Mia Magazine Fall 2009

FALL2009

byforaboutwomen

My Inspiration something about those eyes

My town talkin’ up tulsa

My cause Strengthening Children, Helping families

My bookshelf the mighty queens of freeville

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Mia Magazine, Fall 20092

FALL2009 Mia Magazine By, for and about women Publisher The Leslie Group, LLC Managing Editor Jan Weinheimer Editor Lisa Tresch

Welcome to Fall! I love the crisp weather and the rush of energy this time of year brings.

When the curtain closes on the lazy days of summer, I’m always ready for new beginnings. This is our second issue of Mia magazine, but the excitement of launching this publication hasn’t faded. We have some new writers, beautiful photos, and of course, more stories to share with you. We have discovered new friends along the way – women who have inspiring stories to tell and we’re honored to introduce them to you in the pages that follow.

There are a few other new beginnings for Mia magazine that you should know about. We are offering subscriptions beginning with the Winter issue which will be out in December. If you would like the convenience of reading the stories in Mia delivered to your doorstep, we’ve provided a form for you to fill out in this issue. Mail it back to us and we’ll make sure that you receive a copy of the magazine four times a year. Also, our website is complete and includes many ways for you to connect with Mia

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

magazine. We even have a blog that you can access through the site that gives you more insight into our own journey of launching and publishing this magazine.

When you visit the blog, give us your comments. We love to hear feedback from our readers, and the blog provides an excellent way for us to connect with one another.

We’ve also provided writer’s guidelines on our website because we want to hear your story. If you want to pitch us an idea for an article, we love to hear those also.

We accept full-length submissions (1,000-1,200 words) for possible publication. Each of us has a story to tell. When we open ourselves up to share these stories, they can be great sources of hope, inspiration, laughter and insight for many other women.

We’re anxious to share this issue of Mia magazine with you.

When you reach the last page of the magazine, we want you to feel as though you have been gathered around a table with a group of friends, listening to their voices and thinking about your own story.

We hope you enjoy meeting these new friends, and that you feel a fresh burst of energy in the midst of these beautiful Fall days. We invite you to settle in with this issue of Mia magazine and celebrate the season and the new beginnings it brings.

Graphic Design Lina Holmes Finance and Website Juli Armour Contributors Sogol Ahmadinia, Natasha Ball, Sheilah Bright, Charlotte Guest, Debbi Guilfoyle, Michelle Palmer, Monica Roberts, Linda Rubin, Marian Van Eyk McCain, Virginia Reedy, Ada Tikkanen, Holly Wall Sales Assistants Susan Bayles, Amy Dodson, Malisa Nell Photography LSD Photography Lisa Dunham, Sophia Litchfield Mia is published quarterly by The Leslie Group, LLC P.O. Box 35665, Tulsa, OK 74153 (918) 978-5567

Reproduction in whole or part is prohibited. Copyright © 2009 The Leslie Group, LLC. All rights reserved.

For writers guidelines, visit our website at miamagazine.net

Mia Magazine P.O. Box 35665 Tulsa, Oklahoma 74153-0665 www.miamagazine.net

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dearMIa

Letters from our Readers Had to share a compliment I received from one of my blog readers this morning -- “I checked out that Mia magazine you tweeted about... it’s wonderful. I love it. I love the stories. ...”

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I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed receiving a copy of Mia that my sister passed along to me passed along to her by her best friend. One thing I know for sure about women is that we are observant to our sisters’ needs and I believe we are truly our “brother’s keepers.” Thank you for the gift of Mia. Jacqueline Grandbury, TX

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Thanks for lifting up women and the great things they do!

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Mia is a beautiful and inspiring magazine ... it looks great: well designed, very inviting and easy on the eye. The writer in me has only one minor suggestion (because writers want their words to stand out crystal clear!) On My Relationships, maybe the background could have been screened back another degree or two.

I loved the old photos of girls, which say volumes all by themselves.

Dallas Atlanta, GA

tell us your story We believe that every woman has a story, and that includes you! We would love hear your story idea, or read your submission. Full length manuscripts should be between 1,000-1,200 words. For our writers guide, visit us at miamagazine.net.

You can send submissions and story ideas to lisa@miamagazine.net

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

FALL2009 Contents 6

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My HERITAGE

Her hope for all cultures to embrace their commonalities

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My RELATIONSHIPS

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My ART

14

My homeTOWN

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My inspiration

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My BOOKShelf

Her brother’s babies were rescued, their mother was buried, but he was convicted

Music as a way of life It’s hard to pack up a life

It is often in the small things that you find perfection

Review of The Mighty Queens of Freeville

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My BLOG

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My MONEY

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

My CAUSE

Looking past the obvious and taking a chance on what inspires

Elderwoman Blog Empowered to make the most of her money.

My HEALTH

Her course was set early in life

My journey

“We can take one”

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After THOUGHTS

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OUR Writers

Shifting gears

Meet our story tellers

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Scratched Knees and Family Ties Every time I walk down the halls of Crosstown Learning Center, I am reminded how life often takes unexpected turns. I also find myself falling in love all over again with the children who have grown so dear to my heart. How did a woman with a doctorate in Adult Education end up directing an early care and learning center for children birth to pre-kindergarten?

This is my story and my cause.

Seven and a half years ago, a good friend called having just left the office of another friend who served on the board of a non-profit children’s learning center.

Crosstown was desperately looking for a new executive director, so she gave her friend my name and told me to call him, which I did. Since I was halfway through my doctorate in Adult Education, I told him I was probably not the person he was looking for to direct an early care and learning center for children. He readily agreed, but asked me to have a cup of coffee anyway. Coffee led to an interview, which ultimately led to a job offer. This certainly wasn’t the usual career path of one studying adult education, but I didn’t want to turn down the opportunity to work with the wonderful children and teachers I had met during the interview process.

On March 26, 2002, I drove to Crosstown for the first day on the job and I clearly remember thinking two things that morning: “I will never be able to remember the names of all the employees, and I’ll never be able to find my way around that huge old building.” Suffice it to say, I did indeed learn names and my way around the building, and it’s been an event-filled journey ever since.

Crosstown Learning Center began as a direct mission of Tulsa’s Second Presbyterian Church in 1969. In 2000, Crosstown was the first center in north Tulsa to become accredited through the National Association for the Education of the Young Child. Also in 2000, the board of directors became an independent non-profit organization. At the same time, the church was declining in membership and struggling with the operating funds for the care and upkeep of the old building. As a result, the center struggled to make payroll and keep the building maintained.

In April of 2004, the Presbytery closed the church, which left Crosstown wondering what we were going to do. Our location is an integral part of how we fit into the community. We found our new home just across Lewis Avenue – the All Tribes Community Church building – and with the help of wonderful donors, raised $300,000 in 90 days to purchase the facility. We remained in our former location, now under new owners, while we raised another $975,000 to do the necessary renovations. In June of 2005, we moved to the new Crosstown location and have been growing ever since.

Each day, I am astounded at the work that the staff does with these children and their families. We have

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teachers who have been here 15, 25, and even 36 years who come in every morning with enthusiasm and dedication, as if it were their first day of work. One of our children was the daughter of a student who came to Crosstown when she was three years old. We are proud to say that we have fostered a sense of continuity with our staff, the children and their parents.

We have also forged wonderful partnerships in Tulsa with outstanding community organizations and colleges. We are part of the University of Oklahoma College of Pediatric Medicine’s resident rotation in child development, and we are beginning work with the Community Medicine Department. We have junior and senior nursing students from Oral Roberts University in our building every year working with teachers and children, along with students who are working on their child development degrees from TCC and the University of Oklahoma. We also have a speech and language therapy program on site.

My passion for Crosstown is grounded in my own children--three grown daughters who are doing wonderful things in their own communities, and in their father, my husband of 41 years. He and I raised our children and provided everything we possibly could for them. As I watch this new generation of children with parents working hard to maintain a quality of life for their families, I remain committed to seeing that Crosstown stays community-based and a part of these families’ lives. I stand in awe as I watch these wonderful parents working to raise their children, taking pride in them and giving them everything they possibly can.

I believe that the strength of the family greatly impacts the strength of the child. Through our parent education programs and other community initiatives, I believe that we not only strengthen children, but we help families as well. We are a training ground for parents as they prepare for their children to enter elementary school. We have parent-teacher conferences and parent involvement activities, just like public schools.

