The Vines…

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The Vines…

Beneath the small caves in my home place, Burleson Mountain everyone knows, the rich greenery that abundantly grows. Rocks, buildings, fences, the fields; a smothering vine with no special appeal.

Visitors to the land are amazed at how it frames the caves; to a southerner it is like a pest that will not go away. The vine attaches itself to anything; it 88is not particular it does not care a thriving sort that grows everywhere.

Worthless, you cannot eat it; it is never big enough to give you a shade. Yet it does have its own beauty as its greenery cascades over the side of the rocky cliff below the caves. It adds beauty to the tops of tarpaper shacks; entwines the cotton stalk a problem for pickers with a sack on his back.

People who live where the Kudzu grows have made their peace with this dark green neighbor, they understand. It is deep-rooted deep in the south’s history, when you think of Kudzu…you think of Dixie Land.

 

******

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Kudzu is not a southerners friend. It’s like the shadows of evening melting into the Eastern sky. It has no practical use, maybe it does as it hangs around forever covering anything that does not move.  Maybe there is one good use, Kudzu Root Benefits. Kudzu root has been given the honor of helping reduce the painful effects of a hangover, though it seems that if overused, it could be more harmful than good. However, studies have shown that it may help reduce alcoholism

 
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Bangles and Colorful Cloth for Ma…

 

3.ANNA-Mother and ChildNative American Mother and Child

Pencil Drawing

5X7

 

Bangles and Colorful Cloth for Ma…
“Dedicated to my Great-Grandmother ”
When I was born, you were young ninety-years old, your hair pulled tight at the nap of your neck, still black and bold. At night, you let it down to braid before you went to bed, it fell to the floor; at first I would watch in silence from the crack in the door. The night you caught me I was six, you called me into the room smiling…asking that I bring you a single broomstick. I quickly plucked it from mother’s only broom, and rushed back into the dimly lit room. You showed me how to break it into small pieces; when I looked bewildered your smile accented all of your dark wrinkles and creases.

It was then that my eyes opened wide as you put the stick right through the lob of your ears, its magic I thought; but this is my great-grandmother I have nothing to fear. As a child, I did not realize that there was a hole, because when I would touch the bangles on her ear, she would quickly scold. Just like the time when I tried to sneak a peek at her button up shoes by raising the hem of her long dress, she did not have on shoes, there were moccasins on those tiny feet…who would have guessed. Yes, I was only a child without a care, and I spent many hours sitting at the foot of her old rocking chair.

I never tire of the stories she would tell, sometimes we cried together and now I can say it…as a child she lived in a white man’s world, she called it “hell”. Her parents had walked on the “Trail of Tears”, proud and strong, with every step wondering where they had gone wrong. She help raise me and she taught me the way, and as her mind begin to wander in those later years, I was sad when she would tell her stories she only remembered the bad. This grand old woman dressed in bangles and cloths of many colors, with that big ball of hair and the nap of her neck was a great-grandmother like no other.

She died only days before her birthday, she would have been one-hundred and five, my father said, Ma would have scolded you while saying, and don’t you ever cry. I was fifteen-year old and the world was bright and colorful with the artwork of fall, a befitting day to bury this beautiful and proud Chickasaw.

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Ma, my great-great-grandmother and Aunt Francis help raise me; it was during a more simplistic time. My memories of them are treasures.  Drawing by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree
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Another spring for Aunt Francis…

