Category: Letter From The Editor

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

Something Like Prayer

Photo: Shara Clark

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak

— Mary Oliver, “Praying”

Sometimes I stop on my neighborhood walks to caress the moss carpeting the arm of a mighty magnolia that reaches toward the sidewalk. As spring approaches (which, as I write this, officially begins today), the buds and blossoms intoxicate my senses — the sweet smell of blooming dogwoods and the bright hues of newly flowering gardens speckling the way. One might consider these moments something like prayer — a pause to appreciate things often missed in the hurriedness of human life.

The signs of spring as spotted on a recent walk (Photo: Shara Clark)

Last week, I noted the many dandelions and clover patches dotting the edges of the walkways on my route. I’ve never been too good at finding four-leaf clovers, but occasionally I’ll stop and scan for one. After passing several over the course of a mile, a particular patch called to me and broke my stride. I took a few steps back to get a closer look, and as soon as my gaze focused on the clovers, there it was — a four-leaf! But then, wait — another, and another, and another. It felt like I’d hit the jackpot. Moving my eyes and fingers along the puffs of green, it seemed every other clover was a lucky one. I plucked until I hit seven. I’m not sure why, but that was the number. Although I knew in my gut there were more; I’d leave those for someone else who took the time to look down. It filled me with warmth, perhaps something like a response to prayer, a sign in the silence that I was on my right path that day.

Yesterday, as the temperature dropped before what I hope was the last frost of the season, I saw from my porch a mama squirrel carrying her baby in her mouth. Mama scurried quickly across a lattice portion of my side fence, with baby curled in a ball hanging by the scruff of its neck. I assume she was transporting the wee one to a safer or warmer nest, as I read they’re known to relocate. Her acrobatics were impressive, toting a baby a third of her size as she jumped down, ran, and leaped to the top of the wooden fence across the yard, tight-roping the height of it and only stopping every few feet to secure baby in her grip. Having never seen such a thing in my decades on Earth, a warm feeling washed over me watching this gentle moment unfold. A representation of love and protection, nature and nurture.

Once the squirrels disappeared from view, I let my own furry creatures outside to play. My dogs Frances and Steve enjoy sunbathing on these longer days, and happily munching away at the creeping ivy, sniffing the tiny blue violets, or rolling around in the now lush grass.

I’ve never been too good at praying, and elaborate words may escape me most days. But I do see the beauty in the weeds and stones, in the moss and magnolias. And witnessing this rebirth — this voice of spring — is something like prayer.

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

One Earbud and Eyes Everywhere

Panuwat Dangsungnoen | Dreamstime.com

I step out my front door for a lunchtime walk on a sunny Monday afternoon. I scan the street for people as I turn my key to lock up. I put just one earbud in — so I can still be alert to my surroundings rather than blissfully lost in the music — and switch on my Spotify playlist. On a busy cross street, a male driver in a passing car honks at me. I make a mental note: a maroon Kia. I take a left going deeper into the neighborhood, and the same Kia creeps by two streets over. Are they following me? Is their intended destination over this way? I look at the houses ahead: which ones have cars in the driveway, which door I would knock on if I needed help …

March is Women’s History Month. A proclamation from the White House (published on whitehouse.gov at the end of February) summarizes:

“During Women’s History Month, we celebrate the courageous women who have helped our Nation build a fairer, more just society. Throughout history, the vision and achievements of powerful women have strengthened our Nation and opened the doors of opportunity wider for all of us. Though their stories too often go untold, all of us stand on the shoulders of these sung and unsung trailblazers — from the women who took a stand as suffragists, abolitionists, and labor leaders to pioneering scientists and engineers, groundbreaking artists, proud public servants, and brave members of our Armed Forces.”

I am truly grateful for the many women before me who suffered injustices and stood up for an equal place in society. To the pioneers whose work went uncelebrated, to the activists who were stifled but steadfast, to those who fought for me, for your mothers, your sisters, daughters, and granddaughters to live the lives we do today. The fight isn’t over though.

