tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27423358887165013352024-02-26T00:46:18.071-08:00Meandering Moody MemoriesThe Sunset Years - A blog of memories and thoughts after living over 70 years. Our generation lived through more cultural and technological changes than any other generation. We lived through WWII, Korea, Viet Nam, Desert Storm, Afghanistan, and Iraq. We participated in the Civil Rights Revolution, going from the back of the bus to the Presidency of the United States of America. It has been some ride.Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-635294310140454712014-01-15T16:16:00.000-08:002014-01-15T16:20:59.963-08:00Images of South AfricaAfter Mr. Mandela died, I decided to republish our book on our memories of South Africa from 1991-1995. We went to present Mr. Mandela his honorary degree from the University of Michigan after he was released from prison. It was a life-changing experience, and we returned many times to work with the universities in South Africa. You can read the entire book online. <br />
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<a href="http://www.blurb.com/b/5001813-images-of-south-africa?ce=blurb_ew&utm_source=widget" style="margin: 12px 3px;" target="_blank">Images of South Africa by Christella and Charles D. Moody, Sr.</a> | <a href="http://www.blurb.com/landing_pages/bookshow?ce=blurb_ew&utm_source=widget" style="margin: 12px 3px;" target="_blank">Make Your Own Book</a></div>
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Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-30556007010401996812013-10-18T15:39:00.000-07:002013-10-18T15:39:47.919-07:00Character Surmounting AgeEarlier this week I read an article that reviews two movies that prompted me to think about how everyday we all fight to survive. Solomon Northup in <i>12 Years a Slave</i> is fighting to survive slavery, and the nameless yachtsman in <i>All is Lost</i> is fighting to survive in a cruel ocean.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><a href="http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/cinema/2013/10/21/131021crci_cinema_denby?currentPage=1">http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/cinema/2013/10/21/131021crci_cinema_denby?currentPage=1</a></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In the article, Denby states, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 25px;">Now seventy-seven, Redford is in great shape, (in the movie "All is Lost") and the cheekbones and the jaw, despite a wrinkled shell, have held up—a visual sign of character surmounting age.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 25px;"> </span></span></i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I saw the phrase, "character surmounting age," I realized that's what we desire in our senior years. Our character can surmount aging. We want our character to be of such a high level that our age and wrinkles won't matter. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandfather, James Terrell, born in Georgia.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">While I want to see <i>12 Years a Slave</i>, I have difficulty watching anything about slavery. I am reading the book (a true story) and hope I can finish it.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My grandfather was born a slave, and his parents were slaves. I feel their pain whenever the subject of slavery is discussed or shown. I begin to sweat, thinking of them picking cotton. I hurt and feel the beatings they suffered. My soul cries for the misery of their living conditions, yet their character surmounted their position in life.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-90751120781176063032013-10-11T10:03:00.000-07:002013-10-11T10:03:46.914-07:00Hello, AgainI miss my blog. It's been several years (2010) since I wrote a post, and I miss my blogging friends, even though I connected with a few on Facebook. You added so much to my life, and helped me through a very trying time. Perhaps fear has kept me away. The worst thing about being old (I'm 76) is that you lose so many friends and family members. Sickness and death become constant companions.<br />
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Please allow me to return gently. <br />
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Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-30778323848651110272010-02-04T18:11:00.000-08:002010-02-04T18:11:58.785-08:00Taking a BreakDue to many issues, I have to take a break from blogging. <br />
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Thank you for visiting the blog. I have enjoyed your blogs and hope to visit those as often as possible.Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-46678906193318730292010-01-29T10:49:00.000-08:002010-01-29T10:49:29.941-08:00St. Joseph's Altar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.houstonculture.org/imgcr/stjoseph2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img align="right" alt="Photograph by Anna Maria Chupa" border="0" height="212" hspace="5" src="http://www.houstonculture.org/imgcr/stjoseph2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>In March 1987, I had to attend a meeting in New Orleans and Moody accompanied me. We went early because a friend, Al Gourrieu, invited us to a St. Joseph's Altar. We had never attended one, nor did we know anything about St. Joseph, but we happily accepted. <br />
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According to an article by Sharon Keating, <i>(from About.com)</i> the tradition began at the end of the nineteenth century, brought to America by Sicilian immigrants. At one time, they were on the brink of starvation because of drought in their native country. They turned in prayer to St. Joseph, and soon, the rains came, the crops grew, and the people were saved. To thank their patron, they gave him back the gift they were given, in the form of a feast laid on an "altar." The altar features three tiers, representing the Trinity. A statue of St. Joseph presides on the top level, surrounded by candles, flowers, and of course, food.<br />
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<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/8c/St.Joseph_Altar.JPG/180px-St.Joseph_Altar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="thumbimage" height="150" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/8c/St.Joseph_Altar.JPG/180px-St.Joseph_Altar.JPG" width="200" /></a>Many families believe that having a St. Joseph Altar can bring good fortune. It is common to hear stories about favors received (a loved one’s recovery from an illness, for example) which are in turn attributed to the family’s dedication to St. Joseph.<br />
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Fava beans, used as fodder for cattle in Sicily, were consumed by the starving inhabitants prior to St. Joseph's intervention. They are now featured on every altar, as blessed "lucky beans." If you keep one, you will always have money, or so the saying goes, and we promptly put our beans in our wallets.<br />
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Everyone was given a sheet of paper, asked to write their wishes for the future, and then burn the paper in a large metal bowl. Moody and I looked at each other, trying to hide our skepticism and questioning whether this would work. Our answer came the next day.<br />
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We had no idea that our fate was about to change, and to this day, we credit attending the St. Joseph Altar for transforming our lives.<br />
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The next day, Saturday, we met Ruth Love for cocktails. Out of the blue, I became very anxious. For some reason, I was compelled to return home. I told Moody and Ruth that I was going back to the hotel to pack and call airlines to check on seat availability for Sunday. Moody reminded me that my meeting <i>(the reason we had come to New Orleans</i>) had not even begun and that we had non-refundable tickets. I insisted that I could make it happen; we were going home. With a quiet anxiousness, I walked back to our hotel, alone.<br />
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All of the airlines I called said the same thing, no seats to Detroit. On a whim I called Midwest Airlines and was told that they had <i><b>only</b></i> two seats available on an afternoon flight to Chicago. I figured that if we took that flight, we could rent a car and drive back to Michigan, if we couldn't get a flight to Detroit. Midwest even agreed to take our tickets and just charge us a small fee. <br />
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After completing the arrangements, I started to pack. The phone rang. It was a student from the University of Michigan asking if Moody could return tomorrow, Sunday, because <i>Black Action Movement III</i> had started and the University was shut down. Jesse Jackson was due on Sunday to help with negotiations and he needed Moody to assist in the discussions. I told the student no problem, I had already changed our tickets.<br />
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Moody returned, shaking his head at my crazy impulse. As I was telling him about the call from the student, the phone rang again. It was a Vice President of the University with the same request. Could we return to Ann Arbor tomorrow?Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-56927692974368567912010-01-21T20:44:00.000-08:002010-01-21T20:49:22.155-08:00Ten Things That Make Me Happy - Tagged<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><i>And now, I will tag ten other blogs to do this happiness post!</i> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">When I read that statement from the blog, <i><b>When a Woman Shakes Her Tablecloth</b>,</i> I was puzzled about what I would write. Reading her list I knew that it doesn't take BIG things to make me happy, if you don't count winning the lottery. We are not rich people with money, we're rich in other ways, but I often tell my husband how happy we were when we had NOTHING.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><b>TEN THINGS THAT MAKE ME HAPPY!</b></span></span><br />
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</div><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">1. Someone with a baby. I'm just happy it's not me. Of course it would get me some needed money since I'm over seventy.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">2. The look on a child's face when he or she finally "gets it." Love that "light bulb" moment.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">3. Hearing from someone, or seeing someone I haven't seen in a long time, who remembers and reminiscences about a special moment we shared.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">4. World War II movies and books, which is strange because I hate war. I used the movie, <i>Twelve O'Clock High, </i>to demonstrate<i> </i>leadership styles when I was conducting leadership workshops.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">5. Conquering a new recipe and adding my own touches. I always try it just as written the first time. Then I begin to make additions or subtractions until it is ready to serve my bridge club. They are good cooks and I have to be at the top of my game.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">6. Meeting new people and hearing their stories. I believe that everyone has a compelling story. I think that's why I like reading blogs; you can learn something from everyone you meet. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">For example, we went to a jazz club with another couple and I saw an attractive woman, sitting alone with her eyes closed, singing quietly along with the band, while she tapped her fingers to the beat of the drums. She exuded glamour and loneliness yet I could visualize an intriguing past. The couple we were with, and my husband, thought I was crazy when I left them, walked over to her table, introduced myself, and stated that she looked like she had a riveting story to tell. "Please tell me your story." I said. "I want to hear it." She stared at me for a little while, invited me to have a seat, and proceeded to tell me her story. She was the first wife of Sammy Davis, Jr., and what a story she told about an "arranged marriage." </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2550/3837723418_c14e4cfe32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Loray White, Wife of Sammy Davis, Jr Seeks Divorce - Jet Magazine, October 2, 1958 by vieilles_annonces." border="0" class="reflect" height="300" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2550/3837723418_c14e4cfe32.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">7. Star Trek. I'm a Trekkie, I watch reruns, wear Bajoran earrings, and read the <i>The Physics of Star Trek</i>. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">8. A beautiful sunset over the mountains. I don't see many sunrises because I don't get up early, but a sunset with breathtaking, muted colors is so calming.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">9. My friends. I have some of the best friends in the world, even the ones as crazy as me. Couldn't make it without them. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">10. Last, but not least, my family. They make me happy because they have allowed an eccentric woman, (sounds better than crazy) to do a lot of spontaneous (sounds better than impulsive) things and still support me, even when I'm wrong, which happens more than I would like to admit.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">This list could grow, but I'll stop (<i>except to add milk chocolate peanut clusters because I can eat one pound in one sitting and how having an iphone would make me happy, I think</i>) and tag others. </span></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><b>Get ready, you're tagged.</b></span></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">The K is no longer silent</span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Peeling an orange with a screwdriver</span></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">At Twilight</span></span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Fifty and Still Figuring it Out...</span></span><br />
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</div>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-50073944699752699022010-01-20T21:44:00.000-08:002010-01-20T21:44:49.776-08:00The Eighties - Part 2 Where is the family now?We became "in-laws" and grandparents in the 80s. I'm doing this posting because I can't believe how quickly children become adults and some postings of struggling, young parents remind me of our past. <br />
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There were days I wanted to give up and throw in the towel. I want to tell them, hold on, this is a part of life...it will get better. One day you can laugh at your children when they struggle with their own family.<br />
