tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71526742024-03-13T09:23:35.757-05:00The Smell of CypressStories of life and love, exploration and discovery ... from 'down de bayou.'
Come see!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-28645812299289059122014-12-29T18:27:00.000-06:002014-12-29T18:27:02.407-06:00List, continued<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. Someone asked me, can’t remember who (see?), what I felt
– FELT – when I was told I had cancer. The question made me realize I never
stopped to think what my mother felt when she was told she had cancer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My
mother had a way of handling the inevitable that can only be described as
Stoical. She did drama – my, Lord, yes, she did drama, but only when it
involved something that could be changed by drama. The inevitable was always
met, Stoically, with “you do what you have to do.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the other hand, my mother never expected much from life.
She accepted, but seldom expected. There were few things she had any desire to
do, other than what she had already done. She enjoyed visiting with her
children and grandchildren and would travel any distance to do so. But she had
no desire to see London or Paris or even the Grand Canyon. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think she learned
early on that hers was not a life that would impact the course of history as we
read of it in books. And she had no need to be otherwise. The only thing I ever
remember her wanting was a cabin in the woods. And in the end, toward the end,
she had that, at least for a few years. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
As for myself, I’m not sure I can say what I felt, because I
felt nothing … and everything. And I
knew I would do what I had to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-64641349011400266132014-12-19T23:42:00.000-06:002014-12-19T23:43:59.957-06:00My Life, the List<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Life’s a funny thing. You’re born, you live, you die, and somewhere within you are touched – by love, by pain, by joy, by fear - by the lives of others. It is a wheel that spins without our control or resistance. And somewhere along the way, maybe, we will touch someone else’s life as well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. I know there are lives that impact the course of history. Mine is not one of those.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. I’ve always been a list maker, but always for the reinforcement I received from crossing things off the list. I make lists now just to be able to function. My oncologist calls it anesthesia-brain and said about the time I recovered a reasonable amount of functional memory following the mastectomy, I would be starting chemo. And chemo-brain is another real thing … she added.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, my life runs on notes, now. Mostly just one or two words that will remind me that I must order new contacts, soon, and I must get my glasses repaired so I will be able to see adequately to drive myself to treatments, which will undoubtedly cause my eyes to be very dry and make it impossible for me to wear the contacts I order. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have two overdue library books that apparently have been in my car for two weeks. I had no idea it had been that long since I had been to the library.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I need hand soap for the bathrooms and the kitchen. I’ve been using the Dial Gold which is antibacterial and was prescribed for use before surgery, and my Dawn dishwashing liquid – both of which dry my skin terribly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some of these things have been on my list for a couple of weeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes I forget to look at the lists.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-24960347160446739842013-08-21T01:34:00.001-05:002013-08-21T01:34:09.959-05:00I should be sleeping<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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I should be sleeping. It’s 12:15 AM, and I should be
sleeping. I should be tired, and body is but mind isn’t; so I hear the whisper “write” “write” “write.” Insistent and persistent and damned
annoying. And much too talkative of late. So, in spite of best efforts to the
contrary, I am awake, and writing. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been resisting the whispers. Writing is too personal,
too telling. And there are things that if said would perhaps be uncomfortable
for people I don’t wish to cause discomfort. Perhaps I will start an anonymous
blog. Perhaps I shouldn’t say I will. Perhaps some obsessive person or another
would see that as a challenge and set out to scan all blogs in netspace to find
the one with my telltale writing idiosyncrasies. Because I have them, I’m sure.
I’m not sure I could recognize them for myself, but I am sure I have them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But for now, for tonight, for this blog that has already
been identified as belonging to me, I will write something not quite crazy.
