Coincidental Meeting

I snapped, cursed, and apologized. Another bad photo

She said, "Oh, that's OK."

Once I got the photograph, I walked past her and noticed the lovely outdoor stool. "Wow, that's a nice stool!" I said, turning to the land spit by the beach.

"Thanks!" she called.

"I could use one of those," and I really could. Sometimes it's a pain just waiting and waiting and waiting for the right shot.

I gave up, and turned back to the bridge where she sat, cross-wise, legs out, for a bit of rest.

"I apologize again," I said, and she stood.

I noticed her painting and asked about it.

"It's for a class."

"Art major?"

"No. Environmental Arts and Humanities."

Then I saw the Alabama Outdoors water bottle.

"Are you from Birmingham!"

"Yes," she answered.

"Me too!"

And we were off -- similar pleasures in our home town, similar complaints, similar interests, similar insights. Chat about schools, and majors, and plans for the future, and art, and photography.

When I got home, I suddenly realized I had spoken to the writer of this superior essay -- "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" by Jessie Hook.

I hope you enjoy it too.

Thomas Wolfe Was Right

You can't go home again.

A new sign replaces an old one, torn down in my childhood. A walking trail from an interstate to the heart of downtown replaces the automobile underpass, the train station once above it torn down in my young adulthood.

Just as my mother's childhood home has recently been razed and my grandfather's 1920s Tudor too, both for grandiose houses, one a Disneyfied McMansion.

Home, but not.

Another Opening, Another Show

Ballet with the Greats dancing followed by a dinner/movie date (Miss Dots fried chicken [but the collard greens win the day] and the movie Hachi [a throat-catching film about loyalty and love]) with the nephew and two Greats (one human, one canine).

For some it might seem tutu much of a good thing, but not for me.

Home is where the heart always is, and that home is filled with it.

An evening out

with the nephew means brew (Trimtab's Zero Dark Thirty is five stars, no matter what the nephew in the mob cap says), barbecue (Dreamland's ribs are still the best), and Birmingham (a visit to The Club for the view at my request, proving the nephew's mettle [despite his complaining about the cold wind and low temperature]) makes for a highly satisfactory occasion.

The South

I
At 13, I was confirmed in the Episcopal Church. With my catechism classmates, I knelt at the altar rail, head-bowed, and waited my turn. When the giant in white robes appeared, I steeled myself, knowing from previous experience that the Bishop was huge, with large hands and manly strength. He pressed his hand on my head in blessing -- pushing me into the cushion, the wood, the floor.
I felt the imprint of his Bishop's ring.

II
My mother loved Bishop Carpenter, had long loved him. I never knew exactly why; she died before I was old enough to ask. I wish I could ask her now.

III
I didn't realize until I was an adult that he was one of the religious signatories to the published response to Martin Luther King Jr.'s famous "Letter from a Birmingham Jail." (Even though I was a young Birmingham teenager when it appeared in the Birmingham News, I don't remember even being aware of it then.) When I first read the names, among whom many were familiar, I was shocked, but I'm not sure why. I should have known. I didn't, and I was disappointed.

IV
Today, after dropping off a book at the library, I wandered next door to the University Archives. There, I walked through an exhibit titled "Founded to Make Men: Explorations of Masculinity at the University of the South," organized by a your graduate  (class of 2015) and a history professor (of American studies and history). I hadn't planned to see the exhibit, but I am glad the weather pushed me inside, for there, I experienced another shock. This time a good one.

Panels placed Sewanee honestly (admirably in its honesty) within a complex history of its milieu: southern, white, privileged, male, paternalistic. For once, I felt a personal sense of connection because I have long lived and been witness to much of what I read about race, sport, manliness, and homosexuality. And there was, of course, the surprise of the Bishop, pictured with a Vice-Chancellor opposed to integration and later to admission of women. (I should have known.)

V
At home, looking out at the dying fire of sunset through my screen of trees in lines of fore-, middle-, background, I finally had a sense of personal connection to a place where I am otherwise a stranger.

Those Who Know Me Well

know I love cats and Smith's Variety. Witness: my first Christmas gift from my nephew, niece-in-law, and two great-nieces.

