Like a lot of writers, I have a lot of stories posted here and there on the Internet, and I’ve struggled to gather them all in one place.  I changed slower than the Internet, so I would get lazy, forget where I posted things, forgot passwords, you know…I ease my guilt by assuring myself I’m not alone.

And then, of course, there’s the matter of design.  I’m not a graphic artist, so trying to mix colors and match them to text made me crazy, and everything I tried seemed to turn out ugggggleeee!  How many times do I have to click “save” to “save”?  And then, after the “saving” is done, there’s always one cringeworthy mistake…their instead of there, it’s instead of its, to instead of too…you know.

Last, and most important, it’s taken this long to conquer my fear of actually being read.  What I write is oftentimes not easy to put on paper, never mind think of people, especially people I don’t know, read it.  It’s real life, and it’s hard to dredge up hurtful memories of things I still face today–racism, bullying, the serious stuff.

About Careful Cafe:  I first moved to Ogunquit, Maine in (nevermind).  I was an oddity, but one I was used to, a black woman navigating a white world.  This was different, though.  The people there weren’t used to seeing a black person stay more than, say, five minutes, so my constant presence caused quite a stir.

At first, rumors flew that a black MAN had come to town.  When it was clear I wasn’t a man, fears eased just a bit, but not enough to kill their primitive (and I use that word for emphasis) notions.  A fisherman, Wayne, called me the “luck changer.” To that I would later say, “if only…”  Allan, a poet, told me how happy he was when he first saw me.  “The natives have arrived,” he said in his alcoholic haze as he tried to feel me up.  A waitress in a cafe that served dishwater coffee and rubber eggs called aside my employer as we left after having lunch.  “Be careful of her,” she said.  The cafe eventually closed and all these years later it stands gray, sad, dilapidated, abandoned.  Just like that waitress.  The Careful Cafe.

Not that those things are all there is in this blog.  There’s funny, there’s crazy, there are silly words put together that make me wonder how the heck my mind works.  I hope your jaw drops at some of the silly stuff I’ve written.

One last thing:  Thanks to Kendall Dudley at Cambridge Center for Adult Education, and to Claudia Cassell, Eileen Kenneally, Sherry Leffert, and Nikki Zapol I learned something very important about myself.  When I have an idea, or when given word prompts, I can put together a cohesive story in ten minutes or less.

So…this is a long way of saying welcome to the Careful Cafe. There’s a lot of of ink waiting to be spilled, then typed into a computer, then read by your eyes.  Let me know what you think.

12 thoughts on “Home

  1. Bev! Congratulations–what a great step. I look forward to reading your work. So glad you’ve gone public with your finely tuned stories. Warm wishes for your success in this media art form. Kendall

  2. Wonderful hearing your voice, Beverly. It’s a gift having your ruminations poking our brains. Much love in the year ahead.

  3. Bout time.

    Look out world. I say be careful of her too….. but as in, don’t mess with her. But also, be care full. We will handle these pages with care! Now write my bff!

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