Opening Lines

I often get into conversations with people who want me to write their book for them. We talk. I always make a point of saying they have to swear to tell the truth. Everybody swears they want their truth out there. Ok. We go to contracts. We often get advances based on a proposal. Then, when it gets right down to the nitty gritty, the brakes come out. Everything gets stopped. This has happened enough times that I decided I was done. Not another one. But an old friend asked me to do it and I thought ok. I spent six months working on the proposal. I had to do all the research. He couldn't remember anything. Then this week, a rep for this guy actually, I swear to bob, said to me that I used "too many two dollar words" in the book proposal So guess what. I have no patience for fools. So his book will never see the light of my day. When I told my honey this latest turn of events, he said "good, that will give you some time to write the Ruthiewrites book." Hmm. That's such a problem because my early life reads like a extra bad novel. Who would believe it all? Should I open my book writing that I sat in the grass near the white washed oak trees watching my mother get in the car with her luggage. It was the last time I ever saw her. I was three. Whoa, the truth just flew out the window. No, I don't want to do that or write about the horrors that checkered my young life after she was gone. I want to write about the good things, the things that make me smile, not the things that still make me weep even after so many years. So if I write about the good things, I might start the book with I was laying naked across Ray Charles' desk looking up at the skylight that looked like a moon. I thought that one would make the book into a real page turner for a book about Ruth Adkins Robinson..

The Airmen in Las Vegas

I am excited about my upcoming trip to Las Vegas. Next weekend is the Tuskegee Airmen Convention and it's gonna be fun, fun, fun. Like way too many people, I didn't know much about the Airmen until I got knee deep in the Tuskegee: Journey to Flight. Most of the fascinating people I met lived through struggles in Times of War and Times of Peace. They chose carefully what they wanted to say about what life in the South during World War II was like, the humiliation they received at the hands of white officers or the outrage of seeing German Prisoners of War being allowed to ride in the front of the bus or eat at white lunch counters while they, fresh back from fighting for their country, were not. But the pain was there, still close to the surface --almost seventy years later. For months I was working on producing five videos that became part of the Exhibit. But then I was only talking to people from California, since the museum is the California African American Museum with a focus generally on people from this area. In Las Vegas, I'll be working for the military and talking to Airmen from all over the country. The CAAM Exhibit is open through the end of November, so if you are reading this, come by the museum and check it out. Off to salute the Black Warriors of World War II, I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson.

The Race Card Plays

The dreamers, the hopeful even some of the jaded saw Barack Obama's election as the beginning of the post-racial era in America. It was not. Race still matters, the Race card still plays although the "browning" of America is taking place at an increasingly rapid rate. The simple truth is my 14 year old grandson, Jean-Pierre Elijah Chance, has a greater chance of being arrested than the blond kid across town. Sometimes what you have to tell children is hard. Elijah wanted a paint ball gun and I had to explain to him he couldn't have a gun like that to carry around in the neighborhood. He's tall and from a distance looks like a full grown man. He could get shot. He will always have to be just a little more wary, even if he should grow up to be a college professor, like Henry Louis Gates. Race played a major part in that brouhaha and so did class and priviledge. The distinguished Dr. Gates was able to get a high profile attorney and the attention of the President after being taken out of his own house in handcuffs and booked. He got lots of media attention because of who he is and who he knows. If "Skip" lived next door to me, not so much noise would have been heard in the land. He also would have had enough sense to shut up and not smart mouth the cops. Dr. Gates behaved like many white professors would have, but his outrage didn't play well even in the rarified college air. Face it, outrage doesn't play so well in individual circumstances--if those circumstances happen to be Black. I'm guessing a few more generations will have to pass before a little boy can simply be free to be a little boy and not a LBWB ( little boy while Black). Perhaps PWB (Professoring While Black) also. Maybe the grandson of Ruth Adkins Robinson's grandson will see a true post-racial America.