Women still fight every day. And not just over the gender pay gap. (Women earn 16 percent less than men on average, according to Forbes’ 2024 statistics.) Or being viewed as less-than in a work environment. (Women are about four times as likely as men to say they have been treated as if they were incompetent because of their gender — 23 percent of women versus 6 percent of men, according to Pew Research Center.) Or gender bias in healthcare. (Duke Health states, “Compared with male patients, women who present with the same condition may not receive the same evidence-based care. In several key areas, such as cardiac care and pain management, women may get different treatment, leading to poorer outcomes.” And Medical News Today reported, “a 2018 study found that doctors often view men with chronic pain as ‘brave’ or ‘stoic,’ but view women with chronic pain as ‘emotional’ or ‘hysterical.’”)

While discrimination against women appears in many forms, direct and subtle, perhaps the saddest — and most constant — inequity is our inability to feel safe going about our daily lives. I ran across the below tip list on social media.

Attention Ladies
• Make sure you fill up your gas tank before sunset.
• Always keep an extra phone charger with you.
• Park in well-lit areas.
• Always look in your backseat.
• After parking, don’t just sit, lock your door as soon as you get in and leave.
• Do not park next to big vans. If you have to, enter your car from your passenger door.
• If a man is sitting in the car next to your parked car, go back inside; have someone walk you out.
• Always use the elevator. No stairways.
• Heads up and phones down. Be aware.

Sure, men may consider some of these precautions. But I can’t even take a walk midday without eyes on the back of my head — on every other person walking, every car that passes. A nighttime store run means peering into parked cars, watching for people following me through aisles or to my car — potential predators at every turn.

Strong women paved the way for a better life for me. But we are still at the mercy of men, at the mercy of those with ill intentions who could overpower us if they choose. While we celebrate Women’s History Month, let’s consider how far we’ve yet to go — and move forward with hope that one day we can feel truly safe as we navigate the world. Until then, I walk with one earbud in and eyes everywhere.

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

Grieving ‘Normal’

Chemival | Dreamstime.com

“Four years ago, this week was the last normal week of our lives.”

I saw this unattributed quote on Facebook yesterday. Of course, it’s in reference to the start of Covid, when “lockdown” and “quarantine” crept into our everyday vocabulary. But four years ago this week, I was visiting my friend Kristin Burge in the hospital. I sanitized my hands after touching the elevator buttons to get to her floor, kept my distance from people coughing down the halls — confusion added to an already crippling experience. It wasn’t a normal week for me at all. And her memorial service on March 14th was far from normal. Few were masked in the church; some cautious loved ones opted not to hug. Her death marked the beginning of a year of grief for me, one that started with losing my friend, but one in which the whole world grieved the loss of “normal.”

Below is a condensed version of the piece I wrote for her, “Heroin, the Thief,” which was published in the Flyer on March 19, 2020. May all who’ve loved an addict and all who’ve lost a loved one to addiction find peace.

Kristin Burge, 1982-2020

I lost my friend to heroin this week. It was not quick and painless. She did not push the needle in and float off on a peaceful cloud into the ether. The last sound she made was with her body — heavy and limp, falling to the floor with a thud. She had overdosed on a batch cut with fentanyl. First responders arrived 20 minutes after the 911 call was made. She was without oxygen for too long. She went into cardiac arrest and had to be resuscitated four times the first day in the hospital, her chest and ribs broken to bits from the compressions. She spent nearly a week on life support as tests were run. Scans showed severe brain damage. She was completely unresponsive. A week, unable to communicate, twitch a toe, or even flit an eye. I sat at her bedside, talking about everything and nothing, joking and crying, and holding my phone up to her ear, playing some of our favorite songs. Her family gathered, her mother and children, friends, women from church — praying, pleading, mourning a life cut short … hoping for a miracle.

I lost my friend to heroin two years ago. It was not quick and painless. She was running from a contempt of court warrant for a bogus case that just wouldn’t end. She’d go to jail, 30 days, 60 days, be released. Repeat. Fines piled up. She couldn’t pay them. She was buried by an endless cycle, a broken legal system. She was running from a man who wanted to hurt her and wound up in Louisiana. She fell ill there and went to the emergency room. Diagnosis: endocarditis, likely a result of shooting up. Doctors performed emergency open heart surgery to replace a valve — they gave her a pacemaker. She came back home to heal, but didn’t stay long.

I lost my friend to heroin four years ago. It was not quick and painless. I drove her to Heroin Anonymous meetings. Sometimes she’d be high, but I’d pretend not to know; showing up was the first step. Once, after her boyfriend beat her badly, I took her into my home, where she detoxed for a few days — angry as a hornet, her insides churning, wanting more and more and more of the drug. She took a bunch of generic sleep aid and ibuprofen, hoping it’d knock her out; perhaps she wanted to dream through the worst of it. She slept for days, but the urge remained.

