Most mornings I struggle to stay asleep, often waking at 4 AM and listening to outside noises, dogs stirring to be let out, and sometimes my hard-headed cat bashing the door of his boudoir. Of late the upcoming election and the Pandemic are first and foremost in my erratic, half-asleep brain. As it was this morning.
Then I started thinking about teachers and parents trying to find adequate school supplies, patience, and time. For an increasing number of parents in this nation food scarcity has become a norm. Hunger is painful and debilitating; I speak from experience in a time of my life where rent and gasoline came first. I lost about thirty pounds during that time, going down to 108 pounds on a 5’4″ frame. I came down with pneumonia.
Better times came for me, but when will they come for these parents being evicted with their children literally into the streets? For the parents who line up for food bank help? Who have nothing to clothe their children as we get into winter?
I take my religion seriously. It tells me we shouldn’t be turning our backs on the hungry, the poor, the sick, the lonely, the abandoned. My religion teaches me how I treat my fellow human as a brother and sister, not enemies, is how things should be. Feed the hungry, house the poor, treat the sick, sit with the lonely, aid the abandoned.
While I ponder these things in the darkness of early morning, others are doing something about it. Are following their beliefs, their social mores, their causes to make our world whole and better.
It’s time to wake up and shoulder part of the burden.
Before we became so enamored of radio, TV, and the Internet, people in the US had real regional accents. I was strongly reminded of that while watching Gordon Ramsey: Uncharted on cooking in south Louisiana. Twenty years ago he wouldn’t have easily understood the English spoken at the end of the toe of Louisiana. Forty years ago it might have been incomprehensible.
In the late 1970’s I listened to Cajun radio stations where patois was spoken while driving to Baton Rouge.
My father’s cracker family were rough people from Duck Commanderville, having migrated from Michigan, Arkansas, then to Louisiana after the Civil War.
My mother’s family spoke a very formal English with colloquialisms you could trace back to pre American Revolution America and England. Like Shelby Foote.
I miss the wild jambalaya of American accents.