Otis, Otis, Otis

I had planned some months ago to do one blog about the Top Ten Male singers who give me a thrill. Sidetracked, it didn't get written, but when I stuck Otis in the CD player today, I thought I'd just write about him. Jeez, "I've Been Lovin' You Too Long, I Can't Stop Now," written with the Ice Man, Jerry Butler makes everybody wish they had love like Otis. There's "I've Got Dreams to Remember." Everybody remembers "Sitting on The Dock of the Bay," "Try A Little Tenderness," "Shake" and probably "I Can't Turn You Loose," although he sang it as Turn You A Loose. But there's also call me "Mr. Pitiful" and "These Arms of Mine," which gives me chills and if I hadn't been stuck in high school and had known where, I'd have chased him down and helped get rid of those arms that were so yearning. He was only 26 when he died in the plane crash. He'd be 67 this year. What is it about his talent that makes him so present even now, 40 years later. His power, raw power, pure talent as a writer, his charisma on stage? Yes. In the years since his death, he's been inducted into the Rock Hall, the Songwriter's Hall of Fame, got a postage stamp commemorating his talent, received the Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award and the Rock Hall listed THREE of Otis' songs among its list of the "500 Songs that Shaped Rock and Roll." All good, proper recognition of his monumental talent. I'm listening right now to this great Rhino boxed set. The hard thing about listening to him and trying to write is that he is never background music. You have to listen because when he sings, you believe him, feel him. He lets me know what he is going through, thinking about, feeling. No doubt, Otis is missed and loved by Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Black Radio

Radio used to be a wonderful part of my life. When I was a kid, I'd listen way over at the end of the dial to "Big Ed" talk about what he wanted to and play what he wanted to play as an accompaniment to my homework. Later driving that pale blue Cadillac convertible (that I was neither old enough to drive nor old enough to own) from Louisville to LA, I turned the radio up as loud as it would go and sang at the top of my lungs with all the stations that I found along Interstate after Interstate. This must have been the golden days of graphic names of the jocks across the country from that time. "Jocko Henderson," "Fat Daddy Johnson," "Frankie Crocker,*the Chief Rocker," Eddie O'Jay, "Sunny Jim" and so many others played the songs that we loved and made hits out of them. They had control of their own particular airwaves. When I got here to Los Angeles, I listened to Magnificent Montague ("Have Mercy") and Hunter Hancock on KGFJ. No doubt that I love all kinds of Black music and Black Radio, after all I was editor-in-chief at Black Radio Exclusive for ten years or so, and have written probably 300 cover and feature articles over time. I wonder what people writing about radio have to say these days. Real radio seems to be getting scarcer and scarcer. I don't know what's happening at KJLH right now but with the addition of Steve Harvey to the lineup, my friend Karen Slade might see a little more Kindness, Joy, Love and Happiness coming her way. From time to time, I long for "Big Ed" and his soothing radio style--Ruth Adkins Robinson

Twins, Twins, Twins

There are lots of myths, legends and superstitutions around multiple children like-- Multiples come through the mother's bloodline. Twins skip a generation. There are many kinds of twins, idential, mirror, fraternal and their birth has many meanings. Our twins are Antoinette Ruth and Nicole Renee and watching them grow was endlessly fascinating. When they slept, if one had one arm up facing her face, so would the other, if one turned over, within seconds the other would also. Like in the myths, they did have a twin language and interestingly they still resort to it today if they need to say something better unheard by others. When they were put in different classrooms in third grade, Nicole would leave her room and go stand in the doorway of Antoinette's just to make sure her twin was there. As they grew, they got high school jobs, one store apart near the Hollywood High Performing Arts Magnet where they were stars. One day an African man approached us and spoke at length about how Twins were a special blessing on us and told Nicole that as second born, she was actually the oldest because she sent her sister out to take a look to see what the world was all about. When Nicole went to the land of that myth two weeks ago, it was the first time they've been apart for more than a day or two. Left handed mirror twin Antoinette is the serious and in control Twin and she might not have cried while her sister was gone, (If so, she'd never say so) but she can't stop smiling at the prospect of seeing Nicole tomorrow. The rest of us were crying at the drop of a hat, fearful and goofy over our girl being gone so far away. These beautiful, brilliant, interesting young women endlessly fascinate me. I know there are many trips and adventures for them in the future. Meanwhile, I'll grab the chance to sit and look at them as often as I can because I'm their Grandmere Ruth Adkins Robinson

