ReddMeat

"Losing It"

2011-11-20T13:05:00.000-08:00

I am about 40 pounds lighter than I was when I last wrote here. And I feel better than I have in a long time. And I mean a long, loooong time. I'm eating better, sleeping better and my thinking has gotten more clear. At least I think so, anyway.

What is my "secret" formula?

What is the key? What is the deal?

It's Weight Watchers. Plain and simple. Weight Watchers. Well, it's not really all that plain, and for me, it's always been so simple — but it's a one-day-at-a-time kind of a thing, and I can go more into it later, in a bit.

The coolest thing about Weight Watchers is that the program is more about teaching you how to eat than it is about showing you how to diet and lose weight.

DIET = Don't

Imagine

Eating

That

Or ...

HALT = Hungry

Angry

Lonely

Tired

These are some of the things I've learned during my meetings, and I can roll with them. Oh, yeah.

Makes sense, doesn't it? I really never even thought about it this way. But now that I have committed myself to the program, it all makes so much sense. And the whole concept isn't really all that complex. Not at all.

I mean, if I can arrive at the point where I "get it," then ... It doesn't take a (and I'm going to use an overused term here) rocket scientist to grasp the concept of not overeating and pushing back and away from the table before the feeling of being waaaaay too full is reached. How about that?

Well, anyway. Back to "the plan."

Weight Watchers works.

No, they aren't paying me to say these things. (I could only BE so lucky. I could use the money.) And I'm not making a play to become their spokesman. Weight Watchers just works. That's all.

I'm not going to get into how MUCH I weighed before I started. Nor am I going into what my goal weight is. Not now. But let's just say that I didn't like the way I was looking. I didn't like the way my clothes were fitting (or no longer fitting as was the case) and I didn't like the way I was feeling.

I really didn't like the way I was feeling.

You see, I got a new job a couple of years ago. And I began to pour myself into it. I had a lot to learn and my learning curve was expected to be steep. I discovered this some time after I started. The office politics and the climate and lowered morale added to the mix and before I realized it, I was putting in more work-related hours than I should have. I wasn't exercising regularly. I wasn't having any FUN. And I wasn't being … well, ME!

The present economy and employment situation made me want to make myself

"vital" at the office, especially since I looked up and I was 50-plus years old. The phone doesn't ring as much the older you get. I heard that somewhere. Maybe I t was a movie. I can't remember, but it's the truth.

So, in my case, the phone wasn't ringing as much as it used to AND I was killing myself ... literally. And no, I didn't have a medical emergency or a near-death experience. (So many people I talk to and work with have to have some kind of A-plus-B-equals-C logic pattern laid out before they can grasp a concept) I just got tired of being overweight and I decided to do something about it.

Jenny Craig, Nutri-System and all the other programs that require you to

purchase and eat THEIR food didn't appeal to me because I have a hard enough time packing MY OWN food for the day, let alone trying to keep a supply of THEIRS handy.

Weight Watchers, however, teaches you to make choices based on system of points for everything you eat and how many points you're allowed each day. So, basically, you can eat what you want. You just have to keep track of what you eat and hoe MUCH of it you eat. There are guides and charts and there's even an iPhone app that helps you track. I like the app. I don't like to do all the math.

There are statistics that point to the percentage of people in the United States being overweight. And what's wrong with THAT picture?

Plenty, I'll tell you.

So, for me, it's Weight Watchers.

And it works!

So watch it, because I'm losing it.

-30-

"Reefer Madness"

2011-07-24T04:42:00.000-07:00

I had the opportunity to go back home, to a family reunion in Indiana, a couple of weeks ago.

While I was there, I visited some of my old stomping grounds in Gary.

I really haven’t gone back there too much, but in the past few years I’ve found myself going back more often – being drawn back.

My parents have retired and moved to Atlanta. My brother and his family live near Washington, D.C. My sister lives in Atlanta with her family. So the only person I HAVE to see in Gary is Aunt Doris, my mother’s youngest sister.

If she ever found out that I was in Gary and didn’t stop by to see her, she’d probably try to take a switch to me – like the old days.

Gary, Ind., has always had a gritty reputation. Steel mills and its proximity to Chicago made it the place to be back when I grew up there. But it wasn’t until the late '80s and early '90s that the city took a nosedive, so much so that it was the nation's murder capital a couple of years running. So the Gary I remember is NOTHING like the Gary of today. And that breaks my heart.

I had some good times in Gary. But times were different then, very different.

Back in the day …

During my recent trip, I thought about the time when my best friend, Kevin, and I thought we had stumbled upon someone’s patch of marijuana growing in a wooded area near where we both lived.

What turned out to be some sort of wild foliage that only looked like cannabis got us so excited we could hardly wait to spend the money from our ill-gotten gains.

After we stumbled upon “the stash” we quickly ran back to my house (my parents were at work) to grab up as many shopping bags as we could and hightail it back to the weed.

We then dug up all the plants, put them in the bags and ran them back to my house. We had to do our dirty work at my house since there was always someone at Kevin’s. He came from a large family. At my place there weren’t so many people around.

Keep in mind we had NO idea what we were doing. None. But we hatched a plan anyway.

So we proceeded to take the leaves off the stems of these … plants, we put them on several of my mother’s cookie sheets and dried them out in the oven, which was set to its highest temperature. The plan was to dry the plants, grind up the leaves, bag the “product” in Baggies and we’d be in business. But we had to be finished “cooking” before my mother got home from work.

I don’t remember whose idea this whole thing was, but at the time it was going to be on!

As we sat watching the plants dry in the oven, we talked about what we were going to buy with the money we would make from our venture.

Converse Chuck Taylor high-tops. Matching Levi’s jeans and jacket. Imitation silk underwear. Several pairs of platform shoes. A couple of suits.

I was going to be “as clean as the board of health” when I went back to school the coming fall.

Oh, yeah. Stylin’!

After the leaves were dry, we crunched them up, bagged them and got rid of any incriminating evidence before my parents got home.

We made plans to meet back up later and divvy up the product so we could begin our venture.

First, though, we had to test the weed.

When we did, neither of us really knew what to expect – as inexperienced as we were – but we knew the headaches we had were not supposed to be part of the experience. After a couple of days and more “research,” we realized that what we had was not what we thought it was, so into the trashcan it all went. I remember purposely waiting for the right time to get rid of the stash: the night before garbage day. The city garbage pickup was at something like 7 or 8 a.m., so since I had to take our family’s two metal cans to the curb, I could get rid of the stash and all would be well.

The morning after I got rid of the stuff, after I heard the sanitation truck stop at our house, everything was back in order. Case closed.

Or so I thought.

One night a few years ago, while talking about this episode to my brother, Rudi, he surprised me by telling me that he knew all about it.

You see, Rudi grabbed the “weed” from the trashcan and proceeded to sell it to some of the neighborhood tough guys who were into smoking pot. He even made a few dollars. But when word got out that the “weed” was not weed, Rudi found himself in big trouble.

Whenever he found himself in trouble back then, Rudi would turn to me, his big brother. But this was big trouble, bigger than me. So Rudi turned to Cousin Mark, whose sister Linda had the romantic affections of one of the baddest dudes in the neighborhood, T.C. T.C. came from a family of bad dudes, and nobody messed with any of them. Mark talked to T.C., T.C. brokered a deal and Rudi got a pass … along with a stern warning: Stay out of the drug business!

Back in the day …

-30-

"Bankruptcy at Borders"

2011-02-17T00:57:00.000-08:00

One of the reasons I was so excited about moving to Sherman Oaks was that there is a Borders right around the corner from my new apartment.

Yesterday, I learned that that Borders is one of 200 of the company's 642 stores it is closing. You see, Borders filed for bankruptcy protection.

Bummer!

I should have known something was amiss when, during one of
my recent visits to Santa Barbara, Calif., I noticed that the Borders on State Street AND the Barnes & Noble – in the next block – were closed. I hadn't been to Santa Barbara in several months, so I was surprised then saddened.

You see, since moving to "Cali" in 2006, bookstores have become my "groove." Especially if they have Wi-Fi.

I read somewhere a while ago that the bookstore had become the new library, a place where a person could get lost among the tomes on its shelves or enjoy a cup of Joe while people-watching. I can't tell you how many hours I've spent at Borders over the past few years. In Santa Barbara. Glendale. Pasadena. Sherman Oaks.

So, to me, knowing that Borders Group Inc. is closing the store on the corner of Ventura Boulevard and Cedros Avenue made me feel ... well, like the person who gets to the party right as it is ending.

"Man, that was a good one! You missed it. Too bad."

Seems like this is the story of my life, sometimes. Or, at the very least, a recurring theme.

I served in the military several decades ago, thinking I would travel the world then – after I'd served my hitch – use the G.I. Bill to finish college. That plan went awry when I learned from the Air Force recruiter I was talking to at the time, that the G.I. Bill, as I knew it, had been discontinued ... six months before I'd signed up.

And now, years later, just as I'd gotten used to the idea of having a place to chill out and expand my horizons – within a five-minute walk from my front door – that plan has gone awry.

Oh, well.

