All posts by Teri

Fifty Shades of Grey (Paint)

Observe & Ponder

One of my Facebook friends thought I made a typo when I wrote that I was going through a kitchen takeover instead of a kitchen makeover.

I made no typographical error.

If you have ever renovated a kitchen, you know the drill.

TAKEOVER!!!!!

Let’s start from the very beginning.

I have always dreamed of having a white kitchen.

I know what you’re thinking. Get a life. People are starving. In places.

It’s lame. I get it. But that was my if-I-ever-had-the-pleasure-of-renovating-my-kitchen dream, so try not to judge me too harshly.

As it happened, when we were looking for houses in the mid 90’s, the house we now live in had a white kitchen, and I took it as a sign. Sold!

So 22 years ago, my kitchen was my favorite non color but admittedly long in the tooth. It had white Formica cabinets, counters, and back splash.

It was worn out, but it was white, and I was happy. Having spent my earlier years in a Bridgeport Connecticut tenement, I was living the dream.

Fast forward 22 years…

I finally convinced (okay more like coerced) my husband into renovating the original-to-the-house kitchen. And I knew from the get go, that it was going to be white.

My contractor, cabinet guy, plumber and some of my peeps tried to talk me out of it, telling me white was passé.  They all had their opinions about white being cold, hard to keep clean, and sooo past tense.

But for anyone who knows me, I tend to march to the beat of my own drum.

Tell me something is passé, not in, or past tense, I could give a you-know-what.

I have no interest in keeping up with the Joneses—or anybody else for that matter.

Passé? Past tense you say? Don’t care.

I was going for the whole white shebang. Passé shmasse.

White floor, white cabinets, white counter tops, white faucets. That’s what I wanted. And that’s what I was going to get.

Oh and I decided to throw in a white high gloss exterior door and matching white high gloss window trim, and white eggshell walls and ceilings.

Okay, if you’re rolling your eyes over the white on white on white, even I will admit that my obsession with white was a tad too much.

So along the way I made an executive decision to get off the all white kick—change it up.

…and go with a grey wall.

To be precise,  white on white on white with two and a half walls of grey.

The white part was easy peasy.

I ordered white high gloss cabinets, white quartz counter tops and matching back splash, white hardware, and a white porcelain floor.

The grey walls? Not so easy.

Once I decided on grey, I began my usual laser focused OCD-ish quest for the perfect grey.

This was easier said than done.

What I discovered was that the color grey is elusive, schizophrenic, unreliable, misleading, two-faced, three-faced.

Yet warm, inviting, calming and cool.

There are indeed fifty shades of grey. Or is it gray?

Thus began the process of priming and painting, and priming and painting and then priming some more. I could NOT find a grey that I liked.

The first time I walked into my local paint store I told the salesman I was looking for grey paint.

He looked at me in semi disgust. “Which one?” he asked me as he intently picked paint chips off the front counter.

“I don’t know, you tell me. I’m just looking for a regular old grey,” I responded.

“Good luck with that.” He said under his breath as I strained to hear what he was saying.

I had no idea how accurate this salesman’s words would end up being.

I showed him a photo on my phone of a grey kitchen wall I liked.

He squinted at the image and then muttered four words: Barren Plain and Wish.

I asked him if that was one color or two. He answered me so softly that I had to ask him twice.  Even after answering me again, I still couldn’t hear him.

So instead of asking him a third time, I filled up the space with nonsensical talk about my counters and back splash, blabbing about how I was told that quartz is the new granite, droning on about my peninsula, my hardware, blah blah and blah.

By the time I finished my verbal dissertation he was at the other end of the store whipping up my paint.

I took the sample size paints home and had my contractor put them on two pieces of wall board.

I then intensely inspected both of them. Intensely being the operative word.

Barren Plain (2111-60) didn’t look grey at all. At first, I thought it looked beige, but then when I looked at it for like the 30th time, it didn’t really seem like beige either.

I went online and looked up the color, and one blogger called it greige—a combo of grey and beige.

Get out the primer!

Then I moved on to Wish (AF-680).  I was hopeful about Wish because as a wordsmith, I tend to find signs and meanings behind words.

