Bangles and Colorful Cloth for Ma…#312

Image result for Old American Indian Women 1850

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 helps raise me and she taught me the way, and as her mind begins

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. 

[Repost]

Copyright©2012.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

The Baby’s Not Crying…#311

Two-Pen Log Cabin – by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

~ THE BABY’S NOT CRYING ~

A Short Story by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

On a cold March day, in a cold damp room, soft moans came from the young woman lying on the bed; a live skeleton covered with pale flesh, beneath her  a cornhusk mattress covered with a collection of old newspapers and a worn out sheets  made from bleached flour sacks.  She had no choice but to wait for the reality of giving birth to an unwanted child.  Her strength gone, she looked out the window at the moon; it appeared to be hanging on an invisible thread in the early morning darkness.  She prayed to who she thought may be holding the moon in place; another invisible person like herself…GOD.  In the waning March moonlight tears fell from the corner of her eyes as the unbearable pain finally ended.  She looked toward the motionless baby at the foot of the rusty iron bed; maybe it was dead, she heard no crying.  

“Miss Ruth you has a baby girl.” Allimay Schumaker was a neighbor and a mid-wife she whispered softly as she tried to place the baby in her mother’s arms. 

“Get it away from me,” the sound came between clenched teeth, like a caged animal yet it was only a whisper. 

Mrs. Schumaker tried again to place the baby in her mothers’ arms, “She so tiny Miss Ruth, I doubt she will live don’t you want to hold her”?

                “Get it away from me”!                                

Ruth Viola White married in early May seven years before, she was a socially inexperience girl of nineteen who had never been out of Morgan County, Alabama.  Raised on a farm she knew that sex brought on babies.  It was her first time, and she became pregnant.  She sat up on the back seat of Aubrey Drivers old car that Roy a man that she had known for a few weeks.  I was her first time, she was nineteen and her parents were going to kill her.   She insisted on getting married, the next morning in fear she rode with this handsome stranger and his friend Aubrey to Somerville, Alabama where they married, May 7, 1932.  There would be no argument from the twenty-nine year old whiskey runner; he had been shot at enough in his lifetime.  He came to Morgan County to hide from the law who wanted him all the way from Birmingham, Alabama to Chicago, Illinois.

Eight and half months later, Ruth had a healthy baby girl, she called her Billie Wayne; a name that no one had heard of, maybe someone she really loved. Ruth settled into the life of a farm helper’s wife, the little girl that ran beside her all day was beautiful, intelligent and the love of Ruth’s life.  She hand sewed her clothes from printed flour sacks and lace given to her by neighbors; with a perfect child she did not want other children, she had hopes and dreams and they could not be accomplished with more than one child.  In fact she did not want the husband that she did not know, but this was the South, in 1932, you married for life. 

Ruth came from wealth that was gone by the time that she became the oldest of nine children.  She knew what having money meant, and she knew that her husband would never provide it for her plowing fields and planting cotton.  Ruth swore that she would one day have the respect that money could buy.  She would hold onto the dream that would never materialize for her and her child?  She held her new husband away as much as she could, he was a shy individual and his respect for women kept him at bay.

In July of 1938, Ruth found herself pregnant again; the hate was so severe that bile rose in her throat.  How could this happen to her, the dreams for a future began to fade.  Taking a dollar from their money jar she left Billie with a neighbor, Mrs. Schumaker and walked the rocky path down Burleson Mountain to where the old lady Ruby Ragsdale lived.  Everyone thought she was a “witch”.  The talk was that this old woman could mix a drink of bitter herbs that would do away with a pregnancy.  Ruth was unyielding in her need to continue get rid of the baby and she would continue to drink it after she lost the baby making  certain, no more babies, Billie was the only child she had ever wanted and she would be the only child she would ever have.

After a few weeks when Ruth found herself still pregnant she continued to drink the poison bitter herbs hoping it would get rid of it, she ate enough to survive and take care of Billie and the old log house they lived in.  Her thoughts were, if she starved herself, she would starve the thing inside of her. 