There's a public library a few miles away. I wonder if it has Wi-Fi.

-30-

"Doggone it!"

2011-02-16T00:00:00.000-08:00

I like dogs. Always have. Sometimes, though, I believe some dog lovers take things to the extreme.

Not that the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show is an example of dog lovers being extreme, but in a way, I am glad it's all over.

A 5-year-old Scottish deerhound named Hickory won best in show at the esteemed New York event. And that's good. More power to Hickory ... and her owners and handlers. And anybody who might be a fan.

Just as long as they aren't snobs about it.

Yeah, yeah, I know all about how people treat their dogs as if they were their children. I happen to know some canines who eat better than some humans I know. And they certainly get better medical (and dental) treatment. That's OK, I suppose.

One time, while I was living in New York's borough of Manhattan, I came upon a woman who was walking her dog ... and the dog and its owner were wearing matching "outfits" - Burberry coats and black boots. I had to stop and gawk. Really. To be fair, the dog was a small one and the "boots"-- I later learned -- protected the animal's feet from the salt that it was on the sidewalks. It was during the month of January. Still, I thought the whole scene surreal.

I haven't seen that level of doggy-style coordination here in California, but the other day I watched as a woman held her purse down so that her terrier could jump into it. I actually thought that was pretty cool, by the way.

I just get irritated when I come across folks who act as if THEIR dog is THE dog of all dogs, as if all other dogs are less. Not cool. More than once when I was walking Lucy -- my "girl" (more on Lucy later) -- I've come across people who see us approaching and they give us a look ... as if we don't belong on the same street. Lucy is a 9-year-old rescue. She looks as if she is mixed with Pit Bull and German shepherd and she is one of the most mellow, sweet dogs I have ever met. The whole Michael Vick thing didn't help, but I'm not condoning nor faulting Vick, who paid for his crime and has moved on. At any rate, the snobs sometimes need to be taken down a peg or two every now and then.

Of course it cracks me up when these "pedigreed" pooches get their "dog" on, sniffing others (you know how dogs do) and even misbehave from time to time.

My upstairs neighbors own two Chihuahuas, one of which is missing a front leg and uses a prosthesis to get around. Then there's Blues, who lives nearby. Blues picks up his toys and puts them in a box when he's done with them. And Bones, who gets so excited to see you that you'd think he is going have a seizure.

You probably won't see Bones or Blues or even Lucy at Westminster.

Maybe there should be a major dog show for regular dogs, dogs who don't have papers or pedigrees ... but are stars just the same.

-30-

"Roses are red"

2011-02-15T00:07:00.000-08:00

Valentine's Day.

If you're in a relationship, this is one of those holidays that you cannot forget about. You'd better not.

Funny thing, though. I don't believe it's been so commercial. I'm pretty sure it hasn't always been this way.

Roses are red ...

According to Wikipedia, Valentine's Day is named after Saint Valentine, a Christian martyr. And it's traditional to express love for each other by offering up flowers, confectionery and sending greeting cards.

I can remember when the most popular students in grade school would come home with the most valentines. Things became more complicated, years later, when I dated. Though I never considered myself a "playah," Valentine's Day got rather expensive. And complicated.

This one didn't like roses. That one did. This one loved chocolate candy. That one was allergic.

Nowadays, things are simple.

And I'm glad, too.

Roses are red.

-30-

"The Grammys"

2011-02-13T23:54:00.000-08:00

I just finished watching the 53rd annual Grammy Awards show on TV.

Call me crazy, but I am not in the groove anymore where this award show is concerned. For one thing, the show, which was televised from Staples Center downtown, not too terribly far from where I live, was broadcast on CBS and began at 8 tonight. But by the time the show aired on the West Coast, it had actually been over for about three hours. I'm not sure why that happened, but it threw me off.

If someone could explain to me why this arrangement was made, I'd appreciate it.

I used to follow the Grammys ... to a deeper level than I do now, but to tell you the truth, I was not familiar with more than half of the artists who were nominated and won. So, in keeping with the times, I watched a webcast of the arrivals on my computer and I even tweeted after seeing some of the interesting and entertaining tweets posted by others.

I had to add my two cents worth.

Actually, it was pretty cool that the pre-televised version of the show was streamed on the Web as well.

As I call myself a bit of a music lover, even to the point of "messing around" on the trumpet now and again (the drunker you get, the better I sound), I enjoy the Grammys. There were several highlights that stand out:

Lady Gaga arrived in her "egg" and when she "hatched," she looked like '80s-circa Madonna. Both Madonna and Lady Gaga are on my iPod, by the way.

Eminem's performance (even though he wore his pants down his butt) and the fact that he's been known not to smile in public.

Cee Lo Green, accompanied by Gwyneth Paltrow and several Muppetlike puppets, performed "Forget You" (the song's actual title is "F-word You," which I found hilarious) -- but you cannot say the F-word on network TV, right?

Justin Bieber did NOT win a Grammy for new artist of the year, which went to jazz bassist Esperanza Spalding. Excuse me, but I do not suffer from Bieber-fever. And according to one 5-year-old I know, "He sings like a girl."

-30-

"What happened to the rakes?"

2011-02-12T23:51:00.000-08:00

This morning, as I walked the dog near Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks, I noticed something. It was quiet. There was no annoying sound of a leaf blower.

It took me a minute to wrap my brain around the concept.

You see, just about every other day of the week somebody somewhere near my apartment is working on somebody's lawn. As stereotypical as it may be, all you really have to have is a truck it seems, a lawnmower, a weed wacker and a backpack leaf blower. I say "stereotypical" because I haven't seen one yard work crew that was not Hispanic. And the one time I approached the operator one of those backpack leaf

blowers, he couldn't understand me and I couldn't really understand him. I don't want to get into the whole illegal immigration thing here and turn this posting into a debate (Besides, who's to say these crews are illegally working in the United States?) but I have no problem with someone coming here to try and make a better life for themselves.

Isn't that the premise upon which our great country was founded in the first place? And not to turn into "Mr. History Lesson," but to my understanding, the only people in the U.S. who didn't come from somewhere else are the American Indians. So I don't get it when certain people rant and rave about how certain other people shouldn't be here and how there is a certain crime element that comes in ... blahblahblah ... and how we need a border fence ... blahblahblah ...

BS!

I don't really want to do yard work, anyway. Nor do I want to clean up after folks, or care for someone else's kids. I'll do these things if I absolutely HAVE to. And the way things are going with the economy, who knows?

It was worse before I moved to Sherman Oaks a couple of months ago, when I was in North Hollywood. There, the noise started promptly at 7 each morning. It didn't help that I was often getting into REM sleep right about this time.

And the racket would go on for about two hours or so.

But the lawns were neat. That's for sure. And the lawns are neat where I live now, as well. It's just a bit noisy, that's all.

It's just the use of a leaf blower that gets me. Leaf blowers are noisy. They're bad for the environment. Whatever happened to rakes, anyway? Can anybody tell me that?

At least once a week, the outfit that works on the grounds of my apartment complex clears the garage. With a leaf blower.

One day recently, I saw the operator blowing three leaves across the garage floor and out into the street.

Three leaves.

-30-

"Black History Month"

2011-02-11T16:29:00.000-08:00

This month, February, is Black History Month.

And it chaps my ass to see young blacks with pants hanging so low theirs is all out for the world to see. I mean, come on! Pull up your pants!

I was in a Starbucks this afternoon and a young brother came in and ordered a mocha-frappa-whatchamacallit. I mean, the guy’s pants were so low, I could see the labels on his underpants. And I didn’t want to see that. Believe me. Watching him made me want to go up to the young man and say, “Youngblood, PULL UP YOUR PANTS!”

I didn’t, though.

Instead, I thought about my regular coffee – with room for cream. But it hit me.

This is Black History Month. I should be doing something to recognize this. Why was I tripping on what the folks in the office think of me recognizing my roots and my history?

Why should I be upset about the young man with the way-too-low jeans?

Then, after the Starbucks clerk gave me my drink, I thought about the Middle Passage and what my high-school history teacher, Mr. Barnaby, told me and the rest of my class back at West Side High School about it. What he said back then seemed quite relevant through the years, since it took between 30 to 180 days to make the trip. And, to be brutally honest, if a slave was sick during the journey, the slavers had no problem throwing them overboard. Later, I learned that sometimes, when the slave ship was overweight, or if provisions ran low, slaves were thrown overboard. Healthy or not.

Back in my "militant" days, I took solace in this. "Don't EVEN call us lazy, because if we are here, then someone in the family survived the Middle Passage, so you are probably trying to negate someone who is a descendant of someone else who survived the journey..."

Now, I'm looking at this kid with his pants down on his ass. And I'm thinking about some of my heroes, many who have done much more than what we've done ... often with much less:

Martin Luther King Jr., champion of civil rights, needs no introduction whatsoever.

And before there was Oprah, there was Madam C.J. Walker, who made her fortune working on black women's hair with the hot comb.

Frederick Douglass was a fantastic orator, who was a runaway slave, taught himself to read and spoke out against slavery during a time when it was potentially fatal to do so.

Elizabeth "Bessie" Coleman was the first female pilot of African American descent.