And for whatever reason, I felt a kinship with the name. Wishful thinking because it did not work out at all. I wish I never tried it. It was a weird taupey color. Something you might find in a diaper. Not what I was going for at all.

More primer!

I then trudged back into my paint store lugging the two pieces of Barren Plain and Wish painted wall boards, and shared my misery with the salesman who recommended the two shades of grey in the first place.

“Why do the colors look one way on the swatch and another way on the wall? Why does the paint stick not match the paint on the wall? And why do the greys look one color on one wall and another color on the other wall?”

The salesman shrugged and said, “That’s grey for you.”

I found his answer to be wholly unhelpful.

My response? “Anastasia of Fifty Shades, the novel, said it best. Oh, my.”

He looked at me blankly. He apparently had never read Fifty. And he was also apparently not feeling my paint pain.

We stared at each other awkwardly.

“I mean,” I finally said, breaking the silence. “Why is grey such a problem?”

He looked at me like “duh.”

“It’s all about the LRV,” Mr. non personality blurted out, rolling his eyes before he turned his back on me to help another customer.

“The wha?”

He was preoccupied ringing up customer B, so he didn’t respond.

So I asked again.

“The SUV?”

“The LRV. The light reflectance value,” he said with some annoyance as he rang up customer C.

“Can you write that down for me?” I asked him.

“Are you serious?” he asked me.

“Well yeah, I need to look up that thing you said.”

“LRV,” he repeated as he wrote it down.

“No, not the letters, the words of it,” I said leaning in to see what he was scribbling.

He looked up and gave me an awful look.

“Would this be a bad time to ask for a couple more grey suggestions?” I asked him tentatively.

He walked into an office behind the counter.

I wasn’t sure if I should take that as a yes or a no.

He came back with a piece of paper with two lines of words on it.

I read the words out loud to no one in particular: “Stonington Gray and Gray Owl?”

“And is it G-R-E-Y  or G-R-A-Y?”

When I looked up, he was gone.

“HELLO? HELLOOOO?”

The salesman popped his head out from a back room. He was visibly aggravated. “I’m on lunch.”

“Okay, could you just whip me up these gray-with-an-A paints real quick?”

He zhoozhed up two pint size cans of paint. As he took my twenty dollar bill, I asked him what his name was. He said it softly, and as I strained to hear, I had to ask him a second time.

“Okay thanks for your help Robert,” I chirped as I walked out with my “grays.”

I ran home and tried both paints on some wall scraps I found in my garage.

Then I googled “light reflectance value.”  The first article I found was titled: “LRV and why you should NEVER choose a paint color without it.”

NEVER?

The article read more like a science experiment, full of incomprehensible information like: A color’s Light Reflectance Value (LRV) measures the amount of visible and usable light that reflects from or absorbs into a painted surface.  LRV is measured on a scale that ranges from zero (absolute black, absorbing all light and heat) to 100 percent (pure white, reflecting all light).

What?

Oh, and there was an app I could buy called LRV Guru which assists with calculating color contrast ratios and would do the math for me.

Wait. Now there’s math involved?

This LRV thing was getting way too complicated, so I went back to painting wall scraps.

Stonington Gray (HC 170) was too blue. Urgh.

Gray Owl (2137-60) was a nice gray but slightly darker than I wanted. I moved around the sample scraps from wall to wall. Gray Owl on the wall with the three windows looked great, but on the wall with no light, it looked dullish. “That damn LRV,” I mumbled under my breath.

I was all but giving up, thinking maybe I should just go with Gray Owl and be done with it. I was running out of time. Plus I was running out of wall boards.

My husband nixed the Gray Owl, so I was back to the drawing board or should I say painting board.

I drove over to Home Depot and found a paint swatch there that I liked. I then headed directly over to my not-so-trusty paint store.

My not-so-favorite salesman was having lunch. Again.

“Hi, Robert!” I said overly loudly, feigning enthusiasm. “I’m baaaack!”

He looked up from his sandwich and said: “It’s Richard.”

“Oh okay, Richard. So when you’re done eating can I show you a swatch I found at Home Depot?”

