. . . and I’m an addict/alcoholic.  

Through the years I have heard that introduction on various television shows and other venues.  I’m ashamed to say that I have made fun of it, usually when I was sitting on the bar stool at Longboard’s, or some similar establishment, and had far more to drink than I should.  I didn’t understand the significance of that statement – and then I did.

            Hi, my name is Sid, and I’m an addict.  

There are a lot of things that you would probably expect me to say instead of that, but it’s 100% true.  Most of my blog stories are light-hearted and fun to write. This one  – not so much. Actually I have 2 stories to share that are difficult to write – this is one of them. The other one……one day. Acknowledging the stories and sharing them keeps me sane clean, and sober. For that I am most grateful.

May 28, 2014 was a day that I hope will always be a day of celebration for me.  This is my “clean date.”  The first day I was totally free from  mind-altering substances in many years.  The day prior, May 27, 2014, I voluntarily committed myself to The Pavilion at Williamsburg Place, a private mental health hospital in Williamsburg, Virginia.  En route to Williamsburg, I was determined to not waste any of the prescription opioids, benzos, and barbiturates that I had, so I took one (or more) about every 5 miles.  By the time I arrived, I was so high I could barely walk. I was admitted, and began the process of detoxing. I remember the staff going through my belongings, and taking my shoes that had strings, as well as my belt, as they considered me a suicide risk.  I was allowed to keep 3 shirts, 3 pair of pants/shorts, 3 pair of underwear, socks, and a pair of shoes without laces (I had a pair of Tom’s I kept). Although they were very kind, I was terrified and humiliated, with no idea what to expect and what would happen to me.  I looked around at the others there, and while it was hard to not be judgmental, I had to realize that I was there too, in the same or worse shape than most.  I was no better than any of them. It was the start of 4 weeks that would change my life forever.

I spent 3 days and nights at The Pavilion.  During that time we had classes, recreational therapy, and got to go outside to an area with a privacy fence that had to be 15’ high.  There was a television in the commons room that stayed on HGTV most of the time, and that was a good thing. I detoxed fairly well. The worst part was I stayed “balled up” in the corner crying most of the time.  I kept thinking “what have I done?” I had walked away from my life. Gunther was at a kennel being boarded for a month, and I just knew he would forget me while I was gone. My house was closed up and was filthy.  I had taken family medical leave at work, and walked away with tasks undone and minimal explanation. I had walked away from church with no plans, no substitute lined up. I had done things for which I am ashamed.  And there I was, in a mental hospital, trying to get clean enough and off suicide watch so I could be transferred over to The Farley Center, which was next door to the hospital. Finally, after 3 days, I was moved to Farley on Friday, May 30, 2014.

The Farley Center is world renowned rehabilitation center for drug and alcohol abuse. When I transferred over, they went through all my belongings again, but with the exception of my cell phone, car keys, and any t  (o-t-c and prescriptions) that I had, I allowed to keep the things I brought. As usual I had overpacked, but for a 4 week stay, one never knows what could be required.  I was assigned to a room with Chris, who was a young member of the Air Force who had been sent by his command due to an alcohol problem. He had also been at The Pavilion while I was there, so we already had bonded somewhat.  What I remember most, however, about that day is when all the other patients finished their classes and descended on the commons area where I was sitting.

There were lots and lots of other folks there.  All ages, but mostly younger than me. Much younger.  About half men and half women. And every one came up to me and introduced themselves and welcomed me to Farley.  I wasn’t expecting this, but was so grateful for the warm welcome. I found out that we couldn’t walk anywhere by ourselves, and that scared me as I knew I would be horrified to ask someone if I could walk with them to lunch or classes.  That fear was soon gone, as others freely walked with me. It turned out to be a great way to meet others. The most significant walk was across campus was to the cafeteria. Surprisingly, the food was really good – except for the turkey sausage for breakfast, that “won’t from shit.”  

After being assigned to a room in the main building for 3 days, I was moved to an apartment with 3 other guys.  It was a good fit, we all got along. The youngest of the four was 18, and I was the oldest at 50. Another good way to bond.  There were 2 bedrooms with 2 twin beds each in the apartment, and each bedroom had a bathroom. We had a washer and dryer – no maid service – we washed our own clothes, including sheets and towels, and kept the place clean.  We’d get in trouble if it wasn’t in near perfect condition when the apartment was inspected.

During the day we had classes pretty much non-stop, including our “small group” counseling sessions that were 1-½ hour each.  Topics included “Avoiding Relapse,” “Grief Therapy,” and many others. Once a week we split up into all men group and an all women group.  I don’t know what the women talked about, but the topic in the men’s group generally turned to sex, or the lack thereof, fairly quickly. It was most interesting to be the only gay guy (I think) in a group of men, talking about sex with their wives and girlfriends, or the search for them.  I had little to say in the groups, but I did learn a lot about heterosexual sex – and it confirmed that I am 100% gay.

Every evening we participated in an Alcoholic Anonymous or a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.   We were loaded up in the Farley vans – affectionately known as the “druggy buggies” – and carried into Williamsburg or Yorktown for meetings.  My first meeting was at the Episcopal church in the touristy area of Yorktown Beach. I was horrified – suppose I saw someone I knew at the beach area.  I didn’t, but there was a piano where we met, so I entertained the others with music while we waited for the meeting to start. Meeting were held in the Episcopal, Baptist (surprisingly), Presbyterian, and Methodist churches in Williamsburg, and 3 weekly meetings were held at Farley.  Every night of the week. I had no idea how 12-step meetings worked – I thought it was like bridge or pinochle clubs at home – every other Tuesday night or such. I never dreamed it would be an every night occurrence, and that membership in NA would become such an important part of my life.  That’s a story for another time.

There are many stories I could tell from my 4 weeks in drug rehab, but those would make for great conversation anytime you’d like me to talk about them.  I must share a few that stand out –

• Playing volleyball with the 20-somethings, that was a sight to behold
• Trying to do yoga, and getting to a point that I proclaimed “I am too damn old for this shit”
• Working through unresolved grief issues in the “Grief Therapy” class
• Bonding with others there
• How the men had to sit together and the women had to sit together separately at the cafeteria.  And how ironic that was for me.
• Staff coming into my bedroom in the middle of the night with a flashlight to confirm that we were there
• Not having my cell phone, and not being able to play “Words With Friends”
• Being the oldest patient there for part of my stay, but how accepted I was by the young guys.  I still keep in touch with a few of them.