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We've been blessed with the best daughters-in-law, sons, and grandchildren. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWYdaPO3-9jas8xWewH12dAMJa3cN7kpUa2OJlXEa8gGWxhyphenhyphen4paYil8mWKdfSqxx4MLCgotb0lHNp1AvPRfojK5_atdKgDKHU_ttUZWD46koZ3Re1R4fwfZ-d9UmptZ2BT3bNU2imkK1U/s1600-h/david+karla+wed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWYdaPO3-9jas8xWewH12dAMJa3cN7kpUa2OJlXEa8gGWxhyphenhyphen4paYil8mWKdfSqxx4MLCgotb0lHNp1AvPRfojK5_atdKgDKHU_ttUZWD46koZ3Re1R4fwfZ-d9UmptZ2BT3bNU2imkK1U/s400/david+karla+wed.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">David and Karla's Wedding Picture<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh26wMEi8Faigz_hSgIdJSRYgYoDpKY-XIAqDuWw5i6LpPBSJ6lGW4eGamluxlZfYja-adyRM5QZNAj5KqY7mWcVmuaBe7x2hSiIS68LnyZQkI7NkkHxiv74NDQWP_EeQJAkycjWYN0ba0/s1600-h/P2149700.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh26wMEi8Faigz_hSgIdJSRYgYoDpKY-XIAqDuWw5i6LpPBSJ6lGW4eGamluxlZfYja-adyRM5QZNAj5KqY7mWcVmuaBe7x2hSiIS68LnyZQkI7NkkHxiv74NDQWP_EeQJAkycjWYN0ba0/s400/P2149700.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>David and Karla's family 27 years later.</b><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">David owns a construction company in Atlanta that helped build the 1996 Olympic Stadium and is now working on the airport addition in Atlanta. Granddaughter, Karia, a graduate of Spelman College, is an aspiring singer and actress. Grandson, Charles, a graduate of Morehouse College, works in the family business, but has decided to go for his Ph.D in education.<br />
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</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlD8l3gzcs08g2e0l5hQ35shHQ8QXBZIxbZELevnYrrUOhpqCh0aPW2MMzEkSzulxkMlpdZucOUy29ovr7xy8o1OEeY6RUmHLL9zezxaNgdFAYro0m_mwM198Z_1tNSikpZEYucWgZ8mE/s1600-h/corey+kim+wed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlD8l3gzcs08g2e0l5hQ35shHQ8QXBZIxbZELevnYrrUOhpqCh0aPW2MMzEkSzulxkMlpdZucOUy29ovr7xy8o1OEeY6RUmHLL9zezxaNgdFAYro0m_mwM198Z_1tNSikpZEYucWgZ8mE/s400/corey+kim+wed.jpg" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4qN6xjW5rvblV672IxFckdKtwHvTgxUIADLYR4db3Jx_EU6UuZuyhCmOiQ-oAMnqc4X13E1yre2YetZWjRnmQVVlI4rY3CIaOnf5x9NU4o-FKQoI-2K8beWX8T4RSBKKOhLTM8VCztM4/s1600-h/kim+corey+wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4qN6xjW5rvblV672IxFckdKtwHvTgxUIADLYR4db3Jx_EU6UuZuyhCmOiQ-oAMnqc4X13E1yre2YetZWjRnmQVVlI4rY3CIaOnf5x9NU4o-FKQoI-2K8beWX8T4RSBKKOhLTM8VCztM4/s400/kim+corey+wedding.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Corey (Middle Son) and Kim's Wedding</b><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYSvdt7rKQu0Z3mVpdWWdaaOqPCYNSK02RpFPb2nbiaMjhQTlco7oC3P0nSsM9TdNCAYmq7bjkyMIKhPByhQMt5SuPOzu4YifVytBEFXSRAar_ksM-3f74F7-VugTOr0OyC8hxxFeiZJU/s1600-h/P6080362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYSvdt7rKQu0Z3mVpdWWdaaOqPCYNSK02RpFPb2nbiaMjhQTlco7oC3P0nSsM9TdNCAYmq7bjkyMIKhPByhQMt5SuPOzu4YifVytBEFXSRAar_ksM-3f74F7-VugTOr0OyC8hxxFeiZJU/s400/P6080362.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Corey and Kim's family, 23 years later. Kelsey is a senior in high school, Katelyne is at Purdue, and Kourtney is at the University of Michigan. On Friday, January 8, 2010, Corey will open his second CPA office in Las Vegas. The first one is in Atlanta. Kim is an administrator with the Clark County School District.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYLcVDXnZrFLca7N8H5WagbKhpqWOiRHxM00zzPGxKX222wtLzKA4PSt9d4SbNzf6urPZiT5kll4rWt8QHNqXe9FKssTI8zfegs72BPrO7R5y0Wnphx8evcFwq3Kd2ezcHbtcz3ZesYrA/s1600-h/cam+large+file.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYLcVDXnZrFLca7N8H5WagbKhpqWOiRHxM00zzPGxKX222wtLzKA4PSt9d4SbNzf6urPZiT5kll4rWt8QHNqXe9FKssTI8zfegs72BPrO7R5y0Wnphx8evcFwq3Kd2ezcHbtcz3ZesYrA/s400/cam+large+file.jpeg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Cameron, the youngest, never married. He is Director of Administration for the Executive Office of the President of the United States. He lives the life, spending the last twelve years working for the Democratic Conventions (1996, 2000, 2004, 2008) and the Summer and Winter Olympics, and has lived all over the world. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Whenever I feel unsure and wonder if we were good parents, I look at our sons and their families and think we did OK. When you are young, and the kids are driving you crazy, it easy to believe that you're doing something wrong. This makes me feel we did OK.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It was worth all we gave up or never had.<br />
</div>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-52924035530811805202010-01-17T13:02:00.000-08:002010-01-17T13:02:47.683-08:00Why a Blog on MemoriesSomeone asked me why was I doing a blog on our life? I'm just trying to make sense about where we've been and what's it all about. We are ordinary people from humble beginnings with hopes and dreams for a good life. We worked hard, even when we watched some of our dreams crash. We've been blessed to live in a remarkable time, from segregation to integration. <br />
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Dr. King's birthday offers an opportunity to write about the <i>why</i>. We were in Montgomery on a segregated bus the same year that Rosa Parks refused to relinquish her seat, and because of King's actions, our lives, and many others, have been transformed.<br />
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This blog is my attempt to offer a peek into the lives of a typical, middle-class family that lived and worked in America when, as Bob Dylan wrote, <i>The Times They Are A-Changin'.</i><br />
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</div>African Americans lived in the shadows. Our lives weren't documented or studied, except in some sociology texts where a deficit model was used. Yet, throughout America's history many lived quiet, unassuming, unnoticed lives. Some were successful; others were not. The Civil Rights Movement changed how we were viewed and the election of Barack Obama put a spotlight on the Black family.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieUCwuJd9_-znLh3d9UG0aQvd7i-VHqB21mZCjUUDbIZYDE-HIsKxjmacGpFZF1ubPYORTUwbeG0fIupgpRxhl1VcAVlA6LJTlCCZ7RHbX0RNofLuz_ScZbeAOkmcRblu1idpwI0xgXRI/s1600-h/225px-Frederick_Douglass_portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieUCwuJd9_-znLh3d9UG0aQvd7i-VHqB21mZCjUUDbIZYDE-HIsKxjmacGpFZF1ubPYORTUwbeG0fIupgpRxhl1VcAVlA6LJTlCCZ7RHbX0RNofLuz_ScZbeAOkmcRblu1idpwI0xgXRI/s320/225px-Frederick_Douglass_portrait.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>Blacks moved from slaves to honored guests in the White House — President Abraham Lincoln met with abolitionists Frederick Douglass and Sojourner Truth in the White House — to indispensable parts of White House life. President Andrew Johnson appointed William Slade as the first White House steward, the person charged with running the domestic side of the White House.<br />
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Not only did Blacks work in the White House, they also started working at the White House. E. Frederick Morrow was the first African-American appointed a White House aide by Eisenhower in 1955; <i>(The year we married.)</i> John F. Kennedy named Andrew Hatcher associate press secretary in 1960.<br />
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The progress was hardly smooth.<br />
<br />
In 1901, President Theodore Roosevelt formally invited Booker T. Washington to the White House for dinner.... Southern newspapers were outraged and publicly condemned Roosevelt after they learned of the invitation from an Associated Press dispatch. Roosevelt never invited another African-American to a White House dinner. <a href="http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/28109794">http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/28109794</a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1PD3a-kiC_x3frSTCjFq7DRHbhOZg72hyphenhyphenlOmpxIbYEc86t0iHiVFvkwsgYciBurig-i6vtq_jQcwPKFvJFnO3mhHYK0zzR8Ysz4EL0s0vi__QPFRI_ANkvFvwdlUqUUHkRXpI0RWni1k/s1600-h/225px-Bethune42h.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1PD3a-kiC_x3frSTCjFq7DRHbhOZg72hyphenhyphenlOmpxIbYEc86t0iHiVFvkwsgYciBurig-i6vtq_jQcwPKFvJFnO3mhHYK0zzR8Ysz4EL0s0vi__QPFRI_ANkvFvwdlUqUUHkRXpI0RWni1k/s320/225px-Bethune42h.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>In 1935, Mary McLeod Bethune, was chosen as Roosevelt's special advisor on Minority Affairs. Now, today, an African American family <b><i>lives</i></b> in the White House. Many of us older African Americans are still processing this. Because of our country's past history, we still find it hard to believe.<br />
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It is nostalgic as well as enlightening to rewind all these experiences, smile and remember them again. <br />
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I have to admit that I was unsure in the beginning if it would be of interest to anyone. Many of you been very kind with your comments and I hope you continue to find our memories worthwhile. One thing is sure--we have had some wonderful adventures. <br />
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One philosopher said ...<i>When you create beautiful memories you get to enjoy them twice, once while doing them and again when remembering them...and it is not the number of breaths we take but the moments that take out breath away...that's the measure of your life... !!!</i><br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Please allow me to repeat a favorite poem of mine:<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b>I am old and need to remember.</b><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b>You are young and need to learn.</b><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b>If I forget the words</b><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b>Will you remember the music?</b><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><b>from Swaziland</b></i><br />
</div></div>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-14145054197523324652010-01-07T16:12:00.000-08:002010-01-07T16:28:30.413-08:00A Salute to my Mom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Love you, Mom<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPUpvIBi3NfCaHQcGPhGSKhu_15yIS1kaxidRJQwzmpaq1IhAS-N-JSmc0YGcQySafG6jtEhYkayziyVzLVvv3sOAVmF8aCmu0XIKejViYP6EAuNH1dWYpNW3d4-ArJ8E4OoL4soFSNDk/s1600-h/Mom+in+the+early+days.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPUpvIBi3NfCaHQcGPhGSKhu_15yIS1kaxidRJQwzmpaq1IhAS-N-JSmc0YGcQySafG6jtEhYkayziyVzLVvv3sOAVmF8aCmu0XIKejViYP6EAuNH1dWYpNW3d4-ArJ8E4OoL4soFSNDk/s400/Mom+in+the+early+days.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Today is my Mom's birthday, it's either today or yesterday. She wasn't sure which day but we usually celebrated on January 7. She was born in 1896, 114 years ago. This is the earliest picture I have of her.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSSmp1ftVrFYn-Ql4uAkC3142jTSVEeJ9__RA5O0hIzgV38wshf6Ryjbes2orqyWqC0cWW6wUZuK3_HnqiRKbQU7tcV4ECwoRIrsGCceZYR_12L99_L5aqTor1Wul5ENLO5d_14CndBOE/s1600-h/mom+drawing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSSmp1ftVrFYn-Ql4uAkC3142jTSVEeJ9__RA5O0hIzgV38wshf6Ryjbes2orqyWqC0cWW6wUZuK3_HnqiRKbQU7tcV4ECwoRIrsGCceZYR_12L99_L5aqTor1Wul5ENLO5d_14CndBOE/s1600-h/mom+drawing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSSmp1ftVrFYn-Ql4uAkC3142jTSVEeJ9__RA5O0hIzgV38wshf6Ryjbes2orqyWqC0cWW6wUZuK3_HnqiRKbQU7tcV4ECwoRIrsGCceZYR_12L99_L5aqTor1Wul5ENLO5d_14CndBOE/s400/mom+drawing.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>My drawing of Mom</b><br />
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Every year she had a big party. The entire family, and all of our friends, were invited. You were expected to bring a gift even if you were broke from Christmas. She cooked all of the food for her party and after several beers would entertain us with her way of dancing. We would play Keno, knowing that she would cheat, and take all of our money.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnknpzgBetpVnWbHyGAH6f6c2Mjm9rNfFcZ-1WqGQs2zfb8WFREd7YJV7KkElrnJTDlodQ2XFLuM0KU5PycehbFWLqBL66z5xK7NkVGhTrEreB68W8L45gAaU93HnNGGg_caMwRraZWVo/s1600-h/chris+w+sis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnknpzgBetpVnWbHyGAH6f6c2Mjm9rNfFcZ-1WqGQs2zfb8WFREd7YJV7KkElrnJTDlodQ2XFLuM0KU5PycehbFWLqBL66z5xK7NkVGhTrEreB68W8L45gAaU93HnNGGg_caMwRraZWVo/s320/chris+w+sis.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Mom with her beer.</b><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">When we lived in Chicago it was easy to make her birthday party but after the move to Michigan the weather could cause problems. I remember our struggling through the snow, hoping we would make it. Many times we went to Chicago early, if snow was predicted, to make sure we attended the party.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">She raised the seven of us the best way she could, without a husband. My youngest sister will be 70 this year and my oldest sister would be 95, if she were alive. Three sisters were married when I was born so she never had seven children in the house at one time.<br />
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She was so strong. What was she like when she was young? A beauty, we know for sure. Petite, slim, and vivacious, with long, flowing red hair. Many men found her irresistible. I imagine her as a carefree, young woman, teasing men with her flirtatious smile.<br />
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Then reality takes over. She worked many hours in a cotton field and could drag a bag that was at least half her weight. She sun must have been merciless in Georgia. There were no pretty clothes for my Mom to wear to parties and parades. Instead there were many floors to scrub, innumerable dishes to wash, and an abundant stack of diapers for the children she raised.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">We would often ask her about our fathers, there were several, but she refused to discuss it. We never told her how much we discovered from other family members, nor did we ever tell her that we knew that our grandfather, who I never knew, was not her father.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Yes, she was the Queen of the family. Anything she wanted, she got.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiGsU490kFllplKbJoacYDP595wEjbj4jkLspTQJiStg7W-wt7EPZZVg4Il6oXthh-j-qNQ9t3xMc_xER7u7ZOQiDTvZs-X_JCLjJ2eMYh9dTqesf8OiLAzeHpqtl01k3WwlAhQJ1A5rY/s1600-h/various_0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiGsU490kFllplKbJoacYDP595wEjbj4jkLspTQJiStg7W-wt7EPZZVg4Il6oXthh-j-qNQ9t3xMc_xER7u7ZOQiDTvZs-X_JCLjJ2eMYh9dTqesf8OiLAzeHpqtl01k3WwlAhQJ1A5rY/s320/various_0003.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">We were on welfare and she did daywork, cleaning homes, but she taught us that any work is honest work. She had one wish, that none of us would end up on welfare, and none of us did. That was very important to her.<br />
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She left home early in the morning to clean homes. No matter what the weather, she rode many buses and streetcars to homes that were far removed from us on the South Side of Chicago.<br />
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Mom would come home, tired and sore, but proceed to the kitchen to prepare dinner. She bought "good" meat from the stores in the white neighborhood. Her cooking warmed the heart, as well as the spirit.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Education was also important to her. She went to elementary school and was one of the smartest woman I knew. She would go to downtown Chicago, to the most expensive store, look at a dress, come home and sew an exact copy. She never liked anything cheap.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Everybody in the family, and I do mean everybody, has a afghan she made. Whenever someone mentioned that a baby was expected, we had to take her to the yarn store so she could make the afghan before the baby was born.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZJ_bGcjoYuV-ZPx9FHCEKvrtir8hnUx78IOBdZ865vPnktpb9kJhxpRJkRBebVKml1sF859YdRiFBlM-53nC7930COruHsV7nhvnLIQ7BxtHkz1ut1hGpPgapbMGtCSP4lJNwuXNT6s4/s1600-h/chris+mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZJ_bGcjoYuV-ZPx9FHCEKvrtir8hnUx78IOBdZ865vPnktpb9kJhxpRJkRBebVKml1sF859YdRiFBlM-53nC7930COruHsV7nhvnLIQ7BxtHkz1ut1hGpPgapbMGtCSP4lJNwuXNT6s4/s400/chris+mom.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">She lived 97 years, over twenty years after being diagnosed with inoperable cancer. She refused to believe she had cancer and never let it stop her from doing anything.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Even though we loved her, we still discuss how she was an enigma to us, a mysterious beautiful woman with a past, that none of us knew or would ever know. <br />