Oscar Micheaux was the first black to produce a feature-length film.

Harriet Tubman the abolitionist who led slaves to freedom on the Underground Railroad.

George Washington Carver came up with hundreds of uses for the peanut.

Hattie McDaniel was the first African American to win an Academy Award for her portrayal of a servant in "Gone With the Wind." She told NAACP members, who criticized her portrayal of maids and mammies, "I'd rather play a maid and make $700 a week than be one for $7."

Garrett Morgan invented the traffic signal, later selling the patent to General Electric for $40,000.

Althea Gibson made her mark on the tennis court when she broke that sport's color barrier.

Alain Leroy Locke was a writer, philosopher, patron of the arts, educator and the namesake of my elementary school.

Opera singer Marian Anderson planned to give a concert in the Constitution Hall in Washington, D.C., in 1939, but the Daughters of the American Revolution refused to let her perform because she was African American. First lady Eleanor Roosevelt was so outraged, she resigned her membership.

Crispus Attucks was the first American to die in the Revolutionary War.

Wilma Rudolph was the fastest woman on the planet during the 1960s, becoming the first American to win three gold medals in the Olympics.

Benjamin O. Davis Jr. was the first African American general in the United States Air Force and led the Tuskegee Airmen in WWII.

These are just a few of my heroes from history. All of them are gone. But they are not forgotten, so they live on. Some of them you may have heard of.

But there is a whole other list. This list includes my maternal grandmother, Julia Mae Gadsen, who came up with an interesting plan to leave the South for a better life for her and her daughters in the North. Then, there's my grandfather, Albert Redding Sr., who also decided to head north from Macon, Ga., and get to South Bend, Ind., where he could raise a family. His wife, I learned recently, was one of the first black schoolteachers in Macon.

Then, there's the host of aunts, uncles, cousins and other relatives - real and "play" - who add to the mix of what is my Black History Month.

Mine.

-30-

“The clock is ticking”

2011-02-10T13:15:00.000-08:00

It’s been a while since I’ve last posted to this blog. Almost a year. An awful lot can happen in the course of 12 months. A lot can happen in a year’s time. I’ve seen people I care about leave. I’ve changed jobs. I’ve moved. I started building websites. I attended my 35^th high school reunion. I’ve experienced the joy of becoming a grandparent. And yesterday, my birthday, I turned 54.

Fifty-four years. Six hundred forty-eight months. Nineteen thousand, seven hundred ten days. You get the idea.

Eisenhower. Kennedy. Johnson. Nixon. Ford. Carter. Reagan. Bush. Clinton. Bush. Obama. Eleven presidents, though I have be honest and concede that I have no actual memory of the first one on this list. My presidential memories pick up with the second.

So, I’m sitting at my newest favorite spot, Crave Café, on Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks, Calif. I’m devouring my protein omelete (eggs, chicken, sun-dried tomatoes and Swiss cheese) and I’m noticing how many young people are there hanging out. Laptops booted up and aglow. Some of the youngsters are sitting there, sharing music through the earbuds of their iPods. I see a young couple, sharing what looks to be a cool juice-type drink and listening to music on an iPod. The guy has one of the earbuds in an ear and the girl has the other in one of hers.

Cute.

So -- midbite -- watching the couple giggling and enjoying each other’s company, my mind goes back to when Annette Handley and I used to go to the record department at Sears in downtown Gary, get into a “preview” booth with a couple of 45 records and spin the vinyl while sneaking a few hugs and kisses behind the drawn curtains.

Cute.

I haven’t seen any preview booths like that lately and I haven’t seen a vinyl 45 in years. Time flies.

I don’t mind so much being one of the “older guys” in the office who remember when knowing the Dewey Decimal System was key to looking for books in the library … especially when it was time to do a term paper.

I don’t mind being able to remember a time before everything became digital … when Annette Handley and I used to get some “alone time” in one of the record booths at Sears in downtown, Gary, Ind., back when you could preview a 45 record before you purchased it.

When going outside to play was the adventure to beat all adventures on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

When there was no need for a “play date.”

When there were a handful of major TV networks: NBC, CBS, ABC. … Or whenever there was a black person on TV, how we’d all gather and watch … in awe.

When you could practically fill you car with gasoline – from “e” – for less than five or 10 dollars.

When the thought of a student with a loaded pistol on school grounds was simply unheard of.

When a pair of sneakers didn’t cost $200.

When folks in the neighborhood knew their neighbors and you didn’t DARE do anything out of line, because somebody would see you doing it and by the time you got home, you’d be in big trouble.

Times were simpler, and, in some respects … better.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t intend to be one of those old “geezers” who goes on about how good things were “back when” and how “messed up” things are now. I’m totally cool with the technology that pervades society. I find it exciting. I only WISH I had access “back when.” I like e-mail (I’ve got four accounts that I use.) I love my iPhone. There’s AT&T U-Verse at my apartment.

I’m on Facebook. I tweet (though not too much, I have to concede). Oh, and I’ve got my eye on an iPad.

So don’t get it twisted. I’m not a technophobe… though I do know quite a few of them. And, surprisingly, a lot of them are my age … with children who are into the technology groove. So, you’d think that these self-describe holdouts would embrace a means to stay in contact with their kids, the majority of whom have left the nest.

My grandson KeyVaughn, who was born in September, will – hopefully – reflect on his HIS 54^th birthday. Maybe he’ll reflect on some of the things that I will have told him about growing up “back in the day” by then.

It’s funny the things you remember as you get older.

-30-

"Cousin Jockey"

2010-02-27T18:41:00.000-08:00

My cousin was buried today. Celeste. She was a little older than I am, and she had cancer.

Celeste — along with her siblings, Rose, Bonnie, Linda, Sabrina, Valencia, Mark and Yvette — was more like one of my sisters growing up than a cousin. Big families were the way to go back in the day. Celeste’s father, Albert, the older brother of my father, always looked out for his younger brother Rudolph. So much so that my entire childhood was spent somewhere close to Uncle Albert and his brood. In East Chicago, they lived upstairs from us. When they moved to Gary, we moved into a house on the next block a little while later.

Celeste’s mother, Aunt Gertrude, died relatively young, leaving Uncle Albert to raise their children. And that he did. A single father back in the day. A BLACK single father, at that. Seven daughters and a son.

I remember Celeste — we called her “Jockey” — getting caught “out there” after Uncle Albert’s “curfew” and coming over to our house for refuge and to await the inevitable wrath of my uncle. You see, Uncle Albert — for a period of time — locked the kids inside his house while he worked the midnight shift at Inland Steel. He’d installed locks in the doors that worked from the outside. And whoever wasn’t in by the time he left for work … well, you get the idea. My parents implored him to quit doing that, the fire hazard that it was, but Uncle Albert was adamant. And more than once, Celeste came over to our place to wait it out.

Over the years, as often is the case, I grew further apart from my cousin. We’d see each other at family gatherings and whatnot, where we’d “catch up” and reminisce about our time back in Gary. We’d laugh about whose dad was the meanest, who got the most “whuppings.”

I remember her smile, her laughter and her quick wit. Jockey was a "pistol" and despite the fact that I wasn't always the sharpest knife in the drawer when we where growing up, Jockey always took up for me. And the other kids would back off. Nobody messed with those Reddings on Willard Street. When I got the news of Jockey's death, I was just about to dig into an omelette at Studio Cafe in Studio City. My party and I had moved inside from the patio, as it had begun to drizzle. Who said it never rains in Southern California?

Uncle Albert is gone. And Mark. Now Celeste. But they will live forever. In my heart, and in the hearts of those whose lives they touched before they left here.

So rest easy, cousin.

— 30 —

"Mister Redding"

2009-06-23T08:02:00.000-07:00

I spent Father's Day with my father on Sunday.

I am blessed.

I hadn't spent Father's Day with him in many years. He'd get the obligatory phone call from me. Or a card. But I really cannot remember the last time I hung out with him on his special day. You see, my father and I weren't all that close. At times I feared him, thought I didn't like him and I didn't really understand him. That's changed now.

Last week my parents, Rudolph and Lucille Redding, who live in Atlanta, came out here to California to visit me. And I am glad they did.

Rudolph Pershing Redding was born to a working-class family of seven sons and three daughters during a time when folks had big families. It was the thing to do. And the more sons you had, the better. That's just the way it was. Mr. Redding spent about three decades working at Inland Steel, near Gary, Ind., and retired as a welder. It was dirty work, but the money was good. And the steel mills of the Midwest provided a good living. My dad, always thinking ahead, spent the last several years of his stint at the mill taking classes at Purdue University, where he got an undergraduate degree in education. He taught as a substitute in the Gary school system before moving to Atlanta, where he received a master's and taught special education for a couple of decades before retiring yet again. Now, he's into real estate.

Some people just can't sit still.