Mint Julep, Pim's Cup, Kir Royale

I caught a show on the Fine Living Network tonight about cocktails and places people enjoy them. Keeping with my theory that 'smell' is the most intense of all the senses, I gave some thought to what I smelled when I drank what I drank. The smell of mint made me think about the Mint Julep of Kentucky Derby Fame. I still have one that I very cermoniously make on the first saturday of every May and drink it during the "most exciting two minutes in sports." I drink my Julep wherever I happen to be that saturday in May. Cucumber comes to mind for another favorite. When in England, I always drank a Pim's Cup, which is Pim's liquer, ginger ale and a cucumber wheel and I substituted champagne for the ginger ale most of the time. Pim's is the drink of big tennis competitions. And when the music business was in full swing and Le Dome was where you went if you were anybody, I drank a thousand kir royales that my favorite waiter, the Belgian Henri would put on my table when I walked through the door. The smell of the framboise in that drink still makes me dizzy. I so enjoyed the fun of sharing a drink with friends, but diabetes put any serious drinking in my past, except for my yearly Julep. However, recently my doctor told me that a glass of red wine every day was fine. Any suggestions for Ruth Adkins Robinson?

It's A Wonder

I've watched Stevie Wonder up close for a long time, being annoyed with him very frequently for some of the stunts he's pulled and people let him get away with it because he's blind. But I finally learned that while he and Ray Charles both happened to be blind, they are/were extremely different in personality. It was wrong of me to expect them to be the same. Example: if RC said I'll be there at 9 a.m., open your door at 8:59--Ray was coming through. Stevie was/is as likely to show up at nine at night or at nine a.m. or some day one week later. Ray didn't particularly like people around. He rolled with only one person who variously served as valet, driver, and a thousand other areas that he took responsibility for. Stevie has a hundred people it seems who serve in various roles. Stevie is warmer, outgoing. Not Ray, closed, private. They did share a clear genius when it comes to music. There just aren't bad notes--with either of them. Yet at Michael's funeral, Stevie hit some bad notes when he sang "I Never Thought You'd Leave In Summer," I wanted to go put arms around him and often some comfort to the boy who once was the "12 Year Old Genius" because that child he once was understood the child that Michael once was. Little Stevie is now 59 (jeez, when did that happen) just nine years older than Mike and when he said he wished he "had not lived long enough to see this day," every bit of his Little Stevie self and the man he became was open and in pain. His grief broke my heart. It will be a long time before I ever get mad at Steve again --Here's a bit of trivia for you. Both men have Grammys in double digits, they both recorded "Livin' For the City." Which one won a Grammy for that? --I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson with some answers.

Oh Canada

I just sent my sitcom to the Canadians who are interested this project and I'm sitting here in the quiet time before dawn edges in wondering if a move to Canada is in my future? I have talked about loving Canada for such a long time and the idea of living there and working there gives me that secret little thrill. People like me who eat wanderlust for breakfast never get too old to take on one more locale, one more country. Recently a dear friend of mine confessed she wishes she had taken the chances she was given to travel long ago, like I did. I am forever grateful to all the people who lured me to all the fabulous, exotic and new places over the last 30 years. My favorites? Always France, always. But England and Egypt too and oh please, let Canada be next!

