My Mother, Ada Mae Mitchel Strider, A Life Lived for Others...

(NOTE: This is the eulogy I wrote and delivered at the funeral of my mother on 1/31/12)

Emmanuel Baptist Church
Grenada, Mississippi
Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Many people believe, incorrectly, that I departed Grenada many years ago for greener pastures, a career, to climb that elusive ladder to success. Folks are surprised when they discover that simply isn’t true. When my father died, Governor Bill Allain appointed my mother, Ada, as Sheriff of Grenada County. Consider that a moment from my perspective. What 22 year-old boy would choose to live where his mother had the legal status to carry a firearm, wear a badge and put him in jail?

So, I moved to Hong Kong and, eventually, Washington.

Reverend Jesse Strider, you are my first nephew. You came along when I was 5 years-old. True. The Grenada Daily Sentinel Star found it unique and interesting enough for a front page story. Jesse has served our nation in the military, like his grandfather, father and Uncle Mack, as well as answering the call to ministry. Today, he officiates the funeral of his grandmother.

My wife Karen is playing the piano. Jesse’s wife, Kelly, sang that stunning solo. And, we will hear Mack’s wife, Brenda, sing shortly. Obviously, Mack, Jesse and I take full credit. We have been excellent talent scouts for our family.

I’m honored, today, as a friend, fellow Grenadian, fellow Mississippian, cousin, relative, husband, father, nephew, uncle, and brother to Cindy, Mack and Alton and son to Ada to stand before you remembering and celebrating the incredible life of my mother.

Certainly, I speak for my siblings, who are, as we all know, so… old. As I’ve said many times, after more than a decade of raising those 3, mamma and Big Daddy simply sensed the NEED for one more. I love my siblings so very much. And, nothing makes me happier than reminding them of how young I am. In fact:

- Alton got his first AARP card when I was still in diapers

- Mack had 6 new cars and twice as many speeding tickets by the time I was 6

- And Cindy, well, no matter how many birthdays I keep having she remains 11 years older than me. She brought Richard, her husband, home to meet mamma and daddy when I was 7. I hid under a table

I’m blessed beyond words to have you three for siblings. Mamma and Big Daddy knew what they were doing.

It is moments like this one that we seek discernment and search for meaning in the events we experience and lives we live.

We find value in these moments if we will allow it. We discover solace in the past as we attempt to understand the present. We reflect on the life we today celebrate and, hopefully, we will experience a sense of perspective in our own lives.

We want it to be real and honest. Otherwise we are participating in a mere charade. So let us be careful with nostalgia for its own sake.

Nostalgia is not necessarily helpful for discernment because it can distort reality and we remember only what we want to; creatively enhancing the good – rose colored remembering glasses.

I have to be careful because I am the nostalgic sort. Not just the type who goes on Facebook to visit the “Remember when…” pages about my hometown or fraternity days in college. I am one who will lay opened-eyed, in the bed during those witching hours remembering, imagining, a past. I will make it all I want it to be if I’m not watchful of my memory.

Nostalgia provides a needed context because it enables us to feel what we once felt and share those feelings so they are real again, but such a treat cannot come at the expense of a remembrance of the past that is merely partial. It makes us partial, incomplete.

It is rare, very rare, my family and friends, when any one group gets to gather, remember and celebrate a life that is as wholly powerful as this one we are here for today. That power comes in the sheer simplicity of mamma’s motivation and desire for how she lived. And, for this, our nostalgia is well suited.

Albert Einstein said “Only a life lived for others is a life worth while.”

And, in living a life for others, a person creates the opportunity and space and atmosphere for the essence and reality of community to emerge.

Community is simply a unified body of individuals. And, for Believers, community represents those who are unified in spirit and love and the common purpose to serve others.

Mamma’s life was one of creating community--creating places and spaces where we were able to gather in spirit and love and a sense of unity. And, she did this simply by living a life for others.

The value, the essential requirement, like a thirst for water, of community lies in all of our hearts. We need it. And, it is manifested, encouraged and sustained in many ways.

- St. Augustine wrote about a shining city on a hill. A city deemed worthy and good through its citizens; through community

- Dr. King preached and believed in the Beloved Community

- Hillary Clinton reminds us that it takes a village. And, it does indeed take a community to get it right; to make us whole

- Reverend Jim Wallis often writes about the common good. That place where we find the brotherhood and sisterhood of a civil society—community

- And, Dr. Henri Nouwen said this, “Community can make us think of a safe togetherness, shared meals, common goals, and joyful celebrations… community is first of all a quality of the heart. It grows from the spiritual knowledge that we are alive not for ourselves but for one another."

We are alive not for ourselves but for one another.

A life lived for others is a life worth while.

A life lived for others creates community.

Mamma didn’t set out to create spaces where we could build communities. She simply lived a life full of care and love. She had fun. She had a blast. She didn’t research or write about community. She just lived, lived well and lived for others. And, we bask in the outcomes.

Did anyone here ever have a slice of mamma’s coconut cake? One simple bite could make a puppy pull a freight train, right? I’ve been home when every flat surface in every room had a coconut cake sitting on it. And she would deliver each one to friends and loved ones as gifts, or take to Civitan Club bake sales where they were the hot item year after year.

Did anyone here ever play on a softball team with her? Or play against her and her team? She would load her car up with softball players and off they’d roll to tournaments in Greenwood, Batesville, Clarksdale.

She played a mean game of bonco, too, and I see some of those friends here.

On Flag Day and other national holidays she would put on her Civitan vest and spend the wee hours of the morning hanging flags all over the town. Grenada would look like a stealth bomber dropped a payload of red white and blue bunting over it.

There are other lives here today, besides Cindy, Mack, Alton, mine and her grandchildren who likely owe their existence in large part to mamma.

