Lorraine Sherman Mason

Recalling the Circumstances of a Life

Journeying through the past requires unexpected results. Some are painful. Others, not so much. But you learn to take the pain with the laughter. One of those pains was the death of my mother. Swift and unexpected at the age of 54. But then I remember the happy times with her. And there were many to be found in her sweet smile, and subtle, yet boisterous laugh.

My mother was a person who often spoke into my life. She was a woman who dreamed a lot. She'd have dreams of my oldest son and shared them with him. I didn't always agree with them (spiritual in nature) but she shared them anyway.
She dreamed of me too. One such time was shortly after we'd moved into our second home in Atascocita. We were sitting in the living room when she asked me if I was still considering law school. I said yes. She said then I should do it. She had a dream. Of course she did. What else! 🤔😊 I'll spare you the details of the dream.
It was 1992. My mother had spoken. So I hurriedly looked up prep courses and found the cost of attending, above my means and not quite fitting into my rigorous work schedule. I purchased the study guide instead. With a study guide and the prayers of a mother, on December 6, 1992 I sat for the LSAT. And when the results arrived, I'd scored impressively. A score impressive enough for a multitude of acclaimed law schools. And the applications came rolling in as we celebrated.

Little did I know that in two short months, I would lose my mother. My cheerleader. My biggest supporter. My preceptor. My prayer warrior. The mother who dreamed a life of me. With this development, my hopes of law school would become a distant memory as I mourned the loss of the woman who gave me life.

I visit my mother's grave often…now that I am back in the area. And I linger because it's a tranquil place. There's a pond…with ducks…and benches on which to sit. Pleasing to the eyes 👀. And like I did on the day I shared with her that I didn't do law school. That I now had two children that she didn't get to meet. So graduate school was a more sensible option. Less time. Less money.
With every visit, I keep her up to speed with the goings-on in my life…believing that the prayers of a mother are eternal.

This Saturday morning, I lay, reflecting on my voyage to America. July, 1981. A little over a year after Liberia's bloody coup. I'd applied to Cuttington University, but chose to sit out and spend a year working at Mesurado. Upon the insistence of my aunt I'd also applied to several American universities and was awaiting their responses.
My time at Mesurado and numerous conversations with several folks, convinced me that going abroad to study Chemical Engineering with emphasis in Food Processing made proper sense. There wasn't an engineering school in Liberia. Going to America would undoubtedly provide me a bright future. Lord knew I needed a bright future. Not being born with a silver spoon in my mouth and all. You carve a way with your God-given talents. So here I was on this night, about to embark on a daunting but exhilarating experience.

Exhilarating from the onset, because before now, I had never stepped foot on the inside of an airplane. I'd seen photos of them. Many, many photos, but the closest I had gotten to one was seeing them high above my head as they soared and descended. Air Liberia Cessna that serviced rural Liberia didn't count. This was a real plane. A jumbo jet that roared like a lion and soared like an eagle.

Departing Liberia to go any place was always a grand affair; no matter your lot. Friends and family marveled at the prospect of things to come. Their imaginations were boundless. And everyone, if they could, wanted to be at the airport to see you off. To see the enormous blue and white bird fly into the darkness of night.

As we stared out the window into the starless night, on the tarmac sat the Boeing 747. Logo pronounced: Pan Am. Engine running. Awaiting its passengers and cargoes on a transcontinental/transatlantic journey to a distant land.

And then it was announced: time to board. We'd be departing Monrovia for Dakar, Senegal then on to JFK International Airport in New York City. The goodbyes were lingering. Some, you didn't realize, might be a final embrace. I'd never once given that a thought until my grandmother mentioned it. Chilling, but true!

Walk…and don't look back because you might want to return to the terminal into the security of the arms that you'd become accustomed to. Don't look back. The walk from the terminal to the tarmac seemed like forever. Once, on the stairs, I did turn to find everyone still in place, waving.

Inside of the plane surpassed anything I might have conjured in my imagination. I wanted to stand there and take it all in. Absorb everything. But we all know I couldn't. Keep moving right along. The uniformed flight attendants (air hostesses back then) who greeted us to the rows and rows of seats. The illuminated space. Shining bright. The storage compartments above the seats. The ability to look outside the window, dreamy. I would become more mesmerized as we flew into the New York skyline at sunrise.

