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
Showing posts with label Mississippi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mississippi. Show all posts
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
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 le
aving 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:
I remember one such victory party at the Ligon home at Main and 4th. Someone had pulled back all the chairs le
aving 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:
*Photo: Looking south along Main Street, from the town square, in Grenada, Mississippi. My hometown.
Monday, November 10, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
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:
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.
Monday, November 3, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
“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:
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)
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, a
nyway.)
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)
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Translating Big Daddy... Rules for Life
There seem to be two facts I continue to learn over and over as I go through life. One is that my Southern home and way of life is pretty unique. The second is that out of all the nuances and ways of seeing things we’re really all alike, no matter where we’re from. It’s like when the sun finally burns off a thick Delta fog and it becomes evident that the dog with you in the fishing boat looks like the dog on the shoreline doing all the barking.
Grenada, MS sits on the hills overlooking the great Delta. My folks, one can say, have put down roots there. Both sides of my family have called Grenada home for more 150 years. You could surmise that we know our neighbors. We’ve pretty much been farming and running for office the whole time. We’re from the Pea Ridge community, live on Strider Road and do our shopping at Bloodworth’s General Store (our cousins). The people of Pea Ridge work hard, play hard and pray hard. Families with names like Ingram, Ross, Winter, Mitchell, Burt, Rounsaville, Thomason, Mormon, Bloodworth and Strider have been there forever. Their farms and home places are as much a part of them as their next of kin.
I am one of the community’s prodigal sons having lived, for a few years, abroad and now for nearly a decade here in Washington, DC. I was a Baptist youth minister in Hong Kong in the mid-90’s. I would have fish-n-chips at Harry Ramsden’s restaurant on Sunday’s with the Cameron’s and giant Chinese family dinners on Tuesday night’s with the Tan’s. On Saturday mornings I’d join some of my Pakistani contemporaries at their flat in the Wan Chai neighborhood for food and fun. We’d sit on the floor and eat curries and other dishes with our hands. The meals would be so hot I’d break out in a sweat. It was like someone had taped a water hose to the top of my head and turned it on.
They’d talk about the game of cricket and Pakistani players who were hot or cold just like my friends and me sitting in a rib shack down in Starkville, MS, drinking sweet tea and talking SEC football. I didn’t know cricket, they didn’t know SEC football but we knew the value of a good game. We knew the difference between work horses and show horses on the battlefield of sports.
Today, I live and work in Washington. I’m raising, along with my wife, Karen, two nearly perfect little boys – my little old aunts and other relatives back home pray every night I’ll get those boys home to Mississippi where they can be raised right. Sometimes I can see their point. But I love Washington and am glad to be here. The fact, though, is that Mississippi is home and Truman Capote once remarked that Southerners go home sooner or later, even if it’s in a box. That is indeed true.
There is one constant that stands out, one continuous thread of continuity and perspective that helps bring connectivity and meaning to all that I do – my father and the examples he provided and the lessons he taught. This old cotton farmer and politician, God rest his soul, had as strong an impact on people as anyone I’ve ever met. Possibly the strongest impact was on me.
He was known as Big Daddy by nearly everyone in Mississippi. He stood at 6'7", weighed in at over 330 pounds and wore a suit, cowboy hat and cowboy boots 7 days a week. Jesse A. “Big Daddy” Strider was Sheriff of Grenada County for 24 years. My uncle has since been sheriff and now my oldest brother is sheriff. When my father died in the late 1980’s the Governor appointed my mom to finish the last months of his 5th term. I'm pretty sure that's when I decided to move out of Grenada County. By no means did I desire to be in a county where my mom had the legal authority to carry a side arm and arrest me.
We, and it is a family affair, have to get elected every four years. With my brother currently in the Sheriff's office we're still getting elected – he’s up this year and looking pretty good. I spent my entire life since birth going door to door asking for votes. By the time I was a teenager I knew everyone in Grenada. I knew who was kin and who had marriage plans. Heck, I knew those getting divorced and usually why. That’s what happens when you sit each morning at the breakfast table of the county Sheriff. You know things.
Mostly, I learned respect for folks. I learned about listening to people and taking them seriously. Big Daddy took people seriously. No one failed to meet the importance test in his book. Everyone was valid. Everyone mattered. Everyone had intrinsic value. And he expected no less from the family he raised, the deputies he employed and the county and state he helped lead.