Ruth, still in pain felt the tiny blob slide out of her.  She did not know if the baby was early or not, it was here and it was breathing.   She vowed that she would not care for it and she would not be a mother to it.  Ruth heard Mrs. Schumaker leave the room, she turned over and let the horror she had been through take over her mind.  She did not know if she was praying to God or the Devil she hoped it would be possible that her prayer s would be heard, and this thing on the bed would die?

A barrel in the yard filled with burning wood shot flames into the morning air. The soiled bedcovers and the baby’s lifeline to its mother crackled as it fell upon the sizzling wood.  Stirring the barrel with an old poking stick Mrs. Schumaker walked toward the breezeway separating the sleeping room from the room used for cooking.  The house set in the middle of a cotton field located on top of Burleson Mountain, the logs were gray from age, built in the early-eighteen hundreds.  Fieldstone fireplaces in the rooms were used for heat and cooking.  However, Mrs. Schumacher admired Miss Ruth for turning the old place into a home for her child and Mr. Roy too. 

Mrs. Schumaker returned, picked up the baby paused for a moment pulling back the cover from her face; two dark blue eyes stared back at her, curly dark hair curled around the baby’s shoulders; it was time to meet her daddy.  Giving a heavy sigh she crossed the breezeway and walked through the door.

 Roy Brown-Hawk sat on a handmade chair in front of the fireplace in the cooking room.    He worried about his wife, and his new baby; his biggest fear, losing one or both of them.  He had sat there for hours, he heard no moaning or cries of pain, the silence between the two rooms was still like an unmoving fog.  Perhaps both his baby and his wife were dead. 

Quietly Mrs. Schumaker came into the room, so softly that not one board creaked from the weight of her colossal body, she smiled, holding out the tiny bundle.   

 “Mr. Roy, you have a baby girl, dark hair just like you” she gently laid the baby in his rough work worn hands.  He had rubbed lard into them all morning trying to make them softer knowing he might hold the baby.  He laughed as he pulled back the covers from the tiny bundle so small she fit in one hand.  Her little feet fell to his wrist and her neck rest on the tips of his fingers.  She was the tiniest baby he had ever seen.

 “Mr. Roy you need to get ready to maybe lose this little one, she is so small, I am worried about her and Miss Ruth she got no milk, and she don’t want her”.  Mrs. Schumaker stood wringing her hands together dabbing at her eyes with the edge of her white apron. While Roy held the baby Mrs. Schumaker told him how to make a “sugar tit”,” I see you got clean white rags in a box in the other room, cut a small piece, wet it and put a spoon full of sugar in the middle; twist it until the end looks like a nipple on a tit”.

“I’m telling you Mr. Roy, I am sorry but I doubt she will live, her little lungs are not ready for breathing; I’m afraid she will die before she can feel her mama’s touch, it is so sad not wanting your own baby”.  She looked at the baby, silently praying while her thoughts wondered.

Allimay Schumaker knew all of the White family, they were all pretty uppity, thought they were better than most people.   Old Massa Robert White Miss Ruth’s grand pappy was a Captain in the Confederate States of America.   He bought land all over Morgan County before and after the War; he owned the Mercantile Store in Hartselle, Alabama and a large Plantation not too far from town.  His land holdings below Burleson Mountain  was about two-thousand acres stretched from Rural Grove Road south under the Bluff, north to the Pool Bottoms that edged the Tennessee River backwaters  and west to Flint Creek, of this land he deeded five-hundred acres over to his daughter  Ira Mae and her husband Prentiss White  when they got married.   He built them a big house because he wanted lots of grandchildren.  He lived long enough to regret his decision.

Miss Ruth’s daddy Prentiss White was the son of Robert and Annie Weston; Robert served in the War as well.  He was comfortable after the war, but never acquired the wealth of the Whites.  Ruth many times referred to her daddy as a whoremonger.  Prentiss drank chased women and sold off the five-hundred acres of prime land to grow cotton bit-by-bit, he was too lazy to work and this would provide him with an income; by the time Miss Ruth married he had about five acres for corn, a ten acre pasture where he rented out for beef cattle to the owner of a tire dealership in Decatur, Alabama, E.G, Hamilton; he had the barn and the house on Rural Grove Road.  A big garden, chickens, pigs and milk cows to help feed the family.  They made a living off the land they had but no more.

