Leaving Technology Behind - The Lost Phone

Here comes a big what if - what if you’re stranded away from home with no phone, no smartwatch, with pay phones becoming more obsolete in most metropolitan areas?  Remember when you could use a public phone book to look up a number, and change from the bottom of your purse or pocket to call that emergency contact.

 I left my phone at Kona Airport on Thursday.  I remembered where I left it as soon as I sat down in my seat on the plane.   If I had gone back to get it I would have had to take a chance of standby for another inter island flight later or being stranded on the sister island for the night.  Another reason for my insistence to get home was I was rushing to get back to an event, the opening of a new restaurant.  So I sat there, reasoning that I’d made the better choice to stay on the plane, I then realized I needed the phone for my invitation to the event - it had been sent via text message.  My Apple Watch hadn’t been charged the night before, so there was no alert that my phone had been left behind.  Technology can be both a blessing and a curse when we rely on its conveniences - I also realized sitting there that I could only remember a few phone numbers.  

Remember when all of our phone numbers were memorized or conveniently secured in alphabetical order in a cute little phone book?  They are now secreted away in our phones or sitting in the proverbial ‘cloud’, which doesn’t do us any good if we don’t have a unit in which to access them.  

Back to the lost phone.  My sweet daughters sent me a new phone a few months ago and I’d stubbornly held on to 4 year old ‘Betsy’ because I didn’t want to learn how to use  the new one.  

I ran home, grabbed it and ran to the phone store before they closed, arriving 30 minutes before its closure and they were able to transfer my contacts, messages, pics, etc within minutes.  It was an amazing relief but it still left me in a melancholy state of mind that the beauty of the human mind and its utilization has been reduced to trying to remember passwords and what apps we need to replace instead of contact names, phone numbers, dates and times.  Last night after the completed download, it had transferred over 1000 contacts.  I began to feel nostalgic.  I started thinking that it might be wise to start to memorize my top 20-50 most called phone numbers in case of emergencies.

I remained calm on the flight home but I thought about the inconveniences I would have to immediately undergo when I landed - resetting passwords, re-downloading apps, etc.

Is it silly to want to print out my phone book and start sending birthday and Christmas cards by mail again?  Guess I’m just feeling nostalgic, caught up in the temporary loss of, and brief space of time in which you have no way to contact someone except for what has been thankfully imbedded to memory.  But now we’ve become so limited in our thinking because our technology is advanced to the point that we are ‘free’ to focus on other things, like organizing, planning and executing. How do we escape becoming a slave to technology besides living off the grid? Is it even possible now in this day and age?  I would like to hear other thoughts and comments. 

 

Happy Heavenly Birthday to my Mom

 My mother’s birthday is today - November 22.    She died in February of this year and didn’t reach the age of 83.   

Her birthday always seemed to land on or the day before thanksgiving, but we would celebrate her birthday separately.  Maybe because it was always on or around her birthday she placed extra emphasis on making thanksgiving so beautiful, so proper, so amazing.  

As a young girl I watched my mother make her dressing and stuff the turkey every year.   After I went away to college, met my husband and started my family, I knew her recipe for dressing in the depths of my soul, but I still loved to call her the night before the holiday and I’d recite her recipe because I always needed her validation; and I wanted her to know that I was making her dressing, her sweet potato pies (actually my grandmothers recipe) and her cornbread and collard greens (she made her greens with smoked turkey necks and always recommended one jalapeño, whole, in the pot).  I've never strayed from her recipes, I'm proud to add.   

When you walked in her house, the aroma was love, warmth and sunshine all rolled into one.  You wanted to peek under those cake and pie covers and taste everything.

When we were children she always served dinner on her china, and then washed every piece by hand after dinner.  Then she'd put the china dishes back up in her china cabinet, ready for Thanksgiving for the next year. 

Every dessert she made was from scratch: Lemon pie, egg custard pie, German chocolate cake, coconut cake, lemon jello cake, pound cake, pecan pie.  She would cook for days before the holiday - I can’t even remember how she made room for all of the food - but there were so many delectable dishes our table settings barely had room. 

Her table was always so elegantly set; she passed this along to me and I’m so glad my daughters love a beautiful table setting.  It’s funny how there are so many things you take for granted early in life that you long for after you can no longer have them.  I wish I could have thanksgiving with my mother one more time.  I miss her so much it’s hard to breathe.  Happy heavenly birthday Mama.  I hope you are having a wonderful feast with grandmama, papa, Aunt Doshie, your brothers and cousins and your bestie Gwen Halley.

Behind the Photograph - A Chat with Jerry Pressley

 

1984 was a remarkable year.   Prince and his band, the Revolution, released his film and the album Purple Rain; The Soviet Union boycotted the Summer Olympics being hosted in Los Angeles;  Michael Jackson’s hair caught on fire while filming a Pepsi commercial;   The movie Ghostbusters hit the silver screen and went on coin an iconic phrase (who ya gonna call?);  The longest game in Major League Baseball history was played between the Milwaukee Brewers and the Chicago White Sox; and the National Brotherhood of Skiers celebrated their eleventh year of formal membership in the United States, soon to become one of the largest organized ski clubs in the nation. 

Behind the energy, love and passion of skiing stood two icons: Art Clay and Ben Finley.  The two friends had collectively brought together one of the most respected, copied and envied organizations to grace the mountains across the world. 

Jerry Pressley, a savvy and experienced skier, was a member of a Chicago Ski Club affectionately called ‘The Gang’ and then later a member of the Chicago Sno-Gophers.   Vail, Copper Mountain, Aspen and Heavenly Valley were stomping grounds for the annual black ski fests that in the early years commanded between 6000-10,000 members in attendance.    

He was also a commissioned photographer chronicling the community activities of Operation Push and Operation Breadbasket also photographed pictures for Budweiser, one of the earliest sponsors for the National Brotherhood of Skiers, which were, to the delight of Black America, featured in Ebony Magazine. 

Always brainstorming, promoting and taking it to the ‘next level,’ one blustery winter evening Art made a phone call, gathered some friends, and asked Jerry to capture the attitude, character and “Badassfullness” beauty and persona of the African American Skier.  

Though it appeared to be captured on a summit or the base of a slope of an exotic locale, the picture was actually taken in the Seven Hills area of Washington Park on the south side of Chicago. 

