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the-record-columns · 5 years

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Sept. 25, 2019: Columns

Angel

The Lucky Dog...

By KEN WELBORN

Record Publisher

In August 14th column I told about having a new dog, Angel.

Angel is a bull terrier and labrador mix, white as snow with a few black freckles--and yes, she could be the sister of my dog Powder.

Powder died of an aggressive cancer at only 9 years old in February of 2018, and who I have grieved over ever since.

As noted then, in particular, my son, Sam, tried to find me another dog--calling me with strays, rescue dogs, puppies, and abandonments from mutts to pedigrees. He even found three cats that needed a home.

Well, when he saw Angel and her uncanny resemblance to Powder, he told the folks keeping her to please hold on to her a few days until his dad could see her, telling them, "If Pop sees this dog, she will have hit the dog lottery."

That was a great line, but I am the one who hit the lottery.

When I picked her up, I asked Sam if she liked to ride. Before he could say one way or another, she had jumped into my pickup, stuck her head out the window, and in her own way said, "Let's go." Before I had reached the interstate, Angel was sitting snuggled up next to me like a 16-year-old girl out on a date with her boyfriend.

On the way home, I worried she would cry all night, so later I made her a good bed on the floor at the end of my bed. I checked on her off and on all night, and she was sleeping like the proverbial baby. At about 5 a.m., I rolled over to go to the bathroom and, before I knew it, this huge dog tongue had slurped into my ear, across my nose, and all over my mouth and face. When I finally got upright, Angel was sitting there, smiling as only a dog can.

At that moment, I ceased to be Angel's owner, because clearly, she now owned me.

This past weekend, I took Angel to the Carolina in the Fall Music and Food Festival in Wilkesboro a couple of times. First when I went to pick up my credentials, while we were waiting in the tent next to the ticket booth, several folks stopped to pet Angel as she looked up at them and wagged her tail. One couple in particular made the comment that they were dog people and she literally sat down on the pavement to play with Angel. After a bit they went on into the festival but soon returned--laughing as they told me they had such a good time playing with Angel they forgot to buy their tickets.

But the best part was on Saturday evening. I was signed up to work the night shift for Rotary at the Artists Merchandise Tent. When I went home to check on Angel, I just could not leave her again, and took her with me to the Festival. Since I was the de facto greeter at the entrance to the tent, Angel was the perfect partner. Everybody wanted to pet her and she wanted everyone to pet her, so everyone was happy. After about an hour, Angel stopped even looking and smiling at folks as they walked up, and just flopped down on her back so they could easily scratch under her chin and give her a belly rub. It was just plain fun to watch.

Angel has got to be the most social animal I have ever seen, and there is really no doubt who the big winner is in he story of Ken and his Angel--for I am surely "The Lucky Dog."

The Gospels: Conventional Wisdom Is Not Heresy

By HEATHER DEAN

Record Reporter

Rev. James Martin, an American Jesuit priest, is known for his outspokenness for accepting all of God’s children, especially the outcast.

He wrote a book entitled “Building a Bridge,” in which he urged the Church to create a dialogue and find common ground with the LGBTQ+ community who feel estranged because of social and religious stigma.

The subject always seems to ruffle some feathers of the most pious, but so did the son of God; what with talking back to the priests as a child, chasing the church leaders out of the temple with whips, slinging political insults toward the Herrod. His ministry consisted of taking in the undesirables: the prostitutes, anarchists, embezzlers, politicians, heretics, lepers, immigrants, and tax collectors.

Yet the backlash of being an inclusive continues to grow, despite us being taught otherwise. “Good Christians” hardening their hearts, slinging insults, hateful rhetoric, judging, labeling, sending death threats, even beating or killing those they think unworthy. That goes against everything I was ever taught raised in a Christian religion. I still believe that compassion and love is the way to live a good life, even though I was betrayed by the hypocrisy and misogyny, including sexual assault, from those I trusted most in the congregation.

