**GRIOT** Holidays and Such

** I purposely scheduled this one to post today. Today would have been my mother's birthday. **

I was in a semi-Scrooge mood all this holiday season. Holidays bring up a lot of memories of people no longer here. That makes me melancholy. The holidays are also for families. That's beautiful. But I get so bothered by people elevating holidays above all the other days of the year.

My mother loved Thanksgiving and Christmas because that's when she had all her kids and grandkids around her. Actually, Mom loved having her house full of family and friends all the time. For that reason, Thanksgiving was more of just a slightly larger get-together kind of thing at Mom's house. Mom and some of the old-enough-to-cook females would start prepping the day before. That was nice, all the ladies - Mom, my sister, some family friends - all sitting around chopping opinions, soaking the turkey, and maybe having a small glass of wine while we worked. Thanksgiving day is when the guys and kids would come around. My mother loved feeding people so we always made up plates beforehand for anyone who was missing out because of working or being sick or whatever.  The house would be hot and happy, smelling of turkey and dressing. You couldn't hear yourself think a quiet thought because... my family is loud. There were so many of us that at one time, we had over 40 people at Mom's house.

Thanksgiving was good, but Christmas...  that was Mama's jam. It wasn't about giving or getting gifts so much as it was about having her "babies"  back in the house - including we grown women and our six-foot-plus brothers. If my mom loved you, you were one of her kids.

So, I have to tell you about Mom and her possessiveness when it came to decorating the tree. There was tradition and rules when it came to decorating for Christmas and, well traditions for everything about the holiday:

• The tree and other decorations would NEVER be put up until after Thanksgiving. Mama felt that people were too eager to get on with "gift-mas" before they had properly reflected on being thankful. 
• The last tree Mama decorated had to last at least 15 years. I'm not kidding. By the time I was 30 years old, I'd only known Mama to have owned 3 trees. We never had a real tree. We always owned one of those artificial things - but it had to be green. Anything else was just "not right".We only replaced one of them after it was damaged during one of our military moves across the country.
• The tree would be brought up from wherever it was stored on a day or two after Thanksgiving.
• Only Mama was allowed to decorate the tree. The rest of us could hand her the ornaments and other stuff, but she was the only one who could actually hang anything on a branch.
• Once the tree was decorated, the rest of us were allowed to put gifts underneath - but only with Mom's supervision.
• If anyone touched a single thing on that tree, Mama knew. Just for a joke, after Mom had gone to bed, I once switched a couple of ornaments because my sister dared me. (And I don't mean that we were little kids. I was probably about 25, which would have made my sister Mike 35.) The next day, Mom was walking past the tree into the kitchen to make coffee. She got a foot into the kitchen, then turned around. She looked at that tree for about 4 seconds before she found what was out of place. I had moved the ornaments and didn't remember what was out of place!
• As far as gift wrapping, Mama was world-class. She wrapped gifts so beautifully, it was almost a shame to open them. 
• Funniest (and fun-nest) thing about Mama and gifts. She wanted to see the kids rip their open with glee, but she took almost half an hour to open each one of hers. First, she had to make sure to give the gifter a smile before she even started, then... She would peel each piece of tape off like the paper was priceless and irreplaceable. Then, she made sure not to crumple any of the ribbons or bows. Before she could relax enough to actually unbox a gift, she had to know that the designated person (and there really always was one) was folding the wrapping paper and putting the bows away for later. You could go to the store and buy more paper and bows and be back before Mama actually saw the gift. And when she did, she would be so happy. If one of the grandkids gave her a bag of candy or a single hairpin, she would be as happy as if the President had just draped a medal around her neck. She was sincerely happy too. I remember Mama taking to work some tacky little gift one of her grandkids got her and showing it off like she had a brand new mink...
• The tree only stayed up for about 3 or 4 days after Christmas. New Year's was coming and mom had to get the ornaments wrapped and put away for the next December. She wanted her tree down and stored before the 31st when she would be up at night, making her black-eyed peas and making sure a boy was the first one across the threshold on the new year.

