The following is one report of today’s activities on Planet Earth.  We have a general idea of the location as Atlanta.  This is a Fig Newton of the Imagination, and does not purport to be an official 23:59 report from the United States of America.

It is impossible to fail when we imagine the possibilities to solve every problem.  Our results may fail every so often, but when we collaborate to improve our methods then we will eliminate failure and deliver best results.

Here is what was downloaded from the Collective Consciousness.  We hope you enjoy this story.  Here it goes.


The Caregiver proceeded through the crosswalk after looking both ways, as was her normal custom.  The very definition of white privilege could be argued all day and all night, but the Caregiver knew it when she heard it across the Republic.

“That will never happen here”, was the very definition of white privilege.  She heard some white folks say these five words, but rarely Black folks.  Creating security amongst chaos as Black folks & trailer park people did was better than having a false sense of security.  Fortunately, the Caregiver was not that kind of white folks.  Everything could happen in the trailer park.  People overdosed on heroin, oxycontin, or meth.  People beat their wives, husbands, and children.  People shot and stabbed one another in drunken brawls.  People also shared vegetables from their gardens, waved from their plywood porches, visited their children after they completed Boot Camp, and kept the order she loved in the trailer park.  The trailer park was not a ghetto, nor a terrible place.  Certainly the trailer park was not a perfect place, but more often than not, a good place.  The idea that some people were just born that way and deserved to live in poverty was truly the ghetto in the minds of many.

There was nothing wrong with the suburban white people who meandered through intersections like geese who laid golden eggs, wandering about gracefully, expecting traffic to stop at the sight of them.  Money had made them soft over generations.  Nothing was wrong with them per se, but soon they would have to make it right.

These were the same white people who donned expensive gear to plunge into the ocean and scuba dive.  Fine and dandy.  When the Caregiver was walking on top of the dirt, she was close to the top of the food chain.  When she was in the ocean, she was on the bottom of the food chain.  This is all she knew.  She kept in mind at all times that anything could happen at any time any where, and it was best to be prepared without being scrunched up.

She kept a discerning eye as she walked on the straight and narrow path between the yellow lines, then heard a familiar sound Mr. Stout had taught her years before.  One of the many things she remembered well of him was that he taught her mechanics.  She knew the sound of a master cylinder when it broke, and now she saw the sight of it in the form of a beat up Toyota Camry careening down the hill right toward her.  It seemed the steering wheel had gone loose too, and she discerned the same thing she knew in her heart even as she scrambled across the street.  Sometimes you just had the take the hit.  So she breathed into her best Gilda Radner pose, guarding her teeth with her tongue, tucking her head into her crotch and lacing her arms across the back of her head.  She kept her generous hips pointed right at the smashed front grill of the burnt sienna colored Toyota and braced for impact as the car shimmied, spun, twisted, and grabbed her butt and threw her into the air before smashing into the phone pole.  She rolled about three times before springing up from the pavement in good cheer.  The good news is that Mr. Emmett was okay, which was her ultimate goal.  Mr. Emmett was walking through the other intersection, and even with his good health at age 97 years young he would not be able to take the hit like the Caregiver could.

It reminded her of a dream she had of Gunsmoke’s parents.  Her cat had been rejected at birth by a Mother who was angry that her husband died.  What she could not have known is that this feline Father obeyed the command God gave him and started running like a streak of lightning straight into the passenger tire of the car.  What she could not have known at the time is that loud thump caused by her beloved’s body being crushed by the car was enough to jolt the drunken driver awake so he did not have a head on collision with a pregnant woman trying to get home from work in the dark.  There was really no evidence that life was peaceful.  We all hurt one another.  We only create peace through understanding the situation, and the Caregiver knew that taking a hit was part of life.

Citrus flew everywhere on the burning hot pavement.  It was burgeoning from the beat up little car with the Florida tag, strewn all over the intersection.  Pink, white, and golden grapefruit showered the intersection as curious pigeons flew by in the summer sun.  She erected herself, popped the pockets of air from her joints, cured her subluxation with a few quick twists, fixed her face mask on, picked the asphalt from her skin, and breathed deeply.

She was on her way to Aunt Bea’s home to meet with her and her new friend, Arthur, for  the wonderful home cooked supper they offered.  They did not live too far from the trailer park.  She withdrew the clean, warm, wet wash cloth soaked in Epsom Salts from its Ziploc bag in one of the compartments in her knap sack.  She cleaned herself up and walked toward Mr. Emmett, who looked fresh in his brand new Red Tail Squadron Tuskeegee Airmen baseball cap.  “Baby Girl, are you alright?”  She stood six feet back from him, and answered confidently, “Yes, Sir.  I am fine.  I wish I could accept your hug right now.  I love you.”  He smiled and held his arms up and said, “Praise God, Baby Girl.  We will hug again soon.”  Mr. Emmett was the very definition of her favorite, The Old School Military Man.  He walked to Pitts Barber Shop every week for a fresh cut, smelled of Old Spice, and had impeccably clean work clothes.  He spoke little of his World War II experience, since the greater battle he faced awaited when he came home to Mississippi after earning Ace as a Tuskeegee Airman.  No one would offer him wages he deserved for his skills as an aircraft mechanic in Mississippi.  No one would treat him with the respect every individual deserved, so he moved to Atlanta and built a life there many years ago.  The Caregiver understood this, and never asked him any direct questions.  He had been her rock for so many years now.  He taught her something new every day, and reminded her of the Red Tail Squadron Motto:

