Thnak You Amazing Polly, for your work & 'Love of Humanity' & to TruthVideos 1984 & BitChute, for sharing . . . Check Out, above banned video *** HERE ***
DO YOU EVER FEEL LIKE YOU NEED A BREAK FROM THE "CRAZINESS"? .... I DO!
I NEED A BREAK, FROM POSTING ABOUT OUR 'CONVOLUTED' 3D REALITY, ON 'BELOVED MOTHER EARTH'.... I.E. CORPORATOCRACY; CONTROL SYSTEMS; SERVICE TO SELF 'PSYCHOPATHS' and the like... So as 'Mother's Day' approaches, I couldn't help but reminisce about a 'trucking story' an old friend sent me a while back... His name is Chris. I've known Chris since the mid '70's;.. worked with him for many years & in the '90's Chris became a 'long haul' trucker. Chris is a 'great humanitarian' & an 'authentic human being'... He is a 'gentle soul' & a good example of what humanity is striving to become.. One of his many 'short stories' that best describes the 'goodness & contradiction' in our world is: 'Beauty in the Ghetto' - Thank You my Friend for allowing me to post this . . . And Thank You 'Ezzy', for your 'Motherly Influence' . . .
“Beauty In the Ghetto” . . . Sure is hard to see in here. This old warehouse must be pushing 150 years old. The only light seems to be coming from those skylights up on the roof. They look like they're at least 50-60 feet up - the ceiling's black and the walls are dark gray - a dismal place, to say the least. And the smell... a cross between hemp or rope and old coffee beans. The shipping boss says that coffee has been the only commodity ever stored in here. Apparently ships bring in beans from around the world and this particular warehouse distributes the coffee to US and Canadian purchasers sometime thereafter. The wooden handcarts used by the workers look like something straight out of a museum. No forklifts in use here, just plain old manual labor. Let's see, there are 12 docks in use, 10 of which are labeled as Shipping. I can see no more than 6 men moving the 50 lb. bags from piles on the floor onto the carts and into the waiting trucks. Unbelievable - there are only 2 workers per truck, so I guess it's going to be a while before they get to me - might as well go outside for a bite of fresh air and some exercise. Got to be careful though - the local drivers informed me that this was one of the worst areas in New Orleans... Jumping down off one of the docks, I walk towards my truck. No damage that I can see, nothing missing on the outside - the still-locked doors tell me that everything is "ok" on the inside. Moving away from my truck towards a fairly comfortable tree stump near the entrance gate, I take note of the surroundings. It is painfully clear as to why this whole neighborhood has become a ghetto. When the Interstate was "pushed through", it had cut all of the streets in two - creating instant "dead ends"... Above and behind me are two elevated Interstate ramps. There is a lot of noise and a constant rumble coming from them. The majority of homes on this street are burned out shells. There are abandoned cars on the street, people lying under trees and on porches. This is a slum - there is no question about it. Whether or not this area is on one of the City's improvement plans, it remains a slum for the time being. No wonder the local police are so adverse to coming down here. No wonder there is so little interest in the well being of the local citizens. To my right is one of the many New Orleans' "Project" housing units. Kind of like row housing, but more compact. The colors are vibrant and alive, but the space is severely limited. Perhaps it is only my imagination, however I feel like this whole place is crying out to be recognized. On my way in, the kids were acting just like kids are supposed to act - anywhere that is, where there is the potential for them to advance... Forget the surroundings - look into their eyes and you see intelligence, hopefulness - and forgiveness. Holy #@*$, what does this man want? He has jumped out of NOWHERE and is now standing directly in front of me. I hear him asking if I have any spare change - to which I reply (more out of fear than anything) that I am only allowed to use a business credit card and no cash. Amazingly, the man apologizes and stumbles on down the street with his bottle in a paper bag. Gathering my shattered nerves, I continue the visual survey of the neighborhood from my stump. There is no question, but at some time during the past 30 years, this area was probably an example of a typical urban suburb. Not so now......... Directly across the street from the Coffee warehouse is a tiny house sitting on what looks like a double lot. Perhaps all of 50 ft wide by 30 ft deep. It is painted white and would be considered typical small-town-USA. What "makes" this setting, is the porch that surrounds the West and North sides of the tiny home, and the incredible garden that fills the second lot. The flowers are beautiful - they are situated so well - the vegetable garden looks to be organized and incredibly healthy. There is a rose covered arbor between one of the flowerbeds and the vegetable garden. There really isn't much grass to be seen anywhere, however the yard is clean and neat