Nicole and the African babies

In the photo here: evangelist/missionary Nicole R. Banks and the babies in Africa where she has been for ten days. Most of the children are smiling because being with Nikki is a joyous experience even if you have only summer clothes in the dead of winter and not much in the way of shoes on your feet. Nicole said "Three of the kids in the pic have aids. We were in a tent for service. Taught the kids vbs and a dance, made balloons and painted faces. The youngest in the pic didn't have on a diaper so went to buy some pampers. All of those children were saved as a result of the lesson. I look exhausted in that pic and have big bags under my eyes but my heart was rejoicing. We fed 1300 that day and provided medicine . Funny joke the young adults were trying to teach me afrikaans. Lol I said teach me and she kissed me. She thought I told her to kiss me lol." How many of you readers would pull away from being kissed in this situation? Some of us labor in the field of entertainment, others, like my baby twin in greater places. My friend Makeda Smith of Jazzmyne PR has known Larriann's children since they were tiny and wanted to do something in support of Nicole and Youth on a Mission. Makeda spoke to her client Leon Jones the painter. Now his painting of Michael Jackson and Liz Taylor, due to be auctioned off at the Julien Gallery in NYC in November, will donate 10% of the proceeds to West A Children's Department (where Nicole works) and Youth on a Mission and the young people called to do God's work. The opening bid for the painting is expected at $30,000. This painter is the man who painted MJ's train station murals at Neverland and many other outstanding works. He's been talking about the great work of Nikki and her colleagues all over radio and tv. Thanks, Makeda. Very emotionally, I salute Nicole R. Banks--I'm Rutb Adkins Robinson

Jimmy Carter is one Real Man

Jimmy Carter is kicking the Southern Baptists to the curb. Just one more reason that I love him. I voted for him and watched him get sabotaged by Washington's determination to never let anyone change the way those old white men in the back rooms run things (Obama is suffering from this as well right now, watcha!) There's a photo of Jimmy and me in front of a banner for a program called "Cities in Schools" hanging in my home gallery. After his Presidency, I watched Rosalind and Jimmy build houses with their own hands while Reagan was collecting millions for his little speeches to the other rightwingers who shared his ugly opinions. Jimmy used his brilliant mind to negotiate movement in the Middle East when all the other posturing jerks didn't/wouldn't/couldn't. I was born among Hardshell Southern Baptists and I had to grin when Jimmy said "enough" to the Baptists after trying to create change from within. He did it for the very same reasons I did it as a girl. They said women have to be "subservient to their husbands." Oh, kiss my wide behind. I'm not very elegant in my disgust with those self-righteous asses, but watch Jimmy: "At its most repugnant, the belief that women must be subjugated to the wishes of men excuses slavery, violence, forced prostitution, genital mutilation and national laws that omit rape as a crime. But it also costs many millions of girls and women control over their own bodies and lives, and continues to deny them fair access to education, health, employment and influence within their own communities. The truth is that male religious leaders have had -- and still have -- an option to interpret holy teachings either to exalt or subjugate women. They have, for their own selfish ends, overwhelmingly chosen the latter. Their continuing choice provides the foundation or justification for much of the pervasive persecution and abuse of women throughout the world." You go Jimmy!!! Rosalind and millions of women are applauding. I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson saluting the former Commander in Chief, Jimmy Carter, a real man.

Of Jaguars and Men

Back in 1977, my mentor Brock Peters lent me to Lonne Elder to get some practical writing experience before I set out to write a script on an idea for a sequel on "To Kill A Mockingbird." Brock thought I had good ideas and talent but needed experience. Lonne was working on "A Woman Called Moses" and he took me on as an assistant. I wrote a passage one day describing Harriet Tubman saddling a horse. Lonne called it 'really good.' I thought I'd died and gone to Heaven. Of course, it probably wasn't and Lonne was being kind to the kid. He was an actor in the original cast of "Raisin in the Sun" and playwright "Ceremonies in Dark Old Men" and screenwriter. In 1973, he and Suzanne de Passe had become the first Black writers to be nominated for the Academy Award for writing. Lonne for "Sounder" and Suzanne for "Lady Sings the Blues." He was a giant, Lonne was--about the same height as me with a towering talent and a huge spirit. At the time, I didn't have a car and Lonne had an extra one and said I could use it. Can you believe it was a Jag, a BIG Jag, an XJ12 with all that gorgeous burl wood, painted a bright Turquoise? Every time you pressed your foot on the gas, you could see the fuel indicator move downwards. It was too loud and too expensive to operate, but oh god, I loved it. It also went to the shop every five minutes being constructed for the damp weather in England, not Southern California. But I loved it anyway. Just about the time I decided to buy another Jag, they became Fords and it didn't seem to hold all the luxurious allure... I do have a thing about cars. Ask me about the collection of Austins I once owned-all six of them-I'm the hard-driving Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Looking for Adventure