It may be coincidence, or purposeful that Art chose this section of Chicago, a community rich with significant history - With its proximity to the former site of the 1893 world’s fair and a prominent African American history museum, the Washington Park community area has a deep history at every turn.  The entire eastern portion of the community is a large park of the same name that connects to the Midway Plaisance park, the University of Chicago, and the Hyde Park community area. The Midway Plaisance runs all the way to Jackson Park, the site of the Museum of Science and Industry and the former site of the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893. Washington Park, Jackson Park, and the Midway Plaisance were all designed by famous landscape architects Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux.

Irish and German immigrants who worked for the railroad and meatpacking industries first settled in the area in the 1860s, according to the Encyclopedia of Chicago. Starting in the early 20th century, African Americans moved into the community as the Great Migration brought in those leaving the Jim Crow South. ^(WTTW)1

The picture became Art’s calling card.   He had business cards made with the picture to promote the National Brotherhood of Skiers.   In the early 2000s Jerry reached out to Art and asked him if he would mind if he used the photo to market a shirt with its likeness.   Art didn’t mind at all, and the picture is still in regular rotation, (with staged attempts to recreate the scene) but most of all adored and respected by snow skiers young and old. Thanks to Jerry Presley and Art Clay for their indelible stamp and vision in their contribution to chronicling Black History.  

Contributed by Robyn Gant

 

Citation: Wingard, Monique, “The Story of Washington Park.” 

Is It Summer Yet?

 Whenever I eat like a vegetarian, I lose weight.  Summer is around the corner and I want to get back into those Venus bathing suits of mine, so I looked up a few healthy recipes to meal pack. 

 I got excited when I found a recipe for veggie burgers - less than 200 calories.  Black beans, brown rice, asssorted roasted veggies and herbs.  I assembled, mixed and grilled them in just a touch of olive oil.  I was happy at how they turned out - but something was missing.  I dug through the freezer and there it was - lonely, nearly hidden behind freezer burnt ice cream - glaring at me and darn-near confrontational.  

“No! I shouted!  You’re the reason I want liposuction!”  I slammed the door, walked away, then slowly turned back shaking my head.  And hence the veggie-bacon burger was born.  And I’m full.  ☺️

New Surroundings, New Attitude

It's been quite a while since I last wrote an entry to my blog.   A lot has changed in three and a half years.   I moved to Hawaii for two good reasons -  to start a new job and write more books. 

So now with two new books signed, sealed and delivered (Masquerade Dot Com and The Notes In Her Grandmother's Library)  starting a new job in an industry new to me (aviation industry) has become a dream.  New industry to learn, new people to get to know, new rules in a new state to become familiar with.  One of the most fun parts is the other offices are on different islands, so I've had the opportunity to visit and work on four different islands in just a short length of time. 

Hawaii is not only a beautiful state, but its culture is beyond amazing.  I've learned the importance of respecting Mauna Kea - a mountain on Kona where the natives go to pray.  A consortium of colleges and businesses were approved by the state to build a thirty meter telescope, one of the largest in the world on the top of Mauna Kea.  Thousands upon thousands of Hawaiian natives continue to protest the building of this telescope, so much that they blocked the roads to prevent construction workers from traveling to the mountain to start the actual building of the project.

On the week of my birthday this past July, I paid Mauna Kea a visit.  I didn't understand the hype until my friends and I actually approached the Daniel K. Inouye Highway entry and amidst hundreds of tents and canopy pop-ups there they were in the thousands - Natives, supporters, Ohana and friends, singing, playing music, sharing food, drinks and sharing the history.  I was beyond moved and touched - I initially felt ashamed. I was a looky-loo in a sea of people pained at the disrespect and betrayal of their beloved place of worship. 

But as they welcomed me and my friends, I quietly listened at the passion and the love they shared for Mauna Kea, both its sanctity, its purpose and its history.   Mauna Kea is sacred to the Native Hawaiians and is the zenith of their ancestral ties to creation. The upper regions, Wao Akua, are the realms of the Akua (creator) and the summit is a temple of the Supreme Being in not only Hawaiian culture but also in many histories throughout Polynesia.

I traveled back to Oahu several days after my cultural lesson with love and new respect for this beautiful state that I now call my home.  

I continue to hike the hills of Makapu'u, I enjoy watching the surfers ride sixteen to twenty-foot waves on the North shore, I watch in fascination the wind-surfers on Kailua beach while I dig my toes in the soft white sands.  

I've found an amazing church to worship, and fell into place as I participate in volunteer projects to feed the homeless, pass out blankets and design and sew costumes for our plays.  I'm very happy here and currently at work on another novel.   

On March 5th, 2021 my brand new website will go live.  When you have a moment, please visit at www.robyngant.com  and leave a comment - is it user friendly?  Easy to navigate?  Interesting?  Please let me know!   

As always, thank you for your visit.  You'll be hearing from me again soon!    

Robyn Gant

The Overdue Library Book

On Saturday mid-morning, I was running the typical weekend  errands (cleaners, shoe repair man, grocery store) and as I was passing the library I remembered that I had an overdue book in the back seat (don't judge me, Yes I still check out books from the library).

I made a sharp right, pulled into the parking lot and hesitantly climbed out of the car. I'd been immediately transported back to my Pomona days when an overdue book meant a fine, no more books until you paid that fine as well as a stern look from the librarian or clerk, shaming me to be more timely.

It had been years, but I didn't want that look again. I started to drop it off in the book drop box, but then I looked around at the parking lot. There were only three cars there. I first became sad, and then angry as I thought about the new generation of parents who were more than likely depriving their children of the privilege of the age old institution of the library: perusing through hundreds of bookshelves, the musty smell of a used book, the bridges to other worlds and of course the responsibility of securing a library card.

I lamented as I slowly walked up the steps. The wind was blowing my hair in my face as I became critical of the world in those short moments - digital games, book downloads, the internet and hundreds of available channels on cable TV that have stolen precious time and moments from a building that housed history, references, novels, religion and music.

I became angry and I quickened my pace, suddenly eager to share with the desk clerk my heartfelt sentiments as a fellow bibliophile. And as I reached the door I saw the sign - The library is closed on Saturdays.