and looks like a tiny oasis in the midst of this forgotten and dying neighborhood. "I see you just met Shaky", says a soft voice from across the street. "Yes" I reply, and not certain of what to say next, I blurt out "Your home looks very nice, especially the garden - you must be very proud of it". "You're welcome to come on over an take a look", the soft voice says in a slow southern drawl - "how bout an iced tea on this hot ol day"? Now that I have focused on the owner of the voice, I can see that here was a pleasant looking black lady in a long white dress standing on the porch across the street. She's wearing a pair of gardening gloves and has long gray hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back. My guess is 80 maybe 90 years old. "Thank you, an iced tea sounds great - I'll be right over". Crossing the street, I look back and see the warehouse manager standing by one of the docks. He gives me a big toothy grin, and kind of saluting wave from the side of his head. A good sign? Is my imagination acting up again? - but as I cross the street I swear that there is a kind of cool breeze in the midst of all this heat and humidity. Seeing that there is only a single rocking chair on the porch, I sit down on the top step of the stairway facing the flower garden. Now that I am closer, it is plain to see that this home, and most of its plantings are enjoying the so-called "Golden Years". Everything looks old, but fairly well preserved and my intuition tells me that it was near its best around 40 to 50 years ago. The door opens quietly and the old lady reappears. "Things cold up there in Canada"? "You saw me get out of my truck didn't you"? - She nods. "No, if it's 100 down here, it is probably 80 back home - just not so humid as down here by the ocean". "You have really kept up your property - It's nice". She hands me a tall glass of ice tea. "Call me Ezzy". "Glad to meet you Ezzy, I'm Chris". "Things were never like this in the old days. This here neighborhood was somethin to see. Was beautiful back then - what wit the river go'in round the big bend over there - use to sit right here an watch the tugs an barges". "Ma husband use to work the river, when he weren't fishing in some bayou". "Dint own a car back then, dint need one - now, that's all there is round here". "Whole place seems to be built for em - an screw the people - know what I mean Chris"? She went quiet. Taking a closer look at "Ezzy", it is clear to me that here is a still good looking elderly woman who must have been a total knockout in her younger days. She has a determined look about her but with no hard edges. Ezzy looks like she is comfortable in her home and content to be there with her flowers and vegetables. Not being sure what tact to take with her, I comment that the Ice Tea was perfect and very refreshing. "Thanks" she says "glad you like it". "Do you have a large family"? "Nope - no family". "My husband Jack died back in the sixties an I've been here alone ever since". "Don't mind though, got my books an a good TV, an I help out down the street at the school, an the church". "Garden keeps me busy - No winters down here Chris"! She laughs. "Your plantings look so nice, especially the rose arbor". "Jus the way Jack an I planted them". "They're all there, every last one of em". "Trim'em now an then, little water an fertilizer, but mostly just love and care - nuttin else". "That's some warehouse you've got across the street". "Sho nuf - place never changes - same family owned it since new". "You good with a hammer Chris"? "I think so, what needs fixing Ezzy"? "Kids climbed over ma fence last week an broke one of the rails - shouldn't be too hard to fix I reckin". We leave the porch and walk back towards a rickety old shed in the corner of the yard. I notice that there was no door on it and all of her gardening tools are hanging neatly on the back wall along with a few rusty hand tools. After I re-nail her fence boards and straighten up a couple of others, I say that it is probably time for me to go over to that old coffee warehouse and see how the boys were making out with my trailer. Ezzy says that they had just hired a few more local boys and didn't expect that they would be working "too awful hard in there". I thank her again for the Iced Tea and she tells me to make sure that I stop in to see her next time I was across the street. I promise her that I will, and wish her all the best for herself and her lovely garden. Back across the street, it is hotter than ever, the humidex is still around 118, and that old coffee warehouse still smells as bad to me as it did when I first arrived. "Your truck is loaded - my boys started on it right away". The warehouse manager says as he literally beams at me with his toothy grin. "Glad to see you got to visit with miz Ezzy - She's a fine old lady isn't she"? "Sure is," I say - "Ezzy is a fine old lady". Today, more young millionaires will be created, and more "BOOMERS" will go down in flames with the Dow, yet here in the ghetto, beauty (a true beauty), will remain in the small yard - under the Interstate, and across from the 'old coffee warehouse'.
