My Advice to a Broken-Hearted Johnny Depp

Dear Johnny:

You don't know me.

But I feel as if I know you. From your days on "21Jump Street" to movies such as  "Chocolat," "Edward Scissorhands," "Benny & Joon," "What's Eating Gilbert Grape?," "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" and "Rango" (just to name a few of my favorites), you have kept me company, and made me laugh and cry. But it is in your role as Capt. Jack Sparrow in the multiple "Pirates of the Caribbean" movies that you snuck in and stole my heart. 

I'm not a lover of adventure movies. I'm an honest-to-God connoisseur of chick-flicks, and I'm most unapologetic about it. But there's something about your Capt. Sparrow I cannot resist. Is it his swarthy good looks? Is it the fact that you give him "moves like Jagger?" Or is it the devilish gleam in your eyes when you spot either a pretty girl or some gold doubloons? I can't say. 

What I do know is that your heart is broken. You and your lady-love, Vanessa, have ended your long affair. 

That makes me sad. But then I asked myself what I would do in your shoes. And I had my answer. 

I'm no pirate captain, but Johnny, you and I hail from the same part of the world. You're originally from Kentucky; I'm from West Virginia. That tells me you are most likely blessed with some good old Appalachian common sense. So operating from that standpoint, I have decided to design to help a brother out and provide some recommendations for treating your broken heart. 

You should visit St. Simons Island immediately. You could wander about without a care in the world. We're accustomed to celebrity sightings here. Whole movie casts have stayed on the island without any problem ("X-Men First Class"). Both "Glory" and "The Legend of Bagger Vance" were filmed in the area  Owen Wilson and John Travolta pass through occasionally. We hosted a G-8 Conference. Pro athletes visit. In fact, there are times of the year when it's hard not to trip over a member of the PGA Tour. It's the type of place where you can literally encounter Cal Ripken Jr. in the frozen food aisle at the grocery store. (I did!) 

So, Johnny, your celebrity status doesn't matter here. 

Here's what I think you should do. 

Jet into the St. Simons McKinnon Airport (private aircraft only) and be whisked away to a private oceanfront villa. Hire a driver and rent an inconspicuous car. Then, submerge yourself in island life. 

Stroll along the beach. Locate the locally owned restaurants and pubs - that's fairly easy, since we're not completely overrun with chain establishments.  Enjoy real barbecue, fair-trade coffee, fresh seafood and locally grown vegetables. Check out our live music scene. Sit in with the band - no one will mind. Did I mention cold beer?

Most of all, don't be frightened to approach the residents. We're very friendly and will help you with nearly anything. Just ask. Really.

Three days in the Golden Isles and you will be on the beginning of the mend. 

I know that broken hearts are serious business. I've had a few myself. But experts like me believe that a change in perspective, even for a few days, can do a lot to clear your head. And when you add in the solitude of the beach, good food, cold beer, great music and friendly people, surely a cure can't be too far away. 

Well, Johnny, that's all I have to say. I hope you take this in the spirit in which it was intended - a sincere fan wanting to help her favorite movie star (other than George Clooney, but his heart isn't broken) get through a tough time. 

We look forward to your visit. 

Love,

Mary

On the Occasion of Turning 50

As I approach the half-century mark, I find myself increasingly introspective rather than celebratory, although I suspect, at some point, there may be some celebration involved.

I'm not much of a belly-button gazer - I would much rather live life than contemplate it - but this year seems the right time to do a bit of an assessment.

Reflecting on the past 50 years hasn't brought me any new or startling revelations or any magical insight, but I can provide a random sampling of lessons I've learned, either through personal experience or observation.

1.  Being blessed with loving parents is probably the greatest gift anyone can receive. It sets your course for life.

2.  Being picked last for "Red Rover" or any other neighborhood game may hurt your feelings temporarily, but it doesn't scar you for life.

3.  Likewise, being picked on a little, despite what so-called "bullying experts" proclaim, isn't all that traumatic. It helps you learn to deal with people in the real world. Bullies aren't confined to the playground or the classroom; they're in government and in corporate America, too.

4.  Be kind to people. They'll remember you for that, not for what you wore to the seventh-grade dance or the goofy hairstyle your mother made you wear.