To describe what happens during a flight, turbulence and air pockets were explained to me by well heeled wanderlusts although those words were not used. Don't be afraid, it's like riding on a bumpy road. Me? Concerned? I was too preoccupied with the possibilities, the anticipation of things to come!

So into the starless darkness of an African night, engines roared and hummed soaring over the Atlantic on a journey of a lifetime with dreams to unpack. In the hope that in seven years, Liberia would be home again. Five years of college, two years of graduate school. Ultimately, you learn that life isn't a well laid plan.

After whiling away on Amazon, it would appear might be resuscitated.

A review from a reader in the United States 🇺🇸
Giving voice to the voiceless

Who Will Speak for Me? is a counseling tool and an advocacy piece. Many people remain unaware of the predatory and harmful acts carried out by those who should be trusted. Who Will Speak for Me? is written for children and adults in simple illustrated prose that keeps the power in the messages. Every school should have a copy; every family should read this; every child must know this.

Celebrating my 9th year on Facebook as an author. Thank you for your continuing support. I could never have made it without you. 🙏🤗🎉

Which cover speaks to you? In "Long Day's Journey to Nimba," a nine-year old girl is entrusted to the care of a family driver (chauffeur) to shepherd her across 1970's Liberia... from Monrovia to Ganta.
Back then, most roads were unpaved; so a four-hour trip upcountry would become daylong. Especially during Ramadan when drivers stopped to pray dawn to dusk.

***Liberia in the 1970s is the author's childhood memories.

Let's spread the love of recognition this Valentine and Black History month, for Marie Van Brittan Brown, the inventor of the first home security.

Just had a senior moment. 😳. Stopped at McDonald's in Madisonville, Texas to get a cup of coffee ☕️ on my drive back to Houston.
"Coffee's 65 cents," she tells me. "Sixty-five cents? (haven't been to McDonald's in years) Is that all?" I exclaimed. "Senior price M'am," she said. To which I retorted, "How old does one have to be to get senior price? No answer. Just a smile...and a receipt.

This took me back to my first senior discount at age 55. I was in New York with my husband and children. The kids had discovered an African American museum in Brooklyn and insisted we visit. Walked up to the counter and was graciously told that I qualified for the senior rate. I was sooo excited, I wanted to hop over to Denny's and order from their seniors menu. (Why break the spree?) Instead, we found ourselves at an African American owned vegan cafe...with no seniors prices on the menu.

So today, I'm reminded that I have options. Lots of options....as a senior. By-the-way McDonald's even adds sugar and cream for you if requested.
I told them I'd send a write-up, an unsolicited review to corporate. Clean restrooms and awesome seniors service! Kudos Madisonville, McDonald's.

I have reached 2.5K followers! 🎉 Thank you for your continued support. I could not have done it without each of you. Season greetings! Merry Christmas 🎄🎄 and happy holidays.

Lots of read 📚 ups coming up this new year.

It's been a minute since I've written a story; but a recent encounter at a church provides the perfect muse...the perfect inspiration.

I woke up several Sunday mornings ago and decided to visit a church in my beloved Kingwood. There are few places that have fed my soul. The Kingwood-Humble-Atascocita area is one of those places. This is where I came into my own. This is where my world first opened up …before leaving at age 40.
Moving wayyy out to the suburbs at the age of 27. Right after we were married. We made a life in several homes there. Twice in Atascocita, then Kingwood. So many life experiences: the births of two children, the loss of my mother, graduate school, the beauty of drama free friendships, becoming spiritually sound, personal growth, shaping minds, and total immersion/assimilation as we made our way through the world.

In leaving Kingwood, 2002 for Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, I penned a letter to the local paper sharing the sorrow of departing and the joys of having lived there.