First, I have to clean my car well.

Second, I have to choose which stickers to use.

And third, I must decide where to put them.

These are first-world problems (with a sense of humor).

Collision Courses

A Sewanee Facebook friend posted he had room in the car for others to join him on his journey to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the murder of Jonathan Daniels in Hayneville, AL.

I was young then, in 1965, but as a Birminghamian I was not unaware of race injustice and hatred. Lucille W., who worked for our family for more than 30 years, had gone on the March on Washington during her annual vacation; my church's curate, also my youth leader, took me, one brother, and a few others to hear Joan Baez give a concert at Miles College, a black institution, after which we drove into a mass demonstration on the way home; when the church vestry threatened to fire that same curate, the rector said they'd have to fire him, too; at the Sunday 11 o'clock service ending the state Episcopal Youth Conference meeting at my church, parish representatives processed with their flags and on seeing two black teens among them, the parishioners in front of me -- acquaintances of my parents -- left, the man muttering something about the "damn n*****s" in his church.

the text below is from Joan Baez's memoir And a Voice to Sing With (the motel's name has been misspelled; it's the Gaston, not Gadston)

But the summer Jonathan Daniels was murdered, I was blissfully unaware of it, spending two months at a then-all-white camp in North Carolina in my eighth year of my version of heaven.

Since then, of course, I have learned these things: Jonathan Daniels, a seminarian, took the shotgun blast intended for a 16-year-old black teenager, one of three companions with whom he walked to the store (another was seriously wounded); his murderer, who worked for the state, was acquitted by a white jury and remained unrepentant throughout his life, spending it in the same small town; a family friend, the Rev. Francis X. Walter, so close that my mother made his first stole as an ordination gift, officiated at Daniels' funeral because no other Episcopal priest would; my brother, Francis's friend, attended that funeral, as did Stokely Carmichael, whom I heard speak at Vanderbilt just two years later.

Here Am I, Send Me: The Story of Jonathan Daniels from Episcopal Marketplace on Vimeo.

It was a time of collision -- when race hatred, a part of this nation's history and present, met commitment and courage among many peoples, including some I knew and loved.

At this year's pilgrimage celebration, another collision occurred: some I know now from Sewanee, some I've known from childhood, and at least one fellow camp counselor (image 4) attended, and all were lucky enough to hear a rousing sermon by Michael Curry, current presiding bishop of the Episcopal church, a sermon delivered in a style Lucille would have recognized as familiar and 1960s white Episcopalians might have found unfamiliar.

No longer a church-goer, I nevertheless admire such men and women who, throughout my life, have modeled commitment to faith through commitment to the other. May we all be victorious.

A Time to Speak, Again

Home?

Why is it that after spending most of my life living elsewhere I always immediately answer the question "Where are you from?" with "Birmingham"?

I haven't lived in Birmingham since 1988.

But.

I still say Birmingham.

It used to be that I bridled when admitting my home -- because of its reputation, well earned, as an equality backwater -- but it's still home.

So after a funeral in Birmingham yesterday afternoon, when someone asked, "Are you going home now?" I answered yes, thinking But I am already home.

Beauty in the Margins

I.
Since I started taking daily pictures about seven years ago, I've slowly learned to look beyond what's in the foreground and attend to the margins. Bokeh, I've also learned, is what it's called -- that beautiful fuzziness and blurring that lends richness and color and interest. Here are a few pictures from 2014 to demonstrate what I mean.

II.
In my childhood, black folks disappeared in the margins insofar as white folks were concerned. They weren't seen, just as I once didn't see the full richness of a moment suspended in time by my lens. During my youth and then in my adulthood, all peoples of color have stepped forward to take their places in the foreground, earning legal rights, if not always full respect of some others.

III.
Today, in some counties of my native state (Alabama), gay people are marrying because -- despite the Attorney General's plea to the Supreme Court and the Alabama Chief Justice's objections -- they can. And these folks, too, who have historically been backgrounded have come to the fore.

Judge Michael Graffeo and the first couple he married today

IV.
Beautiful bokeh is as much a part of the whole as a black person or a gay person or a Native American or a handicapped person or a female or anyone else is to the fabric that can make of all of us one beautiful picture of what's possible.