</div>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-9657565460349461642010-01-06T12:35:00.000-08:002010-01-06T22:35:59.828-08:00The Eighties - Part I<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"<i>It's time to start living the life you've imagined" <span style="font-style: normal;"><strong><i>- Henry James</i></strong><i> </i></span></i></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span></i></span><br />
</div><span style="font-family: inherit;">We are without children. We have an empty nest. We have three children in college and no children at home. Did I mention that we have an empty nest? How quickly it came.</span><br />
<br />
Now, we could get about living the life we've imagined.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFfQRXG9SzCUcDMA2ejSsMiI0gC9kQLA9UlLHi1QlqEZvL-MiBBboRDgGiA7Idrn-oFbE1RXvolfzFxkCZI1tcKMLuMUyBxa3g8pPcerR5j5Uf_DNS_fLHozdMMuapEZmiyK-dwpgOLro/s1600-h/us+in+80s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFfQRXG9SzCUcDMA2ejSsMiI0gC9kQLA9UlLHi1QlqEZvL-MiBBboRDgGiA7Idrn-oFbE1RXvolfzFxkCZI1tcKMLuMUyBxa3g8pPcerR5j5Uf_DNS_fLHozdMMuapEZmiyK-dwpgOLro/s320/us+in+80s.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Us in the late '80s</b><br />
</div><br />
The '80s were frantic because our careers were in high gear. Writing about the '80s and '90s is going to be difficult because there was so much going on. Perhaps I'll just do tidbits.<br />
<br />
At the beginning of the '80s I was working as Coordinator of Staff Development and Multicultural Education for the Ann Arbor Public Schools. In the middle of the decade I left the Ann Arbor Schools and was working at Eastern Michigan University in the Student Teaching Office. <br />
<br />
My husband was Director of the Program for Educational Opportunity at the University of Michigan. In the late '80s, he was promoted to Vice Provost at the University and our lives and experiences would soar. (More about that later.)<br />
<br />
Our hours were long because most workshops took place after school. We downgraded to one car, (couldn't afford two with those college bills) didn't take any vacations, and bought very little for ourselves.<br />
<br />
Both of us also traveled as consultants so we did stay on the road. NABSE (The National Alliance of Black School Educators) was growing and we were active, he as Founder, (NABSE was an outgrowth of his dissertation) and me as Historian. This meant traveling not only to the National meetings but also to local meetings as there were now over 100 affiliate chapters all over the USA, Canada, several Caribbean Islands, and in Germany.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The Past Presidents of NABSE with the Founder, Charles D. Moody, Sr.</b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The lady in the middle, Dr. Deborah Wolfe, was one of the most dynamic women I've ever met. She knew George Washington Carver. I don't know why that fascinates me.</b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>NABSE took up a great deal of our time. We had such high hopes with a membership of over 6,000. From 1970 until the middle 1990s it was flourishing and the possibilities were endless. Our mission to improve education was the most important reason for the organization. Our national convention was the highlight of the year where we greeted old friends, enjoyed dinners, workshops, and deep conversations. We met and mingled with the "stars" and worked hard to improve education for African Americans.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Earline and Dr. Jerome Harris, (He is a former Superintendent of the Atlanta Public School.) The Moodys, and Dr. and Mrs. Thomas (He is a former Superintendent in Illinois.)</span><br />
</div><br />
However, in the 2000s, many factors contributed to the decline of what should have been a stellar organization. I won't go into the reasons, but NABSE was important because it was the biggest focus of our life during the '80s and now it is our biggest disappointment.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b><br />
</div>And what a ride it was. We thought we would change the world and help all of the "diamonds in the rough." The friendships we made and the ones we did help made it all worthwhile. We, and the early members (those who are still living for we have lost so many) who really wanted to make contributions, are now all old, tired, and frail. We're tired of fighting, but we still try to help others.<br />
<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Us with Andrew Young at a NABSE meeting</b><br />
</div><br />
Our life has been full. We've soared with the eagles and fought with the chickens.Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-7387681852482258182010-01-01T11:46:00.000-08:002010-01-01T11:46:08.526-08:00A New Year - 2010Happy New Year to all. Hope you had a wonderful, joyous holiday.<br />
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</div>No explanation for my eye problem--just continued medication and a visit to the doctor scheduled for February.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I hope my friend, Pat, who fell in July and is now paralyzed, walks again. She made the beautiful jewelry that she's wearing but does not have good use of her hands now.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMStT4cDIkBDq2HUwPDF-xUYuHGsdcRDtEUc3kI5nzmb832K6V2dLXl3YO3su7mF2HBor-WR2HrnRAtOtxFD13whO9m-DLOnFxjcLeE6812I6gXjhKM7glbUWJ8vcYc_k_dyNeEZdCAs0/s1600-h/PC111111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMStT4cDIkBDq2HUwPDF-xUYuHGsdcRDtEUc3kI5nzmb832K6V2dLXl3YO3su7mF2HBor-WR2HrnRAtOtxFD13whO9m-DLOnFxjcLeE6812I6gXjhKM7glbUWJ8vcYc_k_dyNeEZdCAs0/s400/PC111111.JPG" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Will I make resolutions? No.<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">What do I want?<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Peace.<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Harmony.<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Love.<br />
</div><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-34790174568867931642009-12-12T15:33:00.000-08:002009-12-12T15:40:26.334-08:00Back to the Past - 1980Thanks again for all of your good wishes. I return to the doctor on the 17th but wanted to do just a short posting.<br />
<br />
The '80s and '90s are going to jumbled because I lost my momentum with the eye problem. I think it was the end of the '70s and beginning of the '80s when I left off.<br />
<br />
For us, the most memorable event of 1980 was the celebration of our 25th Wedding Anniversary, a snowy day in March.<br />
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</div><br />
We awoke the day before the celebration at 6:30 a.m. The weatherman forecast 1-2 inches of snow. I began to panic as I looked out the window and saw the snow flurries softly covering the street. My sister, Ruby, called from Chicago and said it looked bad there, also.<br />
<br />
We arose and began our preparations and trips to the bakery, rental agency, florist, airport, train station, and bus depot. The snow continued and blizzard conditions were obvious. We had many tasks to complete and the snow had already reached three inches.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b><br />
</div>My nerves were frazzled as we heard the travel advisory. When we returned from the bakery at noon, the prediction was seven inches and visibility was down to 30 feet. My tears began as I realized the impossibility of it all. What a disaster we faced.<br />
<br />
There was no way our relatives could get through from Chicago and Louisiana and the people in town were snowbound. I began to worry about having dead relatives and friends all over the highway because they were trying to make it to Ann Arbor. I was inconsolable at that thought.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, I heard a grinding in the driveway. I looked out and our son was stuck. We finally dug him out while the phone rang continuously. Prayers were being offered for the snow to stop.<br />
<br />
My friend, Barbara, called to see if we were canceling the rehearsal. I hesitated and suggested that we wait. One son finally arrived from the airport with guests, another son left to pick up guests from the train station and someone else picked up relatives at the bus station. Several relatives called at 3:30 p.m. alerting us that they were at Exit 52 on I-94 and should arrive in Ann Arbor in two hours. I knew then that everything would be OK. Let's get it on, Barbara.<br />
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</div><br />
Our prayers were answered as the snow stopped in the early evening with close to 10 inches of snow. We skidded all the way to the church. The organist, soloist, best man, and a couple of ushers and attendants were still trying to make it, but I no longer worried.<br />
<br />
Someone found a snow removal service to help up get to the rehearsal dinner which was a beautiful affair. Back home and then another trip to the airport to pick up our son, Corey, at 10:00 p.m.<br />
<br />
The next day, Sunday, the sun glistened on the silent snow. When we arrived at the church for the Renewal of Vows, over 200 guests had made it through that dangerous storm.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The Anniversary Party</b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>By the time we made it to the Open House at our home, the snow was melting at a furious rate. The elegant buffet would not go to waste.<br />
<br />
I never felt closer to friends and family.Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-5290666069909048612009-12-06T19:41:00.000-08:002009-12-06T19:41:46.357-08:00Getting Better?Well, I thought I was better until this morning (at 4:30 a.m.) when the pain returned. I started my eye drops again and should see my doctor in the coming week. But I'm OK. Thanks for caring and stopping by to visit.<br />
<br />
I miss you, I miss reading your blogs, and I miss blogging. <br />
<br />
Who knew how therapeutic blogging was or how close you feel to people you don't see physically?Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-84224246083123389462009-11-21T13:35:00.000-08:002009-11-21T13:35:15.089-08:00Thanks KassKass, thanks for checking. No I am not OK. I cannot sit at the computer too long because I'm having trouble with my eyes, severe pain and red eye, which the doctor thinks might be related to something else. Her gave me some eye drops, which I'm taking every two hours, and I'm doing better. I do hope to get back to blogging. I try for a few moments to check some sites, but as I said, the time has to be short.<br />
<br />
Also, I've been very low, lately...just trying to get through each day. I really appreciate your concern.Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-23058579622441683972009-11-10T21:42:00.000-08:002009-11-10T21:42:57.363-08:00Thank You, Ann Arbor<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>“We begin to find and become ourselves when we notice how we are already found, </i></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>already truly, entirely, wildly, messily, marvelously who we were born to be.”</i></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>— Anne Lamott</i></b><br />
<b><i><br />
</i></b><br />
</div><div>Our life in Ann Arbor was often idyllic. The unspoiled charm of a small town is the polar opposite of our beloved, crowded, noisy Chicago. There are people in Ann Arbor who never want to leave town because they think there is nothing else for them to see. Often we took several of the boys' friends to Chicago with us and they were terrified.<br />
<br />
We knew two men, one Black, one white, both in their 60s, who had never left the county and never wanted to leave. Both had the funds and ability to leave; they just could find no reason to visit anywhere else. I could never wrap my mind around this no matter how hard I tried. To them, Ann Arbor wasn't the center of the universe, it <i>was</i> the universe. I tried to understand how they had no interest in the outside world, but I couldn't.<br />
<br />
We had mixed emotions about the city. It is a beautiful, tree filled city. The town and gown metaphor is appropriate. Perhaps that is why our emotions were mixed. We weren't used to being identified with only one group, and we refused to be restricted. There were speed bumps along the way but we survived.<br />
<br />
Memories of Ann Arbor include the many conferences and seminars we developed, consulting trips, dinners, luncheons, more meetings, and learning to golf. We were active in clubs and fraternal organizations, served on charity boards and mentored many students. I shouldn't forget Hash Bash. <br />
<br />
In early April the campus is flooded with thousands of pot smokers who smoke in broad daylight. The atmosphere is festive for Ann Arbor is know for being tolerant of pot.<br />
<br />
In spring, the blooming forsythia, crabapple, and redbud trees encircle the city and you are dazzled by the beauty. <br />
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In summer the town feels deserted. The students are gone and you enjoy the empty spaces even though you know visitors will flood the city for the Art Fairs, a group of five award-winning art fairs that take place annually, the Summer Festival, and the Blues Festival.<br />
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Over 500,000 visitors attend the Art Fairs each year, which always take place during the third full week of July, running from Wednesday through Saturday. Many locals leave the city because it is so crowded. In addition to art exhibits, the fairs also feature music performances and children's activities.<br />
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In a twinkling students return and the city comes to life again. Soon, all too soon, the leaves begin to change. <br />
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</div>Brilliant reds and audacious yellow leaves are everywhere. There are so many leaves that the city sends trucks to gather the fallen leaves. By Halloween, you know that winter is coming and you pray for just one sunny day a week. <br />
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Cold winds and drifting snow are on the way. Hurry, hurry, spring.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Did I like Ann Arbor? Yes. Am I glad to be gone? Yes. Do I miss it? Sometimes, I miss the intellectual stimulation and our friends. It was the perfect place to raise a family and perhaps that's the problem. It can dull your senses to the rest of the world. Because of Ann Arbor we were able to travel all over the world. We had dear friends and neighbors, an exciting lifestyle, and incredible professional opportunities. So, thank you Ann Arbor, for 31 endearing years.<br />
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</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, </i></b><br />
