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……

Lowcountry Tides and the Changes in Life

Memorial Day weekend ushers in the official beginning of summer. Along with the obvious tribute to our brave men and women in the armed forces, the sun seems a little hotter and the water temperature is not as cool.

Sunscreen, bottles of water, bread, peanut butter, etc., are all on my list to take in the boat. My daddy, a seasoned Johns Island boater, always said to never leave the shore without food and water. So with the coolers packed and boat in good shape, off we went to Abbapoola Creek to join a ka-zillion other boaters in Charleston.

To catch a high tide in the late afternoon is the most desirable scenario. We explored creeks with million dollar homes and passed jon boats with folks fishing and casting.

When I was a child we always anchored off the shore of Bird Key. I could not contain my excitement as we rounded the bend in Stono River revealing two channel markers that framed this large lump of sand on the Atlantic Ocean. Folly Beach is on the left of this island paradise and Kiawah is on the right. We loved to explore the back of Bird Key since so many artifacts washed up on the beach. There were wading pools and the adventure of the ocean on one side of the island and the calmness of the Folly River on the other side. We collected dead men’s fingernails and mermaid’s pocketbooks. It was a perfect treasure Island for children complete with an occasional Jellyfish sting.

Hugo moved Bird Key to the left of Stono Inlet and completely restructured the island. It has been many years since Hurricane Hugo hit the coast and the island has never moved back to its original place. In fact on a very low tide, you can practically walk to Folly Beach. Unfortunately, Bird Key is no longer a place to explore ocean treasures since various birds now roost there and signs are posted proclaiming the island as a bird refuge.

However, across Stono Inlet, is what we call “The Poor Man’s Kiawah,” Sandy Point. Penny Creek runs on the side of the island. If you ride up the creek you will see the Ocean Course where the Rider Cup Golf Tournament was played several years ago. We always love cruising that quaint creek and decided to enjoy the ride once again.

The tide was high but we immediately knew there was a problem as the motor struggled. Penny Creek has fallen victim to the changing tides. The once deep creek is now a shallow body of water. My husband, Thomas was able to negotiate the boat into deeper water and head out into Stono Inlet.

I had no idea how shallow that creek was until the next day when my daughter, Caroline and I rode the jet ski to Penny Creek and realized we were stuck on a sandbar in about eight inches of water. We had to ask several strong men to lift the jet ski and place it in deeper water.

Many times, life changes as quickly as the tides reconstruct our beaches and creeks. Just like the pull of the flow of the saltwater, my heart is filled with cherished memories. I can still see my daddy’s pride and joy, the Never-No, anchored off the coast of Bird Key. I remember the Mako Shark he caught in Stono Inlet that is mounted above the mantel in the den. I can see my mother in her swimsuit on the beach as she worked on her golden tan. My best childhood friend, Leize and I are running on the beach without a care in the world. Little did we know that many years later, we would have the responsibilities caring for our aging parents and all the tears of family hurts.

Yes, life changes with the many tides in life. Thanks be to God that through it all, He is our anchor.

Jane Jenkins Herlong is a professional motivational humorist, professional singer and author. She can be reached at jane@janeherlong.com or www.janeherlong.com Follower her on Facebook, Twitter, Linkedin, YouTube and iTunes.

If only the old kitchen table could talk

If only the old kitchen table could talk

“The more this table ages, the better it looks,” said the salesperson when Thomas and I bought our kitchen table. Years later that statement would have more meaning than the aging of the wood.

I dusted the kitchen table and saw the words, “Daniel C. Herlong” imprinted in the grain of the wood. I remember that was the time when Daddy Big John was teaching Holmes how to write cursive. The lesson was obviously repeated several times. Now we have an indelible memory of my father-in-law’s signature to cherish.

To the right of the signature is another memory from another Herlong brother. Uncle Frank came to visit and if you have ever had a Frank Herlong visit you have a story. Uncle Frank shared his track career at Clemson and used an oval place mat to simulate how he ran. By the time Uncle Frank finished running laps, we had an oval shape marked on the wood.

