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MAY 2018   
Things that make 
you go hmmm...

By Ma’at Seba
SUN COLUMNIST
• Why do they call it a funny bone, when I hit mine I didn’t see anything funny about it
• They say what you don’t know won’t hurt you, so how do you explain the pain in your foot when you stepped on a needle embedded in the carpet?
• Why is it that the closer that you get to home, the worse you have to use the bathroom?
• When you put socks in the washing machine, where do some of them disappear to? 
• Why do people order a full course meal including dessert and then order a diet pop?
• Why is it that if you try to tickle yourself it isn’t funny?
• Why is it that when you get home from the grocery store, you buy everything except for what you originally went for?
• Why is it that the person that snores always falls asleep first?
• When you have to make an emergency stop at a public restroom with only seconds to spare, why is it that your stall has no toilet tissue in it?
• Why is it that you never seem to find a lost item until you buy another one?
• Why is it that when you are eating something that you love, you drop the last piece?
• Why is it when the person you are talking to who needs a breath mint always seems to use a lot of words that start with an “H” or a “W”?
• Why is it that when your grocery bag breaks, it is the bag with the eggs or glass?
• How is it that when you want to sneak a snack without the kids finding out, as you ever so slowly open the wrapper so it won’t crunch too loud, the child comes into the room?
• Why is it that the person in the group that can’t sing always sings the loudest?
• Why is it that when you are next in line at a store or at the bank your child says that they have to use the bathroom?
• Why is it that when you are running late, times seems to speed up?
• How do you describe the wind to a blind person?
• Why do you have to yawn when you see someone else yawn?
• Why is it that when your hands are full of bags, you drop the house keys right when you are trying to unlock the door?
• Why are there Braile dots on the keypad of the ATM?
• So, if nothing sticks to Teflon, then how do they get the Teflon to stick to the pan?
• Why do people leave a tiny bit of juice in the bottle or chips in the bag instead of eating all the rest of it?
• Why is the music at a club or function so loud that you have to holler to talk to another person?
• Why is it that you have to get up to use the bathroom a half an hour before its time for you to get up and you can’t get back to sleep?
     Ma’at Seba is a motivational speaker and writer. Email her at Maatseba@yahoo.com. or call (313) 861-1118.   











MAY 2018
Mom on the Rebound

By D. L. Gibson
SUN LIFESTYLE COLUMNIST
    Oh no! Please don’t let the crazy deacon get me.
     He pushed one of the security guards out of the way and was headed straight toward me. Just as he was stretching out his hand to grab me, Bishop grabbed his arm. 
     Sister girl and I ran to the doorway and yelled out to the police to come back into the hospital. 
    Two officers rushed back inside and asked the officer that had one of the drag queens in handcuffs what happened. 
     Before he could explain, the crazy deacon got an adrenaline rush and pushed away from Bishop. Then, he attempted to lay hands on Bishop. Why did he do that?
    Bishop set aside his religion and transformed into Pastor Thug Life. 
    “Get behind me Satan,” Bishop yelled out. “You have lost your mind! I’ll beat all of those unsavory spirits out of you, before I let you put your hands on me.”
     The officers stepped in between the two to calm them both down.
     “Man...you just got out of jail. Do you want to go back,” one of the officers asked the crazy deacon. “Apparently two days wasn’t long enough for you. What’s your problem?”
     The crazy deacon pointed at me and said, “Her! She’s the cause of all of this mess.”
     Sister girl and I just stood silently in the doorway, looking as though we had no clue on what he was talking about. 
    All eyes seemed to be focus on me, as the crazy deacon kept mumbling about the picture I took of him at the gay club in a compromising position with one of the queens. 
     I shrugged my shoulders and twirled my finger around, indicating that he’s really crazy.
  He was so busy focusing on me that he didn’t see his wife’s family come back into the waiting room.
  “Deacon where have you been,” his sister-in-law asked. “While you’re messing around, my sister is back there clinging to life. Worrying about you is what caused her to have a heart attack. I told her a year ago that she should leave your no-good behind alone. I’ve suspected that you’ve been up to no good for some time now.”
    It was like playing tennis. In one moment all eyes were focused on her, then they bounced back to the crazy deacon. It went back and forth for a while. 
   Even the police were looking back and forth. 
   “Yea, I heard about the pictures of you little man in a club hugged up on some woman. You know what...I’ve even saw them. Yes I saw them.”
  Then, she pulled out her cell phone, and held it up so that all can see it.
    “Yea...that’s you. Don’t deny it!”
   Bishop grabbed the phone and confirmed it was the same picture he saw earlier at my house. But, how did she get it?
    Mom on the Rebound is based on actual events.  