Chris Chamberlin - Content Creator.. Not to be reproduced, or used without the written consent of it's creator.
I NEED A BREAK, FROM POSTING ABOUT OUR 'CONVOLUTED' 3D REALITY, ON 'BELOVED MOTHER EARTH'.... I.E. CORPORATOCRACY; CONTROL SYSTEMS; SERVICE TO SELF 'PSYCHOPATHS' and the like... So as 'Mother's Day' approaches, I couldn't help but reminisce about a 'trucking story' an old friend sent me a while back... His name is Chris. I've known Chris since the mid '70's;.. worked with him for many years & in the '90's Chris became a 'long haul' trucker. Chris is a 'great humanitarian' & an 'authentic human being'... He is a 'gentle soul' & a good example of what humanity is striving to become.. One of his many 'short stories' that best describes the 'goodness & contradiction' in our world is: 'Beauty in the Ghetto' - Thank You my Friend for allowing me to post this . . . And Thank You 'Ezzy', for your 'Motherly Influence' . . .
“Beauty In the Ghetto” . . . Sure is hard to see in here. This old warehouse must be pushing 150 years old. The only light seems to be coming from those skylights up on the roof. They look like they're at least 50-60 feet up - the ceiling's black and the walls are dark gray - a dismal place, to say the least. And the smell... a cross between hemp or rope and old coffee beans. The shipping boss says that coffee has been the only commodity ever stored in here. Apparently ships bring in beans from around the world and this particular warehouse distributes the coffee to US and Canadian purchasers sometime thereafter. The wooden handcarts used by the workers look like something straight out of a museum. No forklifts in use here, just plain old manual labor. Let's see, there are 12 docks in use, 10 of which are labeled as Shipping. I can see no more than 6 men moving the 50 lb. bags from piles on the floor onto the carts and into the waiting trucks. Unbelievable - there are only 2 workers per truck, so I guess it's going to be a while before they get to me - might as well go outside for a bite of fresh air and some exercise. Got to be careful though - the local drivers informed me that this was one of the worst areas in New Orleans... Jumping down off one of the docks, I walk towards my truck. No damage that I can see, nothing missing on the outside - the still-locked doors tell me that everything is "ok" on the inside. Moving away from my truck towards a fairly comfortable tree stump near the entrance gate, I take note of the surroundings. It is painfully clear as to why this whole neighborhood has become a ghetto. When the Interstate was "pushed through", it had cut all of the streets in two - creating instant "dead ends"... Above and behind me are two elevated Interstate ramps. There is a lot of noise and a constant rumble coming from them. The majority of homes on this street are burned out shells. There are abandoned cars on the street, people lying under trees and on porches. This is a slum - there is no question about it. Whether or not this area is on one of the City's improvement plans, it remains a slum for the time being. No wonder the local police are so adverse to coming down here. No wonder there is so little interest in the well being of the local citizens. To my right is one of the many New Orleans' "Project" housing units. Kind of like row housing, but more compact. The colors are vibrant and alive, but the space is severely limited. Perhaps it is only my imagination, however I feel like this whole place is crying out to be recognized. On my way in, the kids were acting just like kids are supposed to act - anywhere that is, where there is the potential for them to advance... Forget the surroundings - look into their eyes and you see intelligence, hopefulness - and forgiveness. Holy #@*$, what does this man want? He has jumped out of NOWHERE and is now standing directly in front of me. I hear him asking if I have any spare change - to which I reply (more out of fear than anything) that I am only allowed to use a business credit card and no cash. Amazingly, the man apologizes and stumbles on down the street with his bottle in a paper bag. Gathering my shattered nerves, I continue the visual survey of the neighborhood from my stump. There is no question, but at some time during the past 30 years, this area was probably an example of a typical urban suburb. Not so now......... Directly across the street from the Coffee warehouse is a tiny house sitting on what looks like a double lot. Perhaps all of 50 ft wide by 30 ft deep. It is painted white and would be considered typical small-town-USA. What "makes" this setting, is the porch that surrounds the West and North sides of the tiny home, and the incredible garden that fills the second lot. The flowers are beautiful - they are situated so well - the vegetable garden looks to be organized and incredibly healthy. There is a rose covered arbor between one of the flowerbeds and the vegetable garden. There really isn't much grass to be seen anywhere, however the yard is clean and neat and looks like a tiny oasis in the midst of this forgotten and dying neighborhood. "I see you just met Shaky", says a soft voice from across the street. "Yes" I reply, and not certain