Judy Rozzelle

HOME COLUMNS BOOK: SHUFFLETOWN USA BIO EMAIL

Sunday May 19, 2024, 5:55 am

Posted by Judy Rozzelle | Jun. 10, 2009, 4:55 am

This is a strange choice for an example of what I consider a most sacred moment. I am not a basket ball fan. Still, this past Sunday, I was passing through the living room while Lee was watching the LA Lakers play Orlando. Since, the living room television is in high definition, I paused to watch.

It was then that a basketball player tossed a ball through a basket. As in a ballet, from finger-tips to toes, his body aligned with the trajectory with the ball, the goal… the stars. It that moment, I saw the grace and beauty of the human body that all artists have tried to capture. It was a wondrous sight.

In perfect stillness, his body lifted from earth disturbing only air, one with his desire, within and without. Nothing else existed. Until the ball slapped through the net, I held my breath.

“Look, look,” I said, “he just touched God.”

It is the moment a writer finds the right word, the moment an athlete excels, the moment of birth, the completion of an objective, a project is completed. This moment of miracles belongs only to the achiever. It is a personal miracle, a momentary awareness of all that is possible.

Topics: Los Angeles
Comment | Permalink | Trackback |

Daydreams Do Not Age

Posted by Judy Rozzelle | Jun. 6, 2009, 7:05 am

Great Aunt Ella once told me a secret that I believe she had kept to herself for a life-time. Late on a summer afternoon during a visit in which we were recalling old times, she leaned towards me and said, “I do not recall the year, but it was when they were building a new Rozzelles Ferry bridge by my grandparents inn. I was young and the war was a long time past. I was the first generation born after the Civil War.

We keep our daydreams inside a Cupid’s heart shaped porcelain box in the gables of our minds.

The bridge the government was replacing was burned by Stoneman’s Raiders in April 1865. After the bridge was burned; my poppa and grandfather began to ferry people across the Catawba River like our family had done since the mid-1700s. It was good to work, again, at the family trade. We were ferrymen.

“In that mess of Reconstruction,” she continued, “it was years before a new bridge was erected across the Catawba River. At noon, we rang the bell for them to come to dinner. It took a bunch of carpenters and laborers to build the bridge. They were all from different places. There were tall men, skinny men, laughing men, fat men, men who scared me on sight, foreigners, grumblers, and Yankees. Two young men wore their Yankee fathers’ blue uniforms. They expected us to bow and whine before them. I disliked them most. All those men from every where in the world could do some talking. Those men could do sure eat. I heard my first cuss words that summer.

“It took all of us to feed them in the time allotted. Polly, Cousin Ella, Grandmother Anne, my mom, Great Grandmother Elizabeth and me; we fed them as fast as we could. I have never forgotten that summer. I made a painting of the new bridge when it was finished. It is hanging in the dining room.”

Great Aunt Ella sat back in her embroidered chair; her grey hair rested upon a hand-crocheted doily across the back of the chair. Then, she took a deep breath, leaned forward, and, quickly said, “During that time, there was a good-looking Greek man. He liked to tease me and to make me laugh. Once, he touched my hair. When the bridge was finished, he asked me to marry him.”

In that moment, Great Aunt Ella was well into her eighth decade, but her eyes sparkled like someone’s sweetheart. Her blue eyes reflected a kaleidoscope of fantasies and daydreams where an exotic stranger dwells.

Like an unrequited love, daydreams do not age. Daydreams are never bruised by reality. We keep our daydreams inside a Cupid’s heart shaped porcelain box in the gables of our minds. Daydreams are our own personal, shiny ornaments. Daydreams often spring from paths not taken. That moment of youth, laughter remembered, and boys.
“How exciting,” I said, as I took her small hand, “what did he look like?” Great Aunt Ella blushed. Then, we laughed at it all…as women do.

In that moment, it was easy to imagine her in a long dress with a ruffled hem; she is wearing long white stockings beneath her dress and petticoats. Her long blonde hair is tied back with a ribbon; she is sitting in one of the many white rocking chairs that lined the Inn’s front porch. An exotic stranger, a golden-tanned Greek approaches. He wears a necklace around his neck. It is an orthodox cross stung on a coarse string. He winks at her when he passes and she drops her gaze towards the ground. I know she was blushing for she is still blushing these many years later. But she is pleased…like all young, pretty, and unwed sweethearts. But, she was a proper lady and her parents would never have tolerated such thoughts.