<b><i>and grow old wanting to get back to. </i></b><br />
<b><i> ~John Ed Pearce</i></b><br />
</div></div>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-83093892683731483682009-11-05T21:35:00.000-08:002009-11-05T21:35:01.991-08:00Diamonds in the Rough<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">One of the joys of Ann Arbor was the large number of students who came to our home. While many have done well, I have to mention two who spent so many years in our home that we think of them as "ours."<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">Rosalyn was a foster child in Detroit and once you finish high school you are out of the welfare system and on your own.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">When she graduated from high school in 1992, we had formed our own foundation and was looking for someone to give a scholarship. I didn't know her but she applied for our scholarship for future teachers. When I read her essay, I stopped and declared her the winner. There was no need to read anymore. Her writing, about her childhood and ambitions, was that powerful.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">She came to Eastern Michigan University, where I was working, so that I could watch over her. When I retired she transferred to the University of Michigan and watching over her was transferred to my husband. She worked several jobs the entire time she was a college student yet there were days she would come over, despondent and depressed, needing only a couple of dollars to make it through the semester. We would give her what she needed and away she would go...another semester down.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">One summer we sent her to Atlanta to live with our son and his family. She babysat, worked in his office and became a "sister" to our grandchildren. This was a new experience, an intact family unit and it gave her more hope and determination.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpkukOi-j0muQZ2l4xqHgZiCayiLayLkVqh7p4sghgMEWBGFTCZyCmQQ5_1xpwAy5nWFaCzsIIafOWeq7Xf9Xua6XoULKxftDfrVb8iCQXnsF0HXhLhoZYfvd8wmrlmv6KN3gDVoWhhs/s1600-h/100_0816.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpkukOi-j0muQZ2l4xqHgZiCayiLayLkVqh7p4sghgMEWBGFTCZyCmQQ5_1xpwAy5nWFaCzsIIafOWeq7Xf9Xua6XoULKxftDfrVb8iCQXnsF0HXhLhoZYfvd8wmrlmv6KN3gDVoWhhs/s1600-h/100_0816.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpkukOi-j0muQZ2l4xqHgZiCayiLayLkVqh7p4sghgMEWBGFTCZyCmQQ5_1xpwAy5nWFaCzsIIafOWeq7Xf9Xua6XoULKxftDfrVb8iCQXnsF0HXhLhoZYfvd8wmrlmv6KN3gDVoWhhs/s400/100_0816.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><i>Rosalyn with the granddaughters she baby sat one summer at our</i></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><i>50th Wedding Anniversary in 2005</i></b><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">Long story, short, she finished college, taught school in Detroit, bought her first home, and is completing her doctoral dissertation this year. Her new husband finished his doctorate this year. We are so proud of her.<br />
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</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><i>Us at Rosalyn's Wedding in 2007 in Detroit with daughter-in-law, Kimberly</i></b><br />
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</i></b><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">The other student I must mention is Tony. He began staying with us when he was in 5th Grade. My son told me about a boy who was staying alone in public housing. I sent him to fetch Tony and asked him about his circumstances. His mother was in the hospital so we called her and asked if he could stay with us until she was released. She cried and said yes. She was suffering with cancer so he spent many months with us. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">She died when he was in middle school so he moved in again until his family could find someone to take him. After he left to live with his older brother, he still spent a lot of time in our home because he was one of Corey's best friends.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">He completed college in four years, (1983) always working 2 or 3 jobs. We encouraged him to travel so he get out of the safe environment of Ann Arbor and see the rest of the world. He was so close to our family that our sons and my husband were groomsmen in his wedding. When we put our house up for sale in Michigan, he told us we couldn't sell his family home. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">Again, to make a long story short, he received his Ph.D on his 30th birthday and is a Department Head at Arkansas State University in Jonesboro. Check him out, Janie, if this is close to you. <i>Click link to see his page</i>. <a href="http://www2.astate.edu/a/chss/bios/adams-anthony-troy.dot">Anthony Troy Adams</a><br />
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</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikd-uAiaFIxiDq30LG2RZssqecwsSH7E8Cml9G4nPux4UjEPtQiSX_GOC9XVRCNhyZ2Qh-iCxk63TgqS-SO2-_KJixLDdXMQ8NQiH3AQ222-2tI_hKHEEsoXYSR3eD8B4-4AbIZrO2K6I/s1600-h/troyadams-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikd-uAiaFIxiDq30LG2RZssqecwsSH7E8Cml9G4nPux4UjEPtQiSX_GOC9XVRCNhyZ2Qh-iCxk63TgqS-SO2-_KJixLDdXMQ8NQiH3AQ222-2tI_hKHEEsoXYSR3eD8B4-4AbIZrO2K6I/s1600-h/troyadams-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikd-uAiaFIxiDq30LG2RZssqecwsSH7E8Cml9G4nPux4UjEPtQiSX_GOC9XVRCNhyZ2Qh-iCxk63TgqS-SO2-_KJixLDdXMQ8NQiH3AQ222-2tI_hKHEEsoXYSR3eD8B4-4AbIZrO2K6I/s320/troyadams-1.jpg" /></a><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;"><i>Tony in his office at Arkansas State</i></span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">Both were without parents, both worked hard in school, both never gave up, both always had at least 2 or 3 jobs, both had outgoing personalities, both never felt sorry for themselves, and both achieved at a high level. They are my favorite <b><i>Diamonds in the Rough</i></b>.<br />
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</div>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-50949501522691347932009-11-02T09:55:00.000-08:002009-11-02T11:32:42.177-08:00Days with my Sister<div style="text-align: left;">My sister had a good trip. She wanted the trip because a few months ago they removed part of her lung. Lung cancer. She will know about chemo when she returns to Chicago.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Shirley, Sister Mary, and Lorraine (My right hand)</b></i><br />
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Because a Keno game has only twelve cards and I had two other guests, she played in my place and won the final coverall. It was all of $11.00 but that is the largest pot we've ever had. You would think that she had won a million dollars.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>The Keno Club</b><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We call ourselves <b>The Forgettables</b> because no one remembers anything. I'm on the far right. Without friends, old age must be unbearable.<br />
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</div>We didn't grow up in an affectionate family. Hugging and kissing were not something we saw or did. Our feelings were kept under wrap, only discussed in our heads. She is the sister who helped me through college. <br />
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Even though I had a scholarship I still needed pocket money to buy necessities, such as toothpaste. In 1953, at the age of 18, she earned $1.07 an hour and sent me $5.00 cash each week, enough to get me through. I didn't realize it at the time but she worked almost a full day just for me.<br />
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Sometimes another sister would send a few dollars and I was grateful for every cent. What memories surface when we're together, many are in earlier sections of this blog.<br />
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We shared a bed when we were children. She was the beautiful, popular sister and I was the skinny nerd. I was such a nerd that I started a Trigonometry Club and was President. Two people so different could not have been closer. She always had scores of boyfriends but I was lucky if I had one at a time.<br />
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When we moved from Chicago in 1970, I made my husband promise me that he would not fuss about the telephone bill because it was imperative that I always have access to her.<br />
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We're old now. She's 75 and I'm 72. Where did the years go? I still think of us as silly children sharing our thoughts and dreams. She wanted the glamourous life of a movie star and I was interested in academics. She's the only person who knows my deep dark secrets and yes, Jonas, my regrets. <br />
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This is rambling because I'm still processing the past and how it affects the future. I'm processing.<br />
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I guess my point is just love each other. Show affection. The end comes before we know it.Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-706970597728100352009-10-26T22:19:00.000-07:002009-10-27T08:10:39.132-07:00The '70s - One by One They Leave Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This will be my only post this week, the boys graduating high school and leaving home, because we have several out-of-town guests and I'm hosting my Keno and Bridge Clubs. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Old folks are busy in Las Vegas. We do volunteer work and have many social activities. We have one goal--enjoying the last years. We understand that this is not a dress rehearsal. A few friends have died and many have serious ailments. Those who can, help those who need some support and some of us have driving problems. I'm blessed to have some younger friends (50-65) who help me.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For example, tomorrow Lorraine will drive me to the strip to pick up my sister from Chicago, take her shopping, lunch in Henderson, NV with friends visiting from Ann Arbor, back home to finish dinner (<i>Chicken Creole that cooks all day in the slow cooker)</i>, take sister back to strip, and start cleaning for Keno Club. I'm tired just thinking about it.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">One by one, the boys became men and began to leave home.</span></span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">I was not one of those mothers who was upset about the empty nest. However, I did make one mistake. It was August. David left for Howard University in Washington, DC on Saturday. Corey and Cameron left on Sunday for Morehouse College, and my husband and I planned to meet them in Atlanta on Monday. Yes, we had three children in college at the same time.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">Since it was Sunday I cooked my normal BIG, BIG Sunday dinner (<i>including a cake and 2 pies</i>) and my husband never said a word. I cooked and cooked and cooked. When I set the table for five he finally spoke. He reminded me that it was only us. What did I plan to do with all that food? I looked at the table, fell into my chair, and cried for all of 15 minutes. I couldn't believe it. We were alone.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">We had a tradition. In 1970, our kitchen table had five seats. As each child left, a chair went to the basement, to return only when that son was home. Now, our table had only two chairs.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqMUUPnbzwZcokC2xzGZA6W2NS6r7kmkB6YVy3YIAPiLUpXv27O0-L9m7ZNeRZhHmrr9tYxJCwMjTbrsecNgaGH5AzdM1r_vnW6bPe3r313se6zS-BKMrbC8cE0sKpOZxj4REHQ-TakA8/s1600-h/scan0011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqMUUPnbzwZcokC2xzGZA6W2NS6r7kmkB6YVy3YIAPiLUpXv27O0-L9m7ZNeRZhHmrr9tYxJCwMjTbrsecNgaGH5AzdM1r_vnW6bPe3r313se6zS-BKMrbC8cE0sKpOZxj4REHQ-TakA8/s400/scan0011.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">David as a youngster</span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJic9FOJp1sh5CyWOEvywgKmTxVliJOkGkllTw87PX_dAWihPdcao8dFu55LSvgBaxyPFhOUQ5AgITI6XX0tNch5w969vmQscJVTjAridZX8FDN7Y-UnkyCX3pz6BMiJ_ZORnL8QzQiFQ/s1600-h/david+grad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJic9FOJp1sh5CyWOEvywgKmTxVliJOkGkllTw87PX_dAWihPdcao8dFu55LSvgBaxyPFhOUQ5AgITI6XX0tNch5w969vmQscJVTjAridZX8FDN7Y-UnkyCX3pz6BMiJ_ZORnL8QzQiFQ/s400/david+grad.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>David graduated from high school in 1974, finished his degree from Morehouse College in 1978, and then went to Howard University where he received two degrees in architecture.</i></b><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4T_RL7ryBMx4RamjdmwHpFIfRxifjLL0GDK7zfdOlapSdok9PXUjnYbXWIRh-e-g6pIat0aMHpgJrqrMZbevc00rbFko6zQIro2v-btgxDNcfiptGcsTT-oRj9-s6WH3yrMmizP1Uu4/s1600-h/david+prom_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4T_RL7ryBMx4RamjdmwHpFIfRxifjLL0GDK7zfdOlapSdok9PXUjnYbXWIRh-e-g6pIat0aMHpgJrqrMZbevc00rbFko6zQIro2v-btgxDNcfiptGcsTT-oRj9-s6WH3yrMmizP1Uu4/s400/david+prom_3.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>David and his prom date. Can you believe that suit?</i></b><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipeb9BkxLRq8KX___77lWptm8A6U7UFJRB2a0CNmpy1uGofBUYBMmYDR76b35toxBDMzIgIB1MAa3DYw4q5c2mZlkP3yhOZbTg3GC_oUgdP21Q9DCzzYL-LrOU7jNDD7nCJyZurr5vEdA/s1600-h/corey+cam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipeb9BkxLRq8KX___77lWptm8A6U7UFJRB2a0CNmpy1uGofBUYBMmYDR76b35toxBDMzIgIB1MAa3DYw4q5c2mZlkP3yhOZbTg3GC_oUgdP21Q9DCzzYL-LrOU7jNDD7nCJyZurr5vEdA/s400/corey+cam.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><i>Cameron and Corey as youngsters<br />
</i></b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsw05iG0iyQWUzStfTz6Y1Kh-_eLCDFndy3ifwbn9k8inCNYgrrpiirAZOi8lzf0Y1iFDwvN0qyL5nez_8H7tZSOzzib-XtQ27J2a1qTFvqVcSo3rLeSyX8Ha75bOZyhClx5qPzM3EEwo/s1600-h/corey+graduation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsw05iG0iyQWUzStfTz6Y1Kh-_eLCDFndy3ifwbn9k8inCNYgrrpiirAZOi8lzf0Y1iFDwvN0qyL5nez_8H7tZSOzzib-XtQ27J2a1qTFvqVcSo3rLeSyX8Ha75bOZyhClx5qPzM3EEwo/s400/corey+graduation.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><i>Corey graduated from high school in 1979, went to Morehouse College on a track scholarship, and received his accounting degree. </i></b><br />
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</i></b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj56TUW06-eoKdwBRSM51dltrS0AC808jnVUAdhdbOlngbbPFoHpJ_DwJwoHFpp2radyvwBcrnGoXEMDl3aUgYpKCtu-OpMUO0sPbxYCVYbV_g-qVS2kRwEDrhXHizBnrOgRTYioKPW-KE/s1600-h/corey+prom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj56TUW06-eoKdwBRSM51dltrS0AC808jnVUAdhdbOlngbbPFoHpJ_DwJwoHFpp2radyvwBcrnGoXEMDl3aUgYpKCtu-OpMUO0sPbxYCVYbV_g-qVS2kRwEDrhXHizBnrOgRTYioKPW-KE/s400/corey+prom.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><i>Corey and his prom date</i></b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvYSO8KPD5vb8kUxSnCtKFF_6zhh0tkcQo9keSVKLN4nm3TIt8-5UvP6VNXfnTuqN3yDiKh6mLTiiYBBt65HZMEQ-otirzWJyPGLCwvTAKSI9vf5IX4PkTTZlkiXxISo-UcAQLQRHUZ4/s1600-h/cam+graduation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvYSO8KPD5vb8kUxSnCtKFF_6zhh0tkcQo9keSVKLN4nm3TIt8-5UvP6VNXfnTuqN3yDiKh6mLTiiYBBt65HZMEQ-otirzWJyPGLCwvTAKSI9vf5IX4PkTTZlkiXxISo-UcAQLQRHUZ4/s400/cam+graduation.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b>Cameron graduated in 1980 and went off to Morehouse. </b></i><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Later he transferred to North Carolina in Greensboro, graduating with a degree in engineering. This move also helped him become active in the Civil Rights Movement and politics because two of his classmates and friends were Jonathan and Jesse Jackson, Jr. and he traveled with them and Jesse, Sr., on many missions. </i></b><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixEbJxlmGoAX5nVKkgMK31caj4B1y6ENa-jr5XDwzPjMwI3en9eXchBWgBXr4KaMW2QoIm91aRxfv0ae2EVBdtREqBem4KjqspNaJ3pLRK6alcyS9FQow_iqOZTFbR0RwyuDULBqYd57c/s1600-h/vario_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixEbJxlmGoAX5nVKkgMK31caj4B1y6ENa-jr5XDwzPjMwI3en9eXchBWgBXr4KaMW2QoIm91aRxfv0ae2EVBdtREqBem4KjqspNaJ3pLRK6alcyS9FQow_iqOZTFbR0RwyuDULBqYd57c/s400/vario_2.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>I couldn't find Cam's prom picture, but I found this one of him escorting a deb.</i></b><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Hope to see you next week.</i></b><br />