of what to say next, I blurt out "Your home looks very nice, especially the garden - you must be very proud of it". "You're welcome to come on over an take a look", the soft voice says in a slow southern drawl - "how bout an iced tea on this hot ol day"? Now that I have focused on the owner of the voice, I can see that here was a pleasant looking black lady in a long white dress standing on the porch across the street. She's wearing a pair of gardening gloves and has long gray hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back. My guess is 80 maybe 90 years old. "Thank you, an iced tea sounds great - I'll be right over". Crossing the street, I look back and see the warehouse manager standing by one of the docks. He gives me a big toothy grin, and kind of saluting wave from the side of his head. A good sign? Is my imagination acting up again? - but as I cross the street I swear that there is a kind of cool breeze in the midst of all this heat and humidity. Seeing that there is only a single rocking chair on the porch, I sit down on the top step of the stairway facing the flower garden. Now that I am closer, it is plain to see that this home, and most of its plantings are enjoying the so-called "Golden Years". Everything looks old, but fairly well preserved and my intuition tells me that it was near its best around 40 to 50 years ago. The door opens quietly and the old lady reappears. "Things cold up there in Canada"? "You saw me get out of my truck didn't you"? - She nods. "No, if it's 100 down here, it is probably 80 back home - just not so humid as down here by the ocean". "You have really kept up your property - It's nice". She hands me a tall glass of ice tea. "Call me Ezzy". "Glad to meet you Ezzy, I'm Chris". "Things were never like this in the old days. This here neighborhood was somethin to see. Was beautiful back then - what wit the river go'in round the big bend over there - use to sit right here an watch the tugs an barges". "Ma husband use to work the river, when he weren't fishing in some bayou". "Dint own a car back then, dint need one - now, that's all there is round here". "Whole place seems to be built for em - an screw the people - know what I mean Chris"? She went quiet. Taking a closer look at "Ezzy", it is clear to me that here is a still good looking elderly woman who must have been a total knockout in her younger days. She has a determined look about her but with no hard edges. Ezzy looks like she is comfortable in her home and content to be there with her flowers and vegetables. Not being sure what tact to take with her, I comment that the Ice Tea was perfect and very refreshing. "Thanks" she says "glad you like it". "Do you have a large family"? "Nope - no family". "My husband Jack died back in the sixties an I've been here alone ever since". "Don't mind though, got my books an a good TV, an I help out down the street at the school, an the church". "Garden keeps me busy - No winters down here Chris"! She laughs. "Your plantings look so nice, especially the rose arbor". "Jus the way Jack an I planted them". "They're all there, every last one of em". "Trim'em now an then, little water an fertilizer, but mostly just love and care - nuttin else". "That's some warehouse you've got across the street". "Sho nuf - place never changes - same family owned it since new". "You good with a hammer Chris"? "I think so, what needs fixing Ezzy"? "Kids climbed over ma fence last week an broke one of the rails - shouldn't be too hard to fix I reckin". We leave the porch and walk back towards a rickety old shed in the corner of the yard. I notice that there was no door on it and all of her gardening tools are hanging neatly on the back wall along with a few rusty hand tools. After I re-nail her fence boards and straighten up a couple of others, I say that it is probably time for me to go over to that old coffee warehouse and see how the boys were making out with my trailer. Ezzy says that they had just hired a few more local boys and didn't expect that they would be working "too awful hard in there". I thank her again for the Iced Tea and she tells me to make sure that I stop in to see her next time I was across the street. I promise her that I will, and wish her all the best for herself and her lovely garden. Back across the street, it is hotter than ever, the humidex is still around 118, and that old coffee warehouse still smells as bad to me as it did when I first arrived. "Your truck is loaded - my boys started on it right away". The warehouse manager says as he literally beams at me with his toothy grin. "Glad to see you got to visit with miz Ezzy - She's a fine old lady isn't she"? "Sure is," I say - "Ezzy is a fine old lady". Today, more young millionaires will be created, and more "BOOMERS" will go down in flames with the Dow, yet here in the ghetto, beauty (a true beauty), will remain in the small yard - under the Interstate, and across from the 'old coffee warehouse'.
Chris Chamberlin - Content Creator.. Not to be reproduced, or used without the written consent of it's creator.
In The Ghetto 1972 - Thank You, Mac Davis (derek868) & YouTube, for sharing . . .
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