Provided. Encouraged. Practiced. Repeat.

    I am not a photographer.  Earlier this year, I took great offense from the words of a villiage idiot who proclaimed there are no photographers left...just good automatic cameras.  Criticism has always been this only child's worst enemy, and I took that insult to heart.  As I allowed my inner child to puff up and pout like she had just lost her favorite Barbie, I realized the truth of the matter is this:  I am not a photographer.  I have not completed any course of study regarding my favorite art form.  I have not completed any sort of degree in visual arts.  I have never set foot in a photography classroom.  I have taken some private lessons from professionals in Knoxville, but those were the equivalent to learning how to play chop sticks on the piano with more than one finger.  Today, I'm admitting, I am not a photographer.
    I am, however, one very grateful picture taker who was allowed and encouraged to improve her photography by her parents, teachers, and extended family from the first time I ever picked up a Kodak Disc camera.  Remember those?  Only fifteen shots per disc, and you had to make them count.  That was the first camera I ever received, and I used it to win the award shown above.  My 4H assignment was to tell a story with six photos, which I wish I still had but don't.  I can remember assembling Alice, Becky, Leslie, and Lisa in the back yard with pom  poms in hand.  I photographed six steps to building a human pyramid and put the pictures on a poster board.  Those six pictures (taken when I was eleven years old) have led me to my heart's happiest place today:  looking at the world through my camera lens.
   Is there an underlying issue to my love of all still images?  Yes.  Would a therapist have a field day with it?  Of course.  Let's just say that I lost all my family photos when I was in middle school, and that loss traumatized me.  Most people consider family photos their prized possessions, and within just a few minutes, my lifetime of memories went up in flames while I watched frozen in fear.  From that terrible experience, I vowed to photograph life's most simplistic and fantastic moments and never ever lose another image of my family; and I'd make sure others never suffered such a loss, too.  I bounced back from one act of cruelty, and I transformed a nightmare into my happy place.
   Growing up in Middlesboro, I had more than one professional photographer whose work inspired me to learn more about getting better and smarter with a camera.  Mr. Jackson, owner of Jackson's Studio and Gifts, was the first person I ever knew who took pictures for a living.  His gift shop and studio were next door to my dad's pawn shop, and I had a lot more fun hanging out at Jackson's than hanging out with a bunch of pocket knives and fishing poles.  Mr. Jackson also had original Cabbage Patch dolls (cloth faces) in his store, and even though I never owned one, he allowed me to come over and babysit his adoptable babies.  There's no doubt in my mind that I drove him and Joyce Skidmore nuts.  I am so appreciative of their patience and kindness, but little did I know then what a huge impact their effort to amuse me would have on my life as an adult.  If I behaved myself, made good grades, and didn't break anything, they'd let me take a few dolls back to the photography studio and pose them and pretend to make pictures of them.  There was no film in the camera.  Sometimes I got to use a flash, and those were super special days.  I arranged those dolls like they were supposed to be models in JCPenney's Christmas Wish Book and photographed them for hours on end.  Jackson's also sold collectible stickers and scrapbooks.  New supplies came in weekly, and the stickers were a quarter each, which was a lot back then.   When my day's work with photography was finished, I got a free sticker for my collection for being such a good employee.  That is precisely how my life behind a camera began.
   I paid attention to every possible exposure I encountered regarding professional photography when I was a child.  I remember one particular bridal portrait that was displayed in Venable's for such a long time.  It was a close up of a bride in a yard filled with beautiful flowers, and I never knew who the bride was. She had short blonde hair and glowed with happiness.  I never knew who photographed her, but that is the first bridal portrait (other than my mother's) to ever leave me breathless.  The frame around the portrait was carved thick wood covered in gold paint, and I looked at that photo like many people looked at art created by the masters in museums. The portrait wasn't a full shot...only from about the waist up...but she looked so beautiful and the pose was timeless.  Timeless is something I've strived for in my own picture taking, and it's tough to achieve.
   Pearle Sorah went to church with my mom and me.  How appropriate that he, an x-ray tech, was also a photographer.  He had a home studio and when I would visit with his wife's grandchildren, I often watched as he completed sessions with clients. I watched him like a hawk when he photographed weddings, too.   He had a very nice studio with the best equipment, but he snapped a picture of his wife's daughter, Terri, at the airport during sunset one evening, and that stands out in my mind as yet another actual photograph that left me breathless.  Terri had beautiful long brown curly hair, beautiful skin, and she was wearing the coolest sunglasses ever.  She was leaned up beside an airplane, and everything was just perfect once the shutter was fired.  Slowly, I started to realize that I could make beautiful pictures outside instead of staying inside a studio.  I wanted my pictures to be timeless and leave people breathless.
   During high school, I made numerous futile and failed attempts to tan my skin at a local beauty shop in Middlesboro so I would be less prone to glow in the dark.  That beauty shop had "walls of fame," which displayed photos taken by Benny Collins.  If your portrait was hanging on the wall in that particular shop, it was the equivalent to a local celebrity's star on a walk of fame. HA!   This was the first time I ever remember paying attention to the difference in color and black and white photography with my preference being toward black and white.  Benny was the first photographer I ever knew to introduce special effects into photography, too.   He was a master of double exposure, gel highlighting, and unique backdrops.  It took great restraint for me to not stalk him because he just lived around the corner from Mom and me.  I managed to resist the temptation to beg him for wisdom regarding his craft and just took notes from his work as I saw it.  To this day, my favorite Benny Collins photograph is of a bride's shoe.  Yep.  Cinderella's shoe might have been as beautiful, but I doubt it.  It was the most unique bridal photo I had ever seen, and that's when my definition of timeless began to broaden.
   After I learned to appreciate the work of Mr. Jackson, Pearle Sorah, and Benny...I saw the work of Paula (Hayes) Melton, and from that day forward, everything about the way I worked a camera changed.  She had photographed a friend of mine, and it looked as though the girl's gorgeous face was reflected in a pool when there was no drop of water to be found.  Again, I was left breathless.  That photo will forever stand in my mind as the most beautiful image I have ever seen.  The color was so sharp.  The skin looked like Grace Kelly.  Eyes were as deep as the water appeared to be.  There were no shadows.  The light absorbed in the skin instead of reflecting from it.  Every single component of that shot was absolutely perfect.  Before our world went digital, the only way I had to see Paula's work was to actually get my hands on pictures she had shot.  I hunted for them like water in a desert.  If she photographed a wedding, I tried to go to watch her...not the bride.  When she photographed children, I studied the proofs like I was preparing for a final exam.  She didn't have to advertise.  All she had to do was consistently produce what I consider to be the most beautiful photography I've ever seen.  Period.  I finally worked my nerve up to ask her to photograph me, and she made me feel like I was pretty.  I was as awkward as a fish on sand, but she brought a calming yet encouraging spirit with her work.  By the time we were finished, I was ready to be on the cover of Vogue.  I learned in that single session the importance of making every subject feel beautiful, handsome, and appreciated.  Paula's heart is evident in every single image she has ever photographed; all I've ever wanted was to be that good.  It's a goal I take baby steps toward with every session.  I could write for days and still never convey to you what a standard her work sets for my photography. 
   Those local influences are precisely the people who have helped me get to this point in my photography.  From the time I was old enough to understand the sentimental value of a picture, I was fortunate to know people who were professionals and could teach me great lessons by the example they set with their work.  I was inspired by photographers who had to choose ISO, use light meters, navigate through dark rooms, and rely upon their precision instead of technology to produce timeless images.  Having that appreciation of photography long before Photoshop was involved is one of my life's greatest gifts. 
    As always, I'm grateful to my parents for always inspiring my love of photography.  They picked up on my genuine love of a camera without question and allowed me to expand my experiences in order to avoid killing their young. HA!  I know I made them crazy.  I know the money my mom spent on developing my film would have probably been enough to pay my entire college tuition and then some.  For those of you parents who make great sacrifices to encourage what your child loves to do, let this story remind you that your children will be grateful for your support. 
    Maybe some day I will be a professional photographer, but for the time being, I'm just going to continue taking pictures of happy people and trying to improve with every click of the shutter.  I am a proud 4H photography champion, and that's all the fame my ego can handle. 
   