Life was good to Great Aunt Ella. She married a wonderful hard-working man and lived happily and, as far as I know, happily ever after. During her lifetime she nurtured a loving family. She lived to know her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren. But, Great Aunt Ella died before I married a Greek.

Maybe it is better that way, for I would have brought disillusion. I would have harmed her and her daydreams. On that afternoon, I wish I had made arrangements for the two of us to sail to Greece. The beauty would have swept her away. Sometimes, it is better to only daydream about temptations. We all need our day-dreams.

Topics: Shuffletown
Comment | Permalink | Trackback |

Ode to a Duckling

Posted by Judy Rozzelle | Apr. 6, 2009, 6:46 am

Back in days gone by, I hung around a caravan of colorful women. Summer weekends we met at a home on the banks of the once mighty Catawba River. We called ourselves the River Goddesses. We were beyond the subject of age. We were sophisticated women .. women unafraid to wear a bathing suit. Once, on a mystical summer afternoon, when the day was closing up for the night, we River Goddesses witnessed wonderment at twilight.

It was an epiphany that forever lives in my memory.

We had chattered away for hours. In our lifeâ€™s travels we had all come upon challenges. Like all things real, like all who have been tested .. we had stories to tell of adventures, lessons learned, and choices. Life tugs at you in many ways and sometimes leaves bruises and scars that with time become “medals of honor.” Finished with the topics of the day; we came together and feasted on casseroles.

The river had been vacated and the shore was littered with floats, inner-tubes, towels hung from the back of chairs, and the platters and plates across the table top were empty. The old oak tree shaded us against the lingering heat; its roots ran deep into the red clay and bull tallow of the Piedmont dirt. The hammock is hanging low and the only proof that there is a body inside is a knee poking into sight. The yard is littered with sleeping dogs. There were always dogs. Wise women travel in the company of dogs, beloved pets, which in most cases, have been rescued from a horrible fate.

Throughout the afternoon, the larger dogs romped in and out of the woods, breaking only for a swim in the river; afterwards they would stand on shore and briskly shower sunbathers as they shook themselves dry.

I kept an eye on my small dogs, Goodness and Gracious. It is easy to misplace animals that are less than five pounds. Gracious was a twelve year old semi-bald Pomeranian dog. Gracious had lost all of her hair except for her mane and tufts at her feet. Gracious was spoiled and looked like a toy lion. Goodness resembled a red smiling teddy bear, but she was a toy Pomeranian. If there ever lived a dog that was as kind as my Goodness may they be blessed with a long life; I lost Goodness too soon. They are both gone, now, and I still weep for them. Somewhere in my spirit the three of us are swinging in a white swing by the Catawba River.

Goodness is sleeping and Gracious is alert. I am pushing the white swing back and forth with my toes. Gracious is pushed up close to my leg and Goodness lies beside her. Their four paws resting casually in front of them, we are all contented. The twittering among tree branches quiets one by one, like a choir softly humming. Eventide is approaching. It is the time of day when quiet becomes a verb.

Like a shade being pulled across a window, the setting sun spreads stillness across the sky drawing nightâ€™s curtains. As shadows swallow the sky, gold streaks the sky, the day blushes into the lavender of evening. Spiders jump more slowly across the waves, above the blue heron flies home, even the dragonfliesâ€™ pause. In these moments, only the river flows and soft waves splash against the wooden struts of the pier.

It is the moment of Eventide when the universe reveals magic and mystery, truths, and promises to carry in truth. Quiet swallows the land and there is no desire to speak. Twilight has brought us into meditation with the universe and the eternal.

Suddenly, a babyâ€™s cry pierces the silent. A lost baby is searching for its mother. It was the universal cry of a scared baby wanting its mother. From beneath the pier a yellow baby duckling not even as large as a rubber-ducky swam into the large waters quacking plaintively, so scared it had ventured into the unknown taking its only chance to be heard by Momma.

