My Grandparents' Motel Circa 1953

R.I.P. Sister Sarah White

Around age fourteen, I quit drinking gin with Miss Lil (see 3/21 entry below) and dragged my stack of gospel music and Baptist hymnals to piano lessons. I had dedicated my life to the Lord and wanted to play His music. Miss Lil rolled her eyes, but did my bidding. She loved gospel music, too, and tried to teach me to play like Aretha Franklin during her Muscle Shoals sessions. I picked up chord improvisation and did my best. I was white, but was sure that the Lord would provide me with the proper soulfulness.

By sixteen I began dating other Christians who shared my evangelical zeal. Sometimes these dates turned into familiar making out sessions - with Eddie, I think this happened in a 1964 Falcon with wide bench seats. With Butch, a hot date meant holding a black leather Bible between our laps, thighs touching, reading some stern admonition from that most uptight patron saint of chaperones, St. Paul. Eventually I settled on my future husband Jack, who not only enjoyed all of the above but offered the additional cachet of knowing Lester White and the White Family.

Jack played guitar and wrote songs in a somewhat lazy seventies-style. He would earnestly sing ballads while his hair and beard grew longer. He began to resemble seventies Jesus, the hippie God who ruled the cooler churches back then. We formed a shifting coalition of musicians and singers who became our band - Butch, Sonya, Danny, Eddie, Gary, and a few others over those three years or so. This was our mission, sharing the Good News with church after church in Savannah, Garden City, Port Wentworth, and Pooler.

At least three times, the gracious White Family let us open for them at black churches around the county.

The White Family was an institution in local gospel music. Brother White was a blind guitarist who might have had a career in blues music had he chosen that path. Sister Sarah and their grown children Lester and his sister (forgotten her name) sang along Staples Singers-style. They were great, and we were white kids trying to keep up. But we were convinced that God would bless our efforts.

While I am grateful that no tapes exist of our musical attempts, I am so glad that Jack and I spent time with the White Family. They were kind, encouraging, and loving as they invited us into their home and into churches that would not normally ask grinning Caucasian wannabes to minister to them through music. The average five year old in those congregations could sing rings around us.

I began to really love black churches and started attending a few on Sunday evenings with Jack. But back then it was hard to fit in - this was before southern churches began to integrate on any level - and we went back to the white church.

I lost my religion, moved away, and lost track of the White Family. But on Sunday I was scanning the obituaries online - a regular obsession of mine - and found one for Sister Sarah:

Sarah L. White - SAVANNAH - White Family Singer, Founder, and Legendary Gospel Singer Dies at 82 Renowned gospel singer, recording artist and exemplary mother, Sarah L. White, made her transition from mortal to immortality on Sunday March 6, 2008 with family and friends around her bedside. She was under the care of Hospice of Savannah, Inc. Born, November 23, 1925 and educated in Liberty County, she lived all of her adult life in Savannah. Her husband of 42 years; Minister James White preceded her in death. They raised five children in the Pentecostal Faith. Popular radio personality; Lester Lec'k White is her baby son. Affectionately known as a "songbird", Sarah was the founder and lead vocalist of the award winning White Family Singers. The group was esteemed by the masses, including mayors, governors, senators, and even president of Egypt; Anwar Sadat, Evangelist Oral Roberts, and actress Carol Burnett. A tribute in 2005 to induct the singing clan into the Ralph Mark Gilbert Civil Rights Museum, Savannah Mayor Otis S. Johnson Stated; "your unique ability to enthrall audiences is confirmed that you possess n extraordinary musical gift that is being used to speak and encourage the lives of others." She leaves to honor and respect her legacy her sons; James (Angela), Julius, and Lester White, adopted son; Edward (Dorothea) Lowe, Jr., daughters and stepdaughters respectfully; Kathleen (Leroy) White-Scott, Sarah Glover, Ruth White-Coles, 16 grandchildren, 27 great-grandchildren, and 11 great-great-grandchildren.

NTD

P.S. For those who want to hear a sample of the White Family's music, there's a downloadable version of 'Wonderful World' about halfway down the following page:

http://www.sirshambling.com/articles/gospel_soul.htm

Terrible Tuesday Blues

It's life on the hormonal rollercoaster today. I started crying while my daughter waited at the counter for her chicken tacos. I was indifferent to a friend on the phone. I sort of wish that I was back in bed. This is... undignified.

I think that a hot shower is in order. Then, maybe the dishes. Finish up the taxes. If a bad mood is like an unruly child, the first order of the evening might be to just ignore it and hope that the blues tantrum will pass soon.

But otherwise, things are peachy. My daughter actually decided to forego prom, which in my opinion is a sanity-saving decision on both our parts. The issue had been festering for weeks - her boyfriend is not, shall we say, the ambitious type. I wondered when he might break from his exhausting schedule of video games and action films in order to be fitted for a tuxedo. Trouble was brewing in all quarters regarding the lateness and the open-ended expense of this prom plan.