Breast Cancer Awareness

As we close out Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I decided to post some reflections and a personal experience.  At first I was reluctant to share this because I don’t want sympathy, and I don’t want anyone staring at my chest when they run into me (ha ha) but the importance of getting checked regularly and consistently outweighs all modesty.  

This past August I made my annual trek to my favorite trip of the year, Houseboat on Lake Mead.  Sitting shotgun with one of my best buds, Jan, we agreed to cut the trip short so we could return home earlier than usual for more parties and events during the Labor Day weekend. 

Skipping details on how I ended up on a mechanical bull that weekend, I ended up in the emergency room with a miniscule tear to a leg ligament.  The nurse assigned to me fussed a bit as she reviewed my medical history – there was no recent record of a mammogram.   I laughed it off and told her I was too busy and that I was headed to a barbecue, with crutches. 

I remember her raising one eyebrow at me and saying, ‘My screen is flashing.  Get off my screen and go downstairs and get a mammogram.  It will take fifteen minutes.’   Like a little bad ass kid who has to go inside while his friends are still playing outside, I stomped as well as I could and headed down to radiology. 

Thirty minutes later I was home free to run the streets for the rest of the weekend.  So when I received a call several days later requesting another mammogram, it didn’t faze me in the least.  There was no medical history of anyone in my family with breast cancer, and besides, I exercised regularly, drank only bottled water, was very conscious of my intake of certain types of meat and occasionally ate like a vegetarian (my mindset).

A couple of days later I received another call. “Nothing to worry about,” said the nurse on the other line.  “Just a routine biopsy to check out a couple of abnormal cells.  There’s an 85% chance its nothing – probably just calcium buildup.” 

Now I felt just a tinge of nervousness. I arrived at my appointment and for the first time the possibility began to run through my head that I could be diagnosed.  I shook it off, went in for my procedure and went about my business.

So when I received the call a couple of days later that the abnormal cells were cancer cells, I felt sucker punched and stunned.  I also felt ashamed of myself that I was so naïve to think that a clean family history and occasionally vegging out would save me from the C word. 

I was diagnosed with a Stage 0 in situ carcinoma.  That means it was sitting in one place and there was the likelihood that it had not yet spread because it had been detected so early.

Two weeks ago, with a massive amount of prayers circulating (and my direct prayer to God asking for healing) I underwent surgery to remove the cancer cells.  Last week the surgeon informed me that there were no other cancer cells in the surrounding tissue they removed. My prayers and the fervent prayers of the saints were answered.  I may still have to undergo radiation and I’ve got to take meds, but I’m cancer free. I was overwhelmed with the support and love from my daughters, family members and friends and I share this story simply to communicate that it doesn’t matter what your history is, one in ten women are susceptible to breast cancer.

I encourage every female to get regular check-ups.  If you don’t have insurance, Google free mammograms in your area.  Please don’t think that because you are generally healthy, run, jog, ride your bike, ski, white water raft, climb mountains, eat like a vegetarian and have no history that you are not prone.  I mean, you are a super woman, no doubt, but breast cancer does not discriminate.   Get checked out. Annually. Please.

Love,

Robyn

The Lighter Side of Christmas - A 2014 Christmas Story

I was visiting my nine-year old grandson one cold and overcast December Saturday. Delighted to see me, he gave me a warm hug and immediately displayed his newest app on his smart phone - a Santa meter. He held it up to my face and explained, "The Santa meter decides whether you've been naughty or nice." As he pushed the meter activation button, my eyes became wide with anticipation. We both watched as the meter needle swung to the naughty side, bounced and then suddenly became very still. Then the app crashed. He looked at me, confused, and then he cried out, "You broke it!" I smiled and nodded as he ran away. Cuz that's how I roll Santa. The End

Happy Veteran's Day

Happy Veteran's Day! I had the honor of hearing Mike Ehredt speak today. A touching and honorable story. He ran a marathon every day for 81 days and placed a flag at each mile he ran with a war veteran's name attached to the flag. http://youtu.be/GJokaiyJNVA

A 'Whale' of a Proposal

Beautiful Love story of how my new son-in-law proposed to my youngest daughter. "After dating Liz for just a short while, I realized that she was "the one". A year later, the next big question was, how do I propose to her? Then one day, the idea came to me. Last year, Liz and I attempted to go to Shedd Aquarium but due to the long line we decided to leave. So, I decided that would be the perfect setting for the proposal. Furthermore, Liz’s younger sister would be in town for spring break and that would be the perfect cover for my plan! This time, I would buy our tickets online to avoid the crowds. While online, I discovered that Shedd Aquqarium created a very special way to propose. I was delighted with this new idea and the plot thickened. On Friday, April 5, I dropped off the ring to the event coordinator at the aquarium and she placed it in a black waterproof box. On Saturday, Jacil, Liz, and I headed to the aquarium. Liz had no idea what was about to happen. As it turns out, neither did I. About an hour after we arrived, the power in the whole aquarium went out! The employees started telling everyone they had to evacuate the building. As you can imagine my mind was racing. I thought my plans were ruined and more importantly, they still had the ring! However, I kept calm and jumped into action. I went to guest services, explained the situation and they made special arrangements so that we could proceed as planned. Liz didn’t know what was going on. She thought that I was doing all of this because Jacil was in town. After I spoke with a representative, an employee led us downstairs and backstage to get ready for our Beluga whale experience. Guided by a Shedd trainer, we learned all about beluga whales as we waded in the waters of the Grainger Beluga Encounter Habitat. We spent time feeding, and petting the whale. The whale could even play fetch. The trainer threw out a Frisbee and the whale brought it back. Remember that black water proof box from earlier? Well, the trainer then threw that into the water. This time, the whale brought it to Liz! She opened it and was completely surprised by the ring box inside. She said yes, gave me this hug which I thought was going to break my ribs, and then smiled for the camera." Witnessed by 250 guests, Demetrius and Elizabeth (Liz) were happily married in a beautiful wedding ceremony in Riverside, California. They are making their home in Dallas, Texas where Dr. Anderson is opening a chiropractic and wellness office.