Jesus, and other prophets, said not to be a jerk and that's what I try to live by. Though I do not subscribe to Christian theology these days, being a good human is all encompassing. Sometimes, however, we have to rely on the Constitution to bring us back to an objective center in deciding what is for the good of “we the people,” not just one color or one religion, “defending against enemies both foreign and domestic.” According to the Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) the number of hate groups in the U.S. is the highest in 20 years.

This week in the news we saw two huge steps in progressing “liberty and justice for all.”

A federal judge ruled that an anti-LGBTQ Florida-based church can be labeled a hate group by SPLC as a matter of free speech, as the church “maligns the entire LGBT community.”

The Department of Homeland Security, created after the 9/11 attacks, has added white supremacy to its list of domestic terrorism threats. Kevin McAleenan, the acting secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, said that recent mass shootings had “galvanized the Department of Homeland Security to expand its counterterrorism mission focus beyond terrorists operating aboard. The continuing menace of racially based violent extremism, particularly white supremacist extremism, is an abhorrent affront to our nation, the struggle and unity of its diverse population, and the core values of both our society and our department.”

Pope Francis received backlash once again because the most conservative of his flock want him to be stricter, less accommodating and stop reaching out and engaging others, especially those that don’t fit into the niche that the Church has worked so hard over the past thousand years to control. He told them no, because that is not what Christ did.

Now, this is sure to ruffle more feathers, especially those claiming they are only protecting their Christian beliefs in some imagined war against them, but let me bring you back to beginning of the conversation and let you decide what the prophet would really do.

Jesus never said you were going to like what happened in the world. He laid the groundwork of how to deal with it, and he said not to let it get to you, because GOD was the end-all-be-all when it came down to judging and deciding who would make it into the kingdom of heaven. (James 4:12)

The good book also says that the Old Testament Laws (over 600 of them) are now void because Jesus paved the path of faith with love, and to obey the Christ, because LOVE is the new law. (Gal. Chapters 3-6)

The least you do this to others you do it to me. (Matt. 25:40)

“If we can’t even begin a dialogue without being considered a heretic, then we need to take a good look at how we understand the gospel.” –Reverend Martin.

A piece of the untold story

By AMBASSADOR EARL COX and KATHLEEN COX

Friday marks the end of the work week in Israel. It is a time for rest and for extended families to get together to keep the Shabbat. What does this mean? According to the Torah (first five books of the Bible), Shabbat commemorates the day God rested from creating the world. It is a day of peace and holiness offering all those who are observant an opportunity to contemplate the spiritual aspects of life and to spend time with family.

Let’s take a look at the land of "camels, sand and sandals." This is what the left-leaning media would have us believe about Israel. The truth is, Israel is light-years ahead of most of the world in science, medicine, technology, agriculture, research and development, aerospace, military defense and intelligence gathering, pharmaceuticals, telecommunications, computer hardware and software, and the list goes on. Most major companies have their R&D facilities hear in Israel. Worldwide, Israel is known as "the start-up nation." It is home to major players in the high tech industry. Israeli schools produce some of the best and brightest minds in the world therefore Israel has the most technologically literate population in the world. Tiny Israel, no bigger than New Jersey which is one of the smallest states in the United States, has more Nobel Prize recipients per capita than the United States, France and Germany. For a country that was reborn only a little over 70 years ago following thousands of years of exile having been dispersed throughout the world, Israel's contributions to the world have been disproportionate, dramatic, and nothing short of miraculous.

In the 1800s, a small California newspaper sent a journalist to the Middle East to report back to wealthy American society what he saw on the other side of the world. The name of this journalist was Samuel Clemens, better known to the world as Mark Twain. He visited many places to include the land of Israel where he was not at all impressed. In fact, he called it, "a boiling hell with dry, torn and helpless ground." He claimed that life could not exist in this place and that it had no potential. Mark Twain even saw Jerusalem as a, "dark, lonely, lifeless and unimpressive ruin." But Mark Twain was so wrong!