So what is My Cause? My Cause is small, smiling faces, hair filled with sand, and scratched knees. My Cause is teachers who continue to accomplish wonderful things in their classrooms, many of whom leave at the end of the day to pursue their own educational goals. My Cause is working with students from local universities, and in parents who come each day committed to helping any way they can. My Cause is working with a superb board of directors and local supporters who keep Crosstown open and looking to the future. And, I suppose, My Cause is encouraging people who are wondering about their career path, especially in these uncertain economic times, to be willing to look past the obvious and take a chance on what inspires them. Mia

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

Mycause

by Debbi Guilfoyle Crosstown Learning Center will celebrate 40 years of service to Tulsa area children and their families this year. For details contact Andrea, 582.1457, ext. 104.

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

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Myheritage

by Sogol Ahmadinia

Immersed in Culture

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

My name is Sogol Ahmadinia, and I am an IranianAmerican. Though it’s not unlikely that such a hyphenated designation would be found in my hometown of Tulsa, it’s also not too common. But after the revolution in 1979 and the creation of a theocracy, many Iranians emigrated from the country, a fair number to the United States. In 1985, my parents and older brother were among those emigrants who left during the Iran-Iraq war, and in 1986 they settled in Tulsa. A year later, I was born. As I was growing up, my parents inculcated my brother and me with the importance of our heritage, and made our traditions an integral part of our daily lives.

Iran is where the Persian Empire began, and many Iranians use the terms “Persian” and “Iranian” interchangeably to describe their ethnicity. The language spoken in Iran is Farsi (also called Persian, to complicate things), which is very different from Arabic, though the writing is similar; Farsi has completely different pronunciations and has eight more letters than Arabic, for a start. This difference from Arabic is not only linguistic, but cultural. Persian culture is distinct from the Arab culture that surrounds it in the Middle East. Though people often lump the two together, they have completely different histories, and many conflicts between them. The way many Iranians see it, confusing Persian with Arab is similar to confusing American with Mexican - geographical proximity does not a similar culture make!

Spoken language was one of the ways my parents immersed us in our culture despite our distance from Iran. They always spoke to me in Farsi, and if I answered them in English, they gave me a blank look (though they understood perfectly what I said). They were determined that I respond to them in Farsi. At the time, it was frustrating, but in the end it was incredibly valuable. Aside from the benefits of knowing a foreign language, it allowed me to connect more closely to my culture. When in a group of Iranians, I see the feelings of isolation from my Iranian friends who can’t speak Farsi. I am lucky that if nothing else, I am verbally linked to my culture.

My parents also made sure that we celebrated Iranian holidays. The big holiday is called Eide Norouz (“aid-eh no-rooz”), and is the celebration of the new year. It happens every year at the precise moment of the spring equinox. The holiday lasts thirteen days and has many traditions, the first of which occurs on the Wednesday before the new year. That Wednesday, Chahar Shambeh Soori, or Wednesday of Fire, you are supposed to jump over a fire and say to the fire in Farsi “my sickness onto you, your vibrancy onto me.” This is one of the many traditions that harkens back to Zoroastrianism, the religion of the Persian Empire. Decorations are also important for the holiday, and the main deco-

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

ration is the “haft-sin,” literally meaning “Seven S.” These seven S items are: sabzeh (sprouted lentils - symbolizing rebirth), samanu (wheat-germ pudding - symbolizing affluence), senjed (dried oleaster tree fruit - symbolizing love), sir (pronounced “see-r” - garlic - symbolizing health), sib (pronounced “see-b” - apple - symbolizing beauty), somaq (ground sumac - symbolizing the dawning of a new day), and serkeh (vinegar - symbolizing patience). Outside of these seven S’s are other traditional items, including a holy book, a mirror, eggs, and money.

Many of the thirteen nights also have their own specific traditions. The first night you are supposed to eat a special fish and rice dish, called Sabzi Polo Mahi (herb rice and fish). The fish is supposed to bring you good luck in the new year. The next night you are supposed to eat a rice dish that has noodles in it called Reshteh Polo. The noodles in the rice are said to connect the good things in your life from last year to the new year. Then for thirteen nights you visit your elders and receive a gift, and have those younger than you visit to receive gifts. The final day is called “Sizdah Bedar,” or the passing of the thirteenth day. Traditionally, this day is celebrated with a large picnic. At the picnic, each family makes wishes and ties a knot in the sabzeh for each wish and then throws it out. Hopefully, those wishes will come true in the new year. But we also have traditions that I’ve found to be universal: wearing new clothes, ending old fights before the new year, making goals and wishes for the upcoming year. It’s nice to see the commonality in disparate cultures - it reminds me that at our cores, we’re all the same.

I’ve been fortunate to visit Iran numerous times in my life, each time gleaning something new about my heritage. But of all the things I’ve learned, the one that hits me every time I go back is how similar we all are. I won’t presume to speak for every Iranian, but I can speak for those I know and have met. They aren’t what we see on television. Not all of them are angry at the West. Not all of them are radical. The young girls like Britney Spears and the young men like Metallica; little girls clamor for Barbies and boys can’t get enough of video games. This cultural alignment is not a recent phenomenon; it’s been there the whole time. It’s convenient to polarize a nation because it makes it easier to understand, and so we’ve been shown the part of Iran that is scary, and I won’t deny its existence. But those willing to dig a little deeper are bound to see something that may surprise them and complicate the picture: a people trying to find their peaceful place in the world. I hope that in my lifetime I see such a thing happen and that the people will be able to rid themselves of their totalitarian rulers.

But until then, I can only hope that the world begins to see what I’ve seen, and that we can all embrace our commonalities, our shared humanity. Mia

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Myrelationships betsy moore

by Linda Rubin

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

An Unexpected Loyalty Twenty-four years ago, a man broke into a quiet West Tulsa home where two baby girls lay asleep.

He raped their mother and slit her throat. The girls remained in their cribs until the following day when a neighbor heard them crying.

The babies were rescued. The mother was buried.

The father was convicted.

Betsy Moore remembers that day. The victim was her sister-in-law. The accused was her brother, Greg Wilhoit. He has since been exonerated, but that day did not come until he had spent seven years in the state penitentiary at McAlester, five of those on death row. Greg’s family was altered forever. His daughters grew into teenagers without him. His parents spent their savings for his defense. And his sister Betsy discovered she had an unexpected loyalty for him.

Growing up, Betsy and Greg had not been especially close; they knew how to “push each other’s buttons.” They lived an average middle-class life with average middle-class dreams. Betsy’s dream was nursing and she became a labor and delivery charge nurse. She was single and believed she would live life as she pleased, but the murder changed all that.

With their mother dead and father in prison, the Wilhoits’ babies needed full-time care. Betsy was the appropriate candidate for the job, though she felt unprepared for parenthood. In addition, her brother needed unrelentless support from his family. So, while her parents poured money into his defense,

Betsy poured her time and emotion. For the next few years, she frequently made the three-hour drive to visit Greg as he awaited execution. She quickly understood that if she stood behind him, it would be costly.

Betsy’s family walked on eggshells during this time.

“My family never discussed the feelings we had…we were so overwhelmed. We lived hour by hour…not even day by day. It was like, if you don’t verbalize it, it isn’t there.” She became raw with anxiety. Her drive to the prison was always accompanied by physical illness. “I used to get sick to my stomach about ten minutes before I’d get to the prison and then I’d hit the bathroom as soon as I arrived.”

The next part of her visit was the waiting room… and a real life Old Sparky, an outdated electric chair on display in the visitor waiting room. “I was surrounded by murderers, but the visitors were people who loved them. They didn’t deserve to see that thing. It was insensitive to have it there.”

The prison environment was something far different from Betsy’s middle-class upbringing. She had little in common with the other visitors. “They were a tough group, like the prisoners, but we had one thing in common…we had pain.” She said, “For a lot of them, this was normal. They were used to this kind of thing. I wasn’t. You could bring kids in this place, but I never took the girls [her nieces]. My brother did not want them exposed to it. “ Betsy remembered how heartbreaking it was to see her brother come to the window in handcuffs. “I didn’t cry when I saw him. It was bizarre. We talked small talk or stories about the girls…like nothing ever happened.”

After a while, Greg started to change. “He said he wanted to be executed and get it over with.

He never asked the family to do anything. He was concerned about our parents and what it was doing to them.” He was tired. The family was tired. Betsy was tired. “I was drowning. If I really felt what I was going through, I worried that I would fall into a black hole.

Continued on page 33

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

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Myart Ginny LeDoux

by Charlotte Guest

Music as a Way of Life The German poet Johann Heinrich Heine once said, “Where words leave off, music begins.” Billy Joel believes music is “an explosive expression of humanity. It’s something we are all touched by. No matter what culture we’re from, everybody loves music.”

