Author Archives: Cindy Blackstock

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About Cindy Blackstock

My life story has been one of opportunity and growth. My professional career has centered on the human element where I have engaged, encouraged and empowered. Navy wife, Red Cross Emergency Service Director and positions within local governments have challenged and strengthened me. The employment experiences compounded with my personal life has allowed my character to be one of determination and independence. My hope is that I am never far from having that offset by an empathetic nature. Before the pandemic I was a brunette but after a year of isolation I decided to show my authentic self and rock my gray hair. It has been a tangible way to signal I am ready for the next stage of my life. I am so much more than what I have projected professionally. I am mother, sister and friend. For years I have also worn the monikers of daughter and wife but they have been relegated to history. I would like to think in recent times that it is my genuine demeanor, and not just the apparent gray hair, that draws people to me. As a result I have been bestowed with several new names: Gate Keeper, The Vault and the Kleenex Lady. Life is short and none of us are promised tomorrow. I have spent decades learning to take that to heart. I might have not realized early on but my focus has been to attempt to leave things better than how I originally found them. This includes myself. I have been sowing seeds for longer than I can remember and now will concentrate on harvesting that crop of a lifetime.

Kinfolk

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My brothers and I are transplants. Our mother’s side of the family came from the Philadelphia area, first emigrated from Italy. My father was from South Georgia. We were transplanted as a result of his Navy career. Growing up just south of the Mason Dixon line, it was easier to see family on our maternal side and we also had the added benefit of having our maternal grandfather live with us. That offered us a built in connection. My father’s side seemed so distant as it was more difficult to maintain that connection. I have shared before that at the age of ten I first read To Kill a Mockingbird. It portrayed the era that my father was raised and I thought reading it was imperative to understanding my southern roots. I will also admit that Gone with the Wind gave me a very inaccurate picture of the environment where my father was raised. He had shared that he grew up on the Colton plantation. What I had envisioned was far removed from the dark brown framed humble abode which was the reality.

With my retirement quickly approaching, I had planned a trip to Savannah, Georgia, as a gift to myself. There was no familial connection to the area yet it was front and center on my bucket list. In conversations with my Georgian cousin we came up with a plan to visit Savannah and then spend time together becoming reacquainted as family. I won’t go into details but that plan was abandoned and I spent my week with family enjoying a long overdue visit. My cousin and I hadn’t seen each other face to face since we were young but our connection has become strong in adulthood. I felt totally comfortable with accepting her offer which embodied perfect southern hospitality. I still have plans to visit Savannah but I thought it was more important to delve deeper into my family’s history.

What did I take away with me? I was already familiar with the red clay and the abundance of pines. Here in the north, we are fortunate not to fall victim to kudzu. This invasive vine can be seen everywhere, as it takes over hills, valleys and fields. The only plus I could grasp was the sea of green it created. Not every neighborhood has a wandering goat but my cousin’s does and I found it delightful. For the first time in my life, I tried boiled peanuts. That might be the last time they cross my palate as I think it takes a considerable amount of time to get use to the texture. I gave all the other southern fare a big thumbs up! Tender baby back ribs and the boiled shrimp was most enjoyable. I learned to appreciate many of the foods as a child since my father introduced it to us as part of our smorgasbord menu growing up. Good fried okra and pimento cheese is not considered a staple here, north of the Mason Dixon line, but I was grateful to find an abundance there. My cousin made a point to expand my sweet tooth and I found buttermilk and chess pies to be a wonderful dessert added as a delicious finish to a meal. It is amazing that we found so much time to talk, and catch up, when she spent so much time in the kitchen, cooking items to expand my horizons and waistline. We have talked about future trips and I hold out for the addition of peach cobbler and corn dogs the next time I am there.

Obviously I enjoyed my time visiting, eating and sightseeing. What I found more gratifying was the opportunity to meet my cousin’s grown children and her grandchildren, her husband and his siblings. It was important to me to understand what I had missed by not growing up there and fill in many blanks, as well as rehash family stories and histories. The last time I made a trip to Georgia I was able to visit with two of my aunts. They have since transitioned and I considered my brief time with them a gift. One expects the loss of their parents, and my aunts’ deaths, although mourned, didn’t come as a shock. What I do find unsettling is the loss of six of my Georgian cousins since my last visit. Little by little, I see time slipping away but I don’t want my southern roots going too. This visit has me reflect on the questions I wished I had asked earlier. In retrospect, I can’t make up for lost time, but I can change the future. Conversations and visits will continue and if they include fried okra and brewed tea, all the better.