  

The Weak Link at Vacation Bible School

    There are two ways to find your path to Tazewell during the months of June and July.  One option you have is to follow the big red street signs that tell you not to take explosives into the tunnel.  The other option you have is to find the signs that say, "VBS."  Bible School.  I don't know what it's like in the rest of the world, but I am absolutely certain there is no culture more dedicated to Bible School than the families of Appalachia. 
    I found this photo in the land of Google, and I've borrowed it to give you "young uns" an image of what this ever so sentimental blog of mine is going to discuss tonight.  On the left, you see a young boy holding the American flag.  On the right, you see a young boy holding the Christian flag. In the center, you see a very demure girl holding the Bible.  I'd venture to guess about 30 years after this photo was taken in a Baptist church from across our land, I decided that I wanted to forgo gender stereotypes and carry the American flag.  It was time for a girl to step up and take on the big job, or so I thought. 
   Why is any of this pomp and circumstance necessary?  Oh, shame on you.  If you've never seen this gathering before, you've missed out on a big piece of a good raisin' in Appalachia.  This, my children, is the opening service for each night of Bible School.  The "leaders" walk down the aisle from the church front doors and the children in attendance follow right behind.  Everyone is seated with their teachers according to age (the kids' ages...not the teachers' ages.).  Upon being seated, each child is given a small pamphlet printed on newspaper textured paper, and in that book, the child will find The Pledge of Allegiance to the American Flag, The Pledge of Allegiance to the Christian Flag, and The Pledge of Allegiance to the Holy Bible.  Those three recitations will be conducted before the rest of the opening services begin.  It is an honor and a privilege to be chosen to carry either flag or the Bible during Vacation Bible School....or so I thought. 
    It's important to remind you that I have baby book documentation that my mother noted I fell off a piano stool when I was an infant and thumped my head quite harshly.  That can account for me being hard headed throughout most of my youth.  Before I wrote this blog, I read back through her letters to me to make sure there was no more evidence of head injuries, and sure enough....I was clear.  The tale you're about to read is true, and my mother didn't document it in my baby book because, I'm sure, it's an event she'd certainly love to forget.
    Before I get to the action, I need to really give a lot of credit to just a few of the adults who worked so hard at East Cumberland Avenue Baptist Church every single year of my childhood to make sure each of us had a wonderful experience.  Women like Wilma Ely, Diane and Rosemary Carnes,  Lois Massengill, Willie Massengill, Etta Laymon, Jeanette Greene,  Linda Ingram, Gigi Walker, Lucy Spangler, and especially my momma gathered, planned, and prayed as they led us through lessons in the scripture but also the Bible.
     I remember details like having orange Kool Aid in donated cups from Long John Silvers.  Cookies had no name brand.  They were either black or white.  I don't think there was enough flavor in them to warrant chocolate or vanilla.  The kitchen staff would open up the windows beside the back parking lot, and Mrs. Laymon would hand the snacks out the window like it was a drive up at a fast food establishment, and I couldn't wait to get my hands on those goodies (still have that problem today). 
     Sometimes we played hop scotch, perhaps jumped rope, or maybe we had bubbles to blow.  Regarding entertainment, we didn't have much time for that sort of play.  The priority was simply to teach us the right way to worship and live....AND....to prepare for commencement services, which would be the following Sunday night.
    I hear the word commencement and my head aches thirty some years after my tragedy happened.
     I had held the Bible during opening ceremonies enough during my tenure as a Bible School student at East Cumberland.  Boys always got to hold the flags, and I became exhausted with that tradition.  Eventually, a few older girls got the chance to hold the flags, and I knew then I had a loop hole through which I would certainly wiggle.  See, in our living room at home, we had some circa 1976 lamps whose bases were shaped like American Bald eagles.  Ugliest lamps I had ever seen, but my parents loved them.  The eagles on those lamps looked a lot like the brass eagle that perched atop the American Flag at church.  If my parents liked the lamps, they'd love to see me carry the American Flag with its eagle at Bible School.  I was certain of it. I began a campaign to get to carry the American Flag during Bible School during not just any night of the week...but during commencement.  I did not beg, because I knew if I begged, my mother would kill me.  So, I just subtly hinted my wishes to certain folks around the church....I knew who my weak links were, and I went in for the kill.  I wanted to carry that flag.
    In the days that followed my plot to be patriotic, Mom and I had to endure the never ending battle of finding just the right dress for commencement.  Ann's Fashions and the Yum Yum Tree.  Never failed.  I was reaching the point where those two stores were no longer going to be options for me because I had eaten too many cookies and drank too much Kool Aid.  I considered that even more evidence in my favor.  I was bigger; therefore, I should carry the flag.
     My hopes were high. My dress was white with little yellow flowers around the skirt.  My hair was perfect, and I showed up at East Cumberland on commencement night fully prepared to carry the American flag with pride.  Most of this had been confirmed in my own imagination because I knew better than to mention it to my mother.  I don't ask the Beebster for favors.  I didn't do it then when other kids were involved, and she'd still whip me now.
     Mom and I walked up the huge front stairway to East Cumberland while I made sure to not scuff my toes on the concrete because I had on the ever-popular Aigner sandals.  The gentlemen of the church were standing at the doors and I could see the flags behind them.  Then........I saw the enemy. 
     One of the gentlemen approached me and asked me if I'd please carry my Bible for commencement.  I knew if I argued, cried, rolled my eyes, or stomped my feet, we'd have my funeral that night instead of any Bible School commencement. I took the Bible, got in line, and when it came time to lead the students in, I dragged behind to watch what a pathetic job the "flag person" was doing.  That flag was waving and swaying and the holder was jerking it back and forth like my daddy fought a rock fish in Lost Creek.
     The three of us turned to face the congregation of children, and they remained standing.  With each symbol of patriotism and faith stepping forward, all the pledges were  said.  In conclusion, I stepped forward and held the Bible ever so cheerfully because my momma was on the organ bench watching me like a hawk and death would be certain if I cocked out a hip, slouched, tapped my foot,  or squirmed.  I grasped both sides of the Bible I had been given upon my baptism and held it for all children to see so they could recite its pledge.
     My peripheral vision typically never failed me until that moment.
     Before the children could say, "I pledge allegiance to the Bible, God's holy word," the child of God holding the American flag lost grip of it and the beak of that brass eagle came toward me like a buzzard after a Yorkie.  The beak of that brass bird thrashed right into the top of my head and blood shot out like Old Faithful.  My mother jumped up off that organ stool and took flight over the banister that separated her from the pews.  She jumped that banister like she was chasing a gold medal in the hurdles of the summer Olympics. Several other adults jumped the prayer altars and came to my rescue.  I remember lying flat of my back and looking up and reading, "This Do in Remembrance of Me" on our Lord's Supper table.  I decided right then and there that I had taken quite a thrashing in remembrance of my God, and I almost felt proud.  I hadn't truly made a sacrifice for my God, but I came close.  I'm pretty sure they used up all the napkins for snack that night to get my head to stop bleeding, too.  I guess everyone had to juggle cookies on their own. 
     And now, I notice Vacation Bible School signs as I drive through the little roads of my happy little town.  Each sign serves as a check point for me.  Simply out of habit and fear, I reach up and scratch my head and make sure there are no injuries.  You won't see me driving with my car's top down until Bible School has come and gone either.  No way I'm risking that.  Just as sure as I decided to take a convertible drive, some sort of winged felon would come out of the sky and peck my brains out again. 
     So, enjoy Bible School.  Know it does make a difference in the lives of those you're teaching.  Moments of tragedy often become hilarious stories to last a lifetime.  And...if there's a girl in your congretation who wants to carry a flag, for the love of orange Kool Aid,  let her carry it. 

