Obama Identity Crises

     Ever since the country heard Mitt Romney, there was been a major shift in the polls.   Over the past few weeks, I have observed how this shift in opinion has affected Obama and Romney. These two men are under enormous pressure and it is fascinating to watch the dynamics play out.
     There is less that 13 days left in this long road to November 6 is this is when the "bone marrow" of the person is revealed. Mitt Romney is appearing in control, optimistic and energized.  President Obama looks like he is taking is cues from the sidelines. He looks overwhelmed, confused and lost.  
     Reminds me of the Robert Redford movie years ago entitled, "The Making of a President."  The last scene of the movie is revealing when Redford wins on his image and is finally alone in the Oval Office and says, "What have I done?" 
    Ever since I saw Obama speak at the Democratic National Convention when Kerry was running for President, I told myself then that this guy could be the first African American President.  Sadly, I think the far left folks got their hooks in him and crafted their agenda.  I think Obama is way over his head and it is telling in his words, actions and demeanor.
    This country is at a cross-road and I pray that the people of this country see the reality of the leadership we need for the future of this country. Do not vote for the man who is trying to re-craft the timeless principles and values this country was founded on.

Jane Jenkins Herlong

Remembering Tootsie

   With its red digital message, the hotel clock shouted my wake-up call that Saturday morning. It was 5:30 AM. Not until later in the day did I realize the timing that only our Heavenly Father could arrange. My second mother, Ruth “Tootsie” Blige, began her eternal reward that morning - she died at 5:30 AM.

     Tootsie worked for my family just shy of fifty years. I can still see the large yellow Buick with my mother’s silhouette behind the wheel and next to her sat Tootsie. River Road was their highway to heavenly places such as Piggly Wiggly and, in Tootsie’s words, the drug sto'.

   Friends called them all kinds of names: Maude and Florida, smoke and fire, Bert and Ernie, or Lucy and Ethel. However one chose to call the duo, Momma and Tootsie were an amazing team. I have seen those two beat wayward lizards to death, leap on the kitchen table and perform a "I saw a mouse in the house!" dance, and put out fires with aprons. I’ve seen Tootsie drop to her knees laughing after my mother said something funny and I’ve seen them in tearful embraces.

   Momma, Tootsie, and I were a super-glue trio until I had to start first grade. I thought my heart was going to explode when I sat at the wooden desk that reminded me of a cage. All I could think of is how much fun I was missing. No more watching “I love Lucy” with Tootsie at 10 AM. No more running around the house as Momma and Tootsie tried to brush my honey-colored ringlets that Momma called knots. No more flour fights with Tootsie as she made her delicious biscuits and our pretend clothes-line tents would now be white sheets hanging lifelessly on a wire.

  Just hours before her stroke, Tootsie called to give me a good tongue lashing. I had fallen off a ladder and torn a ligament in my foot. Her language was always poetic. She spoke in pure, low country Gullah, “Girl, I done tole you not to git yo’self up on no ladder! Dat is men’s work.” exclaimed Tootsie. Then Momma grabbed the phone and added, “How many times have I told you if you climb a ladder your uterus will fall on the floor?”  Since having the stroke, Tootsie lived in a nursing home.

   After the funeral, I decided to stop by Walker Funeral Home and give a contribution towards her funeral expenses.

   Using my GPS on my cell phone to locate the funeral home, I wound down the two-lane highway through massive, moss-covered oaks and hairpin turns to my destination. When I arrived, I noticed there were several cars in the parking lot. I mused about how busy they appeared to be, but as I entered the building, musings turned to reality for the office was crowded with several families planning funerals.  I decided to wait in the hall out of respect for the family members who were making arrangements.

     The son of the funeral home owner greeted me in the hallway and politely escorted me into another section of the building. “Do you mind sitting in this room until my father can speak with you?" asked the young man. “Not at all,” I replied. Thinking nothing of his request, I took a seat in the dimly lit room.

     As soon as I sat down, the fluorescent lights overhead flickered on making the room brighter. I suddenly realized why the young man asked if I minded waiting in this particular room. I was sitting between two bodies.  Since I am a humorist, my first reaction was, “This is a bad sign. It must a really long wait.”