Some of you had the tradition of eating black-eyed peas for the new year. I have no idea where that countrified tradition came from and I don't even like black-eyed peas that much, but I still want some on New Year's. (And, I just found this explaining the tradition. I can't get down with the spiritual aspect, but now I know.)

I also have no idea why some people insist that a male be the first to cross the threshold of a house in the new year. (I just found this and this and learned that the tradition is just a Southern or "black" thing...) My mom used to make us take one of the grandboys out and send him back in. I am not kidding. If someone knocked on our door before that happened, Mama would make them wait to make sure it was a male. People coming to our house rarely knocked; they usually just called out a Hello and walked on in. If that happened, my mother would move like Flash and block the entry of a woman. The visitor would have to wait until we did the right thin. I guess this is why we usually did the walking a boy child into the house right after we had given all the New Year kisses. (Or so I thought.)

This year, I spent Christmas and New Year home alone staying warm and calm. I thought about Mama and all her old country ways. And I was hoping that people everywhere were making their own traditions.

Now that the holidays are out of the way, I just hope that people look forward to every day with the excitement and gratitude and intentions to be more kind and peaceful and motivated that they do for those other days. 

Love your lover like it's always Valentine's. Don't wait for November to think about being grateful. Be good to each other as if they might not be here tomorrow. Be as good to yourself as you want others to be. Love a lot, laugh at lot, pray a lot, be a peace-maker, be a helper, be a better friend, sibling, parent, neighbor.

Peace

--Free

This song seems appropriate. I don't believe in a lot of that emotional-only Holiness church stuff, but this song is beautiful

**Griot** Bone and Mud

I recently went through a painful life situation. Some people disappointed me with their behavior and morals. Other people disappointed me with their apathy. So I spent a few days lying around in the dark, crying and asking God all kinds of questions that I probably don't really want answers for. Then I remembered a time several years ago when I was in the same kind of situation and feeling the same feelings. My mother was there for me then and she comforted me with some motherly love and wisdom.

My mother was not an educated woman but she was very wise. I came out of my recent hurt-feelings funk by remembering some of the things she told me about dealing with disappointment in others.

One of the things Mama told me was that a lot of the time it's not other people who disappoint us. It's really ourselves we are upset with. We are upset that we care too much about a situation or that we expect so much from others. I was always a very sensitive person. "Feelings like tissue paper" is what my mother would say about me. Mom would remind we all see the world differently. Some of us are tougher than others. Not everyone has your heart, she would remind me. And I know that my mother sometimes wished I could be tougher-shelled, but she was never sorry that I wasn't.

What had me so upset recently was that someone passed away. The other people in his life closed ranks to keep me cut off from even the basic information about the death. These are "Christian" people, some of them daring to stand in pulpits on a regular basis and they behaved like the coldest and hard-hearted people I've ever known. I'm not shocked by their behavior and I guess I kind of expected it. However, it still caused me a great deal of pain.

The only way I was able to pull myself out of my hurt and sorrow was to remember my mother. I could hear a memory of her encouraging me to pray and forgive and move on. When I went through something similar all those years ago - mourning someone I loved while the ugliness of family politics raged around me - my mother told me to stay out of the fray. She reminded me that my only concern should be honoring the dead and dealing with my grief.

I think I have said here before that Mama always said that death and funerals bring out the best and worst in people.

This time around, I got through the initial pain and grief by remembering my mother's advice. It went something like this:

Don't be upset with the way people are behaving. Maybe this is the only way they know how to deal with their pain. All you can do is to behave the way I have taught you. Remember the deceased, honor them, grieve and miss them. All this ugliness going on around the situation doesn't mean anything to the dead. The person you are grieving isn't concerned with the ways and things of this world anymore. All that's left of their mortal being is bone and mud. They no longer care about who is mad at who or who is being petty. Their time for worrying about the living is done with. You just behave in a way that honors their spirit and memory. The Bible tells us that "Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death." (Isaiah 57:2 per NIV)

That's what my mother would say. I know this because, like I said, this is how she comforted me in the past. Just thinking about my mother calms me. I think that I will be able to sleep well tonight and not wake up crying.