Saturday and Sunday: Three Good Things about One Quick Birmingham Overnight

I

An unexpected historical marker at the largest and most beautiful welcome center in Alabama.

History at a rest stop. Who knew?

II

Family gathered on a new front porch to meet me upon arrival, Halloween decorations in evidence.

III

A sleepy bee on lantana, which clung to the dog's tail when Betsy (the dog) was a bit too enthusiastic about seeing it.

Cue laughter.

Busy Weekend (Saturday-Sunday)

Wake.

Work.

Eat.

Settle the kittens and pack.

Drive almost three hours.

Visit for about two hours.

Attend a ballet performed by three family members.

Chat briefly.

Sleep.

Wake.

Eat breakfast.

Visit for about 45 minutes.

Shower.

Drive almost three hours.

Work.

Eat.

Sleep.

Fast? Yes. 

Worth it? yes! 

Else I might have missed E, V, and D in Hansel and Gretel and V on her way to church for her first communion.

Ringing the Liberty Bell

I
1982 or 3, I think. A friend took me to the Sandman's house, a shack with dirt floor on a small hill overlooking the Birmingham airport. Junk everywhere, only it wasn't really junk: it was junk art. And there is a difference, though many folks didn't think so in those days.

I remember feeling the same way I did at 6 on a Ferris wheel: dizzy and delirious.

II
I had to talk Lonnie into selling me the first painting, his third. Completed in 1984, "In the Beginning God Created" reads from bottom to top: in the beginning, there was a woman with three wombs, Lonnie told me, and this is the blood from which we all come; the Old Kingdom was a beautiful, peaceful place; next are the profiles of all the peoples on the earth; above them, a vision of heaven; and finally, at the top, is the blood to which we all return.

I saw the painting (a slice of wall paneling, in fact) hanging in his house. I asked if it was for sale. He hesitated. We looked at other things. Then I asked again, as we stood at his door. I begged, I think. He finally said yes, and I came home with one of my favorite paintings. It greets me at the bottom of the steps every morning.

III
One Christmas, I took my niece and nephew with me to visit Lonnie. It was bitter cold and wet, so we welcomed his invitation to come inside. We gathered in a small room with one couch, space heater, keyboard, and one chair set in dirt. No one Lonnie's height could stand entirely erect, but none of us minded.

He showed us painting after painting after painting, telling us in colorful details the story of its making and meaning. I wanted them all. I bought three (over time, which he suggested) and he gave me a fourth. I bought the house where I live today because I could hang three large paintings on the dining room wall and see them every time I open the front door.

IV

Another time, I took an older friend to visit Lonnie. I watched him and I watched Lonnie surprising and delighting and puzzling him with his manic creative energy. Before we left, he made Al a small fish.

In the car, as we drove out the gate, Al said, "Good thing he found art. Otherwise, he might have killed himself or someone else." Al kept that fish on a reading table in his apartment until he died a decade later.

IV
For his 25-year retrospective in 2004, Lonnie asked to borrow two of my works: "In the Beginning God Created" and a little chicken he had spontaneously made for me on one of my visits. I missed those works for the year and a half they were gone, but I was pleased that he had asked for them. "Do We Think Too Much? I Don't Think We Can Ever Stop: Lonnie Holley, A Twenty-five Year Survey" showed at the Birmingham Museum of Art and the Ikon Gallery in Birmingham, England.

V
In 2006, I last saw Lonnie at an art walk in Birmingham. My nephew, oldest great-niece, and I wandered into the children's area, and there he was at the welcome table. We hugged, we chatted, he bragged about me to my nephew, we laughed, and he inspired the children gathering under the Sandman's direction.

VI
Today, I did as I always do on Sunday: opened the New York Times website to the magazine section, and there he was: "Lonnie Holley, the Insider's Outsider." This writer has done a fine job of capturing Lonnie's essence as artist or, as the writer calls him, performance artist. Everything Lonnie does is inspirited with energy and "truth." He makes everything beautiful. Including the lives of those he meets.

All Rendered Truth (Lonnie Holley/George King) from George King on Vimeo.