Mrs. Schumaker knew about life taking a sad and depressing turn for Ruth when she got pregnant; but within eight months she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.  She placed all of her time and energy on Billie.  She treated Mr. Roy like an outsider and spoke down to him, now after seven years he spoke only when she spoke to him.   Mrs. Schumaker wondered if the disgrace of her daddy, their being poor or being a field hand for him and the caretaker of the family made her horrible and mean spirited.  The whimper from the tiny bundle in Mr. Roy’s hand brought her back to the present.

   “Well Mr. Roy she is all clean and you need to call out Miss Ruth’s Uncle; that Doctor White from Hartselle”.  She repeated herself dabbing at her eyes; “Miss Ruth shore don’t want this baby”. 

“Well, I have to go, if you need me ring the dinner bell on the porch somebody will hear it.  I have to go take care of my family; by the way, I’ll keep Miss Billie for a few days”.   

   “Thank you Mrs.  Schumaker, I’ll be lying in a cord of wood for you helping Ruth”, Roy sat staring at the tiny life he held in his hands no more than twelve inches long and maybe two pounds.   

Allimay Schumaker had nine children of her own, one more would not matter; she glanced in one more time on the lifeless woman on the bed.

She closed the door walked slowly up the narrow rutted road that lead to her house.  She and her husband William had lived on Burleson land since their birth; both families had lived there for generations.   Old Massa bought slaves but never sold them off, the old William was bought from the Schumaker Plantation, he was her husband’s granddaddy and he kept the name of his former owner.   Allimay family had been on the Burleson Plantation for a long as she could remember; families born there remain together for a life time.   Old Massa was a General in the War Between the States; it was a mystery how the Plantation survived, but his son kept it going, always believing the old South would someday return.  Before she knew it, Allimay was surrounded by screaming happy children including Miss Billie.  Now, to take care of the Schumaker brood.

Roy shook his head bringing himself back to reality; Ruth had gotten rid of the baby bed years ago, announcing that she did not want any more children.  He lay the baby down on the fireplace hearth, going into the other room to search for a box.  He found an old boot box, returning to the baby never looking at his wife.  Ruth chose starvation trying to lose the baby, it made her weak and her meanness came out.  He could not force her to eat, and he believes that her method may have worked as he stood looking down at the result of her starvation.

Ruth lay still on the bed, pretending to be asleep so she would not have to look at Roy, she knew “it” was alive and wished it would die.  The watery blue liquid dripping from her breast did not bother her, she remembered the rich milk she had for Billie, but the memory did not soften her thoughts.  She closed her eyes and fell into a fretful sleep.

Roy weighed the baby with a two-pound cotton pee and the she could not pull it down to measure, the baby was less than two pounds.  Cotton pee, a bell like objects with a hook on it; was made of solid steel.  A measuring bar would have a sack of cotton on one end and a pee of various weights put on the other to measure the cottons weight; this time the scale did not budge. 

The Bown-Hawk’s and Schumacher’s, they all tried to survive the miserable days following the depression.  Roy worked for Mr. Burleson, one of the wealthiest men in Morgan County; the land that their old log house stood on was Burleson land and at one time housed slaves that worked the land.  They used the same well, the same chicken house and stanchion for the cow; the only difference in the house floors had been laid in several years ago. 

Roy believed that Mr. Burleson respected him, he was a hard worker, and the land he worked yielded more than most who sharecropped.  Time had not taken away the horror brought upon those long ago tenants; most people in the south continued to believe that Indians and Negro’s were lower than the animals on the land.

Roy returned to the baby in his hands, he stoked at the fire his thoughts wandered again toward the time when he first met Ruth.  She was at a local Roadhouse in Flint, Alabama with her sister Emma Sue.  Emma was out on the dance floor having a good time; Ruth sat at a table in the back of the room hoping no one would see her.  She and Emma Sue had slipped out after their parents were asleep; Emma Sue had a boyfriend; they would meet at the bottom road below Burleson Mountain.  If they were caught, it would be Ruth that got beat. She would be told that she should know better, not Emma Sue.  She did not look like she wanted any company.  Roy had known of the place for years, it was one of his stops when he was running whisky from South Alabama to Chicago, Illinois.  No one could have told him then that he would have a wife and two daughters a few years later on that early March morning. 