Saying Goodbye to 'Uncle'

Though it usually isn’t spoken, allowed, repeated very often and denied if confronted, most people from large families usually have that one favorite aunt or uncle they worshipped and loved just a tad bit more than the others. What was it about that favorite aunt or uncle? Maybe they loved to cook and always had a spread when the family came to visit. It could have been the uncle that always pulled out his wallet and pushed some money into your hand or pocket along with a smile and the comment, ‘get yourself a little something.’ Then there was the relative that always had the no-nonsense advice – and a tall-tale to back it up. I had an uncle like that. He was my father’s oldest brother, and though he had kids who were old enough to be my parents, he played with us so much we thought of him as a big brother. We affectionately and simply called him ‘Uncle’ for as long as I can remember, and I was a teenager before I knew his real first name. I think some of my fondest memories of Uncle were the stories he told. I never knew if he was making them up, or if he was telling the truth, but I was always fascinated, as he was an amazing storyteller. Some of them bordered on the scandalous to a certain degree: “I used to be in love with my father’s brother’s wife. She was only five years older than me,” he confessed one day when I found a newspaper clipping on a history website that dated back to the 1940’s and told a story of her accidental death at the age of 30. Some were over-the-top lies that had us laughing for years after we heard the stories: He was in the hospital recovering from a heart attack once, and there was only one television. Trying to make him smile, I said, ‘Uncle – there is only one TV. If your roommate wants to watch channel 5 and you want to watch channel 7, what are you gonna do?’ He raised his eyebrows and said, “We’re gonna watch channel 7. You know that’s why I got shot, right? I was whipping someone’s ass in a bar because he changed the channel on the TV.” I said, “Uncle, I thought you had a heart attack?” He paused, raised his eyebrows again and laughed. “Oh, yeah, well, after I whipped his behind, I had a heart attack.” Though he didn’t drink, he hung out on the street corners of south Los Angeles along with a variety of colorful characters: winos, gamblers and the neighborhood postman, giving them all a taste of his philosophy on life: “Do what you want to do – and do what makes you happy.” At 82 years old, I could pick up the phone, call him in the middle of the night and we would talk for hours. If I drove out for a visit, we’d go to the cemetery and visit the graves of our ancestors, and I’d really be in for a treat then, because he always had a new story to tell me about one of them, something he had never told me before or something he made up. Last summer one of my best friends and I drove to L.A. for the day and decided to stop by his house and say hi. He immediately began to fuss at us, saying we were too pretty to be running the streets of Los Angeles alone. “Where are your men?” He said. “Do they know you are out here by yourselves?” A humorous Mack Daddy, he called me several times and left messages on my voice mail to tell my girlfriend ‘She Sho Was Pretty – Tell Her I said Hey.” I guess it was the way he said it that makes me smile to this day – a tinge of a southern accent, a soulful drawl, sexy but not creepy. I think it’s so cool to remember someone this way. Uncle passed away in his sleep on February 3, 2014. I had my initial cry, but I also thought about the awesome times we had and the stories he told. I don’t even care whether or not they were true or fictitious. I think I just love the fact that he took the time to make them up, just to make me smile. Good night Uncle Willie Gant. I’ll see you in the morning.

Girls Night Out

Girls night out has escalated in its popularity in recent years, with many industries gleefully capitalizing on the very subject. SUV and mini-van commercials display girlfriends and wives taking the keys from their significant others and piling up the family vehicle amid laughter and music. Cards and invitations can be found in the greeting card section of one's favorite boutique, bookstore or drugstore; clubs beckon, and retail stores sell t-shirts, purses and jewelry all promoting the healthy declaration that every woman periodically requires a night out with her girlfriends. I'd engaged in a few. My crowd enjoys the discounted drinks and huge TV screens strategically placed in the bars, but the Carioke nights were starting to wear thin. I remembered a time when you had to be really drunk to get your nerve up enough to stand in front of others and follow the words on the screen, but lately it seemed as though everyone who got up to sing thought they were auditioning for American Idol, the Voice or prepping for the national anthem at a baseball game. It was getting way too serious. So when one of my ski club road dogs suggested that we plan a girls' night out to celebrate our birthdays, I sort of half-laughed when they suggested we celebrate 'girls night out' in Jamaica. A week later, I received a three-way call on my cell phone. Four women were interested and serious. With credit cards in hands, we called the airlines. At first, I was hesitant. A week with four women on a Caribbean island sounded a little too adventurous for my blood. However, it took only a few minutes of friendly persuasion to convince me that we, the girls, needed a week to ourselves to 'play catch-up' with our lives, and to treat ourselves to some much needed rest and relaxation. When the date rolled around, armed with stuffed suitcases, straw hats, unread books and freshly braided hair, I was on a direct, red-eye flight to Montego Bay. Nine hours later we checked into the Ritz Carlton where we shared two adjoining suites. This was luxurious, but also important on a vacation such as this one. We were going to be sharing bathroom space for seven days and nights. Three bathrooms were absolutely necessary. Our first night there we attended the annual Sum Fest, a Reggae music festival that goes on all night long. About three in the morning, as we were headed back to our hotel, a thief snatched my purse. Along with feeling violated, I began to have regrets about the trip. When we returned to the hotel, I had no desire to leave the sanctuary of the resort, but my girlfriends were there for me. They reminded me that I had not been injured, I still had my passport, and that I should refuse to allow one thug to ruin my trip. They were right. He got away with a few dollars, my credit cards and a nice leather clutch, but I had my health, no broken bones and my girlfriends. A couple of days later, I once again ventured out, got some shopping in and cheerfully returned with a great piece of art, a few sarongs and of course coffee and rum. We scheduled our spa appointments, went sailing, visited a couple of the requisite tourist spots (Dunns River Falls and Margueritaville) and went ATV riding. Some nights after dinner we listened to jazz in the hotel lounge. We discussed love, the challenges of being single (or married),our parents and our children. We asked each other for advice. We got a little nosy and discussed sex habits. We cried a little, but we laughed and giggled more. The biggest concern we encountered each day was what we would wear and where we would eat. We changed clothes three or more times a day and complemented each other on our outfits, shoes and accessories sincerely and without an ounce of envy. Seven days with girlfriends and no tiffs or catty words. We met a couple on the same floor of our hotel who were on vacation from Chicago - he was a barbershop owner and his girlfriend owned a beauty shop. We were sitting in the lounge chatting one evening when he asked, "Okay, so what's really up with you ladies? I mean, are you here to catch? Are you looking for a husband? What's really going on - five beautiful women from California on a mission, right?" We looked at each other and took turns answering him one by one, kindly though, as we were now mellowed by a combination of the mood, the ambiance of the island and the Jamaican sun. One of the ladies summed it up best when she replied, "We are all hard-working professionals. Some of us have children, businesses, spouses, and at home everything is about everyone else. We hardly allow time for ourselves. On the weekends, we are driving our kids to little league or dance classes, cleaning up and committing to volunteer. On Sundays, we go to church. There is no ulterior motive; no desire for an island romance. We're here to relax and be a little selfish." Though I believe at first hesitant to think our hearts were sincere, the couple smiled and nodded, then continued to hang out with us through the remainder of the week. I believe our week was finally summed up best by how we felt when we sat out on the beach late one afternoon. The sun was going down, and the temperature had been about 85 degrees, but with the Caribbean sea breeze teasing our bodies and our hair, it felt like a California Spring. One of my friends brought a portable CD player and we began to listen to some rap music. I think we were all missing home, so we turned it up and began to dance on the beach, each of us in our style and world. And then the tourists began to come. People walking on the beach came to our little circle and began to dance as well. Words did not have to be spoken; I think they simply saw the smiles on our faces, felt the freedom we evoked in our dancing and they joined us. Some didn't even speak English; but I truly believe they saw what we saw - not just the beauty of a Caribbean sunset or crest of the sea dancing against the sand, but the opportunity to be free, to enjoy life, to smile, laugh and giggle and not be judged.