And on and on and on.  Many stories to share, these don’t even scratch the surface. Mostly good, a few iffy, but nothing really bad. For that I am thankful.  

The biggest blessing of my rehab was the support I received from home.  Family and friends were cheerleaders beyond imagination. Miss Millie, the receptionist at Farley, swore that I was mailing myself letters because I got so much mail everyday.  Cards, letters, packages – I still have every one of them. Mama, Daddy, Joleen, and Savannah came to visit every Sunday and took me out to eat. The second Sunday I was there, in addition to the family, Robbie, Karen, Michael, Steven, and Dale all came to visit.  The staff and patients couldn’t believe that I had 9 visitors during the once weekly visitation time. My doctor/therapist came to Farley to check on me – again, everyone was stunned. I even heard one person whisper “who IS that guy?” talking about me. I guess I sorta stood out in the group, but I was accepted and loved in a way that was unique.  We were all in the same boat, but we were all so uniquely different. None of that mattered, we supported and helped one another.

The most ironic piece of my time in rehab was that I was scared beyond imagination to be there the first part of my stay, and I was scared to death to go home when rehab was done.  I had walked away from my life, and I had no idea how I would find things, including relationships with others, would be when I returned. In both cases, thankfully, I soon discovered there was nothing of which to be afraid.  I missed Gunther and my life while I was there, but I made a good “temporary life” at Farley. I was able to easily transition back into “my life” when I was discharged, with relationships being picked right back up where we left off. And Gunther didn’t forget me, not at all.  If anything, he became more loving. I did, however, miss my Farley friends. I was asked when I returned if, because it was such a younger population, if I mentored any of the young guys, to which I responded that they mentored to me far more than anything I could do for them. I guess that’s the school teacher in me – I was energized by the potential in these guys.  And, on the lighter yet realistic side, a gay man in a group of all men, even though they were all straight, is a fabulous thing. LOL

Now it’s five years later.  I got my 5 year clean-time medallion 3 nights ago.  My homegroup celebrates annual “birthdays,” and it was my night to shine.  I got to structure the meeting and choose a speaker, who did a wonderful job.  I went home with my medallion, a beautiful gift from my sponsor and his fiance, and lots of birthday cards.  It was a fun night. The fun, however, wouldn’t be possible without the work. It is a struggle to stay clean.  I have lots of “irons in the fire” and both regular and unique stressors. But I have an incredible support system and practice a program of recovery that works for me.  I attend a minimum of 2 NA meetings a week. I have an incredible sponsor that has become a dear and cherished friend (he asked me to be the best man in his wedding!!!) I listen to others who have walked the walk ahead of me, and try to follow their leads.  I am treasurer of my homegroup and I love doing that, as it includes securing supplies as needed in addition to handling the money. As one of my NA friends shares regularly, “I have a life beyond my wildest imagination.” And now that I’m clean and sober, I do.

There are lots of things that happened to me the years prior to my rehab, but going into all of that would seem to me like I was making excuses, and that’s not the case.  The disease model of addiction certainly applies to me. The ironic piece of addiction for me goes back to the early 80’s, when I ‘came out’ to my doctor. Back then I was scared to death to say out loud to anyone that I was gay.  He sorta pulled it out of me, but one of the things he told me is that, knowing the gay community in those days revolved mostly around bars, he was worried about me being around so much alcohol, as he could see I had such “addictive tendencies.”   His exact words. Little did I know then that he had a crystal ball into the future.

As I celebrate 5 years clean, I celebrate so much more than just a medallion.  I celebrate the work it took to get there. I celebrate the family and friends that supported me during rehab, who support me now, and who kept my life going while I stopped for a month in Farley.   I celebrate NA, my sponsor & support system, and the program of recovery for which has become a staple in my life.   I am thankful for the other patients (mostly the guys, since we were together more), and for their love and acceptance of this old queen from Windsor. I pray for them and hope they can maintain being clean and sober.  I celebrate the doctors and friends who recognized the problem and encouraged me to go. I am thankful that places like The Pavilion and The Farley Center exist. I am thankful I had the financial resources to be there.  I am thankful that I had myself committed instead of having family or the courts intervene. I celebrate a decision made correctly.

“I am thankful today for a life beyond my wildest imagination.”

God, thank you for keeping me clean and sober for the past 5 years.  Thank you for the support system you have allowed me to develop, and I pray your blessings on each of them.  Please continue to be with me to help me in my recovery. It’s a lifelong process, but I know with your hand to guide me, I can do it.

Sidney A. Neighbours

June 6, 2019

. . . in the neck.

As my retirement day fast approaches, certain aspects of teaching and the past 20 years have periodically popped into my head.  Some pop in and pop out, but some actually stick in my brain and stir up some memories. Mostly good memories, thankfully, and lots of funny ones.  

I remember when I got my first Suffolk Public Schools badge.  I was so proud to finally have a real one of my own – I had been doing long-term substituting, and back then subs did not have a “real” badge, just one printed out by the principal.  Badges then were printed by the human resources department on card stock, a Polaroid picture of the employee that looked suspiciously like a mugshot was glued on with a hot glue gun, and it was laminated.  A hole was punched in the top so that a clip would fit through it, with the clip added so that the badge could be clipped onto a shirt or jacket collar. Now everyone knew that I really belonged at that school and to the school division.  Badges have evolved over the years, now they’re computer generated with a picture saved on a hard drive – but still looks suspiciously like a mugshot. Badges now have bar-codes that allow all sorts of things, from entry into the building to activation of the copier/printer.  It allows us to sign-in and sign-out electronically. It comes in a nifty little holder that if it breaks you’re charged $5 for a replacement (if you can’t talk them out of charging, which I may or may not have done a few times over the years). The one thing that hasn’t changed, however, is the dreaded lanyard.

First of all, a disclaimer – I have truly come to like lanyards for my school badge.  I haven’t always like them, back in the day I preferred to clip it to my shirt collar, especially when I wore a tie.  If I wore a suit or blazer, I always clipped it to the collar. No lanyard for me. But at some point in my auspicious career, I became a member of the lanyard club.  

Lanyards are great advertisement for various companies and/or products.  There are very few trade shows or exhibits that someone isn’t giving them away.  Every conference that has a name tag hands you a lanyard of some description in which to place your badge (some even take them back at the end of the conference in an effort to recycle).  The lanyards I focus on, however, are the ones that become personalized.