He had come to Morgan County because of Ma, his grandmother.  His last run was a bad one, his car had been shot up by Tennessee law enforcement, and he had barely got away from them.   People hired him to run whiskey, every law throughout five states was paid off except them ole boys in Tennessee, and they did not take bribes!  He drove through Tennessee with his speed surpassing the power of any car and put the needle on his dash out of sight.  He would laugh every time he told that story.  Ma was right he needed to lay low for a while; it had been his dream to return to Birmingham to play baseball for the Birmingham Black Bears, a minor team.  No one knew that it was him driving the car, no one knew his name.  That was all gone, playing baseball lay dead in his past he had responsibilities now!  

Ruth lay on the cornhusk mattress in the other room thinking of Billie, she was the only child that she wanted.  Ruth had nine brothers and sisters, she help deliver most of them and raised them until the day her mama kicked her out for marrying Roy.  Ruth had hope to stop at giving birth to one child, she was tired of being poor; she wanted to make a better life by going to work.  She lay crying thinking that maybe her strength would return so she could take care of herself and Billie, for days she still held onto the idea that this baby would die. 

 Ruth could not help but think of Roy’s sister Vina, she hated her and the fact that her husband’s half sister lived well made it worse; Vina was a beautician that owned her own shop in Birmingham, Alabama.  Her husband Wesley worked for a Birmingham steel mill and brought home good money, Ruth was envious and she did not care who knew it.

Vina had always thought that Ruth had not planned Billie either.  Vina believed that Ruth found herself pregnant after a few roadhouse visits with her sister, after meeting Roy.  She let it slip one day that once she had sex, and being a virgin, she insisted Roy marry her.  Roy was the kind of man that he did just that, and Billie had been born eight months and two weeks after they married.  Roy had not planned a child either.  His dream did not lie in the cotton fields of Northern Alabama.  Nevertheless, he was a decent man, and he thought this was the right thing to do.

Ruth appeared disappointed that the baby had survived such a difficult birth.  She was very ill herself, both physically and mentally; unhappy that she had another child, one she did not want.  She could not think about it any longer, she rolled over falling into a fretful sleep; maybe when she woke she hoped that she would have a funeral to attend. 

Old Doc White, Ruth’s Uncle came after the day after the baby was born; he was her  mother’s brother lived and practice medicine in Hartselle, Alabama, and he traveled all over Morgan County attending people who could not get to him.  He said the baby was too small but seems healthy enough and Ruth was despondent as many mothers are after delivering a baby.  He said only time could help his niece or the baby.   He left saying he would register the baby’s birth when he returned to Hartselle.  Absent minded as he was, he registered a no name baby girl.  His niece had said she would not name a dead baby.

Ruth chose not to have anything to do with the baby; she left it up to Roy to care for her.  Their oldest daughter, Billie tried to help but the ability to care for a tiny baby and her mother was possible.  

Roy could see that it was impossible to leave Ruth, Billie and a baby to work the fields.  He walked a few days later to the Schumacher’s and called his sister Vina.  She came that night to stay with him for a few days.  Vina had given birth to baby girl born only weeks before, the baby was stillborn.  She and her husband Wesley had two boys, Everett and Jimmy, and they hearts could hardly conceive losing her.  She was in mourning, but she loved her brother and he needed help.  Vina knew that Ruth did not care for her but she always tried to overlook her actions.  When she arrived, she found Ruth despondent and Roy worried, both were at odds with each other.  Ruth had refused to try nursing or care for her baby.  Now she was upset that Vina was there, within days, Roy agreed that the baby could return to Birmingham with Vina.  Vina, left with the baby in a boot box stuffed with cotton from the nearby field and covered with several flour sacks for a blanket, Ruth had not prepared any clothes or diapers.  It would be several years before Roy would return to his sister’s to bring his baby home, that would also be on a warm March day.

March is a beautiful month in Northern Alabama.  The buttercups, lilac and forsythia bushes were blooming around the Two-Pen cabin Roy called home.   Kudzu vines would have covered the makeshift chicken house and the “Outhouse”.  Beyond, a small barn surrounded by razor sharp Johnson grass bordered acres of freshly plowed ground waiting to nurture the seeds growing into what the south called white gold … cotton.  

