The Cloud So much of our lives are on devices which store data, pictures and information in "The Cloud". Some filmmaker associates of mine reminded us to put all our content in "the cloud" because if anything happened, like the horrific fires in Los Angeles , all of our work would be gone.. But what IS the "cloud". Where is it? What does it look like? Is it locked away someplace safe like inside a mountain? Who has physical access to the "cloud"? Can a fire destroy it? Inquiring minds (like mine) want to know!!

 A Fire

When I was about 10 years old, the neighbors across the street had a fire in their house. It might have started at night, but that part is not clear in my memory.

We didn't know the neighbors very well, but as the fire blazed my mother saw the woman who lived there standing on the sidewalk looking at her home go up in flames.  It must have been winter because my mother went across the street and brought her and her children into our house, She gave them blankets and sat with them until the fire department left.

I clearly remember the way the mother and kids smelled like smoke, and our house smelled like smoke for several days afterward because they had been in the living room. The smoke from the fire also billowed across the street into our house.

I never found out what happened to that family, but I was very proud of my mother that day.

 One of the reasons I left TV news was that it was getting too close to  home. It was getting too close to me.

I went to a funeral home to cover the services for a story and saw the name of a woman who had been a big part of my childhood on the little letter board. I did not even know she had passed and her funeral was that same day. I had to tell my photojournalist to wait for me outside while I went in another room and cried.

When visiting the House of Correction for a story, I saw young man I knew from Sherman Park. He  was happy to see me and when his fellow inmates asked how he actually knew me, he said "We play tennis together".

I went to court one day for a story about a man who was causing some trouble in Milwaukee. As he was led out of the courtroom he nodded at me in that simple gesture that all Black people recognize. He had gone to my high school.

When called to the courthouse for jury duty I went because it is my responsibility as a citizen. As I walked through the hall, the defendant was coming out of the courtroom with his lawyer. He waved at me and said "I'm glad you are on my jury!".

Every few months I would meet someone my father had helped get a job or get into college. He worked for the Urban League. I was always proud to hear how he had helped them and appreciated them telling me.

But, I'm glad I'm out of the news business now because I friend of mine was recently murdered and I don't think I could have read his name on the air. You have to separate yourself from the stories you cover or read when you are an anchorperson, but it was all getting too close.

.

 

Getting older is like being in a boat and leaving the shore.

You keep looking back at the land slowly disappearing, getting farther and farther away and you feel like you are losing something.  You are losing a connection with your past. You are losing all the people who made up your childhood, adolescence, young adulthood and adulthood.

All the “grown-ups” who guided you and you looked to as the guiding stars, are leaving.  One by one they die and you are left with a hole in your rolodex that cannot be filled. 

Social media can make it creepy, too.  There are names in your contacts list that you cannot call or text anymore. New names have been added, but the ones that are not back there on the shore, cannot be replaced.

Getting older also means that the elders in your life have been replaced by… you.

Your kids look at you as the “grown-ups” now.

If you turn around and look forward at the open water, you hope that you see some land in front of you. Right now there is none in sight.

But, maybe that is what heaven is.  When you start to see new land in front as the land behind you is out of sight.

Pushed into Politics

 Remember when America was only great and before it was going to be made great again?

Remember when we had presidential elections every four years and between them we didn't think much  about Washington or the Commander in Chief unless he was coming to town for a visit and we knew traffic was going to be backed up for a couple of hours if that even mattered because he was not coming to our neighborhood anyway?

Remember when we occasionally glanced at a Senate or Congressional race and paid little attention to any election smaller than that?

We usually knew who the mayor was and maybe the County Executive, but beyond them people hardly knew who was elected to what, and usually didn't care. As long as the lights stayed on, the water flowed, the snow got plowed and the garbage got collected.

We are in a new world.

Our lives are dictated by internet communications and every time you turn-on your device you see politicians yelling or complaining or warning about some issue or about the other party. Politics (and politicians) are all over the place. They have become like the gum that gets stuck on your shoe.  You don't know where it got there and it's too sticky to get off and you really don't want to touch it. Then when you get it off your right shoe, another glob gets stuck on your left shoe.

We are being pushed into politics, whether we like it on not.