1. Aim High
2. Rise Above
3. Expect to Win
4. Never Quit

The Caregiver was so grateful for Mr. Emmett, who grounded her when she felt like a kite without a string.  She thanked God for all the times she was bullied for her beautiful Black shape, which was strange to some given her skin was pink and freckled, and her hair flame red.  One Ton Bun.  Bubble Butt.  Other names too horrible to repeat that made being shaped Black seem ugly, but she knew Black was beautiful.  She learned to avoid the other white kids and not worry what they called her.  They were suburban brats with no idea of Military values.  She wished them no harm, because soon enough their ignorance would be made right.  Her shape had just saved her life, as it had so many times before.  Her shape had just helped an Old School Military Man extend his life, which made her so happy.  Thank God she was built to be in the fields, although she craved being in her little home.

Vera and Juan rushed over to her with a guilty conscious and sincere apologies that were motivated by love for their neighbor, and not fear for legalism.  They offered her their insurance card, but the Caregiver explained this was not necessary since she chose public transportation, walking, biking, and assumed authority over her movements no matter the case.  There was a time and place to accept the offer of an insurance claim, but the mechanical failure of a 25 year old car with no air conditioning in the sultry August heat that Georgia afternoon was neither the time nor place.  She said something familiar to them both, then noticed the boxes of lemons carefully wedged into the back seat of their little Toyota Camry.  “I trust you to make it right with me.  No need to involve insurance.”

She remembered Arthur telling her the quality of the lemon poppy seed cake depended on the freshness of its ingredients.  She wondered why these boxes of freshly picked lemons were shrink wrapped and carefully situated, whereas the grapefruit had been placed loosely on top of the boxes before flying out the windows of their little vehicle.  They caught the question in her eyes, and Vera spoke plainly as Juan gathered up what produce he could salvage.  Neighbors walked up from the trailer park to see what was on the scene, and Bonnie gathered up grapefruit with the efficiency of a true country person, placing the large round fruits in the portion of her long skirt below her knees so as to gather them tightly and keep them safe from gravity.  Bonnie had worked for years around automation, because her organizational skills were highly valued and engineers wanted to replicate them.  Although she had retired from manufacturing at 40 years young, she did not sit on her laurels.  She purchased the humble little Atlanta trailer park where she grew up and spruced it up day by day.

As it turned out, the lemons were for Aunt Bea.  Juan and Vera knew Aunt Bea well, and had a barter arrangement set up with her and Arthur in trade for some of her world famous lemon poppy seed cake.

Aunt Bea knew a great many things about a great many subjects, and believed that the open source of ideas was key to making the world a better place.  She shared information freely about anything you would ask her, except her world famous lemon poppyseed cake.  She never wrote her recipes down, but you could get a general idea of her operations if you were willing to help her source the ingredients, clean up the kitchen, and wrap the finished goods.  Aunt Bea made 50 cakes per month, which were sold, bartered, shared, and enjoyed in good company.

When the Caregiver helped clean everything up, she finished cleaning herself up as best as she could before approaching the grand porch Arthur had restored with his own sweat equity.  The front entrance of the home was so super cozy.  Aunt Bea’s home was jam up and jelly tight.  Simple and clean were the two forces that made a home jam up and jelly tight.  Magnolias, honeysuckle, jasmine and marigolds perfumed the Georgia air as fireflies illuminated the dusk.

Aunt Bea had always preferred a data driven approach to superstition or legalism, and today’s events proved that her resource economy was the best way to make a wrong thing right.  When she found out what happened on the way to supper, she did the thing that no amount of formal education could ever do to heal another human being.  She looked into the Caregiver’s eyes, gave her full attention and drew her close in a loving embrace while maintaining a safe social distance.  It is possible to embrace someone without touching them, and this genius would be learned soon.  Now that was worth taking a hit for Mr. Emmett.  Aunt Bea knew the border that must be broken world wide was social isolation.  She never doubted her own genius, nor that of others.  She delighted in how the Caregiver cleaned her plate of collard greens, black eyed peas, oven fried chicken, and cornbread.  She was impressed with how the Caregiver never asked if she could help wash the dishes, but instead rose up from her place and cleared the table without asking.  What Aunt Bea could not have fully known is how much the Caregiver appreciated her maternal touch.

It was worth taking a hit just to enjoy life’s greatest blessing, to love and to be loved.


This has been an unofficial 23:59 report from Planet Earth.  Imagine the possibilities when we connect through compassion and mutual guarantee.

#planetearth #ourhome #unity #generosity #empathy