Battle stations

dragonfly swarm

Angry mosquitoes whizz past my head like a sniper’s bullets. Squadrons strafe exposed and tasty flesh with military precision. A sting! Slap! Bright red droplets of blood… I’ve been hit! Send in reinforcements.

The Trifextra challenge this weekend is: 33 words (exactly) that include among them at least one example of onomatopoeia

*Photo info: This image is of a dragonfly swarm at Big Lagoon State Park near Pensacola. While mosquitoes here on the Gulf Coast may feel like they are as big as dragonflies, they are indeed, much smaller.

The content of their character

F. W. Woolworth store front
While my fam was in Greensboro, NC for our daughter’s graduation, we visited the  F.W. Woolworth’s lunch counter downtown at the corner of Elm and February One streets where we could order a complete turkey dinner for 65¢ or a slice of apple pie for 15¢.

The store closed for business in 1993, but the significance of that particular diner was that on Feb. 1, 1960, four, 17-year-old college freshmen from North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University began the first peaceful, sit-in protest against segregation, a movement that eventually swept the nation.

Franklin McCain, Ezell Blair, Joseph McNeil and David Richmond sat at the counter, marked for “Whites Only” and tried to order lunch. Refused access, they returned to the store again the next day and were again denied service.

street sign elm and FebruarySoon other students from other colleges joined them. Working in shifts, they continued their protest until the end of their school year. To keep the movement going over the summer, students from a local black high school joined the sit-in until late July, when the store manager finally agreed to serve black customers.

Today, that F.W. Woolworth store is home to the International Civil Rights Center and Museum.

As we toured the facility, we were reminded of the people who were the front line soldiers in the war against segregation and oppression. So many of them children. So many of them died, or were victims of violence and death threats.

In 1960, Ruby Bridges, a six-year-old New Orleans first-grader, was one of the first black children to attend an all-white elementary school. U.S Marshalls escorted her to class because of death threats against her and her family. She was SIX.

Emmitt Till, a 14-year-old Chicago teen visiting his grandmother in Mississippi during the summer of 1955, was brutally murdered for allegedly talking to a white woman. His injuries from being beaten, blinded, shot, hung and drown, were so heinous, he was unrecognizable. When his mother was advised to have a closed-casket service, she refused. Instead, she said she wanted the world to see how vicious his death was.

Down one hallway of the museum, there was a wall of mug shots, more than 1,200 random photos of people arrested for protesting against segregation – white, black, men, women, young, old – all charged with various crimes because they believed that “all men were created equal.”

Walking through the center, with my children, was a very emotional experience. I was horrified, embarrassed, shamed, guilt-ridden, and moved to tears.

I thought of the mother’s of these early activists. I thought of the mixture of numbing fear, crushing grief, and overwhelming pride they must have felt. I could not bear losing one of my children through that sort of senseless violence. I don’t know how these mothers survived their heartbreak.

I’m not a perfect parent, but I have tried to raise my children without prejudice. I’ve tried to instill in them the belief that we are all one world, one people, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or sexual orientation.

I have great hope and expectations for their generation. That through them, we can finally get this right. That the only time they will hear about violations of civil rights is while taking a tour at a historic museum.

Submitted as part of Shell’s “Pour Your Heart Out” at Things I Can’t Say.

This week’s Studio30 Plus prompt is “Mom,” and/or “Sprinkler.”

Old downtown

The fam is visiting our daughter this weekend in advance of her graduation next week. The College Kid will receive her master’s degree on Monday, and we couldn’t be more proud.

Saturday we met up for a brunch of chicken and waffles (sorry, no pix, we ate a little too fast), then took a walk around downtown checking out all the vintage, and antique stores.

You can click on any image to see a larger photo, or the series as a slideshow.

(Photos shot with a Nikon D60, using an 18-55mm, 55-200mm, 20mm f/2.8 wide-angle, 50mm f/1.8 prime lens, Nikon CoolPix S205 and/or iPhone4)

For more photos, please visit my Flickr photostream.

Unknown Mami

Submitted to Unknown Mami’s Sundays in My City

Heartburn

seagulls on the beach

I hate seagulls.

They are little more than flying rats. Scavengers, pestilence carriers, all around the most annoying vermin on earth. Hate. Them.