The Voice of Reason

      If Cudjo is looming around his cave, I bet he's hearing a lot of profanity from down below.
      Anybody who lives within a twenty mile radius of Dairy Queen in Middlesboro is enduring a true test of our ability to monitor and adjust. Those of us who have always been able to hop in our cars and jaunt off for a DQ Blizzard have been some what haulted in our pursuit for quite a while now.  Frustration has caused bumpers to collide, gravel to spill, and fingers to fly simply because we are spoiled. 
       This recent traffic sna-foo is the result of a rock slide on I-75 in Campbell County (no relation...hee hee hee).  Traffic is detouring through Highway 63 up 25 to I-75 in Corbin and vice versa.  Blame it on Mr. Tom Tom or Mr. Garmin if you like.  Every satellite dependent device east of the Mississippi is routing massive amounts of traffic through this neck of the woods, and the locals are getting restless. 
        It is at this point I'm going to draw a generational line in my hellofuzzy world.
        Our generation in the tri-state area is divided by one statement and one statement only. 
       "Don't you go over that mountain."
        If that sentence doesn't strike fear in your bones, then you're probably too young to be reading this blog. 
        Before you even begin to think the tunnel poses a problem, let me tell you about "the mountain."  Every federal dollar spent on that tunnel has saved the area's youth one smooth whoopin from their mommas for being caught on the wrong side of the mountain.  It's not like the Hatfields lived on one side and the McCoys lived on the other.  Nope.  "The mountain" wasn't actually a reference to a geographic peak.  "The mountain" was the reference to the piece of road that the tunnel replaced.  The mountain claimed many lives...staged many moments of crisis...and took on the role of the tri state Bermuda triangle.  If anything bad was going to happen in traffic or human behavior, it seemed to happen within earshot of Cudjo's Cave, which sat at the peak of said mountain.  Parents forbade their children who were old enough to drive to even think about crossing that mountain, and we took on that dare like sticking our tongues to a flag pole.  And, just like we would have lost flesh from our tongue, we would have lost flesh from our arses once momma got hold of us.
If something happened in typical traffic, the event seemed mundane, but if the same event happened on "the mountain," then the after shock of it was amplified ten fold.  For example, it was perfectly understandable for Scottie to drive an ATV on a road in town...but driving it over "the mountain" was game that very few players had back in the day.
          Some how while the days have fallen off calendars and hairs have fallen off our heads, "the mountain" has faded into folklore stories while our big, mack daddy tunnel has opened up the gate from north to south in a much more dignified manner.  Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett would be most impressed with the tunnel technology.  And speaking of that technology...
           Anyone who travels through the tunnel more than once when checks come in knows that there is an almighty voice that slides into our vehicles and coaches us through our tunnel travel just like James Earl Jones acting as Darth Vader.  The voice is as authentic as Steven Speilburg or George Lucas would pray for it to be.  If either of those directors had to cast a voice for the tunnel, this is the voice each would have chosen.  It is the same voice I heard as a child and throughout my happy life on Balmoral.  It is the voice of my dear friend's husband.  It is the voice of Noah and Isaac's dad.  Yes, my yellow jacket alumni, when you enter the tunnel and your radio frequency is abducted by the voice, you might as well kick back and enjoy the ride with Steve Brown as your navigator.
            Now, here's where this story makes me giggle like a sixth grade girl.
            I rode the bus with Steve as did MANY other kids on Kay and Bill Carroll's route in Middlesboro.  They started dropping us off behind Coppinger's Machinery and didn't stop until they got close to the library downtown.  We all rode that bus from the time we started first grade until we got old enough to beg and plea for rides from kids who were old enough to drive (much love to you, Tina).  Steve Brown was, without question, our entertainment on the bus.  Every single passenger of buses 1 or 3 can hear him saying, "Girl, you know..." right now while you read this.  On the mornings he was late, he'd come running across the intersection at the Boys' Home just hollering for Kay to stop and let him on.  He'd miss the high school route and beg for a seat on the middle school route.  Kay always let him ride, and she bounced him off at the middle school.  He'd run like a deer to the high school and we'd all look forward to the same show on a different day.
             I don't remember Steve causing anything but laughs on our bus rides.  Through rain, snow, sleet, and hail, we rode together without a radio, noise reduction, or air conditioning.  Kay would knock those gears from first to third faster than Dale Earnhardt ever dreamed of doing, and we'd all find our way to our future when she dropped us at our doors whether they be at home or at school.  Our prized passenger from almost 30 years ago has now become the voice of reason in the Cumberland Gap Tunnel.  The irony is just too much for me to keep to myself, so I had to share it here.
              I've wanted to write this blog since Steve first took control of my stereo, but I've procrastinated for the sake of sleep.  My dear friend, Mary, fights the tunnel traffic daily, and she made me chuckle and reminded me without knowing that I needed to write this blog. 
              If anything good regarding human behavior has come out of this tunnel traffic terror, Isaac and Noah have been able to relish in the glory of being the sons of a local celebrity of sorts.  I'm proud of Steve for the dad he has become, and I'm tickled he shares his life with his wife, and my beautiful friend, Tina. 
             