I lost my friend to heroin a decade ago. It was not quick and painless. It started when her dad died from cancer. She couldn’t cope, and his pain pills helped. It progressed with an ATV accident. Surgery, metal pins in her leg. Doctor prescribed pain pills. They helped, maybe too much. She took them for too long; now she needed them. When the doctor said no more, she got what she could from a methadone clinic. At some point, it became easier to get drugs on the streets. Heroin felt good — even better than pills.

I lost my friend to heroin. It was a slow death, and it hurt like hell. Her mother lost a daughter. Her sons lost their mother. The drug took her from them long ago. We mourned her in life, for years. The urge writhed through her blood, guiding her every move for more and more and more. Her kids were taken away, she couldn’t hold a job. She ended up on the streets with who knows who doing who knows what, all for more dope.

She was a good person. She was smart but made bad decisions. Her path kinked along the way and rerouted her aims. In moments of clarity, she tried damn hard to kick it. She loved her kids. She wanted to get better and spend time with them. She wanted to help people with her story of recovery. She’d been in rehab (this time) since December. A couple of weeks ago, she snuck out. The urge won.

I lost my friend to heroin this week. It was not quick and painless. We watched her die, slowly, for a decade, but she pushed the needle in for the last time. We watched her body swell and convulse on life support as it shut down day by day. As I write this, doctors are doing the necessary work to find donor recipient matches for her salvageable organs and tissues. By the time you read this, she will be at peace.

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

Fleeting Temples

A fleeting temple (Photo: Shara Clark)

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead — you first,” “I like your hat.”
— Danusha Laméris, “Small Kindnesses”

“We have so little of each other, now,” Laméris writes in the book Healing the Divide: Poems of Kindness and Connection. She’s right. Even those moments she conjures with her words are few and far between. Four years after the collective isolation felt worldwide during the lockdowns of the Covid era, isolation persists. Apathy grows.

Many business offices have closed, leaving 9-to-5ers working from home, bidding a bitter farewell to the camaraderie of office culture. Many “connections” are made via email or chat channels or social media, through the rectangular black mirrors we gaze into day in and day out, a screen rather than eye to eye; handshakes and hugs traded for thumbs-up and heart emojis. Much is lost in the digital world. And in the “real world,” much has changed. We shop online to avoid human interaction and long lines; grocery stores and retail outlets are understaffed, contributing to those longer lines; commuters angrily pass us only to rush to red lights, perhaps flipping the bird as they do; the patrons at the table next to us are impatient and rude to the server. Staying home is less stressful. So much for connectedness.

Friends and family (at least in my world) rarely have time to spend together; everyone’s too busy with kids, jobs, errands, chores. Such is adult life, it seems — chained to schedules, too tired when the day is done to connect with much more than our beds. Gone are the tribes in a time where we exchange most of our waking hours to pay the bills, to fund our creature comforts. That communal fire is out.

I do still seek the fleeting temples — chances to offer a smile to a stranger, give thank-yous to those who show small kindnesses. Although the world seems to have lost its softness, it can still be found through the rough patches if you’re open to it. My fleeting temples of late have mostly been in nature, admiring the new blossoms on my walks — signs that spring is coming; saying hello to my favorite neighborhood dog Lucy through her chain link fence; gazing at a full moon and the stars splashed across the dark canvas of sky; chasing a glorious fiery pink sunset.

In my continued quest for more sacred moments, if we cross paths, I’ll call back to tribe and fire, to remind you we don’t inherently want to cause harm to one another. I’ll help you pick up your spilled lemons, pull my legs in to let you by, allow you to pass in traffic without a middle finger. Bless you (heart emoji). Don’t die.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Remembering Jessica Lewis

“Remembering Jessica Lewis.” That was the subject line of an email that hit my inbox this morning from Legacy.com.

Dear Family and Friends of Jessica Lewis,

Being remembered matters. The message you shared in Jessica’s guest book was meaningful. On the anniversary of Jessica’s passing, share another memory of condolence and help others hold Jessica a little closer in their hearts.

