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| The Face in the MoonThe Face In the Moon I think I’ve figured out where Mr. Hyde lives. He is the shadowy face in the moon and still up to mischief. Now he sends emails. “Don’t even open them. Send them to spam.” That was my advice today to a good friend who complained that another ‘holy’ one was repeatedly demanding that she prove her faith. At the end of each day, I hold the delete button on my keyboard down and drag the cursor over at least fifty forwarded emails, lifting the cursor only occasionally to save a ‘good’ one for later reading. I learned long ago which friends and acquaintances will send ‘good’ forwards that make me smile, share a ‘keeper’ recipe, information useful to me as a writer, or take me on a journey to some awesome place that I would never get to see otherwise. Their emails are reflections of their personalities and the way they live their lives… uplifting and filled with spirit and optimism. When someone actually takes the time to type out a personal message or a bit of conversation, I am reminded of the post cards from my grandmother that could bring me up to date on a week’s events inside a four by six inch square. Such personal messages today are like tiny treasure chests floating in a sea of ‘forwards’. Buried among the unopened deleted messages are multitudes of ‘spiritual’ messages with ultimatums at the end saying that I must prove my Christianity by forwarding to a certain number of people. No one has yet to tell me where in the scriptures it says that in the year 2008, these e-mailer forwarders will become my judge and I must prove myself to them and by email at that! Unless I overlooked an email warning in Revelations, I think it must be a messianic personality who believes the rest of the world must prove its faith to them. Such emails are offensive and I hope you don’t feel guilty or obligated to pass them on because of their inspirational nature. You won’t be eaten by a pride of lions if you don’t. I swear it. I’m amazed at the number of people who think of themselves as thoughtful, considerate, and caring but do not bat an eye before passing along baseless rumors or vicious lies from behind the anonymity of their monitor screens. Most of these rumor mongers would never engage in such activity if they knew they would meet their accused face to face. But it’s okay to blindly spread rumors as long as they’re sitting safely and smugly behind a monitor screen. Like the shadowy man in the moon. Like Mr. Hyde. It hasn’t escaped me that the most outrageous claims are usually from the same people who check up on my Christianity. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around that one. There are several internet sites dedicated to sorting through internet rumors. Snopes.com and UrbanLegends are reliable sites that specialize in researching the origins of internet rumors and reporting elements of truth. There’s so much more I want to say about these irritating ‘forwards’, but this little rant will have to suffice for now. It’s getting late and I have to wade through over fifty emails. Copyright 2008 Patricia Paris Contact: PatriciaParis@gmail.com Patricia Paris is an author/columnist from East Tennessee
Member: Tennessee Mountain Writers, Int'l Women Writers Association, Tennessee Writers Alliance, Chattanooga Writers Guild | | |
| Beeswax At ten thirty this morning, there were six bees in my yard. The first one buzzed past me and began foraging for pollen on the grape hyacinths and within half an hour, there were six of them crawling over every inch of the hyacinths. I took note of the bees with special interest since last year I saw no honey bees or bumble bees. Not one. Several of my gardener friends, puzzled, asked if I had seen any bees and by the middle of summer I had abandoned the lifelong habit of walking cautiously through the grass to avoid stepping on a bee. Mud-dobbers built a mud nest under the eaves twice and each time I knocked it down. Wasps nested in the ‘roof’ of the closed table umbrella, swarming angrily when I opened it. Two of those huge bees that seem to hum and hover motionless in the air for hours as if trying to decide whether to drill holes in your siding or your fencing, finally chose the fence. I filled the holes with sheetrock mud and never saw them again. According to various news sources, honey bees first began disappearing in the fall of 2006 and by the summer of 2007 were disappearing inexplicably at an alarming rate across twenty-four states, leaving the beekeeping industry in peril and threatening the production of numerous crops. In a mystery described as worthy of Agatha Christie, bees apparently left their hives in search of pollen and nectar and simply never returned to their colonies. Researchers assumed the bees died in the fields, perhaps becoming exhausted or simply disoriented and eventually falling victim to the cold. Other theories included pesticides, virus, and disorientation due to cell phone signals. They even gave it a name - colony collapse disorder (CCD). But nobody knew for sure what happened to the bees. So, on this beautiful spring morning I was happy to see six bees crawling all over the hyacinths in my yard. I’ve wondered all day if they made it home. Copyright 2008 Patricia Paris patriciaparis@gmail.com Member: Tennessee Writers Alliance, Int’l Women’s Writing Guild, Tennessee Mountain Writers, Chattanooga Writers Guild | | |