5.  Tell people you love them every chance you get. One day it will be too late.

6.   It's okay to flirt. A lot.

7.  Dating, while married, is never a good idea.

8.  Your children are young for a very short period. Spend all the time you can with them, pouring  love and respect into them. If you do that, you may be temporarily disappointed in something they've done, but you'll never really be disappointed in them.

9.  Be the person who gives second chances.

10. Trust, but verify.

11. Dance as much as you can.

12. Don't judge a book by its cover. Don't judge people by their outward appearances. Some are diamonds in the rough. Then again, some aren't.

13. Treat life as an adventure.

14. Do something fun every day.

15. Do a good deed every day. In the words of my mother, "The world doesn't revolve around you."

16. Remember to brush and floss after meals.

17.  Take time to nap.

18. Take time to listen.

19. Never pass up a chance to eat a great meal.

20.  If you have an opportunity to spend time with family and friends, take it.

21. Go to class reunions and family reunions. You may not care about that star quarterback or your annoying cousin Gertrude, but chances are, someone will be glad to see you. You might matter to someone more than you think. 

22. Take risks.

23. Know what matters.

24. Have faith in a higher power.

25. Treasure quiet moments.

26. See the world.

27. Be informed - get your information from multiple sources and make up your own mind. Do the research.

28. Be a lover, not a fighter.

29.  Be a student of life - learn something new every day.

30.  Simple home-cooked meals are one of life's greatest pleasures.

31.  A broken heart is not the end of the world. It's a chance to regroup.

32.  Love, and allow yourself to be loved.

33.  Sensible shoes aren't all that bad.

34.  Get a dog.

35. Laugh. Every. Day.

36. Find a cause.

37. Hug every chance you get.

38. There is nothing better than knowing that you are loved.

39. Own a convertible, at least once.

40. March to the beat of your own drummer.

Public decorum, part 1

Now that I no longer follow the daily 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. grind, I find that I have a lot more time to observe people and their behaviors, some of which, to put it politely, are disturbing.

I was recently sitting in Starbucks typing away on my iPad, when an impeccably dressed young woman entered the establishment. Shortly after, her accomplice, a male joined her.

That's when the trouble began.

This fellow, clad in a lavender shirt and tie and skin tight (not in a sexy, European kind of way, but in a too big for his britches style) pants, began by being rude and demanding to the barista. Her offense?

Saying "Welcome to Starbucks, may I help you?"

The darling duo chose a seat directly behind me where they proceeded to talk loudly and continually whine about everything under the sun.

These professionals, in their mid-30s if I had to guess, must have been raised by barbarians, or are so incredibly self-absorbed they've forgotten their upbringing.

Hints for today:

Wear clothing that fits appropriately

Treat servers as you would treat your friends. You can tell a lot about a person by the way he or she treats "the help."

Unless you, or the building you are in, is on fire, there is no cause for talking at the top of one's lungs, especially in public.

That is all.

Famous Iowa Loose Meat Sandwich recipe

Although my maternal grandparents were from the Midwest - Grandma was from Illinois and Granddaddy from Indiana - I was not familiar with this heartland delicacy until the Food Network became a part of my daily television diet.  We don't eat them frequently, but they're a nice change from Sloppy Joes or hamburgers. 

The beauty of the recipe is its simplicity - loose meat sandwiches are made with ingredients found in every refrigerator and pantry. I encourage you to try this original recipe once, then, if you want to change it up, go ahead. 

Bon apetit!

IOWA LOOSE MEAT SANDWICHES

1 lb. of  ground chuck, ground round or ground sirloin
1 tbsp. of Crisco
2 tsp. salt, to lightly cover the bottom of the skillet
1 medium onion, finely chopped
1 tbsp. yellow mustard
1 tbsp. white vinegar
1 tbsp. sugar
water, to cover
salt and pepper to taste
Preparation time: 10 minutes  Total time: 30 minutes.
A cast iron skillet is recommended, but any will do.
1.  Melt fat over medium heat and lightly salt bottom of skillet.
2.  Add beef and onions to pan, breaking beef up continually with the back of a wooden spoon so it results in small crumbles.
3.  When meat is browned, drain off fat, keeping meat in the pan.
4.  Add mustard, vinegar, sugar and just enough water to cover.
5.  Simmer, until water evaporates, about 15-20 minutes.
6.  Add salt and pepper to taste.
7.  Remove from heat.
Serve on steamed or toasted hamburger buns and top only with yellow mustard and dill pickles. Tasty sides include homemade potato salad.