October Book Signings 2013

Book Signings - October 2013. Please Join me on Saturday, October 12th, From 12pm - 2pm. At The Hourglass Art and Wine Gallery 8200 Haven Ave. #103, Rancho Cucamonga, Ca As I celebrate the release of my third novel, Masumi Records. Humorous, candid and inspiring, Masumi Records Weaves a tale of obsession, dedication and sincere Love for the universal language we call music.

Music is the Universal Language; or The German Pianist

About 12 years ago I was on a cruise ship in Europe. My cousin and I were hanging out at a little piano bar and the German pianist asked us what we would like to hear. I requested this song, but he'd never heard of it. I sang a few bars for him and told him it was an American treasure. A couple of days go by, and we went back to the bar. When the pianist saw me, he waved me over and started playing this song. He told me that after I described it to him, he had the sheet music faxed over when we had stopped at the last port. He told me he fell in love with the song and was adding it to his repertoire. Music is truly the universal language. Happy Birthday Nat King Cole.

A Senior Moment

A Senior Moment I believe that everyone on the face of the planet has heard the term, ‘Senior Moment’. Akin to forgetfulness, it is classified as a momentary lapse of memory; an episode in which a distraction, either physical, or mental, wafts through the brain and temporarily erases the immediate subject of which is being concentrated on; in the midst of a discussion, destination or task. Linking this lapse with old age, blogs and studies have been dedicated to it, society has elected to highlight the humor in it; and it has been blazoned across t-shirts, post cards and coffee cups. Now an acceptable adage, both the young and old alike embrace it, joke about it and wear it like a badge on a Girl Scout sash. Love this! Several years ago, I had the privilege of working in an administrative capacity at a lovely senior residential community. A beautiful landscape of walkways and rose gardens and nearly 500 trees, the twenty-acre property was reminiscent of a lovely park without the runners or roller skaters. The seniors who lived there came from all walks of life: doctors, homemakers, war veterans, accountants, seamstresses and former trophy wives. They all had amazing stories to tell, and they would share them weekly in a coffee-and-chat environment set up by our social services director. Though I had many tasks to fulfill on a daily basis, I’d often find an excuse to walk through and listen to some of the stories they shared. I noticed a similar pattern with most of the residents: they were pretty long-winded when discussing their history, and often times would be interrupted by a co-resident who had a question. In answering, inadvertently the question would throw them off and they would struggle to remember what they were talking about. Sometimes another resident would help them along, and other times the conversation would simply take another direction, with the speaker failing to finish the initial story. At that point they would touch their foreheads and say, ‘Sorry, I forgot what I was going to say. I just had a senior moment.’ Being in my forties at the time, and like many of my younger co-workers, we thought nothing of using this, although in jest, to each other when the occasion called for it, until one manager suggested that we refrain from using the term, simply out of respect to the resident, and so that it didn’t appear we were mocking anyone. Though difficult to abstain from, especially in that environment, we respected her point and changed our comments. I thought I was doing well until I met a senior who I will call Dora Bernstein. Dora Bernstein was a resident, recently transplanted from another community. She was the resident speaker one day when I happened to walk through the game room where they held their coffee and conversation. I hung around for a while and listened as she shared some humorous stories of her past as a former school teacher and a WAC who served in World War II. I was walking through the game room one afternoon when I saw her sitting at a card table alone. I stop and spoke, and asked her if she needed assistance, or whether she was expecting someone. She replied that her scrabble partner had died a few weeks before. I took a seat and listened as she expressed her passion for word games, and she explained that she still came to the game room weekly in the hopes that someone would come through and show interest in starting a game. I looked at the grandfather clock across the room. I hadn’t taken my lunch break, and it was going on three o’clock. I usually ate lunch at my desk, so I thought to myself, ‘This would be a great way to spend a lunch break.’ I sat down in front of her and said, “I’ve got thirty minutes. Let’s play.” Delighted, the 86-year-old, Betty White look-a-like mother of five with an oxygen tube attached to her nostrils smiled sweetly at me. She plopped a worn scrabble dictionary onto the table and went over the rules. Then she spoke these chilling words: “I’ll give you a one-hundred point handicap to start. And I’ll still beat you.” I raised my eyebrows, looked at the clock again, and replied, “I don’t want your little handicap. And you can play first.” Like a lightning rod, Dora threw down six letters and immediately scored forty points. I pretended I dropped something and looked under the table to see if she had some extra scrabble squares sitting in her lap. An hour later, I was losing, 250 to 120. When I got up to go, Dora reverted back to the sweet little old lady I’d sat down with just an hour before, and asked me, “Do you want to save this game for another time?” I suggested that we start a new one, and I would meet her, at the same time, same place in a week. From that point, it was on. I checked my calendar and made sure I had no meetings scheduled on Monday afternoons at three o’clock. Faithful to the cause, Dora was there, always on time, and at each meeting, she offered to give me a one-hundred-point handicap. Each time I would adamantly refuse, telling myself that this was the game in which I would win. Each session, Dora beat the pants off of me. When I’d leave, she would make cracks like, ‘You should have taken my handicap,’ or ‘what’d they teach you in high school?’ and ‘Give me the name of your English teacher, so I can slap him.’ And so began our animated rivalry. One day I was working on a project and a reminder popped up on my Outlook calendar for our recurring game. As I shuffled some papers on my desk and jumped up, ready to go smack down some letters with my senior nemesis, there was a knock on the door. It was Dora in a wheelchair, being pushed by a tall, handsome man about my age. “I have to cancel our game for today,” she explained. “I have a date.” She continued by making introductions. “This is my grandson Sean. He’s a doctor, you know,” she added proudly. To him, she said, “This is our Human Resources Director. This is the young whippersnapper I beat every Monday at Scrabble.” I smiled up at him politely and glared at her behind her back as he steered her out of the office. The next week I broke down. As we started our game, she asked the usual polite question: ‘Would you like a one-hundred point handicap?’ Looking around to make sure no one else saw me; I raised my eyebrows, looked her straight in the eyes and nodded slowly. I watched her mark the numbers at the top of the scorecard, and as we grabbed our squares to start the game, I swore I heard the theme song from Clint Eastwood’s ‘The Good, The Bad and The Ugly’ playing in the background. That day I was determined to win. I challenged every word she used that I’d never heard before, and each time I ended up losing a turn. I glanced at the score. She was gaining on me with phenomenal speed. Those six-to-ten point words were quickly adding up. I started getting desperate, so I decided on a cheap tactic to throw her off. “Dora,” I asked, “What was your most memorable time during the war?” Dora smiled and the blue eyes behind the bifocals became dreamy. “Probably when I met my husband,” she replied, and she launched into the story of how they met. While she was talking, her scrabble words were getting smaller and smaller and she was only scoring four to ten points a word. I kept nodding and egging her on. I scored a thirty-something pointer and she looked at me with her eyebrows raised. Now I was the sweet one. “Do you want to challenge me?” I asked, laughing like Vincent Price. She looked down at her letters, and then at the board. The only letters left were the ones in front of us. “No,” she replied, “I was trying to remember something.” “Oh?” I goaded, basking in the glow of my conquest. “Having a senior moment?” “No, young lady. I’m finishing the game.” With that she picked up all seven of her letters, cross-connected them to my thirty-pointer and said smugly, “Humph! Scrabble!” I stared back at her, my mouth hanging open. The word she spelled was, ‘Equinox ’. I looked at the score card. Dora had won by 100 points. When I took on her initial invitation, I’d had no idea how proficient she was in Scrabble. Walking back to my office, I thought about how much I enjoyed playing, and even losing, if not for the exercise, for the simple pleasure of her company, and our light-hearted repartee. For the next two weeks I was out on vacation. Before I left, I called and left a message on her answering machine that I wouldn’t see her in the game room for the next two Mondays, but I’d be ready for her when I returned. Though I was absorbed in traveling during those two weeks, I picked up a scrabble dictionary and studied it on the plane, smiling to myself at some of the words I’d plan to place on the board, words Dora didn’t expect I knew. When I returned to work, I had notes tacked to my door, and dozens of emails to catch up on and respond to. Shuffling through them, I saw that one of the notes was from Dora. ‘She probably wants to gloat about that last win,’ I thought, as I placed it aside and jumped onto my computer. The resident chaplain would send out emails when a resident went to the hospital or passed away, so when one with the subject heading with Dora Bernstein’s name popped up, my heart dropped. When I read that she’d died in her sleep, I was immediately overcome with sadness. There were hundreds of seniors at the community. Each time an individual passed away, it was difficult, but it was the business we were in. We were aware and trained that in a retirement community, for many of the residents, this was their last stop. I thought for weeks about the feisty little senior with the oxygen tank and my eyes would get moist. I had to remind myself that she’d had nearly 87 years on this earth and had lived a full and fruitful life. From time to time I would pick up the note, usually on Mondays around three o’clock and re-read it. It was handwritten, and it was obviously from Dora. The handwriting was wobbly, but written in perfect English. She said she’d forgotten that I was on vacation and had come to the game room waiting for me. ‘I had a senior moment,’ she wrote, and then she went on to write that out of all of her scrabble partners, she’d enjoyed beating me the most. I’d smile, wipe my tears and tuck the note away.

Crossing Paths: The Wallet

One of life's true joys is a random act of kindness. I'd rather be on the giving end, allowing God to bless others and simply using me as an instrument, although throughout my life people, both friends and strangers, have blessed me with acts of kindness in the form of words and deeds without a single expectation of reciprocation, except for a heartfelt thank you. In December of last year, I rented a car and before I turned it in, I found a wallet in the glove compartment. It was bright pink and flowery, and obviously not my brother's wallet, with whom I'd shared the car. We looked through it for identification, and guessed with the contents that it belonged to a child or a teenager. Since it was around the holidays, I told him, 'I'm going to mail it to its owner. If we return it to the rental place, she'll never get it back.' It also had gift cards, so for a teen, I knew it was a loss. The only identifying information we could find was an email address (which is actually good for the teen) so I sent her an email letting her know I found her wallet, and if she'd like, I would simply mail it to her school. She didn't know me, so I thought that would be the safest alternative for its return. I wrapped the wallet in pink tissue paper, stuck it in an overnight envelope, and waited to hear from its owner. I check my email daily, so after a couple of weeks, I was surprised that I hadn't received a response. A month passed by, and still no response. I looked through it once more, hoping to find another email or an address, but there was nothing. I knew at this point I could have returned it to the car rental company, but I'd had some losses myself, including a camera, a CD holder full of CDs, two car chargers and a small shopping bag (that had slid under the seat) of brand new cosmetics. With each incident (and mind you, these were all separate and over a period of dozens of years) I'd called, returned to the counter, and my property had either not been turned in, or they hadn't seen it. I think the camera was probably my biggest loss. I'd placed it in the glove compartment, headed to the airport on the shuttle, and then realizing I'd left it, I rode the shuttle back to the car rental company. They were cleaning out the car and the camera was gone. I quizzed each employee who had come into contact with the car, and they all said they hadn't seen it. I checked the counter and the lost and found, and of course, no one had turned it in. This certainly isn't an attack on car rental employees, but they have an advantage. If there is an item they find and wish to keep, they can keep it because there is a clause on our rental agreement that says they are not liable for lost property. Okay, now I'm rambling. Still thinking about my Nikon. Now back to my story. Remember Tom Hanks in the movie Castaway? Where he was marooned on an island after a plane crash? He named the ball Wilson and used a bunch of products from other packages to survive, but there was one package he kept in tact. He was stranded for four years, and after he was saved, he delivered the package. Okay, that was a stretch, but I wanted to return the wallet for the sheer satisfaction of ensuring that its owner got it back, intact. Last week I received an email from its owner. She wrote that she hardly ever checked that particular email address, but she was hoping I still had her wallet. I wrote that I did, sent her my phone number, and she and her mother agreed to meet me at a nearby mall. Two days later and nearly five months after I sent the email we connected, and it was one of the most pleasant encounters I'd ever had with strangers. Her mother, a schoolteacher,was one of the nicest people I've ever met, and her daughter, the owner of the wallet, is an aspiring writer. They brought me a box of See's Candy, my favorite (and how could they have known that?) and we stood out in the parking lot and talked as if we had known each other for years. Our conversation was both friendly, pleasant and delightful. We hugged, and when I left, I had such a great sense of fulfillment. I know it sounds silly, but I guess it doesn't take much to make me happy. Happiness is returning a lost wallet to its rightful owner.