Although I am sure there will be some who think otherwise, but I have to write
something and the story of the formaldehyde man seems to be the one that wants
to be written. Tonight. This blue moon night. Once in a blue moon …<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was a young girl, growing up in various neighborhoods
of Memphis, TN, - which is another dozen or so stories in themselves - I would
pray to be made blind. That is not a new revelation. I have mentioned it to
a few people before. It’s one of those comments, when said, is most often said offhandedly
because I must say it but fear if I make it sound too important the person to
whom I am speaking will be uncomfortable with the revelation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if I am opening a door they really don’t
want to look inside because they may see more than they want.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is exactly how I felt for the first 20 years of my
life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took me that long to figure out
how to not see too much. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But in early years, before I had learned that convenient
survival skill, I had the occasion to encounter the formaldehyde man. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I rode buses a lot as a child and teenager and even young
adult. They were inexpensive and convenient and most often the only form of
transportation available to me unless I called a taxi, and taxis were
definitely outside my budget. So, I rode buses, Memphis city buses. We did not
have school buses then, we did not have desegregation then. School was far
enough away that I chose not to walk unless I didn’t have 10 cents for the
student fare. Sometimes, when the weather was having one of those “I’ve just
got to get outside” kinds of days, I would walk home in the afternoon. But
mostly I rode. I continued to ride when I got my first real job downtown and even after I started college, but
the incident I remember of the encounter with the formaldehyde man was during
the high school years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He often got on the bus at the stop after mine and walked
past me to his seat. He didn’t go all the way to the back, which was designated
“For Colored Only”, so I assumed he was white or Caucasian as we said then.
(When did that stop being a designation of race? When did we start identifying
race by color?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess we always did, we
just weren’t as honest about it. We were still selectively naive.) He always
stopped at the last seat just before the back door of the bus. Convenient to
exit, perhaps, but I will never know because he never left the bus before I
did. So, he walked passed me on boarding, and I walked passed him to exit. And he smelled like formaldehyde.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was the oldest person I had ever seen. Maybe the oldest I
<i>have</i> ever seen. His face had fascinatingly deep wrinkles and reminded me, in
spite of myself, of the apple head doll I had made one Christmas. I can’t
remember the procedure for the project, but I do remember the creases and
crevices as the apple aged and withered. But more than his face, I remember his
hands. They were dark, browner than a coffee with milk brown, but not as brown
as black. And so papery thin there were places where the skin appeared to be
peeling back, folded back, like the corners of very old pages in very old
books.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More than either the face or the hands, I remember
the formaldehyde. I had been exposed to the odor in the biology classes I took
in high school. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had dissected crayfish, earthworms and even fetal pigs. I knew the smell of
formaldehyde. I wondered, and not just briefly, if it might be the reason for
his longevity, his preservation. I knew the only way to know for sure, if this
man was alive or … not … was to look into his eyes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life is in the eyes. It’s obviously there when we are
living and just as obviously not there when we are gone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day,
in spite of the danger of seeing too much, curiosity overwhelmed
self-preservation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I nervously, but with determination, reached
for the cord to signal my stop, gathered my books close to my chest and walked
reluctantly to the back exit. I avoided looking at the man’s face and the man’s
hands, and anywhere at all except the floor of the bus ridged with rubber
matting. I wasn’t breathing as I reached out with my left hand to grab the pole
to steady myself for the first step down. I didn’t breathe as the brakes hissed
to a stop nor as the door snapped open. I didn’t breath as quickly,
surreptitiously, with my face partially hidden, I supposed, by my extended arm,
I looked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a moment, sometimes longer than moments as we are
accustomed to counting them, but a moment, nonetheless, in the continuum of
life, when there is neither life nor death in a person’s eyes. It’s that moment
between the two. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think that day on the
bus is the only time I have seen it and known what it was. Now I only recognize
it in retrospect, after the fact, in pictures, perhaps, that were taken near
the end, before we knew, even, that there was to be an end. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think that’s the way it should be. I’m not sure our eyes
need to see that much.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-56021427679236235342012-06-08T13:24:00.000-05:002012-06-08T13:32:31.257-05:00The Night the Bed Fell( ... with apologies to James Thurber)<br />
<br />
As I have stated elsewhere in this blog, I believe, I am an
ardent fan of James Thurber. Very few people can make me laugh, consistently. I
have never appreciated jokes the way I should, and I find humor to often be too
predictable to be truly funny. Thurber, for whatever reason, consistently hits
my funny bone. So, this morning, when the bed fell, I immediately thought of
his story, “The Night the Bed Fell.” <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Unfortunately, in my case, there was none of the
accompanying madness and mayhem that James recounted. In fact about the only
similarity between his story and mine is that a bed did, indeed, fall. I was not
in either bed when they fell. In my story no one was in the bed. The reason for
the fall was totally predictable, however. In an effort to lift the bed high
enough to fit a trundle underneath, my friend’s father had raised it up on
wooden legs (which reminds me of a song we sang in church during my growing up
years when I was less heathen and more faithful, but that’s another story and
has nothing at all to do with this one). </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Since I agreed to work in the French Quarter both yesterday
and today, I asked if I might stay last night in the “former slave quarter
apartment” my friends rent just around the corner from the gallery. With their
usual generosity they assured me there would be no problem with that arrangement.