I did take a look back at the “guest book,” a web page with her obituary, under which a handful of people wrote short notes in her memory. There’s still an option to send flowers, such as a $98 Eternal Affection™ Arrangement or the $78 Comfort™ Planter, which feels like a weird money grab all these years later. I think about her often and visit her grave in Millington at least once a year, but I don’t think writing a comment on a website or buying a bouquet will any better reflect “eternal affection.” I do need to go see her mother though. This isn’t a kind of grief that heals with time, but one that expands across it with no resolution — the unanswered questions filling the spaces between with anger and discontent.

Jessica was murdered on February 20, 2011. She was one of four women shot — three of whom died and one who survived — within a month’s time in South Memphis. She and Rhonda Wells were killed just days apart; their bodies both found in the unkempt Mt. Carmel Cemetery at Elvis Presley Boulevard and Elliston Road amid overgrown brush and crumbled, sinking headstones. Although the street just beyond the grounds is busy with traffic during the day, at night, the unilluminated graveyard is known to be host to criminal activity.

Composite of suspect in Jessica’s murder

I’ve used my platform in media throughout the years to bring attention to Jessica’s case — and to those of Rhonda and Tamakia McKinney, whose lives were likely taken by the same perpetrator, according to investigators (although they were hesitant to officially label them serial killings). You may recall reading about Jessica before in this paper or in our sister publication Memphis Magazine, where I’ve shared various aspects of the story, from simply reporting and following up with investigators, to interviewing the survivor, to sharing more about Jessica, a mother of two who had a world of potential ahead of her until she fell into drug use.

I wish this column was an update of some sort, but after the passing of investigator W.D. Merritt in 2020 and the more recent retirement of his cold case partner — the two perhaps most familiar with the case — it seems we’re back to square one. Thirteen long years, so many new homicides, so many more cases gone cold. I’ve always felt the killings would have been solved swiftly if not for the lifestyles of the victims; it’s as if sex work gives a murderer a green light. With multiple casualties, DNA evidence, shell casings, and a surviving eyewitness, how have we come so far with no justice served?

I’m sharing here Jessica’s 2001 high school senior portrait, since all the photos of her and Rhonda and Tamakia that were ever shared by other news outlets were mugshots. These women were more than their addictions or life paths. They were people — as imperfectly human as me and you — who were loved and who are missed. The other image is a composite sketch created by MPD based on the 2011 description of the suspect provided by the survivor, who was shot in the face on February 26th of that year, and left for dead less than a mile from Mt. Carmel.

With or without an email reminder, Jessica is always close to my heart, and I will forever hold a grain of hope that the person who took her from us gets his due. I will use every opportunity to remind the community — and the world — that we still care. Their lives mattered, and we will not forget.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Bright Lights, Sowing Seeds

There’s a little more light every day. (Photo: Shara Clark)

“And don’t think the garden loses its ecstasy in winter. It’s quiet, but the roots are down there riotous.” — Rumi

We could all use a little light right now. Sunlight, for sure, after a week of frigid temps and dangerously low wind chills following the arctic blast that swept much of the nation. It’s Monday evening as I write this, and patches of snow still cover most of my yard. But the rain has come to wash it away and I’m hoping there’s no trace left by the time I turn this over to the printer on Tuesday. Good riddance. By now, I assume we’re all weary of the precarious road conditions, the sound of dripping faucets (traded for the drip of melting icicles), and the inconveniences that came with precautionary power and water advisories. Like roots in the depths of winter, dormant, waiting for warmth and light. Spring can’t come soon enough. In the meantime, the sun has much work to do, and I reckon we’re in for another wet — yet, thankfully, way warmer — week.

Aside from the weather, we’re always looking for bright spots. Amid the flurry of often negative news, throughout the year the Flyer highlights artists, musicians, chefs, filmmakers, innovators, and more who make Memphis the mighty city it is. In this issue though, our annual 20<30 edition, we’ve sought to get to know some of the best and brightest young people making strides here. We sifted through an impressive pool of folks nominated by our readers — restaurateurs, mentors, business leaders, creatives, and professionals in a variety of fields — and it was no easy task to whittle them down to 20 finalists. Within these pages you’ll learn more about these 20 people under the age of 30 who — with their own shining lights — are forging a path toward a brighter future for us all, sowing seeds that will bear fruit for years to come.