Music has been connected with words or action from the time of the first human chant through today’s latest music video or melodious symphony. For Ginny LeDoux, music is a talent she’s embraced and a gift she’s shared all her life. She agrees with the late, great composer Irving Berlin, “Music is so important. It changes thinking and influences everybody; whether they know it or not, music knows no boundary lines.”

Ginny is a household name to those immersed in the classical music scene in Tulsa. Her outstanding work with children’s choirs in Tulsa earned her acclaim throughout Oklahoma. She was the founding artistic director and concert chorus director of the Tulsa Children’s Chorus for seventeen years. Until her final concert in 2008, Ginny helped grow the Chorus from 12 singers to more than 90.

Under her direction, the Chorus became an independent organization, obtained 501(c)3 status, formed a board of directors and opened its office headquarters at Harwelden. Under her leadership, a two-year residency program began with Tulsa Junior College and Ginny added a second treble chorus.

“Some of my favorite times with the choral children were spent performing with The Tulsa Philharmonic, The Tulsa Youth Symphony, The Tulsa Opera and the Tulsa Ballet. We also had the unique opportunities to perform for The Oklahoma Centennial Time Capsule Celebration, The State Interfaith Prayer Breakfast, Tony Bennett’s Birthday Salute to Oklahoma Concert, The 9-11 Memorial Concert, and many other unforgettable events.”

Ginny shares the philosophy of the mission of the Tulsa Children’s Chorus, which is “to advance the two ideals of music excellence and social mission,” she explains. “Each reinforces the other, by providing children and youth with social, educational, and skill development opportunities in music-related performing arts.”

She added, “Joining a collective group of musicians

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allows one to uniquely experience the personal worth of others from various ethnic, religious, and economic backgrounds through the achievement of artistic excellence…skills so important for life.”

She believes music also contributes to raising children well. Ginny appreciates and agrees with Martin Luther’s words, “Music is a discipline…a mistress of order and good manners. Music makes the people milder and gentler, more moral and more reasonable.”

“Today’s culture is too technically and electronically wired. Sometimes we forget about the music of nature…birds singing, crickets chirping. Some of my favorite music is the music of the outdoors and that of families being together,” shared Ginny. “In fact, there is no greater music than the sound of a mother or father singing nursery rhymes or a lullaby to their child,” she added. “Although it’s easier to put in a DVD or turn on the Ipod, no sound is more soothing to a child’s ears than their parent singing to them,” she said.

For the entire LeDoux family, music is a way of life.

Although not musically inclined themselves, Ginny’s parents introduced her and her sister to music through piano and participation in church choirs. Little did they know the musical legacy they would leave behind. Ginny’s musical ministry is still thriving. Her sister earned a PhD in music and is music professor at the University of Iowa.

A native Tulsan, Ginny was awarded a scholarship to attend vocal music camp at Westminster Choir College, in Princeton, New Jersey at age 14. It was an experience that shaped her life forever. She later received a bachelor’s degree in music from Westminster and a master’s degree in organ from The Peabody Conservatory of Music of Johns Hopkins University of Baltimore.

Ginny met her husband Jerry in college. They literally have made beautiful music together, teaming up over the years with Jerry directing and Ginny accompanying on the piano and organ. Their four children are musicians, too. All played strings through high school, won many music awards and were in the Tulsa Youth Symphony. Two currently hold chairs in major orchestras in New York and D.C. Ginny hopes her seven grandchildren follow suit. She recalled listening to her own children play their violins and other instruments as early as three years of age.

Ginny firmly believes there is a song in everyone’s heart. “Everyone does have music in them. If you can talk, I can teach you to sing,” Ginny said. Years of performing and teaching children the art of performing have convinced her that there is little in contemporary

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

life that offers the benefits of learning to play a musical instrument or learning to sing well.

“Music helps develop the ability to efficiently manipulate long and short term memory, improves the ability to critique one’s own efforts, and ability to stay focused under pressure…disciplines incredibly useful virtually in any career,” she said.

A leader in the American Choral Directors Association for many years, Ginny was an adjunct instructor and accompanist at Tulsa Community College. She currently teaches music at Holland Hall and directs the children’s choirs at Boston Avenue Methodist Church. Also, Ginny loves conducting children’s summer music camps at Boston Avenue.

Ginny’s physical energy translates her passion and joy to her students. Students become “musical detectives” as they search for answers in the written score, or use their listening skills to identify motifs. They sing outside, and sometimes flat on the floor. They learn to sing from the printed page, and to interpret all the musical directions both from the director and the score. They will listen to and replicate the faint sound of a tuning fork, clap rhythms, sway to beats, and play various classroom instruments.

For Ginny, teaching music is a non-stop adventure. She reminds her students that she is not making future musicians; that they are musicians. They don’t have their vocal music in a case or need to carry it with them…it’s within them.

Ginny’s signature piece with the Children’s Chorus, was Bach’s Be Thou With Me, which shares these words: “my soul is at rest when thou art with me.” Ginny’s soul does find rest in music. She believes music is art that is within all of us…we simply must surrender to its magic. Mia

s u i m c t u b c i s u m d n e h e r p m We cannot ecnod us. Peter Hiett can compreh -

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

13

Myhometown

by Ada Tikkanen

Relocating a Life

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

In

the midst of making plans to move from Chicago to Tulsa, I decided we had to throw a party.

“How much is this going to cost me?” my husband asked, and I replied that if he was going to ask that question, then I simply wasn’t going to invite him.

He’s very glad he ponied up, because 110 of the 100 people we invited to our “Last Call before the U-Haul” gala showed up. And as my husband and I took in the crowd, dancing, laughing, singing - we knew leaving was going to be tough. These weren’t just people we knew from the “hood.” Each was cherished. There was a crazy memory for every sweet face in that room.

There was the block party headlined by an Elvis impersonator. The big plunge into ice-covered Lake Michigan dressed as a Girl Scout. The scooter rides to Oberweis Ice Cream for banana milkshakes with my best friend Leigh. Skating in a St. Pat’s parade with Queen B and the Derby Lite gals (my official rollergirl name is Terminada).

It took six out of the ten years I lived in Chicago to get used to the winters, riding the El and, in general, finding my way in a big city. During the later years, we lived in a village called Oak Park. That’s where I met a life-altering group of friends. The kind who would pick up my kids from school and feed them butter noodles if I was stuck in traffic or simply needed time to get out of a funk.

The kind you didn’t want to live more than five minutes from, much less halfway across the country.

Since the move, Facebook, texts and frequent phone calls have been sanity savers. But I really wanted my friends to come visit and check out my new town. A trip to Merritt’s Bakery is all it would take to get my friend Leigh to Tulsa, but the other girls would need a touch more temptation than the perfect Italian Cream cake to drive 14 hours.

So I set out to get a lay of the land. Just me and my nav system.

To my surprise, Tulsa has hills. I know this because on my first trip to Reasor’s, I chased a “stationary” grocery cart halfway across the parking lot, catching it just before it plowed into a Dually.

Tulsa is green. I know this because I’ve been on a constant diet of Zyrtec and Sudafed since we parked our U-Haul. This isn’t a bad thing since people in Tulsa are very proud of their allergies. If ever for a lack of words, which is rare, I always start a conversation with, “Wow, my nose has been itching all day.” This is usually answered by an immediate chorus of: “Oh honey, this time of year it’s the trees...or grasses...or that crazy ol’ wind stirring up the pollen from the flowers.” Those beautiful flowers.

Upon emailing the Chicago girls photos of the azaleas at Woodward Park and yards filled with dogwoods, redbuds and purple irises, they were awestricken.

“Where are all the tumbleweeds?” This is when I go into a 20-minute diatribe on how green and hilly Tulsa is.

“This is Green Country,” I tell them. “We’re in the foothills

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

of the Ozarks. It’s beautiful here. And there are lots of lakes with houses where we can have girl weekends.”

But before finding a lake house to fit 12 women and their stuff, I needed a permanent home. So my first two weeks in Tulsa were spent driving up and down neighborhood streets, stopping often to take in a beautiful house or landscaped yard. Thinking back, I’m sure it appeared I was casing homes.

Nonetheless, all the driving paid off. We found a great old home with the biggest side porch I’d ever seen. It’s in the most incredible neighborhood of Maple Ridge where we can walk our kids to Lee Elementary, saunter down to the Riverwalk (which should be quite pleasurable when I actually do it) or, up to Dalesandro’s for a big bowl of pasta with carbonara sauce. My girls love pasta.