They had assured me earlier that a new bed had been purchased to replace the
one that was too hard for anyone to sleep in comfortably. I had assured them I
never slept in the old bed, anyway, but had actually found the hide-a-bed to be
more conducive to a good night’s sleep. They took that as confirmation of how
badly they needed to replace the bed. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
With all of these assurances, I was confident of a good
night’s sleep. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Imagine, then, my surprise when I entered the apartment and
discovered a bed that had been raised to dizzying heights. I thought,
momentarily, that perhaps it was a new rendering of the Princess and the Pea,
but I immediately scoffed at the thought. Anyone who knows me knows I am no
princess. With or without peas.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It quickly became clear the modifications had been made to
accommodate a trundle with an additional mattress underneath the big bed.
Closer inspection revealed the modifications were dependent on the integrity of
a couple of two-inch square supports, approximately 10 inches high, under both
legs at the end of the bed. The headboard end was more securely supported with
brackets and braces and serious wooden boards. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It was also clear that one would need a short ladder just to
get into the bed. Had there been a ladder readily available, I may have
actually been tempted to try sleeping at loftier heights. The pause to look for
said ladder was just long enough to convince me to sleep again on the pull-out
sofa.<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Shortly after awakening this morning, and after my shower
and the first cup of coffee, the bed fell. One of the sticks supporting one of
the lower legs cleaved in two and that corner of the bed crashed to the floor. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
That’s all. Nothing was broken, otherwise. No persons were
injured. I don’t even recall my heart racing. I think I may have expected it. I
think I may have been disappointed otherwise.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I do wish there had been dogs to bark, maybe a scent of
camphor, a little hysteria or cries of “He’s dying!”; and I would have loved to
have had a pile of shoes to throw into the hallway. But, then, no one can tell
a story like Thurber.<o:p> </o:p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-11265191616134500452012-05-25T21:39:00.000-05:002012-05-25T21:41:39.605-05:00The Room above the Noodle Shop<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Room above the Noodle Shop<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He passed again today in that slow deliberate way he has of
seeming always to be going somewhere else
but content as well to be exactly where he is, and I watched this time more
closely as he went from shop to shop, corner to corner, passing here or there in
some uncommon random way to consider where he was or where he was going or
perhaps, even, where he had been;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">and I was sure his life was full of stories and adventures
of lust and longing and all the lives he’s lived; full of places and people and stories
forever changed by his passing; and so I followed as he walked this way from
corner to corner and block to block, and with each step the mystery and the marvel
grew and grew from large to grand until I was quite sure I could never, even if
I lived forever and walked the miles and blocks and corners on my own, know
such a life as he must know. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And I found myself falling into that moment just before
despair that always seems to follow when we look too closely at our lives
compared to others and find them somewhat lacking, and just when I began to fear
my life may really be as dismal as one life can be, the man I had been
following, admiring, envying stopped at a door set into a nook right beside a
noodle shop window, and with a nod to the woman just closing the shades, he took
out a key, unlocked the door and began to climb the steps to the top.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-3899094844267449992012-05-25T21:15:00.001-05:002012-05-25T21:17:05.333-05:00Moving on ... It’s been the better part of a year since I laid to rest my best and truest friend. I have had many opportunities since to write the pain and joy of everyday living and post it here for the world to read. But each time I came and saw the picture of my dear old friend, I would have to leave it a little longer at the top of the page. A tribute to all he was to me for so long, for so much living. He is still missed.
<br />
<br />
I have been spending a good part of my life for the past month in the French Quarter, the Vieux Carre, working weekends for friends of mine who have a shop on Royal. And rediscovering the city girl who has been so long on the bayou she had almost forgotten how to drive in the city. That’s a common phenomenon here, apparently. For years I have listened to folks tell me they “don’t drive in the city.” For years I have wondered what that meant. I had begun to discover that in myself until I started coming in on weekends, finding my way into the Vieux Carre, maneuvering the narrow streets, avoiding unfortunate encounters with pedestrians and bicycles. I have discovered one gets better with practice.