Now, let's take a look at a place once designated as a "settlement." This means a place of metal shacks, tents and trailers, right? WRONG! The city of Ma'ale Adumim is located only a few short miles outside of Jerusalem. It is on the land known as Judea and Samaria - the heartland of Israel. Mayor Benny Kashriel governs his city with love always thinking about ways to improve life for its citizens and residents. He makes it a point to attend every major function in his city and this includes graduation ceremonies from kindergarten! Ma'ale Adumim is a beautiful and thriving city where Israelis and Palestinians work side by side in peace. People are attracted to life here because of its parks and playgrounds, outstanding infrastructure, streets lined with brightly colored flowers, neatly kept yards and storefronts, lovely homes and apartments, a municipality that truly cares about the wellbeing of the people who are secure and proud of their city. This "settlement" is bursting at the seams with a happy, healthy, friendly and peace-filled atmosphere.

This trip to Israel has been quite different from any other over the past 20 years. Unlike so many cities in Europe where life and the spirit of joy, as the French say, "la joie de vivre," seems to have evaporated having been replaced with nothing but a sense of fading glory, old structures, and a lack of enthusiasm and vision, whereas Israel is thriving and vibrant. At all hours of the day and night, people, young and old alike, and all colors, faiths and creeds, are enjoying family and friends over a meal or a cup of coffee in the many sidewalk cafes which line about every street. Pregnant women and their husbands and families are strolling the streets enjoying the evenings. Music is everywhere. Throughout Jerusalem are what I have come to call "public pianos." They are perfectly tuned, weather resistant, grand pianos, placed along major pedestrian walkways waiting for whosoever will open the lid and fill the air with magic. The U.N. World Happiness Report was released on March 21 of this year. Once again, Israelis ranked among the happiest people in the world despite living in a very tough neighborhood surrounded on every side by evil-minded people who want to wipe them off the face of the earth forever. Israel enjoys an internal and an eternal peace. God said never again will the Jews be removed from their land and our God reigns supreme!

The American Songster

By CARL WHITE

Life in the Carolinas

Over the years, we have produced many broadcast segments that celebrate music in the Carolinas and those who bring it to life.

Several years ago, we produced a segment with the Carolina-based group, The Carolina Chocolate Drops on stage at the McGlohon Theater at Spirit Square in Charlotte. It was a good interview and I recall how amazed we all were with the performance. When the onstage energy was combined with the telling of the history of the music, the audience enjoyed an authentic time-travel experience.

Dom Flemons was a founding member of the band. It was his ability to master various historic instruments which left the audience spellbound. Some were common, and others were new to most audience members. I think that was what made the performance so engaging and entertaining. You dared not take your eyes off the stage for fear of missing what he might play next. It really was a special evening.

Some time would pass until one day I received the news that Dom had left The Carolina Chocolate Drops to develop his solo works. The American Songster Dom Flemons now shares his interpretation of American folklore, ballads and storytelling. Among others he plays American old-time music, Piedmont blues and country music that might be new to your ears.

Dom has an American and international audience. So far he has received two Emmy nominations and is a Grammy award winner.

Not so long ago, I had the opportunity to sit down with Dom for another interview. It was a great visit and Dom was quick to say, “Carl, this time I have a back story.” Almost nine years had passed since our first visit at Spirit Square and he was right; a lot of things have transpired over the years.

Dom was born and raised in Arizona, where his family has had a long and fascinating history. He moved to North Carolina because of his interest in the musical and cultural heritage of the region.

It was a life changing event when he was invited to participate in the 2005 Black Banjo Gathering in the Mountains of North Carolina.

He was inspired by the likes of Joe Thompson and other songsters who had been creating music in the “gray areas” between genres.

Dom began to learn more about the larger African American folk tradition and his passion for telling the historical narrative increased. This drove his involvement with the Carolinas Chocolate Drops and then subsequently, the development of his solo work.