              
            

Monkeys before Bird Nests

Let's be perfectly clear about the obvious first; I have not (to date) been a crafty person in my adult life. In fact, I have been quite critical of those who have the need to own a glue gun and gleefully use it. Today, I'm surrendering to the power of the Internet and sites that encourage such madness. I am offering up my apologies to my friend Leigh Anne because I've called her a "closet crafter" for years. I have become crafty and committed to only one form of design, but I believe I'm genetically inclined to be that way.

Considering we lived no where near Georgia, I still find myself amazed what my papaw Steve could do with a pocket knife and a peach seed. For the moment, focus on the knife and not so much the seed.

It is from his hard working hands that I think I've developed my enjoyment of cobbling out a bronze nest of turquoise eggs. Did you know my papaw Steve? Well, kick back and let me just tell you about the plum peculiar hobby of my favorite person to ever buy me a Clancy's cheeseburger. Look at our photograph. See my face? That's what pure joy looks like.

My mom's dad, Steve Turner, was a whittler by nature. He could carve fishing bait, clothes pins, and walking canes out of a stout yet cooperative piece of cedar. It is important to note he was not a public whittler, nor did he socialize and whittle. He once told me that when men whittled in a group, politics or God were bound to come up in conversation, and someone might get stuck. You need to note that "stuck" meant "stabbed." He said it just made more sense to whittle in the privacy of his own back yard, and if he got to thinkin' about politics or God, he'd just talk to the dog....or God himself. He'd start out the day whittling into the dew covered grass at his back patio swing, and by supper time, Spiffy (collie) would be lying in a fresh bed of cedar shavings right at my papaw's feet. That patio, my papaw, and the dog smelled like they had wollered in Pine Sol every night, and every morning during pretty weather, they'd go through the same process again but not on Sundays.

Papaw Steve taught me everything a girl needed to know about tools whether they be sharp or not. He taught me early that if I opened a pocket knife, I had to be the one to close it or bad luck would come. If I handed someone an open knife, I had to hold the blade and hand them the handle. Doing so prevented me from handing my knife to someone I didn't trust because they'd "stick me" and run off with my good knife. I know all the Case brand codes at the base of the blades and how to read the dots and X's. I know to clean a knife blade with oil and never water. I know that knives to be used with fishin' are supposed to be inexpensive because even the expensive ones don't float and they will end up wet one way or another. Water and knife blades don't mix well. Trust me; I know my knives.

When I got old enough to notice he had quit whittlin' on just cedar, I realized he was carving peach seeds. I never even remembered him being a big fan of eating peaches. Best I can figure, my WoWo must have made a lot of cobbler because my papaw carved every drop of the Georgia out of hundreds of peach seeds in my lifetime. His design was not the same as J. Fred Muggs from the Today Show. J. Fred Muggs was a monkey that looked a little like Curious George. My papaw's monkeys didn't look like J. Fred or Curious George. In fact, I never really thought they looked much like monkeys at all. I don't know if he ate all those peaches either. I just can't imagine him being patient enough to eat all those peaches, and I know he sure wouldn't have wasted them. My poor WoWo must have canned enough peaches to feed all of the the junction once he started this monkey business.

His intention was for folks to look at the monkey from the side. When you gazed upon the clear coated, freshly carved peach seed, you were supposed to see the profile of a humped up monkey. Its head was facing straight ahead, and its tail was wrapped under its hind quarters. Its arms were bent to the sides, and sometimes its facial features were emotional expressions. Some monkeys smiled. Some didn't. I stared at those monkeys for years, and I never saw the monkey. I saw a delicately carved peach seed, but I just never saw the monkey.

As his passion for monkey carving became more time consuming, my papaw started getting quite a barrel of little monkeys. He'd have piles of them, and after a while, the monkeys started making the trips "to town." [Do kids go "to town" anymore? Just wondering.] Papaw would load up his pockets with the usual contents: watch, knife, change purse, wallet, and a hand full of monkeys. He'd go to town to pay the light bill, pay taxes, or see Dr. Moore. At every stop, someone employed by the designated business was given a monkey, and one person even dipped her monkey in gold. Really. 14 karat gold!

Before too long, those monkeys started showing up all over Middlesboro. Dr. Moore had several. Trent Walters had a couple. Sheila Silcox from Engle's Market had one. Mamaw Gulley had a few. The list went on and on. The list of those who were given a monkey spoke volumes about my papaw's appreciation for not just character but being a character, too. He gave me several...some were even glued to cedar blocks to make them pieces of art that were free standing. There's a monkey on a log that sits right above my mom's piano right now. For the life of me, I can't tell it's a monkey.

And, now, I've reached the age where I have found my own form of whittlin', and I'm afraid folks can't tell what I'm making either.