You can tell a lot about a person from looking at their lanyard.  Many people, like me, put all sorts of pins on their lanyards. By looking at a colleague’s lanyard you can often tell what organizations to which they are members, what conferences they’ve attended, and what subjects about which they have a great passion.  Cutesy “teacher stuff” pins, such as apples or pencils, are often pinned onto the lanyard. In addition to the identification badge, they often carry pens, hand-sanitizer, and even a few post-it notes. Neck pain often is the unintended outcome of a personalized lanyard, however, so they can keep ones chiropractor in business.  And as you can imagine, I am the queen of the personalized lanyards.

Although a late bloomer in the world of lanyards, I have managed to make my lanyard extra special.  For the past few years, I have worn a rainbow lanyard. Now I’m sure all my readers know the significance of the rainbow, meaning diversity but primarily gay rights.  The story of how the rainbow and the rainbow flag became the symbol of gay rights is very interesting and worth a read (see link at the end). On my rainbow lanyard I currently have, in addition to my school ID displayed in a leather case, my:

• Suffolk Public Schools pin
• Human Rights Campaign pin
• Safety Pin (this represented something but I can’t remember what)
• Rainbow Cross (proud to be a Christian who is gay)
• American & Rainbow flag pin
• Rainbow bar pin
• Rainbow pins from NEA LGBT dinners

Am I a bit obsessed with rainbows?  Perhaps. Am I trying to scream to the world that I’m gay?   Yes and no – I’m pretty sure I do that without a rainbow lanyard (just by opening my mouth), but the lanyard acts as a megaphone.  Have I always felt comfortable wearing it? Absolutely not, it’s only been in the last few years that I arrived at that level of comfort.  Do I enjoy wearing it?   Every moment of every day.

I have been asked by various adults in my world if I was worried that I would get in trouble or become the target of hate and homophobia because of being “so out” and wearing various rainbow paraphernalia.  And perhaps I am a bit worried at times, but realistically I do not care. There are too many lgbtq students, and even a few teachers, that are fighting their own internal battles over being gay.  Some even to the point of suicide. So my answer to that question has, and always will be, that if I can show an lgbtq student that it’s okay, you have someone to talk to and that you really can and will make it to being a successful adult in the real world, it is worth any difficulty or harassment that I might endure.  Thankfully there hasn’t been, but, not that I’m counting, I still have 27 days to work!!!  

So I wear my lanyard with pride all the way to the end.  Even if sometimes it does make my neck hurt!!!

God, thank you for a great run as an educator.  Thank you for allowing me to show the world – but especially our lgbtq students – that being gay really is okay.  And that life can be good. My life isn’t perfect, but thanks to the blessings you give me daily, I’ve had a good life.  And I know the best is yet to come – help me show that to those who don’t always see their bright future.

The story of the rainbow flag – it’s a great read:

https://www.sftravel.com/article/brief-history-rainbow-flag

 

Sidney A. Neighbours

May 8, 2019

 

 

. . . does March 16, 1964 ring a bell?”

 

I actually had a doctor tell me this once.  It was the eye doctor, and I was there complaining about how I was having difficulty reading.  I was having to hold anything I tried to read at an arm’s length – literally – as I had to stretch my arm all the way out to see the print.  The eye doctor broke the news to me – I had “fortyitis.” In other words, I had reached the age that my arms weren’t long enough and that reading glasses would become a permanent addition to my wardrobe.  As time has passed, the need for glasses has progressed – or, more accurately, regressed – to the point my distance vision has gotten worse as well, so bifocals have become the norm.

This was a week that seemed like it would never arrive, though at times I wanted it to happen as quickly as possible.  I signed my retirement paperwork with the Human Resource Department of the school division. I have 20 years service, and realistically I know that 30 years (to age  65, the full retirement years of teaching) isn’t possible. My career in education will end on July 1, 2019. I’ve heard other educators say that “you know when it’s time.” For this old boy from Windsor, “it’s time. My body has been screaming that into my ear every minute of every day this school year.  My last heart attack, and the subsequent blood clot on my lung, knocked too much wind out of my sails. The stress and pace of working full-time in a school environment, along with breathing difficulties, have caused many days of complete exhaustion and other extreme difficulties, both at school and afterwards.  It’s hard to admit, but I know I just can’t do the things I could previously and do them well, and I know “it’s time.”

If I tried to write every event unique to my career as an educator, both good and bad, I would be writing 24/7 from now until Christmas.  As I signed the paperwork, and as the week has progressed, there have been quite a few memories that have made their way to the forefront, and I would like to share them with you:

• The father of a student who told me that he never believed he would see the day his son would graduate from high school, but because of me, the day had arrived.  He told me that if he ever won the lottery, he would surely remember me (I hope he’s in line buying a ticket right now).
• The student who wrote me a note after his graduation that I had been his only positive gay role model growing up, and how much it meant to him, especially after the extreme non-support from the guidance counselor.
• The parents that angrily called the superintendent when I was unfairly demoted from my assistant principal’s position.  
•  The former student, now a stockbroker, who told his new wife that I was the first person that taught him it was okay to be dyslexic and how to overcome the struggles. 
•  The kind words from a former student, now the parent of a current student – words of appreciation for the positive influence on her child.  
•  Sponsoring the school’s Connection Club (Young Life), and the support of both the school and Young Life staff when a co-worker tried to block me from being the sponsor because I am gay (she wanted to be a sponsor as well, but she didn’t work with “my kind”).  
•  My former principal sending me word that he would come cut my grass after I had my second heart attack.
• The former student and his mother who tear up telling me and others that I am the only reason he graduated.  
•  Surviving a direct hit from a tornado while lying on the gym floor and holding a student down with my arm.  
•  Meeting the mother of a student at a bachelor party for a friend (and that’s all I’m going to say about that).
•  Seeing former students and/or their parents out in public, and carrying on great conversations with them – and when they leave, whoever I’m with saying “you have no idea who that was, do you?”   And they were right – I remember faces (most of the time) but names escape me.
• The excitement of students as they walk across the stage and receive their High School Diploma.
• Being called “Uncle NeeNee” by Joleen’s theater students.

These are special memories, along with many others.  I’ve always said I could write a book, and maybe one day I will.   A drop of water might have escaped out of my eye as I have pondered these memories, and I have literally “laughed out loud” at some. There have been some rough days, especially this year, but there have been far more good days.  I am thankful for them all, and I pray that I have made a difference.

Instead of “Elvis has left the building”….  it’s ”the cheese-wagon is leaving the yard.”    For me, the last time.