</div>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-83613140821499515112009-10-24T00:09:00.000-07:002009-10-24T00:19:04.142-07:00Is That All There Is?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><i>Is that all there is, is that all there is</i></b><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><i>If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing</i></b><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><i>Let's break out the booze and have a ball</i></b><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><i>If that's all there is</i></b><br />
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<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We live in an age restricted, guard-gated community that is built around a golf course. It's a lovely development of single story homes with great views of the mountains and the strip. We have a beautiful community center, an exceptional fitness center, a friendly beauty shop, and a bistro for quick meals. It's a perfect place to live the golden years.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdaSH9DTbzl9jDABIt9EPfNYuybUjwz6rBBFtGK0IIQFm0C9RjSbYCmH6W_wd0lO41mF7Wa4AKmTNiOxE9tGg1qybo93K-V6mA64DOBarTQZ0W4A-UmpYIds91IS5Pn-55eQQVMUOG_TI/s1600-h/PA090705.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdaSH9DTbzl9jDABIt9EPfNYuybUjwz6rBBFtGK0IIQFm0C9RjSbYCmH6W_wd0lO41mF7Wa4AKmTNiOxE9tGg1qybo93K-V6mA64DOBarTQZ0W4A-UmpYIds91IS5Pn-55eQQVMUOG_TI/s400/PA090705.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>The view from our back patio</i></b><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMH8zhROGkxjfQNSnuW4VpSjFWqZ_3Igc4VGRvAllhYlvJmjKz7Hce4vIQ133akgXmdNEm1USNm6fD8dJl3l14DmkJ8zkeCSvqGkHEZi6LouNgDZk3gHuyVzINalI884TvX50Ml8EHDKM/s1600-h/PA090711.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMH8zhROGkxjfQNSnuW4VpSjFWqZ_3Igc4VGRvAllhYlvJmjKz7Hce4vIQ133akgXmdNEm1USNm6fD8dJl3l14DmkJ8zkeCSvqGkHEZi6LouNgDZk3gHuyVzINalI884TvX50Ml8EHDKM/s400/PA090711.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Husband and his golfing buddies after winning medals</i></b><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>at the Senior Olympics</i></b><br />
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</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We read the obituaries in the newspaper and count how many of the recently departed are younger than us. We speculate about how many years we might have left. We remind our children what things in the house are valuable so they won't throw them away. We are conscious of the fact that "<i>once you're over the hill you pick up speed</i>" so "<i>we dance as fast as we can</i>."<br />
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</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Last week a neighbor told me that a coroner's car was parked down the street. We knew this meant someone had died. We didn't know who lived in the home and our sadness reminded us of our limited stay here on earth. <br />
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Because of the ages of our residents, death is a frequent visitor. There is generally a short discussion of who died, who are the survivors, and are any services planned in Las Vegas? And then, we move on. Life continues.<br />
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</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Earlier this week I was driving down the street and saw this big, red dumpster in the driveway where the coroner was seen. There were two younger adults in the garage scratching their heads and moving items into the dumpster.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFSkkIEUJsLlDbFaNa39h9zTY5V3UyMNbke5otAYk18fJevUYeMDHxy8QHcTSQaRMe1ZyKLCN5-8yAaRiFR7EOT4RsNtAOd1sRJ1zLYoSeTAC_YiUcMBfxcGZEx2UdNtjuA1TIJ4iqtPY/s1600-h/PA200826.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFSkkIEUJsLlDbFaNa39h9zTY5V3UyMNbke5otAYk18fJevUYeMDHxy8QHcTSQaRMe1ZyKLCN5-8yAaRiFR7EOT4RsNtAOd1sRJ1zLYoSeTAC_YiUcMBfxcGZEx2UdNtjuA1TIJ4iqtPY/s400/PA200826.JPG" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My first thought was "and this is what it all amounts to." All the stuff we accumulate over the years may be just a bunch of junk to those we leave behind. How sad that we spend tons and tons of money on stuff, and when we die, others might see trash.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What memories did they trash? Who lived there? Did they have a good life? Are the people in the garage sad? How often did they visit the people who lived there? What will happen to the house? Did they put everything in the dumpster and were some things important enough to take with them? A song recorded by Peggy Lee floated through my morbid state of mind as I slowly drove away.<br />
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</span> </i></b><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Is that all there is, is that all there is</i></b><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing</i></b><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Let's break out the booze and have a ball</i></b><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>If that's all there is</i></b><br />
</div>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-77580032459297013002009-10-22T11:20:00.000-07:002009-10-22T11:23:14.135-07:00The Seventies - Part III - Raising Boys<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: small;">You don't raise heroes, you raise sons. </span></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: small;">And if you treat them like sons, they'll turn out to be heroes, </span></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: small;">even if it's just in your own eyes. </span></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: small;">~Walter M. Schirra, Sr.</span></span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Often people would ask what it was like in a house full of boys. It was noisy, messy, relaxed, and entertaining. If the boys are in sports, so are you. Some weekends we had four games to attend because we also had to attend Michigan's games, tailgates and post game parties. Fall revolved around football, winter was spent in the basketball stadium, spring meant hanging on the track field with a stop watch, and summers were spent on the baseball field.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Boys eat a lot and their friends like to eat, too. Even though I worked, I cooked dinner every night and they consumed everything. Sometimes I would rush home from work, start dinner, take boys to practice if it was my carpooling day, return home, finish dinner, and then go back to pick up boys. Around nine o'clock I would announce that the kitchen was closed.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Our boys didn't have a curfew because you felt so safe in Ann Arbor. If they were out and not coming home, they had to call by midnight so we could go to bed. Many times when they were with their friends they would just stay wherever they were. We never knew how many people were staying in our house until breakfast time. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We never had a set bed time or many rules. You could stay up all night, talk on the phone as long as you wanted, but you had to get up on time for school. We thought having too many rules gave them too many opportunities to break them and we wanted them to think for themselves. We stressed leadership instead of following; we stressed giving instead of taking. They received average grades in school but we were satisfied if they were doing their best.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Our complaints? Cluttered rooms, funky athletic shoes, dirty uniforms that even Tide couldn't clean, and their fussing over whose turn it was to cut the grass. We stayed out of that argument. They had to figure that one out themselves. However, we are really proud of them.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My husband liked to say that he raised 4 children, me being the fourth one. I was so young (17 when we married) that I missed a part of growing up and missed single adulthood all together. I was raised by a single mother with 5 sisters and 1 brother and I didn't know that much about male needs. I just did my best and thankfully, they were, and still are, fun to be around.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There are times that I regret what I must have missed because my attention could never just focus on one thing. My mind at times was scattered and there are things I don't remember because it was all happening so fast. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">To the younger readers, please enjoy your children now. I still can't believe how quickly it all went.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw-UpkW31MoI2bgMMM98TX_fheszAzYtlOmTLoyQabdg2mPq1u5yPHXtLsev8C-ViwOsKQrG82cGTwpYnPq9SQz0YUHwcN7BPJWXNwTXaswtiL5rxXjypw4S-VwiH0THQwRR2udX1taH8/s1600-h/family+1977.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw-UpkW31MoI2bgMMM98TX_fheszAzYtlOmTLoyQabdg2mPq1u5yPHXtLsev8C-ViwOsKQrG82cGTwpYnPq9SQz0YUHwcN7BPJWXNwTXaswtiL5rxXjypw4S-VwiH0THQwRR2udX1taH8/s400/family+1977.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>The Family in 1977</i></b><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Check out our afros.</i></b><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>We celebrated birthdays on a regular basis.</i></b><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnus6jhgf6_dql8iWSxMjtuGtuZmcgaVKzLQTCpni9ChcYN-rRdWoKY-8pHjlH8IWtYsQDuI5IOZpYoieQi4ZMP5hDEG2cD3MeCxvE6C6QhWz1ZxyQVQWQLhLuCppZ5bF7TAxw0nieHBc/s1600-h/corey+70s_2_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnus6jhgf6_dql8iWSxMjtuGtuZmcgaVKzLQTCpni9ChcYN-rRdWoKY-8pHjlH8IWtYsQDuI5IOZpYoieQi4ZMP5hDEG2cD3MeCxvE6C6QhWz1ZxyQVQWQLhLuCppZ5bF7TAxw0nieHBc/s400/corey+70s_2_2.jpg" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Moody's 40th Birthday with my girl friend Mary Hamilton in the back.</i></b><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b>Sports were really important.</b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGpHfna-eanNeC4V7BxyGFskur2gEt5j5B8UJ5_Iqm-fiPN_pgXwuhlWpAXsqO14LmPlUnQAAfQefkQEBQD1dGIsQqpnaTkDaiegkuCDwi-Z77kYn4JFnGfc9Jukdw9K9Ws4RyGldXlmA/s1600-h/corey+71_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGpHfna-eanNeC4V7BxyGFskur2gEt5j5B8UJ5_Iqm-fiPN_pgXwuhlWpAXsqO14LmPlUnQAAfQefkQEBQD1dGIsQqpnaTkDaiegkuCDwi-Z77kYn4JFnGfc9Jukdw9K9Ws4RyGldXlmA/s400/corey+71_2.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Corey and Cameron played from Junior Football through high school.</i></b><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Don't forget basketball</span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2teF-YUbvhPIbJLwqH_59M22te3vIxEZqALlAWSkSJxDAaSnbUE2D3ZwgD5nSsClBEDvnx1pkj-S-i7GCTJ9cohvlTfxCGnLGb5wNfQDa_8xnS3a2dxYxNiFu2liiww5G4Hm9hj-UF0/s1600-h/corey+basketball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2teF-YUbvhPIbJLwqH_59M22te3vIxEZqALlAWSkSJxDAaSnbUE2D3ZwgD5nSsClBEDvnx1pkj-S-i7GCTJ9cohvlTfxCGnLGb5wNfQDa_8xnS3a2dxYxNiFu2liiww5G4Hm9hj-UF0/s400/corey+basketball.jpg" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0olThCN91pPo6cHVyGQmTvLlJPk-f9dlwrLInu-7ZKEeMGJBfvYX00G4cLx8-r8XuTqjPnFrG7N1ar46z6Cdz5LzeISop6FWCnicLqN1GanvvQg8qVJYIlYPszJ44DNIZc6Fp2Gq3IcQ/s1600-h/corey+basketball2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0olThCN91pPo6cHVyGQmTvLlJPk-f9dlwrLInu-7ZKEeMGJBfvYX00G4cLx8-r8XuTqjPnFrG7N1ar46z6Cdz5LzeISop6FWCnicLqN1GanvvQg8qVJYIlYPszJ44DNIZc6Fp2Gq3IcQ/s640/corey+basketball2.jpg" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiW7YtsrYuleEyyZjsmnJkaTYjaAnCp7PJ1SPyjTqT4SMA7rFjYcdS6dsWcM37YHblD5OwNltKnyzt9I-QLd9kiitSdvu8sVjfxmGHDVOIoA4TxyehWcOsvp26nieQDSIiBDo-RRETaBE/s1600-h/corey+prom_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiW7YtsrYuleEyyZjsmnJkaTYjaAnCp7PJ1SPyjTqT4SMA7rFjYcdS6dsWcM37YHblD5OwNltKnyzt9I-QLd9kiitSdvu8sVjfxmGHDVOIoA4TxyehWcOsvp26nieQDSIiBDo-RRETaBE/s400/corey+prom_0001.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Corey was co-captain of the basketball team but went to Morehouse on a track scholarship.</i></b><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFgy5FHUyNy5uf12au0PaE-quo3rJRrfGX9jMw3DRvCZtJONUBFMhtK47CMq_eWUjlPqb6M3JzE5tWfuegzTTkiD_duDibO3v-aoRSlBGPoS09e_LjSl6GbiESXZNpB455RXadw9HHdQ/s1600-h/david+football.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFgy5FHUyNy5uf12au0PaE-quo3rJRrfGX9jMw3DRvCZtJONUBFMhtK47CMq_eWUjlPqb6M3JzE5tWfuegzTTkiD_duDibO3v-aoRSlBGPoS09e_LjSl6GbiESXZNpB455RXadw9HHdQ/s400/david+football.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">David played football in high school and for Morehouse College.</span><br />
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<b><i>Son, you outgrew my lap, but never my heart. ~Author Unknown</i></b><br />
</div>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-4652838765156263222009-10-19T20:23:00.000-07:002009-10-19T20:27:06.821-07:00The Seventies - Part II<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Stranger in a Strange Land</i></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Robert Heinlein (A favorite author )</i><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">We moved to Ann Arbor in August 1970, and into our new home on our 16th Wedding Anniversary where we continued a moving tradition. Moody goes to work on moving day and I stay with the movers. He leaves from the old house and returns to the new place. Instead of going out for dinner, a special home cooked meal is planned. <br />
</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoOPHUElqzWnc4OtHnp5R7wEufhE7yuAShuXJZjOqAeSgsc0XRCfAY1IUh4HJtr-Tz3GlssU5o_GDu8PqEzp3pqgO2H0V2SPEqn10Rm9QirFUkx4w23n1QUiTjTXX0sfuKyC3Gkx8oXK8/s1600-h/boys_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoOPHUElqzWnc4OtHnp5R7wEufhE7yuAShuXJZjOqAeSgsc0XRCfAY1IUh4HJtr-Tz3GlssU5o_GDu8PqEzp3pqgO2H0V2SPEqn10Rm9QirFUkx4w23n1QUiTjTXX0sfuKyC3Gkx8oXK8/s400/boys_0001.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Moody with David and Corey</span><br />
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At the time, Ann Arbor's Black population was very small (It is still less than 9%.) and there had been racial incidents in the city and schools. When our son, David, graduated from high school in 1974, he had less than 15 Black students in his graduating class. By the time Corey and Cameron finished, there were more Black students. <br />
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Ann Arbor is kid friendly and very diverse because of the University. We began to have friends from all over the world. We didn't realize it at the time, but the boys were being prepared for a multicultural world.<br />
