remote.

And it was January.

Kunta Kinte, Meet Coaxial Cable

Let's try it again, shall we, with the digital command-center-wielding massive flat-screen Netflixed, Blu-rayed, DVD'd and DVR'd home-theater watchers of today, and see what size audience you attract.

Run Roots against Hoarders or Swamp People or Sister Wives -- or even American Idol or Dancing With the Stars -- and see how many tune in to hear the message from God.

When they were done praising themselves, the Roots cast no doubt repaired to their rooms to dress for dinner.

At the appointed hour a tribally muu-muued Oprah, wide-angle lens in tow, waddled through her mansion headed for the kitchen acre.

There she made sure to let her viewers know it was a cast of white folks tossin' the arugula and fryin' the free-range chicken and bastin' the Coca-Cola ham and bakin' the buttermilk biscuits.

Finally the group reassembled in the dining room and commenced toasting themselves with Piper-Heidsieck before tucking into the traditional Southern feast.

Ostrich Was Not On The Menu

Clearly nobody was bothered by the fact that in those thirty-five years since Roots first aired, tens of millions of black babies have been slaughtered, sentenced to death by their own mothers.

Millions more of the ones who were allowed to live have no idea who their fathers are, but that's a non-issue because they exist only to justify more welfare dollars. And populate our prisons.

But hey, this is just me over here, a white lady who goes to work every day and pays taxes and lives in a house that, thanks to sub-prime loans awarded to minorities, is now worth one-third less than it was five years ago, making sure I keep the black race DOWN, y'all.

Because we all know the black race is the only one since the dawn of time that has been persecuted. I mean, my Irish ancestors did a jig down the path to the pot o' gold with nary a misstep and naught in the way of opposition; right?

I think not. We were oppressed and so were plenty of other people groups. Many still are. The difference is, we're up and doing. We don't whine about the past while looking under every rock for someone to blame.

Put The Jelly On The Bottom Shelf

That's what I was thinking about the other day when I was reporting the deposition of a 45-year-old black man (father of two, married to neither mother) who insists he can never work again because he put a food cart on the tailgate of a truck and it rolled off and he injured his back trying to catch it.

That put him out of commission but freed him up to count the fifty thousand dollars he got from one car wreck litigation (in which he hurt his neck and shoulder) and keep in touch with his on-speed-dial ambulance-chaser lawyer regarding the outcome of a second lawsuit that will likely net him a similar amount.

All while he gets a check for three grand per month from the State of South Carolina. That's thirty-six thousand dollars a year for doing nothing. Oh and great health insurance, which allows him to take a laundry list of heavy-hitting prescription medications for things like diabetes and high blood pressure (he's a big boy), in addition to narcotic pain pills.

He testified that he goes to the movies a lot. It passes the time. Sometimes he takes a spin on his street bike. But there is no work he can do, none whatsoever y'all. Because his back hurts.

Promises, Promises

I promise you, my back was hurting worse than his and I was working.

Could this be the "promised land" Dr. King envisioned? A land where you don't bother to get up until noon but the white folks work hard to pay for you to lay around the house and go to the movies?

Somehow I don't think so. But don't tell Oprah, the cast of Roots, or the other messengers from God at Harpy Harpo Studios.

They're too busy smelling the royalties. I mean the roses.

I can't tell you why

TG and I heard from some old friends last week.

Correction: TG heard from an old friend. I'll call him Joe but that's not his real name.

Joe's wife, Gina -- not her real name either -- and I had a chance to be friends too, back around 1980, but things didn't work out.

You'll have to take my word for this but it wasn't my fault. When it comes to polite social interaction, Gina is one of the least accessible people I've ever known.

Then she chose to launch a personal attack on me, but that's neither here nor there.

Bygones.

The last time TG and I saw Joe and Gina was in 1996 when we were guests in their home for a few days. It was a nice enough time but most of my energy was spent thawing Gina to the point that we could engage in quasi-meaningless small talk.