David Hampton, a current editor at the Clarion Ledger, Mississippi’s statewide daily, came out of Ole Miss journalism school in the 70’s and got his start at the daily newspaper in my hometown. He said this, last year in a column, about Big Daddy, “I worked in Grenada as a cub reporter and was given some lessons in Mississippi politics by Sheriff Strider. While he looked every bit the stereotypical Southern sheriff, he was one of the most progressive, open-minded and smart politicians I have ever known.
When I think about Big Daddy’s greatness I realize that is a word he would have never honestly applied to himself. He was, though, very good at bringing out and recognizing the greatness in others, be it the cashier at the little grocery at Gore Springs, the guys who cut the grass along the highway, the waitresses at the Hill Top Restaurant, the people serving a little time in his jail or the retired farming couple at Hardy he saw their greatness, their ability to love, and smile and give to others. And he celebrated that greatness with laughs, and hugs and prayers on front porches and praising the homemade ice cream he never turned down.
Big Daddy taught me a lot. I realize sometimes, at strange moments, how universal his lessons were. I’ve come to recognize this amazing progressive streak that he played out in his politics and everyday life that impacted so many people. And he knew what he was doing. He held a Mississippi county together in the post- civil rights movement. But he also moved it forward. It wasn’t about keeping the old lines drawn as a way to maintain peace, it was about getting the new integrated schools up and running, getting everyone registered to vote, bringing everyone together at the Chamber of Commerce, running the Klan out of the county.
It was also about joining in all community celebrations such as the annual NAACP Freedom Banquet. I always went with him to that banquet as I grew up. I didn’t know at the time that we were breaking new ground by being there – doesn’t that seem ridiculous in 2007? I just knew I looked forward to the end of the evening when we all stood, joined hands and sang “We Shall Overcome.” I have 3 versions of that song today on my Ipod. My love for that song and what it means to my homeland has everything to do with that county Sheriff taking me to the county Freedom banquets.
Big Daddy lived out and taught a progressive brand of politics that was about doing and not talking. It was about simply taking the right reality and putting it into action. And you know what? When I worked for Nancy Pelosi, I saw my father’s politics in her politics all the time. I certainly saw it in Jim Clyburn’s. And when Senator Clinton says that the best rule of politics is following the Golden Rule then I hear Big Daddy all over again. A San Francisco liberal, a South Carolina African American, a New York Senator with mid-west sensibilities and a Mississippi Sheriff born in the 1920’s all getting elected in their corners of the nation, speaking out from their perspectives but advocating the same hope and vision and progressive principles about our nation and world.
Now that’s a thread of continuity and commonality our nation needs to reconnect too. When partisanship takes the place of progress and ideology becomes an obstacle instead of table to sit around we’ve lost our way. Our nation needs hope and vision and know-how. We need doers, not talkers. We need to stand on that common ground, there’s room for everyone, where Californians, New Yorkers, South Carolinians and Mississippians can all agree and then agree to find solutions where we don’t agree.
We also need good politics. That’s how we choose our leaders and set our course. We need good politics where people engage, and not leave it up to others. We need Politics that are tough and fair, strong and caring, competitive and contemplative, about winning and coming together. I campaigned all the time with Big Daddy. I learned mainly by watching but he also had some favorite sayings that are worth sharing, but they must be translated or explained for full impact. He loved a good political race, he played hardball, and homeruns he hit were always fair.
So, here it is, translating Big Daddy, rules for life and the campaign trail:
“A pick up truck beats a Cadillac every day of the week out here in real America.”
TRANSLATION: Don't get fancy. Don't get fancy with your words, with your plan or with your attitude. Folks are looking for one of them to lead.
“Every tub has got to sit on its own bottom.”
TRANSLATION: In the final analysis the candidate has to carry the day. The candidate is who the voters want to hear from. Only the candidate can ultimately speak for the candidate.
“If you're driving down the highway and see a car coming toward you in your lane then you're going to change lanes.”
TRANSLATION: Don't get in the way of your friends. Stay out of other people's races. Stay in your lane and don't bring undue criticism and opposition by being nosy or getting involved where you shouldn't.
“If you come up on an old yella mangy dog and that dog is barking the word 'God' then let him bark."