| The First George WThe First George W Regardless of recessions, inflations, interest rates, money markets, or exchange rates, one has only to unfold a U.S. dollar bill to be reminded of George Washington. You might say the first President of the United States has stood by us through good times and bad. The first George W. is reputed to have been an honest man, even though the famed cherry tree story was discovered to be the creation of his biographer Mason Weems. Weems, who was determined that the first President be remembered for his honesty and integrity as much as his extraordinary leadership and courage, wove the simple tale about honesty that even small children could remember. How the first George W. was elected President of the United States differed greatly from today’s elections. I believe he would be perplexed at the convoluted rules and regulations of nominating committees, caucuses, primaries, dangling chads, delegates, super delegates, recounts, miscounts, no counts, and a few ‘no accounts’ thrown in for good measure. Surely he would have difficulty wrapping his mind around the staggering costs. And I can imagine how outraged he would be to discover the correlation between raising campaign money and staying in the race. The election of 1789 had no popular vote. The electoral college chose from a group of candidates and each college member cast two votes, with the candidate who received the most votes becoming President and the runner-up becoming Vice-President. By this simple process, George Washington was unanimously elected first President of the United States, receiving all sixty-nine electoral votes, and John Adams came in second, thus becoming the first Vice-President. And it worked. They got two good ones. Since that time, thousands of lawmakers and politicians must have worked overtime for presidential elections to have evolved from that simple process of 1789 to circus circa 2008. I’ve been following presidential elections fairly closely most of my adult life but lately I’ve been struggling to keep up. Somewhere between Florida with its long running history of botched elections and Michigan, I began to lose track. Floridian pal and author Tracey Henry, a master at blending sarcasm with humor, tells of a grave state of affairs in the Sunshine State. “I've voted in every single election since I moved here in 2000, from President to dog catcher, and I think the only vote that was actually counted was when I mistakenly voted for Buchanan on my butterflaky ballot.” After learning of Tracey’s doomed votes and that Florida’s State Legislature is Republican controlled, a bell went off. Ding. I think I finally have Florida figured out. It’s because there’s something fishy in DENMARK! And I just bet the first George W. would agree. I still haven’t unraveled all the hullabaloo over Michigan. It’s too bad the first George W’s carved wooden teeth turned out to be a myth also. I think (so mad he would be) ‘Spitting Splinters’ would have made a great title for this column. Copyright 2008 Patricia Paris Contact: PatriciaParis@gmail.com Patricia Paris is an author/columnist from East Tennessee
Member: Tennessee Mountain Writers, Int'l Women Writers Association, Tennessee Writers Alliance, Chattanooga Writers Guild | | |
| Georgia's Thirst Pre-Dates Boundary Dispute with TennesseeGeorgia’s Thirst for Land Pre-dates Boundary Dispute with Tennessee "We, the great mass of the people think only of the love we have to our land for...we do love the land where we were brought up. We will never let our hold to this land go...to let it go it will be like throwing away...[our] mother that gave...[us] birth."
(Letter from Aitooweyah, to John Ross, principal chief of the Cherokees.) Now that the State of Georgia has recklessly overdeveloped sprawling megastar Atlanta to a state of dehydration and built the world’s largest Aquarium in a petty effort to detract a bustling tourist trade away from its Tennessee neighbor to the north, Chattanooga, Georgia lawmakers now want to reclaim their dusty original state line in an effort to gain control of the Tennessee River and its resources. The State of Georgia seems to have developed a case of selective memory. They seem to have forgotten that they have over a hundred miles of coastline. Desalination plants could be an option, of course, but would only solve the water issue. Georgia prefers to spend precious time, planning, and funds pursuing their old pastime of land grabbing. Georgia’s thirst for land predates its thirst for water. The Peach State seems to have forgotten that it, too, played a major role in the shameful Trail of Tears. And Georgia lawmakers who want to re-establish its original borders seem to have forgotten that Georgia’s ‘original’ boundary disputes were not with neighboring Tennessee. Georgia changed its ‘original’ boundaries when it took land by force from the Creeks and Cherokees for a mere pittance, and then held seven land lotteries between 1805 and 1832 to distribute the land it had stolen. The Cherokees of northwest Georgia tried to defend themselves and their land by adopting European ways and establishing legislative government at their capital, New Echota. But after gold was discovered in Dahlonega, sparking the gold rush of 1829 and flooding the area with whites, in spite of their efforts to keep their land and ‘fit in’ with white settlers, federal soldiers eventually forced the last of the Georgia Cherokees out of their ancestral homelands. Almost three-fourths of the land in present day Georgia was distributed to white males over eighteen years of age, orphans, and widows through this land lottery system. If Georgia truly wants to return to its original boundaries, its lawmakers need to be talking to the Creek and Cherokee Nation Tribal Councils about returning their lands. In reponse to the Peach State’s recent resolution , Tennessee’s lawmakers have introduced a resolution criticizing Georgia’s attempts to reopen a 190-year boundary dispute between the two states as an “ill-conceived” and “heinous assault on the sovereignty of Tennessee.” Tennessee’s resolution calls Georgia’s effort an “election-year ploy” and a “veiled attempt to commandeer the resources of the Tennessee River for the benefit of water-starved