Even in high school. Way back before John Rundle was an iconic name but rather the actual high school principle, mamma connected her best friend and school mate, Aunt Christine, as a pen pal, to her brother, who was racing across Europe with General Patton, freeing and saving millions from the Nazis.

They were married after the war. Uncle Edwin and Aunt Christine had two boys, Michael and Eddie who are here.

Now, to return the favor, Uncle Edwin was close friends to Big Daddy and, and after the War, when mamma and Big Daddy made their intentions known Uncle Edwin met them on the Mitchell family front porch with a shot gun; Browning 12 gauge. But, with a smile, too.

She and Uncle Edwin, together, may have saved their baby brother’s life. That would be Uncle John. On a Christmas morning, when they were kids, those two older siblings took their baby brother’s new wagon and riding it so hard and fast down a hill tore the wheels off. Uncle John never had the opportunity to injure himself. Surely, a whole branch of our family owes mamma and Uncle Edwin much.

I’m reminded, Uncle John, that you, Aunt Aileen, Keith, Melanie and Vicki would come to our home, downtown, whenever the tornado sirens went off. I never understood it because you would drive over, with your family, as the sirens and storm raged; arriving after it was over. Mamma would cook and make coffee and we always had a great time.

Who has been the recipient of one of mamma’s practical jokes? One of her favorite joke genres was to just scare you to high heaven. Growing up I rode Ms. Tribble’s bus to school. And, I am remembered by many as the boy who gave Ms. Tribble a frog on one of her birthdays (all wrapped in a Lickfold Jewelers box). But, the jokester was really mamma. She was using me. I was her pawn. She hid on the porch to watch as Ms. Tribble opened the gift in front of our house and the frog leapt, quick and high. You could hear mamma laughing as Ms. Tribble ran screaming down the street.

Mamma was director of the annual Very Special Arts festival. She would fill up the auditorium with kids from several counties. Somehow every one of them managed to win awards. Alton was often drafted to volunteer as was I.

Mamma ran booths at the county fair and concession stands at basketball games. She oversaw the same booth at every Halloween carnival and built floats each year for the homecoming parades. She collected clothing for the Mississippi Sheriffs’ Boys and Girls Ranch; a time of year when you couldn’t navigate through any floor of our home for the clothes and shoes and gifts soon to be sent to the ranch.

During Grenada Lake Thunder on the Water Festivals while her son, the sheriff, kept the peace and her nephew, Keith, prepared and launched the fireworks, mamma would serve ice cream with the proceeds benefitting charity. The fingerprints of a life lived for others all over the place.

Who spent time with her down on the Gulf? Mamma is the ONLY person on the planet who could spend the lion’s share of a day riding the waves off Pensacola and step out of the surf with perfect, untouched, Margaret Thatcher hair. It was amazing. She orchestrated trips each year of cars with Grenada County license plates rolling into the Florida panhandle where she planned, maintained the calendar, did the cooking, road the waves and had perfect hair.

Last night, during visitation, Freda Harper came with a framed shadow box of badges that belonged to various Sheriff Striders over the years. She said the shadow box had belonged to her husband, Bill, one of mamma’s high school classmates and lifelong friends. Ms. Harper said Bill would tell people that these are all the Striders Ada Mae Mitchell elected to office. He was right.

She ran the Sheriff’s office, too. Day in and day out; night in and night out she was available to the families of this county.

Mamma loved and cared for and served her family, her friends and anyone she encountered who needed help.

She did not suffer selfishness.

She lived Colossians 3 and put on compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, patience, forgiveness and, supremely, love, every day.

She brought hope and joy and celebration to a world that lacks these things unless we embrace and embody a love that serves and honors and celebrates life; living lives for others.

Mamma was special, a one of a kind. We are all blessed. AND, through her acts of simply living life as she saw it--living life for others she created the spaces where we experience community; where we share, in return, with each other.

We are a community; not because we logged onto a computer and went to a site where it says someone wants to be your friend “do you accept” and you click "yes".

No, we're a community because we know each other and love each other, because our parents and grandparents knew each other and we recognize the faces of those long gone in the babies we see today.

We are a community because we remember the Provine Mansion and the Burger Shack. We know when Highway 51 was first widened.

We eat Kiwanis pancakes together.

We laugh at weddings and cry at funerals, together.

We have ‘picked up’ together after tornadoes hit.

We have had catfish and hushpuppies together on our farms.

We grew up on Grenada Lake, skiing and grilling.

We know the families who have children etched on the granite memorial of war dead. And, our fathers and grandfathers served together in Europe, Burma, India, Pusan, Manila… Our sons and daughters, grandsons and granddaughters serve in Afghanistan and Iraq.

And, yes, we have eaten coconut cakes, together.

We have gathered together around the great table of charity providing our share for the children at the Sheriffs ranch or Very Special Arts.

We have smiled as wide as the River itself because of a practical joke that came our way.

We have bought ice cream at the Grenada Lake Festival from a woman with perfect, Margaret Thatcher hair.

We have been protected by a sheriff, taught by a teacher and made safe by an emergency first responder… her children.

And, on Flag Day, there has not been a more red, white and blue town in our fine nation thanks to Ada Mae Mitchell Strider.

We are deeply blessed for all the lives of those like our mother.

We are the result.

We are a community.

And, that's the legacy of Ada Strider; a passion for living life well and living it for others.

I want the grandchildren to stand--Jesse, William, Annette, Ronnie, Beth, Mitch, Hannah, Will and Pete. Look at these grandbabies—from 8 to 41.

Always remember Romans 14:7 “For we don't live for ourselves or die for ourselves.” And never forget your grandmother. Her legacy to you is a life lived for others.

