Carolyne Lark Swayze

While recently standing in Publix grocery’s wine section, trying to decide on my wine choice, a woman came over and stood closely beside me. Made slightly uncomfortable by what I felt was an invasion of my personal space, I turned to her and smiled. I soon learned she was confused about what to buy and was watching my selection.

“I’m looking for a good cooking wine for a chicken recipe,” she said. As she described her dish, I told her it sounded good and pointed her to a Meiomi, a dry California Chardonnay that cost $20.

“Oh no, that’s too much,” she said. “I’m not going to drink it; I’m only cooking with it.”

 I was the wrong person to make that statement to because I was now forced to explain to her that you don’t want to cook with it if you can’t drink it. If it’s a bad wine, once the heat removes the alcohol, you’re left with the “bad” wine taste in your lovely recipe. “Oh,” she said, “Maybe I’ll just use some chicken broth.”  “That’s a nice substitute,” I said as I picked up my wine and headed to the checkout. Turning around, I saw her bending over to pick up a “value” bottle of wine from the bottom shelf.

All the way home, knowing I was right, I kept thinking about what I could have said to have changed her mind, making her select a better wine, which would have only enhanced her recipe. I realized this situation was not so different from the current political climate, where, similar to making the perfect wine pairing, we are all trying to make the best choice for our future.

I recently spoke with an acquaintance about her reason for voting for Donald Trump. “I know what he is,” she said, “but I like his policies.” I’m never sure of the exact policies, but one is as good as another. However, the phrase appears to be the current talking point from those voting for the now-felon former president.

Policies change for various reasons, such as social dynamics, constitutional challenges, related technological advances, and plain ole public support or the lack thereof. When you remove the policies from someone of questionable character, similar to the alcohol removed from a sour wine, one is left with only a person of dubious character. On the other hand, if you remove the policies from someone with a demonstrated ability to show concern for all humanity and respect for the rule of law, even if possessing what you may consider fewer appealing policies, you still have someone who remains decent, someone with whom you can proudly support as you work together to ensure better policies are enacted going forward.

Along with 67 million other viewers, I listened to the presidential debate on Tuesday night. There is no way to spin that the former president had a disastrous debate. Still, he claims he won—we’ve heard that before. More alarming is that irrespective of the facts, three out of four of Donald Trump’s supporters agreed with him on winning. This is a concerning trend, as it shows the power of misinformation, the need for a more informed electorate, and, most alarming, some willingness to put party over the country. The former president did not appear to grow his base by his feckless debate, and he will need to be more convincing to win the 2024 election. 

But back to the young woman at Publix. I wish I had been more encouraging by suggesting she select a wine with elegance and finesse, one with a reputation for being firm and balanced, and cautioned her to stay away from the low acidic, flaccid, and feeble characteristics of the more unbalanced spirit.

We often write about things of minimal interest to many on Facebook. Still, we do it as if by sitting at home and doing very little, we can excel in some superhuman exercise in camaraderie. But now and then, we are privileged to write about something gratifying. And so it was when my dear friend Terrie and I recently took advantage of a beautiful Savannah afternoon to stroll through Forsyth Park—passing a park bench where locals, also taking advantage of the excellent weather, engaged in boisterous conversation.

Our first inclination was to keep walking, but that wasn’t meant to be because a colorful painting caught Terrie’s eye as we began to pass the group. Stopping, I picked up the picture painted on white corrugated cardboard. Looking closely, I could now see what had appeared to be an abstract, was the silhouette of a woman and a guitar. Looking at the park bench, the woman sitting among the men, her guitar next to her, was obviously the model for the painting. We began talking to the artist, Sheldon, who told us how he lived in Savannah’s village of Tiny Houses, which is affordable housing for those who might otherwise be homeless vets. Terrie asked the man how much he wanted for the painting, and without hesitation, Sheldon asked for $75; we settled on $50. Upon Terrie asking him to sign his artwork, the artist picked up a paintbrush and wrote SHELDON in all caps on the bottom.

I was now tasked with the responsibility of having the picture framed. Anyone with a picture professionally framed can attest that framing can cost far more than an excellent bargain found. I first set out to find the right frame. Fortunately, I found a beautiful gold-colored wooden rectangular frame for $35 in a second-hand store called Finder Things in Pooler.

Next was to head over to J and L Glass, who, for $20, meticulously measured and cut glass to fit the frame. Finally, I made a trip to Hobby Lobby in search of matting. My original idea was to paint the frame black and use two pieces of white matting inserted with goldenrod piping. Kelly, a framer at Hobby Lobby, suggested I not paint the frame and use black matting with a corresponding color from the painting; I agreed with her, and we decided on gray. I will say that in hindsight, because of the black matting, I would have selected a non-glare glass.

Still, I was pleased by the finished work, which now has a new home. I also admit that because I like it so much, I feel a pang of guilt for not giving Sheldon his original asking price. I invite any locals reading this post or others visiting Savannah not to miss Forsyth Park. Not only will you experience the magic of one of Savannah’s most well-known icons, but you might also run into Sheldon and his artwork.