Copyright©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Author’s work located at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com

Sanity and Sorrow…#301

Sanity and Sorrow…

Evidence clear about an unwanted Soul,

upon conception the possessor wanted

to cast it away, fear or greed.  One life

could not see a future, yet starvation

by the mother did not kill the seed,  

fear or self-greed.

Why did the tiny Soul survive, destiny

or fate; it survived a life without love

never held by the mother with her

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 mothers’

 anger ran so deep, to the moment it

 laid the mother in the ground.  Truth

in its abandonment never found, this

abused Soul tries to remember that

sanity and sorrow are closely bound.

©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

#Mother #Tomorrow #Journey #Hate

#Soul #Greed

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Doom…(Free Style Poetry)#257

Doom…

Somewhere outside everyone’s door is the gateway to the city of doom; the door leads to another sphere of everlasting pain, mentally and physically.  If you walk willingly, and confident you may be able to handle the tragedy waiting.  Tucked deep inside your confidence is fear; within the fear are secret things, distrust and lies.

The darkness is the most evil; or a blood red moon framed by the stars.  Strange tongues are heard frightful and shrill, filled with anger.  Fear fills souls, even the depths of hell may refuse them and they will be lost forever in the darkness.

Is there hope in death, will there be memories of the earth of the lives that remain behind? Souls cry loudly, their tears flow like the waterfalls of time.  Will there be rebirth, blaspheming is terrible in the wailing of fate.

A bitter flood rushes the consciousness of nearing doom.  It is in darkness that some are given a second chance to feel the love of God upon their faces. If they refuse the ground breaks from beneath the feet of lost souls, they sink into a senseless dark dreadful shore. 

©2021.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Journey Back…#252

Image result for image split paths

Leave Yesterday Behind…

At the edge of the woods lay two paths

One lead to the future, the other to the

Past.  I peered into the woods to see

What lay beyond, one path seem short the

Other long.

One path lead to a meadow it was long

Well worn, a far-away meadow, the journey

Would be fast.  The other less traveled, covered

With growth I could not see where it

Would go, it was the one into the future,

That I know.

Down in the meadow were creeks, old

Houses, pets and people I knew from

The past, I was confident that I could

Travel with ease this well-worn path.

 I looked into the woods and let out a

Sigh, and stepped into the unknown,

I did not know why.  I took one more look

At the past, in truth I knew that I could

Never go back.

The future, was where my destiny I would

Find, it was time to move on, it was time to

to move on, it was time to leave yesterday

behind?

©2011.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Books by Author: Amazon.com and Barnes&Nobel.com

(In USA and 12 countries abroad)

Flying with Broken Wings: The Life Story of Charlotte Jean Murphree: Johnson-Murphree, Elizabeth Ann: 9781547051328: Amazon.com: Books

Fragments of Time: Bits and Pieces of the Time I have lived in?: Johnson-Murphree, Elizabeth Ann: 9781981472147: Amazon.com: Books

Rhythm Rhyme and Thoughts: A decade of poetry: Johnson-Murphree, Elizabeth Ann: 9781723433054: Amazon.com: Books

A Sachet of Poetry: Adoration Aspirations Anger Asylums: Johnson-Murphree, Ann: 9781500483357: Amazon.com: Books

Reflections of Poetry: Johnson-Murphree, Ann: 9781500168643: Amazon.com: Books

Beyond the Voices: Johnson-Murphree, Ann: 9781500426705: Amazon.com: Books

Honeysuckle Memories: Johnson-murphree, Ann: 9781500290702: Amazon.com: Books

Echoing Images from the Soul: A Journey into the Soul: Johnson-Murphree, Ann: 9781500366810: Amazon.com: Books

Asterial Thoughts: A Journey into a Life, Thought and Fear: Johnson-Murphree, Ann: 9781540862358: Amazon.com: Books

Rutted Roads: A Collections of Poems: Johnson-Murphree, Ann: 9781532909368: Amazon.com: Books

A Passage into Madness: A State of Frenzied Activity: Johnson-Murphree, Elizabeth Ann: 9781688948990: Amazon.com: Books