So here I was this Sunday morning waiting around with everyone for the rain to stop after service. I was a first-time visitor who'd caught the attention of most. In between chitchat, I'd turn my attention to my phone when all of sudden the voice of a lady brought me back to focus as she introduced herself followed by "Oh my God, you have a glow…an aura about you." So unexpected, all I could say, was "Really?" To which she said, "Yes, like a field of attraction. Have you ever noticed how people are drawn to you?" I smiled and said thanks, but that I had never thought about or noticed that about myself. She retorted, "Now that I've planted the seed, please do. It's a gift. A blessing." In which case, I received it. The rain had slacked as we made our way to our cars.

Fast forward. I'm visiting other churches to discover which one best suits the road I'm on. In doing so, I begin to take note of that which I had been told to me. True to form, it's the inviting arms of old friends and the warm gestures of strangers, the ones who walk into my glow, that bring peace. And it's not just the church people. It's the Lyft driver who went the extra mile for me. The grandfather who, with his grandson, took delivery of furniture too large for what I drive. It's the stranger at Tuesday Morning and the stranger at Torchys who dote over me as if I am a long lost relative. It's the reassuring service of the tire shop owner who delivered an extra dose of kindness …unaware.

So while I came to appreciate the buzz of the city and miss/long for the friends I've made there, I knew Kingwood was a place I should return to. There's something therapeutic about being in that space where you first became spiritually sound and nature abounds. Lake Houston. The Livable Forest. The place where your kids were born and raised. In that space, you can encapsulate as if in the security of your mother's womb, awaiting a rebirth…in that glow. In that aura that the church lady so succinctly admonished me to take note of. And so I choose to bask in the glow…as I wait.

Edie

Last Friday I met up with a friend for lunch. I'd received a text from her the day before. Somewhat last minute, but what about lunch tomorrow? She must have sensed that I was ready for an outing, so I jumped at the chance. We'd been meaning to meet up all summer, Edie's as much a traveler as I am. Coupled with grandma's duties, synchronizing our schedules had been next to impossible.

I first met Edie at the Bellaire Little League banquet in 2006 shortly after moving to Bellaire. Our sons played in the league. Can't recall if they played on the same team. But here we were seated together at the banquet. Both sets of parents. What was seemingly an evening in support of the boys and their team, became an evening of "getting to know you better" between moms.

Through intermittent conversations, I learned that Edie was a former Pan Am flight attendant who traveled to Liberia from1979 to 1986. She lamented about the 1980 coup and inquired about Caesars Beach, the lagoon, and other landmarks she could remember. She spoke fondly about her desire to return there. At the age of 19, Liberia had left quite an impression. After much pleasantries throughout the evening, I chucked it up to an incidental meeting because we happened to be placed at the same table.

Then Christmas rolled around and I received a card of Edie and her family in the mail. Over the years, we exchanged cards and much more. It was she who first alerted me to "The House on Sugar Beach" by Liberian journalist, Helene Cooper. When 2017 found me in Liberia, I surprised her with photos of Caesars Beach as it stands today and with a stylish ankara top.

When the fruit trees 🌳 in her backyard grew surpluses, I got my share. The first week we arrived from Liberia during Covid, Edie shopped for and delivered our first batch of groceries. Not aware that she sewed, she also made us custom masks of the Houston sports teams.
I'd always dreamed that I would be that friend who would make Edie's dream of returning to Liberia come true. I'd imagined a second home there where she and her family, who had never shared in her Liberian experience, could come and bask in its essence. But as we sat across from each other last Friday afternoon, we both knew, without saying a word, that that dream was lost. We promised, however, that when next we meet, we'll both wear our ankara tops and indulge in more pleasantries.

Thanks Edie...for being steadfast through happenstance. 💐💐🌹🌹

Crying in the Rain: January 2020

She'd just received what she thought was the best offer of her career to work in Dubai. And was now setting everything in motion for the move. As exciting as it seemed, something was amiss. The body keeps the score, she would later learn. And this body of hers was unrelenting. She'd come to realize how much she had ignored its warning to her in the past. Now, she was making the same mistake…chucking her feelings up to the adrenaline rush of the move as she hurried to FedEx to find out about shipping some things back to the U.S. and others to Dubai. The cost of shipping established and an appointment set for a pick up from her apartment, she made her way to the exit and into a drizzle of rain.