It's all over but the shoutin'

The creative voices of settlers to the U.S. could not be silenced despite the hardship that many new residents of this country faced, whether they arrived seeking religious and political freedom, or were brought here unwillingly.

In the Appalachians, the Scotch-Irish-Welsh settlers developed the musical styles known as "mountain music" and "bluegrass."

In the Southeastern U.S., particularly along the Sea Islands of coastal Georgia and South Carolina, the Gullah (in South Carolina) and Geechee (in Georgia), descendants of African slaves, also developed a musical style. Known as the "ring shout," the music retains the rhythms of Africa, hints of which may still be found in the music of the Caribbean and parts of South America, particularly Brazil.

In fact, if you listen closely, you can sense the influence this southern coastal music has had on a wide range of music genres - most obviously black gospel, but also rhythm and blues and subsequently, modern-day pop and rock.

On Wednesday night, I accompanied a friend to the Second African Baptist Church, founded in 1802 in Savannah. The imposing brick building, situated on Green Square, is pastored by the Rev. C MeGill Brown.
The sanctuary was filled nearly to capacity for the 6 p.m. performance - a mixture of church members, friends of the church, tourists and cultural enthusiasts were all eagerly awaiting the appearance of the McIntosh County Shouters.

The McIntosh County Shouters are the only authentic ring shout group in Georgia. They have been performing publicly since 1980, after being "discovered" by some wandering academics who had long since considered this unique musical form dead. It was alive and well in the Bolden Community of McIntosh County Georgia. Their uniqueness has taken them to some impressive performance venues including Wolf Trap Farm in Virginia, the Kennedy Center, the U.S. Library of Congress, both in Washington, D.C., and the Georgia Sea Islands Festival.

The McIntosh County Shouters range in age from 24 to 95, although the group's patriarch, Lawrence McIver, doesn't perform as frequently as he once did. His spot has been taken over, for the most part, by Freddie Palmer.

Because the performance was in his church, the Rev. Brown began the  program.

It began with him leading the audience, with his booming baritone, in a choral call to worship. The music and words to the old black spiritual were reassuring, and it was a treat to hear all those wonderful voices raised in song. A scripture lesson and prayer followed, and then it was time for the shouters to take the stage.

Soon, the 10 shouters were processing down the aisle, their lilting voices recalling the harmonies of old black gospel music and African roots. Dressed in common clothes - the men in denim overalls and workshirts and the women in simple cotton dresses, their heads wrapped in turbans - they began to sing.

They sang of the struggle of life in bondage, everyday matters, the American Civil War, happiness and love, and eventually, emancipation. But mostly, their songs carried the messages of God's promises to set his people free, and the freedom and liberation of which they dreamed. In fact, many of the songs focus on Judgment Day, because enslaved people knew, that once that day came, they would be free.

The shouters feel that telling the story of the African slaves' time in captivity is important and relevant, even today.

"You have to know where you come from, to know where you're going," said the narrator during Wednesday's performance.

The shouters' unique harmonies help convey the messages they are trying to send. All related by blood or marriage.

Wednesday's audience was engaged from the get-go.  Toes were tapping and hands were clapping as the shouters moved from song to song in their 90-minute repertoire. And the more the audience participated, the more the shouters gave.

There is no instrumentation, save for a stick that is beaten against a board and the unison clapping - this is a capella music at its purest.

One thing that makes the shouters unique is they not only sing the song with their voices - they tell the stories of the songs through body language. In fact, "shouting" has nothing to do with singing. It is a style of  "dancing" in which the women of the group move counter-clockwise and pantomine the songs. I hesitate to actually call it dancing because religious rules prohibit the shouters from picking up their feet or crossing one foot in front of the other lest their movements be mistaken for dancing.  Instead, the women shuffle, sometimes stooped over. That doesn't mean there isn't plenty of movement however. It's nothing frenetic, but the women sway, and swing their hips, their full skirts swirling around their ankles. In fact, it shares a lot of the characteristics of a holy dance.

