TG and I spent the weekend in Charleston.
A mosey down memory lane; yes. A change of scenery; yes. Blogging fodder; yes.
All of the above. Everybody wins.
The swan song of our two-day sojourn in the Low Country was a visit to Circular Congregational Church -- Established 1681 -- yes; you read that correctly -- on Meeting Street.
In particular, we went there so that I could walk the magnificently mysterious Circular Church Graveyard.
TG, who in addition to being handsome is exceedingly gallant, dropped me off at the still-temptingly-open black wrought iron gate (If it's closed I will kill somebody! were my actual words, because after all it was Sunday and late in the day and yes I am sort of ashamed I said that but I am given to hyperbole and you may as well get used to it -- the rest of us have -- or click out) so I could go ahead and start living it up, and went to find a parking space.
When he apprehended me wandering amongst the tombs, fairly dizzy with joy (as we taphophiles are wont to be at such times), Nikon-ing away at this tombstoney detail and that, TG was chuckling nervously.
Turned out he'd parked in a lot alongside the church grounds, which daring maneuver should technically have set him back eight bucks.
So I put in a dollar, I don't think they mean on Sunday, and anyway I'm not paying eight dollars, TG said.
But he announced his intention to hang around over by the nearest means of egress to our vehicle, so that if someone official appeared who disagreed with TG's thinking vis-à-vis said parking arrangement, TG could walk over casually and negotiate.
I guess. I wasn't really listening all that well, to be perfectly candid, because when I'm in a cemetery my ears seem to hear only bells, and wind in tree branches. Everything else is muffled.
Let's pull over and park here for a mo.
There are times when all the stars align on a graving mission. The day's silken thread is about to break; what remains of the sunbeams gilds windows and puddles left over from rain; lightposts and other points of illumination begin to shine in the not-quite-gloaming; there is a whisper of past emotion in the cool but warm air; and in Charleston, heard through the sigh of Spanish moss dripping from the arms of lush Live Oaks and now-bony Crape Myrtles, there are bells.
Bells were ringing from steeples all up and down Meeting, Church, Queen, and Broad Streets. I am at a loss to describe how the whole thing sounded, how it looked, how it felt.
The best I can do is tame terms such as magical, mystical, almost miraculous. I was all but mesmerized.
Eventually I'd done what I came there to do, and the golden light was nearly gone. It was time to go home.
I rejoined my TG, who following a stroll around the graveyard to read stones, had again stationed himself near the gate from which he could see our car in its discount parking space, making sure he'd gotten away with it, and he was chuckling again, but merrily this time.
A lady came over and asked me if I was there waiting to lock everything up, he revealed as he helped me into the car.
We had a laugh at that because does a papaw in jeans and a Folly Beach sweatshirt look like a guy waiting to lock up a cemetery? Also ... well, if you want to know another reason, read this.
On the way home I tried to figure out how rich I'd be if I'd gotten a hundred-dollar bill for every time someone has asked me in a store or library -- once even in a museum -- if I worked there.
As in, was I available to help them.
I must have one of those faces, one of those demeanors, that looks like someone who is being paid to carry out the mission of whatever establishment, retail or otherwise, in which I happen to be occupying space.
No; I'm shopping -- or looking or waiting or whatever -- just like you, I always say with a smile. Sometimes I even offer to help anyway. Because I usually know what I'm doing even if I'm not paid to.
And on the eve of Martin Luther King Day as TG steered our car westward on I-26 toward Columbia and home, I thought of Michelle Obama's recent comments regarding her husband's having been mistaken for a waiter and a valet.
As in, before Barack Hussein Obama attained godlike status for being the first black US president, someone inside a restaurant thought he was a server (he was asked to get coffee) and someone outside a restaurant asked him to retrieve their car.
There’s no black male my age, who’s a professional, who hasn’t come out of a restaurant and is waiting for their car and somebody didn’t hand them their car keys, the President told People magazine.
Really? Mr. Obama knows for a fact that no black male professional in this entire country has escaped the horrible fate of another person mistaking them for someone designated to serve others?
Mrs. Obama asserted that on the occasion she shopped at Target after becoming FLOTUS, the only person who approached her was a lady who needed help reaching something on a high shelf.
Naturally, it follows that the (white) person asked Michelle for help not because the First Lady is tall, but because she is black and therefore must be rendered subservient.
Oh yes. The Obamas said it so it must be true. And because it's true, it's proof of the pernicious deep-seated racism embraced by all white Americans.
The only problem is, the only ones who see racism everywhere they look, are the racists. And that's not me.
That's why, when someone asks for my help, if I can give it to them, I do. And I'm glad for the opportunity to assist them. Why shouldn't I be?
Recently I needed something off a high shelf at Wal-Mart. Michelle Obama was nowhere to be seen but a gangly man walked by and, sensing the nature of my plight, kindly reached the item for me.
I didn't even have to ask for help. But I guess since we were both white, it all went so smoothly because we're united in our racism.
There was a huge kerfuffle last week when the Oscar nominations were announced. #OscarsSoWhite trended on Twitter for two days.
The bitter whining/complaining/grousing from black folks this time was because all of the nominees in the main categories were white. The consensus was that the black man who starred in Selma should have been nominated just because he is black. And the movie's director should have been nominated merely because she is black.
So, by their reasoning, a black actor who takes a role in which he depicts a black man who claimed to have a dream that black people would be judged not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character, is entitled to win an Oscar nomination -- and the award too, no doubt -- not because of the content of either his own character or that of the character he played, but simply because of the color of both their skins.
That's what you call ironic. And hey; no worries, y'all. Selma got a special screening at the White House. Something tells me they didn't serve fried chicken and watermelon.
It was caviar and champagne. The waiters were white.
Jesus said the greatest among you is the servant. I'm not trying to sound all goody-two-shoes or paint myself as virtuous in any way, but anybody who knows me can tell you, I'm happy to pour you a cup of coffee. I'll even make it, and bring it to you while you sit comfortably with your pillow and blankie. You may not even have to ask.
And I'm not too good to fetch your car for you either, if you need me to and if I'm able.
Why? Because so much has been done for me.
I wonder, do Barack and Michelle Obama -- not to mention those who worship at their feet -- ever stop to consider all that has been done for them? Lots of it for no other reason than that they are black?
Why can't all those -- of every color -- who feel entitled to something, who've become convinced that they're owed this or that by whomever, and who overflow with angry demands (or maybe only seethe inwardly) the moment they sense they aren't going to get it, or get enough of it, simply realize that the whole reason we're here is to serve one another, and thereby glorify God our Creator?
And by doing so, to derive enjoyment from our life, while it lasts.
For it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
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Happy New Week
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Friday, January 30, 2015 at 11:44AM 