She didn't recall rain being in the forecast, but rain is Florence's idea of winter. And this late January morning was no exception. She hurried out to make it back home in case the drizzle became a downpour. And just like that, she was overcome by waves of emotions as tears rolled down her face intermingling with the raindrops. What was bringing that on, she wondered. This was supposed to be a joyous occasion. A new beginning. After all, she was proud to have also landed jobs in Shanghai, Prague, and Riyadh (to the objections of her daughter).

Yet, here she was finding herself in front of the Basilica of Santa Croce crying her eyes out without an apparent reason. She reached for her phone and called a friend. Suddenly, there was the urge, not to go to Dubai or back to the U.S. Instead, she became overtaken by the need to go in a whole different direction. Something was pulling at her to go there. Conflicting, since she also felt an impending doom. A foreshadowing of what was to come.

In the rain on that sunny, but rainy January afternoon, she sat sobbing to her friend. Uttering the name of someone she shouldn't have. Out of the blue. Rambling one account after another. Floodgates of memories surging out. As if through some telepathic means, she was experiencing the prickly jabs of thorns in her flesh. She wailed out the name over and over again. Sometimes even bellowing it from her belly as if possessed.
Right there in the open. The sacred grounds of Santa Croce within earshot of the remains of Michaelangelo, Machiavelli, Galileo and others.
Fortunately she had the piazza all to herself now that the downpour was once again drizzles. With the sun beaming down on her like an immaculate being, she made up her mind. "Thanks for agreeing to host me. I'll be there on the 7th of February," were her parting words to the person on the other end of the line. With that, she felt resolved. Relieved. Dubai could wait.
She sat in the cool of the day, succumbing to the sting of her drenched clothing and contemplating the agony of the two-mile trek to the place she'd called home on the other side of the Arno.

The Big Lie...

Have you ever heard of The Big Lie? he asked as they whiled the Sunday morning away in bed. "Don't think that I have. What is it?" she asked? "They're lies the N***s spread about the Jews to turn the Germans against them. Lies so unimaginable, the Germans couldn't help but believe them about the Jews." Visions of the holocaust and their subjugation to Jewish Quarters across Europe came into focus. The Jews. Slowly persona non grata.
"Nope, can't say that I have," she chimed.

"Well, Donald Trump masterfully used that same tactic of character assassinations to the nines in eliminating his opponents during his time in office. Didn’t you notice how he unapologetically drove wedges between the Republicans and the Democrats, between the haves and haves not and between the races? He perpetrated lies for the sole purpose of smearing and gaining control. I'm surprised you haven't heard of or read the book; seeing as you're a history buff and a prolific reader. Look it up on Amazon. You might like it."
"I just might do that." she noted, scrolling through the Amazon app on her phone. "Sounds intriguing" she said, wondering about the relevance of the Big Lie to their previous conversation of plans for the future.

The Big Lie. She'll come to discover its relevance in ways so sinister; like nothing that she'd ever imagined/experienced. That their Sunday conversation reeked of a foretelling of that which had been interrupted and yet had the potential to be. It was then she knew, it was her call. Stay silent or fall prey to the Big Lie.

Astroworld 1984: Content of a Character

"Would you ever cheat on your wife?" she asked.
Without hesistation, he responded he had no intentions of ever cheating on his wife. But if he did, these were the conditions:

1. If his wife ever found out, the affair was over. No question.

2. If his wife didn't find out, the mistress was to make herself scarce in his wife's presence. If they arrived at an event and the mistress was present, he'd expect that she'd take her leave immediately and avoid being discovered.

3. If he and his wife were already at the event and the mistress arrived unknowingly, she'd be expected to leave.

4. If his mistress happened to be walking on the same street, the same sidewalk as his wife, he'd expect the mistress to cross over or turn on another street to avoid contact.

Solid guy. Well thought out response. But he was no match for what awaited him. This wasn't (as they say in Texas) her first rodeo. And he might have bitten off more than he could chew/swallow. Held hostage to his own undoing. Not quite in control as he thought he might be.