I have cabin fever. I haven't been anywhere for a long time so I need to go go go. But where? Travel is not what it once was. I've been all over the world two or three times and it once was great fun. Road trips are out since my road dog Hal moved to Buenos Aires. I think he is trying now to figure out how to drive from BA to LA but he could just be drunk on too much Malbec. It could be done. I've driven all over Europe. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Cornelius behind the wheel on our way to some conference or other in magic places like Nice, Monaco, Cannes. These days, I don't like having to take off my shoes and that sort of limits air travel. I have taken trains all over the world. The Blue Train in France, the Bullet Train in Japan and even the Southwest Chief here from New York to Los Angeles after my Pan Am plane crash. But the last train I took into Mexico jarred my teet and rattled my bones. I've never been on a bus in my life, could that be an adventure. Hmmm. Probably not. How about a limo to Las Vegas. That could work. "

Gratitude

Somebody on the radio said, "Make a list of what you are grateful for this Friday afternoon." Today I talked to one of my girls, Cheryl Dickerson, and we groaned that our houses are not worth what they once were, but we are still worth what we once were!! The artist Leon is auctioning off his Michael Jackson/Elizabeth Taylor piece and ten percent of the proceeds will go to the Children's Programs at West A in "honor of the work of Evangelist/Missionary Nicole R. Banks" my baby twin!!! I'll be interviewing Elbert T. Hudson as part of the onging History Council's Conversations at CAAM, sometime in September,, my JAG Colonel sent me an email (I love, love really smart men). When I walked through my front gate, my daughter the Chef, handed me a vase with two perfect Lincoln Roses, now sitting in my sight line smelling up the entire creative space. I can actually do 30 minutes on my Pilates Gym without having a heart attack. Many things big and small to be grateful for --Ruth Adkins Robinson

You Never Know What Others Remember

One of the strange and wonderful dimensions of the Internet is that it delivers some joyous surprises from time to time. Interestingly, I usually think that people enjoy my posts about show biz the most. But I've had real response to my post about being the rose girl. One hit me in the solar plexus.. It came from a boy who grew up on Rose Drive with me. His name is Phil Hibbs and here is what he had to say, "I remember that rose bush and I remember your grandmother getting killed...wow what memories. " I find it to be true that we sorta feel that our memories lie dormant in our heads belonging only to us and we bring them out from time to time and think about them. Suddenly with Phil remembering the rose bush outside my window and my grandmother's killing by a drunk gave them new, extra, powerful dimension. They are no longer faded memories, but sharp, vivid. I can inhale and smell the Seven Sisters and hear Big Mom's wonderful, wonderful laughter. Thanks, Phil, you Corvette driving devil--I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson here appreciating the memory of an old pal.

Why am I scatterheaded

I have spent the better part of the last 24 hours looking for some paperwork I need. I'm sure there are people out there--I might even know some of them--who know where every piece of paper is. How do they do that? Why do I open up mail and then put it down somewhere? Why do I buy stuff and bring it nto my house never to see or hear of it again? I was told once that we always know where things are that we want to know where they ares... Rubbish, so not true. I have been looking for a file that contains my birth certificate (wrinkled, yellowed old thing should have been easy to spot) social security card copy and other related bits that you need for formal filings for the last year. Happily, one of the benefits of looking for something is that you invariably find something else you've been desperate to find. Now I have a whole stack of coupons that expired in 2004, some items from some of the Gift Baskets from some of the TV shows that needed to be redeemed by 2007 and I also have my birth certificate, finally. Happily I also found my vehicle registration which had expired a month ago. Who knew? But I'm laughing because today was the last day for this particular penalty phase so I got in under the wire, missing the next 100USD levy. Now if I could only find the file with my bank statements, I'd be good to go. This absent minded writer thing is way overrated. I'm scattereaded Ruth Adkins Robinson