As always, I am a blessed man.  

 

God, thank you for the blessings I have received as an educator for the past 20 years.  Please be with those students whose path has crossed mine over the years. Thank you for the educators who showed me the way and kept me sane.   Bless the educators I leave behind and those who will follow.  Please especially be with students who will need an extra dose of care & concern, especially the LGBTQ students.  Thank you Lord – it’s been a great run.  

 

Sidney A. Neighbours 

May 3, 2019

 

It seems like it takes forever to get here.

I’ve been derelict in my blogging the past few weeks.  Life sometimes throws curves to what we perceive as normal and to things as we want them, and I’ve had several curvy weeks.   Major life changes are on the immediate horizon for me, and even when actual work hasn’t been required for some things, in my mind it runs like a hamster on a wheel in his cage. I try not to worry, and to “give it to God,” but that’s sometimes easier said than done, for me anyway.  I’ve always said my mind spins 90 mph. I remind myself regularly, however, how blessed I am to have the ability to make decisions and to have the support system to keep me grounded and focused.  

Now onto a much happier subject – spring break!!   When the cheese wagons go out of the yard tomorrow it will finally be here.    The local school divisions have a “gentleman’s agreement” that spring break will be at Easter.  If Easter is before April 15, spring break is the week after, and if Easter is after April 15, spring break is the week before.  I’ve forgotten what happens if Easter falls on April 15, but that isn’t the case very often. Most teachers will tell you that the weeks before spring break, especially when it’s this late, are one step from hell, and not a big step at that.  Kids are wild, teachers are tired & testy, and the work that has to be done the week before break piles up higher and higher. It all gets done, however, and if anyone is standing in the doorway at 2:25 on Friday, they’re going to be smashed flat.

Thinking about spring break brings back some great memories.  Even before I began teaching and was working in the bank, I took off the week of spring break so I could travel with my teacher friends.   We loved Myrtle Beach. I remember going there one spring break, the first time I’d ever been, and staying in a suite at The Palace. We were up high, on the 10th floor at least, had a beautiful view from the balcony, and a great space to spend the break.  I was with Talmadge and Robbie. When we first walked out on the balcony to gaze over the ocean of God’s handiwork, Talmadge decided to sing, at the top of his lungs, “If I Were the King of the Forest.” Folks on the beach stopped and looked up, and I couldn’t decide whether to be embarrassed or to laugh hysterically.  I think laughing won out. There was another trip that included stops at several great outlets. We bought so much stuff, mostly clothes, that I had to take a pair of shoes out of the box at our last stop in order to get them into the vehicle. There was barely room for the shoes, let alone the box. Precious memories.

There was also the spring break that was a few weeks prior to Talmadge’s death.  He wanted to go somewhere with just Robbie, Karen, and me, just so we could be together uninterrupted and talk and visit.  He fell during the night while we were there, and I don’t know how, but I picked him up, with Robbie and Karen’s help, off the floor and back into his chair.  That week was full of truly precious memories. I sat up late at night with him, just like I did at home, and just sat by his chair, listening to him talk about how he knew it wouldn’t be much longer before he was in Heaven, and about great memories and about the future here without him.  Precious memories indeed.

There are many other memories of spring breaks past, and hopefully many memories to be made in years to come. When spring break falls the week before Easter it is tough on us old church musicians. Choir practice, Maundy Thursday service, and playing for Easter still goes on regardless of our being out of school.  In addition, I will go to a Good Friday Service and Early Sunday Service at my Community Church. I’ll be very well churched by the time Easter Sunday is over. I’m thankful for all of it. If it wasn’t for Easter, eternity would not be anything for which to look forward.  As always, I am a blessed man in life, and blessed to have the Easter morning guarantee of life eternal.

And even though there aren’t any exciting travel adventures planned for this spring break, I sure am glad it’s finally here.  Almost here anyway. One more day!!!

God, thank you for spring break.  Thank you that it’s finally almost here.  Thank you for the great memories I have of spring breaks past, and of travelling in general.  Thank you for Talmadge, and that big voice booming from the balcony in Myrtle Beach, as well as the precious times preparing for his home going.  The memories you’ve allowed me to have are precious to me, just like the circle of life you give to all of us through Easter.

 

Sidney A. Neighbours

April 11, 2019

……to be hidden in a closet.  

 

If things go well, I am going to be moving soon.  That’s a big if, since I have to sell my house before I can move, although I’m praying the right buyer will come along soon.  I need to downsize, I love my house, but after 2 heart attacks, a blood clot, and knee surgery – plus that being born in 1964 thing – it’s time for life to all be on the first floor.  I spent several hours this week with the contractor picking out ‘stuff” – kitchen cabinets, drawer pulls, paint, etc. It was fun beyond imagine – decorating is a gay man’s dream come true.  And I had to check out the closet space to see how many shelves, hangers, etc, would be in each one. I have a tendency to over-purchase clothes and shoes. At home now I have 3 closets full of clothes and more shoes than I would ever admit to having (and I ordered a new pair yesterday).  I may have an issue, but oh well. So closet space at 216 Retreat Drive (my new address, prayerfully hoping) is an important part of the construction. 

Today is a very special day in my life and the life of my family.  Twenty years ago today, at about 6:30 pm, a pretty little girl joined us and we were immediately in love.  My one and only niece, Savannah, arrived. She was perfect (still is). And because she was almost born on my birthday, her full name is Savannah Sydney.   I remember the next morning at work seeing my dear friend and then colleague Kathy in the hallway, and she knew when she saw I had a picture in my hand that the baby had arrived.  When I told her that her name was Savannah Sydney, we both burst out in tears. What an honor for this precious little girl to have my name!

Watching Savannah grow up and be a part of her life has truly been blessing beyond any possible measure.  One of my favorite memories is one morning that I was going with Joleen to an appointment, and we carried a still sleepy Savannah to day care.   When we got there, I walked in with them. The lady at the desk asked Savannah, “who is this gentlemen?” to which she replied, in a half sleepy and incredibly sweet voice, “that’s my NeeNee.”  I loved it. I had decided before she was born I wanted her to call me Uncle Sidney. Nobody else calls me that (other than when they’re mad at me), but I’d always thought it was cool hearing my cousins Kay and Brenda refer to my grandparents as “Aunt Eunice and Uncle Sidney.”   So I thought it would be cool to be Uncle Sidney. I thought Savannah would never say my name, and then one day we all realized that she was trying to say “Sidney” but it was coming out (pun intended)“NeeNee.” From that day forward, I have been NeeNee. Mama, Daddy, Joleen, all of Savannah’s friends, many of Joleen’s students, and some of my friends call me NeeNee, and I love it.  That’s why my blog address is “neeneesays.” I even have it on my car license plate. Of all the things I’ve done and had in life, being “NeeNee” to Savannah is the greatest.