“Home Depot don’t carry Benjamin Moore,” he said in between munches.

“Yes, I know, but can you try to match the swatch up with something nice for me?” I asked him gingerly.

I think I was getting on Robert’s nerves. I mean Richard.

“Pleeeeease?”

He put down his sandwich and concocted something called Graceful Gray (PPV18-12).

I thanked him profusely and ran home to paint it out. But Graceful Gray was a very dark taupey greigy color. I was all but losing hope.

On the way back to the paint store I picked up a Caramel Brulée Latte at Starbucks for Richard. I was hoping that maybe a bribe in the form of a coffee would help me to get the grey/gray I so desired.

I ran into the paint store, Starbucks gift in hand.

Richard was very excited about the coffee concoction, and in between sips he gave me the inside scoop about lightening or darkening gray with percentages of other colors.  Then he confided in me that most people call him Dick.

Did that mean I had to call him Dick? I so preferred Richard.

And the Latte was a huge success because Dick was impressively accommodating and very full of a lot of words. He also happened to have a beautiful smile.

He worked up two versions of the same color: Classic Gray and Classic Gray darkened by 25%. Maybe it was the caffeine, but Dick was a new sales man.

I quickly paid him and drove off to do my painting thing.

The Classic Gray (OC 23) was a warm gray but had a purple undertone. I really wanted this color to work. But the purple was literally bouncing off the walls.

The LRV was B-A-D.

I was hopeful that the Classic Gray darkened by 25% would result in a bit more contrast with a little less purple. Nope. Didn’t work.

The following morning I dejectedly drove back to see Dick. This time armed with a Starbuck’s Caramel Macchiato and a blueberry muffin with yogurt and honey.

When he saw me walk in his face lit up. “I knew you’d be back. And I think I found the grey for you. 1611. Gray Tint.”

As the machine shook up 1611, Dick sipped on his Macch and chattered away, telling me among other things that his mother calls him Dicky. Or is it Dickie?

As I paid for the paint pint I was thinking to myself. Really? Gray Tint?

Why didn’t Dick think of this in the first place?

Gray. Tint.

A tint of Gray.

Come on Dicky. You should have thought of this one right out of the grey gate.

I was hopeful as I watched my contractor paint the wall next to the window.  The gray lived up to its name and indeed had a tint—of lavender, which happens to be my favorite color, so I took it as a sign.

Each wall looked slightly different, but the hues were all warm and a lovely contrast to the white window trim and ceiling.

LRV and all, it was perfect!

(There is a part two to this story, which is that after the painting was completed, I discovered that the white porcelain floor was laid down incorrectly and had to be ripped up. As flooring experts marched in and out of my house, they all agreed on the same two things: My beautiful and expensive white floor had to be trashed, and the color should be changed up. To what else? Grey! I mean Gray!)

An Open Letter to America’s Youth: It’s up to You to Stop the Gun Violence

Gun Violence


Peace and Voting Rights Demonstration in Westport, Connecticut 1970

Seventeen year old David Hogg, a shooting survivor and senior at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, had this to say on Thursday about America’s gun policies:

“We need to do something. We need to get out there and be politically active. Congress needs to get over their political bias with each other and work toward saving children’s lives. We’re children. You guys are the adults.”

His words brought me back to 1970 when I was his age.

Our plight wasn’t gun violence.

Our crisis was the Vietnam War.

At the time, the voting age was twenty-one. Tens of thousands of eighteen-year-old American boys were being drafted into the military for the Vietnam War while being denied the right to vote.

Vietnam was a teenager war. The average drafted infantryman was 19.

Young, clueless boys, forced to go off to war and kill people while trying to keep themselves alive.

We looked to the adults to do something. But they didn’t.

We looked to Congress to do something. But they wouldn’t.

So we bravely took matters into our own hands.

We took to the streets and participated in often-violent demonstrations. The tragedies associated with young Americans protesting against government authority tore our nation apart at the time.

The most horrific incident involved the deaths of four students, and nine serious injuries on May 4, 1970, when members of the Ohio National Guard opened fire on a crowd at Ohio’s Kent State University.