In reading about their endeavors, especially this time of year, I’m given a little burst of hope. The nights are long and the trees are bare, but all around us seeds are sown — literally and metaphorically — awaiting germination. And as astrophysicist, author, and science communicator Neil deGrasse Tyson reminded us on TikTok (@StarTalk) earlier this month, “People think of winter as being dull and drab and dreary and cold, depending on your latitude on Earth, and I don’t think about it that way because every day of winter has slightly more sunlight than the day before it. So the winter months are — if you date it from the winter solstice, December 21st — each day shows more and more sunlight, and so for me that’s hopeful. It’s summertime we are systematically losing sunlight. So people say, ‘Oh the days get longer in the summer and shorter in the winter’ — the exact opposite is true.”

That’s a nice thought to keep as we move through the rest of winter. And as our 20<30 and other change-makers help shape the Memphis we want to see. Each day, more light.

While we may be hibernating for a while still, the roots are down there riotous. I wait anxiously with them, looking forward to the growth to come — and all the blossoms that will appear around the bend.

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Letter From The Editor Opinion Uncategorized

Arctic Blast in Memphis: Immediately No

Fran gives snow a hard pass. (Photo: Shara Clark)

It’s 11° right now. ELEVEN. And it “feels like” -2°. My weather app says today’s high will be 18°, around 2 p.m., and the low will be 5°. What it “feels like” to me, when I step out to let the dogs do their business is: immediately no. The pups agree. It took a lot of coaxing — and a good deal of shoveling — Monday to get them to go outside at all. Fran and Steve are long-haired miniature dachshunds, weighing in around 10 or 12 pounds, give or take. They’re up to their bellies in the blanket of white stuff in their (yes, it’s theirs) backyard. At first, Steve went out loudly barking in confusion. “Where is the green stuff? I can’t frolic in this mess!” Fran cautiously walked down the back-porch ramp only to step into the cold and turn right back around. “I have to tee-tee, but — immediately no,” she huffed. So I took to shoveling to reveal a patch of — still frozen — grass and dirt for them, wishing I’d clicked “add to cart” on the little dog boots I’d been eyeballing last week online. Alas, we make do. 

We’re back in the warm house for now, and we’re grateful the heat’s still running and the pipes haven’t frozen (well, the hot water line in the kitchen gave me a scare, but it’s flowing again, thank the stars). Early this morning, ABC News reported (in its article “Arctic blast grips US as snow and ice spread from Louisiana to Maine”), “More than 200 million Americans are on alert Tuesday for heavy snow, ice, and dangerously low wind chills as an arctic blast grips the nation,” and “Weather-related school closures are affecting more than a million students nationwide on Tuesday.” Gosh, I remember being so excited about snow days as a kid. I even recall a few years ago my dogs enjoying the snow. But that was without the “dangerously low” temps part. And it was also before I became a homeowner, worrying about additional insulation, disconnecting the water hose and covering the spigot, and finding that perfect drip for the faucets so the plumbing doesn’t suffer a fatality. Memphis wasn’t made for this — our old houses, ancient trees, and power grid aren’t fit for teens or single-digit temperatures. And as a Southerner, I’m most certainly not. But, please hold. I’m going to try something …

Donut residue in a U of M lot (Photo: Shara Clark)

After all that complaining about the weather above, I decided to trek to the U of M campus on foot. Of course, I was reminded as soon as I stepped out my front door that I’m the clumsiest person I know and tend to sprain my ankle in a gentle breeze, but I made the round trip — slow and steady — without injury. I’m back at my laptop now, snow-blind. It’s a sunny 15° (feels like 4°). There were a handful of cars out and about in the neighborhood and four other people walking — I’m guessing also trying to trick themselves into thinking they don’t mind it too much. I’m still not a fan, but it’s quieter than usual, and the snow crunching underfoot and the chill on my face was a decent lunch-break refresher. There was evidence of donuts in the U of M parking lot (so at least someone had some fun?), and the piles of snow accentuated the garbage bags of leaves and thrown-out mattresses and old toilets that have been sitting on the curb for weeks awaiting city debris pickup. But I digress. 

I’ll try to remain as positive as possible, and I hope you all enjoy your snow angels and snowmen. There is certainly some beauty in it, I’ll admit. I hope your pups are frolicking despite the cold. I hope your pipes remain intact and that our city’s power keeps powering our lights and heat. 

The icicles are melting in the sun, but I hear we’re expecting a round of “mixed winter precipitation” come Thursday, followed by more “dangerously low” lows. To that, I say — in solidarity with my fur-babes — immediately no. 

