Old Fashioned Humor

How many of you have ever seen, or even heard of, the George Burns and Gracie Allen Show? It was on television back in the dark ages—the 1950s, I think. Since Den and I don't have cable TV, we are limited to programs we can get via an on-the-roof antenna, which means we are pretty well limited. We do have something called EyeTV loaded on both our computers through which we can record shows that we don't have time to watch. You'd think that with only a few channels, we would never find anything to record, but you'd be wrong. We have enough shows recorded to last us several weeks, even if we don't record anything else. I should clarify that we don't watch TV on the computer, but on the TV, just like everyone else. It's just that our channel selection is limited.

To get back on track: One of the stations we can pick up through our antenna is WJW, channel 8.2, called Antenna TV. And every night, late, this channel shows two back to back episodes of Burns and Allen. It is the funniest program on TV. And it doesn't use profanity, drugs, or sex to be funny. When I say funny, I mean, laugh out loud in your own living room, funny. Gracie Allen's timing is impeccable, as is her self-expression. She is never confused, but everyone else usually is.

I love this show! It is the last thing I watch before bed every night, and I usually get a good night's sleep. If you ever get a chance to watch Burns and Allen, take it. You won't regret it.

Good Music; Good Book

Whether or not this feeling I have right now will last, it is currently strong enough that I have to write something about it.

Den put a CD by Odetta on the stereo to test one of his tubes, or speakers, or something else I don't understand, but it is simply a wonderful CD, brought to our attention by a good friend, Laurie, who knows the kind of music I like. The title is One Grain of Sand, and was first recorded in1963.

Maybe it is because I am reading a book about race relations in the South in the late '60s and early '70s that  this music seems so powerful right now, or maybe not. The book is Blood Done Signed My Name, by Timothy Tyson, and is really good—reads like a novel, but is a true story written by the son of a white Methodist minister who served a white congregation in North Carolina. I am half-way through the book; it is a very powerful story about the murder of a young black man in Oxford, N.C., how race relations were changing, and how the changes came about. Having grown up in the North, I had no idea how oppressed African Americans had become, and still were, in the 20th century. It seems there was more equality right after the Civil War than there was when the Civil Rights Acts of 1964 and 1968 were passed.

Reading this book, and listening to this CD at this particular point in the reading (just past half-way), has made me wonder where I was when all this going on. Why wasn't I more aware? Why didn't I do something? Of course, I knew about the marches, the assassinations, the bombings; but they did not seem as real to me then as this story does now. I'm not sure anything will be changed by discovering something I didn't know 45 or 50 years ago, but maybe there is some value in hindsight.

The Healing Power of Time

The last seven months have been very distressing for me and for my family. However, it seems to be true that time does heal, or at least covers over, the worst of the horribly aching feelings that have invaded my whole being. I have to admit that I am reluctant even now to write about the depth of my feelings; they are very hard, if not impossible, to put into words. These feelings are much too emotional to talk about, but they have to come out somehow, so here they are.

The worst thing that you could imagine happening, happened on August 29, 2011. Our niece was murdered by her boyfriend. I know murders happen much too frequently; but it doesn't happen to someone you know, much less to someone in your family. It hurts way too much to talk about, even to those you love, and who loved and knew the person who was killed. But I know that my sister-in-law needs to talk about her beautiful daughter, needs to know that others share her pain (although we do not feel it as deeply as she does), needs to know that we, too, will never forget. But I find myself unable to speak for fear of saying the wrong thing; I am afraid of hurting her more deeply than she has already been hurt, even though I know that is impossible.  Maybe writing about this will make it a bit easier for me to help her, for her to know that I am here if she needs me.