I'm calling this a Griot post because my mother would want her grandchildren and their children to know how to deal with this kind of situation. She would want this advice passed down and shared.

Peace
--Free

**GRIOT** Named and Loved

Okay, so I was chatting online with some of the nieces and nephews about these Griot posts. They love hearing about their 'grandpeople' and I love sharing what I can remember. Since the cousins are all about the genealogy these days, I thought that I could talk about some of the names that run in our line.

A name is a special thing. Your surname can be a kind of placeholder in history. Your first names sometimes are meant to reflect the hopes pinned on you. In the Bible, names are very important. God would change people's name or bless their names. Today, we honor our Adamic past by giving children Bible names. I watched a documentary the other day where the presenter noted that you won't find a lot of children named after Judas Iscariot. I had never thought of that before. Personally, I have always believed that the name a child grows up with can have a serious impact on their personality and attitude, not to mention in how the rest of the world might see them. That's why we make cruel fun of people by calling them a "Becky" or "Shanequa" - and I have been cruel in that way...

In my family, nicknames were kind of a big deal. My mother had an older brother named Eber but everyone called him "Mutt". Uh, yeah. Don't ask because I don't know. There were other male relatives or close friends known as Sonny, Sonny Boy, Snookie Boy, and Bugs.

One of my mother's sisters - the one who passed before I was old enough to know her - had a beautiful name: French L. The "L" didn't stand for anything, it was just part of her birth name. I do remember that some of my folks would pronounce her name as "Frānch L.", going long on the 'a'. Apparently, she was as beautiful as her name. She must have been a riot though. I heard one story about her once being a little tipsy and admonishing a child for having their shoes on the wrong feet. The child knew better than to mention it, but the adults who were there cracked up laughing because Aunt French L's shoes were also on the wrong feet. Aunt French L's granddaughter was named after her but we mostly called her just "French" or "Frenchie".

Some of the adults I knew as a child were always referred to by their initials. To this day, I can't tell you what Aunt French L's husband's real name was. We just called him Mr. J.B.

My father always called my mother Hon but most of her other family and friends called her "Tootsie" (or, as they pronounced it, "Too-see"). This is because she was very dark complected but, as a child and teenager, had fire-red hair. Being so black-skinned with that red hair, she looked to them like a Tootsie Pop. She dyed her hair a deep brown for years until it started to grow in as a darker auburn. Here's something crazy: I'm very dark-skinned like my mother and my hair also tends towards auburn if I don't keep it dyed. In addition to that, I inherited from my father blue encircled irises. It's a harmless condition and not a totally uncommon thing although it can freak people out when the sun hits my eyes the right way. Without the sun shining into them, most people don't notice anything different about my dark brown eyes.

Back to the wonderful nicknames, one of my favorite uncles - formally named a Jr after his father, Oscar Sr - was always called Hot Shot (or 'Hah-shot'). My grandfather was known to his friends as "Bud". Oscar Sr's wife (my step-grandmother) was "Miss Ollie" to everyone, including me and the other grandchildren. By the way, young Rudy Cosby sounded just like Miss Ollie did when saying "Bud".

Granddaddy Bud's first wife, my grandmother, was named Gretchel but, for some reason, everyone called her "Aunt Jack".For the longest time, I thought her first name must have been Jacqueline or Jackie.

I had a cousin we always called "Yogi". Whenever a teacher in school used her birth name of Saundra, everyone - including Yogi - would look around to see who she was referring to. Other cousins and peers of mine had names that had to do with sweetness: Peaches, Cookie, Sugar, Candy. I use those names for characters in my stories because I loved the real people.