<br />
<br />
As long as one remembers the pedestrians have the right of way. <br />
<br />
Always. <br />
<br />
Even when they are wrong.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-22613979001397282692011-08-01T11:41:00.003-05:002011-08-01T11:44:47.668-05:00Moose, 1998-2011<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifhcPWkkgCUGNnbfhyphenhyphenXLO4GqOTwkFFPTIPqb7NhHzttLbO7cC-Wwi7ePy6p5eRSvZklUOdec8jwR9_rWsHSn2hRHO05gfdrsUZOMJ-5p_PWY0AvR0pnkUP8LGDgTD-__h03aciFg/s1600/Moose2+001.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 217px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifhcPWkkgCUGNnbfhyphenhyphenXLO4GqOTwkFFPTIPqb7NhHzttLbO7cC-Wwi7ePy6p5eRSvZklUOdec8jwR9_rWsHSn2hRHO05gfdrsUZOMJ-5p_PWY0AvR0pnkUP8LGDgTD-__h03aciFg/s320/Moose2+001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635928756867169762" /></a><br /><br />There should be a law … or a rule or at least an unspoken agreement … that writers should never acquire pets. Especially dogs. Most of us know how vulnerable we are to the slings and arrows of those we love; how easily crushed we are by the slightest breath that bodes anything less than good and perfect harmony. We expect that and build our barriers, construct our walls, fortify ourselves against those hurts that will inevitably come.<br /><br />But we trust our dogs, just as they trust us. We know as surely as we know the sun will rise and set on the world somewhere today that our dog will love us and trust us and accept us even when we are at our worst. Few of us ever feel that way about another human, but we easily feel that way about our dog. So, we go on for years, taking him for granted, giving him our leftover time, showing him every side of our self that we would never trust to another human.<br /><br />And we forget…conveniently, easily, too completely…that one day, no matter what, he will die. And take with him all the best there is in us and leave us alone with our worst. Very much alone. Alone in that total aloneness we can feel only after we know what it is to be loved absolutely and unconditionally, the way only our dog can love us.<br /><br />I said goodbye to my friend, Moose, yesterday after 13 years of being loved by him and only sometimes being worthy of that love. My granddaughter says there is a dog heaven where he will be a puppy, again. I hope that’s true. Just in case there is something to life after death for the pets we love, I buried him on the bayou, very close to where he caught the dead fish and nudged the turtle shells and buried more things than I will ever find again. <br /><br />Moose was the best dog ever. A much better companion than I will ever be. He set a good example. He will be greatly and unconditionally remembered and loved and missed.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-52342975523596759552011-06-25T21:21:00.003-05:002011-06-25T21:45:03.224-05:00Life in the Fast LaneI should have saved all of my writings concerning the accidents in front of my house. I would have enough for a book by now. My affection for the traffic in my personal corner of the world began long ago, when I first moved to southern Louisiana. I soon became aware that no one can go anywhere without turning around in front of "the shop." The shop was my late husband's place of business. It's used for temporary storage, now, and the occasional indoor yard sale, (which, by the way, is an oxymoron, as I have recently been reminded); but the traffic pattern has remained the same.<br /><br />Anyone who goes anywhere in my parish (county) must come here first to turn around. I have always suspected information is given out to strangers passing through, requesting directions to anywhere within, say, a 30 mile radius, ..."well, ya know dat shop dere, where da man uset ta sell dem tvs and veeceearahs? Well, ya go dere, sha, and ya make dis turn in da udder direction, den ya go ..."<br /><br />I even suspect google maps, Garmin and Tom-Tom use this as the starting point for getting anywhere in the parish. They've just cleaned up the language, "go 2.2 miles then turn right, turn right, turn right, turn left, go ..." Coming from the other direction the miles change and the rights turn to lefts and vice versa, but the effect is the same. You cannot get anywhere in this parish without coming here first.<br /><br />As a result, there have been a lot of bizarre accidents. There was the time a car ended up sitting on the broken shaft of the telephone pole. And the guy who dredged both of my ditches but managed to leap over the driveway right in the middle. Of course, we've had a couple of sugar cane trucks lying on there side. And more recently, some people may recall, a tire off one of those sugar cane trucks hit my front window and knocked one entire brick wall of my house away from the underlying wall.<br /><br />Tonight I lost a mailbox. Actually, two were lost, but only one was mine. The other belongs to my neighbor across the street who has shared these vignettes of life with me over the past thirty years. Some light colored truck decided to take his ditch, this time, instead of the road, and that included plowing under our mailboxes and the post that held them up.