“You will not see me, so you must have faith. I wait for the time when we can soar together again, both aware of each other. Until then, live your life to its fullest and when you need me, just whisper my name in your heart, ...I will be there.” Emily Dickenson

Ada Mae Mitchell Strider… a life lived for others… thank you for our community. Until we meet again…

More Succinct than Ordering a Salad

This is one of those pithy, overly simple thoughts that encompasses so much in so few words.

In fact, this thought basically encapsulates all human history in nine words. I can't be that succinct when ordering a salad.

It's common to react, "Well, there is just more to it than that. Life is more complicated."

And, I think that's true.

But, at the same time, a thought like this can be a powerful reminder that our starting places can be clean of residual orthodoxy and the layers of time. We can deal with life without be haunted by the complexities we assign to things...

And, instead, start with the basics:

"Heal the Past, Live the Present, Dream the Future." Author Unknown

Thank You for Fighting for Me

This video posted on Youtube was recently shared with me by way of email. I came close to deleting. I am glad I didn't. It provides a strong reminder of the support we need to provide to our troops and veterans. They fought for us... they fought for you... I hope you will take the time to view and consider.

Souls Descending

While cleaning out a folder tonight I ran across this poem I wrote October 11, 2005 from my desk in the U.S. Capitol. I was a Senior Advisor to Speaker Pelosi. It was shortly after my first trip on October 3 into the devestation Katrina brought to Mississippi and Louisiana... Just weeks after it hit. I met some amazing people and had much to report. I ended my memo to the Speaker with this poem:

Souls Descending, Hope Appearing

Stinging, sea blue eyes cutting, hurting
Penetrating, silently sinking, falling
Souls descending, down… lower... lower…
Marble exploding, caskets floating
Church doors opening
Salvation missing

Glowing, flickering canvass sand castles
Empty eyes in the moat looking
Souls descending, down… lower… lower…
Wood fraying, steel bending
Hearts breaking open, wide
Paradise collapsing

Surging crystal staining lives
Eyes struggling, looking, needing
Souls descending, down… lower… lower…
Hope appearing, at the bottom
Slowly moving, turning, seeing
Hope rising

I Never Learned How to Moonwalk

We had victory parties after every home football game when I was in high school. Win or lose. Various parents hosted them at their homes each Friday night. Within a couple of hours after the game it seemed like the entire study body would be at the party enjoying the food and drink, the good company and replaying the game in vivid narratives.

I remember one such victory party at the Ligon home at Main and 4th. Someone had pulled back all the chairs leaving a large space where several of the cheerleaders were teaching all the rest of us how to moonwalk while Michael Jackson songs blared from the stereo.

Of course, there are plenty of Michael Jackson moments to remember. He was everywhere during the 80’s – the decade my generation stood on that American cultural and social pedestal known as the teen years. He was at our victory parties, in our cars on the radio, at our birthday parties, on the ski boats during the summers, after school and on Friday and Saturday nights when we cruised from the bowling alley to the Sonic and back again – some weekend nights we’d make the loop through town 40 or 50 times and Jackson was playing on the radio, or a few songs away.

I remember the summer some of the girls traveled several hundred miles to Knoxville to see him live in concert. It was the talk of the entire town. The photos and stories endured the entire summer.

The marching band, of which I was certainly one of its star musicians, included “Beat It”, “Billie Jean” and other Jackson songs in its musical line up. We were pretty cool hitting those throbbing, driving beats. Of course, we thought when Rick James sang “she loved the boys in the band” in “Super Freak” he meant she loved the boys in the marching band and those of us in the tuba line were certain she specifically “loved” us… but I digress.

Michael Jackson was a cultural behemoth. He set trends that continue today. His music defined pop and his dance moves changed dance. Jackson’s dance and music styles remain evident in today’s stars that I often think of him when watching Timberlake, Miley or the Jonas Brothers.

Quincy Jones, in an interview I once heard, shared that he once took Jackson to see Frank Sinatra perform. When Sinatra came onto the stage, Jackson remarked to Jones “he walks like a king.” I’m not sure why I’ve always remembered that comment. Maybe I liked the connection of two different generations; the link between seemingly two very different entertainers, but at the core it was all about command, confidence and poise. Sinatra had it. So did Michael Jackson.

In reality, I was one of those guys more than often in a pickup out in the country, away from Main Street, listening to Hank Jr. sing “A Country Boy Can Survive.” But, if I’m honest along with my friends, we must admit a Jackson tape or two was in our tape case, too. He touched us all.

I always thought he was probably a defining figure in tearing down race barriers simply because he captured a whole generation of Americans, white and black, regardless of region. We were lighting bic lighters and grooving to “Thriller” down in Mississippi just like they were on the Strip in Philly, the Village in NYC or the Presidio in San Francisco.

It’s funny now that Jackson has died we all want to remember Michael the conqueror, the King of Pop. We’ve spent a lot of time over the past few years tabloid gawking and talking about his awkward and seemingly dysfunctional older life. But, death has a way of reminding us of the whole reality of a person especially when that person was just 50 when he died - and if that person was Michael Jackson.

Maybe it’s a reminder for us all to take a look at the person in the mirror. And with that I’ll leave you with my Michael Jackson favorite. O, I never did learn how to moonwalk. Is it too late?

My favorite Jackson song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SGeZYednWtI&feature=related

*Photo: Looking south along Main Street, from the town square, in Grenada, Mississippi. My hometown.

A New President, MLK, Mother Parks, a Congressman, My Boys and Me

Bedtime Stories

Last night's bedtime story for my two little boys was about Mother Rosa Parks. A few nights ago we read and talked about Dr. King.