     Suddenly my cell phone, which was in my back pocket, announced in that typical monotone voice, “You have reached your final destination." I had forgotten to disable the GPS.  Once my pounding heart calmed down, I had a good laugh.

     Hmmmm….there was a profound amount of truth in that statement. If this is the final destination, I hope the ride was wonderful.

     I knew Momma and Tootsie were looking down from heaven laughing and reminding me of the power of a merry heart.  Their message to me is to serve the Lord, laugh and enjoy the ride to the final destination.

Momma's" Fur" Coat

It was time to tackle the closet in the front hall. My mother’s many coats, collected over a lifetime, hung in the closet appearing lonely and neglected. If they could talk these coats would say that they were sad and confused.

But there was one coat that stood out, Momma’s fur vest. It was a reversible leather and fur vest and was the perfect length and weight. This was my mother’s dream coat.

I remember when mother called me one morning to share the news, “I got a surprise today; a reversible fur and leather vest. It is just what I have always wanted.” I was excited for her. “How does it look?” I asked Momma. “It is dark leather with a collar and it zips up the front.” She said proudly. “Tell me about the fur. What kind is it?” I asked.

“Well, huh, I do not know. It looks kind-a mangey. It has some fur missing and, well, it is just different,” she said. “What kind of fur is it?” I repeated. “Let me look,” my Mother said. There was a gasp and word I cannot repeat. The next sentence will live on forever……”IT’S POSSUM!” my mother shouted.

When another line that will live on, “Oh, wait. This is good possum. It is from New Zealand.”

All I could think was does my mother actually believe that New Zealand possums are superior to other possums?

That New Zealand possums don’t play dead or live in trashcans or eat trash? That they don’t become squished “buzzard bait” from trying to cross the road?

Momma always wore that vest with the fur side in and the leather side out. She declared that she was proud of her possum but still never wore the fur on the outside.

Several weeks later, I invited my mother to one of my speaking engagement in Myrtle Beach. We packed all of our belongings and the possum coat made the trip with us. For the first time, she wore the fur on the outside.

One of our favorite restaurants was on the way so we stopped for dinner. As always, it was full of people waiting in line for a table. I parked across the road and left my mother in the car. The hostess told me that they had a table for two and were ready for us. I walked outside and told my mother to come in.

There stood my mother on the other side of the road, wearing her possum fur for the first time. It was a moment.

As she began walking across the road, I could only think of one word, “RUN!”

Wall Street Need a Main Street

Protests fascinate me. I have actually participated in a protest. It was during the farm crises in the late 1970’s. Dressed to fit the occasion in my hog-washers and protest cap, we drove the tractors into downtown Charleston to the Post and Courier Newspaper building and revved up the engines. It was fun to be a rebel with a cause. The farmers' wives including my mother, Evelyn, Miss Ann and Miss Ada, rode in pickup trucks. That was pretty much the extent of it. Our protest did call attention to agricultural issues and the rising costs of farming. And then it was back to the farm and to work.

I have been watching the protests on Wall Street. Apparently the left-over protesters are not gainfully employed. Maybe they are professional protesters. Maybe they are too busy protesting while the rest of us work so they can carry signs. As Jeff Engvall says, “Here’s your sign.”

Initially, I can understand folks gathering and making a statement. I am married to a retirement/financial planner. I get it.

Is there a solution to help the left-over protesters? Yes. I think they need a history lesson.

I am sure if some research was done, those tents the protesters are living in had humble beginnings on some Main Street in downtown or uptown America. The now nasty clothes they are wearing also had a starting place from a small shop with a hardworking tailor or seamstress who chose to think big. It all started with a dream, bank loan and hard work.

Wall Street needs a Main Street. That is correct, a street that runs down the middle of the street. I would love to show off America’s “main street.” These are the hard-working “moms and pops” who believe in the great American dream and by God, made it work.