Each eyelid opened. Bodies sprung to life. We all jump to our feet. A baby was lost. We all begin to look about for its Mother. There is a baby in harmâ€™s way.

“Ahhhh” is swooned in unison, but in a moment, we fell silent. Mother Duck has to hear the babyâ€™s cry. Someone went for food, nourishment. We crouch on the shore ready to for rescue it when darkness falls, mother has not heard the cries. It was a universal babyâ€™s cry. His soft pleading cries, squeaking little quacks were sounds that all women and mothers answer. It is a longing so helpless, so heart rendering, so forsaken rose from within the soft small chest of yellow feathers. A baby lost.

Quack! Quack! Mother sailed swiftly from beneath brush and bramble close to the shore. She had been nearby, but unseen. Motherâ€™s wings beat eagerly at the waters coming for her child. Behind her in perfect formation swam other babies, brothers and sisters. They all called in unison for the lost family member.

Greetings quacked and quacked and they swam in a circle as each greeted the other. It was the universal greeting. It is a universal language. Mother led them back to the safety of shelter among bramble and brush. It was an epiphany that forever lives in my memory.

This is my last Ferry Tales column; I specifically chose this evergreen memory from my mind to leave with you. You see, this land, this Carolina back country has been my shelter many times during my lifeâ€™s travels. This land, this river nourishes me. Writing Ferry tales was one of the greatest adventures of my life. Thank you.

Topics: Ferry Tales - Mt. Island Monitor
Comment | Permalink | Trackback |

The Chicken Who Got a Facelift

Posted by Judy Rozzelle | Mar. 21, 2009, 11:44 am

â€œBasically, the chicken had a facelift, she looks like Joan Rivers.â€ The young lovely woman said, relaying chicken adventures that she and her fiancÃ©, Hugh, have experienced since moving here from New York City. Andieâ€™s surprise at her fondness for chickens, and the extent they went to save a chickenâ€™s life was a proper subject for all pet lovers. Her fiancÃ©, Hugh, was also amused and confused by their folly.

Ricki is a barred Plymouth Rock hen and Lucy is either an Amerucana backyard chicken or a mutt â€œEaster egger.â€ Lucy lays green eggs.

Lee and I had been invited to a friendâ€™s house to meet four of her friends. As it happens from time to time when people meetâ€¦instant friendships develop between strangers. Like the walrus and the carpenter from â€œAlice in Wonderland,â€ we spoke of many things, including poultry as pets.
There were seven of us sitting around the patio table beneath the shadow of an umbrella. Only morsels were left on our lunch plates, we were settled into our seats, into the moment, and the subject was chicken love.

Hugh moved to the Los Angeles area, first, and after finding a home for them in Altadena, Andie joined him. They purchased a beautiful, hand-crafted, century-old home with a wrap around porch, and a foundation built to last lifetimes. It reminded me of Grandfatherâ€™s home in North Carolina. I could almost smell the lilies that Grandmother always kept freshly cut in the foyer. The large lots reminded me of Coulwood.

Their beautiful new home came with a community and a chicken-coop in the back yard, and two chickens. Maryanne is a black and white feathered hen, and Ginger is a Rhode Island Red with a pecker problem. Of the many things they planned to do when they were settledâ€¦adopting chickens was not on the list.

The previous owners did not want to take Maryanne and Ginger away from the only chicken coop they had ever known; besides, they paid rent in fresh eggs.

â€œFresh eggs were a good selling point; we certainly could not condemn them to a frying pan.â€ Andie continued while suppressing a giggle, â€œMaryanne and Ginger turned out to be quite charming pets. They certainly have individual personalities. Chickens are easy to care for and not at all expensive to feed and it feels like we are in the country. Then we decided to raise a flock.â€
Hugh explained that in their desire to be good guardians, they read extensively about poultry and they knew that a society of hens has a pecking order. With their newly acquired knowledge, and a small chicken coop in their backyard, they purchased Ricki and Lucy. Ricki is a barred Plymouth Rock hen and Lucy is either an Amerucana backyard chicken or a mutt â€œEaster egger.â€ Lucy lays green eggs. The purchase price for two chickens was less than four dollars.