18.Aunt Frances   Aunt Francis

1865-1965

13X18 Acrylic

Aunt Francis as she told me to call her lived on this earth over 100 years. Aunt France born in 1965 was born the daughter of slaves. She always thought herself as being watched over by the Angels, her mother and father were never sold, they were still together at the end of the War.
Her name was Sarah Francis; she came into my life when I was six years old. My daddy needed someone to watch over my great-grandmother and me while he was in the cotton fields. My mother worked in town and she would come home most times after we were all in bed and be gone before most of us got up.
Aunt Francis was a very old woman when she came to us. Daddy had gone to the cotton gin in Priceville, Alabama, pulling a trailer of cotton with his tractor. When he returns in the trailer, where the cotton once lay was Aunt Francis sitting in her old rocking chair. Beside her a huge trunk which held all of her worldly belongings. She lived in a little one room rustic shack near our house, which was three rooms, front and back porch, our house was known as a “tar paper” shack covered with a wrap siding that looked like brick. Fake brick!
My mother was very unhappy with the situation, very unhappy. She disliked Ma my daddy’s great grandmother living with us, Ma was a full-blooded Native American, Chickasaw. Now she had to put up with an old black woman. Daddy sometimes would say to me, “You know that your mama married beneath her upbringing”, I would be much older when I understood the implications of what he said. I also felt bad for my mother she had made the mistake of marrying one of the most handsome men in Alabama. Dark, strong, that kindness and love made her say “Yes”.
Therefore, I grew up learning how to act, live and survive; these lessons came from Ma and Aunt Francis. I was a young woman when I lost both of them. Ma along with my daddy had given me full knowledge of “The Ways” of their people, the nobility and strength. Aunt Francis gave me the meaning of life, to be alive and how to survive. She also, gave me the graciousness, and how a young woman should act. I doubt that I have lived up to their expectations of me, I have tried.
When I returned to Alabama to attend the funeral of Aunt Francis, it had to be one of the darkest days in my life. My daddy had taken care of her until the day she died. She moved into town when daddy left the farm, he rented her a place and paid her rent. He gave her spending money and brought groceries to her, bought from a list she prepared for him. My heart aches at the thought of how much she meant to us.
Later in life I painted a picture of Aunt Francis in Acrylics, I wanted her to be young and alive. I have the picture today. Then much later I begin to write poetry, naturally the piece created “Another Spring for Aunt Francis”. She did get one more spring after that last one, and I have to smile at remembering her huge body walking across the creaky boards of the old tarpaper shack. The long dress covered with a starched white apron. Most of all I remember her hugs and kisses, she loved me and I loved, still love her.

 

 
Another spring for Aunt Francis…

Her knees bend forward away from the worn out rocker, her legs getting their bearings while she made a puckered brow while looking out the window at the garden. Everything dies she said; soon the fragrance of spring will be gone.
She narrows her eyes looking into the hedgerow at the end of her flowerbed to see if the sparrow hawks have returned, slowly she turns keeping contact with the old chair, holding onto its worn arms. After one-hundred listless summers, her soul still feeds on emotions of the stillness of the sweet-scented honeysuckle growing around her front porch.
Holding her breath she falls back into the chair, it shudders under her weight. She knows not to take her being able to stand for granted. Closing her eyes to rest, bible in hand, and her thoughts we none other than she could get back up another time, another spring. Maybe!

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Aunt Francis was as real as life itself, she lived day by day, singing her gospel songs. I wish that everyone could have had an Aunt Francis, maybe today could have been a different world. I am grateful. Someday I will write her story, she deserves that much.

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Removing History from School Textbooks…

 

REMOVING HISTORY FROM SCHOOLS

The state board of Education in Texas this past week voted to eliminate several historical figures, they were Hillary Clinton and Helen Keller, from the states social studies curriculum. A Texas Republican and member of that board recommended this elimination in a group called Essential Knowledge and Skills. In speaking to educators and others who give evidence these names were mentioned. This was a 15 member body reportedly came as an overall effort to streamline the states social studies curriculum.
Texas high school students have been required to learn about Clinton after the former first lady made history and 2016 I becoming the first woman to be the presidential nominee for a major party. Texas third grade students have also been required to learn about Helen Keller, who was the first deaf blind person to earn a Bachelor of Arts degree and later led a life of activism. This volunteer work group made this recommendation own that state requires children to learn about too many historical figures. Is it truly possible that our children can learn too much?
Therefore, the group went about grading historical figures to deem who was essential and who was not. This group would ponder things like whether the historical figure triggered a dividing line change or if he or she were from and under- represented group. On this 20 – point grading scale Clinton reportedly scored a five and Keller scored a seven. Although this vote is only preliminary this boards members were elected to represent specific geographical areas, a final vote will be in November.
The decisions where a few vote and represent an entire nation has gone rampant throughout the United States. Why are we allowing a few to govern what our children are to learn? I personally do not care if my children learn in school the value of counting calories; this should be done at home. I do not care if my children do not learn how to color with and the lines, these are trivial things that the schools teach and it should be taught at home. I believe it is important that reading writing and arithmetic be taught; history and anything about history should be taught in schools. Writing, proper writing should be taught in schools.