Now that  I think of it, my Texas family were the ones with nicknames. Not so much with my Arkansas relatives. I'm going to have to think about that a little bit. Actually, my dad's father was never called George; everyone called him Mr.Tampa and I don't know why that is since "Tampa" was no part of his actual name... Now I'm going to have to get in touch with one of the aunties! I need to know what was going on with my grandpa's name!

Remember now that my paternal grandfather - Mr. Tampa - was a Louisiana man. His relatives did have nicknames. I remember a distant female cousin (?) that was called "Big'un". I really am going to have to talk to my paternal aunties because I cannot remember some of the other nicknames for the Lousiana family...

My oldest brother was called "Chubby". When he was younger, he was, in fact, kind of chubby. My sister who I've talked so much about over the years was nicknamed "Mike" and there's a story behind that. I was Penny to my parents and siblings up until I became a teenager. One of my older brothers still calls me by that nickname on occasion and I had one uncle who called me that until he died a couple of years ago. Apparently, as an infant, I was copper-colored like a new penny. As I got older and my skin darkened, one of my older brothers started calling me "Black Knight". Yeah. Cute... In high school, I went through a phase where I used only my middle name: Michele. Some of my closest friends back then called me Bones because I was so rail-thin. Oh, the good old days of carbs without consequences!

Names are not just an identity. Your name belongs to you in a way that can help shape your identity. When you love someone - through kinship, friendship, or romance - their name on your tongue has the taste of your relationship with them. You might remember that favorite quote of mine is by a child who defined love as keeping someone's name safe in your mouth. That's so real.

Thinking back to some of the first people, Adam's and Eve's names had meaning. Even God has several names and they each have a special meaning. I personally like to think of Him as El Shaddai and Elohim. To go further, even love has different names. In reference to my faith, Agape (or Agapao) love is the one that most comforts me.

So, when you think of your loved ones and speak their names, remember what the Bible teaches about the power of the tongue. Keep those names safe in your mouth. Speak their names with love and peace and hopes for their well-being. Even when speaking of your enemies, be careful not to use their names in ways you wouldn't want anyone to use yours.

Peace
--Free

And since I am in a praising the Lord mood right now, here's some Third Day with beautiful lyrics

**GRIOT** Devil Beating His Wife

Being the child and grandchild of Southerners, I grew up hearing a lot of odd phrases. To be honest, my relatives just talked plain funny. They had weird phrases and they painted the English language with a beautiful array of colors. My people used language in their own way, just as they put a unique spin on living life.

my mother in her late 20's-early 30's (?)

 For the longest time, I thought that only my mother said things like "You don't believe fat meat's greasy". That was for when I was being warned that my misbehaving was about to get me a whooping. Modern mothers threaten to start counting to ten, my mom had more colorful ways of warning me.

 While a lot of the phrases I heard had to do with consequences of my behavior (for instance, my butt was constantly in debt from all the checks my mouth wrote), there were some to go with everything from the weather to someone being sick.

I remember whenever it rained while the sun was shining, my mother would say that the Devil was beating his wife. I was surprised to learn just now how commonly that saying is used - and in a lot of cultures. I'm going to have to go take a closer look at that website.

one of the aunties

When my Yankee friends were "about to" do something, I was "fixing to". When Yanks were not paying you any attention, I wasn't "studdin" (or studying) you. You might be going to Heaven, but I'm going up "yonder". We also go over yonder, back yonder, or way yonder.