My WoWo (Mom's mom) loved blue birds. She had several little trinkets around the house that portrayed blue birds as plump, innocent creatures of nature. You and I both know that true blue birds, or blue jays, are mean as dang it and have no mercy on any of God's creatures. There was one framed picture displayed in her kitchen that summarized her love of all blue birds. She had a photo of three little blue birds all on a branch and claimed that each blue bird represented my cousins and me...together we make three. Thank God that's still present tense.

My mother is, as a result of my WoWo's adoration for blue birds, very sentimental about blue birds. Mom is in denial that the blue jays are wicked, mean, and nasty, too. For Christmas, I tried to find Mom some sort of blue bird gift, and I didn't find a blue bird, but I found blue eggs in a bird nest. The necklace cost a fortune, and the more I looked at it, the more I thought, "I could do that cheaper." I'm one of these dangerous people who knows a little bit about a lot of stuff. I had spent enough time in a barn and in a pawn shop to know how to cobble up that nest of blue eggs on a string for Mom. I began digging through the Internet to find materials, and it didn't take me too long to find what I determined to be - maybe - appropriate.

After my dear friend, Mr. UPS, stopped by for a visit, I dug through what's left of my little tool box my dad gave me after I moved to Tazewell, and I found pliers and clippers and other necessary items for jewelry making. I nearly used up the entire spool of bronze, but after several hours of "whittlin'" I finally made one wad of wire that looked a little bit like a nest and in the center I had wrestled in one egg. I was exhausted. 'Tis pathetic yet true...worn smooth out. Every time I wiggled a wire, a darn cat would jump at it like being burst from a rocket. I had to lock myself in the bedroom to finish the work, and now the nests are made but the stupid cats have almost dug up what's left of this pitiful carpet trying to get to that wiggling wire. To create art requires sacrifice; I suppose! Now, that's funny; I don't care who you are.

Easter has come and gone and Mother's Day is approaching, and folks have decided that the little wads of wire I'm making do look like Momma Bird Nests, so they're placing orders, and I'm filling them as fast as my hands can spin bronze into the wee hours of the morning. As I sit on the corner of my bed and bite my tongue while I twist and spin that wire over, under, and through each passage, I think about my papaw and his peach seeds. I now understand that it doesn't matter if what he made looks like a "dough-ed monkey" (substitution for "d" word) or not. He liked it; other people loved it, and that combination made him happy.

I could use some big word like "cathartic" to explain why I like making bird nests, but that's way too fancy for me. I think I like the nests simply because I've finally stopped running and stopped to breathe for the first time in a long time. Time falls off the clock like water off a duck's back when I'm making nests. When I work through one nest and on to another one, I have no worries, no anxiety, and no sense of negative. I just have a little nest in my hands, and I'm making it for a Momma Bird I know and care about. Sometimes I'm making it as a gift from me or someone else, and that's even more fun because of the element of surprise.

There is no fear of me ever giving Tiffany & Co. a run for the blue boxes in jewelry design. I don't even really like to use the word jewelry to describe what I'm making. I just take 30 minutes and twist and turn metal and beads while I watch a little nest of happy form in the palms of my hands. To me, the final product looks like a bird nest.

Maybe I need to take another look at those monkeys above Mom's piano.

Easter with Bebe.

Long before Strasburg for Children became available within driving distance of Middlesboro, I had three options for an Easter frock: Ann's Fashions in Middlesboro, the Yum Yum Tree in Halls, and my mamaw Addie's sewing machine. For the first several years of my life, my Easter dress was made from fabric my mamaw found at the flea market and pieced together (better than Dolly's coat of many colors) to make a dress frilly enough to be southern and appropriate enough to honor the Easter holiday. The best part about Mamaw making my dress was the fact I never had to try it on in a store. I could ride my bike down the road to her house, try it on, and head right back to the mud puddle I left in the first place. I watch television shows about Fashion Weeks in New York and Milan, and I shake my head in humor. If the world's top designers want a real challenge, bring them to Appalachia and ask them to design Easter dresses to please a Southern Baptist momma. Designing Pippa Middleton's wedding dress (should she ever need one) would be a lot easier.


My Easter dresses were never allowed to be red. As I got older, my mother shared this scripture with me from Matthew 27:

28And they stripped him, and put on him a scarlet robe.
It didn't take a lot of time for me to start understanding that my Easter adventures with Mom were an opportunity for her to teach me the true meaning of the holiday.

As I got older, I learned of a magical place where a castle stood. Well, not technically a castle, but close. This magical land was called Asheville, and once upon a time, a family named Vanderbilt lived there. Their house was the type that fairy tales were made of, and they called the castle Biltmore. Not too far from Biltmore, after winter had passed and the crocus began to peek through the grass, hundreds of dresses would burst into spring in every possible color with the perfect pleating, bows, ruffles, and gathers. Those dresses were designed by Ruth, and her last name must have been, "of Carolina."

When my mom could stand a road trip with me long enough to go over the river and through the woods in our little green Maverick, we'd travel to see the works of Ruth of Carolina, and I would wait for hours while Mom delicately removed each and every dress in my size from the rack to examine its poofiness potential.

It's at this point that I need to explain something to you. You need to know that my mom wasn't searching for a dress for her daughter to make me look any cuter than I already was. My mom and I were on a pilgrimage of sorts because Bebe Campbell was looking for a dress to honor the day the stone was rolled away.

Whether the dress came from North Carolina, Knoxville, or Middlesboro, the quest was always an opportunity for teaching me more about our faith and the importance of Easter. Every single piece of my "Easter Ensemble" had a spiritual purpose. Why did I "need" a new dress at Easter? I didn't need it, but I needed to learn the lesson attached to clean, white cloth at Easter:

Matthew 27

59 And when Joseph had taken the body, he wrapped it in a clean linen cloth,
60 And laid it in his own new tomb, which he had hewn out in the rock: and he rolled a great stone to the door of the sepulchre, and departed.

My little purse. Every year, I had a tiny little satin purse to match my Easter dress. Sometimes the purse would be covered in lace and pearls. Sometimes it would be simple and smooth. I loved having a satin purse because it felt like my favorite silk pillow, which I was never allowed to take to church but surely wish I could have. My papaw Steve played the major role with my little Easter purse. That should shock none of you. Each Easter, he'd give me a plastic sandwich bag filled with 30 quarters and secured at the top with a bread tie to take to the offering as my "30 Pieces of Silver." Why you ask? Because....

Matthew 26:14-16 (KJV)
Then one of the twelve, called Judas Iscariot, went unto the chief priests, And said unto them, What will ye give me, and I will deliver him unto you? And they covenanted with him for thirty pieces of silver. And from that time he sought opportunity to betray him.