The new chicks were separated from the hens, until they were large enough and then, Ricki and Lucy were moved to the outside coop, separated from the older biddies by a heavy duty wire fence. However, one fateful day, while their parents were away, Lucy flew over to greet Maryanne and Ginger. Ricki spent the day pecking away and didnâ€™t notice a thing.

As previously mentioned, Ginger had an undiagnosed pecker problem. Ginger and Maryanne were not at all excited to meet Lucy. They tried to peck her to death. The most enthusiastic pecker was Ginger, who was extracting the last feather from Lucyâ€™s skull when Andie looked into the chicken coop. Lucy was only a bloody mass of feathers, her head was bald and her spine was showing, but Lucy was alive.

Andie spent the next few hours searching for a chicken doctor. Eventually, she found a veterinarian who specialized in chickens; a Dr. Tyson. No, seriously, that is the name of the veterinarian they rushed Lucy to for emergency surgery. Dr. Tyson lifted Lucyâ€™s neck and body feathers up and over Lucyâ€™s baldness. She stitched the two sides together and behold, Lucy received what could possibly have been the worldâ€™s first chicken face-lift. This explains why Lucy is a feathered lookalike of Joan Rivers. Today, even though she only has a stubby red comb, Lucy is a contended hen who lays a green egg daily.

While Maryanne eventually welcomed Lucy as part of the â€œHendom,â€ Ginger was another story. Eventually, following extensive research and thousands of phone calls, Ginger was placed in chicken rescue which is a half-way house for violent chickens. When it was determined that Ginger was an incurable pecker, they were able to place her as an â€œonly petâ€ with a gentle old woman who had just lost her beloved chicken.

Before, you lay this downâ€¦consider the lesson in this spunky adventure. Love is never wasted and caring for the smallest and most insignificant of Godâ€™s creatures is a gift we give to ourselvesâ€¦we see our own humanity through their eyes and we learn that God exists in all living creatures.
I discovered long ago that I cannot live without a dog underfoot. Each pet I have adopted has returned the gift with unconditional love. I believe to harm an animal is like striking a toddler.

Also, this bright, fresh youthful couple could be the hope of a kinder, gentler world. Pet owners have to make hard decisions, sometimes, but there is no college education required. Love needs respect, care and feeding. I wish these chickens a long egg-filled life. I sincerely hope that Altadenaâ€™s Chickens of Leisure will keep a diary and let us peek at it every now and then just to keep up with all their flocking and pecking.

Beyond our gaze stretched an American quilt of homes and backyards cluttered with livingâ€¦basketball goal posts, bicycles, patios, and outdoor grills. Delicate vines littered with blossoms and bristling with crisp and fragile leaves of chartreuse climbed about roofs and trellises. Like stitches in a quilt, fences seemed to hold the community together.

The landscape recalled another time when teenagers mowed lawns and there were front porches filled with rocking chairs and swings. Throughout the day, lawn mowers hacked and sputtered to life like old men racked with morning cough. It was Saturday in Altadena. It was all we still are in America. I was thousands of miles away from Shuffletown and Coulwood. But on this afternoon, I did not feel so far away.

Topics: Ferry Tales - Mt. Island Monitor
Comments Off | Permalink | Trackback |

Oh, Darn!

Posted by Judy Rozzelle | Mar. 9, 2009, 7:00 pm

Up is down and down is up. We wake each day to headlines screaming bad news. Lifetime savings, hopes and dreams disappear in a moment. Where did it go? Everyone is either out of a job or worrying that they will lose their job. I know more people out of work than I ever have in my lifetime. Friends, neighbors and too many young people are idle.

Instead of Hapsburgs and Bourbons, this time the elite are money-changers in the temple of democracy.

Pardon my grumbling, but each day, in some way, I talk with a friend who has been affected by the financial chaos. Each morning, I say a prayer for all those who go out to work and are holding the reins of the tattered economy. It is upon all of usâ€¦construction jobs, retail jobs, factory jobs, and professional jobsâ€¦all gone to waste. Frustration and misery stalk the land.

A friend sat in my living room yesterday, telling me that his father had lost his retirement and may lose his home. Another friend who worked as a corporate vice president for 27 years was laid off a year ago. He has not found work. His job is searching for a job in a country that lost 651,000 jobs in February. It has become very easy to be poor. I worry.