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We were the only Black family in the neighborhood and the only problem we had was a neighbor next door. He definitely wasn't ready for us. He would lay down a string when he cut his grass to make sure he only cut on his property, watched the boys when they cut our grass or a serviceman came to work, told our friends not to park in front of his house, and came over often in an attempt to harass us. It was downright funny when he watered his lawn because he had a hard time keeping the sprinkler only on his property. He was so distressed that he finally moved. <br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT3N0MlhRbRGCyV97o-LoQ1dHUM5J4hhDcSQlIElvFovqMVo7O3QpRLsAYgjxssNb5X7osgX1vUfoYLF8MUv6bTjbp1aHfFyuxY9SFOPfspE4mORirMAN8X-li-tesOWL4q68GHh1cnrs/s1600-h/cam+70s_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT3N0MlhRbRGCyV97o-LoQ1dHUM5J4hhDcSQlIElvFovqMVo7O3QpRLsAYgjxssNb5X7osgX1vUfoYLF8MUv6bTjbp1aHfFyuxY9SFOPfspE4mORirMAN8X-li-tesOWL4q68GHh1cnrs/s400/cam+70s_2.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Cameron in the early 70s</i></b><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgylilnCSx5D-sRE8YR487imoOd5Eq7_jsefZlNDLVadGzdd-5WX68beoeZg8t8eEdy93yeCw31ax8_wb8R51WTkHWO8byvnAk8XvojuyIK9fa2yijNLyzqqOC2ZW2bYn75LhpbiVO4AAE/s1600-h/ludemas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgylilnCSx5D-sRE8YR487imoOd5Eq7_jsefZlNDLVadGzdd-5WX68beoeZg8t8eEdy93yeCw31ax8_wb8R51WTkHWO8byvnAk8XvojuyIK9fa2yijNLyzqqOC2ZW2bYn75LhpbiVO4AAE/s400/ludemas.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>The best neighbors in the world, part of the Ludema family</i></b><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>First day of school, 1971</i></b><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Family - Mid '70s</i></b><br />
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Nineteen-seventy was the year six Black men were killed by local policemen in Augusta, Georgia and school desegregation was still being fought in courts. Ronald Reagan, then Governor of California, signed into law a bill that prohibited the busing of students <i>"for any purpose or any reason without the written permission of the parent or guardian."</i> Protests against integration were held in the North and South. This made Moody's job very relevant. Additionally, students at the University of Michigan had just staged the Black Action Movement, securing demands for 10% African American student enrollment and increased African American faculty.<br />
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Moody's job meant traveling to districts and universities all over the country. He was conducting research and workshops, testifying in Courts, writing grants and continuing his study of Black Superintendents. The following article can explain PEO much better than I can. (Click article to read full size.)<br />
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</div>He finished his doctorate and instead of a party we went with a group of friends to see Muddy Waters at a club in downtown Chicago. We didn't know that they were recording the session, and as usual asked Muddy for a particular song. We had been following him for years in small bars and clubs in Chicago and he was familiar with our requests. Years later, I brought home a new album by Muddy, and gave it to Moody. All of a sudden he shouted, "It's our song." The album was recorded on graduation night and you could hear Muddy dedicating "<i>She's Nineteen Years Old</i>" to his friends from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Wow. We were overjoyed.<br />
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True riches can be measured by the friends one has and we have been blessed with many. The Moores went to Central State with us and they welcomed us to Ann Arbor as soon as we arrived. They made sure we got to meet their friends and introduced us to their Church, Bethel A.M.E., which we promptly joined.<br />
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Our home was always filled with students and professors working on research projects, seminars, or just wanting to talk about a dissertation.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Moody and Freddie, one his doctoral students. We loved to mess up Freddie's afro so he would have to pat it back in order. Freddie was pretty and always had a beautiful woman on his arm.</i></b><br />
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By 1971, I had a full time job, working as a human relations specialist and assisting the social studies coordinator. A report was written our first year in Ann Arbor called the Humaness Report that sought more integration and inclusion in the district. Our focus was integrating multiculturalism into the curriculum. This was extremely difficult at the time because some people were not ready to make changes to the curriculum and others didn't believe that people of color had done enough to be included. Still, there were many who embraced the new ideas and helped Ann Arbor become one of the early districts to embrace multiculturalism. You'd be surprised at the ugly mail you get when you have a position like this, but it goes with the territory.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b>Party at our home to meet the new superintendent, Bruce McPherson, as he talks with the Moores.</b></i><br />
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After a couple of years a new superintendent came to town and he <b>made</b> me take a job as a building administrator. When I said made, I mean it. At first he asked and I said no. So he looked at me and figured out how to do it. He eliminated the job I had. Therefore, I had to take the job. <br />
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It was a middle school with three houses (grades 6,7,8) and instead of principals, they called us House Leaders. I kept that job for about three years. Loved the kids but missed teaching and went back two years as a teacher at Burns Park. That lasted about two years. Bruce only stayed a couple of years and we became good friends. Then another new superintendent recruited me into central administration as Coordinator for Staff Development and Multicultural Education, a position I held until I was hired by Eastern Michigan University as an assistant to the Dean in the College of Education in the '80s.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Halloween was big at Burns Park. Yes, that's me in my husband's uniform.</i></b><br />
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</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZKN29qhr0iSQSGiNv6j2OEGZiKER9-DemYkBCBGrKCuO9x0wkaIw0oP0SHZllewEDIEyerYTKsldwuOtpOXqLgmFHnczsw9lxAQPeytVsDkftIGvYOSjSqRCUkc3KzK1gGQb2Gln1VGg/s1600-h/me+74+75.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZKN29qhr0iSQSGiNv6j2OEGZiKER9-DemYkBCBGrKCuO9x0wkaIw0oP0SHZllewEDIEyerYTKsldwuOtpOXqLgmFHnczsw9lxAQPeytVsDkftIGvYOSjSqRCUkc3KzK1gGQb2Gln1VGg/s400/me+74+75.jpg" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>I was one of those teachers who liked to dress up when teaching a particular subject</i></b><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As the boys grew, so did my responsibilities at work. Since Moody traveled a lot, I was often responsible for cooking breakfast and getting the boys off to school, instead of him. This was a tragedy in our house, because as I said earlier, I love my bed. They had to leave earlier than me and would wait for me to call them before they got up. They loved my running down the hallway, clapping my hands, and telling them to get up because we were late. They still imitate me when we have family gatherings. Their next words would be, "burnt toast" as they knew my rushing around would produce an ill-prepared meal.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We have always been big on entertaining. I think it's because when I was little we always had a house full of people. One memorable party was the one we gave for Jesse Jackson when he received an honorary degree from Michigan. This is when he was in his prime and over 200 people attended, not all invited. People came from everywhere. Fortunately, the weather was nice and we could use the back yard in addition to the house. Friends helped prepare the food, people brought their children to meet him and have their picture taken, flowers were everywhere, the music was soft and smooth, and no one wanted to leave and go home. <br />
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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Chris and Hank at the party</span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Lunch with two friends, Letitia and Joetta</i></b><br />
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</div>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-26035267000014225902009-10-16T10:15:00.000-07:002009-10-19T09:56:42.920-07:00The Seventies - Part I<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>He who rides a tiger cannot dismount when he pleases. ~Author Unknown</i></b><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">The idealism of the '60s curved 180 degrees into the cynicism of the '70s as Watergate took center stage. The flower children began to wilt.<br />
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For me, music tells a decade's story. As Dick Clark said, "<i>Music is the soundtrack of your life.</i>" Marvin Gaye asked, <i>What's Going On</i>, and we responded, <i>Mercy, Mercy, Me</i>. Roberta Flack wanted to know <i>Where is the Love?</i> and Aretha told us to <i>Respect</i> ourselves. Mandela was in jail but Donny Hathaway sang, <i>Someday, We'll All Be Free</i>. Inexplicably, living in a housing project was <i>Good Times</i>. <i>Was it Just My Imagination</i> or were we <i>Up, Up, and Away</i>?<br />
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I always liked to stay in bed, sleeping or not, just enjoying the warmth and security of my bed. It's a sunny day in July 1970. The phone rings. I answer. Someone wants us in Ann Arbor for a job interview for my husband. Big joke and I tell them that. Hang up phone. Go back to sleep. Friend calls husband that night and tell him about the call, but they want to know if his wife is crazy. He doesn't answer. He's afraid to tell them the truth, might hurt job interview.<br />
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OK. Let's take the free trip but promise me you won't take the job. Town too small. I love Chicago and couldn't bear to leave my family. We go to Ann Arbor. He breaks promise and takes job at the University of Michigan. We say good-bye to family and friends in Chicago. They don't want us to go. We pack. We move. And so begins a new adventure that will last 31 years.<br />
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We found an apartment with four bedrooms and three bathrooms to live in until we found a house. Pure luxury after living in a 900 sq. ft. home in Chicago. It was strange, we could live anywhere. No one cared that we were Black. They only wanted to know if we had the down payment.<br />
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</div>I missed Chicago so much that I drove back 27 times the first year. Right after the children left for school I would get in my car, drive to Chicago, chit chat, drive back to Ann Arbor to fix dinner. It was a 240 mile trip and my record, that is documented, is two hours and 40 minutes.<br />
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No one was hiring and I needed a job. I discovered that the school system needed someone who knew the Taba Curriculum Development Model, a concept development model for social studies. I researched the model until I knew it well enough to get through the interview process and finally found myself a job. It was only part-time but it kept me off of I-94.<br />
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This was a totally different lifestyle for us. It was casual, free-thinking, intellectual, liberal, and everybody knew everything about you. In Ann Arbor, football is everything. Go Blue!<br />
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</tbody></table><span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px; font-family: Times;">We finally found a home in an area called Glacier Highlands, with an elementary school in walking distance. Plus, they only had like 20-25 children per classroom. We were the only African Americans in the neighborhood and our children had white friends for the first time in their lives. They adapted and found their new life exciting and rewarding. You didn't need to lock your doors and boys and girls popped in at any time of the day.</span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Our home in Ann Arbor. I loved that redbud tree.</b><br />
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<span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px;">Our oldest son went to middle school the first year and the younger two were in elementary school. Of course, they all loved sports, and Ann Arbor was the perfect place for young families with athletic children. Before we knew it our schedule was bursting. I think this might work out.</span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>David, third from left on back row, baseball team</b><br />
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</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV7K7jdkWNJJ0hU_PVkYQ56u2iy9FwBt_sDcv6LY7aj1gApnm9kWgnPn00g-xZ4hpEVLiS3xmW7ruzdQOXAwUSFyjQfwrP-IaHmv8Tgr9qohtTx0Y4jlyNovdjyPiim8LjKxREJLixvaw/s1600-h/david+baseball_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV7K7jdkWNJJ0hU_PVkYQ56u2iy9FwBt_sDcv6LY7aj1gApnm9kWgnPn00g-xZ4hpEVLiS3xmW7ruzdQOXAwUSFyjQfwrP-IaHmv8Tgr9qohtTx0Y4jlyNovdjyPiim8LjKxREJLixvaw/s400/david+baseball_2.jpg" /></a><br />
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</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYx4TvCM4MaJKGFXPqAYBSDFt4Ne-k-c0mszuSOIkoPWaAVwST_qw86cl9kvvKe0Ka5I0BSeilavCoRgHViimS5JDsK3K9HLQ2n2gorqaL3VX40jZOx9eOVVHduyFnDYxZWFIny09O-DY/s1600-h/corey+71.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYx4TvCM4MaJKGFXPqAYBSDFt4Ne-k-c0mszuSOIkoPWaAVwST_qw86cl9kvvKe0Ka5I0BSeilavCoRgHViimS5JDsK3K9HLQ2n2gorqaL3VX40jZOx9eOVVHduyFnDYxZWFIny09O-DY/s400/corey+71.jpg" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Corey pitching</b><br />
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</b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oory9c4P3YT9YgCNMFH71hlTEik1U0yJ9Tzc4C0tmAlBPiI5-oVkWeWGSDql8uRbIovH9CKQ4b4rQjoGi4M7zkd6fpMiLbf4QZEXRTiZ7as8Z1_k6pGyozvAOibSEUxIW5yPVEBzp6k/s1600-h/cam+70s_2_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oory9c4P3YT9YgCNMFH71hlTEik1U0yJ9Tzc4C0tmAlBPiI5-oVkWeWGSDql8uRbIovH9CKQ4b4rQjoGi4M7zkd6fpMiLbf4QZEXRTiZ7as8Z1_k6pGyozvAOibSEUxIW5yPVEBzp6k/s400/cam+70s_2_2.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Cameron, after falling off his bicycle</b><br />
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<span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px;"><b><i>It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop.</i> </b></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px;"><b>~Confucius</b></span><br />