April - May - June Book Signings

Sunday, April 22, 2012
I'll be at the Sisters in Crime Booth #373 at the 17th Annual LA Times Festival of Books on Sunday, April 22th, from 12:00-2:00pm. This premier book fest will be held at the USC campus in Los Angeles on Saturday and Sunday, April 21st and April 22nd. Along with 450 authors, bookstores, there will be celebrity authors and events geared for children. If you and your friends and family plan to attend this phenomenal event, please stop by the booth and say hello! www.latfob.com
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Palm Springs Writers Guild Day of Works
From 2-4 the PSWG will hold their annual Day of Works event at the Rancho Mirage Library in Rancho Mirage. This event is free and open to the public. Winners of their annual short story contest will be announced.
Saturday, May 12, 2012 Pasadena, CA Central Park
Pasadena LitFest - An all day festival open to the public at Pasadena's Central Park, the Pasadena LitFest will feature crafts, vendors and food. I will be signing books from 10am-4pm along with Pamela Samuels Young, Author of Buying Time.


Saturday, June 30th, 2012 10am-6pm Leimert Park Book Fair - I will be signing copies of my books at this premier book festival in the heart of Los Angeles along with the creme de la creme of west coast African American authors. The event will also include celebrity guests, panels, performances, and activities for children.
www.leimertparkbookfair.com

If you subscribe to my blog and follow me on twitter, send me a tweet on the day of any event you attend. I will have something special for you when you arrive at my booth! Robyn Gant

Crossing Paths: The Apology

I recently received an apology that touched my heart. It was prompted by a small, deliberate act that occurred many years ago that placed a strain on a relationship with a dear friend.

When a person apologizes for an act they’ve purposely committed, or words they’ve thrown out to hurt you or discredit your character, how easy is it for you to accept the apology and forgive? Does the forgiveness on your part depend on the delivery and/or the deliverer? And what about the infraction itself? Is an intentional violation against you even forgivable? How about the duration of time between the act and the apology? Does that hold any bearing on your ability to forgive, forget and move on?

In the New Testament of the King James Version of the Bible, the prophet James warns ‘that the size of the tongue is no measure of the power it wields. Just as the tiniest of sparks can ignite a great forest fire, the smallest of words, unwisely spoken, can cause immeasurable harm.’ James 3:5-6.

A co-worker was unfortunately introduced to, and began to heavily abuse drugs. She was a struggling mother of two, and although I was not aware of this at the time, she had begun to borrow money heavily and became stigmatized as a result of not paying people back.

I saw her at the bus stop one day, and stopped to offer her a ride. When she told me where she was headed, I told her that her destination was on the way to where I was headed; to a good friends’ house to drop something off. Instead of doubling back, I’d make a brief stop, I explained, and then we’d be on our way.

We stopped, she got out with me, and I introduced her to my friend. We stayed just
a few minutes, and then I took her where she needed to go. A few weeks went by and I received a call from my friend. She asked if I were busy, and said she needed to talk to me. I listened as she said the woman I’d brought over a few weeks back had come by her house and told her she needed to talk.

She thought it was odd, since she didn’t really know her, but she allowed her to come in. The coworker sat down and began to tell her lies that she’d said that I’d said about her. She told her I had been putting all her ‘business in the street’ at work. Then she said, ‘Since I gave you that information, can I have 20.00?’

I listened over the phone, angry and saddened, feeling hurt and used. The tragedy of the lie was that she’d told her some things that she’d observed from the visit that day with me, and most likely she found herself jealous of her lovely home and stylish character and then she’d passed off the lies as if I’d said them.

My friend didn’t know what to believe. The lies were ugly character assassinations; something one could assume, that she was pretentious and stuck up. But because they came from someone I appeared to know, she actually thought I’d been talking about her, and our friendship became strained for several years.

The co-worker that I’d picked up on the bus stop later on was terminated for an unrelated cause, and after that she temporarily lost her children to the foster care system because of her inability to properly care for them. More of an acquaintance, I lost track of her after I heard this and figured she and her lies were gone from my life.

Now fast forward ten years later.

My friend and I were back on good terms again, and she invited me to a church service at her home church. I was enjoying the service, and the pastor had just finished his sermon, when I received a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and it was my former coworker.

She said softly, “Can I talk to you after the service?” My mind jumped immediately back to the incident ten years before. I looked at my friend sitting next to me and she simply smiled without saying a word.

After the benediction, the woman followed me outside. She said, “Years ago, I told a lie on you to get some money for drugs. After I got my life together, I began to pray that our paths would cross so that I could apologize to you. I think about what I did so many years ago, and it always troubled my heart. I’m so sorry for what I did, and I’m asking your forgiveness.”