Flying with Broken Wings…#247

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=elizabeth+ann+johnson-

Flying with Broken Wings

Author Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree books at: Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com

Flying with Broken Wings is about the life of Charlotte Jean Murphree. Charlotte was not a famous person, in fact, not too many people knew her, but those that did knew there were many facets to her life. The book tells of fifty-two-years of daily testing of her will to carry on and the misfortune she faced. As a baby and young girl she was made fun of and bullied by schoolchildren, her progress was slow but she never gave up the fight to overcome her disabilities. As an adult, she fought physical disability of Cerebral Palsy, living with Bipolar, Depression and Schizophrenia disorders. She lived not only with these disabilities, she endured the “Voices” that lived within her for over thirty years. This book is about the beginning, the middle and the end of her life.

Books by Author at Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com:

Fragments of Time

A Passage into Madness

Asterial Thoughts

A Sachet of Poetry

Rutted Roads

Rhythm Rhyme and Thoughts

Reflections of Poetry

Beyond the Voices

Honeysuckle Memories

Echoing Images from the Soul

A Journey into the Soul

©2020.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Mason has crossed the “Rainbow Bridge”…#231

My loving baby, four-legged companion crossed the Rainbow Bridge Sunday, August 21, life will never be the same without this loving face. He got sick quickly and passed quickly, for that I am thankful. I will be gone for a few days, but I will return so stay tuned for the next chapter of my life. Mason loved and was loved by all who knew him.

Have fun my darling keeping up with your four legged cousins that have gone on before.

Love MaMa

This is a picture on the cover of a book I published just for me, I do not expect you to buy a copy, I just wanted you to his how sweet he could be with no-one is looking.

Mason Murphree January 31,2012 – August 21,2020

The Rainbows Bridge Poem
Rainbow Bridge.comJust this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water, and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together….

Author unknown…

#memoir #friendship #Dogs #Animals $#Furbabies

Brianna’s Pond…#222

Image result for Ponds
Current working draft of a new book…scene set in the Deep South, love does not have any boundaries, race or age.   Brianna Youngblood is dying and Jesse her niece has come home to care for her.

Brianna’s Pond…

Jesse Brianna Youngblood walked into the lobby of the Ayers Hotel in Birmingham, Alabama; her body went ridged, childhood fears returned as she stopped in front of the elevator doors.   The doors opened, she shut her eyes tight and walked quickly through them, she did not need to look to know that the tarnished brass rail was next to her; feeling ashamed that after more than thirty years she still associated the old elevator with a tragic time in her life.

An elderly man walked in behind her, waited for a few moments then began clearing his Throat.

“Young lady are you going to just stand there with your eyes closed or do you intend to select a floor?”  The voice dripped of southern politeness laced with attitude.

“I’m sorry sir, the tenth floor please.”   Her voice apologetic Jesse could feel his irritability, but she kept her eyes closed.

She was not going to surrender her hold on the railing, he reached out selected his floor and pushed the button for the top floor as well.  The antiquated elevator cables creaked and groaned as Jesse counted each floor that passed, then it stopped on the ninth floor; the old man grumbled under his breath as he got off, she was going to see the old woman.   Then the intimidating climb continued but Jesse was excited to be back, it had been five years since her aunt made the decision to change the building from the old hotel to apartments; of course, her Aunt Biana still occupied the entire top floor or penthouse as some tenants refers to it.

Finally, the doors opened and so did her eyes, she stepped quickly into the entrance hall where nothing had changed.  Her aunt, owner of the hotel decided five years earlier to have it renovated into apartments; but the tenth floor was like stepping back into time.   Mirrors in gilded frames, drawings of known and unknown artists lined the walls; colossal vases filled with multicolored plumes stood tall like sentries at the entrance door.  Time had left its mark on everything, the building, maybe the life beyond the door.  Jesse did not know what she was going to find on the other side, but she was home.

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Author’s books at Barnes & Nobel.com and  Amazon.com

Poetry – Streets of Wickedness…#220

Harlot Clothing

Harlots cry into the night, wandering through the streets, offering themselves.   They are hungry and their stomach rumbles with the deafening sounds of the city, some cry and wail, needing to eat. 

