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red clay ponderings

Hmmm… what shall I ponder on today?

Mountain Creek

 

From the first year of her life, she made the trip up the mountain with her Mama and Daddy. Every spring they traveled up the dirt road to Mountain Creek, riding in an old car of questionable dependability. Windows rolled down, they arrived at the cemetery with their best, and only, Sunday dresses covered in the red dust of a dry Alabama dirt road. They arrived early, long before the church singing began, to clean up, and decorate with freshly picked flowers, the graves of family members.

When she was a toddler, she made the trip one winter, with her mama and daddy, to bury her baby brother. In the spring, they dressed his grave as best they could, and lingered long after the church grew silent.

In the winter of 1967 and ‘68, she made the trip up the mountain twice, exactly two months apart, to bury her mama, and then her daddy. She was only twenty-four years old. After that, the trips up the mountain took on a deeper sadness. A heartbreak for her that will never fully recover.

In the fifty years since leaving her parents there, she has never missed a spring trip to the Alabama mountain. Presently, it’s difficult for her to get around, but she cleans the granite, gently removes the old flowers, and reverently sets about “decorating”, with the new flowers she has brought from Georgia. Beautiful sprays of spring flowers are set upon the gravel covered graves. The dark granite vase is lovingly filled with a burst of colorful blooms. During the prior weeks, she’s put a lot of thought into the flowers she gives her mama, daddy and brother. This year, rather than pinks and yellows, she chose deep red roses, the same color she placed on their graves that first Christmas, in 1968.

She’s in her final years now, and she knows this. She’s worried about who will care for their graves when she’s no longer here. Her concern makes me so sad for her.
I’ve promised her I’ll make sure it gets done, as long as I’m still around. 

 

 

He Still Loves Me

 

 

Looking back, I have a clear image of what God was trying to do for me. But on that day, all I could see was despair and uncertainty.

Surrounded by packing boxes, I sat on the floor of my master bathroom and slowly moved the contents of my cabinets, into the boxes. I had no idea how long it would be before the boxes would be unpacked. I didn’t know where I would store the boxes. All I knew for sure was that I had to be out of my house in a matter of days. Where I would go and what I would do, once I left the house, was part of the uncertainty.

Months before, I had divorced after twenty-four years of marriage. It had been an abusive, dysfunctional marriage and leaving it was a relief. But loss of any kind is painful. Letting go of a dream is difficult. The unknown can be exciting, but at that time, in this situation, it was daunting. I had no income. The year prior to my divorce, a mystery illness had forced me to end a career with a major airline. During the dismantling of my marriage…I had been awarded our home. But I soon learned the house was not mine. The home we had built years before, the home I had planned to pass on to my children someday, had been transferred to my former in-laws. And there was nothing I could do about it. Realizing and accepting this, was devastating. Agonizing acceptance of the inevitable, was what had me on the floor, packing soap and shampoo into boxes.

That day in the bathroom, I was more uncertain of my future than I ever had been before. Life felt unbearably heavy and frightening. I berated myself for making so many poor life choices. How had I gotten to this place in life? Overwhelmed with life and the task in front of me, I stopped packing and leaned against the cabinet. Through large windows, I watched as trees moved slightly in a soft breeze. Sun filtered through leaves and branches, casting shadows across the white tiled floor. I had always loved this view of the field and trees beyond the bathroom windows. It was all so familiar, and inconceivable, that these things would soon become accessible to me in memory only.

I was deep in thought, but not really thinking, when my phone rang. The voice on the other end was a friend from childhood. We had recently reconnected on Facebook but had not seen each other in thirty years. “Listen”, she said, “I can tell you’re struggling. I know things are tough. But I have an idea that can change your life, get you back on your feet”. She went on to tell me about a new company she had started working with. “It’s founded and created by the two women doctors who created Proactiv”. She gave me a few more details, but I said I wasn’t interested. I told her I didn’t think her business was for me. In truth, I was deeply interested, for various reasons. There were a few things about this girl that I knew for certain: 1. She was intelligent. 2. She would never align herself with a company unless it was one of integrity. 3. She was wise, not one who could “have the wool pulled over her eyes”.  I knew, without doing the research myself, that what she said about her business was true. But I didn’t believe I could be successful in a direct marketing business. My self-esteem had been battered for two decades, I felt worthless, undeserving and inadequate. I could not see myself selling skincare to my friends. Honestly, I really didn’t want to link arms with a bunch of women who had life all together, because that would only amplify my copious shortfalls.
So, I thanked her for thinking of me, wished her well in her new endeavor, and went back to packing up my life.