My dad, as my brother, sister and I were growing up, always had something going on the side job wise. Cab driver, moonlighting at other steel mills, selling Amway. Something. So he wasn't always the most patient person. I didn't understand it then. I thought he was just being mean. He was tough. His brothers were tough. Granddaddy Albert, my dad's father, was tough. That's the way it was back in the day. All the Redding men had a reputation for being mean. Tough. Hard on their kids. "Spare the rod..." was an understatement at our house. At all my cousins’ houses, too. We used to compare notes, trying to figure out whose fathers were the meanest. The only real arguments that I can recall my parents having during their 50-year marriage was about how my mom didn't always agree with how stern my dad was with my siblings and me. But they stuck it out and hung in there. Still together. None of this "He doesn't wear the kinds of clothes I like" or "I don't like his friends" or "It's about me, not him ... so I want a divorce." (But that's another story, for another time.)

One time, I must have been about 6 or so, I stole some toys out of some lunch-size potato chip packages. It was my best friend, Terrel, and me. We got caught and our mothers were called. My mother was the first to be contacted, so she picked us up from the grocery store and paid for the open packages of snacks. We walked Terrell home — everybody knew everybody in those days — and Terrell’s dad and mine both were at the mill. Terrell’s mom split the cost of the snacks and began whupping Terrell in front of us. I knew I was in for it. When my mom and I got to our place, I got it. But my punishment wasn’t over by a long shot. My mother has asthma, so when she’d whup us, the whuppin’ didn’t last too long before she’d start wheezing and stop. Besides, she’d only whup us for major transgressions: lying (or telling “stories” as she called it), stealing or disobeying. My dad, however, wasn’t as discriminating with his use of the belt. And he didn’t have asthma. After I’d gotten my punishment from my mother for stealing, I got sent to my room … and was awakened by my father whuppin’ me after he’d gotten home from his 3-to-11 shift at the mill.

So you can imagine my surprise when my mother told me that my father was teaching. Teaching!

I remember thinking, "Who would let him around their kids?"

Time has a way of chilling you out, I suppose.

Now, my dad is cool. Maybe he was cool all along. Maybe I just couldn't see it.

That's what my cousin Mark used to say all the time. Mark moved from Indiana to Chatsworth a couple of decades ago, and he'd been trying to get me out to California. I used to be jealous of Mark because it seemed as if my dad was more into Mark than he was into me.

“You know, your cousin Mark …” I was so tired of hearing that. But to my surprise, Mark told me during a family reunion that his father, my Uncle Albert, seemed to be more into me than he was into him, his only son. He’d grown tired of hearing “You know, your cousin Radcliff …” We laughed about that one. Mark and Uncle Albert have since passed on. But Mark’s widow, Belinda, a nurse who has worked at Cedars-Sinai among places, still lives in Chatsworth.

So, Father’s Day, we met up at Belinda’s and presented my dad with a truck. It wasn’t new or anything. As a matter of fact, the pickup is more than 10 years old, with about 140,000 miles on it. But to our family, that truck is special. It was Uncle Albert’s. After he died, Mark took it over and drove it from Indiana out here. When Mark got sick with cancer, he made Belinda promise to keep the truck in the family. She offered it to me, but I thought my dad should have it. So Sunday, we surprised him with the keys. My dad's first truck.

The tears flowed that day.

Years ago, Uncle Albert had given my dad his first bicycle.

"Familiar Road"

2009-06-11T21:37:00.001-07:00

"Did you hear about the old man who shot up the Holocaust Museum?"

"What about that man at the Holocaust Museum yesterday?"

"Dude, what's up with the old dude who shot the guard at the Holocaust Museum in Washington?"

These were snippets of conversation I overheard today. On the 150 Metro bus. At Union Station. At the Cal State L.A. station platform. Young and old, black, white, Hispanic. Folks were talking.

Unfortunately, hatred is alive and well in these United States.

I listened to the talk of the deadly chain of events in Washington, at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, where white supremacist James von Brunn, 88, opened fire with a rifle. A museum guard, Stephen T. Johns, was killed in the attack. Johns, 39, was black. Listening the way I did, all the talk took me back... to about 11 years ago, when another hate-fueled incident occurred that had people talking.

James Byrd was tied/chained to the back of a pickup truck in Jasper, Texas, and dragged until his body was torn apart. Byrd, 49, was black. His three assailants were white. I, along with most others who learned about Byrd at the time, was horrified. Outraged. I wanted to do something. I had to.

So I pitched a story idea to my editor at the NAACP Crisis magazine, where I freelanced at the time, and about a week later I was in Texas, walking along the road where Byrd had been lynched. I counted the spray-painted circles on that road where authorities had found pieces of Byrd's body. Before I'd reached 30, tears were streaming down my face.

"I don't understand how the guy got a rifle into the museum in the first place."

"Me neither, homes. That was crazy!"

"Sick."

"Yeah, sick."

I've been to the Holocaust Museum, too. About a week after it opened back in '93. And before I got to the second floor that day, tears had filled my eyes.

Three thousand miles away and years after my trip to Texas, listening to the snippets of conversation about Wednesday's incident, I felt like crying again.

Onions and racism.

"Back to the Front"

2009-06-09T07:38:00.000-07:00

A funny thing happened on the way to get my unemployment check from the mailbox a little while ago.

I got my old job back.

You never know how things are going to turn out.

In February, when I was told that I would have

to be let go from my job at the Los Angeles Daily News — because of a reduction in work force — I was somewhat prepared. I’d gotten a heads-up. It's a shame what's going on in the newspaper business. But when the phone call finally did come telling me that I had to go to Human Resources form my "final check," I was stunned.

So, I got on a train and headed north to my home in Santa Barbara. The shock of my not being gainfully employed remained for about a week or two. It took me a little while, but I finally settled into life outside the work force. It was pretty cool, after I’d wrapped my head around the idea. I took the dog on long walks to the beachfront and back. I went on long bike rides. I lost weight. I grew my hair. I even had a ‘fro going on. I started blogging and my writing got more attention. I reconnected with folks with whom I had lost touch. I was eating better. Even sleeping better. It was all good.

Mentally, I had moved on. I had turned the corner and began to move away from the profession that I had worked at for almost 20 years. It was a good run, at some good papers, with some good people. But it was time to move on. I’d looked into going back to school and had settled on a plan: media arts. Part of the Workforce Investment Act. And the unemployment checks had started. Between those and some freelancing, I figured I might be able to get by. At least for a while.

Good to go.

So — about a month after I got laid off — I got word that I was being called back into action, back to duty. I had some mixed feelings … at first. No more waking up when I felt like it and spending part of the day figuring out what I was going to do. No more bottomless cups of coffee and reading the paper cover to cover while looking out at the waters of the Pacific in sunny Santa Barbara.

What to do? What to do?

Here it is, two months after my return and I’m back to “normal.” Working nights. Not always eating right. Not getting nearly enough regular exercise. Not spending as much quality time at home as I’d like. Back to the front. And I got a haircut, too.

I still get a rush whenever I see the newspaper front that I worked on the night before … prominently displayed in a newsstand … and someone stops to read a headline I wrote. Back to the front.

I’m STILL happy to be a journalist. I can't think of many other things I'd rather be doing. I’m in for the long haul — until the wheels fall off.

"Grapes"

2009-03-11T21:24:00.001-07:00

I used to think that wine tasting was a sididdy, "fancy-smancy" kind of activity. As a teenager, I actually made fun of it, holding out my pinky finger as my friends and I drank our Boone's Farm, MD 20-20 or Thunderbird that we'd pitched in on to buy. (What can I say? We were quite young and ignorant.

I remember picking up a "Wine for Dummies" book at Barnes & Noble and learning a few steps beyond the "white wine goes with fish; red wine goes with meat" mantra that my "sophisticated" friends back in Gary, Ind., had told me.

Later, I graduated to the point to where I'd learned the difference between a glass for white wine and one for red. How cool I thought I was as I sipped my Chablis from the correct glass as I strolled around New York studio during the opening of a friend's photography exhibit. I had the correct glass, the perfect wine and I was wearing the New York-required black turtleneck, trousers and sports jacket.

And then I moved to Santa Barbara.

Not long afterward, I started going to several wine clubs. Initially, it was at the request of my friend. Then, I started to get into it. Sure, I’d seen the 2004 movie “Sideways,” which was set and filmed in the Santa Ynez Valley (beautiful country, by the way), but I didn’t have any idea about what wine was about until I started day tripping in the valley.

Now, not only do I know a little something about wine, I have my favorite wine club. Artiste. It’s in Santa Ynez and a really a fun place to visit. Billed as an "Impressionist winery and tasting studio," Artiste is a cool, informal mix of art and wine. You can sip and admire some of the artwork displayed. You can sit and play a game of chess, or backgammon, as you sip your “chard.” And you can even paint on one of the easels or sketch if you care to — between sips of Merlot.

Of course you can see the “wine snobs,” who want to let you know that they know about wines, but for the most part, people who visit just want to have a good time.

The staff is cheerful and friendly, especially to club members and other "regulars."

And even if I don't consider myself an expert, I think I've learned enough about wine to "navigate" comfortably.

It's a long way from Boone's Farm, though.

"Saddle Up"

2009-03-09T23:13:00.000-07:00

Sixty-five miles.

That's what the computer on my bicycle read after I got back home the other day. Actually it was 65.11 miles, the distance from my apartment in Santa Barbara to Ventura and back, but who's counting?