I guess she's just never been all that into me.

I'm good with it. I already have more and better friends than I deserve.

Auld Acquaintance

So last week TG got a text from Joe and although I didn't read it, the upshot was that Gina's got stage four breast cancer that has spread to her lungs, spine, and other assorted anatomical nooks and crannies.

I was alarmed, naturally, but also intrigued by the news because, after rearing five children, Gina went back to school and became a registered nurse.

How could someone who works in a hospital find out one day she has cancer so out of control, her chances of survival are slim to none? I wondered.

I mean, mammograms are not exactly five-thousand-dollar shopping sprees but we submit to them anyway, don't we, girls?

Am I right?

"Call Joe," I said to TG.

I wanted details.

Yesterday morning on the way to church, having talked to his friend Joe sometime on Saturday, TG filled me in.

Cleopatra, Queen of Denial

Turns out Gina found the lump four years ago and refused to seek either diagnosis or treatment. She ignored the mass and went about her business.

The only person she told was Joe, who urged her to consult a doctor. But Gina would not go. She didn't want chemotherapy, she said.

A few days ago Joe was on an errand some distance from their home when he got a call from Gina, who hadn't been feeling well over the Christmas holidays.

She told him to meet her at the hospital.

Only, when he arrived and asked where he could find his wife, there was no record of Gina having checked in.

He called her cell. "Where are you," he wanted to know.

"In the parking lot," she said.

Gina'd been sitting in her car for nearly two hours, afraid to walk into the hospital and ask for help.

People Who Need People

I was still mulling what TG had told me as I sat in the pew yesterday morning, listening to the prelude, waiting for the service to start.

My left peripheral vision was engaged when a tiny -- so tiny! -- female form appeared in the aisle. She was all curls and crinolines, patent leather and lace.

The toddler was hurtling, unaccompanied, toward the steps leading to the platform.

"Where's she going," TG mused.

We watched as she reached the steps and began climbing, barely breaking her stride.

She was on a mission but it was anyone's guess why, because there was nothing to speak of at the top, no relatives or toys or puppies or snacks. No bright colors. Only ecclesiastical furniture.

But the moppet was going up higher. She had a destination in mind.

My right peripheral vision was then engaged when a young man with a distinctly paternal vigor appeared.

He hustled to the baby girl gone rogue, reaching her just before she plateaued.

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

What happened next was both cute and telling. Without pause and with assured purpose, the young dad scooped his daughter into his arms and carried her back to their seat.

What he did not do was reason with her. He gently but forcibly, with the weight of authority, reversed her direction and put an end to her escapade.

The time for talk would come later.

I thought of Joe and Gina. Why didn't Joe force Gina to see her doctor four years ago? Joe is a big, strong man and Gina is a small woman. He could have compelled her to go in such a way that she had no choice.

He could've insisted. He could've refused to take no for an answer, been disinclined to discuss it.

I wouldn't want to be him when he explains to their children why he didn't.

And I hope his insistence, his forcible reversal of her direction, isn't what Gina was waiting for.

Dust in the Wind

During church I was still thinking about Gina. I remembered when she was a bride, thirty-seven years ago. She wore one of the most entrancing wedding gowns I've ever seen. With every step she took, Gina's dress twinkled like mad.

Years later, on one of the few occasions I attempted to make girl talk with Gina, I complimented her on the breathtaking sparkle of her wedding ensemble.

"That was my fantasy," she said matter-of-factly, and although it was of the blink-or-you'll-miss-it variety, I do believe for an eighteenth of a second her expression softened.

Yesterday in my mind's eye I saw two aisles: the one beside me where the adorable tot had just barreled past, beelined for the platform, and the one Gina lit those many years ago as she walked sedately toward the altar to marry her true love.

And I recalled that Gina has been a devoted wife and an excellent mother, and I'm sure she's a terrific grandmother. I have no doubt she is an outstanding nurse.