The next week, I drove away from that house, that life, and set out in my car to visit my son in Chicago. After that, what I would do was anyone’s guess. I had no plan. I lived the life of a vagabond for the next four years. Traveled from stated to state, staying with family and friends. My former sister-in-law let me sleep on her sofa. I lived in one friend’s basement and another’s guest bedroom. At age fifty, I had become dependent on everyone else. When I grew weary of asking people if I could stay with them, I slept in my car. It was difficult. It was humiliating. (To be clear, no one made me feel that way. I did it to myself.) During those years, I would frequently remember what my friend had said to me that day on the bathroom floor, “….it can change your life….get you back on your feet…”. I had tried different things to earn money during those years, but nothing panned out. I wrote and self-published my memoir. I hired my time and my car out to drive people to the airport. This kept a few dollars in my pocket, but nothing I could depend on. Occasionally, a customer would fail to pay, and my 140-mile round-trip to the airport became a loss of time and money. It was on one of those occasions, that I cried out in frustration to God.

A call had come in from a rental car company in town. A customer needed to be driven to Atlanta. I gladly accepted the job, even though I had just enough fuel in my car to make it to the airport, not enough to get back home. But the fare would be enough to fill up my car, with $30 left over. I would come out in the positive. I told the caller I would accept cash only for the fare. He confirmed with the customer, and I was on my way. As I pulled curbside in front of the airport, the customer began searching through his pockets. And my stomach began to knot. “I’m sorry”, he said, “I don’t have cash on me. I thought I did.”

Leaving the airport, a guttural cry escaped my throat, “God, I need another way! I’m so tired of living like this. I’m tired of depending on other people! I can’t do it anymore. There must be a better way!” Immediately, I felt a strong Voice deep in my spirit, “I’ve already given you what you need, but you keep backing away”. I knew what He was referring to. Four years had passed since she had first told me about her business, but I didn’t hesitate this time. I picked up my phone, and I called my school friend. I told her I was ready to learn more about her business and her products, and partner with her. I ended that call with more hope than I had felt in a long time. I had a sense of calm and peace that had been absent for many years. Inexplicably, confidence that I was about to get on a different trajectory began to well up in my soul.  Then, I exited onto a service road near the airport and counted the loose change in my car’s cup-holder. I had just enough to purchase fuel to get home.

It’s been four years since I made that call. God has shown me over and over, that even with my flaws, my perceived inabilities, and despite my poor choices…. He loves me. He’s shown me I’m not inadequate. I can do all “the things”, but first I must close my ears to the whispers of deception. And these days, just as I was helped, I help other women find their way back from lost places. My help isn’t only for those who are devastated by life’s circumstances. I partner with busy men and women who want to do more, who desire to live a full life, and leave a legacy of abundance and philanthropy.  I partner with students who want to graduate, debt free. I partner with childless women who want to earn adoption fees. I show single moms how they can build a beautiful life for their children and themselves. I work with couples and individuals who don’t need the extra income, but who wish to give more.

When we pray, even in the form of a loud cry, and ask God for help, He listens. Because He loves us. He may not plop your prayer request into your lap, fully assembled, though. He wants us to use the things He’s given us. He desires for us to put our gifts and talents to work. I’ve found that’s how He answers my prayers. God gave me a channel, a means of helping myself. He pointed me in the right direction, and it took a while for me to hear Him. Still, He has allowed me to pull myself out of the ashes of my life. He’s replaced despair with peace, ashes with worth. Yet, with all that, I believe, more than helping myself, He brought this business model to me so that I can help others. Perhaps, even you.