Stay safe and warm, folks. 

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

In Loving Memory of My Best Boy

Shara and Doogie, October 2011 | Photo: Elle Forte Ramsey

In loving memory of Doogie (the dog) Howser (January 1 6, 2010-December 27, 2023)

I wish I could say Happy New Year. But I’m starting 2024 with one less set of muddy paws to clean up after when it’s rained. One less bowl to fill in my morning and evening routine. One less wagging tail following me around the house. One less load of laundry — doggie diapers for my old man who marked his territory on every appliance and door frame or anything new that was placed on the floor.

Photo: Justin Fox Burks

Just over a week ago, my long-haired dachshund Doogie Howser let out his chirpy bark demanding breakfast. When the bowl was empty, he commenced his daily ritual of licking it clean as its steel bottom clanged across the tiles. He then made the rounds on the grounds of his kingdom — our backyard — hiked his leg on everything in sight and yapped big-bad-dog borks at the neighbors’ pups through the chain-link fence. Just over a week ago, he sat at my feet as I stood at the sink doing dishes, gently licking my bare ankle, as he always did.

Doogie Howser was our cover boy for the July 2019 “On the Clock” issue. (Photo: Justin Fox Burks)

But a week ago, I laid next to him in bed, rubbing his ears, petting his head, and kissing his face, telling him I loved him more than anything, he was the best boy in the world, and that everything was okay. I stayed awake awaiting a moment I’d been dreading for more than 13 years. At approximately 12:45 a.m. on Wednesday, December 27th, Doogie took his final breath, his heart beat for the last time, three weeks shy of his 14th birthday.

Without going into more detail than I can comfortably relive, the end came both gradually and suddenly. A yearlong battle with chronic bronchitis and a more recent but brief bout of neurological issues led to what we think was a stroke or massive seizure. I was out of town when the latter happened, and by the time I returned, he was fading fast. I spent those last hours alongside him, keeping him as comfortable as I could, loving on him until his little body shut down.

I never wanted to write (or say) these words. I knew this day would come, of course — and that I wouldn’t able to handle the grief. Having never had human children, Doogie was my first “child.” When looking at a litter of puppies in early 2010, I knew that the itty-bitty chocolate nugget with big ol’ eyes and tiny legs and a head he’d have to grow into was mine. A few weeks later, I brought him home. He was so very small, I put him into my coat pocket just because I could. So very fragile, this miniature cuddly creature. I jokingly said, “How am I going to keep this thing alive?” But I did, for as long as I could.

Doogie’s first night home with me, February 2010

As most dog parents do, I took him on car rides, road trips, and park outings, and to work with me on occasion. He was a star no matter where we were. Everyone who met him spoke of how handsome he was, his impressive mane and feathered tail that waved like a flag as he pranced. “Regal” and “majestic” were common descriptors. He’d sit in anyone’s lap and lick wet spots on their pants; it was his way of showing affection, or more likely, asking, “Could you pet me more now?” After we welcomed two more pups (his offspring) in 2015, there was less of that. Three were harder to manage in public, taking just one wasn’t fair, and his son and daughter were not the docile dogs Doogie had always been. So, I have regrets. Were there enough walks? Enough outings? He loved people, and we didn’t have as much company after the pandemic. We didn’t have an office to go to. But he did get a lot of love and cuddles and my constant presence, especially working from home, which I have to tell myself was just fine for him. And even with all the vet visits, did I do enough to manage his health? Could I have saved him, given him more time? I think I did my best but cannot dwell on the what-ifs. Even as he aged, until his last day on Earth, he was the happiest boy, excited to wake and eat and run around the yard and climb on me like a mountain goat to get to my face for kisses. He comforted me through my worst days, loved me when I felt unlovable. Just as they say about children, you blink and they’re grown. I wish I could rewind time. I’d do anything to wash those pee diapers now. Just one more ankle lick.

My pocket-sized buddy, February 2010

Losing Doogie, my Grinch-toed 8-pound shadow, my constant companion, who was under foot or in my lap day in and day out for nearly 14 years, is the biggest hurt I may have ever endured. But to have raised him has been my biggest gift.

