September 2023 Issue #11
Off Our Rockers
From Lies, Race, and Redemption: A Memoir
As a white Southern woman born in 1937, I grew up in a segregated society of “White only” and “Colored only” signs, separate water fountains, separate bathrooms, separate waiting rooms and schools and churches, separate entrances to the town of Smithfield, Virginia’s one movie theater. “Separate but equal” was the mantra, but it was a lie. You had to be blind, insensitive, and in total denial to believe it. Since I was the privileged color, racism hadn’t threatened my life and stripped me of my humanity, but it had sickened my soul.
Off Our Rockers
From Lies, Race, and Redemption: A Memoir
As a white Southern woman born in 1937, I grew up in a segregated society of “White only” and “Colored only” signs, separate water fountains, separate bathrooms, separate waiting rooms and schools and churches, separate entrances to the town of Smithfield, Virginia’s one movie theater. “Separate but equal” was the mantra, but it was a lie. You had to be blind, insensitive, and in total denial to believe it. Since I was the privileged color, racism hadn’t threatened my life and stripped me of my humanity, but it had sickened my soul.
Deep Dives
Off Our Rockers
From Lies, Race, and Redemption: A Memoir
As a white Southern woman born in 1937, I grew up in a segregated society of “White only” and “Colored only” signs, separate water fountains, separate bathrooms, separate waiting rooms and schools and churches, separate entrances to the town of Smithfield, Virginia’s one movie theater. “Separate but equal” was the mantra, but it was a lie. You had to be blind, insensitive, and in total denial to believe it. Since I was the privileged color, racism hadn’t threatened my life and stripped me of my humanity, but it had sickened my soul.
Bullet in the Brain
Our Hubris. Our Arrogance. Our Delusions. Our Guns.
The only time I ever shot a gun I killed a turtle. We were visiting a family, the Collinses, who used to be our backyard neighbors, but they had moved somewhere else. It looked like a farm only there weren’t any crops or animals. There was a barn and a pond. The grownups went inside to do whatever grownups did back then. Us kids stayed outside. The Collins kids had a .22 rifle and were showing us what great marksmen they were, blasting away at cans and things. My brother and I weren’t allowed to have guns, though we were allowed to pretend we had guns—with sticks—unless it was a Sunday, when even playing with sticks was forbidden. I remember getting a pirate pistol as a present one time, but that was when I had my tonsils taken out, so I don’t think it counted.
It Could Have Happened Here
G.O.D. and Country
Brent David Alford was watching hockey the night of June 18, 2022. Game 2 of the Stanley Cup Finals, Colorado Avalanche vs. Tampa Bay Lightning. The Avs were in the process of smoking the Lightning, 7-0, and would go on to win the Cup 4-2. At 9:45 p.m., late in the second period or early in the third, Alford’s wife Anjelica noticed a car had pulled into their long private drive in rural Spotsylvania County, Virginia, and was idling about 30 yards from the house at a dirt turnaround. Alford grabbed his handgun, a Glock 9mm with a 15-round magazine, and went out to confront the driver and whoever else was in the car. Anjelica and a teenage son, their youngest, stayed at the front door. Anjelica would later tell an investigator that there was so much marijuana smoke filling the car that the occupants’ heads bobbed above it as if they were floating on a cloud–an image she insisted she saw despite the distance from the house, the darkness, the floodlight she said was reflecting off the car windows, and the law of thermodynamics.
Not Healthy. Not Caring. Not Even a System.
Broken Bad
A few months after he graduated from college, a friend crashed his bike one evening as he raced down a trail near Charlottesville. He suffered a life-altering spinal cord injury, but as those injuries go, he was fairly lucky: He retained full use of his upper body and partial use of his legs, and despite fears that he’d never ride again, he went on to become an Olympic para-cyclist. He was also fortunate in another way: Before his accident, his dad had bought him a short-term health insurance policy.
A Witness
“To forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time.”