Blooming Where You're Planted

I've always known the importance of giving back, benevolence. My mother modeled that for me so that when my kids were not yet teens, we passed on the torch. Remembering that Thanksgiving and Christmas weren't ours to celebrate until everyone had their fair share. We donated food and clothing and served meals on those days no matter where life took us-Kingwood, Harrisburg, Brentwood, and Houston. Our presence on those days had to count for something outside of us. Outside of our four walls. And the kids would leave away learning that there were girls and boys, men and women, families whose lives were vastly different from theirs and that it was incumbent upon us with a little bit more, to make an impact. Social responsibility. Our brothers' keepers. And so we served.

Fast forward 2019, and I'm in Florence, Italy. Still in the frame of mind of giving back to a city that had taken me in. In Houston, I knew almost every social program. Almost 40 years of residency will allow that to happen. But here, things are a bit different. There's the language barrier and the hesitation to delve into a society not quite your own. Until a friend pointed me in the direction of an international group of women who had been making things happen...impacting lives here in Florence since 1976. Giving back...serving. Without hesistation, I joined in. With their acceptance, of course. When living in a city, town, village, you can't just hang your hat up and exist. You've got to be a part-roll up your sleeves and dive in deep.

I was doing my share, I thought. And yet every day I walked the streets of Florence, I encountered people who looked like me. Not well heeled African Americans or the black British ladies with polished English accent. It's the African mother peddling her wares with her baby tied to her back. It's the young African men, young enough to be my sons, asking "Where you from?" as if to make a connection of sorts. It's the older men with collapsable fake designer purses, umbrellas, anything they can peddle to passing tourists. And yet, there's the tendency to see through them as if by doing so denies their existence. That perhaps I'm different-a cut above. Years of being abroad has given my pigment a glow they lack. Their dermis seemed covered in ash never knowing the feel of lotion. Lips chapped and dried. Yeah, I wanted to see straight through them as I hurried along wondering why I'd never noticed them all those other times I'd visited Italy. Perhaps a few, but now there seemed to be a slew of them.
Everywhere I turned, reminding me that long before I became an American, I was an African...first! So it was time for some soul searching. Introspection. My personal come-to-Jesus moment. I had to resolve within myself reasons for my untypical reaction.
I began to own my story and juxtapose it to theirs. And I recalled that not so long ago we witnessed from the U.S. how hundreds of Africans risked and lost their lives in an effort to cross from Africa into Europe. And those who were lucky to make it, were refugees in strange lands. At the very bottom of the totem pole.

With each realization, I came to see the efforts they'd made: whether English, French or Portuguese speaking, they all now spoke fluent Italian. Finding their way. Some doing better than others. The seemingly well-suited, well-adjusted African standing guard at high end stores on Florence's tony boulevards. Restaurant sous chefs, waiters/waitresses, and entrepreneurs (hairdresser, grocery store and beauty supply owners) on Pinacle Street.

Yeah, I saw them. Everything about them. The ones I served in soup kitchens and came to know their plight. Purchasing knock-offs from "my sons" and giving them back for resale. Engaging, wanting to know their stories. Sharing coffees ☕ at McDonald's. Slowly becoming my brother's keeper. Being consistent in my values no matter where life takes me. No longer seeing through them; but embracing our commonality of being Africans in a strange land. Each finding his or her way. In time, they too might assimilate into being that well heeled African.

***Thanks to my friend, Miriam (Speakeasy) for inquiring and planting the seed of accountability with just one curious question 🤔