As we draw to the end of Holy Week, I have spent considerable time reflecting on what is happening today, particularly in America. Regardless of one’s religious or non-religious perspectives, please bear with me as I allegorically express some real-life situations and events.

Going briefly to the mid-1700s, I am reminded of a recipe said to have been printed in Spain by Juan Loeches that gave instructions to take two pounds of live snakes, mixed with three ounces of sesame oil, and cook slowly until the meat fell from the bones. The mixture was then strained and stored for later use for various remedies, such as cleaning the skin and removing pimples, impetigo, and other defects. Traditional Chinese medicines have included such techniques for centuries. Chinese migrant workers may have brought these medicines to bear in the U.S. through the grueling labor they performed building the transcontinental railway. While snake oil may have had some validity due to its high levels of Omega 3, officials have never delivered any specific benefit of the concoction with any conclusive results. The facts, or lack thereof, did not stop patents in England from being issued, and soon, English inventors began manufacturing Snake Oil, a practice which spilled over (pun acknowledged) into the U.S. In time, chemical analysis showed the substance was a little more than mineral oil with some added herbs and fragrance.

Many of us over a certain age have no doubt seen Western Movies where the Snake Oil Salesman, purported to be a doctor but with no credentials, comes to town to peddle his miracle snake oil to those in pain seeking relief—let me say that again, those in pain seeking relief. A shill planted in the audience might attest to the oil’s magical powers to increase sales. The wanna-be doctor would sell his product and get out of Dodge before his trusting and desperate customers knew they had been duped.

Similarly, have you ever wondered how anyone using a fake resume, espousing bogus philanthropic pursuits, finances, and other significant falsehoods, got elected to a sizeable congressional district? Was it because we were all feeling too poorly, drowning in our attempts to deal with life situations, to see the signs, and needed a new face—any face—to bring a new sense of hope? We are too sophisticated to drink the proverbial Kool-Aid—that’s already been done; we needed something new—we needed snake oil.  

And did we play any part, for the same reason mentioned, that allowed one of the most prominent Snake Oil fraudsters, marauding as an American financier and executing one of the largest Ponzi schemes in history, defrauding investors out of billions of dollars for close to twenty years before being brought to his knees by a 150-year prison sentence? Was it because we could not get those college funds together fast enough, buy that new home for our growing families, or live the American Dream on a grander scale that we needed something more? We required more—snake oil.

And, how could we ever consider a man with so many failed business deals that we can’t keep track of to lead us in the government’s business? A man, although ousted from public office by the people, once again, running for the same highest office in the land with close to ninety million followers, a man with numerous criminal charges, including being indicted for using campaign funds to pay off a porn star to coverup his sexual encounters. At the same time, unphased by the knowledge, we knew his unsuspecting wife dutifully waited at home with their newborn son. How, after comparing himself to Jesus Christ, and with the audacity to stand before the nation on television, and like a cheap local ad, during Lent, when eighty percent of Americans celebrate the holiest period of the year, hawk his version of the Bible for $59.99, to raise money to pay his legal debts? Take the snake oil, and watch the madness magically disappear! Warning: Results may vary!

Snake oil, once considered some innocuous product used by a door-to-door salesperson, has suddenly become like some 11th biblical plague spewed from the mouth of a serpent. It is a hazardous substance slowly and menacingly spreading across America to prey on the credulity of a nation that continues to seek remedy as it runs around the snake pit desperately trying to find more—snake oil.

So much of what we, as Black people, enjoy today stems from the fruits of the labors of those upon whose shoulders we stand. To deny and obliterate the history of Black people in America ends all possibility to fully understand race matters in this country, particularly the painful parts. The goal is not to hold on to injustices but to celebrate achievements.

In recognition of Black History Month 2024, I salute all men and women of the armed services. Because of my own time served as a United States Marine, I pay homage to one that I find particularly deserving of being honored, Oleta Lawanda Crain, an African American military officer, civil servant, and civil rights advocate with a focus on women’s rights.

Born in 1913 in Earlsboro, Oklahoma, and growing up in Wewoka, she graduated from Douglass High School and received her bachelor’s degree from Lincoln University in Jefferson City, Missouri. An undergraduate degree in business administration would follow from the University of Maryland’s extension in Heidelberg, Germany. As Major Crain, she would complete additional coursework at Harvard and Cambridge University in England and the School of International Relations in Vienna, Austria.

The United States Army was the first U.S. military branch to enlist women when, in May 1942, Franklin D. Roosevelt signed the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps (WAAC) into law. The idea was to use women to fill specific administrative positions, freeing the men to serve in combat. These jobs were limited to “female appropriate” positions such as drivers, clerical, medical, and cooks. Oleta enlisted after being inspired by a WAAC poster encouraging women to join the war effort. She would only later learn they had not been speaking to her. Undeterred, she forged ahead, was promoted to corporal, and became leader of an African American unit.