There are lots and lots of Savannah stories I could tell, but I’d be writing non-stop until Christmas if I tried to write them all.  She’s a sophomore at Dartmouth now, was Valedictorian of her graduating class at Nansemond River High School (her diploma has so many gold seals on it that you can barely see the writing), she was an ace soccer goalie, star of the stage in both high school and college, and the list goes on and on.  I couldn’t be any prouder of all the things she’s done. She has a loving spirit and an open-minded compassionate heart that is matchless.

When Savannah was about 10, I told Joleen that I wanted her, when she felt the time was right, to tell Savannah that I am gay.  Joleen and I speak freely about the subject, and I knew she had instilled a mindset of acceptance in Savannah. Savannah was truly color-blind when it came to her friends and classmates, and I knew in my heart she would be when it came to the gay issue. My exact words, as best I recall, that I told Joleen was that “I wasn’t going back in the closet for anybody ever again.”  She understood, and promised me that she would tell her, and that she would let me know when she had. Joleen called me some time later, I don’t remember exactly how long, in the car with Savannah listening to tell me that they’d had the “NeeNee talk” and that Savannah was okay with it. In fact, I heard Savannah say in the background, “it’s just so cool that I have a gay uncle.”  From that point on, it’s been open dialogue and no secret. Although I’ve had some unfortunate experiences with being gay when I was growing up, knowing “that pretty little girl that named me NeeNee” thought having a gay uncle was the coolest thing made up for them.

I am meeting Savannah and Joleen in a few minutes for lunch to celebrate her birthday.  As usual, I way over spent for her gifts, but I wouldn’t have it any other way (she sends me a list, with links, for what she wants – and I love it – no shopping mall required).  Of all the gifts I have ever given or received, however, and after the gift of salvation from above, the greatest gift in my life is being NeeNee to my Savannah, and to know she loves, accepts, and appreciates me just as I am.  There’s nothing quite like being an uncle to Savannah, who is the closest to having a child of my own I’ll ever have. Yet again, I am a blessed man.

Dear God, thank you for Savannah Sydney, and for the blessing she has been to me for the past 20 years, and for many years to come.   Keep her safe, healthy, and happy as she finds the pathway you have in store for her. Help me, as well as my family, to always be the support she needs just like her unconditional love provides me.  Amen.

 

 

In 2017, Savannah and I were recognized by the “gayswithkids.com” website in their annual Gay Uncles (aka Guncles) edition.  Check it out:

https://www.gayswithkids.com/guncle-photo-essay-2470993038.html?page=8

Sidney A. Neighbours

March 15, 2019

 

I Think Not!!!

 

I’ve often heard it said that there is no such thing as a coincidence.  Someone is thinking about a friend, and then receive a call or card from that person.  You’re out shopping and you run into someone that you haven’t seen in many years and a friendship is renewed.  You open the Bible to a verse that has a direct correlation to a situation being experienced in your life. You and a co-worker wear the same color shirt to work on the same day (okay, that’s a stretch – and a true coincidence.)

As most of my blog readers know, the past month has been challenging.  Actually the last year has been challenging, but that’s a story for another time.  On February 16, my mother fell while volunteering at her church’s food pantry and broke her hip, requiring emergency surgery the next morning, a lengthy hospital stay, and a stint in a nursing home rehabilitation unit.  Although it was challenging for her, and there were some roadblocks along the way, she is blessed to now be at home. We are blessed for her to be home, and life to be headed in the direction of normal. It’s a new normal for her and for our family, but I count my blessings every day to be nearly 55 years old and to have both my parents still with me.  

While it’s been nothing like the challenges that Mama has faced, all this has brought on challenges for me.  I’m by no means the perfect child, but I have done the best I could to do the right thing. And it has been challenging, especially as I am not in good health myself, and I had many other “irons in the fire” during this time.  But something happened recently that brought me to tears in reminding me that, even in challenging times, I’m truly not alone.  

I’ve always said that music technology passed me by, which is surprising given my love of music.  One of the things I have fervently embraced, however, is perusing music online with immediate license to purchase the number of copies needed.  No more placing an order and waiting – and waiting – for it to come. I can pick out music at 6:30 on Wednesday night, print it (and pay for it, of course), and rehearse it at 7:30.  It’s wonderful.

This past Monday I was having a particularly stressful day.  A “weepy day” as I shared with a couple of dear friends, meaning it would have taken very minimal discourse before I burst into tears.  The day began rough and went downhill from there. But as part of my daily tasks, I checked out a website from where I purchase music, looking for Easter music for my choir.  The site stayed up while I worked on various other tasks, and when I flipped back to that page, the music to “His Eye Is On The Sparrow” was on my screen. And then came the tears.  

Now to fully understand this,  I have to explain this song. My favorite “church song” of all times is “His Eye Is On The Sparrow.”   It has a soothing effect on me. I remember when I was in college and fearful of an exam, this song “popped” into my head, and I felt at ease.  I remember dealing with unpleasant professional issues and this song “popping” in my head. I remember as we lined up for Talmadge’s funeral this song “popping” in my head.  There have been many other times in my life that this song “popped” up for me. So Monday, when it “popped” up on my screen, I felt that similar calm. Do I think that it “magically” appeared on my screen – probably not.  I’m sure I clicked or bumped something that made the song pop up and I didn’t realize it. But do I think it was a coincidence that this song was the one that I saw – absolutely not. God knew I was having a rough day, and He needed me to be reminded that “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.”  His mighty hand made sure I clicked on the song that brings me calm.  A great reminder of His love.

Just like I know He’s watching over my Mama while she recuperates.  

Dear God, thank you for watching over the sparrows, and for watching over me and those I love.  And thank you for “non-coincidences” you put in my path to help me remember that there is a hand mightier than mine protecting and loving me every day.  And thank you for watching over my Mama as she recovers from a devastating injury.