It is a lazy Saturday, so I spent much of the day perusing online and happened upon this picture which took me back to another Saturday in my early childhood. I must have been eight or nine years old and was spending time with my nieces, who were close in age to me. It was the Easter holidays and as such, it meant a lot to be in their home. The big Easter dinner with table settings out of a magazine. There was an adult table and a much smaller table set especially for us kids. It was also a time when their mother and my sister-in-law, Josephine (Sis Jo), made extra special dresses for all the girls in the home. It was important that we looked our Sunday Best for morning service at the Trinity Cathedral or the First United Methodist Church.
Although she was gainfully employed outside of the home, Sis Jo usually spent Saturday afternoons at her much-used Singer sewing machine stitching out dresses from Simplicity/McCall patterns or any one of the catalogs from Sears, JCPenny, or Montgomery Ward that had arrived in the mail. By nightfall, with the help of Lou and Elsie (the two older teens) there would be prim dresses painstakingly tailored for us girls to show off in church on Sunday mornings.
So on this Saturday afternoon, while Sis Jo and the older girls labored at getting the dresses ready, Madia, Alvina, and I hung out in their bedroom waiting to be called on when our dresses were ready. I lay across the bed with my head buried in a Grimms Fairytales book. I had always been fascinated by books or anything in print for that matter; and would lose myself to the world in those moments. I suspect the sisters were reading, playing with paper dolls, or practicing coloring in the lines. Anything to while away the time.
The room door was shut close; providing much quietude from the intermittent whirring of the Singer machine and snip snip of scissors from the room adjacent. Eventually, both seem to drown out as I drifted far, far away into an imaginary land of Hansel and Gretel and Cinderella's evil sisters. I rarely had access to storybooks at home. And there were no libraries from which to borrow them. That would come later in middle and high school. So I devoured non-textbooks whenever and wherever I could find them.
I flipped through pages from story to story, changing positions on the bed trying to find that comfortable spot. Sitting on the bed, legs crossed supporting the book. Kneeling on the bed with book on the bed in front of me. Curled up in bed, book in hands. Stretched out on my back in bed, book in hands. A constant shift. It was then that I, subconsciously, went from just being stretched out on the bed to propping my feet up on the wall. Finally I had settled into the perfect position. There was no more shifting and everything around me ceased to exist.
One story followed another. I had seen Rapunzel let down her golden hair. Rumpelstiltskin had come to the rescue and I was following the Pied Piper through Hamelin when the room door abruptly opened. But like the rats lured by the magical pipe, I too was enthralled so as not to take notice of the door opening and the adult male standing there. So absorbed in the story, that I did not notice the sisters leap off their beds and into the waiting arms of their dad. I failed to hear him grunt and clear his throat as I crossed and uncrossed my legs, feet still propped up on the wall as if holding the wall in place. Even the familiar hint of Paco Rabanne that preceded his physical presence was lost to me in that moment. Then I heard the booming voice say, "Madam!" That single word of disapproval was enough. My feet dropped off the wall and onto the bed. Startled, I turned to find my much-older brother standing there. I tried to compose myself expecting his signature pull at my nose with fingers that left his cologne lingering for hours. But that was not to come. Instead, he questioned my reason for lying in bed with my feet on the wall.
At that age, there were constant admonishments on how to be a lady. Proper manners. The dos and don'ts. So I wondered if this was one of those moments. Yet, it felt strange that we were in the bedroom, just us three, behind closed doors and I had to mind my manners! I stuttered my way through a response; each word begging to come out. I explained that after much tossing and turning, I was finally comfortable the way I was. Legs uncrossed, feet on the wall. "Then let it remain there until you finish that book or until I tell you so," he said. By then it seemed like a challenge. What if my feet were tired being elevated or what if I wanted to change positions again? Because words didn't easily trickle out of my mouth, I knew not to question, but to comply. And before he stepped outside of the room, closing the door behind him, he assured me that we would have A Talk. A talk about minding your manners...being consistent, even when behind closed doors.
Almost 30 years later, my brother who had quite a hand in shaping me, would sit at my kitchen table in Atascocita, Texas and reminisce about many matters of the heart. We'd re-visit that Saturday afternoon so long ago. Our talk was just as poignant as it was on that lazy Saturday afternoon. Revelations of much and reinforcements of many for a now 30-something year old mother. Being consistent, even when behind closed doors is a lesson I'd pass on to my own children. Misrepresentation of the self is not a virtue.
As for that Easter Sunday, thanks to gifted hands, we emerged looking stylish like the little girls in the catalogs and on the patterns...hats, crocheted gloves, and all.

Years later, I'd come to learn through yoga, that legs/feet on the wall is a restorative pose with specific health benefits.