I'm not sure if this one is Southern or not, but where others might say someone had you wrapped around their finger, we'd say that they had your nose wide open. Another way to put that is to say that someone has your drawers (underpants) hanging on a bedpost. That, I think, had something to do with voodoo (or "hoodoo"). Another one from the voodoo files is to say that someone must have "worked a root" on you.

an uncle with a church group

Maybe right here is where I can get into my Big Mama's fear of all things pagan. Big Mama wouldn't eat food if she didn't know who cooked it. If she didn't know you, she wouldn't eat your food unless she had watched you prepare it. Why? Cause she was scared of hoodoo. For that same reason, she never left her comb or hairbrush laying around where just anybody could get to it. As Christian as she was (which is why she didn't like voodoo/hoodoo), she wasn't ashamed of her superstitions. She was one of those people who, after accidentally spilling salt, would toss some over her shoulder. Yes, my Bible-believing grandmother could be so unconsciously paranoid that it was kind of hilarious.

 These are some random photos from an old
photo album of my mother's

I don't know most of the people except that they are aunts, uncles, extended cousins, or 
very close family friends.

 I thought it would be cool for my younger nieces & nephews to see these photos. I just now started posting links to this blog of Facebook because that's where the kids hang out!

 

 I love the hair & clothing fashion of the '30s, '40s, and '50s.










Maybe because of their cultural ancestry, or maybe just because they were very practical and thrifty people, my relatives even dealt with health issues in their own ways. I've already talked a lot about my grandmother using asafetida poultices to deal with chest colds. I suppose there's a reason 'fetid' is in the name, but I just learned another thing: that asafetida gets its name from being funky. Wow,. At any rate, my mother never tortured me or my siblings with it but our Big Mama made up for it by giving us daily tablespoons of Castor oil. You might want to throw up every morning after your dose of oil but you were never constipated around Big Mama.

On my mother's side of the family, it was less about the countrified 'slanguage' and more about the Texan lifestyle. Where back in Hope, Arkansas where our Big Mama took us fishing with worms for bait, my West Texan grandfather let us enjoy his walnut and pecan trees. My mother would make homemade, fresh-churned ice-cream right in the front yard of Grandaddy Bud's house. Back in Arkansas, we ate bacon from pigs my grandmother's husband, Mr. Brown owned. We had fresh eggs and meat from his chickens.  In Texas, we ate peaches and apples and crab apples fresh off Granddaddy Bud's trees.

My granddaddy Bud always owned a pickup truck of some kind. My cousins and I would ride in the back while he went around to different homestead's taking care of business and sharing the goods from his trees. I remember one time when he took us on a long ride out "in the country" and showed us fields of cotton ready to be harvested. He told us to ask our mothers about their time spent picking cotton as kids. My mother told me that it was one of the ways she and her cousins made money as young girls. They would spend hours in the field, filling bag after bag with the cotton. I was absolutely horrified, but my mother had good memories of the time spent with her cousins and friends out in those fields. Even though she explained to me that there was a difference between being forced to pick cotton and being given a choice to get paid for doing it... I never could handle it. Years later, when I went through my stage of being a junior revolutionary and idolizing Newton and Seale for being bravely defiant, I would just cringe when I thought of my mother picking cotton.

Back when I was young, church and religion was a different experience depending on which grandparent I was visiting. My dad's mom (Big Mama) was deeply religious but didn't attend church on a regular basis. Nevertheless, if there was a heavy storm, she made everyone (kids and adults) get still and quiet. If there was any lightning or thunder involved, well, forget doing anything but taking a nap. You weren't going to disrespect the Lord in Big Mama's house by doing much of anything until the storm passed. To this day, during a heavy storm, I will sit my tail down and try to be still until the weather calms down. Unlike Big Mama, I don't go around unplugging everything, but I'm not trying to party down.

I didn't realize it until I was writing this post, but apparently, I carry a lot of my recent ancestors around in my behavior. Yesterday, I was cooking some sausage in my new cast iron and I flashed back on my mother standing in front of the stove, cooking something in her cast iron. I understand that people we love don't go ever completely away. They are in our memories of them. They are in the lingering memory of their touch or the sound of their laughter. They are here with us in the ways they affected us, changed us, or made us love them.