Isaiah 61: 1-3DRF

If you would like to learn how you can partner with me, please contact me:

Cell Phone # 770-881-1007

email: DanitaAble@yahoo.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DanitaClarkAble/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/DanitaClarkAble

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/danitaclarkable/

Rodan+Fields: DanitaClark.myrandf.biz

 

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Be True to Your School

Three years ago, I woke up to a post, made by a friend from my childhood. It was a simple line from a song, a song made famous by Joni Mitchell, back when this friend and I were in elementary school. Her post read, “They paved Paradise and put up a parking lot.” Along with that ominous sentence, she shared a link to our hometown newspaper. If the article in the Cherokee Tribune was true, and I had no reason to doubt that it was, we were about to lose a big piece of our childhood history. Our town was about to lose two beautiful works of architectural art. Our wonderful old school building, (most of us called it “the school house” back then, because that’s what our parents and grandparents called it…) had a date with a demolition ball. That graceful lady of a building, was sitting square in the eye of a sniper’s scope. The old Canton Textile Mill Office building (built by the family of our hometown golfer, Bobby Jones… you know him, the one of Augusta National fame), was also going to see the wrecking ball. The two buildings would be replaced, according to the artist’s depiction in the Tribune article, with a parking lot, and a blocked-style, modern building. The replacement building looked very similar to a large CVS or a Walgreen’s Pharmacy.

Privately, I contacted my school friend and inquired of the details. She shared with me some of what she couldn’t share publicly. Yes, it was true, the building was going. The fate was almost certain. She knew, because she was an employee of the Cherokee County School System, and they were the entity responsible for the future paving of Paradise. It was all but a “done deal”.

The news hit me hard. It was akin to knowing in advance, that a loved one was going to be in a fatal fight, but unable to reach them. Incapable of stopping the oncoming slaughter.

I had spent all my elementary years at Canton Elementary School. I was a Canton Greenie to the bone. We all were. We didn’t really know what a Greenie was, but we knew it was us. The What of a Greenie just didn’t matter. We wore the Green & Gold proudly, even as, often enough, kids from other schools, those with tougher sounding mascots, poked fun at us. Sometimes they were kinder, genuinely curious, and phrased a conversation starter with the inevitable question: “So, what is a Greenie, anyway?” The CES girls usually responded with a shoulder shrug. The boys generally had a different answer, “That’s for us to know and you to find out!”

One year, probably in an attempt to stall the “what is a Greenie” question, the cheerleaders dressed six-year-old Patrick Bishop in a Greenie get-up, and called him Canton’s Mascot. He looked like an Irish Leprechaun in the costume. But he put a brave and adorable face to the Greenie. To this day, he is the Greenie I see in my memory.
We were the Canton Greenies.

All the others were the…

  • Woodstock Wildcats
  • Holly Springs Wildcats
  • Macedonia Wildcats
  • Hickory Flat Devils (Green Devils)
  • Buffington Blue Devils
  • Clayton Rebels
  • Free Home Rockets
  • Ball Ground Indians/Braves
  • North Canton Tigers
  • R.M. Moore Braves
  • Ralph Bunche

And in that old Canton Gym, our boys’ and girls’ basketball teams, at one time or another, showed all the others, what it meant to be a Greenie. Even if we couldn’t tell them.

Once we made it to Cherokee High School though, we were all Warriors. Everyone of us. Until the late 1970’s, Cherokee was the only 9th-12th grade school in the county. And at some time in their lives, almost every CHS Warrior had walked the grounds of Canton Elementary. They may have attended one of the other schools, but they had sat on the iron and wood Merry-Go-Round, eating ice-cream, or drinking a Lime Freeze from Landers or Canton Drug, while their mama shopped downtown. They had played, cheered, and attended a basketball game or a Fall Carnival, in the old gymnasium. They had eaten fund-raiser chicken dinner plates, and the best Yeast Rolls in the world, all made by “the lunchroom ladies”, in the school’s cafeteria.
Without doubt, the old Canton Elementary building, and her red clay grounds, held memories for most of us.