Gina spent her life providing for others the care and comfort she would ultimately deny herself. She worked alongside doctors but didn't trust even one of them enough to confide her burden.

She's not yet sixty and has a great deal left to do, but Gina made a choice not to confront her disease when it still might have been manageable.

Take Me to the River

Joe told TG that now, Gina has consented to chemotherapy.

It's a mystery.

What isn't a mystery is that our lives are not about getting gain to ourselves or catering to our fears, no matter how real and powerful.

Every day we live presents another opportunity to help someone. To disseminate truth and have a positive impact.

We are here to do as much as we can for as many as we can in as many ways as we can, for as long as ever we can, to the glory of God our Creator.

I'm neither a doctor nor a Pollyanna and I don't play either one on TV, but something tells me Gina has robbed both herself and her family of years of influence she could have used to tremendous effect.

And that is a shame.

She Won't Have to Cross Jordan Alone

Gina has a firm testimony of faith in Christ and, since I believe in Heaven and I believe both she and I are going there when we die -- not because we are "good" but because we have both trusted the same sinless Savior -- I'm sure the next time I see Gina, that's where it will be.

I hope there, we can be good friends. Until then I'll be praying for Gina and Joe and their family. I hope you will too.

You can call her Gina when you ask God to help and comfort her. He knows her real name and all about her, just as He knows everything there is to know about both you and me.

Let it all be a lesson.

Meanwhile I wish you a happy Monday and a blessed week.

SkyWatch Friday: dazzle gradually

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant --
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind --

~Emily Dickinson~

Anchor. Savvy?

//(*_*//)  (\\*_*)\\

Since the darling Pirate seems to be in over his head lately, I thought a nautical post was timely.

Where to begin? I wondered, and then remembered.

Occasionally I notice an anchor theme on a tombstone and I perk right up.

The carving is usually ornate and exquisitely detailed. I especially like the rendering of rope in stone.

While the anchor may not be a rare motif per se, in my experience it's seldom seen on monuments in this part of the world.

If you're wondering why anybody would put an anchor on a tombstone, I think the answer is simple.

For starters, there's ample reference in hymns to our needing an anchor, a safe harbor, something to keep us from drifting aimlessly through life and, worse, into eternity untethered to God.

To the believer, Jesus Christ is both the anchor and the safe harbor.

I've anchored my soul in the Haven of Rest,
I'll sail the wide seas no more --
The tempest may sweep o'er the wild stormy deep;
In Jesus I'm safe evermore.

~Gilmour/Moore~

Troubles almost 'whelm the soul;
Griefs like billows o'er me roll;
Tempters seek to lure astray;
Storms obscure the light of day;
But in Christ I can be bold,
I've an anchor that shall hold.

~Martin/Towner~

Harbored in Jesus, safe and secure,
Harbored in Jesus, safe evermore.

~D.M.Allen~

The word "anchor" is found only once in the Bible, used in the metaphoric sense:

Which hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and stedfast, and which entereth into that within the veil; whither the forerunner is for us entered, even Jesus, made an high priest for ever after the order of Melchisedec.

~Hebrews 6:19-20~

(In case you're curious, the plural of "anchor" is found three times in Scripture, all in Acts 27, where it is used in the concrete sense.)

The name "Andrew" is mentioned twelve times in the Bible. Speaking of Andrew, here's my anchor baby singing about The Anchor.

Happy Wednesday!

A little assistance over here

Given the amount of time I spend in cemeteries, it was bound to happen.

TG and I were rambling around Magnolia Cemetery in Charleston last Friday, having a pretty good time.

All three crews of the thrice-doomed Hunley are buried there! We visited their graves.

The weather was a perfect sixty-seven degrees and it was sunny, with a light breeze.

Magnolia Cemetery is situated a stone's throw from The Citadel, downtown Charleston, Charleston Harbor, and the Ravenel Bridge.