TRANSLATION: Don't challenge, denigrate or dismiss the faith of anyone. A person's faith represents the core, the essence of who they are. It’s one of their most personal choices. You tear that person down if you tear down their faith. Hell, join them. It can probably do you some good.
“Be careful what you say about someone, you're probably talking to their cousin.”
TRANSLATION: You're probably talking to their cousin.
“In politics if you take a swing at someone you better be prepared to take one right back.”
TRANSLATION: I actually learned this one from House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. I share it with candidates and young political operatives all the time as I travel the country. It's a great way to remind yourself to be prepared because it’s true and it helps you think through an action. It helps you think down the road to where your decisions are taking you. I also know that Big Daddy was very aware of this principle too.
“Preach it three times. Before you do it, when you’re doing it and after you do it.”
TRANSLATION: It's not just enough to believe it or even do it. People must know where you stand on an issue. They must know your actions. Just doing something without getting the news out is a waste of good time. I run across people running for office all the time who have done good things but no one knows. They’re even indignant that others don’t know of their good work. Well, they lose no matter how much time they waste being indignant. Tell your story and tell it often.
“No one ever had to apologize for something they did not say!”
TRANSLATION: Don’t talk if you don’t have too. If it doesn’t help you, remain quite. If you’re unsure if it helps you keep your mouth shut. You must know for certain what you’re saying and why. Don’t take chances saying something you likely can’t fix.
"The person with the khaki pants, sweaty shirt and straw hat, driving the old farm truck is probably on the local Bank Board. The slick guy with the pin stripped suit, silk tie, tasseled shoes and new car probably charged his clothes and is, more than likely, a couple of payments behind on his car.”
TRANSLATION: Big Daddy was never impressed with those who put on airs. He had a lot of things to say about it. Being flashy was artificial to him. He wasn’t against spending money and living good but he was against anyone who seemed to take pleasure in using material items to show off or feel superior to others. We all know that flashiness is a waste of time in politics.
"Take the blame. Be responsible."
TRANSLATION: Don’t pass the buck. Never, NEVER pass the buck. Stand up and take it when things go bad.
"Spread the credit"
TRANSLATION: And when things go good, let people know who all was involved. Share the wealth and it will be returned to you over and over again.
“The Golden Rule is the best rule to follow in politics.”
TRANSLATION: I recently heard Senator Clinton say this. It stopped me in my tracks. Treat others as you would like to be treated – that’s the rule, isn’t it? Just imagine if that rule was applied prior to every action, statement and decision in a political campaign. Big Daddy preached to golden rule all the time. He lived it.
“The world would rather see a sermon than hear one.”
TRANSLATION: Now this is about doing instead of talking. This is from Congressman Jim Clyburn who relates a beautiful story about being in college and deciding, against his father’s dreams, he was not going into the ministry. When we took the long drive home and told his preacher father there was a long pause then his father said, “Well, son, the world would rather see a sermon than hear one.” That’s powerful. St. Francis of Assisi said preach often, sometimes use words. Our political system would be much stronger with more action and less talking. Big Daddy was all about doing and not talking.
“Don’t kick a person when they’re down.”
TRANSLATION: When people are at their lowest, no matter what they did, no matter how bad, it is not the time to pile on. Show them attention, love and support. Let them know they matter. This was Big Daddy’s philosophy not just in politics but for how the inmates were to be treated at his jail. Not your normal take on how a Mississippi Sheriff may run things. And he kept running his jail and Sheriff’s department because his county would give him 70 – 75% of the vote nearly every time he was on the ballot.
“Remember Your Raising.”
TRANSLATION: I heard that Big Daddy said this once. Cissy Ross Pierce was getting ready to move to Korea with her soldier husband who was being stationed there. There was a big going away party on our farm with all the families of Pea Ridge in attendance. At the end of the party, Big Daddy hugged Cissy and simply said “You remember your raising while you’re over there.” I was a little boy at the time and wasn’t there. But I’ve heard this story a hundred times by Cissy Ross who did indeed live in Korea then she and her family returned home to Mississippi and rejoined our community. I think it would bode well for all of us if we took time every now and then to remember our raising.