And so it was, that Greenies and Tigers, Blue Devils and Wildcats, Rockets and more…. all Warriors, took to the streets of Social Media in a March to Save Our School, save our history….our cotton mill, poultry grower, foothills history…. our childhood school home. Our Classic, Southern, Neoclassical Beauty of a building.

Randy Saxon talked to everyone about our fight. I wrote a blog article and called news agencies. Others shared the story of our impending loss. Soon, Canton Alum, locally and from other parts of the world, began joining our fight. Historians took notice. Meetings were called. Words were spoken. Prayers were said.

Outwardly, the situation appeared hopeless. My son, usually optimistic in his support of my endeavors, attempted to prepare me for the worst. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to save it, Mom. But you can say you’ve tried. You’ve all tried. You’ve done your best.”

We didn’t give up. We came together as a community, even though many of us no longer live in Cherokee County. Randy Saxon was not about to give in without a battle. His mother had led a fight to save the old Canton High School (Building #2, or the Big Building, as we called it when we were elementary students), and he was determined to carry the legacy.

To be clear, our group’s effort wasn’t simply to save our school building. We wished to preserve the historical integrity of downtown Canton. And we did.

Soon enough, you, and we, will be able to shop and dine where little feet used to scurry about. The memory triggering fragrance of old books won’t be there, the dust of chalk will not be visible. But I hope to see some remnants hanging about, in honor of the educators and students who loved their time there.

Principal Shault Coker’s wooden paddle, though it terrified me when I was a first grader…. I would love to see it on display in the hallway, near where his old office was located.

Recently, I commented to Randy, “and to think we could have had a modern building and a parking lot there instead.” He replied, “Yes, I guess we’ll have to put up with this old thing for another hundred years or so”.
Yes, we will Randy. Because of your hard work and love for your hometown, we will. Thank you for your diligent work and outstanding progress. You’ve been the force behind the preservation.

For those unfamiliar, below is a link to the article I wrote in 2015.
I’m also including photos I’ve snagged from Randy’s Facebook page. And a video he posted today, it shows the progress being made on the school.

I’m also including a couple of photos of that Greenie I mentioned.

Go Greenies!
Sincerely,

Danita

Bully in the School Yard

https://wordpress.com/post/redclayponderings.com/450

2nd Amendment Truth

 

The words below were written by my son, Garrett Able, and shared on his Facebook page. I like what he had to say. I believe he’s a wise young man. 

 

February 19, 2018
“I’m not fully conservative, I’m not really too much left, either.
 
But to the gun owners and non-gun owners:
 
Neither of you have the correct argument about the 2nd Amendment in our Bill of Rights.
 
“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”
 
This isn’t about hunting, home protection, conceal-carry, or schools with or without weapons.
This is about citizens of a government being prepared to fight the government that spirals out of control. This is about Trained, licensed, (regulated) people who are ready and willing to protect and provide for WE THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES of AMERICA. This is about your neighbors, the elderly, the sick, the disabled,those not able to protect themselves.
When the left says “get rid of guns”, let them. They are angry. And they SHOULD be.
When the right says “we need MORE guns”, let them. They are angry, and they SHOULD be.
 
But understand, BOTH sides are scared.
The answer isn’t more guns, it’s not less guns. It’s not guns in strategic places, it’s not metal detectors. These are deterrents, not solutions.
 
The answer is the 2nd Amendmenta regulated and properly trained militia of citizens. Guns should go to those with proper training, knowledge, and a readiness to defend.
 
Too many different personalities, and levels of skill, have too much access to weapons. Period. Not just guns. Violence will not stop with new laws, curfews, or even high end regulations. People will always kill people. Sad but true.”
Garrett Able
Goodstuff2

The Bulldog’s #1 Fan

The Dawgs had an unseen assist in the Rose Bowl.

I met Pam Bowman when I was a Delta Delta Delta pledge, a hundred or more lifetimes ago. Bowman, as the Sisters called her, was to be feared. According to the Sisters, she would rip you to shreds if you messed up, and no infraction went unseen:  failed a test, partied too much, didn’t party enough, went out with the wrong guy, behaved in ways unbecoming to the Sisterhood. Whatever it was, Bowman would know, she would deal with you, and it would not be pretty.