 

Sidney A. Neighbours

March 13, 2019

 

 

I am writing today as I sit on the floor behind my desk in a locked room with no lights.  No, we’re not under attack – today is “Code Red” drill day. This is when we prepare for something that we pray never happens.  Students are in the corner of rooms behind desks, lights are off, computers are off (well, except for me and my laptop typing behind my desk).  I guess I could get my hand smacked, but it’s just me in this room, no kids. And I’m a grumpy old man, getting ready to retire – what are they going to do, shoot me? There was a time I would be in the middle of helping out with the drill – checking doors, monitoring kids – but not anymore. I stay in my corner of the world and mind my own business.  Well, most of the time anyway, especially the minding my own business part. You know “I’d rather walk on my lips” than to gossip, but I do like being well informed

Drills for codes red, yellow, and blue are a common thing in schools.  State laws require a fire drill monthly after the first month of school, Code Blue (weather) will be on a given day in March for all schools throughout the state, and other drills are supposed to happen monthly as well.  They don’t always happen, but farbeitfromme to tattle. The kids hate drills, and gripe & moan most of the time, but I always try to impress upon them that you never know when something real could be happening. And then I tell them about one of those days.

It was April 28, 2008.  I was assistant principal at Elephant’s Fork Elementary School.  A normal school day as memory would have it. Nothing out of the ordinary during the school day.  It was rainy and dreary, but it was April in Virginia, so that wasn’t anything unusual. At 3:45-ish, the school office told me that they were getting calls that school buses were being called back to schools due to tornadoes.  I contacted the School Administrative Office, and was assured by the Assistant Superintendent that this was only for another school in the southern part of the city. I told him I would have another group of buses on the road at 4:30, and we agreed I would call him before I sent them out of the yard.

 

The next call was after 4:15, to tell them that we had been hit directly by a tornado.  These pictures are when the tornado was actually hitting the school, taken from the route 58 bypass. 

 

The office staff and a few teachers were all around the office talking when we heard a scream.  Our principal saw the tornado coming, and screamed for us to “take cover.” We did, including staff diving under counters that the could not even come close to doing the next day.  I saw a child in the hallway and I ran out there and pushed her, as well as a parent (so I was told later), into the gym. I was lying on the floor of the gym as the tornado hit, one arm over my head and one arm over the child that had been in the hallway.  The sound was incredible. I’ve always heard that a tornado sounds like a freight train, which is true, but the closest sound I have discovered is going through an automated car wash, only multiplied thousands of times. In addition to the storm sound, there was the constant sound of breaking glass.  It seemed like hours, but I’m sure it was only a few seconds. Once it passed, I jumped up and started looking for staff and students (we had 45 students still there for an after-school tutoring program).

The story could have taken an even more tragic toll at this point, but thank God it didn’t.  We found everybody that was in the building, and all were safe. Yes, you read that right. The school was hit by a tornado and I didn’t even have to unlock the nurse’s office to get a Band Aid.  God’s mercy, protection, and providence at it’s very best.

The next few hours were a bit chaotic, but thanks to competent and caring staff, as well as students who cooperated as directed, it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been.  We dealt with police, the fire department, and school personnel (once they could get through). The entrance of the school was blocked by trees. Most of the trees in the school yard were on the ground, and one was on top of a teacher’s car, which was upside down.  A total of 13 vehicles were totaled, including mine.  Inside my car was someone’s kitchen trash bag along with a baby’s “onesie” stabbed into the dashboard with a stick.  The window behind my desk, where I would have normally been sitting, was blown out with huge shards of glass coming into the office. Had I been sitting at my desk this story would be very different, as I would have had shards of glass in the back of my head.  I am sure that today, 11 years later, there is still dirt embedded into the wall across from the window it came in with such force. Four hours after the tornado hit, my principal, a teacher, and I, along with 4 students that hadn’t been picked up, were carried by school bus to King’s Fork High School. We saw the other devastation caused by the tornado, and the bus had to drive on the opposite side of the highway to get us through (which was a very strange feeling, even in the midst of the chaos of the day).  It was good to see familiar faces at the school that were thankful to see us, and I can only imagine how bad we looked. Daddy came and picked me up and carried me to Windsor, where I got Mama’s car to drive until I could get a rental the next day. Life continued the next day with much work to clean and restore the building, dealing with cars & insurance companies, and reassuring staff & students who were traumatized by this event. But as I told students on their buses when they returned 3 days later, “things look different, things are different – but we’re here and we’re all the same.  And we’ll all be okay.” And we were, and we are.

I learned many things that day, but the main lesson I learned that day was that there are angels among us.  They might not have wings, but they’re here. It’s the teacher who had 3 boys she was tutoring, and she had them to lie on the floor while she laid on top of them to protect them.  One of the boys asked her if he could pray, she told him he could, and he prayed out loud as the tornado hit. A little child shall lead them.  There were other angel teachers who made sure their students were safe by pushing them into a bathroom.  Had they followed the previously made plan for a weather event there would surely have been injuries or worse due to a door that wasn’t able to be shut, but they saw a better alternative to keep their babies safe.  There was an angel fireman who came by, that thankfully I knew, who had just come from a daycare that was also hit by the tornado and was able to reassure a teacher that her child, who was at the daycare, was safe and unharmed.  Angels among us, every day.  

And what about this old assistant principal (now old teacher) – I made it through fairly unscathed.  I got a new car out of the deal, but I lost my ‘dream car,’ as I’d always wanted an SUV from the time they first became popular and had finally been able to afford one, but in a matter of seconds it was totaled.  But I learned that material things, like cars, are just ‘things’ and can be replaced. I don’t do well in storms now, especially if there’s a lot of wind. I got caught in a bad storm in Richmond several years ago and I texted back and forth with my NA Sponsor (another ‘angel among us’) to remain calm.  But nothing was more priceless than the safety of all of us in that building. We found out later that you could see the “print” of the tornado on the roof on the building – apparently it had lifted enough that much of it went over the building instead of through it. God’s protection.

 

So on this Code Red Drill Day,  I am thankful for all the protection and guidance God sent our way at Elephant’s Fork Elementary School on April 28, 2008.  I count that day as nothing short of a miracle. And each and every day, I am thankful for that miracle.

And I am thankful there was no one in the room to watch me get up off the floor and back to my desk today.

And I’ll keep making sure students take drills seriously.

 
God, thank you for your protection and grace on April 28, 2008.  And thank you for your protection and grace, and for the angels among us, every day.

 

Sidney A. Neighbours

February 26, 2019

…..and dropped me right on my head.