There you have it – Big Daddy translated along with a peppering of Clinton, Pelosi and Clyburn. Those old Mississippi sayings have impact. They matter in 2007. I don’t think Big Daddy considered himself a post-modern philosopher, but what he taught and lived is relevant today. Up out of Pea Ridge, from deep in rural America, echoing back to the 20th Century the voice of a county Sheriff lives on. I hope I embody, to some degree, what he believed and what I find so evident in those I work for and with here in Washington. We truly are one nation, but only when we take the time to consider the power of our values and ideas and how they connect us rather than divide us.
Grenada, MS sits on the hills overlooking the great Delta. My folks, one can say, have put down roots there. Both sides of my family have called Grenada home for more 150 years. You could surmise that we know our neighbors. We’ve pretty much been farming and running for office the whole time. We’re from the Pea Ridge community, live on Strider Road and do our shopping at Bloodworth’s General Store (our cousins). The people of Pea Ridge work hard, play hard and pray hard. Families with names like Ingram, Ross, Winter, Mitchell, Burt, Rounsaville, Thomason, Mormon, Bloodworth and Strider have been there forever. Their farms and home places are as much a part of them as their next of kin.
I am one of the community’s prodigal sons having lived, for a few years, abroad and now for nearly a decade here in Washington, DC. I was a Baptist youth minister in Hong Kong in the mid-90’s. I would have fish-n-chips at Harry Ramsden’s restaurant on Sunday’s with the Cameron’s and giant Chinese family dinners on Tuesday night’s with the Tan’s. On Saturday mornings I’d join some of my Pakistani contemporaries at their flat in the Wan Chai neighborhood for food and fun. We’d sit on the floor and eat curries and other dishes with our hands. The meals would be so hot I’d break out in a sweat. It was like someone had taped a water hose to the top of my head and turned it on.
They’d talk about the game of cricket and Pakistani players who were hot or cold just like my friends and me sitting in a rib shack down in Starkville, MS, drinking sweet tea and talking SEC football. I didn’t know cricket, they didn’t know SEC football but we knew the value of a good game. We knew the difference between work horses and show horses on the battlefield of sports.
Today, I live and work in Washington. I’m raising, along with my wife, Karen, two nearly perfect little boys – my little old aunts and other relatives back home pray every night I’ll get those boys home to Mississippi where they can be raised right. Sometimes I can see their point. But I love Washington and am glad to be here. The fact, though, is that Mississippi is home and Truman Capote once remarked that Southerners go home sooner or later, even if it’s in a box. That is indeed true.
There is one constant that stands out, one continuous thread of continuity and perspective that helps bring connectivity and meaning to all that I do – my father and the examples he provided and the lessons he taught. This old cotton farmer and politician, God rest his soul, had as strong an impact on people as anyone I’ve ever met. Possibly the strongest impact was on me.
He was known as Big Daddy by nearly everyone in Mississippi. He stood at 6'7", weighed in at over 330 pounds and wore a suit, cowboy hat and cowboy boots 7 days a week. Jesse A. “Big Daddy” Strider was Sheriff of Grenada County for 24 years. My uncle has since been sheriff and now my oldest brother is sheriff. When my father died in the late 1980’s the Governor appointed my mom to finish the last months of his 5th term. I'm pretty sure that's when I decided to move out of Grenada County. By no means did I desire to be in a county where my mom had the legal authority to carry a side arm and arrest me.
We, and it is a family affair, have to get elected every four years. With my brother currently in the Sheriff's office we're still getting elected – he’s up this year and looking pretty good. I spent my entire life since birth going door to door asking for votes. By the time I was a teenager I knew everyone in Grenada. I knew who was kin and who had marriage plans. Heck, I knew those getting divorced and usually why. That’s what happens when you sit each morning at the breakfast table of the county Sheriff. You know things.
Mostly, I learned respect for folks. I learned about listening to people and taking them seriously. Big Daddy took people seriously. No one failed to meet the importance test in his book. Everyone was valid. Everyone mattered. Everyone had intrinsic value. And he expected no less from the family he raised, the deputies he employed and the county and state he helped lead.
David Hampton, a current editor at the Clarion Ledger, Mississippi’s statewide daily, came out of Ole Miss journalism school in the 70’s and got his start at the daily newspaper in my hometown. He said this, last year in a column, about Big Daddy, “I worked in Grenada as a cub reporter and was given some lessons in Mississippi politics by Sheriff Strider. While he looked every bit the stereotypical Southern sheriff, he was one of the most progressive, open-minded and smart politicians I have ever known.
When I think about Big Daddy’s greatness I realize that is a word he would have never honestly applied to himself. He was, though, very good at bringing out and recognizing the greatness in others, be it the cashier at the little grocery at Gore Springs, the guys who cut the grass along the highway, the waitresses at the Hill Top Restaurant, the people serving a little time in his jail or the retired farming couple at Hardy he saw their greatness, their ability to love, and smile and give to others. And he celebrated that greatness with laughs, and hugs and prayers on front porches and praising the homemade ice cream he never turned down.
Big Daddy taught me a lot. I realize sometimes, at strange moments, how universal his lessons were. I’ve come to recognize this amazing progressive streak that he played out in his politics and everyday life that impacted so many people. And he knew what he was doing. He held a Mississippi county together in the post- civil rights movement. But he also moved it forward. It wasn’t about keeping the old lines drawn as a way to maintain peace, it was about getting the new integrated schools up and running, getting everyone registered to vote, bringing everyone together at the Chamber of Commerce, running the Klan out of the county.
It was also about joining in all community celebrations such as the annual NAACP Freedom Banquet. I always went with him to that banquet as I grew up. I didn’t know at the time that we were breaking new ground by being there – doesn’t that seem ridiculous in 2007? I just knew I looked forward to the end of the evening when we all stood, joined hands and sang “We Shall Overcome.” I have 3 versions of that song today on my Ipod. My love for that song and what it means to my homeland has everything to do with that county Sheriff taking me to the county Freedom banquets.
Big Daddy lived out and taught a progressive brand of politics that was about doing and not talking. It was about simply taking the right reality and putting it into action. And you know what? When I worked for Nancy Pelosi, I saw my father’s politics in her politics all the time. I certainly saw it in Jim Clyburn’s. And when Senator Clinton says that the best rule of politics is following the Golden Rule then I hear Big Daddy all over again. A San Francisco liberal, a South Carolina African American, a New York Senator with mid-west sensibilities and a Mississippi Sheriff born in the 1920’s all getting elected in their corners of the nation, speaking out from their perspectives but advocating the same hope and vision and progressive principles about our nation and world.
Now that’s a thread of continuity and commonality our nation needs to reconnect too. When partisanship takes the place of progress and ideology becomes an obstacle instead of table to sit around we’ve lost our way. Our nation needs hope and vision and know-how. We need doers, not talkers. We need to stand on that common ground, there’s room for everyone, where Californians, New Yorkers, South Carolinians and Mississippians can all agree and then agree to find solutions where we don’t agree.
We also need good politics. That’s how we choose our leaders and set our course. We need good politics where people engage, and not leave it up to others. We need Politics that are tough and fair, strong and caring, competitive and contemplative, about winning and coming together. I campaigned all the time with Big Daddy. I learned mainly by watching but he also had some favorite sayings that are worth sharing, but they must be translated or explained for full impact. He loved a good political race, he played hardball, and homeruns he hit were always fair.
So, here it is, translating Big Daddy, rules for life and the campaign trail:
“A pick up truck beats a Cadillac every day of the week out here in real America.”
TRANSLATION: Don't get fancy. Don't get fancy with your words, with your plan or with your attitude. Folks are looking for one of them to lead.
“Every tub has got to sit on its own bottom.”
TRANSLATION: In the final analysis the candidate has to carry the day. The candidate is who the voters want to hear from. Only the candidate can ultimately speak for the candidate.
“If you're driving down the highway and see a car coming toward you in your lane then you're going to change lanes.”
TRANSLATION: Don't get in the way of your friends. Stay out of other people's races. Stay in your lane and don't bring undue criticism and opposition by being nosy or getting involved where you shouldn't.
“If you come up on an old yella mangy dog and that dog is barking the word 'God' then let him bark."
TRANSLATION: Don't challenge, denigrate or dismiss the faith of anyone. A person's faith represents the core, the essence of who they are. It’s one of their most personal choices. You tear that person down if you tear down their faith. Hell, join them. It can probably do you some good.
“Be careful what you say about someone, you're probably talking to their cousin.”
TRANSLATION: You're probably talking to their cousin.
“In politics if you take a swing at someone you better be prepared to take one right back.”