Every month it seems, there is an election someplace that needs your attention (and money). We used to have election "season" every four years. Now we have election weather. It hits us one way or the other everyday and feels like there is nothing we can do about it. Although with climate change there may be something we can do about the weather, but that's another discussion.

How about a Political Pause? From May 1st to June 1st politicians, political parties and PAC's are prohibited from advertising or discussing anything. The advertisement space on your homepage will be a politics- free zone for one month. The work of government, or lack thereof, will continue but they are not allowed to talk about it out loud. Or online.

Sure some big business will loose some money, but they will make it up in July by raising your streaming rates.

When I found out I was different

 

• One spring day when I was in probably in third grade all the little girls in my class were invited to a birthday party. I attended Keefe Avenue school in Milwaukee at the time and loved my school. Back then, you had to wear skirts to school and so on this day we all got dressed up in our party dresses to go to school and attend the party at 3:30pm.

  
  

  The girl lived right across the street from the school. I can still see the house. 

  
  

  At this time, Keefe Avenue school was in a white neighborhood. I walked from our house at 14th and Burleigh to 17th and Keefe. I even walked home for lunch and made it back on time.  I was the only Black child in my class. It didn't seem to matter to the other little girls or to me, but I found out it mattered to some adults.

  
  

  It was a partly cloudy, but mostly sunny afternoon. After school all the little girls ran across the street for the party. We all stood on the front porch giggling and waiting for the birthday girl's mother to open the door. When the door opened she said "come on in girls". I was the last in line.

  
  

  When I got to the door she said "No, not you. You cannot come in" and closed the door in my face.

  
  

  I stood there all alone on the porch looking at the closed door and hearing the girls having fun inside.

  
  

  I wasn't sure what to do, so I started running. I ran all the way home, let myself into our house and I cried.

  
  

  When my mother came home from work I told her what happened.  I don't remember exactly what she said as she hugged me. I was till crying so hard. But I do remember something about how I was as good as any of those little white girls and should be proud of who I was and the family I came from.

  
  

  When my father came home, they had a long heated discussion. My mother was the one who calmed my father when he got angry. He gave me a big hug and said he was proud of me.

  
  

  That first encounter has stuck with me all these years.

  
  

   I drove past that house just the other day and slowed down to see how it, and I had changed.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  ---

• , 
•  or 

Paul Hollywood

I met a man tonight.  I didn’t expect it. It was a surprise. Who could expect to meet someone new in the middle of a pandemic where we are all stuck in our homes, but I let him into mine.

I saw him very late at night and I was tired. I must find out when I can see him again.

He is tall with engaging eyes, a British accent and a little goatee.

There was another woman with him. They were laughing. She was teasing him about the color of his hair, salt and pepper, and the strength of his arms. She also praised him for his buns.

I sat there, watching him work. Watching the two of them together and even though I had just met him I became envious and jealous of her.

They were rolling, they were rubbing, they were patting. He has such skills.

I don’t know when I will see him again. He has the unbelievable name of Paul Hollywood. I saw him very late at night. I must find out when I can see him again.  In the dark. In the kitchen.

Some Easter reflections amid a pandemic

When my sons were little, maybe three and four, we set out all of the coloring stuff on the kitchen table, including several layers of newspaper (sorry JournalSentinel) to catch the spills. The cups filled with different colors were ready, the boys had their little wire dunkers in hand and... oh no! I got a phone call I had to take. This was before cell phone popularity but only 23 years ago. Anyway, I left the table and went to the phone in the other room. The call lasted longer than I hoped and worried that the boys would have trashed the kitchen or lost interest interest in egg coloring by the time I returned. But, lo and behold when I got back to the kitchen table all the eggs had been colored! About two dozen! They were all sitting in those cardboard egg holders. I asked the boys, "who colored all the eggs!!" They both said "we did". Not with a lot of pride, just sort of matter-of-fact. I cried.

The Green Ribbon

This is an unedited, un -reviewed first draft of a story I have been writing for several years.
If you like it, great please let me know. If you don't, let me know anyway.

INTRODUCTION

A man's world is enriched, then shattered by his love for a young woman he never gets to meet.  He loves her from afar. Her warm smile and what seems to him to be her joy of life, opens a door in his heart and in his life, that he did not know existed.