Doogie Howser had many names — Doogers, Dougles, Bo, Sugar Prince, Love Boy, Hims, the list goes on. But above all, he was my son, my greatest love — my heart. And a piece of it now has gone with him over the rainbow bridge.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

An Editor’s Reflections on 2023

Photo: Shara Clark

This year has flown by at the speed of light. Maybe it’s the unending carousel of deadlines that comes with producing a weekly print publication and managing daily web posts and always planning content for the months ahead. Or maybe we’re traveling through some sort of time portal hurtling through space. Whatever the case may be, I’ve taken a look back at my evolving thoughts throughout 2023, which began, in this editorial space apparently, with eggs.

Last January, everyone was bok-bok-ba-gawking at soaring egg prices — upwards of $7 a dozen — and I took a crack at investigating why it was happening. A more complicated answer than inflation, involving “the ongoing conversion to cage-free egg production systems” and a shortage of laying hens after an influx of avian flu.

Within the first 23 days of 2023, though, Memphis suffered much greater pains. The city — and world — was outraged following the brutal beating and death of Tyre Nichols at the hands of MPD officers. In that first month, we also mourned the loss of Memphis icons Gangsta Boo, Lisa Marie Presley, Vincent Astor, and Dr. Charles A. Champion. In February, the Flyer team lost a member of our work family when longtime sales rep and forever bright light Hailey Thomas passed away. A rough start here, to say the least.

By March, after weeks of processing and writing and reading about the weight of it all, I took a brief hiatus, “seeking serenity,” and relocated a while to work from my grandparents’ former residence — a mobile home at the edge of the county line in rural Greenwood, Mississippi. They’d both passed away in 2022, and the land was unoccupied aside from me and an alligator friend who lived in a pond within eyeshot of the front porch. I say friend because it turned out to be quite docile, poking its head up from the water to sun its scutes and offer me daily salutations. Google told me it was in brumation, a form of hibernation, essentially — resting and preparing for the higher activity of the warmer months to come. I decided I, too, was brumating.

In April, beer went woke when Bud Light partnered with trans activist and TikTok sensation Dylan Mulvaney. The nation was astir with boycotts, unknowingly replacing their favorite beer brand with others that — oops — also supported LGBTQ and equality-focused programs. In the midst of it all, Kid Rock shot up a bunch of cans with a semi-automatic. What a time to be alive!

By May, gun violence was top of mind in the aftermath of the controversial expulsion of two Tennessee lawmakers — Justin Pearson and Justin Jones — from the legislature after protesting the issue from the floor of the chamber. And I pondered the negative impression a video that surfaced of Ja Morant flaunting a gun might have on youth.

June was arguably the best month of 2023 for me (and, like January, held much focus on eggs), as I had the opportunity to spend a month house sitting in Midtown and tend to a small flock of hens. Not only was the change in perspective nice, but caring for those lovely, peculiar ladies was a joy. The first week, I mustered the courage to pick up a broody hen and move her from her nesting box, and by month’s end, I petted and picked them up simply because I wanted to. A beautiful bond was built, and I managed to break my own broody mood.

Also in June, a handful of billionaires imploded in a tin can steered by a game controller on a failed Titanic excursion. Again, what a time!

In July, the Supreme Court voted to squash President Biden’s student loan forgiveness plan (bummer), but I was happily writing my third column about chickens as I offered a wrap-up of my Midtown “staycation” and tribute to the five feathered beauties who made my summer (especially, Pancake: I love you, darling!).

In August, a former U.S. intelligence officer testified before Congress that aliens are real. As it turned out, we didn’t really care. I also received my first hate mail, blaming me and the Flyer for all of the city’s crime and “leftist bullshit.” That was fun.

September in Flyer land is all about Best of Memphis — the annual issue in which we celebrate the winners of our all-things-Memphis readers’ poll. In October, I suffered a bout of writer’s block and reflected on the desire to eat berries in the forest rather than fold clothes.

November was the one-year milestone for my editor role — thankful you’ve all tolerated me (and that I haven’t yet received any further hate mail).

December has been a blur as we worked weeks into the future on staggered holiday deadlines, and now, my friends, we’re at the finish line.

I hope this year has been kind to each of you. And a greater hope still is that 2024 is our collective best yet.

Take care of yourselves.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

A Thank You to Our Supporters

Photo: Lovelyday12 | Dreamstime.com

This week, we’re devoting this space to the Frequent Flyers who have supported independent journalism in 2023 with one-time or monthly contributions — thank you for helping keep the free press free. Find out more at memphisflyer.com/page/FrequentFlyer.