And they’re also going to like how friendly people can be in Tulsa. People like Julia at the Polo Grill, who ripped the reading glasses off her head so I could read the wine list. The ever-so-perky Shannon at the Mercury Lounge. And Isaiah at Double Shot who says, “Hey, Chicago, how does it feel to be a regular?” Whatever you do, when you go to Double Shot, do not order a double shot to go. It’s the only thing they won’t put in a paper cup. Brian and the guys take their coffee seriously, and espresso is meant to be sipped out of a real cup. So do what Isaiah told me: “Sit down, relax, enjoy yourself.” My girls need coffee. They also like to relax.

To end their trip here, I’m planning a “find the best chicken fried steak in Tulsa” marathon with some of the folks I work with at the Food Bank. Diner food is a big topic of discussion in the Culinary Kitchen where I volunteer. Amid peeling potatoes and making vats of chicken fried rice, we like to talk deep-fried.

I love volunteering in the Kitchen because I get to test my skills on all that really big equipment. Like just recently when I was handed a scratch brownie recipe and told, “We need 1200 of these.” It was one of those, “Son, you’ve proven yourself worthy enough to drive the Buick” moments (how funny that I actually drive a Buick).

It’s a sure bet I won’t be getting any of the Chicago gals to help me bake brownies at the Kitchen, but they will be eating quite a few on my side porch. I sit on my porch quite a bit, alone, watching my kids catch fireflies in the front yard...alone. Not that alone is such a bad place to be, but it’s a far cry from the constant chaos called our life in Oak Park where there were no less than six munchkins in our house at any given time, and where play date pickup time normally turned into an impromptu dinner party.

It’s hard to pack up your life. Even harder explaining to your kids that things are going to work out just fine in our new town.

But as I sit on my porch just now, I see my new friend Aimee driving up with her daughter Zoe. And look they brought brownies. Guess I need to go whip up a quick dinner. Mia

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Myinspiration

by Sheilah Bright

The Power of Strangers She was in and out of my life like an unsettling gust of wind. She must have been six, maybe seven. Dirtyface. Tattered clothes. Barefoot. But oh, those eyes, liquid-rich eyes that pour into your soul and drown you in their sadness.

There in the grocery store aisle amid packages shouting savings, she was wondering if a handful of pennies would buy a box of animal crackers. Even her limited childhood mathematics told her the answer, and she stood weighing the pleasure of sweetness against the possibility of punishment. Hesitantly, she slipped her delicate fingers into the box as slowly as desire allowed, and plopped two cookies into her mouth.

I should have called the store manager. I should have assumed my duties as an adult and taught the child a lesson. The manager would likely have fallen prey to those brown eyes too, and the child would have left with only a scolding. When I looked into those eyes, every desire to do what was right crumbled. Instead, I picked up the box, stuck it at the back of the shelf and walked away. As I rounded the corner, I saw her for the last time as she scurried toward freedom and whatever she called home.

I felt lousy for about a week, guilty about leaving an empty box of cookies, hiding a petty theft, not offering to pay. Weeks later, when a shopper found an opened box on the shelf, someone probably muttered something about people who steal stores blind.

But thieves aren’t supposed to have eyes like that.

So it is with the power of strangers. Chance encounters are easy to disregard as mere interruptions of your daily task. Maybe someone else will help the young mother trying to herd her kids and load three baskets of laundry into her car at the Laundromat. After all, I was that woman once. Did anyone help me? Hmm, maybe they did. I really don’t have time to ask if that elderly guy needs help in the vitamin aisle. Do I? When I have taken the time to go with my gut and believe in the “meant-to-be” of the moment, chance encounters have transcended into inspiring moments.

Twenty years later, I still remember the girl in the grocery store. I think she is the reason I left most of my clothes and toiletries in India when I traveled there in March. I think she is why I only adopt girl angels from the Salvation Army tree every Christmas. I know she is the reason I met the lady with the very small car.

Several years ago, I was walking across the parking lot of a discount store in my community when I saw a 70-ish woman struggling to fit a 42-inch television into the backseat of what appeared to be a 1970 Pinto. It was August, and my practical side told me to walk on

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by, get in my vehicle and crank up the AC. My heart, however, decided differently. “Remember the girl in the grocery store,” my heart told me. “Fate put you here for a reason.” So I stashed my sacks in my SUV and walked over to lend the lady and the exasperated teenage stock clerk a hand.

Long story short (but not too short, of course), we loaded the television into my vehicle, and I drove it to the retirement center where the lady’s 80-something sister was awaiting her birthday present. First, however, I sat in the parking lot for 45 minutes waiting on the 70ish woman to drive to several grocery stores searching for the right kind of grape juice and ice cream. Then, I went door to door at the senior center until I found an old man strong enough to help me carry the television into the sister’s duplex. Then, I went back out to the scorching sidewalk and walked door to door until I found a teenager visiting his grandmother and bribed him with 10 dollars to come to the birthday girl’s house and reprogram the recorder so she wouldn’t miss any “As the World Turns” episodes.

As I remembered my frozen cheesecake melting in my backseat, I thought several times, “Why am I doing this?” The answer lie in two glasses of icy grape juice, a slice of birthday cake and an hour listening to two sisters reminisce about past romances while the soothing sounds of soap-opera affairs and broken hearts serenaded us. My favorite tip: “When you’re at a social and you don’t want to carry a purse, tuck your lipstick in your panties or bra, then hide it in the bathroom when you get there.”

Warning: Don’t try this with thong underwear, and my lipstick did get stolen at Southern Hills, but it’s worked everywhere else.

Naturally curious, I am destined to be one of those “Never Met a Stranger” souls. I love a good story whether I’m hearing it or telling it so I tend to invite chance encounters.

Sometimes, the outcome isn’t satisfying, but more times than not, I can find either a life lesson or something worth repeating, which is good enough for me.

On a plane trip to Chile last year, a young lady sat next to me on the airplane and let out a big sigh. “Fear of flying?” I asked. “No, just life,” she said. She was making a huge career shift by leaving Florida and moving to Santiago to work as a pastry chef. For nearly three hours, we talked about how hard it is sometimes to know whether you are doing what you are meant to do.

I could tell by her questions that she was looking Continued on page 35

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

Mia Mia Magazine, Magazine, Fall Fall 2009 2009

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Mybookshelf

by Virginia Reedy

The mighty queens of freeville

“

In our world it was the women who grabbed shovels and push-brooms and swept up after the tempests that periodically blew

”

down our house.

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Where did Amy Dickinson, successor to Ann Landers at the Chicago Tribune, gain the wisdom that enables her to dole out advice to the hundreds who write her? The answer, she says, “goes back to my family and this small town where I come from and to the fact that I have had a life blessed by incident.”

Although anyone who has experienced divorce, who is a single mother, or who has suffered through the death of a dream will identify with Dickinson’s memoir, The Mighty Queens of Freeville, her story has a much wider appeal. It is a story of perseverance, grit, loyalty, and prevailing. These Mighty Queens inspire us to measure up no matter what life tosses our way. We can identify with the toughness of these women, their gentleness and compassion as they take on the challenges of their lives with grace and fire.

Divorce and single-motherhood backlight this memoir, but it is not a bleak story. In fact, it is full of humor and insight. Dickinson explores small-town life and her female-dominated family, as she recalls the events and the women who shaped her. Freeville, population 458, is located “on the northern fringes of Appalachia, in the rural and worn-out landscape of upstate New York.”

Dickinson’s family has lived in Freeville for more than two hundred years. Though she has lived in many cities—from London to Washington, D.C. to New York and, finally, Chicago, it is this small town that has shaped her and made her the person she is.

Dickinson’s mother, three aunts, a sister, three nieces, and two cousins live in Freeville. It was Dickinson’s daughter, Emily, who named this group of women “The Mighty Queens of Freeville.” In her family, Dickinson says, “the women tend to do the heavy lifting while the men . . .” well, the men tend to drift away. Only one of the Mighty Queens managed to have a lasting marriage, Aunt Lena, who was married to Uncle Harvey for more than sixty years.

Dickinson’s father walked out on his family after twenty-two years of marriage. Dickinson was twelve at the time. Jane, her mother, “prevailed” even though she was left penniless. She managed to finish rearing her three teenaged daughters and one son, went back to college, got her degree – then a graduate degree – became a professor, taught college, and paid off the debts her husband had left behind. As she watched her mother over the years, Dickinson discovered that “prevailing is underrated. People have the idea that unless they win, they lose. But sometimes surviving is enough.

My mother knew this, and I learned it by watching her.”

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

Divorce, says Dickinson, “runs through my clan like an aggressive chromosome.” Nevertheless, she had always believed that she would be the one to break the cycle. All she had ever dreamed about was marriage and motherhood.

She, as do most women, expected her marriage to work—to last—to be the fulfillment she had always imagined. “Marriage and motherhood,” she said “were my life’s work.” She was unprepared to be single, and especially unprepared to be a single mother.