Each pledge was granted a meeting with her, I don’t remember it being an optional encounter, but maybe it was. Either way, the meeting was to learn more about what was expected of us, academically and socially, as Tri Delta pledges. I had heard of her before I met her, and what I heard would make Scarlet O’Hara quake in her riding boots. I was expecting to meet Cinderella’s evil stepmother’s younger sister. Or Snow White’s evil Queen.
My appointed time arrived, and I braced myself before entering the meeting room. To my surprise, there was no evil queen in there. What I found was a beautiful, statuesque blonde, a bright, friendly smile, and Southern grace. She was a straight shooter, no doubt. But I respected and appreciated that about her, immediately.

My second year, I transferred to an out of state school, and I never came across Pam again. Not until Social Media became a thing. There are some good things about facebook, and reconnecting with old friends is one of the good things.

Pam and I became “Facebook Friends” five or six years ago. I have loved catching up with her, I had thought of her often over the years and wondered how she had fared in life. I’ve enjoyed getting to know her family through her stories and photos. I especially loved hearing about her husband’s love of the Georgia Bulldogs. She has some good stories. Funny stories. But last year, Chip, Pam’s husband, suddenly, without warning, passed away.
This past fall, Pam mentioned him often, during Georgia’s march to the West Coast and the Rose Bowl. On New Year’s Eve, the eve of the Rose Bowl, she posted something that is worthy of print.

From Pam, December 31, 2017 / 10:52AM

“As many of you know my husband, Chip passed away this year from a heart attack and UGA Dawg cancer. He lived his entire life with a severe case of stage four Dawg cancer. One good thing, even though there was not a cure for Dawg cancer, there was treatment. He knew EVERYTHING there was to know about the Dawg football program from way back in the day until the day he died. One of the worst cases of Dawg cancer I have ever seen. Plus he knew every stat about every UGA sports team. He even watched old games. He saved those games. That’s bad. If they’d had a poker team, he would have even known about that program and stats as well. It was incredible. An extremely bright man. For the family, the aftereffects of a Dawg chemo treatment was either real nasty or real good. If they won, he was ecstatic. If they lost, he would not speak to anyone for almost a week. No kidding. If they played so so or not up to their potential, he didn’t have very much enthusiasm. He hung in there whether the Dawgs had a good or bad season for 59 years. Anyone that knew Chip, was well aware of the fact he did not talk much. To know him was to love him. He was a very quiet and introspective person. One of those type of people, that when he did talk, you’d jerk your head around in disbelief and listen. I spoke more than enough for the both of us anyway. One thing he always said was that the year he died, the Dawgs would win the National Championship. Just to make him mad. Me, Matthew  and Kathleen knew when the season started, this would be the year. Come on DAWGS. #godawgs #UGAgrad #forchopper #forchipprengaman ”

 

By the way, the University of Georgia won the Rose Bowl. #GoDawgs 

Do it one more time, on January 8, 2018.  #forChipPrengaman

 

 

 

“You weren’t old back then.”

Cooper is four years old, and she loves looking at old photos. She asks questions about the people in the photographs, sometimes she makes a statement about the photo. She’s done this since she was three, at least.

“That’s you and Lindsey when she got married”, Cooper, age 3.

“That’s you when you were a baby. With your grandma?), age 3.

Me: “Yes, and she’s your great-great grandma”.

Thanksgiving week, my nephew and his family once more made the

journey to North Georgia, out of Florida. As usual, sweet Cooper showed interest in several photos. But not the ones she had studied last time she visited. Once she’s learned a lesson, she moves onto the next.

“Who’s this, Diffy?”

Me: “That’s your dad when he was a senior in high school.”

Cooper, as she shows the photo to her dad, “Look at you, Daddy. Look at you”.

She brought more photos for inquiry. Her blonde curls fell around her shoulders as she moved about. After a while, she started toward me with another old photo, one in a shiny silver frame. Before reaching me, she stopped in the middle of the dining room, intently studying the picture. I could see her wheels turning, trying to figure out the identity of the people in the frame. Finally, she asks pointedly, “Who are they?”