So that is one great relief in my life. Also, a friend has generously offered to help fill in the employment gaps at my shop temporarily. So there's nothing particularly wrong other than the usual stresses of life.

Tonight's Plan: Watch a Marx Brothers film.

NTD

Am I the only white person in America not particularly horrified by certain sermons of Jeremiah Wright? I hope not.

The presumption of so many Americans that God is on our side and every military action that we engage in is somehow the will of the Prince of Peace himself - including nuclear bombings, napalm, firebombings, and the current arsenal of depleted uranium bullets and three trillion dollars' worth of death and dismemberment - is, in my opinion, one seriously deluded viewpoint. And to think that angry fanatics are never ever going to strike back is an exercise in mindless optimism. When Wright stated as much, he was called un-American.

Let me tell you that, right here in my own community, I hear denigrating words about blacks, Hispanics, women, and Muslims with stunning regularity. I got to thinking - when Americans casually suggest that blacks are "taking over your neighborhood" as if black people are not really bonafide U.S. citizens with every right to live next door to me, for instance - isn't this a language of hate that denies the basic humanity of an entire group of Americans? When I hear that one "hates shopping at Wal-Mart now that it's full of Mexicans" or that "I always vote Democrat, but I will never vote for that Barack Obama" because "he's not smart enough to be President" when that person graduated from community college while Obama graduated magna cum laude from Harvard Law School - I can't help but look at the speaker and think, Jeff Foxworthy-style, "well, you might be a bigot". I hear porch monkey and towel-head and women's libber and wetback and worse.

Most of this talk comes from people who consider themselves good Christians (although I don't believe most Christians speak this way). But to me it smacks of demeaning hate speech far more than what I have read of the Reverend Wright's sermons.

America is not religion to me; it is not heresy, but in fact my duty as a citizen to criticize any actions done in the name of my country if I think that they are wrong. The great writer James Baldwin said it best:

I love America more than any other country in this world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.

NTD

Wisdom from Henry David Thoreau

In honor of these difficult economic times, I offer this quote from Thoreau:

However mean your life is, meet it and live it: do not shun it and call it hard names. Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage.

Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends. Things do not change, we change. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts.

NTD

World Water Day

I consider myself a conservative water user - American style, at least. I don't shower every day. I don't flush at night. I limit paper and plastic products, and rarely buy bottled water since learning that manufacturing the plastic bottle itself requires an average of 1.5 gallons of water. So, on the morning of World Water Day 2008 (today) I confidently bounced right over to an online water use meter to calculate my water footprint. You can find this calculator here:

http://www.h2oconserve.org

But damn - because of my gasoline usage, my consumption of dairy and some meat, and a few other conservation busters - I am only about a hundred gallons below the national average. Which means that it still takes over a thousand gallons of water per day to keep my lifestyle going.

I'm so embarrassed.

NTD

Happy Birthday Marian McPartland

I practiced piano for hours on most days between ages twelve and sixteen. Because my parents - divorced by then - were struggling to make ends meet, there was just enough money for one piano student in the family. So my older sister was the first recipient of piano lessons from the beloved and talented piano teacher, Miss Lil. My sister displayed little talent, but she lusted over Lil's handsome blonde surfer son. It seemed as if she would never admit the obvious - that she had no patience for scales - and simply let me have my turn. In the end, she convinced Daddy to buy her a guitar and we heard her sing Cat Stevens "Moonshadow" in the key of D for a decade.

Finally, it was my turn to open those John Brimhall instruction books and put all of my adolescent angst into some mean versions of "The Bells of St. Marys" and "Lightly Row". Or so I thought.

Miss Lil was not only a great piano player - jazz standards at bars on Saturday nights, church organ on Sunday - but she was an alcoholic. I would walk into the music room and she would immediately offer me gin on the rocks. It is pretty heady stuff to be treated like an adult's cocktail companion when one is twelve and thirteen years old. But Miss Lil didn't think about corrupting youth so much as she was displaying some southern hospitality to a guest. So I would sip along with her while focusing on the keys, trying to impress her with a week's worth of intense practice. Frequently she would sit on her naugahyde recliner, cigarette in hand, and her thoughts would drift far beyond my little piano ditties...

"God, that ___ who has the lesson before you gets on my nerves... no talent at all... excuse me while I check on the chicken... I'll be damned, do you smell pot? That son of mine is smoking in his room again..."

But just when I was feeling like the entire lesson was musically pointless, Lil would stand up and sharply reprimand me for a shaky G# or for hurrying through the piece. Then she would demand that I move over while she played it correctly. And then she did the thing I loved best - forget about the silly song on page fourteen and dreamily interpret a Beatles tune or a St. Saens piece or a Johnny Mercer classic. She would begin simply, then take over the keyboard and hit most of the eighty eight keys. I would frequently have to slide down the bench until I was hanging by an inch in order to give Miss Lil room.