Living near the Gulf, there is also very little I can do to avoid them. They congregate by the hundreds in parking lots to feast on discarded bags of fast food, they vandalize the hood and windshield of my car, and they swarm me on the beach like a bad Hitchcock movie.

To make matters worse, tourists seem enamored of them. It’s as if they are some magical, mythical creature which will bestow three wishes upon them for tossing a few stale Cheez-Its in the air for them to snag.

Ever been overrun by a flock of hungry flying rats, whilst hearing the squeals of delighted children? Brings out the nasty in you, believe me.

There’s an urban legend that says if you feed seagulls Alka-Seltzer tablets, when they dive for fish, filling their gullet with water, the effervescence will bubble up, popping them like a birthday piñata. It’s an ugly mental image, but one I have fantasized about on numerous occasions.

Don’t judge! I prefer Tums.

♦No seagulls were harmed during the making of this post.

*From the Vault of IMSO: originally published July 22, 2010. Edited and updated.

Musical Echoes

This weekend I attended a Native American music festival, taking in the beauty and majesty of the culture…. as well as enjoying great food.

Throughout the day exceptionally talented flutists performed, some bringing a dozen or more different instruments on stage during their session. The songs were moving and achingly beautiful.

Each performer would also offer stories about their music, either telling folktales about the first flutes, or about what the songs were saying. A few of the performers also sang in their native language… it was amazing.

Seems that I can’t find enough superlatives to describe the event, but suffice to say I stayed the whole day.

And the dancers, in full regalia… I was literally on the edge of my chair watching.

One of the dancers explained that their regalia was like a family photo album. With different pieces handed down through generations or given as gifts from friends. He said that the dances also told a story.

The Hoop Dance, performed by two different dancers, using anywhere from one to 24 hoops, showed the connection between every one and every thing. We all play an integral part in this world, he said, and we have to work together to conquer hate.

Wearing a long skirt, adorned with 365 sliver cones, the Jingle Dancer performed a healing dance. Her movements adding a soft chiming sound to the music.

Traditional men and women’s dance were also performed, both somber and exciting to watch.

If you ever have a chance to attend such a festival, go! The dancers and musicians love sharing their talents and culture, and you will be richer for it.

You can click on any image to see a larger photo, or the series as a slideshow.

(Photos shot with a Nikon D60, using an 18-55mm, 55-200mm, 20mm f/2.8 wide-angle, 50mm f/1.8 prime lens, Nikon CoolPix S205 and/or iPhone4)

For more photos, please visit my Flickr photostream.

Unknown Mami

Submitted to Unknown Mami’s Sundays in My City

Oakland: forgotten cemetery

Before heading out for my weekly photo hike, I put out a question to my online friends, asking them where I should go… beach, woods, cemetery or backroads. The vote, overwhelmingly, was cemetery.

My friend Kath, suggested the venue first, saying a cemetery would be a good place to photograph, in honor of a short story I’m writing with fellow blogger Lance, he of “My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog.”

(If you’re interested in the escapades of our heroines, Pauley and Vivian/Millicent, check out “Pauley” in the header nav bar.)

One of my favorite cemeteries to visit is St. Michael’s in Pensacola. It’s located near downtown and is steeped in regional history. After doing a little Google-recon, I found an old graveyard in Panama City to visit – Oakland Cemetery.

Where St. Michael’s is well-maintained and manicured, Oakland is…. sad. So many of the grave stones were toppled and broken. Ledger stones worn smooth over time. Sand and weeds obscuring any legible names or dates.

Many of the stones marked graves of Civil War soldiers, Union infantrymen from as far away as Michigan. One section of the cemetery, spanning almost the entire width of the park, two burial sites deep, was all children. Perhaps the devastating result of an epidemic.

Where St. Michael’s is garden-like, peaceful and serene. Oakland left me sorrowful and restless. Heartbroken that these graves had seemingly been forgotten.

You can click on any image to see a larger photo, or the series as a slideshow.

(Photos shot with a Nikon D60, using an 18-55mm, 55-200mm, 20mm f/2.8 wide-angle, 50mm f/1.8 prime lens, Nikon CoolPix S205 and/or iPhone4)

For more photos, please visit my Flickr photostream.

Unknown Mami

Submitted to Unknown Mami’s Sundays in My City