But it happened.

They were living in London when Emily was born, and it was in London that Dickinson’s dream world shattered. Her husband left her. Dickinson bundled up her two-year-old, got on a plane and went home to Freeville. In her hometown, surrounded by the remarkable women who make up her family, Dickinson slowly began the process of picking up the shattered pieces of her life. She realized that if she let it, her divorce “could turn [her] into a vengeful goddess of unremitting heartache.” But she didn’t want to be vengeful. She wanted to be “decent . . . kind . . . to feel good about [her] own behavior. . . to do something right.” So, like her mother, Dickinson prevailed. She did what she had to do, surrounded and encouraged by the women in her family, most of whom had experienced similar heartbreaks. “Being with them reminded me that it could be done,” she said.

After several months of being nurtured by her family, Dickinson decided to move to Washington D.C. to work and begin her new life. Emily was two. She was thirtytwo. Because there was no other person in her life who mattered, Dickinson says she felt the connection to her own child deepen. “Emily and I were two dots, connected by a thread. I decided that whatever shape or structure our family assumed—it would never feel broken.”

They settled in Washington D.C., but it wasn’t long be-

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

fore Dickinson bought an old house in Freeville—a small dilapidated two-story which became a haven for her and Emily during many weekends and the summer months. Every Wednesday, Dickinson’s mom, her three aunts, her sister, nieces— and Amy and Emily if they were in town—met at Toads, a local café to have breakfast and continue their “long-running conversation—which was always already in progress.” She calls these women “disaster specialists.” “In our world,” she says, “it was the women who grabbed shovels and push-brooms and swept up after the tempests that periodically blew down our house.”

The memoir follows Dickinson and Emily until Emily goes off to college. The last page of the book features two photos of Emily and Amy, both taken from behind. In the first photo, Emily is a toddler in London in 1989. In the second, taken in 2008, she has outgrown her mother. At one time Dickinson thought that being a mother defined who she was, but she learned that “mothering is little league caretaking; it’s nothing compared to trying to keep these wonderful women in my life—knowing all the while that one day they will leave it.”

Like the Mighty Queens, most of us women lead “small lives of great consequence in the tiny place that we call home.” The Mighty Queens of Freeville celebrates the ordinary, but it also shows that the ordinary can be wonderful and satisfying. Mia [Amy Dickinson writes the syndicated column “Ask Amy” for the Chicago Tribune. She also hosts a biweekly feature on National Public Radio’s Talk of the Nation and is a panelist on NPR’s quiz show Wait Wait . . . Don’t Tell Me!]

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Myblog

by Marian Van Eyk McCain

Feeling One’s Age If you tell me, coyly, that you are 70 (or however many) years “young,” I cannot help but infer that you regard the word ‘old’ as, at worst, an insult or, at best, something to be avoided. Same with “…but I am young at heart.” Your heart is the same age as the rest of your internal organs. It may beat strongly and you may be full of joy and zest and enthusiasm for living, but that doesn’t make you young. It simply means you are full of joy and zest and enthusiasm for living, and so we should all be, whether we are 5 or 50 or 93 or any other age.

“But I don’t feel 70”, you protest. Wait a minute. Stop and think about that. How do you know what 70 – or any other age – feels like until you get to it? I am 72.

So the way I feel now must be what 72 feels like. How could it be any other way?

I was thinking about that this morning, the last day of the year. 2008 is about to be archived. The years that have already passed lie flat, now, like pressed flowers.

They have lost their roundness. They are stacked on the shelf of memory, each flat year on top of the last flat year, like a deck of cards. Each lasted fifty-two big, fat, juicy weeks, yet each takes only a few seconds to recall, now. All we remember are the highlights – the few, special moments that make that year distinguishable from all the others.

It’s not just years that are like this, but months, weeks, days, individual moments; once they are over they become all flat and thin, too. Unless, like the dried wakame I put in my soup, we soak them a while, plump them out with tears of grief or laughter. Even then, it’s not like the real thing. We are only fully alive when we remain in this moment. The one that’s happening right now.

As soon as moments have passed, they start to desiccate, flatten, turn into thin leaves of memory that can easily blow away in the breeze like tissue paper. So maybe it is because they require so little room in storage that when we look back on all our years of living, they don’t seem to take up enough space. Have I really lived 72 (and a half, actually) full, round, action-packed years? And is this latest one really ending - so soon?

Yes. Here goes another one into the pile on the shelf.

Happy New Year!

To read about Marian Van Eyk McCain, visit her Elderwoman Blog at elderwoman.blogspot.com

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The Words for Honeysuckle The honeysuckle bloomed early this year. On the first day of the month I noticed it already in flower in several places. Excited by my discovery, I was looking forward to getting home and sharing the news.

A few moments later, I saw a pleasant-looking couple coming around the corner, striding briskly towards me in their hiking boots, knapsacks on their backs, almost certainly heading for the Coast Path that runs along the cliff tops close to here. They smiled as we drew close.

And as is the custom in these parts, they wished me a polite “Good morning.” I responded in kind, adding

eagerly that it was a lovely morning and “look, the honeysuckle is already coming out, just up there.”

The man and woman had not broken their stride till then, so were almost past me before they paused and the man said, “I beg your pardon?”

I re-burbled my happy news item. At which they smiled again, albeit tentatively, nodded slightly and went on their way.

Only after I was well around the next corner did it dawn on me that they obviously had not understood a word. And only then did I connect that with the careful, phrase-book English of the “Good morning” and the “I beg your pardon?”

As I walked on, I began to think about how easily I could have conveyed the message about the honeysuckle in a just a few simple, wordless gestures: my hand as an unfolding flower, held to the nose, a sniff, an expression of delight, a finger pointing towards the hedge they were soon to pass. Clear. Effortless. They would have understood perfectly and watched out, perhaps, for the sight and scent of those first flowers.

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

ELDER W O M A N B L O G MARIAN VAN EYK MCCAIN’S OCCASIONAL THOUGHTS ON GREEN AND CONSCIOUS AGEING, SIMPLE LIVING, LOVING THE EARTH ... AND LIFE IN GENERAL.

It would have been a shared moment, a moment of relationship, bypassing the artificial boundaries of language.

It had never occurred to me not to use words. It rarely does. I am a writer. Each day of my life is crammed to the ceiling with words. So that morning’s encounter reminded me that although words can build bridges of understanding to connect minds and hearts, they can also build walls of bafflement to separate them.

Watching a young mother whose child was crying so hard he could not tell her what the problem was, I heard her say “Use your words, Joe. Use your words.”

That wise young woman knew that only by learning to name his chaotic feelings would Joe ever be able to control and understand them.

But there are so many things - like the development of the ego itself - that once learned and mastered need then to be unlearned. Or at least labeled ‘optional’. Our automatic turning to the use of words may possibly be one of them.

I hope that couple noticed the honeysuckle anyway, and stopped to smell it, even if they never did connect it with my message in a foreign language.

I don’t live precisely in a spot like that, ‘tis true. I live a couple of hundred yards below the lip of a small valley.

At the bottom, there are woods and a stream, but at the top, where I walk most days, the countryside is an open, patchwork farmland and I can see for miles. The sky is big. And in the distance, I get a glimpse of the ocean.

Land, Sea and Sky As a child, my favorite story was one about a bunch of animals who lived in a wood. I loved that story. And I used to think that one day I too would like to live in a little house right in the middle of a wood.

I was over fifty before I tried to realize that dream.

The first time I went to look at an actual house for sale in an actual wood, I knew for absolutely certain sure that I didn’t want to live in a wood after all.

That day, I realized that what I now wanted was to live where the sun shone. I wanted to live where I could see the sky. And I wanted to live near the sea because I knew I could not bear to be too far away from the shore.

As we age, we change. And it is good to keep track of those changes. We shouldn’t say: “I am a person who …”, because we might not be that sort of a person any more. Better to check within and ask “Who am I right now?”

And right now, although I love to walk through the woods, my favorite place to be is that place where land, sea and sky all come together.

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

A forty-five minute walk will take me to one of those magic, land/sea/sky places; the sort of place where I could stand for hours, just watching the waves rolling endlessly into the shore, the seabirds circling, the land sloping down to meet the water, the ever-changing pattern of the clouds.

How wonderfully small and insignificant I am, this dot of living tissue called a human being, standing kneedeep in the heather with the salty sea-wind whipping my hair. Who am I right now? A speck of life, smaller than a grain of sand in the mighty and mysterious scheme of things.

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Mymoney

by Holly Wall

Finding My Financial Way It’s interesting, the ways we define success.