I recently finished work on a historical novel for Scholastic Press titled Stolen by Night which is scheduled for publication in fall 2023. It’s the story of teenagers in the Resistance in Occupied Paris during World War II, many of whom, after their capture, were “disappeared” in Hitler’s “Night and Fog” program, Nacht und Nebel. Most of the NN prisoners were sent to Konzentrationslager Natzweiler-Struthof, the only Nazi-run concentration camp on what is now French soil, in the Vosges Mountains of Alsace-Lorraine. Tens of thousands died there. Few survived.
Hearts and Minds
“The sorrow that has no vent in tears may make other organs weep”
Line of Departure
A Dog’s Life
[Editor’s note: In the photograph above are Marine Captain-Ret. Jason Haag and his service dog, Axel, constant companions for most of the past 11 years following Jason’s final, troubled return from multiple combat deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan. Axel died on January 14, and this picture of Jason and Axel, by photographer Dave Ellis, was taken moments before he passed. Below is writer Kristin Davis’s obituary for Axel, posted on the website for Leashes of Valor, a nonprofit founded by Jason that advocates for, and trains, service dogs for other struggling veterans. Also posted below, after the obituary, are links to “Line of Departure,” a three-part series from 2013 published in the Fredericksburg, VA Free Lance-Star about the Haag family, and Axel, and Jason’s struggles with PTSD and Traumatic Brain Injury. The Pie & Chai editors send love to the Haags, our former neighbors, as they grieve a dog who changed their lives in so many ways. With Axel’s help, the Haags’ courageous efforts to seek peace in their own family created a path to healing for so many others. To learn more about Axel, and about Jason’s ongoing work on behalf of America’s combat veterans, go to Leashes of Valor.org.]
The Beavers of Accokeek Creek
We Like Nature OK, We Just Don’t Like It to Be Too Messy.
The Humans of Brooke Road aren’t all beaver killers. Some are actually quite nice. One family rescues mini pigs. Another runs a conservation research center. Many may not even know they had a hand in the torture-deaths of nearly three dozen beavers two years ago—parents, yearlings, and kits—and the destruction in all or in part of 15 beaver dams tucked into the reeds and hyacinths and groves of dead ash trees in the forested wetlands of Accokeek Creek.
Being Human
Off Our Rockers
From Lies, Race, and Redemption: A Memoir
As a white Southern woman born in 1937, I grew up in a segregated society of “White only” and “Colored only” signs, separate water fountains, separate bathrooms, separate waiting rooms and schools and churches, separate entrances to the town of Smithfield, Virginia’s one movie theater. “Separate but equal” was the mantra, but it was a lie. You had to be blind, insensitive, and in total denial to believe it. Since I was the privileged color, racism hadn’t threatened my life and stripped me of my humanity, but it had sickened my soul.
Critterworld
A Story
First the rumors.
No, Henry’s Meats didn’t come around with their knives to carve steaks from the body. Mutt & Jeff’s Grill didn’t serve elephant-burgers.
Nobody sawed off the feet for umbrella stands. Nobody caught any weird African diseases, no elephantiasis. The little girl from Michigan, the one who got trapped in the car, she might have seen a psychiatrist for a while, but if she did it was back up North, so I don’t see how anybody could have known for sure about that story, true or not.
Bullet in the Brain
Our Hubris. Our Arrogance. Our Delusions. Our Guns.
The only time I ever shot a gun I killed a turtle. We were visiting a family, the Collinses, who used to be our backyard neighbors, but they had moved somewhere else. It looked like a farm only there weren’t any crops or animals. There was a barn and a pond. The grownups went inside to do whatever grownups did back then. Us kids stayed outside. The Collins kids had a .22 rifle and were showing us what great marksmen they were, blasting away at cans and things. My brother and I weren’t allowed to have guns, though we were allowed to pretend we had guns—with sticks—unless it was a Sunday, when even playing with sticks was forbidden. I remember getting a pirate pistol as a present one time, but that was when I had my tonsils taken out, so I don’t think it counted.
Prescriptions
Not Healthy. Not Caring. Not Even a System.