Throw away the calculators at home and in school, arithmetic should be taught in school. For the students wanting to have a higher education may need algebra, trigonometry, and calculus; in my chosen field, these were not needed. However, on some level even those subjects should be offered to all students.
Throughout time, from the oral history, carvings on rocks, paper and pen, typewriters, computers and voice machines, historical records of the events in this world was left for the future education of people.

It has been passed down through the generations; the stories have been treasured for centuries to remember a world and its events that would otherwise be forgotten. Occasionally, certain events and even people have simply been written out our forgot. Every event and every person is important, the line has to be drawn somewhere. Nevertheless, do we start that line with truly historical figures? Do we want to forget what Hillary Clinton has done for our country, or for what she has not done; least we not make the same mistake twice should it be forgotten. I will not even dignified removing an individual like Helen Keller from our school textbooks. She is a major accomplishment for the impaired, the handicap in any way, and what can be accomplished through teaching. As times goes on where we continue to do away with more history because we find it undesirable.
I want to add a personal note here; a member of my family married someone of German nationality. They had children, during a visit to the United States a move the was being shown on the Holocaust and the extermination of Jewish people. This individual said that his children could did not watch this movie as it was propaganda created by America against the Germans. This was not a statement made in 1945, it was a statement made in 1980. If the true history of this world is not taught in school or at home, deception to future generations will be rampant.
There are several things that I would like to point out; even the Romans literally used the words “the damning of a memory”. During a time when a heritage was held in higher regard than even life, a lifetime of achievement from books as if that individual our group of individuals never existed. This by Roman standards was reserved for the worst offender’s religious, political, disgraced members of affluent families.
Geta Severan and family, Geta attempted to divide his father’s kingdom. The Severan dynasty was a Roman imperial dynasty, which ruled the Roman Empire between 193 and 235. Geta was murdered, his wife executed, and all inscription with either of the two names was removed from history. Now one might say that this information is not important and should not be taught in school. However, because of my interest in history at some point I myself sought out this information, the same of situations can be found somewhere in our world of today. We can reference point back to the year 235 that families fought to win a provable our cause disgrace. I believe this is an important lesson a lesson that we have not learned in over 1500 years. Somewhere, learning this information might change one family, it would have been worth it.
Nikolai Yezhov was the enemy of Joseph Stalin, Nikolai was ruthless and feared. He himself among many angered the communist leaders. He was ousted, murdered and disgraced a long with his family and erased from photographs and books. He and his family was disgraced no one dared to utter his name. It was commonplace for the communist government to deny failures, inconvenient truths and even have people disappear. Yet, this history lived and all because among our history texts we discuss the lives of such people as Yezhov.
Few dictators in history have been recorded as bigger lunatics than the bloodline of Kim Jong-n. Truly upsetting politics have emerged from the secretive, totalitarian government. One is the cold-blooded murderer and deformation of anyone including family who opposes any official policy of the state.

