Carolyne Lark Swayze

Countless poems have been written about trees, the most notable being Joyce Kilmer’s “Trees,” which infers that a tree is divine art, perhaps even surpassing human creation. Lately, I couldn’t agree more and recognize that there are some lessons we could learn from the barked botanical wonders with which we share a symbiotic relationship as living things.

On March 26, 2021, after having lived in Sacramento, California, for twenty-three years, I packed up and headed east. Making the massive move with relatively little preparation, I recalled a similar move some fifty-four years earlier when I packed up and left Chicago, my birth city, and headed west. Now, as then, to me, the events occurring throughout both journeys and covering several California cities could have only been directed by a greater power, which for me represents God.

Arriving in Savannah, Georgia, the land of my ancestors, I would meet relatives, some of whom I had no clue even existed: half-siblings and cousins, including those from a more distant and darker period of America’s history. Those unlikely to have given me any thought prior now held out their arms in recognition due to the existence of undeniable revelations. But a greater connection came from the trees for some inexplicable reason.

While Sacramento is known as the city of trees, Georgia is said to have 25 million acres of forests, which is about 67% of its land, with a variety of tree species, including maples, oaks, southern magnolias, and pines. Ah, yes, the Georgia Pine identified from colloquialisms such as “High as a Georgia Pine” to express being under the influence of alcohol or drugs, to the sublime lyric of “Comes as sweet and clear as moonlight through the pines,” in Ray Charles’ hit song, Georgia on My Mind. Additionally, there are some undeniable similarities between trees and humans. Its roots can represent a person’s foundation or heritage. At the same time, its trunk symbolizes a human body, while tree limbs represent human limbs, with branches signifying relationships and experiences.

My home in Georgia sits against wetlands dominated by Georgia Pines so tall as to appear to reach into the heavens. When first arriving, I recall being utterly awestruck by their grandeur. I would learn that besides similarities, there are lessons to learn from trees. Unlike some humans driven by greed, who want more and more no matter the cost to themselves or others, upon reaching a certain height, the tree understands intuitively that there is no longer any advantage to becoming taller. At that point, the tree, to sustain itself, focuses on other aspects of its growth, such as the crown and health of its branches, and ensuring that through photosynthetic processes, it can adequately pull water to reach its root system for the health of each of its existing leaves and seed production. I am still in awe of trees, but today, the trees in my backyard appear less tall than they were.

And so, in this fourth quarter of my life, however long that may be, every gentle breeze and every rustling of leaves are whispering reminders of nature’s resilience, and I am filled with the strength to write the final chapter of my life’s story.

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.