William Andrews

Ward and Linda Archer

Margot McNeeley and Gary Backaus

Aaron Banks

Cliff Barnes

Connie Bawcum

Savannah Bearden

Willy Bearden

Rebecca Beaton

Daniel Bicknell

Jennifer Black

Nora Boone

Pam Branham

Margaret Brooks

Diane Brown

Clark Buchner

Ron Buck

Robert Burns

Dwayne Byrd

Charles Campbell

Douglas Campbell

Rachel Cantrell

Steven Carman

Ed Carrington

Jackie Cash

Ted Cashion

Linda Caughron

Sandra Chandler

Rebecca Chappell

Edward Charbonnet

Catherine Chilton

Carolyn Clements

Jim Cole

Stanley H. Cox

Sarah Crain

Mary Crites

Patricia Cunningham

Marge Davis

David Dawson

Amanda Dent

Laura Derrington

Wendy Dippery

Raymond Dorris

Judy Drescher

Janice K, Earheart

Les Edwards

Audrey F W Ellis

Eric Elms

Buddy Fey

Michael Finger

Michael Finger

Lara Firrone

Elizabeth Fitzgerald

Cameron Fogle

J. Patrick Foley

Scott Fox

Janet Freeman

Joel Frey

Sandy Friedman

Kristi Frisch

Angie Gardner

Ron Gephart

Liz Gilliland

Gordon Ginsberg

Gary, Bella, and Phin Golightly

Roy Golightly

Douglas Golonka

Steve Good

Emily Graves

Carole Griffin

Frank Guarino

Greg Hall

Eddie Hankins

Alix Harte

Althea Zane Hathaway

Joseph Hawes

Glenn T. and Martha Hays

Chris Hedrick

Janice and Pinkney Herbert

John Himber

Robert & Biula Holcomb

Michael & Kenya Hooks

George & Lorna Horishny

Jeff Hulett

Bobbie Hullermann

Jessica and Kim Hunter

William Irvine

Pat Isham

Frank Jemison

Lyn Joyner

JR Kamra

Craig Kelly

Michael Kernell

Daniel Kiel

Tom Kilroy

Louis King

Mark Kirby

Leanne Kleinmann

Paula Kovarik

Barbara Burch Kuhn

Jean Larson

David Less

David Lewis

Gregory Liebermann

Nick Lingerfelt

Ellen Lipsmeyer

Shannon Little

Evelyn Loch

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Jonathan May

Doug McDonald

Rhonda McDowell

James McMurry

Zac & Bethany McRae

Roger Meier

Pat Morgan

Steve Morley

Rev. Randall Mullins

Amy Mulroy

David Nanney

Kenneth Neill

Nicholas Newsom

Eric Newsome

Mary Ogle

James Oliver

Joe Parker

Jane Parks

Lucas and Jennifer Parris

Terron Perk

Donald Petri

Bianca Phillips

Ivan K. Phillips

Mike Piercey

Dr. Kwadwo Makau PO

Pete Pranica

Malcolm Pratt

James Prewitt

Luke Pruett

Robert Pugh

Lee Purvis

Gary Richardson

Mike Russell

Shahin Samiei

Sandeford Schaeffer

Karl Schledwitz

Douglas Schmitt

Coy Schnadelbach

Mike Schoenberger

Paula Seaton

Stephen Shankman

Jay Sheffield

Gina Sigillito

Douglas Sims

Carrie Sims

Amy Singer

H.B. Smith

Marty Smith

Lynn Sparagowski

Jon W. Sparks

Jeremy Speakes

Beth Dobson Stamey

Steve Steffens

Erica C. Stoltz

Meghan Stuthard

Tina Sullivan

Alagiri Swamy

Michael Synk

Barbara Sysak

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David Thompson

David Tipton

Andrea Tomes

Anna Traverse

Nicole Treadwell

Warren Triplett

Henry Turley

Mackenzie VanAusdall

Bruce VanWyngarden

John Vergos

Dawn Vincent

Christina Vranich

Mike Waldrop

KC & Jeff Warren

Carol Watkins

Tamara Wegenke

Rosie Richmond Whalum

James White

Holly Whitfield

Kathleen Williams

Lisa Williams

Chris Wilson

Julie Wilson

Bill Wilson

Peggy Winfrey-Hull

Houston Wolf

Jen Wood-Bowien

Jason Yaun