We talked about Dom’s Black Cowboys project that brings attention to the music, culture, and the complex history of the Wild West. I learned about the importance of the role of Black Cowboys. It was a great conversation and when Dom played a selection from the project, I understood even more than before.

No matter where he plays, his desire is to spark cultural memories for the audience, reminding them of things they didn’t know they had forgotten. He wants others to experience their cultural heritage the same way that he has.

Music has great power. It can change our moods in an instant, It has a unique way of bringing history to life. I think we are fortunate when we encounter people who have the talent and passion to share the history of music and bring it to life.

Dom Flemons, the American Songster is such a person.

Carl White is the Executive Producer and Host of the award-winning syndicated TV show Carl White’s Life In The Carolinas. The weekly show is now in its 10th year of syndication and can be seen in the Charlotte market on WJZY Fox 46 Saturday’s at noon and My 12. The show also streams on Amazon Prime. For more information visit www.lifeinthecarolinas.com. You can email Carl at [email protected]

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brandcis · 7 years

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B R A N D E I S L O U B R Y : A M E M O I R

AGED FOUR & nothing fascinated the platinum locked infant more than the murder of crows who flocked to her terrance daily, and the string of freshwater pearls her father fastened around her neck like a leash on her fourth birthday. “they can fly. why can’t i?” she had inquired, polite and innocent, in her limited and chopped vocabulary as the nanny tied ringlets into a perfect plait. “i’d like to be free too. like the birds.” but the beautiful collar of strung pearls had been clasped, a satin ribbon tied atop the crown of a heart shaped face, nothing short of an infantile jackie kennedy as she had been escorted through the ornate corridors to the marbled and mahogany parlor for an arranged playdate, all kitten-heeled stomps rather than steps.

“everyone has a purpose, a goal. we’re all living to survive, brandeis. and your survival will look a lot different than the crows’, darling.”

but as the loubry’s lovely infant, all pert lips and freckled cheeks, watched her mother, dead-eyed and frowning, pen the name of another daughter bred unto the bluest of blood into the pages of a leather-bound agenda, she wondered how sincere her nanny’s statement had been. her mother was living for her, her father was living for supremacy, and she was living for them. their darling little doll, a piece in their childish games for political gain.

AGED SEVEN & as the sun wanes and the spooling strings of freshwater pearls are traded for a nightgown spun of florid silk, she sits perched before her mother upon the egyptian cotton of her sheets collecting verbalized knowledge as other children may collect polished stones, as a raven might accumulate an amalgamation of its stolen belongings of gold. this has become habitual. gabriella loubry’s svelte frame sat regal and tall behind her daughter, an ivory cylinder puffing smoke from the painted scarlet of her precocious lips as she ran a brush through the infantile curls of sable with one hand, the other alternating between her cigarette and a child’s book. a variation of the same fairytale with the same Happily Ever After. the pretty, perfect princess is liberated from her woe and desolation by a handsome and well heeled prince. dot, dot, dot. there was no To Be Continued for the happily ever after is often not happy at all. the prince is often not just as he had once proclaimed, and the prince is often only useful for one thing — his name.

“my darling, my dearest shouldn’t you know?” the respected matriarch had purred against the curve of a frosted ear. “those prodigal princes you admire so are taught to fight their father’s wars. beauteous boys that shed their innocence like a second skin and turn themselves into brutish men. loving them is death sentence, dearie. loving them is like lying on the pointed end of their sharpened swords, sprawled out and begging for a puncture wound through the breast. promise me one thing? forget your heart.” her mother tucked her in for the night, feline eyes flashing. “love is weakness, you’ll become nothing more than a pretty, little fool.”

“yes, mother.” she lied.

her collection of little understandings had grown quite large, that night she had decided to leave only one of mother dearest’s gilded trinkets behind and dreamt of a fairytale like love, a prince for a lover and an ending that rivaled the happiest of happily ever afters. a foolish girl, just as her mother had warned, wearing naivety for all to see and donning her precious and childish heart on her sleeve.