Quotation

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“Children are our most precious and vulnerable members of society. They are deserving of love, care, and protection. We must ensure their safety and well-being, and create an environment where they can grow, learn, and thrive.”

-Convoy of Hope

Protecting Children

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My intention in creating this blog was to offer a helpful and positive viewpoint to those who it reaches. In a time of division and increased tensions, I feel we all need a little nudge to walk on the positive side of life. It doesn’t always come easily but I promise it is worth the effort. I have found myself being drawn into watching short videos with kittens, puppies and babies that leave a smile on my face. It’s the simplistic and innocent start of life that I find uplifts me and joyously helps me see hope for the future. Personally, it also invokes a feeling of protection in me.

It has been decades since my son was a child, let alone an infant. Still, I can’t help but feel I will always be a mama bear. With that admission, I know better than to intercede in his life. My role now, as his parent, is to pray for him daily and hope how he was raised will continue to lead him the best way through life. I can still recall his first steps, the transition from a crib to a bed and the first time he rode a bike without training wheels. These are the moments captured in the pages of a baby book.

There are the typical moments that a parent can gladly recall but there are other memories that elicit the opposite in response. Those are the times that you find your heart in your throat and your breath strangely gone. I have experienced those moments. One recently came to mind. Rather than a typical high chair I wanted my son to have a baby butler. It was a high chair surrounded by a table, more than just a tray. That is what my brothers and I had when we were young and I wanted the same for my son. All was fine until one day the bottom dropped out of the chair. I am grateful that even at that young age, my son had the presence of mind to grab the bars around the edge of the table preventing him from falling through. I shudder to think of what harm that fall could have caused.

There are dangers that children can face through no fault of their own. Summer continues to bring the sad stories of children left alone in hot vehicles. There are other dangers that can affect them. I recently saw where a child was safely removed from a deep drop into a channel for a sump pump. If a sibling had not alerted the parents the outcome could have been different. The cover had become loose and dislodged and the child fell in without any warning. A longtime friend has recently shared with me a danger that exists in many yards, that sounds much the same as the sump pump cover. Another culprit is the inadequately secured septic tank cover.

Very often I write my blogs with tongue in cheek. If you follow me, you might remember I posted a blog about Septic Trucks in April. Cutting to the chase, it was suggested the reader would be much better off if they were not “full of it”. With the new information that was shared with me I find the only responsible thing to do is share it with all of you. In all seriousness, children are dying by accidently falling into septic tanks and drowning. It is the result of lids that are loose or deteriorated. Through the neglect or ignorance of an adult, a child can be put in a life or death situation. If you have a septic tank, waste no time in checking that your lid is secure and in good working order. Don’t take it for granted that the individual who last emptied the tank or the last one to have mowed over the area, left the lid as secure as it should be. If your neighbors also make use of a septic tank, a reminder to them would be helpful. A few minutes to ensure the security of your lid could protect the life of a child. It’s too late for the 50 children who die annually but we have the power to lower and eliminate that statistic.

There are times that children find danger innocently through play and considering the world their adventure. Their role in life is to grow and learn while it’s our role to protect them as they are entrusted to us. I can think of nothing sadder than to lose a child, and further acknowledge that it would not have happened if a few moments of focusing on safety had taken place. If you find this message is a bit different than most of my blogs, please know that in my mind, there is nothing more important than safeguarding a child. I would appreciate it if you would do me the honor of helping to spread the word.

Dump Runs

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In a previous blog, I mentioned that I began to take my trash to the dump as a cost saving measure during a very lean period in my life. It is a benefit offered to the local community, who choose to take advantage of its fee free establishment. Now that paying for trash pick-up is feasible for me again, I can’t explain why it remains more acceptable to make this run on Saturday morning rather than gathering my refuse and putting it out every Thursday evening. For some reason I grew to resent that weekly routine. Now I travel the back roads with my trash and recyclables and gaze out across the mountains. I believe I currently enjoy the backdrop more these days since I don’t have to cross that mountain daily for work.