And, based on what I've read, thirty pieces of silver was the price, the lowest price you could pay, for a slave according to the Old Testament (Exodus 21:32). Which, as I've gotten older, makes the story of 30 pieces of silver mean even more to me.

So, let's see here, dress? Check. Purse? Check. 30 pieces of silver? Check.

You know, those little purses were tiny, and I had to keep a death grip on them to make sure my papaw's silver didn't fall out. I guess he knew that and that's why he always put the coins in a bag with a bread tie closure. He was always watching out for my best interest.

Shoes. Shoes. Shoes. You don't wear white shoes after Labor Day, but you may wear white shoes on and after Easter. Again, modern designers who argue that southern tradition should do their research. If you want to know where the "white at Easter" rule comes from, read this,

Matthew 28

2And, behold, there was a great earthquake: for the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone from the door, and sat upon it.
3His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow:

My mom took me to Premiere Shoe Store up in the Junction to buy my Easter shoes. When you walked in Premiere, there was a big red goose in a coin operated machine on the right. If you put a quarter in the machine, the red goose would hatch a golden egg for you. Inside the egg, there were all sorts of goodies: gum, rings, and stickers. The deal was I had to be cooperative during shoe shopping in order to get my golden egg. Mom and I would wander through the aisles of Buster Brown and Stride Rite. Someone would measure my foot to make sure the pending white patent leather purchase would have enough growth room to last from Easter until the Sunday before Labor Day. After measurement, I had to try on both shoes with my new ruffled bobby socks that Mom had in her purse. Sometimes, chilly weather required I wear tights, and that was always a disappointment. Ruffled socks were way more fun. I remember carefully stepping up and down those dark, heavy wooden floors while Mom inspected my trot. If the patent leather was shiny enough, if I didn't walk like a Clydesdale in them, and if there was absolutely no heel on them what so ever, I was allowed to take the Mary Jane style shoes home....with a golden egg.

Why all the fuss about Easter shoes? My momma's daughter was going to appear in church on Easter Sunday with new shoes to keep me firm in my foundation of faith which was still a work in progress as a little girl.

Hair bows. The hair bow industry has grown into something that almost scares me. I am so very thankful that so many options weren't available for my long locks back when No More Tangles was as high tech as my hair product ever got. Most Easters, I had a hair bow to match my dress. The bow was a simple piece of twisted yarn or satin, and Mom used it to finish off either one pony tail or two. Sounds so sweet and innocent. Sweet and innocent stopped with the shoes.

Since I had long, stringy hair that stretched almost down to my buttocks, Mom HAD to get the situation under control for Easter. The Easter enemy lived in the hallway closet. The enemy lived in a shoe box. It stayed under the cover of darkness for 364 days a year, but the night before Easter, that box came out and I tried to hide under the bed, in the basement, and even under the car outside. You 40-somethings know what was in that box. The pink sponge rollers. The color is so misleading. Such a lovely shade of pink. Bright. Cheerful. Festive. They're as wicked as the Big Bad Wolf in Grandma's clothing.

I don't care what tradition says about the Easter Bunny. Here's the only Easter Bunny story you need to know.

I'm sure technology didn't allow for the actual sponge part way back when the Easter Bunny thing got started, but I'm sure there was a similar torture device. After a daughter had her head scrubbed until absolutely no flake, no dirt, nor fleck of dust was to be found, she had to sit still and let it dry straight by the fire. In order to bribe said girl to sit still, the desperate mother came up with the idea of the Easter Bunny. So, with thoughts of candies, colored eggs, and a yoyo or jump rope, the silly girl sat still. A little brother walked by while the girl's hair was drying, and heard the tale, so he got sucked into the Easter Bunny broo-haa-haa. Fair is fair. Dad shaved brother's head, perhaps. After the girl's hair dried, the rollers surfaced from a hidden location, too. Each section of hair was evenly divided. With great care and the strength of a giant, the mother pulled each section straight as an arrow and rolled it up so tightly on the girl's head that the follicles beneath the rollers were wet because they, too, were weeping in pain. With each roller, the girl probably protested, and the mother threatened her with the Easter Bunny. By the time the entire hair rolling escapade ended, the girl was out of tears, had no feeling between her ears, and just lay down for the night in pure exhaustion. Her mother probably just searched around the house for a few goodies to leave as compensation for the inflicted pain....must have had plenty of eggs in the hen house is all I know. That's how I think we got the Easter Bunny. Moving on..

I spent many Easter Eves cringing in pink sponge rollers. Every time I dared to start to complaining of hair pain before bedtime, here's what my mom would tell me from Matthew 27:

26Then released he Barabbas unto them: and when he had scourged Jesus, he delivered him to be crucified.27Then the soldiers of the governor took Jesus into the common hall, and gathered unto him the whole band of soldiers.
28And they stripped him, and put on him a scarlet robe.
29And when they had platted a crown of thorns, they put it upon his head, and a reed in his right hand: and they bowed the knee before him, and mocked him, saying, Hail, King of the Jews!
30And they spit upon him, and took the reed, and smote him on the head.
31And after that they had mocked him, they took the robe off from him, and put his own raiment on him, and led him away to crucify him.

And after she explained that scripture in words my childlike mind could understand, I knew I could wear those pink sponge rollers if Jesus wore a crown of thorns. And I snuggled up to my silk pillow and drifted off to sleep knowing what the morning would bring

We didn't have chickens, but if we would have, they would have still been asleep when we got up way before anything that cackled or crowed on Easter.

Mom always let me take the pink sponge rollers out of my hair, and that made me feel so grown up. I'd sit on a stool in the kitchen and unroll the masses of hair while she perfected each strand. The rollers would go back in the box NOT TO BE SEEN for another year. I would sit down and watch Cas Walker, Jay Bazel & Miz Mull while Mom got everything but her dress ready for church. She kept her bathrobe on while I got ready because there was always potential for bloodshed, and A.D. Campbell's wasn't open on Easter morning for her to get a replacement dress.

First, ruffle bottom bloomers were a fashion must. They were our "little secret." Had I shown them in public, she would have whipped the ruffles flat. I was always careful to conceal them, but I was proud to wear them, too. After the bloomers, came the slip. The slip had always had a skirt that was fluffy with layers, but not so many as to make me look like I should have been clogging in Silver Dollar City. After the slip, she carefully took my dress and pulled it over my head, which was actually numb by this point because the blood had stopped flowing to my hair follicles at some point in the night. She patiently raised the zipper, closed the buttons, and tied the bows. No detail left unattended.