In September 1943, Congress authorized the Women’s Army Corps (WAC), making women an official part of the Army, and upon being discharged from the WAAC, Oleta became one of only three Black women out of 300 women nationwide selected to officer training, entering as an Army Air Force Second Lieutenant. Although constantly exposed to racial discrimination by her peers and superiors, after the war, First Lieutenant Crain would be the only Black female officer to be retained by the military. Using her singular and unique position, in the wake of raising concerns about segregation, racism, and sexism, she was promoted to Captain and, in 1948, was transferred to Westover Air Force Base in Massachusetts to work in intelligence. Accused of being a communist by her superior officer, following many months of investigations, she was vindicated of any wrongdoing, emerging from the fiasco with a top-secret security clearance. As personnel director at Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage and staffing office at Lindsey Air Station in Germany, Oleta retired from active duty in June 1963 with the rank of Major.

Far from done, the U.S. Department of Labor in Washington, D.C., hired her, and she went to work as a human resources development specialist. Moving to Boston, she took an associate regional administrator position. She taught and attended night school for five years to earn a master’s in public administration. By the mid-1970s, she had been transferred to Denver to serve as regional administrator of the Women’s Bureau for Colorado, Montana, North Dakota, South Dakota, Utah, and Wyoming.

Focusing on improving women’s employment conditions, wages, and career options, she also supervised conferences on childcare, health benefits, job training, working conditions, and earnings equality. She retired in 1998.

Oleta Lawanda Crain’s distinguished service and humanitarian awards are numerous, and in 1988 was inducted into the Colorado’s Women’s Hall of Fame.

On November 7, 2007, at the age of 94, Ms. Crain died. She dedicated her collection of documents from her military service to the Blair-Caldwell African American Research Library in Denver. A Delta Sigma Theta, the Denver chapter of the sorority, established the Oleta Lawanda Crain Scholarship in her honor.

The U.S. Department of Labor posthumously cited her contributions during Black History Month in 2018, whose theme was African Americans in Times of War.

May her memory be a blessing and an inspiration to all.

Born in the Netherlands in 1496, Menno Simons was a Roman Catholic priest who became an influential Anabaptist religious leader after being excommunicated from the Catholic Church in 1536. A contemporary of the Protestant Reformers, he, along with his followers, became known as Mennonites. Through his writings, he held certain beliefs about Jesus with great conviction despite persecution by various Roman Catholic and Mainline Protestant states. These opinions were codified in the Dordrecht Confession of Faith in 1632, which affirmed “the baptism of believers only, the washing of the feet as a symbol of servanthood, church discipline, the shunning of the excommunicated, the non-swearing of oaths, marriage within the same church,” strict pacifistic physical nonresistance, anti-Catholicism and in general, more emphasis on “true Christianity” involving “being Christian and obeying Christ” as they interpret it from the Holy Bible.

In the late 1600s, Simons was linked with another Anabaptist leader, Jacob Ammann. Because of the extreme positions that Simons felt Ammann supported, such as “shunning and other innovations, the two factions split, and Ammann went off to establish the Amish faith.

James Henry Lark, Jr.

The grandson of an enslaver, Joseph Edward Glover (1809-1879), and his enslaved housekeeper, a woman named Mary Ann Bird Gibson, James Henry Lark, Jr. was born on May 4, 1889, in Savannah, Georgia, to Leila Glover, the “masters” runaway mulatto daughter, and a Black man, named James Henry Lark, Sr, from Augusta, Georgia. Four years later, Leila was alleged to have been murdered. With details unknown, her death certificate only gives the cause of death as “undisclosed.” The following year, James died under the same circumstances, and once again, the death certificate provides the cause of death as “undisclosed.” Orphaned at age five, little James Jr. was returned to his grandmother, where he lived to the age of twelve; when unable to withstand the ill-treatment he is said to have received, he ran away to Washington D.C. to his father’s brother, Alexander.

In 1917, he was raised by his uncle and his aunt. During WWI, he enlisted in the army and was sent to France. Returning in 1918, he married his uncle’s daughter, his first cousin, Rowena Winters Lark. The family settled first in Maryland and later in Washington and began attending a Mennonite Church. In the early 1920s, James bought a 103-acre farm in Quakertown, Pennsylvania, where he assisted in raising the couple’s six children while Rowena taught school in Washington, one hundred and sixty miles south.

Following a study conducted by Goshen College, a four-year Mennonite liberal arts school, James and Rowena were asked by the Mennonite church to work in Chicago with the urban (Black) poor. James agreed, believing that by doing so, spiritual and financial power would be placed in his hands to strengthen Black churches. While that didn’t materialize as planned, on October 6, 1946, the Mennonite church ordained him as a minister, and on September 26, 1954, he became the organization’s first Black bishop. Over the next forty years, James and Rowena would work with mainly Black families living in poverty across the United States and Canada. Their work was not easy, and for several years, they were subjected to Jim Crow laws of the South, as the Mennonite church looked the other way, in some cases even upholding positions of the Confederate South. Still, they persevered, albeit not without some collateral consequence to their family.

James and Rowena Lark were my maternal grandparents.