Left to my own devices

There may come a time when some of us realize we may not live as long as we'd wanted, or expected to. It may not come as a "Eureka!" moment, perhaps more as a slow, steady registering of potential reality. I use the word "potential" deliberately, as none of us knows precisely what the future holds. Still, we can have a fairly good idea after a certain point.

Did I ever tell you about the time I pretended to be sick, so I wouldn't have to go to school, and my mom didn't believe me? It was during the mid-eighties -- maybe 1984, or '85? We were still living in the modest house on Draper Sr. that I'd called home since birth, and I was attending Westview elementary. One morning, I didn't want to go to school, and told mom that I wasn't feeling well. She wasn't buying it. In addition to that, she mentioned (in a rather frustrated tone) that she had some errands to run, and couldn't do so if I was going to be home. She stared at me for a few moments, waiting for me to admit it was all a ruse, but I held firm.

Earlier this year, a full, complete picture of our Earth was taken and released by NASA. It is the second such photo in our history, the first having been taken some forty-three years ago in 1972. Both pictures have been dubbed "blue marble," a name affectionately given to our planet, and they are breathtaking. While some have, understandably, paid close attention to the visual condition of our atmosphere, both photos have evoked within me another kind of comparison. I think of my own life, and that of my friends and family, of what has changed during the time between photographs. The thoughts are both sad and humbling.

The Garden Hills neighborhood in my hometown often gets a bad rap. Granted, its best days are, so far, behind it, but I hold-out hope for its future. A visit to the neighborhood will, on a surface-level, note some areas of much-needed improvement, from the houses to the curbs. But, whenever I drive through there, I always think fondly of my Grandma Callie, and her time living there. 68-years-old by the time I was born, Callie Mae Hubbard Gladney was already an old woman by the time I remember her living on Hedge Rd. in Garden Hills in north Champaign. A bit hard-of-hearing, grandma was nevertheless still pretty spry. A former teacher from Mississippi, she spent many of her days reading from her bible, then putting it down and mouthing prayer for a few minutes, her eyes closed, her mind focused. Callie Mae liked herself some chewing tobacco. That always made me a little uncomfortable, watching her bottom lip curl-up with chew, then discarding it in her spittoon next to the ...

Tonight on TNT is the premiere of the new  Dallas . Not sure what to call it: Dallas: The Next Generation ? Dallas: Again !? Regardless, it's the return of the classic CBS series that originally aired during the 1970s, '80s and '90s. Cynically, I want to brush it off by remarking that it's an obvious commercial ploy to capitalize on a well-established TV brand that seeks to prey on folks' nostalgia. But, dear reader, I am willing to admit a great weakness to such nostalgia, and will most likely tune-in to at least the season premiere, if not the entire 10-episode-season .

Three years ago today, the world lost a woman who had been with it for over a century. She didn't live the easiest life, but it was a blessed one. Without her, scores of people who are near and dear to me wouldn't exist. And, selfishly, I must admit to being one of them. I am, of course, referring to Callie Mae Hubbard, also known as my paternal grandma. Passing away just one week shy of her 101st birthday, Callie Mae was my longest-lived, and last remaining, grandparent. They are all gone now. Both grandfathers were unknown to me, and Gummy (my maternal grandmother) had died 10 years earlier. There was a lot I didn't know about Callie Mae, but what I did know, I liked. She was one-of-a-kind.