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</tbody></table>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-34510796369741351422009-10-11T21:29:00.000-07:002009-11-02T17:52:02.056-08:00A Salute to my Grandchildren<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><i>Grandchildren are God's way of compensating us for growing old. </i></b></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"> ~Mary H. Waldrip</span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6GD4kVu0XFmSCOnOOao1HO6PFJh74aotPbtDS9bL10DqN-N0tIN1EvedBozycmGCMtXjQbl7_xX48nA2rEjRivj4j22cxspvhgW-8kQFV6hqLsKbBp-hKaUbDHC80Ra3-dgdJAFMLHb8/s1600/PA100748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6GD4kVu0XFmSCOnOOao1HO6PFJh74aotPbtDS9bL10DqN-N0tIN1EvedBozycmGCMtXjQbl7_xX48nA2rEjRivj4j22cxspvhgW-8kQFV6hqLsKbBp-hKaUbDHC80Ra3-dgdJAFMLHb8/s400/PA100748.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">On October 10, 2009, I took this picture of Kelsey, my youngest grandchild. She was preparing to go to her homecoming dance. It was a nostalgic shock for me because I knew then that I had no more grand babies. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">No more grandma scary ghost stories until Katelyne cried;<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">no more babysitting, giving them candy, gum, and cookies, and keeping them up beyond bedtime;<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">no more, "Grandma, make some macaroni and cheese;"<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">no more, "Grandma, you're crazy;"<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">no more fashion shows with new clothes for school;<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">no more, "Grandma, I having a heat stroke," when they were tired of museum trips;<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">no more, "Grandma, I didn't break it, the floor broke it.;"<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">no more holding their hands when we cross the street;<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">no more loud laughs at ridiculous jokes;<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">no more Judge Judy plays;<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">they are now grown. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">So what's a grandma to do? I want to thank my grandchildren for some wonderful, playful days. I want to thank them for being such disciplined athletes and scholars, yet keeping the ability to have fun and enjoy life. I want to thank them for keeping me young in heart. I wish them health and happiness. I want them to keep their <i>joie de vivre</i>. I know, it's getting sappy, but trust me, I'm feeling very old right now, yet happy to see what wonderful human beings they are.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">So, please allow Grandma Moody to showcase them for a few moments. <br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7eyG3sD8LtgkIjdTeBCdjvYu18AxsOeTzrsz5hk_fKaZmtGX4uL4dw8_Vg5CTdnu862u-20IpZv6VJdwqE33KBJhzB20od1ANRkvUZgvjAxPbE7o4EWTg2S4HXq66RDrf4__gDZN4BKQ/s1600-h/corey+fam_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7eyG3sD8LtgkIjdTeBCdjvYu18AxsOeTzrsz5hk_fKaZmtGX4uL4dw8_Vg5CTdnu862u-20IpZv6VJdwqE33KBJhzB20od1ANRkvUZgvjAxPbE7o4EWTg2S4HXq66RDrf4__gDZN4BKQ/s1600-h/corey+fam_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7eyG3sD8LtgkIjdTeBCdjvYu18AxsOeTzrsz5hk_fKaZmtGX4uL4dw8_Vg5CTdnu862u-20IpZv6VJdwqE33KBJhzB20od1ANRkvUZgvjAxPbE7o4EWTg2S4HXq66RDrf4__gDZN4BKQ/s400/corey+fam_0001.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">The first grandchild, Charles, III<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp0Ft8vGCkKyICWC3TbHtn9PibjFGkHrxx-YqTU98iFt9BeWogiazykcln77IXxeoWkPM6rAv1nMQII3pybWM7xFV3oozI24v_4n73wVpI8rdH4dzjScMmc6Q9Zp11H_8rSrYWWOLBS4U/s1600-h/P7215447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp0Ft8vGCkKyICWC3TbHtn9PibjFGkHrxx-YqTU98iFt9BeWogiazykcln77IXxeoWkPM6rAv1nMQII3pybWM7xFV3oozI24v_4n73wVpI8rdH4dzjScMmc6Q9Zp11H_8rSrYWWOLBS4U/s1600-h/P7215447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp0Ft8vGCkKyICWC3TbHtn9PibjFGkHrxx-YqTU98iFt9BeWogiazykcln77IXxeoWkPM6rAv1nMQII3pybWM7xFV3oozI24v_4n73wVpI8rdH4dzjScMmc6Q9Zp11H_8rSrYWWOLBS4U/s400/P7215447.JPG" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">In 2007, Charles received his bachelor's degree from Morehouse College, and is a master's candidate at the University of Georgia and then plans to continue towards his Ph.D. He likes to tease the girls that he is my favorite grandson. Of course, he is.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08-cAGcIHtXUDif5j3liAN78aqLA5Ufb6udnVwhL0xLkgJpv9nw1C2j2UPgWWcWf_Wj_kpH0w6293S0Gfk4Gf5lm4BzsMHXwETJUNwEiqQGVsFn4r4TgMqwD9Z-LqyMiuIYmrddxYT8Q/s1600-h/karia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08-cAGcIHtXUDif5j3liAN78aqLA5Ufb6udnVwhL0xLkgJpv9nw1C2j2UPgWWcWf_Wj_kpH0w6293S0Gfk4Gf5lm4BzsMHXwETJUNwEiqQGVsFn4r4TgMqwD9Z-LqyMiuIYmrddxYT8Q/s400/karia.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Karia as a youngster<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1a8mqbo6dvvQ_q5iVjLvZZ_nxIayPpcpoXXSSeslaLOjo3ZycQROFzlq7-v2v5fzKE6nS49iTUn5a6HV5kA81fqPrDNaErDKVPhXWeqP7wSsexeY3SFmFE_4ktFK03bc8HKdvl4Vcs10/s1600-h/74570019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1a8mqbo6dvvQ_q5iVjLvZZ_nxIayPpcpoXXSSeslaLOjo3ZycQROFzlq7-v2v5fzKE6nS49iTUn5a6HV5kA81fqPrDNaErDKVPhXWeqP7wSsexeY3SFmFE_4ktFK03bc8HKdvl4Vcs10/s1600-h/74570019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1a8mqbo6dvvQ_q5iVjLvZZ_nxIayPpcpoXXSSeslaLOjo3ZycQROFzlq7-v2v5fzKE6nS49iTUn5a6HV5kA81fqPrDNaErDKVPhXWeqP7wSsexeY3SFmFE_4ktFK03bc8HKdvl4Vcs10/s320/74570019.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Today, Karia is an aspiring actress and singer. She was an intern on a production this summer and has also attended Yale's Summer Drama Program. She sang at our 50th Wedding Anniversary Celebration.<br />
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</div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOyZN_eJmCXoi8j-irU7GNjIpDnsU4-5nOyv9mV7Mr-_zZwB6x2v7p6369skXoF4gTNoUeUHSvGTmIEVCCiuavVAahFas-BMkyrRhPAOxqM1eDzl15vT83o9-_ZqpYP56zn89xA234MrE/s1600-h/Karia's+graduation+May+17_+2009+111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOyZN_eJmCXoi8j-irU7GNjIpDnsU4-5nOyv9mV7Mr-_zZwB6x2v7p6369skXoF4gTNoUeUHSvGTmIEVCCiuavVAahFas-BMkyrRhPAOxqM1eDzl15vT83o9-_ZqpYP56zn89xA234MrE/s1600-h/Karia's+graduation+May+17_+2009+111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOyZN_eJmCXoi8j-irU7GNjIpDnsU4-5nOyv9mV7Mr-_zZwB6x2v7p6369skXoF4gTNoUeUHSvGTmIEVCCiuavVAahFas-BMkyrRhPAOxqM1eDzl15vT83o9-_ZqpYP56zn89xA234MrE/s400/Karia's+graduation+May+17_+2009+111.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Karia received her bachelor's, with honors, from Spelman College in 2009. She is pictured here with her proud parents, Karla and C. David Moody, Jr. They live in the Atlanta area.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEH4OgXMF0XGQlE1mDifMqnUyBnvelEyO1wQiIUGrBM1tVwSRnViZ4wB0LgapjQS5NWmZar2D0YXyUkJoFwI8nnQ0l1_rqUB_dbYOCvclSeJ7niNsxZMF4_eNGNDT7JGRkzCFcpvV3z1s/s1600-h/P6107881.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEH4OgXMF0XGQlE1mDifMqnUyBnvelEyO1wQiIUGrBM1tVwSRnViZ4wB0LgapjQS5NWmZar2D0YXyUkJoFwI8nnQ0l1_rqUB_dbYOCvclSeJ7niNsxZMF4_eNGNDT7JGRkzCFcpvV3z1s/s400/P6107881.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Karia at Kourtney's graduation<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjweYupy-vuzIq_6NXxa6g6PsmgvcLd3he1ekv-VryIjNzL2lmNPNip5uk9jZ5z3JIl-ixKF4Dxdocym0f4Wvl6k8fUx8Ke8QbfDLJLJz-S83uyohVs_eSY783grswY6k6ZJumMhZnERWA/s1600-h/kourt+94.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjweYupy-vuzIq_6NXxa6g6PsmgvcLd3he1ekv-VryIjNzL2lmNPNip5uk9jZ5z3JIl-ixKF4Dxdocym0f4Wvl6k8fUx8Ke8QbfDLJLJz-S83uyohVs_eSY783grswY6k6ZJumMhZnERWA/s320/kourt+94.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Grandma with Kelsey, Kourtney, and Katelyne<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHojFpVPSDXv5YLxgXYkkwlI_8ichI7zSu6t5isNDei_-fSM5tKS4A3e-wPfnf3gks4NGQjNZC6vn5eHCAuT3vzh5hUAm30PohEC_j94HUnksLns8_2IIlqst-XLKXdLmSvYSjfWCyAYE/s1600-h/kourt+pink+hat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHojFpVPSDXv5YLxgXYkkwlI_8ichI7zSu6t5isNDei_-fSM5tKS4A3e-wPfnf3gks4NGQjNZC6vn5eHCAuT3vzh5hUAm30PohEC_j94HUnksLns8_2IIlqst-XLKXdLmSvYSjfWCyAYE/s400/kourt+pink+hat.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Kourtney<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwwCErnCEoDpNeXH-OOoT_I324nPQgaHNOvBqj9eyu5NACYmNSb9ySu1eawVHEQB27FOaJXGSy4gRaNpJyR1fUf0_CWyFNxRweTqC80GilZd6QtajeQRreBWaH_cA07Q1SlYlAMuDgH9s/s1600-h/P5197710.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwwCErnCEoDpNeXH-OOoT_I324nPQgaHNOvBqj9eyu5NACYmNSb9ySu1eawVHEQB27FOaJXGSy4gRaNpJyR1fUf0_CWyFNxRweTqC80GilZd6QtajeQRreBWaH_cA07Q1SlYlAMuDgH9s/s400/P5197710.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Kourtney, with her parents, Kimberly and Corey, was named one of the top ten student-athletes of Nevada in 2008. She was the top female athlete in Las Vegas and graduated high school with a 4.5 gpa. She is on the track team at Michigan. Go Blue!<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrUW7-8oBsggpir5MgWbnpgA9vz2zklFiuCSBGStv5ZN18PSx5bi7Ve8eHfNuoB1QitjffByN-1oYFoNJu42YvRY3s7ZnhLc4Vbf6CA_hgam8cDBdEkZayeAO3teoIQF6TO6BaVS4KdvQ/s1600-h/n1042742598_323895_3428111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrUW7-8oBsggpir5MgWbnpgA9vz2zklFiuCSBGStv5ZN18PSx5bi7Ve8eHfNuoB1QitjffByN-1oYFoNJu42YvRY3s7ZnhLc4Vbf6CA_hgam8cDBdEkZayeAO3teoIQF6TO6BaVS4KdvQ/s320/n1042742598_323895_3428111.jpg" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG20Cb4xh97KQ50gAutiFs7roOjrXb6OpusZtR673LrPeyGYVb2KPRjUSGlA_M3YJztMy6Pqaka8804Wo_9jXbMqXKzp9rySWFtiiKCen_F0H1P7aAMy9-x4uufWZODY_QXItBfyLwNOg/s1600-h/P5037484.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG20Cb4xh97KQ50gAutiFs7roOjrXb6OpusZtR673LrPeyGYVb2KPRjUSGlA_M3YJztMy6Pqaka8804Wo_9jXbMqXKzp9rySWFtiiKCen_F0H1P7aAMy9-x4uufWZODY_QXItBfyLwNOg/s400/P5037484.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Prom 2008<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Katelyne<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;">Katelyne and Yul<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Prom 2009<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">She graduated high school with honors and is a freshman at Purdue University.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Many say that she is just a younger version of me.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrbiZvgTUPXXZkovEnF_BBBE2reer8KmpBQS2GHjP7cP_z4vLu_qIKVDJcUo55uQPvbB2GRuaB1a3UywFPuRHythw4aSdoGDVFbXJvKBWF0g_j6HwWG76JH3cw_iQFVh9Q7LATcCA-GHU/s1600-h/katelyne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrbiZvgTUPXXZkovEnF_BBBE2reer8KmpBQS2GHjP7cP_z4vLu_qIKVDJcUo55uQPvbB2GRuaB1a3UywFPuRHythw4aSdoGDVFbXJvKBWF0g_j6HwWG76JH3cw_iQFVh9Q7LATcCA-GHU/s400/katelyne.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Katelyne is an outstanding soccer player<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL3nHWlusyRApdImx1MkRIwXp38KKP-asifUYrn_0eJa8pC-NIwQ7nSzOUifprZJiAgbWFMJEzkXoIuJv3DXzxhrh2mZ06HqopDRn2XeerWGQbCcTB0AbzykmYBPbsLGxpo0XKFUjzXqQ/s1600-h/P6080362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL3nHWlusyRApdImx1MkRIwXp38KKP-asifUYrn_0eJa8pC-NIwQ7nSzOUifprZJiAgbWFMJEzkXoIuJv3DXzxhrh2mZ06HqopDRn2XeerWGQbCcTB0AbzykmYBPbsLGxpo0XKFUjzXqQ/s400/P6080362.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Kelsey, Kim, Katelyne, Kourtney, and Corey<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Kelsey and Katelyne perform at our 50th Anniversary<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Who's your Uncle? Uncle Cameron has no children but loves his nieces and nephew.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Kelsey<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqwD8tfWKsNzj-oP95-kIo4quKiLJCEGQ1uwSVOw6HaqdMrZi3lI50ef2cGzzDN0zOpMza5S6HVjhpPZM4Ma1kkRQRqAKOUi_RebSbsg7YQ0I7oQTOJcJtV0aYm0XODIrqXoPF2XEoqYU/s1600-h/PA100760.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqwD8tfWKsNzj-oP95-kIo4quKiLJCEGQ1uwSVOw6HaqdMrZi3lI50ef2cGzzDN0zOpMza5S6HVjhpPZM4Ma1kkRQRqAKOUi_RebSbsg7YQ0I7oQTOJcJtV0aYm0XODIrqXoPF2XEoqYU/s400/PA100760.JPG" width="278" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Kelsey and Malcolm, ready for Homecoming 2009<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Thank You,<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Grandma Moody<br />
</div>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-50983943692192507032009-10-09T23:48:00.000-07:002009-10-19T09:58:56.117-07:00The Sixties - Part IV - Serendipity<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Tough Times Never Last But Tough People Do</i></b><br />
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In an earlier post I stated that our life has always been ruled by serendipity in a beneficial way. Mystical occurrences are commonplace and an invisible presence seem to follow and help us. For example, we never discovered how we got our first apartment and never discovered who recommended my husband for his job in the '50s as a lab technician. We were blessed the way some things just kind of happened. We just went with the flow.<br />
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Twice in my life, it was expected that I was die. The first time was in elementary school when I was ill with pneumonia. It was June, the school year was almost over, so they took up a collection for flowers for my funeral, which was expected to be sometimes in July. The second time was in 1962, when pneumonia presented itself again. After spending three days in the hospital, I left, because the bills that were accumulating made me sicker. Somehow, I made it again.<br />
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After the birth of our third child, we were having financial problems. Back in those days female teachers didn't take maternity leave because they wanted to, nor could you use sick days for pregnancy. You <b>had to leave </b>in your fifth month and returned, with a doctor's note, when your baby was six months old. During that year of "leave" you received no pay so it was tough.<br />
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Neighbors, like the Wootens, used to bring us meals, claiming they had <i>accidentally</i> cooked too much food. My sister, Susie, would <i>accidentally</i> buy too much food for her refrigerator and ask us to eat it so it wouldn't spoil.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Front Row: Sister Susie, who would bring food, Moody's sister, Martha</i></b><br />
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</div>It was 1962, and Moody was a substitute teacher making $25 a day, our only income at the time, with no fringe benefits. He came home from work, and asked me how we were doing. I told him that if we had $300 everything would be OK. A moment later, the doorbell rang. It was a special delivery with a $300 check from his sister, Mary. In the letter she wrote that she had been thinking of us and sent the check in case we needed something.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5B4E-VaYKc_uABb_Dh82SqITWpB4Hmio0l6bhUgl2iIXqYASz3kGSaWF_wUTLyNvqusUBcQP4_7sm9P_lKwUikaiqI5l71w6UmlqVMcAIchGacFBm6ocF1Sw7Ajj338UsKzFIgq39fA/s1600-h/moody+family+1969.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5B4E-VaYKc_uABb_Dh82SqITWpB4Hmio0l6bhUgl2iIXqYASz3kGSaWF_wUTLyNvqusUBcQP4_7sm9P_lKwUikaiqI5l71w6UmlqVMcAIchGacFBm6ocF1Sw7Ajj338UsKzFIgq39fA/s400/moody+family+1969.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Moody, Martha, George, Mary, Joe, James, Horace, Albert</i></b><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Seated is their Father, Professor Moody</i></b><br />