Me: “Oh, that’s Garrett when he was two years old. And me”.

She stood in place, but raised her face toward mine, and let her eyes move slowly across it, coming to a rest on my hair. She looked down at the photo again, studied it a while longer, then looked up and locked eyes with me. And in a very sympathetic, but matter of fact voice, she said, “You weren’t old back then”.

Her mom may have wanted to cringe, but I laughed! I’m smiling now, thinking about her innocence. Cooper wasn’t being mean or insensitive, there was no malice in her words. She was simply stating a fact.

It’s a real life fact, that if we are fortunate, we live to be old. I remember when I was four, Cooper’s age, when 57 sounded like it might be the age of Moses. Now it seems so young.

The hardest thing for me isn’t age, though. It is realizing how I wasted time in the 53 years between 4 and fifty-seven.

Too many wasted years spent in a bad relationship…. years sitting in Atlanta traffic two-three hours per day… years wishing I had gone to law school, telling myself it was too late… years thinking I was not as gifted or talented as everyone else. Years of bulls$&¥.

So this is for you, if you’re living a life not exactly doing what you want to be doing… Get up and get going, change. It’s not too late. Do the hard work that it takes to make the change, and see it through. Reconnect with old friends. Tell yourself you are talented, gifted and something special. Because you are.

And then go do what you want to do. If the people in your life don’t support your goals, surround yourself with those who do. If you can’t find anyone to cheer you on, be your own cheerleader. Leave the self-centered, negative people behind. Because #aintnobodygottimeforthat .

Live your life fully. Live it now. For one day, sooner than you know… you’ll be on the other side of an old photograph.

The Thief

He snuck in quietly, unseen. No one in the house was aware of his presence. He hid behind familiar things, in plain sight, and stole from us. He took art and music, stories. He stole a little everyday, yet we didn’t notice.
We were all so busy with our own lives, seldom taking time to stop by the familiar white house. So busy. When we managed to find time… Christmas, Thanksgiving…. we were in the holiday hustle, and didn’t notice what was missing. We didn’t see the thief, even while he sat down at the table, and ate Christmas cake. We didn’t see him.

But she…. she had become aware of the thief. She tried to hide him, cover his tracks. She hoped he would leave, without taking more, for his sake…for hers. Ours. She didn’t want us to know he was there. She wanted him to go away, the thief. But he refused to leave. He stayed. He has moved in.
And it’s heartbreaking.

My brain doesn’t work right anymore “, he told her.
It’s as close as he’s come to acknowledging the thief.

Alzheimer’s, dementia…. may be the cruelest of all diseases. The body can remain healthy, muscle memory still remembers how to mow the lawn and split firewood. Drive a car. The face looks the same, but the brain has changed, memories shifted. The person no longer fully there. He has been stolen. Both people in the house… robbed of their golden years.

My dad had not played his guitar for many years. But on Thanksgiving, this year, he agreed to play and sing for us. And in a short span of time, mere minutes, he began to resemble the music man I grew up with. I was amazed at the transformation made by music, and I want to share the video here for you to see. I want to preserve it, so I can watch again, and remember.

NannyPoppy
Cindy Harter Sims took this photo of my parents a few years ago, as The Thief was moving in. At the time, my dad told Cindy, speaking of my mom, “I just feel better when I’m with her”. She is his comfort zone.

NP4
Photo taken by Garrett Able, Thanksgiving 2017

NP2
Photo courtesy of Garrett Able, Thanksgiving 2017

The Great Pyramid of #RF

Rodan + Fields is a Pyramid Scheme.

I hear that from time to time. And I do get it….I understand why your knee-jerk reaction is to believe RF is a scheme. Believe me, I’m aware of all the snake oil sales companies out there. They rope you into their lair with hype and then require you to lug their merchandise around to home parties…. and then you learn you have to make deliveries to those friends who felt sorry for you and purchased what you were hocking. And the incurred cost they forgot to tell you about…. It’s shocking to learn that you are required to go into debt every month buying junk you’ll never use. That isn’t a sustainable way to operate a business. One month you’re loaded up with new goods, displayed like a shrine on your dining room table. Six months later, the same shrine is set up on the back wall of your hometown Goodwill store. And your Visa is maxed out.  No thanks.