I also have reason to believe that going to the dump is in my DNA. Yes, I might be the only person who admits going to the dump and feeling sentimental over the trip. It was not unusual for my father to utilize the local landfill. Our home was often under construction and he undertook various other projects that created waste. Since my father has been dead for over thirty years, protocols and regulations at the landfill have greatly changed. Ages ago, items were not bagged and they lay in a pile which allowed everyone access. I have no idea if there were signs that stated no one could retrieve items once they were discarded. If that was the case, my father, who always had a very ethical approach to life, ignored them. If there was something that could be salvaged at no cost, why not go for it? It may be cliché, but one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. It is not a stretch of the imagination to say my father’s childhood was challenging financially. His father died before my Dad even reached his teen years and I know what a struggle it was for my grandmother to provide for the family. It could be that is why my father was comfortable with dumpster diving before it became a popular activity. I doubt if anyone used the term biohazard when sharing what they scored at the dump. It didn’t seem to be much of an issue at the time.

My father chose not to keep these adventures solely to himself. It was not unusual for him to take my son along for the ride. During one of his reconnaissance missions, I recall him finding a plastic figure about four inches in height. It looked like it could have been some kind of action figure, just the kind my son and his cousins would enjoy playing with for hours. It was clear that this figure’s plight was to be discarded at the dump due to a missing head. Between his shoulders, where his head should have been, there was a screw. My nephew, who continues to maintain his creative streak into adulthood, named him Little Head Man. I don’t recall if Little Head Man was on the side of good or evil, but his distinctive feature fit well into my nephew’s narrative.

Before you find your stomach turning thinking about the removal of items from the dump and being handled, know that all the treasures were washed well before they were used. I can recall how my father’s thoughtfulness extended to me one time that made me question his rational in determining what would be a good castoff selection. I have always enjoyed handicrafts and it wasn’t unusual for me to fill my time with sewing, crocheting or cross stich. My father, knowing this, spied a bountiful stash of yarn. It was burnt orange in color and had the texture of rug yarn. Although I appreciated his generous donation of yarn to my collection I was queasy about the thought of touching it. There was no practical way of washing it prior to its use and in order to make something with it I would have had to hold it in my hands for several hours. As distinct as the memory of receiving this contribution to my inventory of hobby items may be, the final destination of this yarn has been forgotten. I have a feeling it was returned to its original location, the landfill. I probably held a bit of guilt returning it with the adage of looking a gift horse in the mouth heavy on my mind. So strong is that memory that I will not purchase thrifted yarn to this day.

Yes, policies have changed and no one has permission to access the trash being brought to the waste management site. These days I consider the Saturday morning dump run a trip to the social mecca of my small town as it is easy to see people you know. I enjoy the usual comments about the recycling bins not emptied often enough and how short people like myself struggle with getting items in the bin without it all falling back on you. I appreciate the irony of seeing so many yard sales set up along the way, tempting you to stop and fill the void that your trash run might have created. Most of all, I enjoy my trips to the dump as they bring back memories of my father and a simpler time. I have never forgotten that upon return from the landfill we would enjoy the reveal of what surprises returned with my father. With this all tucked away as memory, it doesn’t take much imagination to picture my Dad riding shotgun when I go.

Voices

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I am hearing impaired, being totally deaf in one ear. It is manageable but I do struggle with locating the direction of sound. Hearing aids help but everything is funneled into the good “hearing” ear which doesn’t necessarily aid with detecting the origin. Some time ago I was in the parking lot of the behavioral health organization where I worked. I heard my name called but I couldn’t determine the direction it came from in order to acknowledge it. I stood there, looking around, unsuccessful at verifying who was speaking to me. Finally, when locating the individual who happened to be a client, I told her I had heard a voice. Without missing a beat, she said ironically they were the ones who were called crazy when they made comments like that. I have never forgotten that exchange as I have never been challenged with that troubling experience. I have always been able to appreciate individuals and the uniqueness of their voices.

My father never lost his soft southern drawl. Although I have committed his voice to memory, I would give anything to hear him speak again. It has been over 30 years since his death but he has not been relegated to history. I had a dream, several years ago, where my father appeared. It felt less like a dream and more like a visitation. He remained silent throughout the dream and when I woke I missed him more than ever. I found myself sitting up in bed with my arms outstretched, tears running down my face. I could feel his arms around me. It broke my heart that he appeared so life like, yet one of his endearing attributes was missing. It left me longing, more than usual, to hear his voice again.

With the advent of easily obtainable technology, things that would have been only a memory are now preserved by picture and video. It has become more than common place. As we celebrated what would be our mother’s last birthday, my son had the presence of mind to record it. Although her voice was softer and sounded tired, it creates a sentimental memory. My nephew recently posted a video interview of his mother, my late sister in law, on Facebook. Just like my mother, it was a bittersweet moment to hear her voice again. We were close and although we had spent countless hours in conversation over the years I still long for one more.