I am.

I used to be a person who rode a bicycle.

Now, I am a cyclist. Not the Tour-de-France kind of cyclist, but a cyclist just the same. The transition from rider to cyclist — and there is a difference — came gradually. I really didn't even notice it until I realized that I was riding along Highway 101 and I wasn't even afraid. A little nervous, though, but not afraid. (Highway 101 in California is like I-95 back East, FYI.)

First it was toe clips, then it was shoes, then before long I was all geared up and ready for the road: reflective jacket, Dri-fit clothing, gloves, goggles, whistle, tool kit, Camelbak hydration system, a change of clothes, iPhone, spare cell phone, iPod, camera, sunglasses, change of clothes, tooth brush, tooth paste, helmet. You never know.

Saddle up!

Cycling out here, in the West is a different ballgame than it was for me back East. I lived and worked in New York City during the days surrounding 9/11, and I commuted to my job at the Daily News in Manhattan from my apartment in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. For several days immediately following that terrible day, with many of the city's streets barricaded and some public transportation disrupted, riding my hybrid Trek was the only way to go.

Seven miles.

Across the Brooklyn Bridge, up Park Avenue toward 34th Street and over toward the Hudson. Then, after my shift was over, back. Seven miles. Before 9/11, I'd head over to the West Side, through the World Trade Center district toward the Hudson, then up toward work on 33rd. Sometimes on my weekends, I'd ride from Brooklyn to New Jersey. Go figure. (For the naysayers and know-it-alls who might want to dispute the route: Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan, across to the Hudson side of the island, up to the George Washington Bridge, across the Hudson and into New Jersey.)

Not long after I arrived in California, I pedaled from Santa Barbara to Los Angeles. Took me 10 hours, but I felt great after I got there. I took Amtrak back, though.

Last weekend I woke up, packed my gear and hit the road. I was on a fixed-gear Raleigh road bike, a Rush Hour. And my gear said, "This guy is serious," I had no problem riding. And it was a good ride, too. The wind, the beach, even the traffic.

I even got to see a sunset. Beautiful. I just didn't want to be on the 101 at night.

When I got back home, it was dark. I couldn't help but chuckle and think about how back when I was growing up, I often had to be home before the streetlights came on. Some of the other kids could stay out, but I had to pedal home, keeping an eye on my watch. And the sun.

Now, that I don't have to be "in" so early, I'm taking advantage. Happy trails!

—30—

"Catch of the Day"

2009-03-07T19:05:00.000-08:00

Fishing is not cute.

Leaving Santa Barbara Harbor at 7 a.m. on a weekend day, when you could be sleeping late might not be for everyone. The sun's coming up, you haven't had your morning cup of coffee, and you could have hit the snooze button a few more times.

If you choose, though, you'll find that fishing can be fun — especially if it's with the folks at Sea Landing. The local sportfishing business offers either half-day or three-quarter-day fishing trips.

After a stop into the office, where you pay for your ticket, license and any tackle you might need, you head to the boat. The deckhand gets a head count and after a few last-minute preparations by the crew, you're on your way.

The captain of the 65-foot Stardust announces our destination as he eases the boat out of the slip and into the harbor.

"We're going deep . . . the Channel Islands," the veteran anglers remark. Your heart starts to quicken. You're going for rockfish, redfish, lingcod and whatever else you can hook and reel into the boat. Hook it and cook it, I always say.

People are milling about, adjusting their equipment, checking out the equipment of their co-passengers, and getting ready for what they hope will be a productive day.

The cost is not too painful, but the charges can add up quickly. The half-day trip costs $50 ($42 for kids), which covers bait. The three-quarter-day trip is $72 ($60 for kids). Then there's the fishing license. The clear-plastic license holder that clips to your clothes. And, if you don't have your own, gear will be provided. Rods and reels, weights and hooks. Add another buck for the gunnysack to keep your fish in and you're all set for action.

And the optional pool you can enter to see who catches the biggest fish, and there is a small charge if you want your fish cleaned and/or filleted at the end of the run. A tip for the crew is appreciated. While it may sound like a lot, the memories will be priceless.

The boat can easily accommodate 40 anglers and their equipment.

Whether you are a seasoned angler or a complete novice, a good time is guaranteed. If you have a tendency for sea-sickness, motion-sickness pills or the patch are recommended before boarding. At least one passenger will spend a good while hanging over the side of the boat, according to a deckhand.

Jim Hardan, 56, and his fishing buddy Jim Dunkle, 57, are seasoned ocean anglers. They have been aboard the Stardust many times.

"We've been on this boat so much, they call us to tell us when the fishing's good," Hardan says with a grin. The two of them drive up from near Torrance.

"The crew is outstanding," Dunkle adds.

The two men have been fishing together for seven years.

"Sometimes we get on each other's nerves," Hardan chuckles as he ties a knot in the line of a less-experienced angler to help him out.

"If you want, you can use my setup," Hardan tells him.

"Or mine," Dunkle chimes in.

Each fisherman has his own recipe for success, and the setup is crucial to a good day's catch. Since the water depth of the intended fishing area, is about 120 to 180 feet and the fish targeted are on the bottom, it is important to have enough line on the reel. And the reel of choice is a conventional one.

A typical setup for bottom fishing off the islands includes 8-ounce sinkers, 4-ought hooks, 15- to 20-pound test monofilament line and a good stick, one that will hold the weight of a big boy once he's hooked.

Dewey "Duke" Faulkner, 30, of Santa Barbara, showed off his matching “sticks” and reels.

"I can catch just about anything out here with these," the Stardust regular said, pointing to his gear.

The first thing about the crew of the Stardust that makes you sit up and take notice is that they are all so young. The captain is not yet 25 and the deckhands are also in their early 20s. Even so, they operate as if they have been on the water for years together.

Even if you know absolutely nothing about fishing, or if you think you know all there is to know, you will fit in on the Stardust. Deckhand Dane Johnston, who has been around fishing for about half of his life, makes sure everyone is comfortable.

"It's part of the job," Johnston says. "Everybody should have a good time when they're out here, and I see to that."

Right now, rockfish are running, as are lingcod and red snapper. On our trek to Santa Rosa Island, the group of 20 aboard was treated to a view of California grey whales, which didn't seem to care whether the boat was near or not.

The trip to Santa Rosa Island, which took about three hours to make, was full of surprises. A group of about 20 or 30 sea lions frolicked off the starboard side along the way. Some days you can even see dolphins. Not on this trip, though.

"You'll see plenty of sights like that, especially on the three-quarter-day trip," Harlan says.

About three hours after the boat pulled out of Santa Barbara harbor, anglers started pulling in fish. Nice-sized ones: reds, rockfish, lingcod. By state regulations, lingcod have to be at least 24 inches, so several had to be released.

For skipper Luke Stamatis, who is the boat's second captain/deckand, the ocean opens a world of adventure. (The owner/operator is Jason Diamond).

And solace.

"Being on the ocean, not having to deal with the craziness ashore, that's one of the best things about being out here," Stamatis says from his wheelhouse.

For deckhand/cook Sal Silva it's all about keeping the customers happy. Silva, who can whip up a breakfast burrito or a burger that will make you salivate like Pavlov's dog, says just about everyone on the boat has a good time.

On this day, there are smiles all around as each passenger is handed their bag of freshly caught fish.

Everyone has caught their 10-fish limit, and a young San Marcos High student, walks away with the jackpot for catching the biggest fish, a huge red snapper and a nice lingcod.

Assistant manager Daniel "Sparky" Abraham says the Stardust outfit is so sure of their customers' angling success, they will guarantee that everyone aboard will catch fish.

The three-quarter day trip runs Friday, Saturday and Sunday, 7 a.m.- 4 p.m., and the half-day trip is Monday through Thursday, 9 a.m. to 3 p.m.

Abraham says reservations are recommended at least a day in advance. You can reach Sea Landing at (805) 963-3564.

"Everybody catches fish," he says. "If they don't, they can get a free trip to try it again."

Count me in.

—30—

"Hustler"

2009-03-02T12:37:00.000-08:00

My phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but I answered anyway. Reluctantly.

"May I speak to Cliff Redding?"

I thought it was a bill collector.

"You've got him," I answered.

"This is 'Patrick,' and I'm calling from LFP," he continued, "a little while ago you responded to an opening we posted for a features editor. You still interested?"

I was relieved at this point, because I really didn't want to be talking to any bill collectors. Not now. And I really wasn't in the mood to go through the whole "when will you be able to make a payment" back-and-forth.

"Patrick" and I spoke for a few minutes, him asking me what I was doing workwise. This pre-screening went well, since he said that I would be hearing from someone in HR within the next couple of days, when I would then firm up an appointment for an interview. I couldn't, however, recall applying to any outfit named "LFP." So I asked.

"Excuse me, Patrick, but I don't remember applying to any outfit named 'LFP.' Can you enlighten me?"

He chuckled.

"Larry Flynt Publications. Are you familiar with it?"

"Yes, of course," I answered, although a touch embarrassed.

"Would you have a problem working with adult content?"