Few dictators in recent history have been painted in the media as bigger lunatics than the bloodline of Kim Jong-n and his predecessors. Despite the grandstanding and often belligerent statements made by the current authorities, some truly upsetting policies have emerged from the secretive, totalitarian government. One such policy is of cold-blooded murder and defamation of anyone—including family—who opposes the official policy of the state. Current dictator Kim Jong-un, declared his own uncle a traitor and had him murdered. The man’s life was removed from all media in that country. The man who had enjoyed an inside position for years now officially never existed in the country of North Korea. It is in our texts, our findings, our research. This is a horrible individual do we not want our children to know about this, it is a lesson to be learned.
The Egyptians may have actually invented the practice of historical revision, no one knows for sure. Each new pharaoh sought to prove himself the superior of his predecessor, by demolishing all memory of a former king. The names of conquered rulers were literally chiseled out of their place in history. Sometimes entire bloodline, attending priest and even household pets were put today at, this served to and the traditions that people had followed before. Queen Hatshepsut was a peaceful queen who led a prosperous Egypt for 20 years after the death of her husband Thutmose I. When, Thutmose III inherited the throne, whether it was a personal grudge or a political move, Thutmose had all inscriptions removed, her statuses walled up are destroyed, her name was a raised from history.
We are fortunate that these things are now taught in school in higher education, do we want to start these practices all over again. The removal of prominent figures from history because a group of 15 people decided it was not necessary to be taught in school is disgraceful.
The War Between the States in the United States of America is horrible history, the years before, leading up to the Civil War were too horrible to think about let alone see pictures and movies depicting those times. However, this is history; let us not wipe it from the face of the earth as if it never happened. Instead of removing statues to remove from our sight, those things that make us sick. Leave them, as reminders of a time we hope will never come again. When I look or looked at the southern statues I do not see them as being glorified, I see them as a time when brother fought against brother, son fought against father, and the blood-soaked ground will never be forgotten.
Let us not remove history from our textbooks in America, let us teach even the more horrid history, lest we forget and make those same mistakes again.

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Research “History of the World”.

 
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Today is the Day…

 

9.Landscape #101

 

Today is the Day…

Today was the day, the day the light died, today is the winter of my life that has come to visit me. The remembrances of childhood, when the suns shafts filled every corner of my world. Today is one of many days that I could hear clearly the song of life. Time after time, I have felt reborn again, the rain fell gently on my face, and I felt renewed.

Today is the day that hands did not touch time, there are no ages to search, and I am by the sea, embedded with its salt and want no more than sleep. I am one single thing, one single movement, uniform in every way floating through the silent seasons.

Today is the first day of the center of my life; solitude fills me with both gratitude and agony. Songbirds soar letting their talents settle upon my soul, there is no longer any struggle to survive. The trials and tribulations of living have already been forgotten, I wait on the shore with an easy heart. Today is the day to remember, each hour destined only for me, and it waits with implacable sweetness like a flower in bloom. Yes, today is the day to rest and reflect on the goodness of time instead of the dire memories of time.

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Aristotle

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REMEMBERING 9/11…

My heart slows to an aching beat, my soul mourns for those lost and their families; America set aside all differences to come together during this tragedy.  America may get a little bent and the fabric of its citizens ripped; but she and all her children are GREAT, HUMBLE AND READY TO FIGHT ANYONE WHO WOULD HARM HER.  Today is for remembering.

 

 

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Freedom…

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Freedom…
He was a young man, bitter with his life and he did not suppress his tongue, life was arguments and questions. He needed no prompting; his waking hours seem devoted to causing weeping. He rarely laughed; he had a skill for creating pain, even in his passionate moments. His joy was to reign over his human possession, his wife. She would cease to have a will of her own, she was afraid and she obeyed.
To serve, to have no mind of her own, she too thought he owned her. Women were mistresses of his heart, yet there was no freedom for his own wife. She was not his equal, when he was with her his words brought new bleeding to her heart. He was only satisfied when he drew blood, his appetite for hurting never ceased.
Their vows he had broken thousands of times. His mouth foul and dishonest, an adulterous heart beat within his broad barrel chest. The past, his youth, his suffering, maybe at the hands of another. Had this brought him to this day? He was not true or kind; he felt no shame in the bruises he left behind. Among those who knew him, he could do no harm; these people did not know him.
She had not asked for pearls or rubies, and she did not ask that her blood be shed. His moods released terror in his path, and his wife lay like twisted metal after it had met with deadly winds. She felt no worth, or equalities, only the wrath of his sickly attempts to have her go mad.
His affections never tender. His wife like a lamb at the altar of his desires. Spirits sought her, he kept them at a cold distance, and it was he and only he that owned her. The scars of battle went unseen she was a caged animal. His victory did not make her weak; her bosoms may belong to him as he drank from the fountain of her youth. Her discipline held by grace, she vowed to never give in to the bond he commanded.
She tore loose from those bonds screaming, “Your fist no longer stings, my stomach no longer will live in knots, and my body will no longer be confined. Your torture inflames my spirit; I no longer cringe in shame. I will no longer suffer the pain; I will no longer live in shock or fear.”
She asks herself did her torturer have a soul; did he take an oath with the Devil? She did not weep, she did not cry, she did not show fear, “It is the last time,” she thought. She let the pills slide down her bruised troth; she was going to die. He would never let her leave him she could not escape the tragedy of her life. She would fall into a deep sleep from which she would not wake.
Her final thought danced across her dying mind; finally, she was free.