He is a straight- laced college professor with a fine wife and family.  She is a factory worker from the tenements, living from paycheck- to- paycheck but dreaming of better days in America.

The year is 1911 in New York City. She works at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory.

THE GREEN RIBBON     CHAPTER 1

Spring is always lovely in New York City. And so it was in March of 1911.

The flowers crept out of their hidden beds, the trees exploded with green and white blossoms. Some had pungent fragrances. Magnolias smelled sweet and light. Early roses added a scent to the air as you pass by. The skies sometimes continued grey and blustery, but slowly they cleared to a crystal blue that could take your breath away. The sun found its way from behind the clouds and glowed early in the morning so that the dew on the grass in Central Park looked like crystals.

Of course, with spring and warmer air comes melting snow and ice. That exposed the dirt and grime and filth that had been hidden; frozen since that cold snap in December. But, animal leavings and rotting fruit were all part of spring in New York City in 1911.

Professor Henry Rutledge loved it all. Well, not the horse dung. He had seen enough of that during his summers on his Uncle Joshua’s farm. But the beauty and the promise of another spring always added a lilt to his step and a small smile to his face.

In 1911, Paul’s children were just the right age to ask too many questions. Being a college professor, he expected inquiries from his students.  But, they were young adults, not 8 and 11 year old children with unbridled curiosities. He grew impatient with his children quickly and insisted that when he come home each evening, they greet him politely then disappear until supper.  That way he could sit comfortably in his overstuffed chair. Put his feet up on the Ottoman. Light his pipe and read the newspaper without interruption. He was, after all, the master of the house and what he said was law.

Henry Rutledge was not a domineering man, but he wanted order in his household and he did not want to have to justify every decision he made or every order he gave, to his family. He wanted his life to be uncomplicated and predictable. He wanted his wife, Helen to be beautiful and obedient. He had worked hard to obtain a Doctorate in Greek and Roman history at New York University, and now, since he taught at that very same institution, he wanted to move up the ladder of the faculty with a family that would make him proud.

The world of New York City, and the outside world in general, were of little importance to Henry.  He read of the crime and the corruption in city politics, but that did not concern him because his world was purely academic. He found some interest in world affairs as they related to his studies in ancient history, but the troubles across the sea did not touch him directly, so he read about them as a kind of entertainment.  He was confident and you could say, arrogant. He knew his place in society and those beneath him were of little consequence.

Until he saw her.

Beating my Daddy's record

My father, John J. Williams was amazing. He had four careers... he would have had more had he been allowed to teach in public schools when he graduated from college. That's another story.

He received his Master's degree when he was 70 years old, and I thought that was PRETTY DARNED OLD to be doing anything like that.  But, I was very, very proud of him and always hoped I would do something as significant long before that birthday. As of today (May 26, 2018) I have 11 months to beat his record!

Hard as it may be to believe.. certainly hard for me... I will be 70 in April, 2019.

So, I have set a deadline for my 'significant' thing. By April 10, 2019 the documentary "Kaukauna & King: 50 Years Later" will be finished.

If you wonder why you don't see me around town as much, it's because I am in seclusion writing and editing. Ross, Debbie, Kathleen, Rob & Jackie will see me. Probably more than they want because I am going in obsessive- mode. But, to the rest of the world, I will be in hibernation. Of course, I will still sneak out every month to host "Black Nouveau" and do stories for the show or "10ThirtySix",but then I will retreat to my "office", computer and notebook and the occasional dinner of pizza.

B100

Time is all we have in life. Period.

How we use it, how we abuse it, how we waste it, how we pray for more of it... that is all that we have.

The reunion of classmates from 50 years ago at Northwestern University was time well-spent.

Some of the time I spent at the B100 Commemoration of the Takeover of the Bursar's Office taught me things I did not know about being a student in 1968. I didn't know that the administration separated the Black women in Allison Hall... one at each end of a floor and one in the middle.
Now I know why I had a corner room. I thought I was just lucky. But then, the window did connect to the heating system which made a convenient platform to sneak in and out of the dorm. I of course, never used it for that purpose.

Seeing friends that I had not seen in 50 years was truly a blessing.  Learning that one of my buddies from Northwestern had died just before the reunion, brought me to tears. Time, it's all we have.