What most adults thought was a chilling message to the youth to stop protesting, only emboldened us.

I was a proud but terrified participant in the explosive and tumultuous youth voting rights movement, which in the end changed the course of history for America’s young adults.

“Old enough to fight, old enough to vote” became our shared slogan, and we never gave up our fight.

Ratified in 1971, in a record 100 days, President Nixon formally certified the 26th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution on July 5, 1971, lowering the voting age from 21 to 18.

Nixon had this to say at the certifying ceremony:

“The reason I believe that your generation, the 11 million new voters, will do so much for America at home is that you will infuse into this nation some idealism, some courage, some stamina, some high moral purpose, that this country always needs.”

And then the U.S. Military draft ended on 1/27/73. We did that.

The proportion of young voters heading to the polls today has steadily and alarmingly declined since that historical time in 1971, and they all but vanish in off-year and local elections.

Emma Gonzalez said she and fellow classmates are going to make sure people don’t stop talking about Wednesday’s shooting.

“The government needs to understand, people in the government need to understand that we are not to be bought by the (National Rifle Association). They are not supposed to be listening to the NRA about our protection. They are supposed to be listening to the people that are getting hurt about our protection. We’re the ones that deserve to be kept safe because we were literally shot at.”

Gonzalez said she’s been thinking “how do I stop this in the future from happening again?”

Here is what I have to say to David Hogg and Emma Gonzalez.

Don’t wait for the adults to do something.

Don’t wait for Congress to act.

The fate of your future is entirely up to you.

“For years our citizens between the ages of 18 and 21 have, in time of peril, been summoned to fight for America. They should participate in the political process that produces this fateful summons. I urge Congress to propose to the States a constitutional amendment permitting citizens to vote when they reach the age of 18.”  
President Dwight Eisenhower, State of the Union, January 7, 1954


Teenage soldier – Vietnam War, 1968

The Teri Tome: Top 10 Blog Posts in 2017

The Teri Tome - Top Hits and Duds

I launched the Teri Tome on March 18, 2015, and for almost three years I have been laying it all out there.

Well, to be honest, I haven’t laid it ALL out there. I have been taking baby steps toward full disclosure.

Blogging for me has been incredibly cathartic, and I would highly recommend that everyone try their hand at it.

You don’t have to spill your life beans like me. You can post your photos, paintings, writings, recipes—whatever.

And the best part about blogging is that it’s all set in blog stone.

Blogging also opens your eyes in a way they may not have been open before.

In the choosing of events, I can conjure up the meaning behind pretty much anything. In the “this vs. that” process what I have also discovered is that what appears to be mundane nonsense often holds the most significance.

Now I know you are eagerly waiting (or not) for my Top 10 Posts for 2017, but I have a few more things to say, so bear with me.

Okay, maybe more than a few words…

I’ve heard it said that the tongue has no bones, but it can break bones with its words. And for some of you out there, your tongues did plenty of talking. And plenty of breaking. Now it’s my turn.

Here is what I want to say to those criticizers, haters, and judgers out there.  And you all know who you are:

Get over your familial issues. If someone wanted to leave you money, jewels, or property they would have. It’s called a will.

Don’t pretend to know me, just because we share some teensy piece of history. You don’t know me.

Yes, I’m wearing a top in my “Our Romantic Getaway” authors photo.

No, the novel is not about me.

And to answer your question “Are you still talking about that?”

I’ll never stop talking about “that.” 

The word “express” could very easily be changed to “confess,” so be thankful that the real stories don’t come out.

Your thinly veiled attempts to make me feel embarrassed, unloved, unattractive, or unbelievable have failed miserably.

The most significant gift about my soon-to-be-turning 65 is that I finally dare to say what I feel and to cut out of my life those people who don’t like it.

Those holier than thou critics disguised as well wishers, pseudo friends, and family, who have snarkily and repeatedly talked down about my family members, my blog posts, my not-all-that-racy-in-my-opinion novel, my poetry, my writing style, my author photo and even my last names. Mahigel, Gatti, Schure. I earned them all.