I’ve never really considered myself “successful,” even though, at age 26, I’ve earned advanced positions in two newspaper companies and garnered something of a name for myself via freelance writing for various other publications. I am also mom to one-year-old Isaac, which is my most successful accomplishment to date.

But I’ve struggled financially in the last couple of years, in much the same way I did while earning money for college, slinging beer and burgers at dive bars. And for that reason, I’ve felt unsuccessful.

I never believed that I needed a man to take care of me or help determine my success, but my confidence sank when my relationship with my son’s father ended.

This left me in the less-than-desirable position of being a single mom, worrying about how I was going to pay rent and bills, put healthy food on the table, keep up with my jobs and still spend quality time with my son.

All on my own. The weight of it all was almost overwhelming.

Isaac’s father and I struggled on two incomes, and I worried about how much worse it would be when it was whittled down to one. I didn’t mind struggling in my early 20’s. It’s what college students are supposed to do. But the last thing I ever wanted was for my son to have less than he deserves. Like every mother, I wanted to give him everything he needed. How was I supposed to do that now?

I’ve always had a difficult time asking for help, even though I have an amazing family who would give me anything I need, and the idea of receiving any kind of government assistance made me feel worse – like I couldn’t provide for my family on my own. In February, I took advantage of Community Action Project’s free tax preparation program. Thanks in part to the birth of my son the previous year, I received a substantial tax refund and poured it all into paying off debt, ridding myself of the burden of two credit cards and significantly reducing the balance of another. It was then that I realized that as a woman who is responsible for only my son and myself, I was empowered to make the most of my money.

How Holly is dumping HER debt 22 22

Debt

Bank of America CC Washington Mutual CC Sears Credit Card Express Credit Card Car loan Student loan

It’s amazing that I’m actually doing better now financially. Rather than spending any extra income on dining out or lending my partner money for his half of the gas bill, I can save that money. Paying off a little bit of my debt made me want to pay off more, and after shrugging off their recommendations for months, I finally followed a few friends’ advice and jumped on the Dave Ramsey bandwagon. I poured over his Financial Peace with a fine-toothed comb, a highlighter and a ballpoint pen. By implementing his “snowball” strategy for paying off debt, I will be debt-free within five years (providing I stick to the plan and don’t lose my job).

Not that long ago, the idea of not having a student loan or car payment was unfathomable. I always assumed those were two bills I’d always have; that they were as constant as the gas bill or groceries. But in just a few years, the college loans and the car will be paid off, so I began to think of what I could do with that money, and of what I could do for Isaac. Although I haven’t yet delved into the investment-related chapters of Ramsey’s book, I’m taking baby steps.

Granted, I work much harder than I did before. I take on extra writing assignments to supplement my biweekly paycheck, and then I stash that extra cash in the bank. Isaac’s father and I always thought we’d eventually buy a house, so we started out renting a tiny place near the Tulsa County Fairgrounds to save extra money for a down payment. When it became obvious that wasn’t going to happen, I gave up on the idea of home ownership, but as I began to rethink my finances, I realized that all of the money I was saving could make for a nice down payment, and that I could own a house for as much money as I spent on rent per month. I started to feel a glimmer of hope, like maybe success wasn’t as far off as I’d imagined it to be.

I’m still saving and have begun the house-hunting process, which so far has proven to be the most stressful experience of my life. Even though it is extraordinarily hard work, knowing that I can provide my son with a home and everything else he needs is so rewarding. In my book, it’s the definition of success. Mia

Balance Minimum Payment Expected Completion $ 0 $50 Completed! $ 0 $50 Completed! $ 721 $29 In 5 months at $129/month $ 1,101 $55 In 6 months at $184/month $10,293 $216 In 2 years at $400/month $11,633

$279 In 17 months at $679/month

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

My favorite chapter of Dave Ramsey’s Financial Peace is chapter eight: Dumping Debt. Ramsey quotes The Consumer Reports Money Book, saying that the typical household carries about $38,000 in debt and that 74 percent of households have at least one major credit card.

Ramsey details how credit card companies and other lenders market themselves to American families, ensuring that we are always in debt by convincing us that we need every gadget and gizmo. We are told that we can afford them all through the magic of plastic. In order to pay off already accumulated debt, Ramsey offers “The Debt Snowball,” a method for digging oneself out of debt by paying off balances in order from smallest to largest. Here is how it works: Rather than paying off the debt with the largest interest rate first, Ramsey asserts that by paying off the smallest balance first, then ascending to the highest, repayment is accelerated and you stay motivated because you see quick results.

You pay off the balance of the first debt with the minimum payment each month if that is your only alternative. Once you’ve paid that debt, you use that payment, plus the minimum payment on the next debt to pay off the second balance on your list. Once that debt is eliminated, you apply all of the money you were using toward that balance to the next. While doing this, you continue to pay the minimum balances on your other debts. Once you get two or three things paid off, you’ll have a hefty amount of cash going into the next debt. Rather than recreationally spending the money that had gone toward the credit card balance, you continue putting it all toward your debt.

The chart (left) shows my current debt from the smallest balance to the largest. I listed the approximate amount of time it would take me to pay off each debt and seeing that number keeps me motivated to stick with the program. I’ll have all of that debt paid in less than five years!

Mia Magazine, Magazine,Fall Fall 2009 2009

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

Myhealth

Demalda Newsome

Food Warrior

by Natasha Ball

Within hollering distance of a busy highway are mammoth shade trees, the sound of roosters heralding the day, and five acres’ worth of farmland open for anyone with a hankering for southern-style, down-home produce.

Newsome Community Farms, opened more than ten years ago in north Tulsa by Rufus and Demalda Newsome, is a farm, but it is also a farmers’ market and a community garden. In addition, it is a teaching tool the family uses in its mission to eradicate health and hunger issues. These are problems the Newsomes believe are at the root of some of the area’s larger social and economic woes.

Demalda began to feel driven to serve the community this way early in life when, as a girl growing up in Greenville, Mississippi, she watched in amazement as her next-door neighbor grew vegetables in his backyard. “I would watch him work in that garden for hours,” she said. “Every day I came back, his plants were taller and taller. The next thing I knew, he was eating the food. We were told not to go in his garden, but I just had to get a closer look. So, once I snuck in when the man left home. I thought there was magic in the ground that made those plants grow.”

When her mother’s sweet potatoes sprouted on the kitchen counter, the 10-year-old Demalda decided to give farming a try for herself. “I planted them on the same side of the house where the next-door neighbor lived. I wanted him to recognize that I was trying to do what he was doing. When I harvested those potatoes, I was so proud,” she said.

Her course was set early in life when she learned of those who didn’t have food at home to eat. “I grew up Catholic, and the nuns at school would come back from Africa and elsewhere. Having been with the underserved in those places, they taught us that we were also responsible to people who did not have. I remember getting that charge. When I first heard that there were people who looked like me who didn’t have food to eat, I laid my head on my desk and cried.”

Demalda and Rufus moved to Oklahoma in 1982 and, about ten years later, bought and began farming a five-acre plot of land in north Tulsa. “Even when we first got here, people were coming who needed food. We let them pick greens, and we were always giving out food,” she said.

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

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Looking to help eradicate the hunger surrounding her from all sides, she began working with the local food bank. Once she learned more about how they gathered, stored and distributed food she began to think there might be a better way to help people. “The food was filling them up, but it wasn’t nourishing them,” she said.

Demalda decided to give her farmers’ market idea a chance to take flight. It was a concept she had worked on while earning her master’s degree at Southern Nazarene University. “I had no idea what we were doing,” she laughed. “We are the only farmers’ market that’s ever been on an actual farm. But people like to buy food where they can see it being grown.”

Today, Demalda uses the farm to educate her neighbors about nutrition and backyard gardening. She also offers plots for those who’d like to grow their own food but could use a helping hand. She gives her visitors literature to take with them on how to grow food, from composting to harvesting to dealing naturally with pests. All produce is grown organically, and the Newsomes don’t use genetically altered seeds or plants.

Demalda has been a driving force in the community garden movement in Tulsa, and she now heads a total of seven gardens. Since they were officially sanctioned by the City Council earlier this year, community gardens have cropped up everywhere from vacant residential lots, to churches, to daycare centers. The community gardens serve as training modules throughout the community for groups ranging from seniors to preschoolers. Demalda’s work with community gardens falls under the umbrella of her lauded, USDA-funded project, North Tulsa EATS (Empowering Access and Teaching Sustainability).

The largest garden is at Alcott Elementary School, where close to 400 children and school staff participate.

The garden is used as an outdoor classroom where working the land permeates every academic discipline, from economics to art.