MAY 2018
Telford Telescope: 
Mother's Day 
By Dr. John Telford
SUN COLUMNIST
   This past month of April was Poetry Month, and Mother's Day is in this month of May. Six decades ago, I taught English and coached track at Southeastern High School. Since this past September, I've been back at Southeastern in my new capacity as DPSCD's 82-year-old Poet-in-Residence, teaching a Poetry class on Tuesday mornings and sharing some of my poetry with my students. Given the fact that Mother's Day is in May, I've asked my students to write a Mother's Day poem. 
     In an attempt to inspire them in this endeavor, I've written a Mother's Day poem, too, even though I lost my own wonderful then-91-year-old mother Helen Telford twenty years ago. My prayerfully wishful poem for my late mother, wherever she now may be, is entitled, 'Aquatic Dreams of Scenes Unseen':
She dreams, in raptured reverie / Of waterfalls and revelry-- / Of scenes unseen and multi-hued, / By bubbling brooklets never viewed. / She roams rain forests new and green, / And drifts down rivers blue and *clean. / She sees a white-capped tide arising / Beneath a bright and wide horizon. / She sails celestial, starlit seas / In universal galaxies! 
 {*unlike the Flint River]
    A maternal incident I particularly remember (about which I also much later wrote a poem) occurred in the 16th Street/McGraw neighborhood of my childhood and early teen years. An epileptic of African origin one day lurched from porch to porch and portal to portal--striving to peddle pencils at portals that stayed forbiddingly shut. Stumbling down a porch step, he pitched onto the pavement and hit head-first. With blood in an eye, he bent to un-scatter some pencils and staggered up the steps of OUR porch at 6021 16th Street. To my little four-year-old self, he was a frightful sight: I fled from the porch into the house, slamming the door in his grimacing face. My mother opened it, took him in, sat him down, washed away his grimace and blood, bought his pencils, and fed him.  
     My mother--a DPS kindergarten teacher for more than 40 years--was the kindest, gentlest, most loving lady I ever met, and everyone adored her and was drawn to her. (The only person who was mean to my mother was the first of my three wives, but that was 30 years later.)  
     This isn't to say that she was a pushover. Multiple times she wore out her hands boxing the ears of her only son (me) when my various misbehaviors incurred her wrath. Invariably, she would also fight injustice in any form whenever and wherever she encountered it. She shared that character trait with her husband--my father John Sr.--a Scotland-born ex-coal-miner, ex-prizefighter, and bodyguard to UAW President Walter Reuther (a job from which he was fired for drinking). I remember during the 1943 race riot my father saved a very old black man from being stomped to death by four white men in an alley near Stanton Street. He carried the thin little old man to our house on 16th Street, and my mother washed the bleeding old man's soiled clothing (he had moved his bowels in his trousers during the beating). My mother fed him, and my dad drove him home the next day. Sadly, that poor, aged man died several days later.  
    My mother, who herself spoke only Danish until she was five, taught English to immigrants in night school. Perhaps if she had been Trump's mother, she would have been able to teach him tolerance toward immigrants and give him some sorely-needed spankings early-on, so that now he wouldn't be trying to expel nearly a million innocent residents who were brought here from other countries as children. I will again honor Helen Telford on Mother's Day, 2018. I am deeply and forever grateful that I was blessed to be her son.  
    Dr. John Telford is a recent DPS Superintendent and a former world-ranked sprinter at WSU. Hear him Saturday mornings at 9:30 and Monday evenings at 6:30 on WCHB1340 AM. Get his books at the Source Booksellers at 4240 Cass Avenue, Barnes & Noble stores, or at www.amazon.com, Contact him at (313) 460-8272 or DrJohnTelfordEdD@aol.com, His website is A Life on the Run.




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