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One day, in August 1964, we were were over to a neighbor's house listening to his new stereo, which was high tech at the time. The neighbor wanted to hear my new Dinah Washington's album so I went home to get it. The phone rang while I was at home and I hesitated to answer it because I wanted to go back to hear the new stereo. Fortuitously, I lifted the receiver, and it was the Evanston School District, one of the best districts in the state, offering my husband a science teaching position. Because it was so late in the school year, they were offering jobs to the first people they found at home. I ran back to the neighbor's house, shouting the good news. Suppose I hadn't answered that call?<br />
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</div>In 1968, when my husband was a school superintendent in Harvey, Illinois, he was sitting at his desk while his secretary took lunch. The telephone rang and he answered it. It was a wrong number. The caller was looking for someone in East Chicago Heights, and instead of hanging up, he identified the party for the caller and got the number for her. They continued talking and the woman told him about her job, which was providing funds for people who needed grants. Moody said, "That's ironic. I'm looking for someone to fund my dissertation."<br />
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Well, before you knew it, he was on his way to New York to meet with Hylan Lewis, Dixie Moon, and Dr. Kenneth Clark, the psychologist who provided much of the research in the Brown v. Board of Education case that desegregated schools. It was a fruitful meeting and the Metropolitan Applied Research Center decided to fund his study to form the organization and help him complete his dissertation.<br />
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He wanted to study Black superintendents because there was zero research on the topic. Therefore, his dissertation had no review of the literature, usually a very vital part of a study. At the time there were less than twenty in the entire country, all of them male in Black districts. He was keeping a roster as he traveled to meetings around the country. His idea was to form an organization, the <i><b>National Alliance of Black Superintendents</b></i> that eventually grew to include all Black educators, the National Alliance of Black Educators (NABSE) that at its peak had over 10,000 members. (More about the organization in later posts.) This happened because he was nice to someone who dialed the wrong number.<br />
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We try not to dwell on disaster. He sees the glass as half full and I see the glass as half empty. I began to tip over to his side when I heard a speaker in Tulsa. She told the story about a young man who fell into the river after his boat tipped over. He could not swim and was in danger of drowning. His father, who also could not swim, watched in agony while standing on the shore. He found a rope, threw it to his son, and began to reel him in. The young man clutched the rope and as he began to pull, noticed there was a break in the rope. Danger still awaited. He yelled to his father and asked him what should he do. His father examined the rope, shouted to his son to reach beyond the break, which he did, and the father hauled his son to safety.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Dedication of Martin Luther King, Jr. School</i></b><br />
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That sort of summarizes our life. We try to reach beyond the breaks.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Hard Times Will Make a Monkey Eat Pepper and Swear It's Sweet</i></b><br />
</div>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2742335888716501335.post-6126411828434874322009-10-06T23:30:00.000-07:002009-10-19T09:59:40.714-07:00The Sixties - Part III<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Let us be grateful to people who make us happy,</i></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom. ~Marcel Proust</i></b><br />
</div>My speed (or drug of choice) was racing with my sister, Mary. She drove a Buick and I drove a Cadillac, both with BIG engines. We wouldn't think of driving with only six cylinders.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVsR6NVreB6LAyd347MyYFtcxfbHEV3TXwP0EiQnzssU2Jg6CGnOS6-tT-4YSbwtYvwUZkMYMKuPCnqOUI4w8Y1xneMVsxtsaz5RJxhaaVJWT59AKCUiXGh8TApmsOnFfYWfG9c2HCsQw/s1600-h/mary+eddie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVsR6NVreB6LAyd347MyYFtcxfbHEV3TXwP0EiQnzssU2Jg6CGnOS6-tT-4YSbwtYvwUZkMYMKuPCnqOUI4w8Y1xneMVsxtsaz5RJxhaaVJWT59AKCUiXGh8TApmsOnFfYWfG9c2HCsQw/s400/mary+eddie.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>This is my sister, Mary with her husband, who raced with me.</i></b><br />
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</i></b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV1s3QxFNEV_a2K7n6KeeYZhztWIHE7kYRPl76p0QqHYTv1kPUhvsYNFQQClaErdl1HjaqlHb_WccNs1C3ZT9QwPvqdR0NNao8f-uiKs5fiipOKIwhyFAdSzkDWbDNflUFpfCdzyGejNM/s1600-h/various_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV1s3QxFNEV_a2K7n6KeeYZhztWIHE7kYRPl76p0QqHYTv1kPUhvsYNFQQClaErdl1HjaqlHb_WccNs1C3ZT9QwPvqdR0NNao8f-uiKs5fiipOKIwhyFAdSzkDWbDNflUFpfCdzyGejNM/s400/various_0001.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>My mother, in front of the Cadillac I would use to race</i></b><br />
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We each had three children and after midnight, we would load the kids into our respective cars, leave our husbands at home, and find a lonely stretch of road on the far south side of Cottage Grove Avenue. We would wait at a red light and at the first inkling of the light changing to green, we would literally push the pedal to the metal. The first person to reach the next red light would win the race. Our children, in the back seats, with no seat belts, would jump and cheer us on as we would race over 100 mph on a CITY STREET. We were crazy and didn't even know it, but it was fun. Can you imagine that happening today? What was the most foolish thing you did in your twenties?<br />
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On all family road trips, I was the chief driver, and I was always trying to set a record. We didn't worry about gas mileage because a gallon of gasoline only cost between 30 and 35 cents. The children preferred my driving because they liked speed, also, and Daddy drove too slowly and carefully for them.<br />
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My mother had a large old-fashioned porch. It was not unusual to find at least ten of us sitting on the porch on any given day. The children waited for the ice cream truck and we hoped that my Mom was cooking dinner. As neighbors walked by, everyone spoke. It was like living in a small town.<br />
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Once, and only once, I took Moody to the Opera House to see <i>Boris Godunov</i>. Since it was our first trip to the opera, I borrowed clothes from my sister, so I could look like I belonged. He slept through most of the opera and I awoke him during intermission so we could go buy a drink. In the lobby we saw his former ROTC Colonel and his wife. Mrs. Ray was very elegant; she had a diamond pin on a sleek, black silk dress. Every hair was in place and her make-up was impeccable. Colonel Ray was tall, dark, and handsome in his black suit and stiff white shirt. They looked like they belonged.<br />
<br />
We exchanged greetings and Mrs. Ray asked if we were "patrons of the opera." While I tried to compose some reply that didn't sound provincial, Moody responded. "No," he said. "We're just here because we have free tickets. This dude started dying in the first act. Every time I think he is about to die, he jumps ups and sings another song. Will this guy ever die?" Stunned, everyone just looked at him and smiled. In 1989, when we traveled to Russia, we saw a statue of Godunov in a museum. I pointed it out to him, saying, "Look, Moody, your opera." "Well," he responded, "that guy finally died."<br />
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As popular culture changed so did the music. The music of Motown flooded the country and many teenagers formed groups, sang on corners, and waited for Barry Gordy to discover them. Motown is credited, by many, with helping music to "crossover." Before, Blacks listened to so-called race music on Black stations and white radio stations did not play Black music. Some Black music could only be played on white stations if the song had been "covered" by a white group. The sixties changed that.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFZ7NGS5yZoIQWLcX5euaDnkqxajTk82QS8DvpOBUQXFk6HD7_gfMz3ZbHkOlrqnkZz_XvPw0xlrzSrLf_XexewBKEFCi-xmNR8tP1ZRwA-v4BbQeSnBeiw9sPdjmDKN6GaV9uaea748U/s1600-h/delta+picture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFZ7NGS5yZoIQWLcX5euaDnkqxajTk82QS8DvpOBUQXFk6HD7_gfMz3ZbHkOlrqnkZz_XvPw0xlrzSrLf_XexewBKEFCi-xmNR8tP1ZRwA-v4BbQeSnBeiw9sPdjmDKN6GaV9uaea748U/s400/delta+picture.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>We loved our parties</i></b><br />
</div>The new music meant new dances. Boy, did we dance during the sixties. The Twist started the rage in non-contact dancing. You could dance with a partner or dance alone. No one cared. There was the Mess Around, the Hucklebuck, the Fly, the Watusi, the Stroll, the Mashed Potato, the Hitchhike, the Monkey, the Chicken, the Jerk, the Stroll, and many more.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQCSLkb-6XSKcA_ejLciTCdkQRHV1wVHurvrusn6wr3ca9CmnTirrP5MGLZWVUALJfiBFxXwf4770hw7DZomckT84953uEAWXqab21FytDs5A0LqOyz5VkNy0Wnnnpjz9CeB6i0h4DtWQ/s1600-h/chibigsnow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQCSLkb-6XSKcA_ejLciTCdkQRHV1wVHurvrusn6wr3ca9CmnTirrP5MGLZWVUALJfiBFxXwf4770hw7DZomckT84953uEAWXqab21FytDs5A0LqOyz5VkNy0Wnnnpjz9CeB6i0h4DtWQ/s320/chibigsnow.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is a picture from the Snowstorm of the Century, January 1967. This storm provided the biggest disruption of the city since the Chicago Fire of 1871. A record 23 inches of snow fell, with drifts of over 6 feet. The city was paralyzed with the airports, schools, and many business closed. Cars and buses were abandoned. My husband could not get home from Evanston but I made it home. Evelyn Gay's husband brought friends and literally picked up our cars in the parking lot at our school and placed them into "ruts" so we could make it home. The drive home was terrifying. You didn't dare leave the ruts because you would get stuck in a drift. A fifteen minute trip took almost an hour. Once I arrived home, neighbors gathered to determine what food each of us had and how we could share to make sure no one was hungry. A few of us trudged up to 95th Street, looking for any open store and buying any staples we could find. This is truly one of those times when you had to be there to appreciate it.<br />
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Our life has been filled with contrasting images. One benefit of the '60s (for us) was the rich man we met who used to fly us first class across the country to integrate parties and dinners. We stayed in fancy, five star hotels and had a driver at our disposal. He lived in a fabulous home in the Bay Area Hills and he introduced us to a life we only knew about in the movies. Riding in a limo after being shot at in Mississippi can jar your senses. Which is real? Having cocktails in a home that overlooked the bright lights of the city before being chauffeured to a five star restaurant to eat foods we didn't even know existed can awaken your awareness. We had no idea how large the gap was between the rich and the poor. It strengthened our resolve to do more for others, especially in the field of education.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Husband with two of our children, 1961</i></b><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS94VDR2g1wc1rY2i-c_N6Av41dIQFxT9VAYrITl_aoqm1adxasPVhho9bs3SShxfGrNnjU4Bm5DEVd2ZkYjF__2RpMvYUYBuzu1aiPsnxtdULIHzaJxY16A6ifeLHo3r90NqCHT_cuHg/s1600-h/oasie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS94VDR2g1wc1rY2i-c_N6Av41dIQFxT9VAYrITl_aoqm1adxasPVhho9bs3SShxfGrNnjU4Bm5DEVd2ZkYjF__2RpMvYUYBuzu1aiPsnxtdULIHzaJxY16A6ifeLHo3r90NqCHT_cuHg/s400/oasie.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>L. to R. - Sisters Mary and Evelyn, Betty, and Valjean</i></b><br />
</div><br />
During this decade we began a soon to be life-long experience of bringing other children into our home and working with young people on an individual basis. They call it mentoring now. I wish I had kept count of the number of children who call us Mom and Dad. We wanted to adopt a couple of my eighth graders but were told that we were too young and already had three children. So, we did the next best thing. They just came when they could and we helped when we could. We didn't know that our mentoring would increase exponentially in the next three decades.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsAi-WIHfrK3QcOmuXVYB84u9rsPOTWMO_614JJeFl6Ov6hyphenhyphenvHWaaMFkG3_hpeZ2glhdDRCWjmIPuXvUsMu2f5nHiq8RHgPbU4oYuMWEqFHEAET7pvZ10YkZP_vd8FZLeQjLi2SoLVwQ8/s1600-h/chris+park+forest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsAi-WIHfrK3QcOmuXVYB84u9rsPOTWMO_614JJeFl6Ov6hyphenhyphenvHWaaMFkG3_hpeZ2glhdDRCWjmIPuXvUsMu2f5nHiq8RHgPbU4oYuMWEqFHEAET7pvZ10YkZP_vd8FZLeQjLi2SoLVwQ8/s400/chris+park+forest.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Article in paper when I worked in Park Forest</i></b><br />
</div>On June 20, 1969, we took the children fishing with my sister, her husband, and their children. It was a relaxing, carefree day. In early evening, we rushed home to sit in front of our television to see something President Kennedy had asked Americans to do. We watched with disbelief as Americans walked on the moon. It was riveting. The entire country was enthralled as new heroes were born. My mom, and she was not alone, refused to believe that they were on the moon. She said they were televising this from Wyoming or Montana.<br />
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One of the most dynamic decades was winding down. We didn't realize it but our time in Chicago was coming to an end. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ybQ4BCt_aFbqIjFS7WiMFjPNxvYLYnESMVORmy40JufoH36i1BlKYlld3tZG7_RkYIVG33DzQaSRAxv0FJEX20xFKZFIcHNt8geXTZOqkNi1y2Yacqjv6pG7z7ssHxS45LgsNpRzgvk/s1600-h/200px-Apollo_11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ybQ4BCt_aFbqIjFS7WiMFjPNxvYLYnESMVORmy40JufoH36i1BlKYlld3tZG7_RkYIVG33DzQaSRAxv0FJEX20xFKZFIcHNt8geXTZOqkNi1y2Yacqjv6pG7z7ssHxS45LgsNpRzgvk/s400/200px-Apollo_11.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Bookends of the '60s:</b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Kennedy and Nixon; <br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">cold war and real war;<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">segregation and integration;<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">black and white television and color television;<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">talking about space travel and traveling to the moon;<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">back of the bus and anywhere you want to sit;<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">colonialism and independence;<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">race music stations and music on all stations<br />
</div><br />
<div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Relationships are all there is. </i></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Everything in the universe only exists because it is in relationship to everything else.</i></b><br />
</div></div>Christella D. Moodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13520572530501992404noreply@blogger.com7