Food policy in the state and beyond has been greatly influenced by Demalda’s efforts to bring food and education to the underserved, including those in her community who have been without a major grocery outlet for more than three years. She sits on two national food security boards – Community Food Security Coalition and Southern Sustainable Agriculture Working Group – which focus on food access issues and farmers’ rights, as well as farm workers’ rights.

Often, it’s an uphill climb. Success hasn’t been totally out of reach, though. Thanks to Demalda and her cohorts’ efforts, food stamps and WIC benefits are now accepted at farmers’ markets throughout the state, including the Cherry Street Farmers’ Market, the largest of its kind in Tulsa. She is now working to get the word out about how these same benefits can be used to purchase food-bearing plants and seeds, as well as food from certain restaurants.

Continued on page 36

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When I first heard that there were people who looked like me who didn’t have food to eat, I laid my head on my desk and cried.

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Myjourney

by Michelle Palmer

we can take one I said “yes.”

It started four years ago at our church in Tulsa when we were watching video highlights from some summer missions trip, including one to an orphanage in Jinja, Uganda. My husband and I were moved by the thought of these beautiful children growing up without parents.

I thought to myself, we can’t take them all, but we can take one. Crazy. I reasoned that if God was talking to me, He would need to bring it up to my husband.

On our drive home, my usually quiet husband spoke out. His exact words were, “We can’t take them all, but we can take one.”

So we said “yes.”

It was supposed to take six months, less than ten thousand dollars, zero trips to Africa, and almost no heartache. It has, in fact, taken four years, required more money than we had planned for, and has led our family to uproot from our home in Tulsa to a new home in Africa. It has also involved more heartache then I can express.

It did not go as we hoped, prayed, or fully expected. In fact, I may not have said “yes” if I had known what would happen.

We quickly got “matched” with a precious orphan named Sterling, a fourteenmonth-old boy whose mother died after he was born and who was abandoned by his father.

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

29

His birth certificate read, abandoned Sterling. He was older than we had planned, but we said “yes.”

We were approved in January 2006 by the U.S. and waited until our March court date for legal guardianship in Uganda. We got the call and it looked like things were going to move ahead. One small problem, though—the judge insisted one parent appear in court.

He would not hear the case otherwise. We had two weeks to scramble for money, plane tickets, and a passport. But we said “yes.”

Two weeks later, I walked off a plane and held our son for the first time. From the moment he was placed in my arms, we were inseparable. We appeared before the judge the next day and waited for our ruling.

After four weeks of waiting, we were denied.

Sterling and I had spent a month bonding, and I had promised him I would never leave him. He finally had a mommy. How could I take that away from him?

We felt led to go home and trust God with our new son, but we decided to appeal the ruling. In July 2006 we had another court date, this time with the Ugandan Appeals Court. It was going to be a sure thing. They would overturn the ruling and send our long-awaited son to the United States. We were certain this time that we were going to get our happy ending.

We got a call a week before court—the judge wanted me there. We scurried for money and plane tickets again, and in a week I was in Uganda and Sterling was in my arms again. It was like I had never left him. My heart had stayed in Africa with him, and I felt complete with our son back in my arms. I saw the judge a few hours after arriving, and then waited for the ruling that would be here any day, but it never came. Five weeks later I made the decision that I needed to go back to my biological children in the U.S. and leave our son here in Africa. Again.

I cannot explain the depth of pain that came from leaving him. I was torn between two worlds, and it was eating me alive. Sleep and joy were things of the past, and my heart was sicker than it had ever been. Would we ever have our son? This question kept me up many nights, as did my aching heart.

The ruling came in February 2007. They said “yes!”

But there was one slight problem: We had to “finalize to adopt in Uganda” which would take three years.

These five words kept our son from being able to come to America, and there was no way around it. The U.S. would not issue a visa for him unless we could finalize in America.

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We asked the judges to remove it from the ruling.

They refused. We asked the U.S. embassy to make an exception. They refused. We were stuck and at a loss.

We tried many things over the next year to get our son to America, but nothing worked. All the while our little Sterling was growing up. The bouncy one-year-old I had held in my arms turned two, then three, then four years old.

Time was not on our side, and as Sterling grew, his chances of being in a family were greatly decreasing.

He was approaching the “undesirable” orphan age. In October of 2008 we called the orphanage and requested to release Sterling so he could be adopted by someone else. We wanted him to have a family even if it wasn’t ours.

Grieving began immediately, and so did the questions. How could our “yes” turn into the biggest heartache and struggle of our lives? Our kids grieved the loss of their brother. We grieved the loss of a son.

But five days after we had given our son back we had a chance to say “yes” again. Some friends heard our story and could not bear the thought of our family being apart. They offered to help us to move to Africa so we could bring Sterling into our family.

We had considered this many times before but we needed more than money; we needed a clear directive from God to move to Africa. We now had four biological children and were legal guardians of a sixteen-year-old.

That’s a lot of people to put through a major change.

This was a huge decision. How could we leave everything we’ve known? How could we leave it all for one person? But then, how could we say “no?”

Five months later we were on a plane to Africa.

To our son.

We’ll be in Uganda at least three years, and at the end of that time we should be able to finalize our adoption.

So far nothing has happened as we expected, and so I cannot say anything with certainty. I would like to say we’ll be able to bring Sterling home at the end of it all, but I don’t even know where “home” is anymore.

I would like to tell you how wonderful and easy it has been since we arrived, but I can’t. This journey has been, and continues to be, one of great struggle and of daily sacrifice. We don’t know what will happen in the future or where God will lead our family. All we know is that we’re listening to Him and praying that we have the courage to continue to say “yes.” Mia

To read more about the Palmer’s journey, read their blog: www.oneroofafrica.blogspot.com

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

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Myrelationships Continued from page 11

But the body handles stress whether we acknowledge it or not, and I started having severe anxiety attacks.”

The prison visits, the family silence, her brother’s plight, and parenting the girls added anxiety to her already stressful nursing position. She felt out-of-control. Betsy quit her nursing career and began cleaning houses.

She was angry at her brother because, as she said, “he had been no choir boy” before being accused of the crime he did not commit. She was disappointed at having to give up her dream career and how her life had been affected by the actions of others. “For years, my needs were not part of the equation. How unhealthy it was that I did not tell anyone what I needed.” Still, Betsy never gave up on her belief that her brother was innocent, and she could not have considered doing anything different. “Faith is not faith when things are going well. Feelings come and feelings go, but commitment stands.”

“” For years, my needs were not part of the equation. How unhealthy it was that I did not tell anyone what I needed.

Finally, after his seven years in prison and court appeals, DNA evidence surfaced and Greg was acquitted.

With a breath of relief, the family engaged in therapy in an attempt to normalize their lives. Betsy began a new career as a financial advisor, married, and finally she began to heal. She is transparent about her experi-

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ence and makes it clear that, although the situation has resolved itself legally, the residual stress and confusion remain.

She admits that her feelings throughout the years were not always positive and that she did not always do everything right while raising her nieces. However, her love for them is apparent: their picture is one of Betsy and Greg

only a few photos adorning Betsy’s organized, uncomplicated living room. The other mementos include her wedding picture and one of her family…only what is most important to her. She also admits that while she had ambiguous feelings for her brother throughout the years, she grew to appreciate his strength and endurance. She and Greg have appeared together in television interviews, and they have enjoyed a closeness she hadn’t anticipated.

Greg now lives in California and is an anti-death penalty public speaker. He suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome and Betsy understands that he may never fully recover. She also knows that her family has emotional and financial scars and she worries about the toll the experience has taken on her nieces. She reminds herself that she and Greg were thrust into a situation not of their choosing, yet they maneuvered through it the best they knew how. “Forgiveness is a gift you give yourself. Without it, we would remain victims forever.” Mia

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myINSPIRATION continued from page 16

for me to be the “wise older woman,” but, frankly, I’m 48 and struggle with that same thought nearly every day.

I began asking her what she liked about being a pastry chef, and she explained how she loved working on petit fours and cupcakes.

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Tell me those words weren’t meant to be shared.

My life has been enriched by many a stranger. Some of them have become my friends, while others I will likely never see again. Don’t talk to strangers may still be sound advice for children, but I’m not sure it applies to adults. I know it doesn’t apply to me.

Next time, give the girl a dollar to pay for her grocery store candy. Help the old man pick out flowers for his wife. Smile at the young man herding shopping carts in the parking lot while you let grumpy guy get that prime parking spot he’s so hellbent on snagging.

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myhealth

continued from page 26 “When people don’t get proper nutrition, the brain is damaged forever. If children are not eating well and nutritiously, then you’ve created generations of people who are permanently altered. That’s a huge problem.