Bottom line? You’re either with me, or you’re not. There is no in between.

It’s my blog, my website, my novel, my poetry, my life, so I get to say my truth, not yours.

As far as my novel: Due to my day job, that itty bitty facetious novel I wrote took me more than half a decade to finally finish. And I’m proud of it so stop putting it down. And yes, I’ve had some success with it. Now don’t get me wrong, I didn’t think I would become the next Hemingway. Not making the New York Times’s bestseller came as no surprise. But I was surprised at the criticisms of some.

In a nutshell: If you don’t like what I have to say, don’t read it, quit talking about me, don’t call, don’t email, and stop the stalking.

There. Whew. I feel much better.

By the end of 2017, I was surprised to see that I had only written 36 posts. It seemed like a whole lot more than that!

Those 36 posts generated almost 200,000 hits. The top ten posts produced 92,000, or 46% of the total page views, and have garnered anywhere from 19,470 hits for #1, down to 3,920 for #10.

Other bloggers would have to tell me if the number of hits my posts have generated is impressive or not, but I’m pleased with the bottom line.

At long last, it’s time to reveal the big kahunas, the top dogs—The 2017 Top Ten Teri Tome Besties:

#1

BEWARE OF TICK-INFESTED ACORNS: Okay, this was a shocker to me. All that pouring out of my heart and soul and tick-infested acorns is Numero Uno? So yes, the popularity of this blog post came as a disappointing surprise, although it does seem like those nasty buggers (the ticks, not the acorns) are taking over.

#2

#MeToo: This blog post wiped me out, and the popularity of it came as no surprise.  But I had hoped that #MeToo would have been my number one post for 2017. It would have eased the pain of writing it. But those damn ticks beat it out.  My consolation though is that I wrote it near the end of October, so I am sure if it had a few more months to settle in, it would have been number one.  Once I wrote it, I refused to reread it. Because I still feel shame. And I also feel like a coward. I wanted and should have said more, but I couldn’t. The timing was off.  One day I’ll explain why. But hundreds of women (and young girls) emailed me and shared their own heartbreaking stories. So if my blog post helped just one person, I’m glad I outed myself.

#3

Father-Daughter Dance: The term “Daddy Issues” is definitely a thing a lot of people have, including me. Researchers have found that fatherless daughters in particular often fear abandonment. (Check.) And they often have difficulty interacting with men. (Check, check.) And raising sons can be a challenge. (Triple check). On the positive side, fatherless daughters develop determined wills and survival tactics very early on. They are loyal friends and can love like no other. Ultimately, they just want to give love and be loved. Weddings, Father’s Day, and just plain old father hunger—it’s real and it’s painful, and it can sometimes bring out the worst in those of us who are part of this unfortunate club.  Every girl wants to be a daddy’s girl, but sadly, not every girl has the chance.

#4

Who Else Is Sick of Hearing About Politics on Facebook?: After #MeToo and Father-Daughter Dance, I was relieved to have a lighter post to talk up. On January 27, 2017, I put a self-imposed all-things-political blog ban on The Teri Tome and promised to try my best to muzzle my political opinions for thirty days. Instead of political banter, I would put up cooking photos and a few recipes. Following this post promise, I put up some Super Bowl recipes, wished Sidney Poitier a happy 90th birthday, and wrote a poem about surviving haters, judgers, and criticizers. And then came that damn repeal and replace fiasco in early March, so I couldn’t help jumping back into the political fray. But hey, I managed to last a little over two months without talking politics.

#5

Trading Places: I heard a haunting song on the radio titled “Human” by Rag’N’Bone Man, which gave me the courage to post this poem I wrote over fifteen years ago. The song cut through me on so many levels, but it mostly made me realize that I’m flawed, I’m not perfect, and I’ve made my share of foolish mistakes resulting from irresponsible life choices. I can’t undo any of it. And I can’t fix it either. Others made mistakes too, so why put all the blame on me? Rag’N’Bone Man seemed to speak directly to me as he sang through his sadness and guilt. He symphonically defended himself against the despairing burden crushing his being: “I’m only human after all; don’t put the blame on me. Don’t put the blame on me.”