<br /><br />And then he kept on going. He lost a bumper, but kept on going.<br /><br />Presumably, no one was hurt.<br /><br />Mailboxes can be replaced. Grass will fill in. One more story to make me shake my head. One more story for the blog. Like Paul Harvey used to say after telling the rest of the story, "Good day ..."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-68219499996029581082011-04-30T15:14:00.003-05:002011-05-01T18:47:01.839-05:00Viktor Frankl and Having Choices<p>A young friend, today, reminded me of an author I have not considered in way too long. Viktor Frankl saved my life. The circumstances were long ago and far away and of not much consequence, anymore. But save my life, he did. And he probably deserves more frequent remembrance.</p><p> I do not often have difficulty expressing my thoughts about matters of deep meaning to me, but, it seems, I struggle here. I tried to assemble these thoughts into some sort of meaningful review that would, perhaps, inspire someone else to think thoughts differently. But still I struggle.</p><p> I will think on that more. Until then, I will share those particular words that were the most meaningful to me at the time, so many years ago, when I was someone else, but, in some ways, more me than I am now.</p><p> </p><p>(Does it ever seem to anyone else that we are devolving instead of evolving? That we are born closer to who we are meant to be and we live our lives struggling to stay connected to that self, only to find the more we struggle the further away we get? It's sort of like drowning, in a way. If we could but trust that we were once fish, how easy it would be to swim. If we could cease the struggle ...)</p><p> <strong>The Words of Viktor Frankl</strong></p><p> <em>Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom. </em></p><p> <em>Everything can be taken from a man or a woman but one thing: the last of human freedoms to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way. </em></p><p> <em>When we are no longer able to change a situation - we are challenged to change ourselves. </em></p><p> More of his words can be found online. A life-changing experience,possibly, can be found in his book<em>, Man's Search for Meaning</em>.<em> </em></p><p> And if I can find some sense of my thoughts, one day, I will write a more worthy review.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-90550151291826202832011-04-26T23:02:00.017-05:002011-05-01T09:23:12.798-05:00How come ...<div>I began my writing this evening with a small frozen daiquiri from a drive-through window. We have those here, in southern Louisiana. I actually never had to leave my car. I drove right up to the window on the side of the bar and told the girl at the window, whom I have known since before she was out of diapers, that I wanted a Margarita flavored frozen daiquiri. This was served to me in a styrofoam cup with a straw for convenience. A fast-food drunk on the road. I don't get it either. The whole business seems to me to be a recipe for disaster, but I am responsible enough not to take even one sip until I am back at home, out of my car, and comfortably ensconced for the night.<br /><br />And I always try to sip slowly, as I imagine one would have sipped a mint julep out on the veranda of an overly large plantation home. Thinking about the plantation home necessarily creates images of slavery and abuse, spoiling the taste of the julep and breaking me unpleasantly free of reverie. As I strive for a more appropriate image, comes the pondering.<br /><br />... after I have had just the right amount of an alcoholic beverage, words I have been searching for all day, all week, maybe for months, begin to tumble and roll and literally drop from my fingers. Forcing me to struggle to keep them from spilling all over the floor and oozing out the door and across the patio and plunging into the bayou, streaming inexorably to the ocean, exposing every thought I ever had not only to the gator and that awkward looking bird looking back at me from the water's edge but to every living thing on this earth.</div><br />How come?<br /><br /><div></div>How come words can't find me when I am already sitting at the keyboard, coffee cup comfortably close by, when I'm feeling lazy and at ease with myself and the world? How they can't line up, obediently, and stand there without moving until I can get them in their proper places, with time to check the hemlines, and the dirt behind the ears, and make the necessary adjustments?<br /><br />I want to write sort of slow and southern with a little bit of sassy. I tend to believe more words are better than less - as long as there aren't too many more. Just enough to temper one's progress across and down the page, allowing time to savor the journey and encouraging the reader to sit back, settle in, stay awhile.