Peace
--Free

For the video pick, I think this one is just about perfect.

**GRIOT** Bacon Grease Lotion

This is about one of the stories my mother liked to tell about her youth. (I lost part of the old notes about this one so... some things might be skewed. Forgive me, Mama.)

When my mother was a girl of about 14 or 15, she and her cousins had to walk quite a way to school. They took shortcuts through alleys and people's yards. Once when my one of my mother's cousins (I can't recall which one) had taken too much time getting ready for school, the other kids had gone ahead and left her. When she was almost ready to leave, she realized that there was no skin lotion around. There were a lot of girls in the home who all slicked up with moisturizer every day. Jergens was a household favorite but, when they ran out, they would use Crisco (which my mother still sometimes used as an elderly woman). This cousin noticed that not only had the lotion been used up but she couldn't even find the Crisco. Her skin was dried out from her bath and she needed to at least take care of the ash on her knees and elbows.

No lotion? No Crisco? The next best thing was some of the bacon grease that Grandma Jack collected in a tin can that sat on the stove. Bacon grease - aka fried meat grease or "seasoning grease" - was only mostly from bacon. Sometimes it was from ham drippings or some-other-part-of-the-pig drippings. People are more health conscious these days but back then, it joked that Southerners would eat everything on a pig but the toenails.

source in the photo

Anyway, this cousin had no choice. She dipped out some of that bacon grease and put a shine on her legs and arms.

I don't know how she was bothered by being ashy for one day but didn't mind smelling like a country breakfast. Maybe she had a poor sense of smell? Maybe but by the time she got a couple of blocks from home, she was reminded that dogs have a great sense of smell. It's not like they had to be bloodhounds. She was wearing pork grease. I smoked for a lot of years and to this day, I can walk into someone's house and tell if they use bacon grease to cook with...

Mama always got so tickled at the point of the story when she'd tell how her cousin had to sprint and leap a couple of low fences when some neighborhood dogs caught the smell of her on the wind. Apparently, despite her girly vanity (I mean, she could have waited to borrow lotion at school!), this chick could move like Wilma Rudolf and leap like a superhero.

The cousin made it to school in one piece but by the time she got there, she was a hot sweaty, stinking mess. Literally stinking. Bacon grease only smells good on bacon.

So that is one of the stories my mother used to tell. I'm glad that I had some notes in one of my old journals to remind me of it.

Peace
--Free

GRIOT: Big Mama, Big Food, Big Love

Originally posted on Tuesday, April 05, 2016

I'm taking a couple days' break from reviews. I've received so many EOs for cleansing and moisturizing, I need to let my body (and skin, and hair) rest! I've washed my hair so much that I've rid myself of future dirt.
Today, I want to talk about memories. I've been in that mood. I was telling my niece the other night about the times I used to spend around Big Mama. My memory sucks so I probably tossed in memories that were handed down from my older brothers and sister.

We talked about how Big Mama would fix these huge and amazing breakfasts. When I say that breakfast at Big Mama's was an experience, I mean that even my mother (the Texan) was impressed. There were no simple, egg-and-bacon deals at Big Mama's. There's not a fast food chain around that could emulate these meals without adding a buffet line.

The first time I had a Big Mama breakfast, I thought I'd migrated in my sleep and woken up in the planet of No Freaking Way.

First, there was the food: slices of ham, fried pork chops, pan-fried potatoes, thick slabs of bacon, grits with salt and pepper, and biscuits that so huge and buttery-good that I think they are what the Israelites called manna. There were also eggs - scrambled eggs, sunny-side up, boiled and sliced - but who the heck could think about eggs with all that other food? One of my brothers used to joke that just two of those biscuits could feed half of a small continent.

When I say there was a lot of food, I mean, there wasn't just a dib of this and a dab of that. I mean, there was a lot of food. That was the first amazement.