 

Today is February 15, 2019 – a chocolate lover’s dream.  All the Valentine candy is at least 50% off, and if you go to the Piggly Wiggly early enough, some of the good stuff might still be left.  I might force myself to stop by somewhere on the way home and pick some up. Or maybe I won’t. I need to cut back on sweets, and lose a little weight.  But then we are talking about chocolate. I’ll report back later.

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day.  My least favorite day of the year.  I intended to write last night, but I figured I would be in a better mood today.  I guess I am, although I woke up very dizzy, almost fell, and feel like I was run over by a Mac truck at the moment.  But I digress, this post has nothing to do with my infirmities or grumpiness. It’s about Valentine’s Day, or as a group of my friends describes it, “Black Thursday.”

So why does this white haired old queen from Windsor have such disdain for Valentine’s Day?  Let me count the ways. It’s one of those holidays that just reminds me – over and over and over – that I’m by myself.  No partner, no husband. Just me & the dog (for whom I am most thankful). It’s one of those holidays that requires you to feel good, sorta like New Year’s Eve.  It’s like grinding glass in my hands every year. I see the flowers my colleagues receive, I see pictures of happiness and mushy love on Facebook, I hear stories of romantic dinners, and even stories of fabulous intimacy that turn into TMI.  None of that happens for me. But, in the spirit of searching out the good in all things, this year was a bit different.

I had a good talk with myself about Valentines. Everybody knows I’ve had 2 heart attacks, pulmonary embolisms, knee problems, etc, etc, and that does put a different take on life.  I’ve always enjoyed sending cards, even Valentines. And in addition to my affinity for Hallmark, I have a great appreciation for expressing my love for friends and family.  I sign cards “Love you” many times to special friends and family because I do love them, and I’m thankful I can say that. I sign cards “Love and miss you” because I have friends that I don’t see often but love no less, and I do miss them.  I have a wonderful family and I cherish the opportunities to tell them that I love them. One thing that scares me about “close calls” is that there will be some bridge I haven’t crossed or some fence I haven’t mended with someone, or that someone who I love won’t know just how much they mean to me.  So I proudly say “Love You” – and when I do, you can be assured that I am speaking from the heart.

So the moral of this story is . . . instead of being the Valentine Scrooge, be thankful for the opportunity to say “I Love You.”  And seize every opportunity, whether it’s on a card or an email or a text or a person, to say “I Love You.”

 

God, thank you for blessing me with incredible friends and family.  Thank you for giving me opportunities to say “I Love You,” so that they know, at all times and even when my work here is finished and you call me home to you, that I loved them.  

 

Sidney A. Neighbours

February 15, 2019

 

 

. . . huh?!?!?!

 

As you might imagine, given my health status, I take a lot of prescriptions.  It’s amazing, and somewhat annoying, that I spent a month in rehab and the remainder of my life working on my recovery to stay clean from drugs that I now take 7 prescriptions in the morning and 4 at night.  The difference, of course, is I don’t abuse these, and I have to have these to live through another day. And no narcotics, all my doctors know this. Even my dentist (who is a former student from Nansemond River, which is super cool) has written, in big letters on my file, NO NARCOTICS.   I am thankful for my recovery, and I am thankful for all those prescriptions that keep me here living out God’s plan for me.

One of my nightly prescriptions, and I’m not 100% sure which one but I think it’s one of the heart ones, causes me to have crazy dreams.  Bizarre dreams. Very rarely are they what I would consider “bad dreams,” and sometimes I would even consider them “really good dreams” (and that’s all I’m going to say about that).  Sometimes they’re so bizarre and funny I wake up laughing. Last night was a laugher.

I dreamed that I was in Paris with an extremely diverse group of friends and acquaintances.  It was time to come home, and we all got on the plane. We had a non-stop flight from Paris’ Charles deGaulle International Airport to the Windsor International Airport, which was located at the sight of the Consulate Nursing Home on Courthouse Highway in Windsor.  There were a lot of people on the flight – straight couples, gay couples, gay & straight singles – older and younger – and we were all in a small area of the plane, and sitting or lying in various places. The plane took off, but didn’t fly very high, and instead of a direct line from Paris to Windsor, it flew by way of roads (and I guess a “bridge” over the Atlantic, I don’t remember that part).   It flew just above vehicles, between light poles, and stopped for stop lights. In the dream I fell asleep while on the plane, and woke up at various times to various interaction between my flying companions. I found out that there were rooms on the plane where we could lie down, and I tried to get to mine but couldn’t quite get there (it seemed I was too big to squeeze through the opening).  When we landed at the Consulate Windsor International Airport, located on Courthouse Highway, I couldn’t find all my luggage, and then I couldn’t figure out how I was going to get home. Folks that I thought I could ride with left before me. I don’t remember exactly how I ended up getting home, but it made for an interesting ending. I awoke at this point, laughing at the craziness of what I had dreamed.  

I don’t always remember dreams in this much detail, but I always remember, and have often said to others, that my dreams always have the same plot, just different scenarios. In every dream, I am trying to get somewhere, or do something, or go somewhere, and I never quite get there. Much like the humorous “I was there but in my underwear” dream that many speak of, my dreams always consist of a feeling of incompleteness,  panic, and being unfulfilled.  I’m sure there is a psychological reasoning for this, but I’ve never pursued it. Maybe one day I will, or maybe I won’t.  

I share this craziness, in addition to giving everyone a good Friday morning chuckle,  to remind myself that, even though I often feel incomplete or unfulfilled at times, I know that God has a plan for me and that I need to be patient and listen, in the quiet of my heart and soul, to discover that plan.  Those who know me well know how badly I want a partner who becomes my husband, and how loneliness often affects my mental well-being (thank God for Gunther, or I’d be worse than I am). I know, even though I often resist it, that it is within God’s will and God’s timing I live.   God’s timing is perfect, and I stop daily to remind myself of this.  Instead of saying “it is what it is,” one of my regular saying, I should start saying “it is what God says it is.”  

Maybe the dreams aren’t so crazy after all.  

God, help me to be ever mindful of your plan for my life.  I often question things, including why I am still here after 2 heart attacks and other health issues, but ultimately I know I am here for a reason.  Help me to be thankful for your grace that keeps me here, and your plan that keeps me focused in the direction you would have me to go.

 

Sidney A. Neighbours

February 8, 2019

. . . it was the worst of times.  