Rodan+Fields isn’t like that. First of all, Pyramid Schemes are illegal and I would never be involved in any sort of illegal activity. So if we are family or friends, and you call my business a Pyramid Scheme, I will assume one of two things.

  1. I only thought we knew each other. Or…
  2. You haven’t done your RF homework, therefore speaking from an unaware point of view.

Rodan+Fields is a legitimate company and RF Consultants are legitimate, home based business owners. In truth, most companies actually are structured like “pyramids”, right? If you’re looking at a company’s payroll by levels of income, it’s probably going to resemble a pyramid. The owner is at the top and earns the highest salary, everyone else trickles down.

Right out of the gate, we are different.

Rodan+Fields is the namesake, legacy business of Drs. Katie Rodan and Kathy Fields…. I’ve been told they don’t take a salary from RF. (They probably earned a few dollars with the other company they created. You may have heard of Proactiv?). Dr. Rodan and Dr. Fields are intelligent women who saw a need and set about finding a solution. They are generous with their time and company rewards. They reinvest RF profits into their consultant’s businesses, they fund quality product development, and they give to charity.

They change lives.

In regard to earnings, the playing field is level in Rodan+Fields. For instance, a Harvard trained attorney and a high school drop-out can earn the same income with RF… the drop out can actually earn more than the attorney if she/he is teachable. With Rodan+Fields, empires are being built and legacies are being created. They are being created by teachers, stay at home moms, doctors, dentists, chefs, hair stylists, scientists, baby sitters, maids, and lawyers…the diverse list goes on. It’s a wonderful work from home company, one empowering men and women from all backgrounds. You know, you could actually become my business partner tomorrow, and if you’re willing to do the work, you can build an empire with RF. If you work, you will see success. By work, I’m not talking about pushing out 40-60 hours of labor each week. Work, in RF, means you are willing to talk about our clinically proven products. Work means you aren’t worried about what someone thinks of you for sharing before and after photos of our customers. (May I add….those people you’re worried about don’t pay your bills?). It’s easy work, but it takes a commitment of more than a few minutes here and there to build a lasting legacy (did I mention our RF businesses can be willed to our family). However, if building an empire isn’t your dream and you simply want to earn a few hundred dollars a month, that can easily happen with very little time invested.

No, we aren’t a Pyramid Scheme. We aren’t even like other Direct Marketing companies. We are beautifully unique.
Here’s a link to my personal RF product journey: https://redclayponderings.com/2015/04/14/scarface-undone
I would be happy to tell you more.

Sincerely,

Danita

770-881-1007

 

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Go Away OJ

OJ: “I’ve always tried to be a good soldier.”▪️Hush your mouth, OJ. You don’t have the honor of calling yourself a soldier. 

OJ: “Basically I’ve lived a conflict free life. I mean, I never got in fights on the street.”

▪️That’s right, Juice. No street fighting for you…not where men might get the better of you… where your public image would be tarnished. You were having none of that. The Narcissist knows when, where and with whom to wear his mask, and he chooses when he’ll remove it. 

You removed your mask for few. 

You saved the ‘beat the hell out of you fights’ for women, for wives and girlfriends…behind closed doors. Until the night Nicole took it to the street and revealed the monster behind the mask.  
I watched the woman in the courtroom yesterday, the one who misspoke your age…she was charmed by you. Fooled by you. But those who have dealt with the likes of you were sickened by your false display of humility. 
I can’t imagine what the families of your victims felt when they saw you sitting there…the blubbery thug who hijacked their lives. I can imagine, for the brief time that you were incarcerated, they felt their loved ones were seeing a bit of Justice, though the sentence was never on their behalf. Still, it must have provided…something. 
But now, here you are, forced upon all of us again. 

Relentless news coverage of your life. We are sick of you. 

Just Go Away Orenthal. 

Let these two have peace.

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