Thursday, June 30, 2005

Dahsua's Diary From Dixie

Don't miss this wonderful blog by a childhood friend of mine, Dorothy Fowles Kendall, from Columbia, SC. Doro, as she goes by now, was always a raging stand-out, given her fiery intellect (something that runs in her family) her beauty and her sheer audaciousness.

Keep in mind as you read about her reminiscences of Columbia that we were the hippies on the wrong side of the RR tracks, just down from Senate Street and a couple of blocks over on Green Street, quite close to the University, close enough for the National Guard's gas-fest to get into the apartment, but I have no recollection of my eyes ever chemically tearing-up.

We got packed up and stashed away to Gumby Farm (Kershaw, SC) shortly thereafter anyway, thus ending a childhood of urban delight, and commencing my still-lingering, though mostly dormant now, disdain of all-things-rural.


Al said...

Hey, girl -- I've been meaning to write, but (insert lame excuse here). Great old pic -- that you, lower left? Cute girl. But, hey, is that a knee-grow with the knit cap? Pour the tea.

Clicked onto Dashua's Diary. Ya gotta tell her it's a "child's blue rocking chair..." not a "blue child's..." Misplaced modifier, and all that.

Good luck, and I'm still waiting to get your dvd of the Punch Line appearance. Best, Al

Grayson said...

I got the DVD yesterday, and am now in the process of figuring out how to get it linked to my blog. Technology was created to drive me completely bonkers I'm convinced. Good to hear from you! Let's do lunch.

Grayson said...

And BTW, the nee-grow looking man in the shot is my stepfather, a white dude from Mississippi. He was just rather dark and swarthy back in those days, mostly grey now. Not ever black as far as I know, although he was mistaken for Garcia every now and then. Hippies, blacks, freaks, immigrants, people of color... they're all the same, right?

doro said...

Thanks Al--- I need all the help I can get.
But I WAS a blue child anyway--consider the visuals.
all the best,

PS One night when my oldest daughter was five, as I was tucking her into bed she came out with,
"Mom, you know words don't really mean anything."
"What do you mean sweetheart?"
"Like the word sensitive. That can mean you get your feelings hurt easily. Or your skin is sensitive. Or you care about words don't really mean anything."

Maybe she has a career in de-constructed academia ahead of her--her siblings call it diarrhea of the mouth.