Before October of last year, how often had you in your lifetime heard someone count to a trillion. According to the “talking heads,” and if you do still receive a paycheck…there will be an extra $13 just for you from the bail-out billions. Grumble. Grumble.

Meanwhile, in a parallel universe, the indicted financier Bernie Madoff, who reportedly stole billions, is not in jail. He waits for justice in his $7 million New York penthouse with his wife by his side. The attorneys for the Madoffs are arguing that the couple should be allowed to keep the penthouse and $62 million, both of which are in his wife’s name.

Read the rest of this entry »

Topics: Ferry Tales - Mt. Island Monitor
Comments Off | Permalink | Trackback |

Marriage Bail Out

Posted by Judy Rozzelle | Feb. 20, 2009, 6:58 pm

Come spring, there is going to be a wedding in the family. My nephew, Trent, is taking a bride. Trent and Jessica will be married on Good Friday. They have chosen to be married on the beach against a back drop of ocean blue. On their wedding day, the world begins anew and all dreams are possible. I will be there to witness the birth of their family. When I heard the good news, the first thought that came to my mind was, â€œI need a new dress.â€ Thatâ€™s a common thought for women when they are told there is going to be a wedding.

If the government gave $20,000 each to the bride and to the groom, it would jumpstart our country in a most delightful way.

Long gone is the day when the cake cutting was held in the church basement. Now, a wedding can cost as much as a house, but come spring, brides will begin turning up everywhere. By June, weddings will be booked all over town. Think of all the bridesmaid dresses that will be sold; and an army of young exuberant bridegrooms and ushers sporting tuxedos dancing with the bridesmaids and mothers. Weddings propel a society into the future.

When we were a nation of neighborhoods and families, we came together to celebrate weddings. The women in the community became a workforce that could create bridal dresses, make the cakes and refreshments, clean the church, and tame the groomsmen. As we have grown into large cities with anonymous neighbors, we have lost the sense of community. As we attend the spring and summer weddings, it is a good time to remember and to recall our lost innocence.

Read the rest of this entry »

Topics: Ferry Tales - Mt. Island Monitor
Comment | Permalink | Trackback |

Ashley Judd Speaks Out on Senseless Slaughter of Wolves

Posted by Judy Rozzelle | Feb. 6, 2009, 6:58 am

Topics: Ferry Tales - Mt. Island Monitor
Comments Off | Permalink | Trackback |

Whatever Happened to Good Sense?

Posted by Judy Rozzelle | Feb. 6, 2009, 6:57 am

According to the news, Bernie Madoff â€œmade offâ€ with billions; he swindled from clients and, worse, numerous charitable organizations. Yet, he is not in jail. Madoff and his wife sill live in his expensive and exclusive New York penthouse. Why is he allowed the privacy to dispense his ill-gotten gains to family and friends? Every time I see a photo of him, he is smiling. As if he is amused by the situation. He should be ashamed.

Governor Blagojevich, rather than appear repentant when he was caught trying to sell a Senate seat, became a poet. Blagojevich is now a celebrity and will probably be given millions to write a book. America is in disarray. We reward people for bad behavior. Regular folks are having a hard time just getting by, but the rich, the ugly, and deceitful are rewarded.

In the corporate news, banks and corporations are said to have used their bail-out monies to reward billions to executives who committed acts of greed that brought the world of trouble and foreclosures to ordinary Americans. While corporations dream of spiffy new corporate jets, regular folks are living on the streets.

Read the rest of this entry »

Topics: Ferry Tales - Mt. Island Monitor
Comment | Permalink | Trackback |

Dem bones, Dem bones, Dry bones

Posted by Judy Rozzelle | Jan. 21, 2009, 6:24 am

Letâ€™s talk about bones, achey, breaky bones. I cannot get through a day without several conversations with and about my bones. Many of my friends share this phenomenon; we fall into a specific category, women who know the perils of vacuuming shag carpet and, men who grew sideburns and ducktails. We sang along with the original Elvis Presley.

I feed the scrawny, angry wolf biting into my health. I forget about the other wolf that is a testament to a wondrous Intelligence of many sacred names. I call this wolf, Faith.