"Of course not. I'll be looking forward to hearing from your HR department. Thanks for calling," I said. Then, I hung up. All I could think of was me working for Hustler magazine. Hustler. Even though Larry Flynt Publications produces about 23 different magazines, I could only think of Hustler. So I went online to learn a little more about LFP. I mean, I'd seen the movie "The People vs. Larry Flynt," but I didn't really know too much about the company as it stands today.

When I got to 8484 Wilshire Blvd. in Beverly Hills a week after speaking with "Patrick," the sun was shining and being just off the Miracle Mile, I felt like, well, like I was in Los Angeles. Like one of those big shots I'd seen on the big screen. Cliff in Beverly Hills, heading to the ninth floor of Larry Flynt Publications. My shoes were shined. I had a nice, blue suit on and I was wearing a white, 100-percent cotton shirt with a button-down collar. No tie. And my Ray-Bans topped it off. I was ready.

I met "Marty" on the ninth floor, a few minutes early for my 2:00 appointment, but not too much earlier. I didn't want to appear desperate.

To tell the truth, I really didn't know what to expect when I entered the lobby of the building. I'd spent about a half-hour or so looking at the outside of the place, thinking about what it might be like to work inside. The distinctive steel-and-glass structure was so modern, so cool looking. So California. Especially with the statue of John Wayne astride a horse that's outside the building.

The security guard in the lobby stopped me in my tracks, however. He was no rent-a-cop, I'll tell you that. I'd no sooner gotten into the place than the ominous-looking guard approached me. He had a radio in one hand and the other near his waist. I could have sworn the man was packing. But I tried to blend in, diffuse the tense situation with my pleasantness.

"May I help you?"

"I have a 2:00 appointment with 'Patrick,'" I tell him, smiling and taking off my shades at the same time.

Once he'd verified my appointment, he motioned me toward the elevator. He wasn't smiling.

I went up.

"Marty" met me in the reception area. I'd just closed my mouth from having had my jaw drop after I got a look at how the place was decked out.

Gaudy. Gaudy. Gaudy.

The lobby was innocent enough, but once I stepped off the elevator and onto the ninth floor, I couldn't help but to think about a bordello in the Old West. Huge, ornately framed mirrors, throne-looking chairs. The place reminded me of "Deadwood." Or Miss Kitty's place on "Gunsmoke."

I wanted to see how far all this would go, so I fought off the urge to chuckle. I had to be serious. Professional. I mean, if you didn't know this was where Hustler magazine was produced, you wouldn't know it. Eight-thirty to 5:00, Monday through Friday, with every other Friday off. The hours alone made the possibility of working at the "adult entertainment" magazine worth looking into.

"Marty," who, with his graying long hair, sandals and denim jacket and jeans, reminded me of a Deadhead showed me to what he called the job candidate room. I was to fill out some forms, complete a job application, sign some releases and get ready for the next step in the interview ... on the 10th floor. After he got me settled in, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

It seemed like only 10 minutes had passed before he reappeared and asked me if I was OK. I told him that I was and he mentioned that "they" were waiting for me upstairs. I picked up the pace.

About 10 or 15 minutes later, I'm on the 10th floor, meeting with the man who would be my boss and a female member of his staff. The view from the office was gorgeous, looking out toward the Hollywood hills and the sun was just beginning to set.

Beautiful. For a little while, I was in another world.

I told "Mr. Davidson" that although I didn't read Hustler on a regular basis, I could see a difference between now and when I last picked up a copy ... six years ago. He took credit for the "improved look" of the magazine. (He said he took over about the time I'd last seen the magazine.) He asked me if I had a problem working with adult content.

"Of course not," I told him.

The woman had a smile her face. "Mr. Davidson" did not. He really wasn't that impressed with me, despite what he called my "impressive" resume. Then he started talking about what Hustler meant to him and what his vision was for the magazine. The woman looked a little bored at this point. Perhaps because she'd heard this spiel more than once. I was thinking, "Check ME out, sitting at Hustler interviewing for a job!"

The me from college might have been extremely excited. He might have even bragged to his friends a little. But the present-day me could only imagine the conversation between my mother and some of her friends from church.

"Lucille, your oldest son is in California, right? Now where was it you said he was working...?"

This job wasn't going to happen. Not that day, anyway. The vibe was there. "Mr. Davidson" wasn't feeling me. I wasn't really feeling him. He asked me if I'd done any writing and when I told him I had, his eyes lit up. He said he wanted to see some samples, so I pulled out my Scandisk flash drive. But he said, "Oh, you ... just, uh, just e-mail them to me when you get a chance." Then he suggested I should take a few recent copies of the magazine home with me to look over, and if I had any thoughts or if I wanted to pitch him any story ideas ... I should get in touch with him.

"Thanks for coming in," he then said.

I thanked him and his fellow staff member and I left. I stopped at the Starbucks across the street from the building, e-mailed a thank-you note, attached several samples of my writing, articles I'd published, then I headed for the Amtrak station and home.

On the train, I opened the large plain envelope containing the Hustler issues that I had been given almost an hour earlier. And I gasped. Then I felt grungy.

When I got home, I had to take a shower.

—30—

"Momma Julie"

2009-03-01T17:41:00.000-08:00

Between 1940 and 1970, during the Second Great Migration, more than 5 million black people moved from the Southern United States to theNorth. Julia Mae Gadsen, "Momma Julie," was one of them.

Momma Julie chewed tobacco. She dipped snuff. And she carried a pocketknife and a straight razor in her pocketbook. She took me to church and made me go to Sunday school. She enjoyed watching "Cr ea ture Features" and, if I behaved, let me stay up late some nights to watch them with her. She called them "monster movies," though. Momma Julie, my maternal grandmother, made me say "yes, ma’am," and "no, sir." And she taught me to have respect for my "elders." Momma Julie drank whiskey and Maxwell House coffee, but because she told me, "it’ll stunt your growth," I couldn’t have any. And whenever I was "mannish," Momma Julie would make me get a switch off one of the trees in the yard.

Momma Julie had a "special friend," Mr. Chuck, who loved to take me to the grocery store with him because I could recite all the popular TV commercials of the day. He would point to something on the shelf and say, "Cliffie, what's that?"

"Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes. They’re grrrreat!"

"Get it!" he'd say. And I was only so happy to obey Mr. Chuck. Oreos. Lay's potato chips. Cracker Jack.

I’d return to Momma Julie’s with a bag full of "junk," as she would call it, a very happy boy.

"Chuck, why’d you’d go and get Cliffie all that junk?" she’d say. "Now, I told you about that!"

"Aww, Julia Mae," he’d answer, "he’s a good boy. Let him have it." And he’d wink at me.

"What do you say? Before I put this junk up and give Mr. Chuck his whipping for being mannish."

"Thank you, Mr. Chuck."

But I’d already thanked Mr. Chuck. And I’d already had my fill of Baby Ruth bars and pop and ice cream and potato chips and other junk by the time we’d made it back to Momma Julie’s, so I was good to go.

According to my beloved Aunt Becky, Momma Julie got it in her head that Durant, Miss., was not the place she wanted to raise her family in the 1940s. She had a girlfriend in South Bend, Ind., and she wanted to move there. Momma Julie's husband, Robert, had other plans. You see, Robert Gadsen was one of the few blacks in Durant who owned a piece of land back then. He grew cotton. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t read or write. He was one of the "smart" ones.

This wasn’t enough for Momma Julie. The last straw came when she watched as one of her small daughters slogged through mud on her way back from a second-rate, "colored" schoolhouse one day. She knew she had to make a move, but my grandfather wasn't budging. The marriage was doomed.

Momma Julie thought about her girlfriend who’d settled in Indiana, and that was where Momma Julie decided her girls would grow up. During a "vacation" in South Bend, Momma Julie stayed with her girlfriend and planned her "escape." She’d told my grandfather that when the time was right — after the harvest — that she’d take the train up North to visit her girlfriend for a little while. Their three girls would stay with him, help him keep up the place, until she got back. That was fine for Robert Gadsen. He was not going north. The white folks liked him, he owned land, so he had it going on in Mississippi. Why should he leave?

Momma Julie rode a train north to Indiana, where she started her plans for a new life. Her girls — my mother, Lucille, and my aunts Rebecca and Doris, were going to get good educations, finish high school and make something of themselves — away from Jim Crow. She got a job as a domestic and started saving money. According to my Aunt Becky, Momma Julie would write home each week and my grandfather, a proud man despite his illiteracy, would have his oldest daughter read the letters to him. What he didn’t know was that Momma Julie would write, in essence, two letters; in one part of each letter, she’d tell Aunt Becky what the real plans were — when she’d send for her and her sisters, and things like that. She was not to read my grandfather that part. Instead, Aunt Becky would only read the part that said things like "We’re having a good time" and "Yesterday we went shopping, after church."

Reading is, indeed, fundamental.