They peddle their wares and another owns their soul.  The misery they endure leaves their hearts cold. 

On this night many of the harlots feel they are cursed, others that did not survive will take their last ride, in the undertaker’s hearse.

©2020.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Native American Ancestors – Battles and Beliefs…#180

1.Wandering-desert Women
Acrylics on Canvas – By Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

 

Native American Ancestors – Battles and Beliefs

I had made the statement that “The Americans stole the land from the Native Americans, just as the Native Americans stole the land from those before them”. The current question is “Who did the Native Americans steal land from”? Only each other!

Native Americans were stealing land from one another, and killing one another long before others sailed to what is today known as America. Taking land by conquest was a part of Native American culture. Creek Indians conquered land from Choctaws and Chickasaws and other Creeks. Comanche’s came in and took the land from the Apaches by war, as so on.   The Cheyenne and Comanche took a lot of land away from other Indians when they got the horse. The Blackfeet, Nez Pierce, and Crow continually fought over the same land in Idaho and Wyoming. American Indians both stole, and had land stolen. The Apache stole every “thing” from everybody.

Columbus thought he was in India because of how similar the Natives appearance to the Persians, thus history tells us that Columbus discovered America. However, America is named after Amerigo Vespucci, the Italian explorer who set forth the then revolutionary concept that the lands that Christopher Columbus sailed to in 1492 were part of a separate continent. A map created in 1507  was the first to depict this new continent with the name “America,” a Latinized version of “Amerigo.”

My ancestors were Chickasaw in Southeast America, living between the Atlantic, the Gulf of Mexico. In the area of the Mississippi River. They inherited the Mississippian culture period that lasted from AD 700- 1600. The natives of the regions spoke a number of different languages that included Choctaw, Chickasaw, Apalachee, Creek, Seminole, and Alabama.

The Natives of the Southeast both grew food and were hunter-gathers. The main items of their diets included cornbread, grits, tomatoes, sweet potatoes, and corn. They were able to catch rabbits, hogs, turkey, raccoons and deer. The religious beliefs of the Native Americans of the Southeast were similar to the rest of the Native Americans. They believed in Animism, the belief that objects, places and creatures all possess a distinct spiritual essence. Potentially, animism perceives all things—animals, plants, rocks, rivers, weather systems, human handiwork and perhaps even words—as animated and alive.

We as humans would have done well to continue keeping Animism in all religions, with this belief, we would have respected everything and each other, creating a better America.

However, this is just my opinion!

 

EAJM

 

Authors Books at Amazon.com and Barns&Nobel.com

 

https://www.amazon.com/Flying-Broken-Wings-Charlotte-Murphree/dp/1547051329/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107137&sr=8-1

 

https://www.amazon.com/Cherished-Memories-Life-Mason-Murphree/dp/1722763744/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107373&sr=8-2

 

https://www.amazon.com/Passage-into-Madness-Frenzied-Activity/dp/1688948996/ref=sr_1_3?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107529&s=books&sr=1-3

 

https://www.amazon.com/Fragments-Time-Bits-Pieces-lived/dp/1981472142/ref=sr_1_4?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107558&s=books&sr=1-4

 

https://www.amazon.com/Rhythm-Rhyme-Thoughts-decade-poetry/dp/1723433055/ref=sr_1_5?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107582&s=books&sr=1-5

 

https://www.amazon.com/Echoing-Images-Soul-Journey-into/dp/1500366811/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107627&s=books&sr=1-1-fkmr0

 

https://www.amazon.com/Journey-into-Art-Johnson-Murphree-2014-07-28/dp/B019NRG4YG/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_2?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107665&s=books&sr=1-2-fkmr0

 

https://www.amazon.com/Honeysuckle-Memories-Ann-Johnson-murphree-2014-07-02/dp/B019L4LL1W/ref=sr_1_fkmr1_1?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107698&s=books&sr=1-1-fkmr1

 

https://www.amazon.com/Reflections-Poetry-Ann-Johnson-Murphree-2014-06-20/dp/B01A0CW1FO/ref=sr_1_fkmr1_2?dchild=1&keywords=elizabeth+ann+johnson-murphree&qid=1586107724&s=books&sr=1-2-fkmr1