#6

My Do-Over: I was thrilled that this post made the top ten because it gives me the opportunity to talk about how I felt when my firstborn entered the world. It was the miracle of life. A life that safe harbored itself inside of me for nine beauteous months. Moments after he arrived, my son squinted against the bright hospital lights. And then I spoke. It was more of an oohing, awing, cooing sound, and his dear little head, misshapen from repeatedly trying to escape the birth canal, quickly turned in the direction of my voice. His bright eyes gazed into mine. He had me at first gaze. It was not just the birth of my son that day. It was the birth of me as a mother, and one of the most significant physical and psychological stirrings I have ever experienced.

 #7

Gaslighting: I was not thrilled at all about the popularity of this post because as a result, I now need to address an unfortunate and hurtful breakup with a friend, which spurred the writing of this to begin with. Firstly, I am happy to say that we have since made up.  Secondly, I didn’t realize until after our blowup how much the friendship with my sidekick meant to me. I knew I loved her, but the pain of losing my female compadre was a lesson learned. And thirdly, the most important lesson learned was to put aside the nonsensical, troublesome and worthless noise created by a third party. Now I know first-hand the challenges of trios. Sometimes they work. And sometimes, you need to cut a bitch. Or cut her out, and keep the friend.

#8     

Irish or Not, Corned Beef and Cabbage on St. Patrick’s Day: Every year, and as part of my St. Paddy’s Day tradition, I make my grandmother’s corned beef, cabbage and baked hash browns in honor and in memory of her. In the post, I discussed the fact that she was probably not Irish, although she did make a mean Corned Beef. The day I blogged this post my Ancestry kit came by mail. The result? Drum roll please…11% Irish! But to be clear, don’t try to kiss me on the big day.

 #9

Whatever Happened to Steak and Champagne in Coach?: As a Delta flight attendant way back when, in 1973, I was forced to engage in a whole lot of customer service, and it wasn’t only in the luxurious First Class. There was a ton of  back-of-the-plane service with a smile, served up with a slab of steak and way too much champagne. It was an exhausting job, continually struggling with that liquor and food cart while in a constant upward or downward angle, cleaning up vomit (oh yeah), dealing with dead people (sad but true), trolling the plane for doctors, and preparing travelers for the dreaded emergency landings. But nothing was worse than the pinching and grabbing from the men as I meandered past them. We’ve come a long way, baby.

#10    

Buh Bye 2016: I was so happy this post made it into the top 10 because it gives me the opportunity to replay the Teri Tome highlights from 2016. There were some oldies but goodies. On the lighter side, there was a post using my daughter to define marketing, my lame attempt to cut out the vino, and my cheese sculptures. A favorite of mine was a post about my childhood dog Raleigh, who was like a brother to me. The post about my dog came as a complete shock for many who know me well, because, to put it mildly, I am not a fan of animals. And then there was my post about the heartbreaking loss of my beloved Aunt Barb who was tragically killed by a hit and run driver. Maddeningly, the driver never turned him or herself in and was never found by the police. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her.

And because I am obsessed with the number 18 (see why here), I had to know what blog post graced my favorite number.

#18

YOU’RE MISSING FROM ME MOM:  Eighteen in Hebrew means to life, so of course this blog about missing my mom reaffirms my belief that the number is truly a significant one for me.

 THE TERI TOME #1 POST OF ALL TIME? (All time being 2015-2017)

Bullies Are Cowards and Why I Refuse To Turn the Other Cheek: I wrote this blog post on 4/10/15, after a nasty bully experience. It has garnered over 100,000 hits to date and is always in the daily statistics.  When I receive letters asking how to handle bullies I tell them not to take the bait.  Those who can, do.  Those who can’t, bully. Only the best are bullied. And that your loved ones are your safety net. They will catch you when you fall prey to the ever present jerks that lurk.  But only if you let your loved ones in.  They can’t feel your pain if you don’t share it with them.

In closing up 2017, and in the editing and rereading of this blog post, it dawned on me that blogging has not only enhanced my life but has become a digital record of it. My words can never be lost, stolen, or destroyed in a fire or a flood. My words are now forever.