Beside it is St. Lawrence Cemetery and across the street is Bethany Cemetery, both of which I'll have to give the fine-tooth-comb treatment another day.

Because we ran out of time.

As in, at five minutes past five last Friday, we found ourselves locked inside Magnolia Cemetery.

There is a nice sign by the gate that gives the hours and states that the gates close promptly at five.

Let me tell you: they're not just whistling Dixie.

TG was watching the clock as I roamed from one monument to the next, taking pictures, absorbed in a most splendid spot of graving.

"It's nearly five, baby," he said.

I went immediately to the car even though I did not understand the significance of five. The days are getting longer! There was still plenty of good light.

But I was getting hungry and I'd been promised dinner.

When we reached the gate a few minutes later, it was closed. A thick chain was looped through the bars, secured with a padlock practically the size of Javier.

Mmmmkay.

TG and I looked at one another.

"Drive around the perimeter," I said, "parallel with the road! Maybe there's another gate!"

There wasn't. There isn't.

"You'd think whoever locks up would first check to make sure there was nobody still here, having sort of lost track of time," I whined.

We ended up back at the main only path of egress onto Huguenin Avenue and the wider world.

Now let me pull over and park here for a mo.

As much as I love cemeteries -- and believe me, I do -- they look completely different when shadows lengthen and it's beginning to get a trifle dark around the edges.

Or when you've lost a diamond ring in one and you're all alone to look for it.

And especially when you're faced with the prospect of spending the night in one.

I don't want to spend the night in any cemetery on this earth until I'm a proper resident. Of the cemetery, that is.

TG had to figure this one out.

"What are we going to do?" I said.

"I'm calling nine one one," he said.

And he did.

While he talked to them I walked to the gate and looked through the bars. I checked again to make sure they were locked up tight.

I went back to the car. TG was off the phone.

"What did they say?" I said.

"She said it happens. They'll send someone," he said.

"To let us out, or to laugh at us?" I wondered.

I went back to the bars. Within ten seconds a white pickup approached from my left, slowed, and stopped.

That was right quick!

A man exited the vehicle and walked toward me, jangling some keys.

I grabbed the bars and made a funny face. "If I get my camera will you take a picture of me stuck in here?" I said. "My readers would ..."

Padlock-man ignored me. I guess he thought I was kidding. More's the pity. Maybe he'd been promised dinner, too.

"Where were you?" he asked. "I did a drive-around before locking the gate."

????

I half-turned and gestured vaguely behind me. Where exactly were we when he did the drive-around in which TG and I were apparently invisible?

Then I remembered a certain family plot TG had pointed out so, name-dropper that I am, I used it.

"Over by the Muckenfusses," I said. "I think."

But I thought: Over by the water where the White Ibis groom themselves in the trees, their long, curved red bills glinting in the afternoon sun. Over where the Spanish moss sighs and whispers ancient secrets all around you. Over by the reaching branches of the centuries-old Live Oak. That's where we were and I'm not sorry.

The nice key-keeper let us out. There is nothing like being liberated from the confines of a locked cemetery! But don't take my word. Try it sometime.

When you drive out of the gate at Magnolia Cemetery, if you go straight you cross over Huguenin and Bob's your uncle, you're on Cunnington Avenue. Just ahead, on your left, is Bethany Cemetery.

The gate was still open. "Turn in! Turn in!" I told TG. He obeyed.

I hoped Bethany was open until six.

Right away a horn bleated behind us. Not gently but urgently. It was the white pickup.

Turns out, Bethany Cemetery is open until six ... during the months of May, June, July, August, and September.

This time of year? Shut tight at five. Padlock guy just hadn't gotten around to securing it yet, having been busy springing TG and me from Magnolia.

We backed out having not even cleared the gate. It looked really nice in there too. Serene.

Ah well. So many cemeteries, so little time. God willing, I'll live to grave another day.

Happy Monday to you! Happy Week!