Getting to know some folks I really didn't know well in 1968 was a joy. Let's keep in touch. The email thread that preceded the reunion brought many of us together. Don't let it fade, over time.

The dinner at the president's house was joyous. All the hugging and kissing and "do you remembers..." and the "oh my, who is that?" We could have stayed there all night!

The time of the weekend went so fast. Here it is a week later. But I'm still thinking about it and reading new emails.

Looking back over 50 years brought up so many personal memories, too.
My first job, my first boyfriend at N.U., my first husband, my parents illnesses and passings, why I lost contact with one of my friends, my second husband, two sons, three jobs, retirement... and trying to hold onto every moment because, as the saying goes "yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery , today is the gift. That's why we call it the 'present'".

Thank you all for the gift of spending some of your precious time, together.

Answers to questions you didn't know you wanted to ask

This is the day after the 48th anniversary of my 21st birthday.

You do the math.

People often ask me why am I still so busy hosting "Black Nouveau" a show on MilwaukeePBS, doing stories for another program "10ThirtySix"... serving on boards, MC'ing events, and producing my first independent movie. The answer: connections and purpose.

I miss the connections I made over the years covering news in Milwaukee. Talking to people and hearing their stories is inspirational. Since my platform to tell their stories has changed, I try to make the most of it whenever I can. Maya Angelou said it best: "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

My hope is that those connections will make people feel better about themselves and become open to connections with people they don't know... yet.

And, while retirement gives you time to do all those things you put off while you were working, it's hard to focus on one project or another because there is so much to do.

But, when I embarked on the documentary film "Kaukauna & King: 50 Years Later" I found my purpose.

Telling this story has put me in contact, in one way or another, with more than 200 people since I naively set out on this journey 2016!  I am getting an unofficial, O.T.J. education in filmmaking and running a business.

This film has become my passion project. It is what I think about before falling asleep on the couch every night and waking up with my cat, Homer staring me in the face, every morning.

The emotions that go along with this journey have been surprising. Being able to bring together people who have not seen each other in 50 years brought me to tears. Helping open the eyes of people who don't know the story or the play that started it all, "In White America" is powerful. As I told producer, Debbie Paschke, the day when I see the poster for the film standing in the lobby of the Oriental Theatre in Milwaukee and when they call the crew of the film on stage to discuss it, she will have to walk out there.  I won't be able to say much of anything. It will be like holding your baby for the first time and the nurse says "he's beautiful".  

All I will be able to say is "Thank you" and cry.

The Immigrants

As the world faces one of the largest refugee crises in history, let’s look back at the story of one family that was part of another influx of immigrants a few years ago.

The Immigrants

Along with hundreds of other families who feared for their lives because of political battles in the city in which they were living, the young couple fled with everything they could carry in their hands… becoming immigrants and strangers in another community.

During their escape, they found that so many others had left their homes too, that there was no place for them to stay.  Refugee camps had not sprung up yet, and people were packed into every area of shelter they could find, the government was of no help, but an NGO directed them find a corner to sleep in for a few days.

Along the way, the pregnant wife gave birth in a dirty, crowded space where other people would not live.

Shortly after, they had to move again and the new mother, the baby and the husband joined many others looking for a better place for the family.

They settled in a small, rural town where the husband found some work. 

Years later, as the national government changed, they were still bothered by the authorities who wanted to know where they came from, what their business was in this town and whether their teenage son was going to cause trouble.

The couple tried to blend into the community, make friends and teach their son right from wrong.

It was tough for them to adapt, they often thought about the homes they had left… the families who could not follow them and finally the son, now a young man, decided he did not want to go into his father’s profession and left home.

It didn’t take long for the son to end up with a bunch of other young men who said things and did things that brought them to the attention of the authorities.

The young man got arrested, charged with things that he didn’t do because the government thought the things he was saying were dangerous… thought he was trying to indoctrinate others into beliefs it thought were wrong and undermined their way of life, so, they put him in prison.

His mother risked going to the authorities… after all she wasn’t born in that community and was not sure her papers would be accepted… she could very well have been deported. But, she went to the division of the government that was holding him, and pleaded for his release. 

But, the government received some damning intel from an informant, and the young man was convicted and executed.