Assemblage Art

I am gathering stuff for this art piece I'll be doing over the next six months or so. It's going to be a look at music over the last thirty years. At least I think that's what it's going to be. Art always tells you what it decides somewhere in the process of making it. Right now, I have an six feet by six feet piano shaped piece as the base. I've got to find materials for the piano keys soon. I already have a great horn and a few other items. Between working on the mystery hour and the comedy half hour, it's going to be a busy few months. The bed springs will be useful. Ideas will come to Ruth Adkins Robinson

Riveting Ray

I was running around the Beverly Center, dashing in and out of places that had what I needed to get those scripts dusted off and back in action. I'd stopped at the Corner Bakery for coffee and jumped into Staples for some thumb drives to store all the scripts stuck on four different computers. As I walked out the door, the lyrics "See the girl with the red dress on" nailed me and there I stood riveted to the concrete between the Bakery and Soup Plantation, bags of all sizes, plus lunch hanging off my arms, listening to Ray sing about the girl who could Birdland all night long. Why does he still have that much power? I just stood there until the song faded and then took up the pace again. It's funny when I put him on in the car, it's ok, doesn't take my breathe away, I just enjoy the music. But when I go to sleep with the radio on and he pops up unawares, I wake up crying, it's hard. I am Ruth Adkins Robinson still missing Ray Charles Robinson.

I hate Sarah Palin

Last night I had a very spirited exchange with a man friend of mine. We had a verbal knockdown over his Republican friends--the genesis of which was his observation that he understood why there were a lot of people who liked Sarah Palin. Ok, so nevermind that a woman-centric person like me just gets incensed at anyone thinking that that trashy, undereducated twit is the best woman we have to offer. I am just mystified anyone could think she is good for this country and anyone who does has to be a Republican numbnut. Ouch, things ramped up a little. He told me one of his boys got up and walked out of a speech then-Senator Obama was making. Wait, I know this guy--he's one of Those People?? Is he an idiot? Oh I went on-- Bush was the Axis of Evil all by his "spoiled brat, I'm so entitled self"; that Karl Rove was Beelzebub and Cheney was the Prince of Darkness!!! No, he thought his friend didn't even blame Bush and Co for the economy. Ok, by this time, I'm hissing that Bush and His War were to blame for a whole host of problems like hatred of America by much of the rest of the world, the fact that I don't have any money right now, etc. etc. I got so hysterical that I even declared that all Black Republicans should burn in Hell with Bush and his boys, starting with Condi Rice who didn't know as much about sub Saharan Africa as she did about white Europe and as a military thinker Colin Powell should have known better than Bush's WMD fable, and for my money really did know better but followed the Party Line. After he burst out in laughter my honey said I'm the reason that California is crippled. ME?? Well not me exactly, but all the people who demonize the people in the party that they are not....and since I am the most liberal of all of his friends, have I lost my perspective? Maybe I have. Maybe I lost it with my retirement money, disappearing dough, closed schools, snatched away benefits for the elderly, etc. Anyway, I like this guy, so I calmed down some and tried to get back to the place we were before I was standing up in the middle of my bedroom, ranting and waving my fists in the air. But look, really, if I can't actually hate all republicans, what's the harm in totally hating Stupid Sarah? I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson, just asking.

Dusting Off Scripts

Fifteen years ago, I got into an Internet romance with a lawyer who was a former sailor, former SeaBee who became a Navy JAG and later switched services and became an Army JAG because there was no Naval installation on St. Thomas where Bill had found the place he wanted to live. Good for Bill, hell on earth for me. I knew as soon as I got to St. Thomas that this was not the place for me, no matter how much I liked the brainy Col. Glasser. I don't like the tropics, I actually like museums and libraries and concrete streets. But one great thing to come out of my Caribbean adventure was an idea for a TV show called, er, JAG because Bill was one of the JAGs who was part of the team of men involved the true case that "A Few Good Men" was based on. But there is that thing about ideas floating around out there in the ether, more than one person hears it, feels it, does something about it. Bellasarius did his thing and my script got tossed into a drawer. Thing is, I found the old script for my JAG in a pile of other scripts and have decided to dust it off and see what I can lift from my original plot. Then I'm gonna do that with every other script I found in that pile until I find one that works somewhere. On the hunt, I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson

What we remember

If you look at my business card or my front yard, you will know what I remember. I was born in Louisville, KY on a street called Rose Drive. When I was born my grandmother, Coy Lee Oakes, one of the 12 children of Mary Elizabeth Kessler and Wakefield Burris, planted a rose bush under the window where I would be sleeping. It was a cluster rose called The Seven Sisters and it grew to six or seven feet high. In the warm summer, that bush would blossom and the whole house would smell like the Sisters. My grandmother was killed by a drunk driver as she was trying to cross Preston Highway to come home. My Daddy, Estil Adkins, tried to transplant the rose bush along the fence on his property. Now, my Dad could make anything grow, but the Sisters died within a few short weeks. Many would say transplant shock, but I knew the bush needed my Big Mom's hands to keep it flourishing. As I grew, small mementos of roses kept pushing into my life--from perfume to delicate embroidery. Jermaine Jackson and Hazel Gordy brought me Rose perfume in the hospital, my boyfriend had a wonderful rose based perfume created for me. My French hankerchiefs have roses of many colors. I have six sets of English bone china that have roses, Daltons' Old Country Roses, Midnight Rose, Tea Roses among them. My business card has the MacIntosh Rose on it. My yard is filled with two dozen rose bushes of varying breeds and colors. Although I have looked for 30 years, I've never found the Seven Sisters cluster rose. Just remembering the sweet smells of my Grandmother on this warm summer day, I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Just one photo

I thought about it and decided to post just one photo of me and Michael. I'm doing this because of the story behind the photo. It was March or April, 1983. Suzanne de Passe had hired me to write on an as yet untitled Motown tv special. Since the show became such a triumph, everybody likes to tell their own version of how it came to be so brilliant. Lies, mostly. Especially the part about how everybody wanted to do the show. That was a real struggle. de Passe can sell anything, but she had a full tilt boogie ahead of her. Nobody much thought the anniversary of Motown was so important. There was no giant buzz goin' on. Anyway, the talent exec making the initial reach out was not getting anywhere with Michael's management who failed to see why he should do anything for his FORMER record label. Suzanne wondered if anybody had even told Michael about the show. So when I got a call to come to Walter Yetnikoff's, then president of CBS Records, I asked the girl on the other end of the phone who was coming and she rattled off a list of the label's artists. Among them, Michael. There were half a dozen mock-ups around with various versions of Motown 25, not even the rest of the title had been decided. I told Suzanne where I was going and that I was going to take a mock-up and paste it to the back of a binder and take it with me. If you look in the bag that I'm holding, you can see the folder. What I did was take it out, hold it in my arms like a schoolbook and go stand next to Michael. I never said a word to him. He looked at the folder a couple of times and finally said, "That's my old record label." I seized the moment. "No, it's not, it's a television special that Suzanne is producing and she is wondering why your people haven't called back. You know, she doesn't want to just use that audition tape." He laughed that great laugh of his and said "Ok, I get it." He knew de Passe and what she could pull off, so he did get it even if he didn't know what the 'it' was going to be. She, and the team she put together, pulled off a show that stands up, 26 years later. The civilized world has seen a tiny excerpt of it a million times over the last few days, because Michael tossed that hat, pulled up his trousers and slid backwards into history. Now, I cannot tell you how he actually was convinced to do the show, multiple versions exist, but I do like to take credit for opening up the door a little and letting some light shine in. That's my story of me telling MJ about a show that would change his life and the life of Ruth Adkins Robinson