TRANSLATION: I actually learned this one from House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. I share it with candidates and young political operatives all the time as I travel the country. It's a great way to remind yourself to be prepared because it’s true and it helps you think through an action. It helps you think down the road to where your decisions are taking you. I also know that Big Daddy was very aware of this principle too.
“Preach it three times. Before you do it, when you’re doing it and after you do it.”
TRANSLATION: It's not just enough to believe it or even do it. People must know where you stand on an issue. They must know your actions. Just doing something without getting the news out is a waste of good time. I run across people running for office all the time who have done good things but no one knows. They’re even indignant that others don’t know of their good work. Well, they lose no matter how much time they waste being indignant. Tell your story and tell it often.
“No one ever had to apologize for something they did not say!”
TRANSLATION: Don’t talk if you don’t have too. If it doesn’t help you, remain quite. If you’re unsure if it helps you keep your mouth shut. You must know for certain what you’re saying and why. Don’t take chances saying something you likely can’t fix.
"The person with the khaki pants, sweaty shirt and straw hat, driving the old farm truck is probably on the local Bank Board. The slick guy with the pin stripped suit, silk tie, tasseled shoes and new car probably charged his clothes and is, more than likely, a couple of payments behind on his car.”
TRANSLATION: Big Daddy was never impressed with those who put on airs. He had a lot of things to say about it. Being flashy was artificial to him. He wasn’t against spending money and living good but he was against anyone who seemed to take pleasure in using material items to show off or feel superior to others. We all know that flashiness is a waste of time in politics.
"Take the blame. Be responsible."
TRANSLATION: Don’t pass the buck. Never, NEVER pass the buck. Stand up and take it when things go bad.
"Spread the credit"
TRANSLATION: And when things go good, let people know who all was involved. Share the wealth and it will be returned to you over and over again.
“The Golden Rule is the best rule to follow in politics.”
TRANSLATION: I recently heard Senator Clinton say this. It stopped me in my tracks. Treat others as you would like to be treated – that’s the rule, isn’t it? Just imagine if that rule was applied prior to every action, statement and decision in a political campaign. Big Daddy preached to golden rule all the time. He lived it.
“The world would rather see a sermon than hear one.”
TRANSLATION: Now this is about doing instead of talking. This is from Congressman Jim Clyburn who relates a beautiful story about being in college and deciding, against his father’s dreams, he was not going into the ministry. When we took the long drive home and told his preacher father there was a long pause then his father said, “Well, son, the world would rather see a sermon than hear one.” That’s powerful. St. Francis of Assisi said preach often, sometimes use words. Our political system would be much stronger with more action and less talking. Big Daddy was all about doing and not talking.
“Don’t kick a person when they’re down.”
TRANSLATION: When people are at their lowest, no matter what they did, no matter how bad, it is not the time to pile on. Show them attention, love and support. Let them know they matter. This was Big Daddy’s philosophy not just in politics but for how the inmates were to be treated at his jail. Not your normal take on how a Mississippi Sheriff may run things. And he kept running his jail and Sheriff’s department because his county would give him 70 – 75% of the vote nearly every time he was on the ballot.
“Remember Your Raising.”
TRANSLATION: I heard that Big Daddy said this once. Cissy Ross Pierce was getting ready to move to Korea with her soldier husband who was being stationed there. There was a big going away party on our farm with all the families of Pea Ridge in attendance. At the end of the party, Big Daddy hugged Cissy and simply said “You remember your raising while you’re over there.” I was a little boy at the time and wasn’t there. But I’ve heard this story a hundred times by Cissy Ross who did indeed live in Korea then she and her family returned home to Mississippi and rejoined our community. I think it would bode well for all of us if we took time every now and then to remember our raising.
There you have it – Big Daddy translated along with a peppering of Clinton, Pelosi and Clyburn. Those old Mississippi sayings have impact. They matter in 2007. I don’t think Big Daddy considered himself a post-modern philosopher, but what he taught and lived is relevant today. Up out of Pea Ridge, from deep in rural America, echoing back to the 20th Century the voice of a county Sheriff lives on. I hope I embody, to some degree, what he believed and what I find so evident in those I work for and with here in Washington. We truly are one nation, but only when we take the time to consider the power of our values and ideas and how they connect us rather than divide us.
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