Her current crusade is for garnering more money for low-income markets, as well as convincing campaigns like Buy Fresh Buy Local Oklahoma to print its informational pamphlets in Spanish, tucking them into north and east Tulsa publications. She continues her work with the nationwide initiative to remake corner stores, and she also works to bring together local farmers and school cafeterias. Demalda supervises a team of Green Teens, a local group of kids she employs at a competitive wage of $10 per hour to work the rows at Newsome Community Farm.

“I almost feel chosen to do this because believe me, I tried to get out. I told God, ‘Maybe somebody else can do this.’ These issues, these problems, it’s all so much and so big.

“But I’m not afraid to take on controversy. I’m willing to stand up for the people who don’t know the right words to articulate themselves. Not only do I feel I have to represent African Americans, but I also want to represent people of color who are stuck in a system of oppression and don’t know how to get out.” Mia

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

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37

Myafterthoughts

by Monica Roberts

shifting gears

“ ” Rather than digital “status updates,” we made real, lasting connections.

38

I love to drive fast. And although he loves me dearly, my husband hates this characteristic of mine. Anytime he rides shotgun when I’m behind the wheel, I get a steady stream of frustrated sighs and deep breathing from his direction as I change lanes quickly, brake far too late for his liking, and push the limits of the speed laws around town.

About a year ago we lived in Dallas. Surely you’ve been there and know that Dallas is known for many things including traffic jams and fast-paced driving. With my three dear children on board, I would let loose my inner Danica Patrick and put the pedal to the metal. Now we were finally getting somewhere, at least within the parameters of an automobile.

Sure, I need to slow down. That fact applies to more than just my driving tendencies. Small changes along the way and little adjustments that put some extra breathing room in the day are good places to start.

I love the idea of the slow food movement – knowing where our food is grown and that it hasn’t had to buy a ticket to get to my table. Don’t get me wrong, there’s still a frozen cheese pizza in my fridge and I don’t buy exclusively local and organic. But I do like the idea of making gradual changes to become more mindful of what our family eats.

I’m considering moving slower in relationships, too. It’s interesting that at the same time slow food is becoming a trend, so are the social networks of Facebook, Twitter and the like. Talk about speed; I’ve amassed a big audience of people that I share only shallow, 140-character, bite-size chunks of my life with. Does anyone out there really care what’s on my mind or what I’m doing? I may be a speedster, but I’m not a narcissist.

When we lived in Dallas, we met several families from Europe through our kids’ international school. These women had an impact on me, especially their habit of always having a tray of hot tea and snacks at the ready when I visited (often served on a cloth-covered table, but don’t get me started on that). You can’t do a quick chat over that kind of hospitality. Tea makes you linger, and meals with these women were always an event that lasted at least four or five hours. They were amazed at the American eat-and-run mentality.

Rather than digital “status updates,” we made real, lasting connections.

Sure I have a Facebook account. How else will everyone know how cute my new baby is? But it’s much more interesting and meaningful to talk to the real people around me. Next door to us there’s an 80-year-old woman who has lived on this street since the 1960s. I’m thinking it’s time to “friend” her. Mia

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

Meet ourwriters Debbi Guilfoyle is Executive Director of Crosstown Learning Center in Tulsa. She has three grown children and three grandchildren, and considers all of the precious little ones at Crosstown her children as well. Debbi wrote My Cause: “Scratched Knees and Family Ties” on page 6.

Sogol Ahmadinia was born and raised in Tulsa, Oklahoma and is a proud Okie.

Sogol recently graduated from Washington University in St. Louis. This fall, she is moving to Washington, D.C to begin her first year at Georgetown Law School.

She loves to travel, read, and spend time with her family and friends, and is not looking forward to doing considerably less of all those things next year. Sogol wrote My Heritage: “Immersed in Culture” on page 8.

Five days a week, Linda Rubin is a high school English teacher, and three nights a week she counsels troubled teens. She has two sons, a four year-old grandson and another one on the way. She has her masters in both school counseling and clinical psychology, and is working to obtain her license to practice as a therapist. She is a cancer survivor and an incurable optimist.

Her greatest feeling of success is helping kids make it through college. Linda wrote My Relationships: “An Unexpected Loyalty,” page 10.

A wife, mother to three, creative writer, communications consultant and PR specialist, Charlotte Guest enjoys seeing what each new day brings. She works for a variety of clients in the Tulsa area and loves playing tennis, oil painting, movie theatre popcorn and funny greeting cards. She is learning how to play golf, despite her type-A temperament. Charlotte is often inspired by this quote from Helen Keller: “Keep your face to the sun and you’ll never see the shadow.”

Charlotte wrote My Art: “Music as a Way of Life,” page 12.

Ada Tikkanen was born and raised in Memphis, TN. She attended the University of Tennessee and the University of Memphis where she earned a BA in Journalism and

Mia Magazine, Fall 2009

MA in Film/Video Production. Throughout the years she rode the wind to Oxford, MS and Myrtle Beach, SC where she honed her skills in waiting tables, advertising account management, and, in general, just being Southern. She lived the last ten years in Chicago with her husband and two towheaded kids before relocating to Tulsa. Now Ada continues to focus on making the perfect buttermilk pancake before moving onto the flawless biscuit, which still remains just outside of her grasp. As the youngest of six, she learned the art of cooking large, Southern meals from her Momma and always has more than enough for anyone who may drop by at dinner time.

Ada wrote “My Hometown,” on page 14.

for sustainable living) and a just-published women’s fiction novel, The Bird Menders. Marian lives in Devon, in the southwest corner of England. Marian’s blog is on page 20.

A former journalist, Sheilah Bright turned to freelance writing 19 years ago after realizing that juggling three kids while trying to document crime scenes or grass fires for small-town newspapers was too chaotic for family life. She is a newlyminted empty-nester determined to experience the world through travel, writing and photography. Her work has been published in numerous newspapers and magazines, including Oklahoma Today where she is a contributing editor. She and her husband, live on Bright Morning Farm, a 35-acre homestead in Sand Springs. Sheilah wrote My Inspiration: “The Power of Strangers,” on page 16.

Natasha Ball is a fifth-generation Tulsan who spends her days finding new and exciting things to do in T-Town for her awardwinning blog, TashaDoesTulsa.com. Her goal is to show off Tulsa’ s serious coolness to Web surfers around the globe. She hopes native Tulsans also read her blog and are inspired to get off the couch and refresh their experience of their city. Natasha also writes in Urban Tulsa Weekly about how to get down with T-Town without breaking the bank and about Tulsa’s food scene in Tulsa Business Journal. When Natasha isn’t writing she can be found in the kitchen whipping up anything from pies to pasta to big, juicy burgers. Natasha wrote My Health: “Demelda Newsom, Food Warrior” on page 25.

Virginia Reedy retired in 1995 after 33 years of teaching English. The last 25 of those years she taught composition and literature at Tarrant County College in Hurst, Texas. For the past five years she has taught conversation and citizenship classes through the international ministry at her church in Grapevine, Texas. She has been married 61 years to her sweetheart of a husband, Tom. They have three children, five grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. Virginia wrote the My Bookshelf article on The Mighty Queens of Freeville, page 18.

Marian Van Eyk McCain is a retired psychotherapist, and is also a writer, grandmother, eco-activist, columnist, editor, blogger and author of six books including: Transformation through Menopause (a new way of envisioning the psychological, emotional and spiritual aspects of menopause), Elderwoman (a comprehensive guide to the crowning/croning phase of women’s lives), The Lilypad List: Seven steps to the simple life (a primer

Holly Wall is a reporter working and living in Tulsa. She writes full-time for the Tulsa Business Journal and freelances for Urban Tulsa Weekly, Tulsa Kids, Intermission and ArtFocus Oklahoma. Her son Isaac is a year and a half old and the light of her life.

When she’s not mothering, writing or pulling her hair out house hunting, Holly enjoys reading, cooking, eating and seeing the sights of Tulsa. Holly wrote My Money: “Finding My Financial Way” on page 22.

Michelle Palmer is a missionary to Uganda who is also a wife, mother, and friend. She enjoys leading worship with her husband, Adam, being a mom to their five children, writing music, meeting new people, praying, and thinking up new ways to cook meals despite limited Ugandan capabilities.

She currently lives in Jinja, Uganda. Michelle wrote My Journey: “We Can Take One” on page 29.

Monica Roberts is an Oklahoma native and Tulsa is her adopted hometown. When she’s not being a mom to Jack, Lucy and Oscar (children, not dogs), she writes, works as a marketing consultant and tries to take a nap, which rarely works out.

She enjoys cooking, reading, long walks and entertaining. Monica writes the column, “Afterthoughts,“ page 38.

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