Then there was the fact that there were so many people at the table. Family that lived two and three blocks away showed up for breakfast at Big Mama's. Talk about getting a start to the day, right? It was like a daily family reunion before folks went off to school or work or back to their own homes for the day.
The most impressive thing to me about those breakfasts - the thing that I never got over, even after I was used to all the food and family - was that they happened while dawn hadn't even thought about breaking. Seriously.

For a time, when my father moved our family there while he went overseas, we had to look for temporary housing. In the meantime, my mother, my siblings and I stayed in Big Mama's house. I'd feel like I'd just gone into REM sleep when I'd hear Big Mama walking around doing her morning wake-up calls.

"Rise and shine, everybody. The Lord has blessed us all to see another day!"

I'd just be wishing that the Lord would bless us to sleep another couple of hours. But, in Big Mama's house, no one was allowed to lay around in bed unless they were sick. Big Mama believed in that early-to-bed and early-to-rise thing. Super early. Crazy early. Early to bed like a narcoleptic wino, and early to rise like a rooster with anxiety issues.

Still, I loved being around my Big Mama - Miz Minnie Lee to a lot of people, but always Big Mama to me. She had her ways though...

Big Mama had a lot in common with most people of her generation when it came to how you raised and treated children. I always think of this image when I think of my Big Mama:

After she fed us all to stuffing before the crack of dawn, Big Mama made us face the day with prowess. During the school year, Big Mama could get 30 kids out of the house - on time, nourished, clean, looking good and feeling like there was nothing they couldn't do. She was like a fierce wind that pushed you out that door and into the world like all your dreams were just waiting for you to collect them. Even with all that freaking food in you.

Side note here about my aunties: I have the best aunties in this world. One of my aunties was a lunch lady at the elementary school. Who always got a fresh cinnamon roll for school breakfast? And who never had to worry that all the chocolate milk was gone? Me, that's who! (And I want to find that lost cinnamon roll recipe because I have never had one like those since childhood.)

One of my other aunties was our lioness. She'd run off bullies with a broom (true story), chaperon teen socials, carpool kids all over the neighborhood after the weekend get-togethers, and make sure that any stray kid was looked after.

Big Mama raised those aunties of mine. No surprise that they are all women to be reckoned with.
I guess I'm just glad that I have so many good memories of my Big Mama. I wish that many of the younger people I know could have experienced that kind of love.

Today, people like to call my Big Mama's kind of love "tough love". It wasn't tough love, it was just big love.

Peace
--Free


NOTE: I did make a couple of needed corrections that I only noticed when re-posting this. 

GRIOT: The Family Griot

When my sister died, she took with her a lot of our oral family history. My mother used to talk to us all the time about her life as a young woman back in Texas. I didn't appreciate her stories until I got older and there are so many times I wished I had tape-recorded her telling them. Being ten years older than me, my sister knew and remembered more of the people and things my mother talked about. Now, there are only a few members of the extended family who have this knowledge. But I do remember some things.

Can't remember where I found the image a while back

Some of my favorite stories are of the times my mother and her cousins would have "play church". There were a lot of cousins to make up the congregation, but it was Vera Lee who usually played the part of the pastor. She could stomp, preach, and hold her ear and yowl like the best of the Southern 'negro' preachers.

One time during one of these 'church' services, the cousins decided to hold a funeral. They also decided that the funeral needed a body. Cousin Bunky was the snitch of the group and she had recently gotten some of the other kids in trouble with her tattling. And that is how Vera Lee decided that Bunky should be the body. Bunky had forgotten all about the recent whoopings she had caused for the other kids so she was fine with playing the corpse at the funeral. Until the other kids got to the part where they actually tried burying her.

There were so many of these stories from my mother. I'm glad that I have old notebooks and blog posts with some of the tales recorded. I thought that I would share (or re-share) some of them here. So, every now and then, I will do those post filed under "Griot" and hope that other people will be encouraged to enjoy their own family histories.

Peace
--Free