I would leave her house every week, frequently buzzed on alcohol but even more buzzed on the piano. And I would practice for hours and hours every week with the hope of pleasing Miss Lil which was usually the same thing as pleasing myself.

I hoped to develop the technique and skill to teach and play as she did. Two of my aunts still teach piano as senior citizens, so I believed that the talent was in my blood. But age twelve is pretty old to begin, and Lil was not as stringent on technique as the harsher teachers that most accomplished pianists had survived. In my mid-teens I was suffering from hormonal moodswings and the usual issues that kept me from pushing forward in the classical tradition. I did, however, continue to improvise and play for church and kindergarten and can still play without embarrassing myself when asked. The piano has been my friend.

Miss Lil died years ago of cancer. I still think of her often and wonder whether she ever realized how much her attention meant to me and so many others. Her unconventional methods somehow lit a musical fire in me that still flares up during times of great stress and also on other days when I am overcome with happiness. I still love to play piano while most of my friends who took lessons back when they were kids only feel stiffness and plead amnesia when asked to tap out a tune.

Also, gin is still my drink of choice.

I read that Marian McPartland celebrated her ninetieth birthday this week. She played piano at Lincoln Center on Wednesday although suffering from arthritis and a fractured pelvis. More than anyone in my adult life, I have frequently listened to the amazing Ms. McPartland on public radio for continuous inspiration to keep playing and trying to improve my limited technique. She always reminded me of Miss Lil by her love of the keyboard and her willingness to improvise with all kinds of musicians. She is probably my favorite pianist of all time.

Happy birthday, Ms. McPartland. I'll play a a few tunes in honor of both you and Miss Lil today.

NTD

Tonight is the Equinox, and I have hardly blogged all March long. The grass (read: weeds) are overgrown in my backyard. I worked too much this week. Things are running a little behind right now.

I have noticed that the dozen or so other blogs which I tend to check on every week or so have all either slowed the posts down to a crawl or even gone on serious hiatus (I miss you beautydish and rockstarmommy.com!). Some days I wonder whether it is worth taking time to post such minor thoughts which so rarely sparkle with the wit I hope to convey - I think this about my column in The Eleventh Hour as well, because after five years of commentary I sometimes run out of anything to say.

But I did get called to read a commentary on Georgia Public Radio last week, which was a small boost to my literary ego.

Maybe springtime will get the honey flowing again.

NTD

the rain, the wind, the music

We drove into a monsoon around West Palm Beach. For the next several hours Mother Nature gave my windshield wipers a serious workout as we crawled along Snake Road into the Seminole Native American Reservation. Anna and I were sandwiched between late-model Mustang convertibles - college kids whom we later shared a camping row. Let's just say that these young people were not accustomed to camping etiquette in close quarters. In fact, let's be blunt - the next time I get stuck with a pack of loudmouth New York brats who narrate every minute of their three a.m. acid/mushroom/ecstasy trips within three feet of me (think: the Sopranos on LSD), I will personally locate the nearest dready pharmaceutical salesman and purchase one half-dozen vicodin tablets and force them down their dark-star-orchestra-ROCKED-dude throats and sit on their chests until Mister Sandman kicks in. I am too old to camp next to the loudest folks at the festival.

Other than tornado watches, high winds, rain, fire ants and jerks on drugs, Langerado was great. I promise.

Favorite performances:

- Sierra Leone Refugee All Stars. Really, I shouldn't complain about anything in life. The All Stars have suffered more than any of us ever will, and still make a joyful sound.
- Golem. Energetic klezmer punk from Brooklyn.
- Matisyahu. I must be going through my Jewish phase.
- Arrested Development. AD played "Tennessee" and "Mister Wendell", but their new material was great also.
- The Dynamites. Charles Walker sounds like a cross between Joe Tex and James Brown. His incredibly tight rhythm section got me dancing during the hottest part of the day.

I find myself skipping the bigger names and the jammiest bands more and more at festivals. I want to be surprised by something different.

Oh man, it's an hour later than I thought. Thank you, Daylight Savings Time.

Gotta run -
NTD

damn the torpedoes...

... full speed ahead to Florida.

Beastie Boys, here we come.

NTD

the best-laid plans of mice and men...

... oft go astray. My daughter Anna was squeezed into the doctor's tight schedule early evening. She appears to have developed a remarkably bad case of the flu. She is finally sleeping under the influence of six or seven medicines.

And now my own throat is feeling scratchy. I am writing under the influence of six or seven herbal remedies, vitamins and minerals.

Our spring break trip down to the Everglades this weekend is not looking good.

NTD