The Teri Tome has been my own little place to think and process all the stuff I’ve been keeping way down inside. I have finally found my voice, and in doing so, a safe place through my writing, and I am proud of my work.

Happy New Year!

Roy Moore vs. Nathan Mathis

Politics

Last night I saw an interview clip on television by a father whose daughter committed suicide, that just about broke my heart.

An elderly man was holding up a sign that read:  “Judge Roy Moore called my daughter Patti Sue Mathis a pervert because she was gay.”

In the clip, Nathan Mathis, from Wicksburg, Alabama, clearly tormented and holding back tears said that he used to be anti-gay. “I said bad things to my daughter myself, which I regret, but I can’t take back what happened to my daughter,” he said. “Stuff like saying my daughter is a pervert, I’m sure that bothered her.”

This heart wrenching video says it all: 

I quickly went online to try to find out more about this repentant man and his deceased daughter.

I found the letter below that Nathan Mathis sent to the Dothan Eagle, a local newspaper in Dothan, Alabama, back on August 22, 2012.

With election time just around the corner, and watching and reading the news, “gay bashing” has begun again.

I once told gay jokes and bashed gays, but a real true life story might make people think just as that true life story makes me think.

On Oct. 11, 1972, Sue and I were blessed to have a baby girl, which we named Patti Sue Mathis. Patti was a wonderful child – happy, treated other children as she should, regardless of wealth or color, very athletic, tomboyish (I always had to pitch batting practice to her after Dixie Youth practice), very beautiful and smart. Patti may hold the scoring title at Wicksburg in basketball for girls. I’m not sure, but her points-per-game average was high. She was selected as the most valuable player at Enterprise State Junior College in softball.

When Patti was a senior at Wicksburg High, I found out she was gay from a young friend she had told. I confronted Patti and I said some things to her that still eat on me to this day. I told her I was sorry that I said those mean things to her.

Patti moved out, but came back home approximately four months later and sat down and cried and said, “Daddy, I don’t want to be gay. Will you please get me some help?” I told her that I sure would and I called UAB hospital and made an appointment.

Patti had been raised by going to church at Christian Home Church of Christ, and she was there almost every time the door was open. Patti knew the story of Sodom, for oftentimes gay bashing was preached from the pulpit. Looking back now, I wonder how Patti must have felt, or if she even knew she was gay then. I never asked her.

 We went with Patti to UAB and all types of blood work and tests were done on her that day. Finally, on over in the afternoon, the doctor called Patti, Sue and me into his office and he told Patti, “Young lady, you can’t help the way you are. There is nothing we can do for you.” I said to myself, “Man, this doctor is crazy.”

We visited other doctors and psychiatrists and Patti was told the same thing: “You can’t help the way you are.”

On March 22, 1995, Patti took her own life because she didn’t want to be gay anymore. She was tired of being ridiculed and made fun of. She was tired of seeing how a lot of people treat gay people. I found Patti that day.

Sometime after Patti died, I attended church and a visiting preacher was preaching. About 10 minutes into the sermon, he bashed gays the rest of the way. As soon as the invitation song was given, I went out the door with one of the worst headaches I had ever had. I was ashamed of myself for sitting there and not defending Patti. I have not been much since.

I have a hard time believing that God would allow Patti to be born as she was and if the doctors and psychiatrists were correct that “she could not help the way she was,” that Patti was going to bust hell wide open. I asked a local doctor recently if the medical profession had found a cure for being gay and he said, “No.” He changed the subject after that.

I have no quarrel with any letter writers or readers on this subject. Believe what you want to. I only know that if you ever have a child or grandchild who is gay, you’ll think differently.

Whatever happened to “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” Does that exclude gays?

May God have mercy on us all. I only know I miss my daughter Patti very much and I am grateful for having her as my daughter.

Nathan Mathis

Wicksburg

Do what’s right Alabama.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law. ~ Galatians 5:22-23

UPDATE: A month after Doug Jones defeated Roy Moore, Ellen DeGeneres sat down with Nathan Mathis. His daughter Patti Sue would have been so proud of her daddy.