On Monday morning, MLK Day, I will do what I have been doing for over 15 years... it is the only day of the year my wife would allow such a tradition.

Awaking early, I fire up the CD player, turn up the volume, hit play and Dr. King's "I have a dream" speech reverberates off the walls of our house until everyone is awake and downstairs listening to the speech and me talk about attending my native Mississippi county's NAACP Freedom Banquets with my father and the waning remnants of the Jim Crow from my youthful 1970's.

My boys have come to embody, literally personify, the meaning of change and hope for me. They listen to stories of separate but not equal old movie houses, health clinic waiting rooms and restrooms as though I came from another planet. They cannot fathom their Turtle Park playground cut off from their African American little friends.

"Daddy, how would I play with Ethan?" one asked me this year about his sweet friend of color.

"That is what I am telling you," I say, "You have the blessing of having any friend, knowing any person, experiencing your whole city (nation) and skin color just reminds us of God's rainbow and promise that the world will never be destroyed again by floods of hate." (Yes, I know, any theologians reading this. I take great liberty with the rainbow, but my boys are 6 and 4, respectively. They get it.)

Color Blind

The change I lived through in the 1970's and 80's is the reality my children live in, today. That makes change incarnate for me. It makes me deeply thankful. It makes me smile.

It also let's me tell my boys how they will see injustice, we have not attained perfection, and hurting people in their lives. And they can stand on the shoulders of Mother Parks, Dr. King and thousands of others who put their hope in action and bring their change to their generation, for their world.

This approaching MLK Day brings with it the inauguration of a new President of our good nation. Barack Obama will soon be sworn in. My boys know more about him and his family than one would think... where they are from, their enjoyment of basketball, where the Obama children go to school and on and on.

The whole concept that Barack Obama could not be President simply because he is black does not even resonate in their little brains.

Can you imagine an America where such concepts do not exist? Dr. King and Mother Parks did.

A new President will soon forever expand our composite of Presidents.

Little children all over the nation will develop into adults who were led into the future by an African American, or, without diminishing ethnic heritage, should I just say, who were led by just another American like Washington, Lincoln, JFK or Clinton.

Color blind!

Grace Notes

Senator Clinton often refers to 'grace notes' that are experienced through life. She is talking about those moments that touch the soul, when something special and soul shattering is experienced... something that calls us to understanding, feeling and action.

I look forward to seeing my boys experience the 'grace notes' of their lives. I will share with them this week some of mine.

My Grace Note

Several years ago I was running a congressional race down south. It was horrible. We were out of money, there was little cooperation internally and externally. Our opposition was drowning us with spending on television ads.

It was so bad I decided to get out... not just get out of that particular campaign but of the profession. I was ready to hang it up and find another career.

My first son was an infant, it was a Friday and I was already planning on flying to DC for the weekend to be with my wife and new baby.

I just would not return.

I was numb by the time I arrived at the airport in Atlanta. Getting through security did not help. As I walked to my gate, from behind, I realized a celebrity must be nearby because people were gathering around someone. I could see flashes from cameras.

Approaching, I heard, "Son, this is your Congressman."

And then, "Sir, would you mind taking a photo with my daughter?"

The celebrity: United States Congressman John Lewis.

The audience: White Southerners (I know Southern voices), mostly my age (I know slightly graying hair). Many with children.

So here I was watching the sons and daughters of the South... those of a generation who remember the remnants of Jim Crow and who had family and friends who grew up prior to the Civil Rights Movement. I know the things they have heard in their communities; the things they were told, by some, as children.

But here they were introducing their children to John Lewis, having photos taken and getting autographs.

And then one white gentleman stuck out his hand to Congressman Lewis and said, "Thank you, sir, for what you did for my family."

John Lewis crossed a bridge and was beaten with baseball bats for doing so. John Lewis was imprisoned for saying we should all be treated equally, because, well, we are equal. John Lewis was spat upon and reviled.

Me? Well I had a bad week in a campaign office. And I was ready to quit. No baseball bats, no spitting, no imprisonment. Nope, I just had a frustrating week.

I returned to DC, saw my wife and new baby and returned to that campaign and gave it my best. We did not win the race. We came close. But, I have helped many people of good will win campaigns since. I did not quit.

Now that, folks, is a 'grace note.'

Blessed

We are blessed for the churches and clergy who led the Civil Rights Movement.

We are blessed for those ladies who first gathered at Alabama State to take action in support of Mother Parks. The first thing they did: join hands in prayer.

We are blessed Reverend King shared his dream with us.

We are blessed Congressman John Lewis never quit.

We are blessed the children of today will see just another American become President on Tuesday.

My march to the future involves the celebration of an African American President. My boys march into their lives involves an inaugural children's concert, interests in the White House pet and a new American President. Change!

What are your 'grace notes?'

AMEN.

Burns’ 8th Annual Holiday Recipe… What will it be this year?

Well, another year is coming to an end. And what a year it has been in the lives of our families, communities and nation.

Once again, for the 8th season, I am sharing a family recipe with my friends… and all of those who have mattered to me over the past year.

This year, I’ve been thinking over, since Thanksgiving, the old dog-eared index cards with the hand writings of recipes from my mom, aunts, grandmothers and others. For some reason it’s been a challenge to pick the dish I want to share as 2008 comes to a close.

In past years I’ve shared family dishes such as corn chowder, coconut cake, potato candy and hoe cakes.

This year: Mississippi Mud Pie

This is a rich, thick pie… much like the muddy banks of the River itself. But, the pie taste mighty fine.

It’s so good it will make a puppy pull a freight train…
a bird dog climb a sweet gum tree…
a beagle wallow down 3 acres of kudzu.

Yeah, it’s good.

Many of my family recipes are so old no one really knows who first started them. Many go back through my family to the early days of our Democracy. That doesn’t seem true of the Mississippi Mud Pie.

In fact, it’s largely believed this pie was created by home cooks after World War II as millions of GI’s returned home from war. Schooling and new homes were possible through the GI Bill.

The great American middle class stood tall.

American automakers prospered, suburbs sprouted up everywhere and our nation’s vision for the future was limitless. And because of its simple ingredients easily found at the supermarket and no need for any special cooking tools the Mississippi Mud Pie was there, in kitchens and on dinner tables across the South.

So, make this pie, enjoy its richness and let’s lift up our nation in the new-year, creating a place where our vision for the future is limitless in potential.

I wish you are a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. I thank you for your friendship and support. God is good!

Making a Mississippi Mud Pie:

Use a chocolate or vanilla wafer crust, or graham cracker works, to make this pie.

Ingredients:

1/4 lb. butter (1 stick)
2 (1 oz. each) squares unsweetened chocolate
3 eggs
3 tablespoons white corn syrup
1 1/3 cups sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
9 inch graham cracker, chocolate or vanilla wafer pie shell

Preparation:

In a saucepan, heat butter and chocolate, stir often, until melted and well blended. Beat eggs; stir in the corn syrup, sugar and vanilla. Add the chocolate mixture to egg and sugar mixture, stirring well. Preheat oven to 350°. Pour filling into pie shell. Bake 35 to 40 minutes, or until top is slightly crunchy and filling is set (toothpick test).

Serve warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream or dollop of whipped cream.

Enjoy!!

Mamma Hattie and Annie Bell... Southern Belles and Patron Saints to Guide Us

(Writer's Note: This is a journal entry I made in late 2001. I ran across it over the weekend and thought it worth sharing. I hope you enjoy.)

“And they themselves were a part of the confluence. Their own joint act of faith had brought them here at the very moment and matched its occurrence, and proceeded as it proceeded.” from The Optimist’s Daughter, by Eudora Welty

My Grandmamma was Hattie Ross Mitchell. My nanny was an African American by the name of Annie Bell, Annie Bell O’Bannon. They were both of the same generation, born in the first decade of the 1900’s. They were both from the back roads of Mississippi. Both of them were Southern Belles.

Annie Bell was barely removed from the institution of slavery; yet the unpainted shack of the cotton field where she was born and raised, the dependence on white landowners, and a life never existing above the poverty line sustained a different form of slavery. She was in her sixties before she ever had the right to vote. And she lived in a place that flew a flag that had flown over the people who enslaved her ancestors, the Stars and Bars. A flag that stood for a heritage that was hard, disenfranchising and racist.

Mamma Hattie grew up in the home of a sharecropper. She also spent her life under the poverty line, and under the same flag that represented Annie Bell. She was white so her family voted and could get jobs that paid marginally better than black jobs. She grew up picking cotton by hand and washing clothes in a tub in the yard. Mamma Hattie, by thousands of standards, had a hard life. There was no moonlight and magnolias in her heritage. Mamma Hattie’s front porch wasn’t for Mint Julep sipping. Her heritage was not glossed over in myth; it was one of hard work and meager means.

I was present during the confluence of their lives. Maybe I was the reason for this confluence. Annie Bell came on as my nanny in 1969 when I was three years old. We lived on Third Street in Grenada, Mississippi. My father was a cotton planter and the county Sheriff. I called him what everyone else did, Big Daddy. My mamma ran my father’s office. Mamma Hattie lived next door to our home, in a house also owned by Big Daddy.

So there I was growing up with a nanny and a Grandmamma at my convenience. My heritage comes from their existence.

Annie Bell and Mamma Hattie read their Bibles feverishly. Their faith led them to pray whenever storm clouds came near.

Their literal view of the Bible gave me a simple lineage dating back to Adam.

I shelled peas at their feet during thick August afternoons from the front porch. Annie Bell taught me how to clean a fish with a spoon and Mamma Hattie coached me on how to play baseball. She always told me that my grandfather would have been a professional baseball player had the opportunity existed out in Beat 4, Grenada County during the 20’s and 30’s. I have no reason to doubt her to this day.

For purposes of correction when I did wrong, like sneaking off to the train tracks two blocks to the east to watch the massive Illinois Central trains rumble past, Mamma Hattie used the basic switch cut from a bush. Annie Bell used a hairbrush on the up-turned palm of my hand. She believed a young boy’s kidneys could be injured by traditional spanking methods. Annie Bell would hold my hand still and pop it a time or two while the rest of my body danced and twirled, trying to gain freedom.

In the mornings, by the time I was usually roused from sleep, Mamma Hattie and my mamma would be out in the yard watering flowers and looking at blossoms in the cool of the early hours. Annie Bell and Big Daddy would be in the kitchen. Annie Bell still cooking breakfast, Big Daddy eating and both of them having a shared morning Bible-study. If the Bible said the moon turned to blood, well, for Annie Bell, it did! Big Daddy would laugh and tease Annie Bell. And Annie Bell: “Now Sheriff Strider, that’s just what the Holy Bible says.” They always prayed before Big Daddy headed off to fight crime and look at his cotton.

Mamma Hattie came from a huge family. The Ross family dominated our corner of Grenada County in population where our family’s farm was located. I got to know Uncle JD and Aunt Sarah Lee, and Aunt Ruby and Uncle Tom James and countless others by often traveling out to the country. Mamma Hattie never drove a car, but mamma would take her, I would ride in the back seat. Mamma Hattie wore a big, floppy straw hat and plastic shades affixed over her regular eyeglasses.

Annie Bell lived on the other side of town. Sometimes I would ride with my mom real early in the mornings to pick her up. The houses would turn from large, painted show places to dingy unpainted shacks. Annie Bell was always on the front porch of her shack, waiting. The lady who lived next door to her was Magnolia. I couldn’t understand Magnolia to save my life. I would look at her as only a little boy could, with turned head and big eyes. I thought she spoke a foreign language. I would mimic her sometimes with a quick retort of sounds and noises.

Annie Bell would throw her head back and laugh so loud some dog off on the side walk would bark.

Whenever I cut myself, or a bee stung me or I fell from a tree I would run to the nearest one of the two for help, Mamma Hattie or Annie Bell. Either would do because their open arms were full of love and care. Their soft words were full of comfort and ease. They were saints and I had all their patronage. Once, I fell through the front door window because I was playing where I had been told not to. I was so startled and upset that Annie Bell hugged me and said all would be fine; she didn’t even reach for the hairbrush. And she called my mom and told her it was an accident. Mamma Hattie loved to clip the end off Aloe Vera plants whenever I burned myself. She would coat the burn and soothe my cries.

Mamma Hattie died in 1984 when I was a senior in High School. She had had a stroke several months before and even though Annie Bell had been retired for a few years she came everyday and sat in a bedroom of our home we had fixed up for Mamma Hattie... she couldn’t get out of the bed; she couldn’t talk. Annie Bell would read her the Bible and sit calmly and tell her stories. She’d hold Mamma Hattie’s hand and pray.

They were friends in their twilight. The confluence of their lives created a bond and a familiarity that is rarely encountered. Their experiences were much more common than different. They prayed, they planted the same vegetables, they both knew that if you killed a snake with your garden ho make sure you don’t leave it belly-up or it would come back to life at sundown; that’s what they told me. Nothing really made them different from one another. I can’t imagine anyone trying to tell me one should matter more because of skin color.

Annie Bell looked like the singer Leontyne Price and Mamma Hattie look like Miss Clara on Andy Griffith. Mamma Hattie made the best biscuits and gravy, while Annie Bell made the best-fried chicken. Annie Bell was partial to the soap opera called Dark Shadows and Mamma Hattie watched General Hospital.

They both knew God and God knew each one of them, by name.

Being present during the confluence of their lives forever convinced me that skin color doesn’t matter. A great hoax has been played on way too many people; a great hoax that says skin pigment defines people. It doesn’t. I have Mamma Hattie and Annie Bell to prove any such argument blatantly without merit.

When debates arise over symbols and heritage and identification I am infuriated that the great hoax seems so alive. We can’t have one nation when we embrace symbols that reflect a tense and asymmetrical heritage. It’s a false heritage we seek to elevate when our symbols divide rather than include. Our energy and spirits are washed down into the gutter when we fight to uphold a heritage that seeks to alienate rather than embrace. Some of our heritage belongs in museums. We have plenty of nobility and decency to embrace and stand on, stand on together without the insecurities and ignorance of racism.

Annie Bell passed away in 2001. I was driving down Connecticut Avenue in Washington, DC when I got the news over my cell phone. I was headed home from my job on Capitol Hill. Annie Bell never drove down Connecticut Avenue or visited Capitol Hill.

I’ve worked with many great leaders, elected Members of Congress and the Senate being a few. Anne Bell never met a Congressman or Senator.

But when Annie Bell died, I knew that I would never again meet a person as great.

When Annie Bell died I knew that the confluence of two great saints had once again occurred. Mamma Hattie and Annie Bell were once again somewhere on a front porch shelling peas, and talking about the flowers, and the windows that needed washing and maybe doing a little grocery shopping later in the day. When Annie Bell died I cried a river of tears because the last of my two saints had crossed over Jordan to their place in Glory.

Everyone needs an Annie Bell and a Mamma Hattie. Everyone needs a heritage that is real, and true and personal; for me, it was the confluence of Southern Belles – my patron Saints.

Happy Veterans Day

Click Here to View:
REMEMBER ME Tribute to Our Troops and Veterans (Youtube)

Two years ago 15 year-old Lizzie Palmer from Columbus, Ohio, felt compelled to do her part to remind people of our troops and veterans… and the sacrifices they make.

To date, more than 25 million people have viewed "Remember Me" on YouTube with its haunting music and moving images of Americans at war.

Regardless of where one stands on the war, Lizzie Palmer has reminded us to always remember and to never forget our troops and veterans.

Happy Veterans Day.

Happy Birthday, Miss Eudora

The Eudora Welty Foundation has put together a bang up year of concerts, parties, showings and tributes memorializing and remembering Miss Welty on the centenial year of her birth (1909.)

From her photography on display in New York City to Mary Chapin Carpenter and others in concert in Jackson to "Mississippi Reads" taking place in classrooms everywhere there is something for all lovers and would-be lovers of Miss Welty.

Events officially kicked off on November 6 with a literary symposium in NYC featuring Richard Ford, Robert MacNeil, Reynolds Price and Suzanne Marrs.

But, the fun will continue throughout 2009. Visit http://www.eudorawelty.org/ for a full rundown of events.

One of my earlier postings, here at Pea Ridge Confidential, will put you in the mood: Miss Welty Speaks ... YOU MUST HEAR MISS WELTY TELLING HER OWN STORIES! If you do, you may try to attend everything on the centenial celebration calendar.

Talking Pea Ridge at Princeton

I recently gave a lecture at Princeton University (the Woodrow Wilson School.)

The lecture was on the current state of affairs concerning faith, values and politics in the 2008 election cycle. But, I found several minutes at the beginning to share with the students and faculty of Princeton some stories about Pea Ridge and Grenada, Co.

I even talked about shelling purple hull black-eyed peas on the front porch with Grandma Essie and Mamma Hattie (Rogers Bell would be mighty proud.)

I hope you enjoy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sRAQxP5jMAA&feature=channel

Spiritus Ferminti... Nothing Like Taking a Stand and Sticking with It!

I woke up on this fine Election Day thinking about Judge "Soggy" Sweat and his famous comments on the legal status of whiskey in Mississippi back in the 1950's.

I've heard many a politician in Mississippi (usually with a few shots of whiskey in them) take to the floor of a deer camp or the bed of a trailer at a fish fry and dramatically recite Judge Soggy's stand on whiskey to great laughter and applause.

Why was I thinking about it this morning... on this Election Day... I'm not sure... I suppose a moral in the Judge's remarks is certainly about perspective.

This is a good day for perspective.

I hope you enjoy.

Judge Noah S. “Soggy” Sweat, Jr., in the Mississippi Legislature, 1952 (circa.) His views on spiritus ferminti:

You have asked me how I feel about whiskey; well, Brother, here's how I stand.If by whiskey you mean the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean that evil drink that
topples Christian men and women from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into the bottomless pits of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness, and hopelessness, then, my friend, I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.

However, if by whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer, the stimulating sip that puts a little spring in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget life's great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean that drink the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges in this
nation, then my friend, I am absolutely, unequivocally in favor of it.

This is my position, and as always, I refuse to be compromised on matters of principle.

Halloween...

We had a successful All Hallow's Eve and day here in DC (2008.) My boys, Will and Pete, brought in quite the load... so much candy (alot of it chocolate, not just hard candies)... it will be around for several weeks... probably lasting right up to Thanksgiving... which will be just in time for the next load of trans-fats.

Will and Pete were both dressed as Batman... its what they wanted. They and 4 of their friends roamed together with us parents walking along, nearby. We are all "helicopter" parents... meaning we always closely hover -- watching, protecting, intertmingling in their lives.

Our neighborhood, in Northwest DC, is full of children and the streets this year were packed with kiddies running from door to door collecting their treats... many of the parents dress up, too. Families sit outside on their lawns with drinks and snacks... waving and talking to those going door to door... frankly, a lot like Election Day at my home on Third Street in Grenada... that was always our biggest and busiest "Holiday," in the Strider household.

But, Halloween... Grenada...



Halloweens were something else in Grenada... does anyone remember Shanebergs (it was a store in the Grady Green Shopping Center.) When I was a pre-schooler and maybe into elementary school that's where mamma would take me for getting a costume... Ms. Bonnie Carroll (Ramie's grandma and the wife of Grady Carroll who was a deputy sheriff) worked there... near the back if I remember right.

It seems like I chose to be a skeleton more often than not.

Trick or Treating in downtown Grenada (in the 70's) would start, for me, down Kershaw Street to Donna Tartt's home (Donna is now one of our nation's finest novelist with "The Secret History" and "Little Friend" under her hat and another book on the way) and then to Cas Heath's... The Heath home -- a huge, brooding Victorian structure -- had 3 generations of Cas' living in it... Cas I, Cas II and Cas III (my age)... Cas I had been the proprietor of Heath Brothers Fine Clothing on the square (later Hankins and Penn) and Cas II was with the Grenada Banking System. Little Cas (my age) is now a doctor. They'd always have kool-aid on the front porch... I often spilled mine and cried.

We'd work our way up to Main Street... the Spains and Lillys (where the Dattels later lived), Ms. Angevine and the Hardys... then back down 3rd stopping at the Gulledges (my first grade teacher) and the Haltoms... once we'd worked that area my mom would drive me out to the Jones Road area to join my cousins (Vicki, Melanie and Keith Mitchell). This neighborhood was loaded with kids and we would work the area diligently -- it was like a job, a good job.

There were no hovering, "helicopter" parents back then. They'd stay in the house, drinking coffee and visiting -- they didn't even sit out on the lawns and watch the passersby -- we were left to figure things out on our own... I wonder if its fear for security that has us hovering today... or just changing demographics and how we do things, how we see raising kids that's different?

I learned a lot roaming Grenada on those nights... and I had a lot of fun.

*That's a photo of Will and Pete I snapped this past Friday night (Oct. 31, 2008) outside our home in DC... somewhere in my mom's photo collection is a picture of me on the Heath front porch crying because I spilled my kool-aid.

“Comets Make Me Vomit” and Other Things I Learned in Little League (1970’s Grenada, MS Style) That My Sons Don't Learn in Today’s DC Soccer League

Little League Baseball in Grenada, MS, 1970’s:

Baseball ruled in little league sports back in Grenada of the 1970’s. Once a year we all showed up at the high school stadium for the “Punt, Pass and Kick” competition but in little league it was baseball.

Coach Wayne Carson ran the little league program for years and years. We sold Drix as the annual fundraiser for the little league… Drix was some kind of cleaning detergent and every household in Grenada would have several bottles due to the salesmanship of the town’s first graders.

The season always kicked off with a hotdog supper at the ball field. I believe each hot dog was a dime. The bleachers would be full of hot dog eating kids with ketchup stained shirts and mouths.
I was on the Cubs and we were sponsored by Piggly Wiggly… it was right there on the back of our black with white sleeved t-shirts.

This wasn’t T-ball. We had pitchers, played a full 7 innings with no maximum run rules. So, the score might end up being 32 – 28 and none of us first graders ever really hit the ball… four balls and a walk… over and over and over.

Our coaches were a few years older… junior high guys. And I will not name any coaches in order to protect any who may be innocent of what I’m about to say. These guys were out for blood. They wanted to win. They’d throw score books in the dugout, fight with the umpire and encourage us to lean into the ball… as in lean in and get hit and take a base!

I always wanted to be a coach after that.

Our parents and siblings would all attend. We played mainly on the baseball field between the high school football field and Jones Road. Today, the massive Grenada High School Band Hall sits where this legendary field of dreams once belonged.

In reality, I didn’t care much for playing. It was so bad that my parents had to promise me a hamburger and fries after each game to make me participate. After every game we’d head over to a restaurant called Rudolph’s just down from the Monte Cristo on highway 51.

But in the rear view mirror these games were the stuff of legend. We’d play teams like the Comets. Stephen Cox was their star pitcher… it’s easy to remember because he was so tall, even then.

We’d sit in the dugout chanting “Comets make me vomit.” We’d hustle onto the field and with each batter chant “nanananananananana swing!!!” And this would go on for 7 innings while each player walked.

Our parents would yell and cheer. Dean Morgan’s dad, Jerry, would always lean on the fence near where we would warm up in the batter’s box. He’d smile and offer advice… “keep your eye on the ball… swing level… don’t listen to the hind catcher.” It was important to not listen to the hind catcher because he’d be telling each batter how terrible there were.

We practiced every Saturday morning. We kept score, maintained the win-loss record and had season champions. We competed.

Little League Soccer, Washington, DC, 2008:

This past Saturday my first grader played in his third soccer game of his first season of league play. He plays on the Cougars from Murch School. They were playing the Power Rangers… school unknown (to me, anyway.)

He has a wonderful coach who is always very happy. It’s a cheerful sort of endeavor.

They play an hour, no one really keeps score and there is no accounting of wins and losses.

I’m inclined to scream “hit somebody” at various stressful moments of the game. I do know hitting is discouraged in soccer, but it just comes out. When I scream the other parents will look at me. The coach will look at me.

In fact, it’s been shared with me that yelling and cheering at little league soccer is largely discouraged. The young co-ed team is focused on developing their motor skills and concentration skills… this is the logic, I think.

I’d hate to see Jerry Morgan or Ray Carroll told they shouldn’t get loud during a game.

There are snacks after each game… parents take turns and its usually a juice box, some fruit and some kind of organic cracker or cookie. No hamburgers and fries from Rudolph’s.

I’m often reminded of Gaylord’s “wall of mediocrity” in the movie “Meet the Fockers” when I’m at soccer games… it just seems so sterile.

My son, though, has a blast. And it’s not just because he’s the best player on the team… one of the best in the league based on my observations.

He loves playing… we have not had to bribe him with a hamburger. His best friend on the team is Ava. There were no Ava’s on the Cubs… but Ava is a mighty fine athlete and contributes more than most.

I’d just like to see some score keeping and win – loss columns… some coaches out to win… some parents getting down right serious… some players rallying with chants on the sidelines…

Hell, I’d settle for a good Drix fundraising campaign and a 10 cent hotdog.

But here’s the truth… my boys have great opportunities in sports… and, all joking aside, I’m sure allowing them to focus on their skills and concentration is a very good thing… I’m even sure the coach is onto something by being so happy…

But I really like yelling “just hit someone” every once in a while… yes, I know its soccer.

And I wish my sons could have experienced my little league…

(Note: That's Will and Ava and my younger son, Pete, in the photo)

130 Things You May Not Know about Mississippi... BUT SHOULD

I ran across this site earlier today while trying to find the blogging of the ubiquitous Marshall Ramsey... I love Marshall, but I'm glad I ended up at this site... 130 fascinating facts about Mississippi... Here are the first five to whet the whistle... go to the site to see them all: http://www.visitmississippi.org/secrets/facts_1.asp

130 MISSISSIPPI FACTS

"Mississippi has always been a bewitched and tragic ground, yet it's also a land of heroism and nobility; a land which has honored those of us of all our races who possess the courage and the imagination of the resources given us on this haunted terrain. I love Mississippi, and I hope the best of it will endure." Willie Morris Interview 1986

Did you know...

1. The event which led to the creation of the Teddy Bear occurred near Onward, in 1902, when President Theodore Roosevelt, acting upon the suggestion of some friends, visited the state on a hunt for wild game. A bear was located by a member of the hunting party for the President. The bear was exhausted and possibly lame, some claim it was a mere cub. In any case, Roosevelt refused to shoot the helpless bear because he found it unsporting. News of the President's refusal to shoot the bear spread far and wide. Soon after, Morris Michtom, a New York merchant, made toy history when he created a stuffed toy bear and labeled it "Teddy's Bear. " Mr. Michtom placed the bear in the window of his candy store to draw attention. His success was so great that it led to the formation of the Ideal Toy Corporation in 1903. The Teddy Bear continues to be a favorite toy of children everywhere.

2. The Blues is a music form that began in the cotton fields of the Mississippi Delta, and is considered the only music original to the United States. The University of Mississippi Blues Archive in Oxford, contains the world's largest collection of Blues music.

3. The world's first round trip transoceanic flight was performed in 1928 by H. T. Merrill, from Iuka. The flight to England was made in a plane loaded with ping pong balls.

4. Vardaman is the Sweet Potato Capital of the world. The Sweet Potato Festival is held each November to celebrate this most delectable root.

5. William Faulkner, one of the literary giants of the twentieth century, was born in New Albany. His accomplishments include winning the Nobel Prize for Literature, two Pulitzer Prizes and the National Book Award. He is considered to be the greatest writer of fiction during the first half of the 20th century. His novels include The Reivers, The Sound and The Fury, Light In August, and Absalom, Absalom. His home, Rowan Oak, in Oxford, is open to the public. At Rowan Oak, visitors may view Faulkner's room where an outline for A Fable has been scribbled on the wall by the author's own hand...

Now for the remaining 125 facts: http://www.visitmississippi.org/secrets/facts_1.asp