<br /><br />How come my words can't fall like that? Why does it always seem as if there were a pendulum swinging relentlessly between rush and struggle and absolute dearth of ideas? What do I do when my glass is empty?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-29224548371625697792011-04-23T09:04:00.004-05:002011-04-23T12:25:10.738-05:00Thinking Too Much<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji3teFLbNwQ8CguxSxqt4splMBXw3lflDo2UBpB8lUNAq5d3KZAEdhSpocinoXgfm8T6yHY_BwpmINhlS6kZBK_Db1EKkwDhBYrXF0vYagE6Dw_PpRgzBeYXO8HiYbk7OxeIjFcQ/s1600/Chloe+051.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji3teFLbNwQ8CguxSxqt4splMBXw3lflDo2UBpB8lUNAq5d3KZAEdhSpocinoXgfm8T6yHY_BwpmINhlS6kZBK_Db1EKkwDhBYrXF0vYagE6Dw_PpRgzBeYXO8HiYbk7OxeIjFcQ/s320/Chloe+051.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598779814132429842" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I have friends who say I think too much. Possibly, they are correct. For instance, when typing the title for this blog I debated on whether or not the word "too" should be capitalized. As a fledgling editor, that is probably something I should know, and I could easily look it up in my Chicago Style Manual or any of a number of places online.<br /><br />But ... I don't and I didn't.<br /><br />I did think about it.<br /><br />I am sitting on the patio, cup of coffee at hand and thinking about not thinking.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJR714vbMTVXab5tZ7oYJiuTMd79azIpdNNhemVCLXCp-XliqEEbslINBQz1GOyN4mdLbFu2Tws9MzmglCRHs2RDmFFUuqjoiDjuD3vzQFyf8IA71ql6dwFqmBatkiFsT2JrVcqA/s1600/coffee+001.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJR714vbMTVXab5tZ7oYJiuTMd79azIpdNNhemVCLXCp-XliqEEbslINBQz1GOyN4mdLbFu2Tws9MzmglCRHs2RDmFFUuqjoiDjuD3vzQFyf8IA71ql6dwFqmBatkiFsT2JrVcqA/s320/coffee+001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598781188964337090" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is in moments like these that I feel just a twinge of panic, a fear of what I will feel when I can no longer sit on the patio, watch the bayou, listen to the birds, look for old owl. I had a moment last night, when I was out with friends listening to good Cajun music, and trying to dance the Cajun two-step while discovering that I cannot talk and dance at the same time. It was in those moments, between dances, when I sat back to watch others dance, that I recalled one of my first impressions of Louisiana.<br /><br />Everybody here, no matter the age or the mental ability, dances when the accordion plays. It is a joy to watch families, from toddlers to octagenarians, taking to the floor and doing a more than passable two-step. Last night, as I watched, I had more than a moment to miss that.<br /><br />This morning is another of those moments. I don't have the photographic ability to catch the shimmer of the water in the morning sun, nor the ability to record the birds as their conversation carries from tree to tree. I have only my words to say, this morning, that good-bye, even when it's right, sometimes carries as much pain as when it is wrong.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-58215595233206886952011-02-12T16:25:00.004-06:002011-02-12T16:50:50.361-06:00Existential AngstIf one were to look for an underlying, intertwining theme in my writing, I think it would have to be 'angst.' But for those who may read this and have no idea who I am or what years I have lived, I should confess that I am sixty years ... of age. Neither young nor old. I have lived on this earth for that number of years plus some days<br /><br />Angst is more tolerable when one is a teenager. Charming, at times. Most definitely expected. Sexagenarian angst just doesn't so easily roll off the tongue. It would, no doubt, be obnoxious if not for the philosophers who saved those much like myself by supplanting the word "teenaged" with the word "existential."<br /><br />Existential Angst. Now, doesn't that sound better?<br /><br />I am most heartily delighted that the existential field of philosophy was invented. One can get away with sounding just like one knows what one is talking about - just by adding one word. Existential. <br /><br />Existential angst. An hours long intellectual discussion plus months and months - maybe years - of therapy are summarized in those two words. And the really great thing is, the meaning is so vague, no one dares to question too deeply lest one should appear less learned.<br /><br />So, here I sit, wallowing in my existential angst, eagerly anticipating the evening shadows that lend a certain sophistication to the next glass of wine. Because wine too early in the day would be, well, gauche.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-76691686750276920682011-02-11T23:25:00.003-06:002011-02-11T23:49:04.137-06:00It's not fair ......that I should inspired to post two writings in one day when I go for so many days without a word to say to anyone. But I have been watching the movie, "Julia and Julie", and wondering if I could do something out of the ordinary every day for one year that would be worthy of writing about. No sooner had I wondered it than I decided, "no". Not just "no" but an emphatic "NO!"