The songs are song in the Gullah, or Geechee, dialect, which is a hybrid of African and English.

Despite the lack of any light shows, computer generated graphics or pyrotechnic effects during the performance, the children in the audience were paying rapt attention. That only heightened when Palmer, the lead songster, took center stage and began his solo number, "I Know I Been Changed." During that number, the performance turned into a full-on worship experience, with audience members on their feet, their hands lifted in the air, clapping and shouting "amens." Those not on their feet were seated in their pews and swaying from side to side, as Palmer boomed, "Lord, I know I been changed, the angels in heaven done signed my name," with the remaining shouters accompanying him.

Enslaved people, it was said during the show, always "figured out how to make a way out of no way."

It's good that we have the McIntosh County Shouters to remind us how far we have come, and to never let us forget where we have been.

Memorial Day Musings

Like pretty much everyone else that inhabits this land from "sea to shining sea," I spent Memorial Day weekend cooking out, socializing with friends and generally kicking back and having a good time.

My late father, a World War II combat veteran, would have whole-heartedly approved. In my small town, there were two lovely Memorial Day observances, pools were open, the beach was crowded and the crowd, for the most part, congenial.

However, I did come across a few things that gave me pause.

First of all - when did it become "normal" to have a tattoo? Not that I'm against body art, per se, and Lord knows, I'm all for self-expression, but I was one of perhaps a handful of women who were not "inked" at the pool or beach this weekend.

Secondly - I spied several women who were not in what I would consider swimwear. I understand the need to cover up - whether for religious reasons or in fear of sunburn - but a number of swimwear manufacturers make modest suits appropriate for the pool or beach. Leave the sports bras at home. And by the way, if a woman is uber-busty, wearing a regular bra underneath your swimsuit is not an option. It looks stupid. Just buy a suit with the appropriate bust support. Money is no excuse. Well-engineered swim suits are available at all price points. Target and God forbid, Walmart, both carry them. While I'm at it, wearing a tank top under a halter-style dress is also a fashion "don't." The neckline is designed to show off your back, so wearing a shirt underneath defeats the purpose of the design.

This third observation is for the guys. Don't shame your toddlers to jump into the water from the side of the pool or put their cute little faces under water. If your child is afraid, be mindful of their fears and work with them to overcome their resistance to the water. I heard some dads say some pretty horrible things to their offspring this weekend. Congratulations, Dad! You ended up with an unhappy child, and you managed to make the lives of all those around you temporarily miserable.

Here's the thing. When one is out in public, one needs to realize one is not the center of the universe. To co-exist peacefully, everyone must have consideration for the others around them.

Going home

This is one of my columns, with some modifications, that appeared July 27, 2010, in The Brunswick News. It's one of my favorites.

Many of us on the coast are transplants and have created great lives filled with wonderful friends, great jobs and fulfilling recreational pursuits.

Occasionally, "home" calls - whether it's for a wedding, funeral, or the dreaded high school reunion, which some of us fear, but others look upon as a time to reconnect and reminisce.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit that I am a full-on reunion addict. I haven't missed a single one since my class began having them.

Right after the turn of the century, my alma mater adopted a new tradition of "all-class" reunions held every three years. This year, alumni in attendance included representatives of every decade from the 1930s on.

This concept works well in my small town of South Charleston, W.Va., where everyone knew everybody and their business.

I knew a packed weekend was before me, but I had no idea of the emotional high the whole experience would turn out to be.

Gleeful squeals, big hugs and a few tears were in order.

Of course, faux pas were also committed - and I had a classic.

I asked an old friend to introduce me to his daughter. Turns out, she was his fiance. Oops.

Amazingly, we all looked "exactly the same." Rose-colored glasses and fuzzy memories equal grace.

Throughout the weekend, organized activities kept us busy, but there was plenty of time for people to spend time getting reacquainted.

I began wondering if one really can go home again.

Bittersweet memories created a longing for something that maybe once was, but probably wasn't exactly as remembered.

People's circumstances change, and reunions give one a false sense of sameness that no longer exists.

My life in Georgia is full, but in addition to some dear friends, lots of family, including a grandchild, still live "up North."

That may partially explain the tug on my heartstrings.

My conclusion is this. You can go home again. You just can't go home forever.