These days, we do not sing about the toe bone being connected to the ankle bone, the knee bone, and the thighbone. Now, we have total knowledge on the connections in our bones. We are a large group as reflected in the popularity of the television show, â€œBones.â€

My bones talk to me. I have made a pact with my bones which includes rules on diet and exercise, but I do not run unless I am being chased. My bones do not wake up at the same time, particularly, vertebrae L5 and L4. And the laziness seems to be spreading from bone to bone to bone. I never bound out of bed. Oddly, I have begun to adhere to rules that in my youth, I disdained. I always wear shoes. The only time the soles of my feet touch a bare floorâ€¦is in the shower.

Each morning, Lee and I check with each other to ask, â€œHow are you feeling?â€ It is good to check to see if we are operating correctly. The answer could affect lives.

A conversation is not complete when I speak with friends until we take account of each otherâ€™s latest health issues. We share notes, doctors, and, of course, we compare drugs. If you eavesdropped, you would hear these questions and thoughts. It is a familiar litany of questions; I ask myself and my friends. Where does it hurt? What will make me feel better? Will I hurt like this the rest of my days? When is the next doctorâ€™s appointment? I am so tired of doctors. What did I do to my back, in the first place? Why is my back so slammed together? Should I see another doctor? Will I never get better? Should I have another operation? Or should I just accept my fate and live with it?

It is chronic pain, perpetual motion. Chronic pain feels like two hungry wolves howling inside my body. The parable teaches that all of us have within us two hungry wolves. Which wolf lives depends on us. The wolf that lives is the one we feed.

Read the rest of this entry »

Topics: Ferry Tales - Mt. Island Monitor
Comments Off | Permalink | Trackback |

Journey into Darkness

Posted by Judy Rozzelle | Nov. 25, 2008, 1:00 pm

It is the Holiday Season, lighting even the darkest heart. Homes and businesses sparkle, wishing the merriest of seasons. Lights jump and blink, dancing past car windows beaming hope into December nights. Window panes glow, and dark streets are transformed.

The Carolina backcountry was the end of civilization. Still, the pioneers came with pockets filled with dreams.

Sometimes, we forget that these are the darkest nights of the year. This is when nature rests and Demeter grieves for her lost daughter. In the time before history, this was the season of the Winter Solstice when nights were as indelible as black ink and where shadows live unseen. Only the Druid Priests commanded the night sky, to the farmers the night sky was a dark mystery ruled by the moon.

Legend and lore tells us of the Pagan Mid-Winter festivals during the middle ages and before. But, within this darkest December night, deep within the earth, spring is waking from a winterâ€™s slumber.

My story is of another time, when the Carolina backcountry was Americaâ€™s first frontier. This backcountry was so wild and wooly that the pioneer settlers slept in fits and jerks. They knew that danger was only a shadow, an armâ€™s length away.

My story is a sacred tale written for the brave and the faithful who came to North Carolina when it was a wilderness. The Piedmont, the Carolina backcountry, was unknown and uncharted. The Catawba River was home to the bear and jaguar and the homes of the Tuscarora, the Cherokee, and the Catawba Indian tribes. The Carolina backcountry was the end of civilization. Still, the pioneers came with pockets filled with dreams.

In the fall of 1752, Brother Joseph Spangenburg set out with several other Moravian Brethren leaving Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, to search for a place in North Carolina to build a Moravian settlement.

Almost fifty, Brother Joseph was portly with a kind face, and a bald head, but he wise in wilderness ways and held to unswerving faith that God would guide his journey. Brother Joseph had several opportunities to misplace his faith when they became lost and spent the winter in the mountains around Blowing Rock.

It was spring when the men entered the area known today as Winston-Salem, here Brother Joseph found his Promised Land. He named the area Wachovia in honor of a place in Germany where the Moravian Church, a Protestant sect called the United Brethren, had first found refuge. Here, they would build a village and name it Bethabara, House of Passage. They first arrived in groups of fifteen or twenty, they came as guardians.

Read the rest of this entry »

Topics: Ferry Tales - Mt. Island Monitor
Comments Off | Permalink | Trackback |

« Previous Page — « Previous Entries | Newer Entries » — Next Page »