If only the old kitchen table could talk, it would tell stories.

It was a place of high chairs, Holmes and Caroline’s first words. The best facial expressions when new foods were tasted for the first time. There was contagious laughter that can only come from a baby. Our table is filled with milestones all parents love to experience.

Our kitchen table is a place of gathering. It was a place of fun that was decorated with Pocahontas themed birthday parties, cowboy round-ups and grown-up monumental birthdays. That table is where the Easter Bunny left jelly beans, chocolate bunnies and Thomas’ sock bunny that has returned every year since 1980.

There were failed meals, tears, laughter, and serious conversation. Countless drills of Wordly Wise, term papers and graduation thank you notes

My parents sat around that table with Thomas’ parents. They laughed and told stories about growing up, places they had seen and other tales. We laughed and learned with them.

I remember our past and miss family members who are no longer with us. My prayer is that the future holds more graduation notes, wedding invitations, and high chairs with grandbabies.

Our kitchen table is a storybook of a cherished past and a gathering place for tomorrow’s memories.

What Happened to the Friendly Skies?

I knew better than to let Thomas book airline tickets to New York City. He will try to get the best deal like he does when he grocery shops at BI-LO. Our pantry looks like a distribution center for Southern Home products.

The airline I fly most often is Delta. I have some status on that airline which comes in handy these days when the dream of the flying experience has become a nightmare.

Thomas called to inform me that he got a fabulous price on an airline I will not disclose that is based out of Charlotte, NC (US hint, hint) through an on-line discount company promoted by the captain of the Starship Enterprise.

I was packed early on the eve of our departure when Thomas casually checked his phone messages to discover that the airline based out of Charlotte cancelled our flight and re-booked us. At 11:30 PM Thomas handed me a slip of adding machine paper with four sets of numbers written on it. “Here are our flights and departure times.” He said. “Make sure our seats are okay.”

Thinking this was no big deal, I cut on my computer to discover it would not work. It just refused to spin the drive and co-operate which led me to try to pull everything up on my phone that has a screen the size of a matchbox. I tried to communicate with Thomas whose only response was the sounds of deep sleep. I wanted to choke him.

I bundled up and made the trip to Thomas’ office to use his computer.

As I typed in the flight numbers, time of departure, etc., the airline based in Charlotte could not find our reservation. I had do the unthinkable and call the airline I will never fly again based in Charlotte. After finally pressing One then Three then Two I was all the way across the world talking to someone I could not understand whose name was Sam. Yeah, right and my name is Janerishikiah.

I finally found our reservation and saw where the Captain of the Starship Enterprise gave us the most desirable seats in front of the exit row which means you will sit like there is a 2X4 piece of plywood nailed to your upper back because the seats do not recline. As I changed our seats to a more comfortable place, a pop-up box informed me that the airline was charging me $14.00 if I did not want to go to a Chiropractor.

Finally, the screen I had been waiting for appeared with “print boarding pass” came forth. BUT as I waited the printer informed me that I would have to go online and buy Magenta Ink or it would not print.

I went to bed at 1:30 AM. So much for packing early so you can get ample sleep.

Upon checking in, because of the financial penalty if your luggage weighs over 50 pounds, I configured that I am restricted to buying items in New York City that must weigh no more than a total of 7 ounces.

So here I sit as I type this on ROW 30 seat F. On Row 29, Seat F, a 350 lb. man is leaning back in a broken reclining seat snoring. God gave Thomas a miracle when the counter agent blessed him with 32A.

I could have gotten 32B but I was detained by the Nazi Diva at the counter since my luggage had to be checked at the Gate and I made the mistake of walking into the airport since it was raining and TSA will not allow me to walk two steps back where my carry on luggage was. The Nazi Diva had to finish flirting with this cute guy in First Class before she jerked my bag off of the cart and hand me my carry-on bag that now has a broken handle.

Beam me up, Scotty.