Atlanta, which is either unable or unwilling to control its reckless urban sprawl.” Rep. Odom stated he is taking drought-stricken Georgia’s effort seriously to move the border 1.1 miles north and take parts of Southeast Tennessee including a section of the Tennessee River at Nickajack Lake in Marion County. “What I thought was a joke has turned out to be rather disturbing,” Rep. Odom said. But one of the Georgia lawmakers who helped engineer the recent resolution has warned that Tennessee would be wise to “join with us in resolving the border dispute in a neighborly fashion.” Hmmmmmmmm? His statement seems to carry threatening overtones. I bet they said those exact words to the Creeks and the Cherokees and we know how that turned out! Although the idea that a state line could change in the year 2008 at first seemed about as ludicrous as a state seceding from the union, Georgia’s boundary dispute with Tennessee should not be taken lightly. Nor will it be settled with bottled water and coonskin cap stunts. There’s a lot at stake here. Copyright 2008 Patricia Paris Contact: PatriciaParis@gmail.com Patricia Paris is an author/columnist from East Tennessee
Member: Tennessee Mountain Writers, Int'l Women Writers Association, Tennessee Writers Alliance, Chattanooga Writers Guild | | |
| Some Days You Hit Every Red LightSome Days You Hit Every Red Light Today went so awry that I, normally not a superstitious person, was looking for something or someone to blame by the end of it. While I slept, had someone in a faraway mystical land swirled oolong leaves in a tiny porcelain cup and chanted my name? Or could the recent lunar eclipse have caused such a calamitous, gone wrong kind of day? As usual, my day began with farsightedness but on this day it was the forerunner of calamity. I awoke with a sense of foreboding, of being late before I began. I squinted at the digital clock with dread and was surprised at the blurry cool lime display which read ten minutes before six. I wasn't late after all; I had awakened ten minutes early. As I followed the aroma of coffee to the kitchen , I was grateful that I didn't have to rush and that I had been spared the alarm. I reminded myself once again that I needed to switch the 'nature sounds' alarm clock from the croaking night jungle punctuated with chimpanzee screeches. Surely the rise and fall of a rhythmic ebb tide or the steady drumming of summer rain would be less nerve jangling and allow me to enter gently into each new day rather than levitating straight into them. About an hour later and well into a second cup of coffee, I reached for the remote control to catch the morning news. At that precise moment, a monkey shrieked, followed by an excited macaw, and a jungle deep in the Amazon came to life in a corner of my bedroom. I startled and almost dropped the remote, and was again reminded to switch the alarm to more soothing nature sounds. It was 6 a.m. Today's squint had misread the lime numbers on the clock. Several years ago, my arms seemed to gradually shorten to where I couldn't read the newspaper because I couldn't hold it far enough away. I slowly evolved into a far-sighted person. Since that time, certain ordinary tasks have become chores. Make-up is now applied in Braille. Squinting into a mirror, I dab blindly with creams and lotions and hope none has coated my collar or hair. I brush at my face until twin splotches of peachy color appear in the mirror. I apply mascara where I assume my lashes to be on that particular day. Eye liner can get real tricky. On the ten mile drive to work this morning, I hit every red light. I thought about the swirling oolong leaves while sitting at one of them and feeling the squeal of an old wiper blade in those sensitive spots just behind my ears, the way one 'feels' chalk scraping a chalkboard. It was also the kind of day that would require the cooperation of others to get anything accomplished and, though I was off to a rough start, for the rest of the day the other half would fall even shorter. As an example, after an hour of pacing and waiting for a crucial fax, I phoned the other party, only to be told they couldn't send any faxes to anyone because the ink cartridge had run out. Think about that one for a minute and you'll understand better why I, sleep deprived and so caffeinated that I was hopping around like a Mexican jumping bean, muttered three Hail Marys and poured another cup of coffee. I wondered aloud if she corrected typos on her computer screen with white-out. At noon, I took a break and drove to the bank, opting for the shortest drive-up lane. Twenty minutes later, the other lines had moved on and I was still stuck behind the loud customer with multiple issues. I thought about the recent eclipse and how early Earthlings had cowered in fear when the moon disappeared from the sky. At the end of the rainy, gone wrong work day, I gathered a large bag of paper for recycling and hastened towards my car in a cold, blowing mist that you felt rather than saw. Halfway there, the bag split and bits and pieces of paper quickly spread over at least thirty square feet of wet asphalt. I thought of the oolong leaves again but decided a handful of tea leaves couldn't be that powerful. It must have been the eclipse. Only an event so powerful the moon could disappear from the heavens could have brought about such a day. Sometime later, I wiped the foamy drivel from my mouth and pulled away from the parking lot. As I stopped at the first red light, I sighed and scanned the radio. It was going to take a long time to get home. Copyright 2008 Patricia Paris Contact: PatriciaParis@gmail.com Patricia Paris is an author/columnist from East Tennessee
Member: Tennessee Mountain Writers, Int'l Women Writers Association, Tennessee Writers Alliance, Chattanooga Writers Guild
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