I would have a “building” on that Main Street representing my friend, Nido Qubein. Nido came to this country at age 15 and with only $50.00 in his pocket. He grabbed the American dream and never let go. With his amazing communication skills, Nido became a world-class speaker and businessman. Today he is the president of High Point University and a wealthy man. But he is mostly passionate about philanthropy. He has created a Scholarship Foundation to help young people live their dreams. I am proud to partner with his scholarship program.

Forrest Haltiwanger is another example of a person who is a hard worker and who has built a successful tire business in our community. Forrest will help folks stranded in the middle of the night who have tire issues. People around here admire, respect and deeply appreciate him.

Just one more example of honest, hard-working dream-builders are Danny and Lynda Tidwell, owners of three jewelry stores in our area. They are a great couple who give unselfishly and are respected by many far beyond our communities.

We have museums all over the country reminding us of facts and reality. Don’t you think there should be a Main Street tribute/museum on Wall Street?

Gumpa was our Weather Channel

My daddy’s old metal map of the Southeastern United States hangs with the magnets still in place from Hugo’s tract to Charleston some twenty one years ago. It is like a wall monument.

I recall constantly listening to the shrill sounds of the Charleston airport weather updates during tomato and cucumber season. This was our constant companion growing up on a Lowcountry vegetable farm.

The old weather radio is a far cry from the today’s sophisticated weather tracking. I imagine if we had had the Weather Channel back in the day, you may have heard something like this, “In 10 minutes, hail will hit Mr. George Hills’ farm and then the storm will ruin Harold Glover’s tomatoes down on Kiawah Island Parkway.” I think we would have all been half crazy.

I was religiously watching the Weather Channel this past week as South Carolina’s coast was threatened with Irene. My wheels started turning with what to do and when after seeing that category 3 hurricane make its way to the Southeastern coast. It has been heartbreaking to see the terrible damage done by that storm.

Before the storm made landfall, the weather channel folks interviewed brides whose weddings on the beach were postponed and stubborn residents who decided to weather the storm. So many people refused to leave their homes when warnings are issued. Just like my grandfather, Gumpa.

Cousin Bubba Walpole tells the story of Gumpa refusing to leave Johns Island as Hurricane David was well on its way to Charleston. Cousin Bubba had to place a shovel in the yard and make Gumpa promise if the water from Abbapoola Creek rose to the shovel, he would leave. I guess the shovel was considered his weather alert.

Gumpa, as always was right. His knowledge of the wind and Abbapoola tides proved the experts wrong. He could tell just by looking at the creek and the shifting winds where the hurricane was headed.

Although I am thankful to have today’s sophisticated technology, it does keep you glued to the radio and television. Much of the reporting drives me crazy as I try to understand what is hype and what is real.

Last week I wished I could have spoken with Gumpa about Hurricane Irene. He lived long enough to know all about storms and his words would have soothed my fears. I guess you could say that Gumpa was our family’s weather channel. The only difference was his reports where simple, to the point and he was hardly ever wrong.

Imagine That!

I spent two wonderful days in Georgetown, TX speaking to the Texas Baptist Weekday Education Association. The close to 1,000 attendees were nurturing women who deeply love children. The group had hearts as big as the Lone Star State.

The conference theme was entitled, “Imagine That” based of the fabulous Christian song by Mercy Me, “I Can Only Imagine.”

My transporter, Celina, was delightful and drove me to see where I was speaking. Yes, everything is bigger in Texas and proven again when I saw the Georgetown Texas Baptist Church looming in the distance. I toured the education building and from that experience, I knew the sanctuary would be spectacular. I was not disappointed. My little Harmony United Methodist could fit in the church lobby.

As always the fun is connecting with women from all over Texas some with cowgirl hats, big hair and others more understated. We bonded when I told them W. Bush (42) made me an Honorary Texan. I have a proclamation hanging in my office. I knew I had been given a title almost as big as Miss South Carolina. When I went home, I knew what I had to do. I bought a Suburban and got my concealed weapons license.

I enjoyed every second of sharing my presentation. Afterwards, many were dear to make comments and share some of their struggles. One woman thanked me many times over and I got a glimpse into her life. She looked very beaten down and stressed.