Michael No More

Seated with Tony Jones who was involved in the early J 5's career, next to a couple of the Gordy kids, in front of Freddie DeMann, on the same row as Minister Farakhan, the Staples Center was a true reflection of MJ's broad appeal. It was also silent as the tomb. None of the usual chatter, no glad-handing- people were just waiting for Michael's arrival, for the gold plated coffin to be rolled out and the family to take their place on the front row. Thankfully, I was back a few rows so the taller heads blocked the casket when it was finally in place. I actually got the feeling that it was empty--a stand in coffin you might say. Call it wishful thinking I guess-- I hoped his sweet self was already buried and not being drug from place to place to place. As for the ceremony itself, it was dignified and emotional and appropriate. Highlights? Jennifer Hudson's vocal power, Brooke Shield's genuine memories, Stevie's obvious distress, my friend the Rev Sharpton's fire and Martin Luther King's daughter Bernice's speaking skill. Usher was just plain pitiful yeah-the Congresswoman's too-long ramble. An observation-- I don't mind religious-speak, but I thought there was way too much of it that didn't take into consideration--Michael's own religous leanings. My most emotional response came during one of the videos where he just stood there arms raised, breathing deep, basking in adoration. I was struck by the knowledge that his breath was stopped forever. I couldn't swallow when the baby spoke of loving her Daddy. I did not cry until when walking out, Candace Bond grabbed my hand. She was trembling. Soon, so was I. If you say the words "Michael Jackson is dead" outloud to yourself, say Michael is No More-- it still doesn't make sense to Ruth Adkins Robinson

Ruthiewrongs, that bad girl

I have a new alter ego. Her name is Ruthiewrongs. I plan to use her as the voice for all the things I like to say that incites people, makes people furious and ends up being posted on Google...lol. So what can you expect from Ruthiewrongs? Opinions about people who call themselves writers, but can't. Singers who can't. Drivers who can't. And people who should know better, but don't. And of course, there's Sarah Palin, the idiot. --for this moment, I'm Ruthiewrongs Adkins Robinson.....

Michael Jackson and the Circus

So Michael's mother, Katherine, won't get her hands on the estate.... Well, at least until she and the lawyers drag everybody into court again. Count on some real shenanigans in August when the dance takes another turn. No judge in his right mind should give her the reins to anything, including to the lives of those little children. Is everybody nuts? --I'm just a puzzled Ruth Adkins Robinson

Short and Sweet

Ok, so i've been told that I need to make my blog shorter for those with short attention spans. I'm trying, but hey I think if it's interesting enough the attention span will expand to accomodate. I'm at the musuem today watching people watching art and living history. We've got some Tuskegee Airmen here today, one of them is 100 years old. Imagine what he has seen in his life. This particular man, Walter Crenshaw, was an MP. God, how I wish I could ask him if he ever hit some cracker in the head just on g.p., but I won't. 'Course I would have if I had been him. But I've been told by many it's a good thing I'm a girl, with my temper and my nature, they would have put me under the jail long ago. --glad I'm the female Ruth Adkins Robinson

Googling Myself

Today I decided to do a little ego surfing and see if I googled myself what would happen? The first thing that popped up said 1 - 10 of 36,000 entries. Ok, that's crazy--how could I have thousands of entries? There aren't any other Ruth Adkins Robinsons, are there? I started going through them. Sure, there's the normal stuff. I always get "Motown 25" and all the other Motowns that I wrote on or consulted to, so that wasn't surprising, but a closer examination reveals practically everything I ever posted on a public site pops up--geneology, all the social networking sites and uh oh, there are the complaints I made to various and sundry. It's kinda interesting what made me crazy in 2002! It does make me think I ought to post some of this stuff under Ruthiewrongs, instead of Ruthiewrites ....--Ruth Adkins Robinson

Golden Bird on Adams

Back in the '60s, I lived on Juliet Street near the intersection of Adams and Vermont. Today I had an appointment that took me down Adams. I looked for my memories, but they were gone. I know it was on Adams that I learned to love Golden Bird. That first of all the Birds was there. It's gone now. Nothing left in the franchises, but the pickles. I kept driving and looking for all the auction houses where I used to search out Queen Anne and Sheridan pieces, just looking at my favorite bone china and the beautiful way mother of pearl and sterling silver work together in flatware. I spent a lot of time in those houses looking at the discards or no longer needed treasures from the beautiful old houses in the West Adams District, although I'm not sure I ever heard those homes called that. Certainly, down at the end of Juliet where I lived, there wasn't that much bone china or sterling anything. I was struggling and working three or more jobs all the time, trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. Isn't it funny how being broke doesn't matter so much if you've got somewhere you can aim for and a lifetime to find where you might want to go--still looking, I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson