Fast Cars, Loud Music

I have a confession to make.

I love driving fast, listening to pop music (all of it — rap, too), and dancing — all at the same time.

And I can dance while sitting in my car. Believe it.

In fact, the ol’ Beamer almost hit 90 on Monday while jamming to Bruno Mars’ “24K Magic”.

Now I know what you’re thinking:

“She is too damn old to be doing shit like this.”

And I’m answering:

“Ah, hell naw. If I get too old for this shit, go ahead and shoot me.”

People dry up and die on the inside when they don’t challenge the norms…when they don’t honor their guts. 

And my mom taught me an early age to push that envelope.

When I was in grammar school, the Mountain Hill School PTA held a Labor Day barbecue every year in the pine thicket across the road from the school.

Politicians frequently visited during election years, and in 1962, Marvin Griffin was invited.

Griffin was a veteran Georgia politician, having served as Governor from 1955 to 1959. He left office under a cloud of corruption but was trying to make a comeback.

He was known as an arch-segregationist and promised to close the state’s public school system if federal authorities tried to enforce desegregation.

His opponent, the younger Carl Sanders, hailed from Augusta and entered Georgia politics in 1954 at the age of 29.

Sanders ran on a progressive campaign platform, vowing to take Georgia into a new era of reformed government.

My parents were supporters of Carl Sanders and were probably in the minority among their fellow rural voters.

At the 1962 Labor Day barbecue, I watched my mother take her place in the serving line, proudly sporting a “Carl Sanders for Governor” button.

When Marvin Griffin was directly across from her, his eyes focused on what she was wearing.

“Carl Sanders for Governor,” he said, with a bit of a sneer in his voice.

“Yes sir,” said my mother, flashing her signature smile. “Hope you enjoy your meal,” as she plopped a spoonful of stew on his plate — so hard that he almost dropped it.

He didn’t say a word back to her.

Sanders won and the racist lost.

I learned that we can defeat hate and ignorance.

And we do it with unapologetic  singing and dancing — even though others think we should be silent and still.

Remember that.



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I Don’t Trust You

“I don’t trust you.”

That statement means death to a relationship — any kind of relationship.

And, unfortunately, there are a lot of dead relationships now…

…which is why trust building is so important if we are going to repair the deep divisions in our country.

And the efforts are not coming from the top down. So it is up to us to start from the ground up.

The concept began in Richmond, Va., over two decades ago and has spread nationwide. Not only is it about bridging the divide between races but between cultures and socio-economic classes.

And never forget the divide within ethnic groups’ perceptions about race.

My neighboring county — Troup — has had incredible success with the program and hundreds of citizens have gone through the training. Recognition and acknowledgement of Austin Callaway’s lynching in 1940 grew out of the effort.

And now citizens in my home county, Harris, are rolling up their sleeves and getting to work.

Our first project is to get as much support as possible from individuals, the business community, educational institutions, and elected officials.

And we need all we can get. If you read this and want to know more, comment on this post and leave your contact info or email me.

Our next project is a tribute to a Harris County lynching victim, Mr. Henry (Peg) Gilbert, who was kidnapped from his southern Troup County farm, near the Harris County line, and murdered:

It all began in the early evening of May 4, 1947, in the Jones Crossroads community. 

An African-America man named Gus Davidson ran over Olin Sands’ calf and left the scene. Sands was white.

He gave chase and found Davidson at an African-American church near the Harris/Troup County line.

There was an altercation — Davidson shot and killed Sands.

What followed was a night of terror for the African-American community as an angry mob of local men looked for Davidson.

And one innocent man and his family were caught up in the frenzy in a way that changed their lives forever.

Mr. Henry (Peg) Gilbert – a very successful farmer and landowner in the community – was wrongfully accused of hiding the fugitive. He was kidnapped from his home, taken to the Harris County jail, beaten, and murdered.

In other words, he was lynched.

The Harris County Chief of Police William H. Buchanan initially claimed it was self-defense. He later recanted that statement and said a group of white men took him from the jail and killed him.

Of course, there was no conviction. There was no justice.  

                                         We know we cannot change these events.

But we can recognize the crime and honor the victim and his family. We can acknowledge the travesty and vow to eradicate the seeds of hate and racial discrimination.

ONE Harris County’s first countywide project is to have a commemoration service next spring (May 2018) and dedicate an Equal Justice Initiative marker in Mr. Gilbert’s memory.

We also want to raise enough money to purchase gravestone markers for Mr. Gilbert and his wife, Mae Henry. They are buried in the church cemetery where the events unfolded.

Of the four Gilbert daughters, — Recie Gilbert Moss  —  is still living. She is in her 90’s:

“After going through so much years ago, with so much hate, now to see people show love and actually care is warming my heart.  I didn’t think I would ever see the day when my father’s name would be cleared and he would be honored.” Recie Gilbert Moss.

Trust doesn’t happen overnight. It takes work.

But together, we can do what needs to be done – what should be done.

Join us. Please.

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I’ve Been Bad — Very Bad

I’ve been bad — very bad.

I haven’t posted on my blog since I wrote this  seven months ago.

There are no reasons — only excuses. So I’ll spare you.


The blog post was about a ceremony for Austin Callaway — a young African-American man who was lynched in Troup County, Ga., in 1940. The occasion which honored him was held at Warren Temple United Methodist Church in LaGrange. It was uplifting, inspiring and unifying.

We were into the first 30 days of a new administration and I sure needed some lifting up.

And now, here we are — many of us feeling more despondent than ever about the level of hate and prejudice in our country. So I’m going to take up where I left off in January.

But I am not naive. And I know I can’t do anything about the following:

  • Steve Bannon and Steve Bannon look-alikes:
    • They are here, they’ve always been here, and, unfortunately, their sorry asses aren’t going anywhere.
  • The angry, violent men and women in the Charlottesville video footage:
    • Because they worship the likes of Steve Bannon.
  • The folks who outwardly AND inwardly hate those of different races, genders, religions, and social strata.
    • Because they worship the likes of Steve Bannon.

And as we all know, folks are free to worship whomever they choose.

But I am determined and I can do the following:

  • I will never waver from this message that there is nothing superior about white supremacy. It is an ignorant, hate-based movement that is the antithesis to what is touted as true Christianity.
  • I will also find a way to put words into action…

…which is something I’m going to tell you about in my next post.

I’m going to talk about trust-building — a critical component to all relationships — whether in personal, business, or community settings — and how you can get involved.

So if you believe everyone deserves a chance to sit at the table, you might find the next installment interesting.

Until then, beware of the Steve Bannons.



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An Apology to Austin — A Commitment to Justice.


Hundreds of us raised our voices and clapped our hands in honor of Austin Callaway — lynched in Troup County, Ga., almost 77 years ago, when he was between 16 and 18 years old.

We gathered in the historical Warren Temple United Methodist Church in LaGrange. Pastor Vincent Dominique welcomed us with warm words and eloquent prayer.

I had been waiting for over a month to attend this occasion and wrote about it last week. The sanctuary was packed, as was the church annex, where the event was live streamed.

LaGrange Mayor Jim Thornton described the passive acceptance of injustice by elected officials seven decades ago and chastised their complacency. He emphasized that in order to heal today, we must admit to the misdeeds of the past.

We heard LaGrange Police Chief Lou Dekmar acknowledge the heinous murder and apologize for then law enforcement’s negligent contribution to the crime…something no other municipality in the South has ever done. 

Judge Jeannette Little decried the justice system that miserably failed this young man and promised not to let that callous disregard for the law ever happen under her watch.

We felt remorse and shame when LaGrange College President Dan McAlexander spared no words in calling out the “good people” of the community who looked on, silently accepting and ignoring the murder.

And when City Councilman Willie T. Edmondson delivered his emotional account of the African-American community’s struggle for equality, its pain and heartache, and the overwhelming optimism that we might be on the cusp of healing, the tears flowed.

Troup County’s NAACP President Ernest Ward eloquently summarized what happened, what we’ve accomplished, and what the community is capable of becoming — together.

And, finally, we listened to Mrs. Deborah Tatum’s personal message from the Callaway family both in attendance and long gone. We heard their history. We felt their pain. And we lifted them up.

We were a diverse audience — different races, political affiliations, professions, gender, economics, and cultures. But that mattered not.

We were unified by one driving force: the quest for equal justice for all — no matter what.

We felt the same comradeship. We felt the same courage. We felt the same optimism. And in the midst of it all, we felt the same grief for Austin Callaway and his family.

There is no doubt this was a historical event. In fact, “The New York Times” ran a front page story. Local and state media filled the balcony. It made the news on CNN.

But the feeling that pervaded that sanctuary was the truly monumental part of the ceremony — not the national media attention.

I left that beautiful church and drove back to Jones Crossroads filled with hope — the first I’ve felt since November. And I know there were many others who experienced the same emotion.

For I truly believe that no executive orders, no hate-filled rhetoric, and no policies aimed at disenfranchising and intimidating us will ever defeat the collective power of a determined citizenry — and that was the collective power I felt Thursday evening.

We the people are stronger than any tyrant. We’ve stood up to and challenged them before. We have rolled up our sleeves and put our fists in the air and proclaimed, “You will not silence us.”

We have marched for rights, fought for equality, and bled for justice.

And you know what? We will do it again.




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Insuring Justice Today Demands Recognizing Injustices in the Past.

Austin Callaway, an 18-year-old African-American male, allegedly assaulted a white woman on September 7, 1940, in Troup County, Ga. — almost 77 years ago. He was arrested and put in the city jail.

That night, a mob of angry, white men allegedly took him from police custody, drove him to the Liberty Hill area, shot him and left him to die – which he did.

Austin was just one of many – very many. Some statistics estimate 5,000 blacks were lynched from the 1800’s to 1955.

But those are just the ones we know about. 

Ignorant hate fueled those atrocities — cowardly fear enabled them to continue.

And there has been little or no public acknowledgement by elected officials, law enforcement, or private citizens for the unjust murder of thousands of Americans. 

It is true that we may not be directly responsible.

It is true we may not have tightened the noose, kicked the stool away, applauded the victims’ agony, mutilated their bodies, burned their homes or turned a blind eye to the carnage.

But it happened.

Austin Callaway was murdered…along with thousands and thousands of others.

But maybe there is hope in the shadow of this dark, dark past.

On Jan. 26, Lagrange, Ga., city officials and local NAACP representatives will acknowledge the crime at a public event.

This is truly historical. Author Karen Branan told me her research indicates LaGrange is only the second municipality in the country to offer an official apology for a lynching. The only stat I could uncover was a U.S. Senate apology in 2005.

The ceremony will be held in the Warren Temple United Methodist Church at 6 p.m.

Since I stopped working for the newspaper, I revel in the fact I don’t have to commute all over West Central Georgia during the evening hours. And I stay far way from doing so.

But since there is no way we can insure justice today if we do not recognize our injustices in the past, I’m heading to LaGrange Thursday evening.

I cannot change what politicians say or what they do.

I cannot change the fact that money and power have hijacked our collective conscience.

I cannot deny the despair I feel.

But I certainly can pay homage to Austin Callaway this Thursday.


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“Raise the Glasses, Look Back, and Smile”

(I wrote this eight years ago when I worked for Grimes Publications. So to be accurate, add that number to the ones I mention. In addition, Dad’s batteries ran out Memorial Day, 2016, I parted ways with the paper, went back to graduate school and started a new career teaching at Columbus State University (My life has never been static). But almost 10 years later, the message and my resolve have not changed one bit.  Hope you enjoy).


Amazing how the word changes with time.

Remember when you couldn’t wait for them to roll around.

“I’m almost 13…can’t wait until I’m 16…finally –18…ah-h-h, sweet 21.”


And then it changes.

One day you’re 21, and before you know it, your youngest kid is going to New Orleans to celebrate the milestone.

And that was almost five years ago. Next month, my son will be 26.


But my Dad is the one who really can’t believe the calendar…nor can we.

Last weekend he celebrated his 87th, and he is far from old. In fact, he sets the standard very high for all of us. He’s like that battery bunny…he just keeps going and going.

“You got one coming up yourself in a week, don’t you?” he asked as he looked across the supper table at me Saturday night. “How old will you be?”

“I’ll be 58,” I answered slowly…my voice sounding like fingernails on a blackboard.

“Never thought I’d have chillun’ that old,” he replied. “Seems like yesterday I was a chap myself.”

“Where were you born?” asked my sister-in-law.

“Down there in that white house next to the church. Mother always said the icicles were a foot long that morning. Uncle Marvin and Aunt Eunice delivered me. They lived on this corner where your house is, Pam. He practiced medicine here before they moved to LaGrange.”

Dad talked about the changes…the things and people he missed…the years he had spent here at Jones Crossroads…stories I never tire of hearing.

During the first decades of the 20th century, Harris County was extremely rural and remote. Automobiles, of which there were very few, did not make the scene until the early 20’s. The only paved road was U.S. 27, and the main mode of transportation was the mule-drawn wagon or horse and buggy.

“People didn’t go to town back then. There were little country stores everywhere that sold the staples people used – mainly coffee, sugar, overalls, and work shoes.

“Folks raised hogs for meat, grew all their vegetables, and canned or dried enough produce to carry them through until the next growing season.

“In fact, y’alls great grandfather, Uncle Rob, had a community preserving plant at one time – I guess you could call it a co-op – where the folks in the Hopewell and surrounding communities could bring their produce to be canned.

“But the biggest difference in the Harris County then and the Harris County today is what our claim to fame was.

“During the 20’s and 30’s, we were famous, or should I say infamous, for being the best place around to buy corn liquor – white lightning.”

We raised our champagne glasses in a toast, saluting the fact we were together and that our kids appeared to be doing well.

After everyone left, I continued to think about the changes in my life…about the number of years that have passed since I moved back to Harris County – ‘twill be 30 this fall.


I sat down and opened the photo album I started for my Dad a few months ago. I added the prints I had made for his birthday – photos of Hal and me when we were wee ones,  a picture of our family in Boston in 1958 when my Dad was named “Master Farmer of the Year”, my brother and I posing on the seawall at Panama City when we were tweens.

The joys and sorrows started flooding back…the memories of my youth, the dreams I had, the nightmares that happened, and the blessings my children have always been to me.

I started to feel that familiar wave of tearful loneliness.

“No,” I said aloud. “Don’t look at the scrapbook any longer.”

I closed the cover and stood up.

Memories are just that – memories. You can’t go back.

When ghosts emerge from old photos, it’s time to put them away.

I felt the tears subside.

Yep…I’m a year older and I’ll never be 21 again.

But at least I’m alive.

And I hope to toast my silver-haired chillun’ when I’m 87, tease them unmercifully…

…raise my glass, look back and smile.







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January Promise



I see a January promise from a winter sun,

Cold memories fade where the light has begun

To softly hint at visions of spring,

Tempting the senses and trying to bring…


…the future to focus while the past remains

A silent tribute to the strength that tames

My vivid memories of every winter sun,

And a January promise I’ve just begun.


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