VII

In my lifetime I have been fortunate to know many fascinating and brilliant people, but I have known only one genius: the ringer of the liberty bell.

Ice Houses

I

In childhood, my family sometimes spent summer weekends at a "camp" on the Black Warrior River. We stayed in Cabin 1, a two-bedroom wooden affair with a screen porch along the front and no running water. To cool our drinks, my father would stop on the way out of Birmingham at an ice house, which sold dry ice, block ice, and chipped ice. Inside the big cooler, where I was sometimes allowed, everything shimmered starry blue.

II

Years later, when I lived in New Orleans, I knew the family that founded and ran Pelican Ice. From my friend, I learned about the contributions of the ice company during hurricanes. Until then, it had never occurred to me that ice was such a precious commodity, especially along the coast. 

I was a late-learner.

III

I am not a late-appreciator of the beauty of ice, however.

After picking up our ice for our River trips, I loved running my hand across the block, feeling the cracks and crevices, the watery bits and the sticky bits. Or when my father or a brother chipped it, I loved the thunk of hammer and tinkle of chips collecting, spattering and sputtering against a metal container.

IV

I have always known ice storms. Birmingham is sometimes the epicenter of dangerous ice storms that bring down power lines and trees, marooning folks inside their homes for days.  Strapping on my boots and jeans, I headed out to the creek, walking across slippery leaf litter and railroad ties, just to look at the slickery rocks and frozen bits of weed or limb along the shoreline. Sometimes, I headed to the neighbor's hilly lawn for a ride downhill, trudging through knee-high weeds encased in ice.

V

Today, the lake shimmered, and I thought about the river, the Behres, the creek, and the ephemeral beauty of ice.

Birmingham Fifty Years Ago

In his inaugural address, Alabama Governor George Wallace declared "Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever!"

At the Melba Theatre, I saw To Kill a Mockingbird, in which two young actors I knew appeared.

Martin Luther King Jr. was arrested and wrote "Letter from Birmingham Jail."

The Children's Crusade helped to make the struggle for Civil Rights a national issue.

I heard Joan Baez in concert at Miles College and sat in an integrated audience for the first time in my life. We held hands and sang "We Shall Overcome." When we left, traffic was diverted because of a major Civil Rights demonstration that began at New Pilgrim Baptist Church.

Governor Wallace stood in the schoolhouse door and was ordered to move by General Henry Graham, soft-spoken father of a childhood friend. I watched them on live television.

Our housekeeper Lucille attended the March on Washington where Martin Luther King Jr delivered his "I Have a Dream" speech, which I watched on live television.

Four black girls were murdered in the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church bombing and two black boys were later shot dead. A childhood neighbor sculpted the memorial dedicated on the anniversary this year.

President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas on November 22.

My mother died on December 3.

engagement photo

Historic Inauguration

I have watched television all day long, including now as I write this post. I am seeing something I thought I'd never witness, the inauguration of an African American President. This is a day worth celebrating because it represents the renewed promise of the principles underlying our democracy and of our motley population.
For those who worked in the Civil Rights movement and for those who witnessed, as I did, the horrors of legal apartheid in this country, today is one we'll never forget. Raised in Birmingham in the 1950s and '60s, I went to segregated transportation stations and sat on the "Whites Only" side; I enjoyed Kiddieland and the Alabama State Fair, which black children didn't; I remember the march on Selma and the bombings and demeaning slurs; after sitting in my first integrated audience at Miles College to hear Joan Baez, our group found ourselves stalled on the way home by the Miracle Sunday march toward downtown; I had lengthy conversations with the woman who cooked and cleaned for us about race and about her trip to D.C. for the March on the Washington; and I lost my faith when at church the couple in front of me walked out when black teens walked in, the man muttering "Nigger." I was a child of white privilege living safely in a suburb, but I hated the system and the government that upheld it.

I am proud to say that in this Presidential election I voted for the first serious female candidate in the primary and for the new President in November. I am even prouder to be a witness to the outpouring of joy in our election of a man who, as one bystander said on TV today, carries the blood of all the continents.

He is the American story in one person.

What a day.