 

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: There is no easy way out of an abusive marriage or any relationship. The decision to leave such a marriage did not come quickly and the chosen solution had to be slow. Sleep from which one does not awake is never the right answer, however, where there is no other choice what is one to do. The goal, freedom was achieved.
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A Clandestine Life…

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A Clandestine Life…
A silhouette in the darkness walking away, a human being that believes love exists. The fear of parting hangs heavily in the air. A clandestine life revealed and dies!

 

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I wrote a short story about two people who lived within the secrecy of an affair. She believed that love did exist one must only search for it. He lived with the fear of being caught. She found that what she thought was love was only the need to be loved not pure physical love. He was caught and ended the affair, as pastor of a local church he lost more than secret love, his secret life exposed; he took his own life. The story died as well and all that was left was the words written in “A Clandestine Life”. My question, should I finish the story, is the idea believable?
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Fear or Greed…

 

Fear or Greed…
Evidence clear about an unwanted Soul, upon conception the vessel sheltering it wanted to cast it away, fear or greed. One life could not see a future; starvation did not kill the seed, fear or greed.

Why did the tiny Soul survive, destiny or fate; it survived a life without love never held by the one that should have loved her; their heart filled with hate. The new Soul born within a life of oppression from the moment of birth; scared and burdened with emotional wounds throughout its journey on earth.

All of its tomorrows’ found the Soul’s path long and steep; it searched a lifetime to find out why the insane anger ran so deep. Truth in its abandonment never found; this abused Soul tried to remember that sanity and sorrow are closely bound.

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
AUTHOR’S NOTE: There may be no one to love you but you!  Love thyself and do not waste time on what might have been and was not.
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Feathered Angels…

 

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Feathered Angels…

I have enough memories from the past to last me for the rest of my life. My unstinted memory will not bury them so deep that I cannot bring them to the surface in a moment’s notice.

In the deep recesses of my mind, I see a small country church, a chorus of crows; the splashing sounds of the brook running through the Birch trees. The wind caressing the colossal row of Oaks in the field. All memories from my early days.

I see death, going down the road moving away from the weathered house of worship, a wagon that carried my beloved great-grandmother; I envisioned it being followed by feathered angels. No longer will the little branch of water beneath the Birch taste fresh and cool, nor will the winds surrounding the Oaks in the pasture embrace warm flesh.

I relive a sad memory, my great-grandmother’s heart had been silenced, and the rocker on the porch stilled, no hand wave’s goodbye. In a cobwebbed corner of the room where she slept, the sun shines through a cloudy window, as the image of tattered curtains dance in a nearby cracked mirror. Everyone we love soon leaves us. Sitting on the steps of that old weathered church, I have but one memory it is that childhood is dead.

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
AUTHOR’S NOTE: My Native American great-grandmother lived 105 years 1849 – 1954. She lived through 23 presidents. American Indian Wars; Civil War; Red River and Pine Ridge; Spanish American War; Philippine-American War; Crazy Snake Rebellion; Battle of Ganghwa-Korea; WWI; WWII; Korean; and her last battle with death 1954. She was raised Chickasaw in the Black Warrior Forest Alabama. Worked on a Plantation; Lived in Slave Quarters; Lived a prominent life in Birmingham Alabama and Died in the arms of her grandson, my daddy.
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