After it became apparent that Momma Julie had no intention of returning to Mississippi, she got my grandfather to send her girls north. She insisted. Momma Julie didn’t take any mess. And my grandfather had to comply. Besides, in a man’s world, he had daughters. No sons. He’d be better off, and he could start over. He got them each a one-way ticket to Chicago. With their clothes, some fried chicken, biscuits, fruit and a few dollars, the girls were Chicago-bound. Aunt Becky was 12, Mommy was 6 and Aunt Doris was 4. Folks those days tended to take the cheapest rail ticket possible. This resulted in many people from Mississippi moving to Chicago, 90-plus miles west of South Bend, Ind.

When they got to Chicago, however, the girls didn’t have enough train fare to ride the rest of the way. Aunt Becky got on the phone and made a collect call to South Bend. Somebody called somebody else and before long, an "uncle" who lived in Chicago showed up at the station and paid for the girls to get from Chicago to South Bend on the South Shore commuter train. Folks from down South looked out for one another in those days.

It was dark when Momma Julie was reunited with her girls. And they started their new life together. Up North.

Momma Julie was 51 years old, a year younger than I am now, when she died in 1965 after complications from a stroke.

Listening to the two women near Santa Barbara's Stearns Wharf talk the other day about Tyler Perry’s "Madea Goes to Jail" made me think about my Momma Julie and how much I miss her.

—30—

"Traveler's Aid"

2008-12-11T17:20:00.000-08:00

So I’m waiting on the Red Line subway platform, heading toward Universal City Station from Union Station. It’s late. The crowd of passengers, well, they’re mainly people getting off work. Tired. Hungry maybe. Ready for some quiet time. A good night’s rest. Then, there are the ones who look as if they’ve been out partying or enjoying a night out.
And then there’s me. I suppose I look a little like I fit somewhere between the two groups.

This guy approaches me. He’s in a wheelchair and he’s got a huge, blue bag on his lap. He rolls toward me and asks, “Which side to Westlake?” At least that’s what I thought he said, since he has a bit of an accent. I can't make out where he's from, given the accent.

I nod to my left, in the direction of the oncoming train. He thanks me and when the train pulls into the station, we get on. The train pulls off. A little while later, I realize the guy with the big bag didn’t get off the train. We’d passed his stop. I look down the car, and I see him, looking up at one of the Red Line maps that are on the side of the car.

The guy stands out. A target. A potential victim. And it's late. I approach the guy and tell him that he’d passed the stop he’d asked me about. He looks a bit confused and says he can get off at a later stop, the one I am headed to. The train starts off and the guy’s chair rolls backward from the momentum. He tumbles onto the floor of the subway car.

Now, I’m feeling a little guilty. After all, the guy had taken the brakes off his chair when he began talking to me about missing his stop. I bend down to pull the chair off the guy and another passenger who saw the fall lends a hand. Between the two of us, it took a few minutes to untangle the poor man’s legs from his chair to the point to where we can sit him upright. After a little while we get the man back into an upright position. The man is flustered, but not upset. I think I might have been more upset had I been in his place.

By the way, for a couple of seconds during the falling incident – and with the other passenger giving a hand — I think this is a scam of some sort, with the two men working together to get my wallet, which I pat myself after we get the guy on four wheels again.
My wallet is where it's supposed to be.

During the short ride to Universal City, I learn that the guy in the wheelchair is visiting the United States from Germany, some village near Hamburg. He tells me that his girlfriend couldn’t make the trip because of obligations at her job, so he decided to travel alone.

I am impressed. He later told me that he didn’t know anyone in Los Angeles and that he traveled all the time. I’m thinking, “Wow!” I’m nervous just exploring the next town over … during daylight hours even. And this guy is in a big city, in a wheelchair … alone. In the dead of night

He’s got my vote.

We get off at our stop and I show him where the elevator is so that he can get to the street level. He tells me he’s going to a hostel, the Banana Bungalow. I’d never heard of the place, but then I’m relatively new to L.A. and I’ve never heard of a lot of places. I ask him if he knows where the place is and he pulls out a map. Real touristlike. I’m tripping because I lived in New York City for about 13 years, and I NEVER pulled out a map and looked at it as I’m on the street — especially after I’d first gotten there. I didn’t want to look like a tourist.

And this guy pulls out a map, and one of those travel guides. Like there is nothing to it. The guide he pulls out must have been outdated, because the phone number he gave me out of it was no longer working.

I don’t want to leave the guy on the street by himself. It was after midnight, for goodness’ sake. I suggest the guy get a taxi, but he’s stubborn. He shows me, on the map, the street where the hostel is supposed to be and he says he won’t need a taxi. It looks like it is several blocks away, too far to go in a wheelchair … with a huge bag on his lap. He tells me it’s OK. He can do it, but I’m like, “No way am I going to let you go off into the night by yourself.” Only I don’t say that to him. I mean it is a fine line I find myself on. The guy is in a wheelchair, not helpless. And I want to help.

So I tell the guy to wait, and I phone a taxi service.

After several minutes of a back-and-forth with the dispatcher about where we want to go, where we are, what my phone number is, my name and the fact that the address of the building I am looking at is not coming up in the company’s database — I persuade the dispatcher to send a taxi to where we are, near Universal City, across the street from the Metro station.

Mercy! The guy in the wheelchair was easier to communicate with. And he was German, with a thick accent.

“OK, OK,” the dispatcher, says. “We’ll send you a cab. It’ll be like, five to 20 minutes.”

“Thank you,” I tell the guy on the other end and hang up.

Turns out the hostel the traveler wants to go to is a few miles from where we were standing. We’d gotten off the last Red Line train for the night and the buses were sporadic at best at that hour.

I update the traveler and he seems relieved. He pulls out a package of tobacco, and some rolling papers, and proceeds to roll a cigarette. I smile. He nods as if to offer me one and I shake my head. This dude is something else, I’m thinking. Here we are, out West and he does a roll-your-own-straight-out-of-a-movie move on me with the cigarette.

He takes a drag and we talk. I find out that he likes to travel. A lot. I learn that he’d missed his intended flight and got on the next one, which put him at LAX hours later than he’d originally planned. He told me that he had a hard time trying to get a bus from the airport to downtown, despite what he’d read about in his travel guide. We talk about 9/11, President-elect Obama, the Euro. In short, he's a pretty cool guy.

Low-stress.

I tell him a little about myself.

I see the taxi pull up. On the opposite side of the street … so I motion the driver to cross. I point to the traveler.

After the driver maneuvers the car, I tell him where the traveler wants to go. The driver looks at the guy, and back at me.

“I’m not going,” I say to the driver, and he nods and the two men proceed to maneuver the traveler from the wheelchair into the front passenger seat of the taxicab. I hold the chair steady.

After the traveler pulls his legs in place and closes the door, we watch as the driver proceeds to put the chair into the trunk. Then we shake hands.

“What’s your name, anyway?” I ask the traveler, handing him one of my business cards to him to show that I am legit.

“Martin.”

“Nice to meet you, Martin. You have a safe trip and enjoy your stay in Los Angeles.”

“Thanks. I will. And thank you for all your help, Cliff.”

I nod.

Then I watch as the taxicab driver folds Martin’s chair, puts it into the trunk, gets into the car and pulls off into the darkness, heading toward Hollywood.

"Crackbook"

2008-12-04T14:51:00.000-08:00

Facebook!

You might as well call it "Crackbook," as addictive as it can be. Lately I've been sitting down in my favorite L.A. coffeehouse/WiFi-equipped jaunts: the Starbucks on the corner of Hollywood and Western; the one on Ventura in Studio City; the Kinko's on Brand Boulevard in Glendale ... and "friending" and friending and friending.

I started out looking up people with whom I'd lost touch with over the years, being a transplant from the East Coast and all.

Damn Facebook! It's getting bad, but I'm getting into it just the same.

In my attempt to re-connect with folks, I started sending a message:

So whatever happened to Cliff Redding?

I left New York to be a family man, moving to the bucolic Eastern Shore of Virginia, only to have another marriage (to the mother of my youngest daughter, Aryn, who is 18 now) disintegrate. By the time things got really, really bad on the home front, I was working at the Virginian-Pilot in Norfolk. I designed pages, copy-edited and tried to hold onto my sanity.

Fishing helped. It probably saved my life. Croaker. Shark. Eel. Perch. Striped bass. Black bass. Catfish. Sheepshead. Puppy drum. Toadfish. Flounder. The Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic Ocean became my friends. I was always on the water, or near it, or in it. I even owned a small boat once.

Two years ago, I moved to Santa Barbara, Calif., to work at the infamous News-Press. Things were OK for me there for a while. I basically kept under the radar by designing pages and copy-editing. After a while, I was promoted to lead A1 designer, then interim copy desk chief.

Then I was cut out of the picture. I was let go. You can “Google” me and learn more about that mess.

After being fired from the Santa Barbara News-Press, I just wanted a job. And I didn't really want to leave California. I'd been freelancing and part-timing my way since my firing. I'd landed a spot at Noozhawk.com, another at the Santa Barbara Daily Sound and a gig copy-editing Richard Prince's "Journal-isms" with Maynard. Between the three jobs, I was barely able to make rent. And I had no benefits. I knew, however, that if I stuck it out, things would change for me. They would have to.