AGED TWELVE & the girl was a dusted paperback, a gothic romance novel cracked open time and time again by a myriad of admirers yearning to learn of pink painted and antiquated passion. brandeis loubry, raised like a pretty persephone in her petticoats and lace with ringlets falling about the supple slope of her shoulders, had wrought a piece of each princess, who her mother had breathed to life with scorn, against the knobs of her spine. she had made an example of the routine readings of the feeble and damned damsels rather than spurning the romance of it all in favor of something sharper as gabriella had intended with her late night cigarette rasped and rose tinged re-tellings.

to forget or not forget?

her pink and pulsating butterfly winged organ fluttered its flimsy wings against the concave of her chest in soft plea, a light thrum against ivory bones that begged not to be forgotten. she was no crouching panther swathed in lamb’s raiment as the conquerors before her, brandeis had been raised a rose without thorn, a heart without rib. a pretty and picturesque child with her blossoming roses entwined within braided stands of flaxen hair and her perfect little smiles from behind a tall glass of strawberry tea.

she would not, could not forget her heart.

AGED FIFTEEN & she learns of a yearning that is not her own. she had arrived unto the large and lavish gala, hosted in honor of alistair loubry’s anticipated reelection, pressed flush against father dearest’s left flank and embellished in a flashing gown plucked from her mother’s closet. a mistake, she had come to learn as the night dragged on. while the dresses, spun of lace and innocence, hung upon her four pink walls had become much too short and had grown much too tight in all the wrong places, her unease at donning something so unflattering would have paled in comparison to the discomfort she felt beneath the shark-like eyes of man. she might have, she thought, felt equal in exposure and discomfort should the beading unravel to reveal nothing but sheer framework beneath.

“these men are not to be fear, brandeis. one day, one of them might make you a wife.” her mother had all but purred, elated at the thought of her darling angel marrying into a legacy riddled surname to expand upon the loubry’s reign. “go, dearie. flitter, flirt.”

sapphire hues widened like saucers and pooling with fear were the only indication of discomfort upon the cherubic features of her face as the damsel immersed herself into the murder of champagne infused bodies. flinching beneath the accidental hand that would graze against the flimsy fabric she bore and counting the freshwater pearls hung from her swan neck like rosary beads, brandeis wished, no, prayed for a gilded prince of a man to save her from the utter brutes that cast their gaze upon her frail figure.

and as if someone above had heard, her prayers had been answered.

he emerged from the crowd. the dark night, not a day older than seventeen, who had turned the dreamer into a believer with a single flick of his velvet tongue.

AGED SEVENTEEN & oh how lovely she had been before she had fallen in love with him, that brutish man disguised as a prodigal prince. just a her mother’s fairytale had foreboded, but she had heeded the warning too little, too late. much to her dismay. now, the years, their years past had birthed a different girl. that dusted paperback had been cracked open and rewritten into an antiquated tragedy. the classic tale, that ended in rose gold ruination, of a girl who loved with every piece of her pink and pulsating organ and a boy who couldn’t care less.

it had begun with her insisting that a french kiss was but a kiss along parisian streets and ended with her clutching tattered dresses to her chest as she crept from his room late at night, smelling of whiskey and roses and growing life within the concave of her belly.

the dream girl unraveled, unfurled.

mother dearest had shipped her off, miles from home, to spend nine months in connecticut with her bible-thumping grandparents who looked upon her with nothing but disdain. two trimesters of the old testament read aloud as she coiled the fraying string of her grandfather’s antiquated yoyo ( not too much different from the one that she had misplaced several years prior ) around, and around, and around the length of her finger — until she saw blue, until she felt numb. a welcome change to the turmoil plaguing her mind as she spent the nights pressing her scent into the pink cotton of her baby’s blanket ( grace, she had decided one evening. she liked to think that it might stick even as she found home within the arms of another ). it was enough to turn the scintillating starlet’s saccharine sweet to rot. she had become hard in all the places she had once been soft.

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