She took me to her organ stool where I sat so she could put my ruffled bobby socks on and make sure the seams were perfectly straight across my toes. Afterward she would delicately remove my little white patent leather shoes from the box and slide them on my feet. She knew exactly how snuggly the buckle had to be tightened. It was at this point I started squeezing my hands in delight because the whole ensemble was coming together and it was almost time to go to church. I hopped off that organ bench and my whole dress bounced with me. The curls were perfect. One dash of spit on a hankie and my face was spotless. My fingernails were free from dirt. And then my mom disappeared to finish dressing herself while I rejoined the Cas Walker crew in the den. I was to sit on the little wooden chair from Junction School and not wiggle because Mom had cleaned it for me the night before. I had to sit on it to avoid fuzzies, stray hairs, and dust attaching to my dress. Anxiously I waited while I listened to what would be on sale at Cas Walker Market the following week.

"Let's go, Danda Bug." I turned off the television, hopped the stoop from the den to the dining room, and saw the most beautiful woman of God standing before me. He dress was never as fancy as mine. Usually, she bought a spring suit which had a jacket that could serve a dual purpose at work. Our colors usually matched though, and her shoes were prettier than anything Cinderella ever dreamed to have. Her nails were painted to match my dress, and she held my little hand as we walked around the kitchen counter.

No need for breakfast on Easter...too much risk of spillage. The refrigerator, however, was a key component to our Easter tradition. Again, I gripped my little fat hands together so tightly in anxious anticipation. From the refrigerator, she pulled two boxes that frosted over as they came into the warm air of our home. From the tiniest box, she pulled a bundle of little bitty pink roses adorned with yet another perfect bow. I stood perfectly still while she leaned down to put my Easter corsage on my dress as its most beloved final touch. I tiptoed toward the bathroom so I could admire it in a mirror while she put the orchid Dad had sent her on her jacket lapel.

Beside the front door lay my pink Bible I'd had since birth and my little purse. You'd think that would be the what I grabbed first, but no, I grabbed my momma's hand. With the other, I got my belongings and off to East Cumberland we went in our green Maverick. We stopped at my mamaw's to pose with her purple creeping "flocks" of flowers for a few photos. Afterward, we made our way off Balmoral and toward the light that is now at the end of the tunnel. We parked on the side of Ethel's house, went in the back door, and we trudged up the stairs to Sunday school. After Sunday School, my seat depended on the instrument Mom would play. If she played the piano, I sat with Wilma Ely. If she played the organ, I sat with Gigi or Helen and Elisha Greene. But no matter what instrument she played, when she stopped playing, I sat with my momma!

And I forgot to even look to see if the Easter Bunny had come back at home...

Matthew 28 says,

19Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost:
20Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen.

God chose me to be the daughter of one of His greatest teachers. She has observed all things whatsoever He has commanded her to do, and she continues to do this with every breath she takes in her classroom, during her piano lessons, in her church and especially in her home.

Mom, this is my Easter gift to you.
Proverbs 22:6
6Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.

Love,
Danda Bug

with a heavy, humble heart

As I sit here battling intestinal flu, I feel low as a snake's belly because my intimate relationship with the Tidy Bowl man fails in comparison to what "Dad, Mom, and Sis," are fighting with in California.

I seek refuge in hellofuzzy when I feel like my guts are eating me from the inside out...flu or not.

This may very well be the longest entry yet, but there's something to be learned here. This is the first time I am writing something for either Mr. B or Mrs. B. that isn't a lesson plan.

The reason I didn't venture into the "business" world during college is because I can't have "just work" relationships with the adults who surround me every day. I need them to be my family.

I have to feel connected to those around me. As I made that transition from student to teacher, I found myself searching for people to fill the empty spots in my life. Larry became my boat captain of circus peanuts and bulldogs. Little Debi became my mentor and encourager. Holly became the chef and Jeopardy champion. Janet Russell became the strong, solid role model. Linda Rowe taught me structure and kindness. Mata reminded me how big this world is and how far above it our spirit soars. Leigh Anne taught me the importance of hanging on to hope. Alisa taught me that raising three kids and teaching school can be done and done well, while Lisa did the same with her daughter and son. Bennie and Carolyn should have a movie made about their adventures. Thelma and Louise could learn a thing or two.

And then there was Lynn...Lynn Barnard became my father figure by my choosing. Had he been given an option, I am absolutely sure he would have declined, but he was stuck with me for 17 years. Technically, he chose to keep me around, but I know there were times he would have liked to have put me on a slow bus to anywhere but Tazewell.

Today, Lynn and Janet are weighing heavily on my mind, so I find myself here at hellofuzzy hoping to share a few memories while asking you to call upon your God and ask him to heal the body of the mind belonging to the woman whose dedication to education in Claiborne County will forever reign supreme in my mind as the gold standard until her retirement just a few short years ago.

When I first started teaching, I tried to be very sophisticated and drink coffee. Stupid. I hate coffee. But every day I'd wander up to the cafeteria and get some, and one one particular day, I spilled it all the way down the hallway to my room at the end of the new 8th grade edition. Behind me, Mr. Barnard was swishing a mop back and forth, huffing and puffing, while I just kept slinging coffee and whistling "Dixie." When he reached the end of the hall, he looked at me like he could whack me with his mop, and I just said, "Why, that was so nice of you." He was not happy, and I was plum tickled. I haven't consumed coffee since.

Did I make him mad? Oh, yes, I made him mad. There's a little community organization called Junior Pro Basketball that you may have heard of. Junior Pro is a wonderful weekend activity for young people to play basketball, but each school used as a facility must have school employees present to open up, turn on the lights, provide equipment, etc. Junior Pro was also played in the most freezing time of winter. Well, a colleague of mine (who will remain nameless) and I completed our requirements on FRIGID Saturday morning and locked up the building. We returned to our homes and graded papers, averaged scores, and such until Monday. But oh, when Monday came!

Monday came to find Mr. Barnard's full head blood red, and I stood my distance for fear that blood would shoot out his ears. Apparently, my co-hort and I had allowed an innocent dog to wander through the front door, past the concession stand, and into the gym locker rooms where, sadly, the dog froze to death. I can raise my hand to Santa Claus and swear I never saw a dog come in the building. Well, not a four legged one anyway. Mr. Barnard was beside himself with confusion and desperate for an explanation. My co-hort nor I could offer him any peace of mind or explanation as to how the pup got in the building much less froze. The drama of the scene escalated to quite a heated exchange, but the dog never thawed out. After discovering a hole under the building, Mr. Barnard and Dick Fugate deciphered that the dog had dug in but couldn't dig out. The dog was laid properly to rest, but that story stands in my mind eternally as one of my favorites.