When I got a call about the possibility of working for the Glendale News-Press, I was not excited about working for a community newspaper ... until I learned that News-Press was owned by the Los Angeles Times. So at the end of February, I took the job — at a salary level that I hadn't seen in years — and was thankful. Then, I got a call from the Los Angeles Daily News in July. I interviewed, took a test, met some folks, sat in on their afternoon news meeting, met some more folks and got offered a job. Though I liked the idea of working for the Los Angeles Times, at this point that's about all it is to me... an idea.

Being in the community news division, is seen by the folks downtown at the main paper — from where I sit — as being in the minor leagues. Think "New York Yankees' triple-A" ball clubs, where the organization goes to get players, if they are lucky, whenever a spot opens up. A lot of the players never get to Yankee Stadium, though, even though the organization is paying them. Get it?

When I accepted the job with the Glendale News-Press and Burbank Leader, I figured I had gotten my foot in the door of the main paper, the fabulous Los Angeles Times, and that if something opened up, I would be in place already, ready to slide right into position.

About a couple of months before I left the organization, there was a position open for a night national desk editor. I went for it, sending my resume to the appropriate people as soon as I saw that there was an opening. I thought for sure I would get a phone call and an interview. I mean, have you checked out a brother's resume lately? Really. So anyway, I get this e-mail from downtown saying that although I have some strong experience, the position would have to be filled "from within."

I was completely tripped out. I thought I WAS "from within."

I had an employee ID card that said Los Angeles Times on it. I had access to the offices downtown in addition to the one I worked from in Glendale. I learned about the job I was interested in via an in-house job board. When I logged onto the system each day, I saw the list of all the Tribune papers on one of my start-up screens. My e-mail address was cliff.redding@latimes.com and, most important, my paycheck said Los Angeles Times on it.

So I'm scratching my head in bewilderment. I make a phone call to one of the people I'd sent my resume to, the one who wrote the words "from within." I wanted some clarification. Something just did not add up. When I get the guy on the line and engaged in conversation, he basically reiterates the fact that my working for the community news division was not considered REALLY working for the Los Angeles Times.

I was too through!

I realized that the money I was making at the News-Press was not Los Angeles Times money, and that was OK. I felt I just had to wait until I could get my shot. I realized that the stories I was editing were not Los Angeles Times stories, but instead community-based stories about council meetings and kids in school and local businesses going under and police reports.

Community news, and that was OK. I felt I just had to wait until I could get my shot. In the meantime, I'd learn all I could about how to run a community paper. I was even OK — for the most point — with people on my team constantly trying to one-up me after they’d learned that I'd worked at some serious newspapers back East. It was almost like the gunslinger who isn't about killing folks anymore, but he's more about enjoying life in a small town, doing something mundane, but some folks want to try him — because of his reputation. "Yes, there is a difference between 'convince' and 'persuade.'" "We can NOT say, 'Police arrested a 24-year-old man for drunken driving.'" "There shouldn't be a hyphen in 'nonmember.'" And one of my favorites: "I think we should change the headline to read, 'Glendale woman is strangled' instead of 'Glendale woman is strangled to death.'"

I have a relatively high tolerance for bullshit. After all, I spent four years in the military ... practicing to go to war during peacetime. So, working at the News-Press and Burbank Leader, which are inserts for Times subscribers who live in Glendale or Burbank (the papers are free on the street), wasn't something I would call negative. A brother had gotten thrown off the bus in Santa Barbara and he needed a job. He just wanted to work ... in the business.

But when I was told that I would not be considered for the national desk job because I worked at the Glendale News-Press, I was done. DONE. And it was just a matter of time ... Thank God I work for Maynard as a "consultant" or "independent contractor." And thank GOD I've started writing again. Maybe I can FINALLY get my book done. And thank GOD I've got my bicycle and my fishing gear. A brother has to stay sane. Can you say "set it off"?

So I started at the Daily News on Monday, Aug. 4. My last day of work in Glendale was July 30. The staff was down, the editor was on maternity leave and I didn't want to leave the team in a lurch, so I offered to finish out the month.

So I'm in debt, older than 50 and starting over again. But I feel good, anyway. I’ve been blessed. I’ve got my health. I’ve got a job … in the business.

And I’m in California. Sunny California.

There it is.

Cliff

"Quake"

2008-11-14T05:34:00.000-08:00

“Yesterday was the “Great Southern California Shakeout Drill,” where thousands of Southern Californians simultaneously were supposed to “drop, cover and hold on” for two minutes of imagined seismic activity.

I was in a coffee shop in downtown Burbank a few months ago when the building started to shake. At first I thought a truck was passing by, but when the building continued shaking, I knew that it was something else. People started looking at one another. I started packing my belongings. That 5.4-magnitude tremor in July, centered in the hills east of Los Angeles, was my first California earthquake.

I really didn’t know what to do, but I didn’t think I wanted to be inside the place during an earthquake. There was a period — just before panic began to set in — when folks in the shop were looking around like they didn’t know what to do.

The quake was over in a few minutes. No horrible damage was done. Nobody got hurt. It wasn’t the “big one.” But it was nothing to sneeze at.

Being a transplant from the Midwest and having lived in the East, I have contended with

tornadoes, nor’easters, snowstorms and even hurricanes.

But earthquakes are a different story.

________________

“Where were the flags?”

I am a veteran. I served my country in the United States Air Force. I am proud to be able to say that, despite the anti-war sent

iment that is around.

I am not a warmonger, but under certain circumstances, I feel it is necessary to go the distance where the defense of the country is concerned, I have much love for those who have served — and

are serving — the United States of America.

So imagine my concern on Veterans Day, when I realize that I did not see any flags — no more than usual, anyway. I mean, come on. We are presently in the worst times that country has seen in years. Two wars going on. Two, Afgha

nistan and Iraq. So we should be grateful for the dedication of the U.S. service members who are doing what they do. Since the war began in March 2003, 4,196 Iraq war casualties have been recorded.

But where were the flags Tuesday?

I couldn’t find many. As a matter of fact, if I didn’t know it was Veterans Day, I wouldn’t have known it was Veterans Day.

Sure, there were the usual parades and memorial services and whatnot, but you would think there would be more …

"Abuzz"

2008-11-10T11:18:00.000-08:00

It’s been almost a week since The Event, and the excitement has yet to wear off.

“Good morning!” the bus driver says to me as I climb aboard the 150. She’s smiling. I haven’t seen her in a few days, so I don’t know if her smile has anything to do with The Event last Tuesday or if this is just her way. I hadn’t noticed the two times before that I’d ridden on her bus.

“Good morning,” I respond as I use my TAP card to pay my fare and head to a seat.

I like sitting by the window, curbside, near the front. Usually, I don’t have a problem finding a seat … especially at this stop near the beginning of the run.

The bus is not too full, which is about normal for this time of morning. You’ve got the usual passengers, a healthy mix of brown and beige faces, some attempting to wake up, others fired up and ready to get the day started. But there’s something different today. Just about everyone seems to be smiling. More than I remember. It could be my imagination, but I don’t think so.

I settle in for the ride toward Universal City, near where one of my favorite Starbucks is. It usually takes the better part of an hour to get out there, but I’m in no hurry. I usually crank up my iPod and listen to some tunes as I either read the paper or watch the passing scenery along Ventura Boulevard. No music for me today, though. There’s something going on and I want to check it out. I want to fully absorb the atmosphere.

There’s an older woman in the front seat, nearest the driver, and she’s reading a copy of “Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance,” written by the president-elect in 1995. The woman’s copy looks as if it’s been around, a library copy maybe. You know, with the heavy-duty plastic cover on it. The woman looks up and around, we make eye contact and she nods before getting back to her book.

After a while, from the back of the bus I hear laughter. It’s not unusual to hear such laughter, since some high-school students ride the 150 to get to school. And you know how youngsters seem to be laughing a lot more than we adults.

I listen more carefully and I hear snippets of a conversation:

“What he needs to do now…”

“Change…”

“Landslide…”

“Maybe now I can…”

I listen to these snippets for a good while, and before long…

I, too, am smiling.

"Heading to work"

2008-11-06T23:15:00.000-08:00

Commuting. To work. This can be one of the most stressful times of the day. I mean, you're heading into a place where you may not really want to be, anyway. And on top of this, you must contend with people who are pushing and shoving and whatnot... to the point to where you might just want to say, "STOP, I want to get off!"

It's OK though. At least you have a place to go, somewhere to be and a way to get there. Even if it is via public transportation.

No complaints from me, though. I mean, I am happy to be able to take the train and a bus (and sometimes even another bus) in order to get to work.

I mean, with the present state of things these days, it's

a good thing to be able to have a job. Any job. And since I have been blessed with having a job, I am not going to trip on the little things like ... getting to and from work. I prefer the Red Line, myself. Having lived in New York City for many years before becoming a West Coast transplant, I am fond of a good subway system. Even used to it. Comfortable.

Besides, contrary to popular belief, everyone who lives in Los Angeles is not "blinging." Some people are just glad to have enough to ride Metro.

And we have a new president of the United States. Barack Hussein Obama, a black man!

There is plenty to be happy about ... as we head to work.