I heard some of my favorite colleagues speak the next day. Suzie Humphreys, on the fringe of her seventies is as sharp as a Texas boot spur. Along with her hilarious humor, Suzie throws in a zinger or two just at the right time. A bottom-line, hip-shooting Texan, Suzie tells it like it is.

I love her take on depression. She said if you are going to be depressed, get into it. Call in sick, put on that old terrycloth robe with grape stains on it, complete with non-waterproof mascara on your eyelashes. Then cry. I mean really cry. Then think of more sad stuff and let that mascara run down your face. Top it off with looking in the mirror. In about two hours you will decide, that you are sick of all of this.

Not to act like depression is not a serious condition, Suzie ends her dissertation with being confronted by an audience member at one time who scolded her for making light of this condition. In their conversation following her presentation, Suzie listened to this hurting woman whose husband abandoned her many years ago. Suzie was brave enough to comment, “You are angry at this man. Depression is simply anger turned inward. Do yourself a favor and forgive him.”

After “carrying on” with Suzie sharing speaker tricks and new ideas, I was greeted with a hug from that same stressed woman. For a moment, I did not recognize her. She was different. Her walk was straighter, her face brighter her personality charged. I told her the difference in her look was an amazing transformation.

“I needed this,” was her response. “I need to hear what you-all had to say.”
Messages filled with honesty, encouragement and pure Godly love can change a person’s heart.

Imagine that….

Spanx, False Eyelashes, and a Spray-on Tan

Spanx, False Eyelashes and a Spray-On Tan

I opened the letter from the Miss South Carolina Organization. It read, “Join us for the 75^th Anniversary of the Miss South Carolina Pageant where we will honor you for your reign……” All of this translated in my mind to….”Jane, you have to lose 15 pounds, try to erase 20 years, buy a new gown, Spanx, false eyelashes, a spray-on tan, make sure your roots are covered, get a facial, pedicure, manicure and take half a valium in case you don’t get this all together.

What would I do if the weight will not come off my body? I had heard about this all- in-one body suit that takes at least 15 pounds off. So on my speaking engagement to Minnesota, I went to the Mall of America to find the wonder garment. The first one of these spandex marvels I located could fit in the palm of my hand. I thought even Barbie would struggle with this thing. I pulled that gismo as high as my knee and knew then to peal it off. The search continued and I finally settled on a Nordstrom body suit. Pulling the undergarment up was like stuffing an opened can of Crest Rolls back into the canister.

I have a love-hate relationship with false eyelashes. Years ago, I decided to try wearing them in the Beaufort Water Festival Pageant at an outdoor theatre. On the command of, “Ladies, please turn to the right….”I felt my left eyelash depart as in gone with the wind. Alas, I discovered my lash in Miss Myrtle Beach’s hair.

After seven skin cancers and counting, the only option for a tan is the spray-on kind. I rushed to the tan place and even paid for a dose of longer lasting color. The procedure only takes a few moments but the instructions say, do not get wet for four hours. The spray-on girl suggested staying dry for at least a day.

I was the emcee for Tuesday night and wouldn’t you know that a thunderstorm popped up as I was leaving the Township Auditorium. I did a u-turn in the parking lot running to my car when I remembered what the fake tan girl said. All I could think of was the song I sang in another pageant called, “Come in From the Rain…”

Well, the entire week was as spectacular as ever. The best part was hearing what other formers did to get ready for the 75^th. We all laughed and hugged. By the time we walked the runway at the pageant on Saturday night, we were all 23 years old, naturally tanned, thin and beautiful.

What made the difference? The people made us feel beautiful. The Miss South Carolina Board and Pageant Committee went the extra mile honoring us with a luncheon, Gala, and our wardrobe items on display at the Columbia Convention and Visitors Bureau.

Our new Miss South Carolina, Bree Boyce and Outstanding Teen winner, Caitlen Patton are lovely representatives for our state. And when the time comes and they take that long walk down memory lane, we will all cheer them on and remind them that true beauty comes from being the best they can be….not in eyelashes, spray-on tans and Spanx. But all those things sure help……