Broken Bad
A few months after he graduated from college, a friend crashed his bike one evening as he raced down a trail near Charlottesville. He suffered a life-altering spinal cord injury, but as those injuries go, he was fairly lucky: He retained full use of his upper body and partial use of his legs, and despite fears that he’d never ride again, he went on to become an Olympic para-cyclist. He was also fortunate in another way: Before his accident, his dad had bought him a short-term health insurance policy.
Papa Don’t Preach
Put Away That Cell Phone or Ernest Hemingway Will Punch You in the Face
How to Hospital
There’s No Point in Depriving Yourself When Things Already Suck
LOL
Top 10 Reasons Why Home is Better than the Pound
As dictated by J.D. (aka Jus’a Dawg) Evans
Kiss “A as in Apple” Goodbye
The All New & Completely Updated Guide to Code Words for the International Spelling Alphabet
A Modest Proposal
(With Apologies to Jonathan Swift)
Being for the Benefit of the Citizens of Our Glorious County, Their Children, and Future Faithful Generations
22401-ish
It Could Have Happened Here
G.O.D. and Country
Brent David Alford was watching hockey the night of June 18, 2022. Game 2 of the Stanley Cup Finals, Colorado Avalanche vs. Tampa Bay Lightning. The Avs were in the process of smoking the Lightning, 7-0, and would go on to win the Cup 4-2. At 9:45 p.m., late in the second period or early in the third, Alford’s wife Anjelica noticed a car had pulled into their long private drive in rural Spotsylvania County, Virginia, and was idling about 30 yards from the house at a dirt turnaround. Alford grabbed his handgun, a Glock 9mm with a 15-round magazine, and went out to confront the driver and whoever else was in the car. Anjelica and a teenage son, their youngest, stayed at the front door. Anjelica would later tell an investigator that there was so much marijuana smoke filling the car that the occupants’ heads bobbed above it as if they were floating on a cloud–an image she insisted she saw despite the distance from the house, the darkness, the floodlight she said was reflecting off the car windows, and the law of thermodynamics.
The Beavers of Accokeek Creek
We Like Nature OK, We Just Don’t Like It to Be Too Messy.
The Humans of Brooke Road aren’t all beaver killers. Some are actually quite nice. One family rescues mini pigs. Another runs a conservation research center. Many may not even know they had a hand in the torture-deaths of nearly three dozen beavers two years ago—parents, yearlings, and kits—and the destruction in all or in part of 15 beaver dams tucked into the reeds and hyacinths and groves of dead ash trees in the forested wetlands of Accokeek Creek.
A Modest Proposal
(With Apologies to Jonathan Swift)
Being for the Benefit of the Citizens of Our Glorious County, Their Children, and Future Faithful Generations
Etcetera
About Pie & Chai
Steve and Janet Watkins started Pie & Chai Magazine in November 2022. Our intention is to publish 12 times a year, with a new issue coming out the first of every month. We’ll see how that goes. Steve is the editor. Here’s what Janet wrote (and Steve edited) for the first issue under the headline “Why Pie & Chai” which pretty much explains it all:
We’re launching Pie & Chai Magazine for a simple reason: to provide good writers with a place to tell good stories, the kind worth sharing. In these stories—under the broad categories of Deep Dives, Being Human, Prescriptions, LOL, Etcetera, and 22401(ish)—we hope to move, enlighten, and amuse you, and draw you in to a creative community.
We aren’t here to make money. We won’t sell subscriptions, we won’t run ads, we won’t pirate your data, and our contributors won’t get paid. Everything here will exist because someone cared enough to create it. For free.
We’re old-school print journalists, so we believe in facts (not alternative ones) and the power of stories to comfort and afflict. We’ll serve up deep reporting, thoughtful analysis, personal essays and poignant humor. You won’t find press releases here, or fiction. No poetry, either, except as it may offer itself up in some of the prose. What you will find is humanity in all its glorious messiness.
In our dreams, Pie & Chai has been a physical place for dishing up warm desserts and bringing people together. But we don’t own a building, and we’d rather write than cook. So, this is our virtual effort to expand minds, forge connections, and sweeten lives.
Pull up a seat.
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