 

I’m reasonably sure that when Charles Dickens wrote those words he wasn’t thinking about my Super Bowl Sunday blog post. The TV is on, and the big game is happening. Or, as it actually transpires in my house, the activity going on prior to the Maroon 5 concert has started. The commercials are just okay so far, but then I don’t have my full attention focused on them. I’m waiting for the Clydesdales to appear in this year’s Budweiser commercial, and hoping they’ll have some cute dog in their production, we’ll see. It is certainly the best of times for the Patriots and Rams fans, but it will be the worst of times for one group or the other when the game is over. It was the best of times for my sister, Joleen (a diehard New Orleans fan), and my dear friend Tyler (a diehard Kansas City fan), a few weeks ago when her Saints and his Chiefs were in the playoffs, but it turned into the worst of times for both when they didn’t make it. I was disappointed too, because as enthusiastic as both of them are about their teams, it would have been just too much fun if the final game had been Kansas City v. New Orleans. Oh well, it wasn’t meant to be.

Today has another significance in our family, one that was both the best and worst of times. My grandmother, who I affectionately named Mema when I began talking, passed away 31 years ago today. It seems just like yesterday at times, and sometimes it seems like it has been forever. She had been very sick for a very long time, and although we knew it wouldn’t be much longer, we didn’t expect it when death happened. But no matter when she’d passed away, we wouldn’t have expected it. That’s just the nature of letting someone go – no matter how much you prepare, you’re never ready. I’ve learned that a number of times since then as well.

Eunice Louisa Munford, my grandmother, was a remarkable woman. She was born September 26, 1917, in the family home between Windsor and Zuni.  She was often sick, and had several brushes with death as a child. It is told that the local doctor, when at the home of one of their neighbors, referred to going to my great-grandparents’ house as “going to see if the little Munford girl was still living.” Thankfully she was still living. She attended Windsor High School, graduating in 1935. and later in 1935, she married her high school sweetheart, my grandfather, Sidney Umphlette. They had 3 daughters, my mama, Joyce, who arrived in 1937, and my 2 aunts, Kathleen in 1941 and Sharon in 1956.

Mema’s life intentions, I am sure, were always to be a farm wife and mother, which is exactly how her married life began. Granddaddy was a farmer, and they lived on the family farm near Zuni. Mema was the epitome of the farm wife. She got up early to make breakfast, had a garden out behind the kitchen to grow vegetables for her family, and fixed a big lunch for Granddaddy to allow him to continue working hard in the fields. She killed a chicken for dinner when she needed to and fried it up with homemade biscuits and mashed potatoes. Mema was an incredible seamstress, making beautiful clothes for her daughters and her nieces, as well as for herself. She never drove during this time, Granddaddy drove everywhere she needed to go, and he took care of all their financial affairs. A devout Christian, she taught Sunday School to the teenage girls at Tucker Swamp Baptist Church, sang in the choir, and played the piano occasionally for church programs. She read her Bible daily, and she didn’t only talk about God and her faith, she lived it every day.  She shared her faith with others, and invited them to church.   But the simple life she treasured would one day come crashing down.

April 17, 1960, Easter Sunday morning, Mema and the entire family’s life took a painful turn. My Granddaddy Sidney, at age 48, had a massive heart attack and died on the way to the hospital. I never knew him as I didn’t arrive until 1964, but those who did said he was the strongest picture of health imaginable. In a heartbeat, literally, Mema became a young widow with a 4 year old child to raise. But she rose to the occasion in every way. She had never had to write a check – she learned how to manage her own finances. She didn’t know how to drive – my mama, her oldest daughter, taught her how to drive. She had never worked outside the home, but she worked at the Zuni Presbyterian Home and the U. S. Census, before becoming a postal clerk at the United States Post Office in Zuni, Virginia. She raised Sharon, her youngest daughter, as a single parent. She built a smaller, brick home in the early 70’s which is where she lived out the remaining years of her life. She took the life that God gave her, although it wasn’t what she anticipated, and she made it a beautiful thing.

In 1975, only weeks after Sharon was married, Mema was taken ill with a rare lung condition that caused a blood vessel in her lung to rupture. The doctors didn’t think she would survive, but she showed them just how tough she was. She came through the ordeal, but life was never the same. She had to retire from the post office and had to greatly reduce her activities. No more teaching Sunday School or singing in the choir, but she still lived her faith and showed God’s love each and every day of her life. She had many health issues that caused her life to become increasingly difficult and painful, but she pressed onward until this day in 1988, when God said “enough.” It was time for her to go home to glory.

In her 70 years, Mema saw the roarin’ 20’s (she could do the Charleston), the Great Depression, and World War II, along with many turns towards modernization in this country. She thought she would be a farm wife until the very end, but when life changed directions, she did what she had to do for family. She had 3 daughters and 6 grandchildren – 5 granddaughters and me. I was her first grandchild and I might have been slightly spoiled.  She always called me her favorite grandson (given, of course, that I was her only grandson). I spent a lot of time with her over the years, and she seemed to understand me even when I didn’t quite understand myself. The Christmas that Santa Claus brought me the Barbie doll that I wanted, Mema made clothes for her so she’d have lots of outfits. She was definitely ahead of her time in many ways. She was such an incredible cook.  Homemade biscuits, fried chicken, chicken pie, vegetables fresh out of the garden – oh what I wouldn’t give to enjoy her cooking now.  Mema baked incredible pound cakes to take to friends and neighbors when there was sickness or death in their homes, and what a delicious treat these were!  Even through hardship, she took the life that God gave her and she made it beautiful.

So back to “the best or times, the worst of times.” On February 3, it was the best of times for my Mema – the pain, the heartache, and the turmoil that she had experienced throughout her 70 years came to an end. She went to sleep at Southampton Hospital and woke up in the arms of Jesus. She was with her beloved Sidney once again walking the streets of Heaven. But it was the worst of times for our family, because we missed our beloved mother, grandmother, sister, and aunt. Our hearts were broken and our lives were no longer as full without her here on earth with us. But, through it all,  we knew she was in Heaven and she was happy and pain-free. God has a plan, and he had walked with her through the completion of the plan he had for her. I miss her still today, 31 years later, but I know we’ll be together again one day. And, who knows, maybe we’ll make some Barbie clothes.

 

God, on this day that was best for my Mema but worse for me and my family, I thank you that Eunice Louise Munford Umphlette was my Mema, and that I was her favorite grandson. Help me to live up to the example she set for her family, friends, and all those who were blessed to know her. And help me, in the best and worst of times, to always remember to turn to you, just like my Mema did.

 

Sidney A. Neighbours

February 3, 2019