I was stunned. I don’t think I’d ever received an apology so heartfelt, and what I knew to be so sincere. I gave her a hug in acknowledgement. “I have peace now,” she said. And she simply walked away.

The amazing timing and location of ‘the apology’ was something I couldn’t make up. My friend had spontaneously invited me that same morning; and she did acknowledge later that she’d seen her several times at the church.

After all, it had been ten years since the ‘infraction.’ Ten years had passed since she’d tarnished my name, and placed a valuable friendship in jeopardy. But I realized that day that an apology is timeless. It can be ten hours, ten days or ten years from the point of violation. But if you feel it is sincere, time can very likely heal the wound, and open up your heart to forgive with a smile.

February Book Signings

I have several book signings coming up for the month of February. If you've read my books, blog or would just like to say hello, please come on over! They are located in the Los Angeles and Inland Empire areas, and each event will be very festive.

I'll be signing copies of my books at Hair by Kim Townsend, Redondo Beach, CA Saturday, February 18, 2012 from 4pm-6pm. Also there will be Pamela Samuels Young, author of Murder on the Downlow, and Cora Smith, author of Predator in the Pews.
Refreshments will be served, and we will have a discussion on writing tips and how to get your book published.

On Saturday, February 25th, I'll be at the Pomona Civic Center in downtown Pomona from 10am -4pm at the Cultural Festival; and from 5pm - 7pm I'll be signing books at the Hourglass Art and Wine Gallery, located on the Southwest corner of Foothill and Haven in Rancho Cucamonga. From the 210 and 10 freeways exit Haven and travel to Foothill. I would love to meet you!

The Airport Run

Crossing Paths: The Airport Run.

I learned an unlikely, valuable lesson while dropping my mother off at the airport.


At three-thirty one morning my alarm went off, and I stumbled blearily through the house, preparing to make an airport run. My mother was headed back to her home in another state, and I was the chosen one of four adult children, selected to get her to the airport safely.

The amusing thing about my mother, and I say this with love, is that she packs, unpacks, and repacks. Now don’t get me wrong; she is not a packrat. She just happens to be a woman who exercises the right to change her mind, over and over, as to what she’s going to take and leave when ending a visit.

This visit was a bit unusual. She came at the request of my only single brother, who decided to marry his fiancé before the end of the year. Usually Mom will stay several weeks and visit with her children and grandchildren. This trip was limited to five days, because she wanted to get back home for Christmas.
Being the elegant lady that she is, she usually brings along several suitcases, dedicated hat boxes, a portable closet and packs a large array dresses with the hats, shoes and purses to match. A fashionista must have unlimited choices, right? But this time, she brought just one outfit for the occasion, a change of casual clothes for a few days and not much else, except for one additional suitcase, and it was empty. Very suspicious, I thought. I watched her closely, to see if she was going to go through my cabinets and retrieve all her dishes and clothes I’d pilfered from her house the last time I was there.

When I started to pack the car, I noticed there were two fully packed suitcases. She’d gone shopping and filled the one suitcase right back up. I don’t even remember when she slipped out, but she did so successfully, and loaded the empty suitcase with ‘supplies’ that she claimed she couldn’t find in her state.
I dragged a suitcase out, and she stopped me. She’d forgotten to pack her house slippers. We opened the suitcase, moved some things around, and I threw my weight onto the canvas as I struggled to zip it back up. “Are you sure they are going to take this?” I asked. “It has to weigh at least 150 pounds.” “Stop being sassy and put it in car,” she warned.

We were about ten miles from my house headed to the airport when she exclaimed, “I forgot my meds!” I immediately changed lanes and exited the freeway. She said, “No Baby, I left some at the house on the counter. But don’t worry. I have the bottles in my suitcase.”

Inwardly I groaned. I took a sip of coffee and jumped back on the freeway. When we arrived, I notified a skycap that I needed a wheelchair. He immediately contacted an escort, and she walked over, and appeared to rush my mother as she dug through her suitcase for her meds. I stood back, irritated at the escort. I thought her as pushy and slightly rude, although she wasn’t saying anything. She continued to stand and wait as Mom dug for her meds. I watched the escort as she watched my mother. I couldn’t read the expression on her face, but it looked as though she was no-nonsense, void of personality. She wheeled her into the terminal, and I followed with the suitcases, dropped them next to the wheelchair, and ran out to park before my car got towed.

Throwing my purse in the trunk, I ran back in so I could escort my mother to the gate. When I found her, I realized I’d left my driver’s license in the car, so I wouldn’t be able to go any farther than the elevator. I knew the seemingly impatient escort would not wait for me to go back, get my license and wait for clearance to go past the screening without a plane ticket, so I said goodbye to my mother at the elevator. I had a slight attitude too, and I blamed the escort. If she hadn’t been so pushy, I thought, I would have remembered to bring my license.
I waited about thirty minutes and called my mom. She was sitting at the gate. I blurted out, “That escort was rude. Did you tip her?” “Yes, I did,” Mother replied. “Why?” I asked. “Didn’t you think she was rude?”

My mother said, with her usual patience, “At first I did. But after you kissed me and said goodbye, she asked were you my daughter. She said, ‘She seems as though she loves you very much.’ I told her that you did. She then apologized for appearing to rush me from the curb, but she explained that it was so cold out there; she just wanted to get me inside where it was nice and warm. She also told me that her mother died last year, and she thought back to her mother when you kissed me. She said she missed her mother so much. We had the most pleasant conversation after she took me through screening.”

Several thoughts flashed through my mind. It was early in the morning and all I could think about was getting back into my warm bed. I also thought about the look the escort had on her face. In retrospect, I believe it was a yearning for the same interaction that my mother and I had that morning as I dragged one suitcase, and then another, opening them on the curb so she could find her meds.

It is amazing what we take for granted: conveniences, life, and the people we love. We believe we are never going to be without food, shelter, money and transportation, and most importantly, the relationships and people we love the most. Though I will most likely never cross paths with ‘the escort’ again, she made me realize how grateful I am for the relationship I have with my mother. And if I’m privileged to take her to the airport again, I promised myself I’ll be both a little more patient and a little less selfish with my thoughts. Pick up the phone and tell someone you love them. Just because.
Merry Christmas!