Technology has made it easier to stay in touch but it feels devoid of true personal connection. I remain current with my lifelong friend through texts and emails. We have lived thousands of miles apart for the majority of our lives. Face to face conversations and phone calls are limited. I laugh when I think about her mother not understanding why we had long nightly phone conversations after spending the day together in school. Maybe it was our way of storing up voice memories for the future. If I were to pick up the phone and hear her voice, there would be no need for introduction. There is a recognition that continues to last. It is much the same for others that I might not have talked to in some time. That individual’s voice is distinct and carries with it history and fond memories.

I will be truthful and acknowledge that not all conversations are pleasant. When my son was testing me, as adolescents and teenagers will do with their parents, there were many times that our voices would be raised. The words spoken were not the kind that you enjoy rehashing when the conversation ended. As we would part, I had a habit of asking my son something that bordered on the dramatic. If these were the last words we spoke to one another, is this the memory we would want to carry with us? Uncomfortable conversations do happen. Is it possible to speak in a calm tone, with truth and honest emotion, when you find it necessary to voice your opinion or anger?  I find it is just as important to voice pleasant and uplifting thoughts as they do no good held bound between someone’s ears. I choose to believe that our voices were given to us to be used as a tool, one for building others up and not tearing them down. Those on the receiving end, would be wise to listen with an open heart as one day that may be the only place that particular voice exists.

Post Script: This blog is posted a little bit later than usual. I had a long phone conversation tonight with a friend of over thirty years that I consider more as family. We are separated only by the miles. Do I need to tell you how good it was to hear her voice?

Pinching Pennies

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I never knew my maternal grandmother. She died so young that my mother didn’t know her either. The fortunate part is that her fraternal twin sister was very much a part of our lives. She filled the role of grandmother and I always heard that I was very much like her. My great aunt Caroline never saw a sale she didn’t like. I am very much the same way. My mantra could be: Never pay full price when there is a discount to be had.

I have always fallen on the frugal side of the fence. Those who have been following my blog might be aware that my adult life has presented me with various financial challenges. I have had to start over a few times in the past. My divorce came later in life. There have been those who have said if they were in a similar situation maybe they would have stayed in the marriage. It would be considered a tradeoff that they were willing to make. The financial security that many years of marriage brought was not enough to hold me. There have been sacrifices along the way but I can live with a downgrade of vacations and a lesser amount of eating out. Within a year, I was able to buy a house and I have never missed a payment. My home is not large but it is cozy and I enjoy my life within its walls.

The experience garnered by my divorce served me well when I experienced the loss of employment, not once but twice. I considered my finances a challenge, not one that discouraged me but rather one that had me rise to meet the occasion. I refinanced the house and lowered my payments. I gave up trash pick-up and make weekend trips to the dump. I no longer have cable but I now consider myself the queen of YouTube as I find a wealth of entertainment there. I am a proponent of thrifting. I have never purchased a new car, only preowned. Give me a coupon and a discount and I can do wonders with the clearance rack at Kohl’s. I shop at a discount grocery store and additionally make use of a program at a local food chain. As food gets close to its expiration date, it is listed online for half price. If I don’t have plans for the meat it goes into the freezer so the benefit of that deep discount is not lost.

I am not the least bit embarrassed by these admissions. Those who know me well have bolstered my confidence by their comments over the years. One reflected on the fact that I am able to show creativity in finding ways to adjust my budget. She has observed times that it looked like I was going to bottom out but I am always able to bounce back and find a way to stretch the money a little bit further. Another friend once commented that I made being poor look easy. Many times throughout my professional life I might not have had a high income but I have never considered myself poor. I have never known hunger and my figure shows it! I have always had a safe and comfortable place to live and never worried about not having a roof over my head. I am proud to share that I hold an excellent credit rating. I have a special needs cat who has her necessary treatment at the vets each month. Necessity has always been met. This lifetime of frugality has prepared me well for this new lifestyle, that of retirement.

I have never been a bells and whistles kind of person and it is deeply ingrained. I recall my mother saying there were times I was difficult to buy for, not because I was picky but I never seemed to ask for anything in particular. My lifestyle is not for everyone but I am grateful for the things it has wrought. I know as a parent that I must have lead by example as I am extremely proud of the way my son handles his finances with such responsibility. I have learned to be gracious as my friends and family have extended generosity in many ways. I wake up each and every day with sincere thankfulness. I have been blessed with such abundance. It might not always manifest in a material way but what I have received over my lifetime leaves me with a feeling of gratitude and contentment beyond description.