I have made more than my share of mistakes in my career as an educator, but he always gave me time to acknowledge them before he (sometimes loudly) corrected them. Did we always agree ? Nope. Did we sull up and pout? For record periods of time. Did I always know he'd be there to help me? Yes.

I read about family members bringing up deaths of loved ones, and I cringe. I don't think I'll ever be comfortable with telling the story of my loss of the love of my life. However, despite your experience with Lynn Barnard as your teacher, coach, or principal, here's something I think you should know because I do believe it speaks volumes of his core.

May 5, 2009. That's the date. Mr. Barnard let me leave school to come home and see why my husband wasn't answering the phone, and in the living room floor, I found my husband, and I knew why. I remember calling the police, and I remember calling SMMS in a blood curdling scream for Lynn to come help me. He and Debi Brogan beat law enforcement here. My own dad had been gone for 8 years. Daughters call their dads when they're in trouble. Lynn was all I had left. He burst through my kitchen door and took over. He handled it like a professional in a manner I hope I never have to see again. And when the time came for my husband to leave this house, Mr. Barnard asked the paramedics to please not cover my husband's face. Then, as they moved him out the door and down the driveway, Mr. Barnard held H's hand until they loaded him on the ambulance. That defined their friendship but in a way for which there are no words. How do you thank someone for treating your lost loved one with dignity simply by carrying him down the driveway?

Memories aside...today...tomorrow...and in the weeks that come...."Mom, Sis, and Dad" are in California seeking the best medical care for "Mom." There is a You Tube video available for you to watch if you'd like a further explanation

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4NJTNLq3xw

Lynn had to tolerate the majority of my madness from day to day, and I'm thankful he never locked me in the furnace room when my lunacy got to be too much. In a sense, he taught me a lot about family. We'd fuss. We'd make up. We'd fuss again. We'd pout longer. He'd holler. I'd holler louder (never in front of kids). He was always right. I was always right, too. Many relationships with dads could be described the same way.

But if you have finished reading this, and you live in Claiborne County, please say a prayer of thanks for Dr. Janet Barnard's home run she hit during the surgery today. Based on what I've read, she has done very well.

If you were a toddler with a book in your hand in pre-school, a first grader learning how to read with the absolute best materials in elementary school, or a middle school student with access to the best technology available to help you learn to read even better before 2009, then you might want to remember Janet Barnard in the days and weeks ahead as she heals. In my opinion, she was the leading force who brought literacy to this county with an army of support troops behind her.

Dolly Parton might be the the engineer for Imagination Library, but Janet Barnard has been feeding the imaginations of Claiborne County's children for decades, and it's time to use that literacy to summons up prayer for quite possibly one of the most dedicated educators any of us will ever meet in our life time.

Romans 12:7 “If your gift is serving others, serve them well. If you are a teacher, teach well.” (NLT)

God knows I have ample cause to plea for forgiveness for my own sins, but today, I sincerely hope he hears my prayer of healing for Danielle's momma.

do. not. gawk.

Whitney Houston. Don't you dare stop reading what I know in my gut to be true. Her life gave us musical time references like no other, and her death better matter to your core if you live within hitch hiking distance of the Cumberland Gap Tunnel.

This is one of many times that hellofuzzy will become a bull horn.

If you have ever watched Dorothy click her red heels, then you know this addiction problem has been around Hollywood longer than the famed sign on the mountain. My feeble mind can recall Judy Garland, Ray Charles, John Belushi, Richard Pryor, Michael Jackson, and now Whitney Houston all making the news for their talents and their demons. There are countless infamous names one could add to such a list. Its title? “Dead Addicts.” Harsh? Yes.

Now, if you live in Middlesboro, look at the cross on the mountain behind Dairy Queen and know that everyone who can see it knows someone affected by the same addiction, and you are extremely far from Hollywood.

If you live in Tazewell, we don’t have a cross on the mountain, but we have enough loss to addiction to warrant building one as a lasting memorial to those who are dead and those who are slowly dying one hit at a time.

If you are frustrated by those of us locals who are mourning Whitney Houston, then let me clarify something to you. Our grief has nothing to do with her or her voice or her sense of celebrity. I, as one of many, could care less. Many of us are mourning Whitney because we are relieved she is the “person from our life” who has died from addiction within the week instead of our neighbor, our colleague, our friend, or even worse: our family member. Those of us who wake up every day and hope that the addict we care about is still alive are most thankful that it’s Whitney who is gone instead of the addict we will get one more chance to hug, encourage, beg, and nurse.

Of course “we” have enough sense to know better than to actually mourn a celebrity. I’m not mourning the woman who housed and released the greatest voice of my generation. I’m grieving because out of all the characteristics that connect us in this human experience, it’s darn addiction that has made those of us in this neck of the woods understand what her daughter, her mother, and her other relatives are going through. We can’t relate to the Grammy’s. We can’t relate to the stardom. We can’t relate to the millions she has supposedly squandered. However, we can, without question, relate to the torture of addiction. Whether it is her legal cause of death or not is irrelevant. Addiction robbed this country of one of our greatest works of art because "it" stole her talent.

If I were to play the odds and gamble on which would be cured first, I’d select cancer over addiction by ten fold. Some may have no sympathy because addiction is often perceived as a disease of choice. That’s fine. Ignorance is a disease of choice, too, and you’re welcome to suffer from it to your heart’s content. At some point, someone gave Whitney a pill to prevent pain. In time, she discovered that such a pill would also prevent emotional existence, and she chose to live in that fog instead of coping with the emotions it masked. The “fog” is supposed to be reserved for those who are dying, but those who seem to be living the largest covet that fog more than they covet an Academy Award.

Nothing about Whitney Houston’s death is about her career. Her voice will live infinitely through iTunes and other digital media. Your grandchildren will know “The Greatest Love of All” just like we know “At Last” by Etta James.

Don’t use the upcoming weekend’s memorial service as an opportunity to gawk at celebrities as they enter the church in New Jersey where Whitney’s life will be honored. Use the time as a chance to reach out to someone you know who is surviving addiction as the addict or as the one who loves an addict. Give them a trustworthy ear if nothing else. Those who love addicts are desperate for someone to listen to them speak just as much as Whitney was desperate for a new generation to listen to her sing.