<br /><br />I often feel as Julie felt - that I have ADD. I only wish I had felt it first. At least if I had claimed it first, I would have a really great excuse for not finishing what I start. If I claim it now, I will be perceived as a copy-cat.<br /><br />Yes, much better to have an excuse that is not of one's own making than to admit that I lack the courage to see things through. Because, you know, once something is done, it is done. Others then feel compelled to pass judgement on the completed project. I don't know why that is. I don't finish things to suit others, but it seems they invariably feel it is so. Therefore, if one can postpone completion, one can postpone judgement day.<br /><br />I knew a writer, once, who made the commitment to write one poem a day. The courage in that was his willingness to accept his own imperfections. He was willing to show himself less than perfect.<br /><br />I still struggle with imperfection. I see it in myself readily enough. But I enjoy the comfort of deluding myself that others do not - cannot - see it.<br /><br />So, what did I do today that is worthy of being put to paper?<br /><br />I drank two glasses of wine while watching Julie channel Julia.<br /><br />Different for me because I usually drink one glass - when I drink at all. Different because I usually don't drink at all.<br /><br />Although I seem to be able to write much more when I do.<br /><br />Perhaps the wine will encourage me to channel a writer. Yes, at this point, most any writer would do.<br /><br />But Dorothy Parker would do best.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-85874505204150675262011-02-11T22:59:00.005-06:002011-02-11T23:25:08.655-06:00It took me awhile ..... to figure out how to sign into blogspot without going all the way around the web and back. You see, they changed the sign-in somewhere along the way - while I was on one of my many hiatuses - when they apparently became part of google; but I don't even know if that is true. I only know that when I request to sign in I am automatically taken to a sign-in page for gmail. I tried to switch my sign-in procedure to my gmail account, but I was rebuffed. Yes, rebuffed. At every turn. In frustration I entered my original yahoo sign-in address into the gmail box and wah-la! I am in.<br /><br />Yes, I know that is not the French way to spell that word, but I am not French. My name is a misnomer. A direct attempt to fool the observer. Trompe l'oiel! I seriously do not believe I have even one cell of French blood in my body. I am French in name only. A poseur, as a writer friend of mine would have said some years ago - when that was his favorite word. His 'word of the day' word. That hung around for more than a day. Ad nauseum, actually. And that, I think, is Latin.<br /><br />So, this is the disclaimer. I am not French. I am many things, a collaboration of things, a veritable melting pot of things! But, mostly, I am Polish. Long o.<br /><br />Mostly only because fifty percent of my genetic makeup came from a father who was 100% Polish. At least, as far as I know. Legend has it that my grandparents met on the boat coming over from the 'old country.' But that legend came from my mother who most likely heard it from my father. I met my paternal grandparents once, apparently. When I was about three months old. Part of the legend.<br /><br />My mother was a lot kinder than I am. She was fond of creating legends that leant a gentleness to life that did not otherwise exist.<br /><br />Are there any real legends out there? And do any of them really matter? I am not my grandparents. I am not my mother. And I am sure as hell not my father. Just as most everybody else, I am who I am. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But always, and forever, just that - who I am.<br /><br />And a couple of glasses of wine make that somewhat better than it really is.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-8815685014105291292011-02-07T22:16:00.002-06:002011-02-07T22:29:44.440-06:00Ahhh, dysFUNctional!Seems a woman was arrested today in southern Louisiana for assaulting her boyfriend with a frozen piece of meat.<br /><br />The boyfriend told police she became angry when she went to chill her mixed drink and the glass wouldn't fit in the freezer. So she slapped him in the face with a frozen beefsteak. They booked her with aggravated battery.<br /><br />What exactly does that mean? Wouldn't you have to be at least a little bit aggravated to batter somebody? And, even then, isn't aggravated a bit of an understatement?<br /><br />Just one more reason for becoming vegetarian. I doubt my package of frozen broccoli would have had quite the same impact. Nor would it have made such a good story.<br /><br />Although it might have been as good as the burglar who was arrested after leaving his cell phone at the scene of the robbery ...<br /><br />My friend Eileen was right ... we sure know how to put the fun in dysfunctional!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-632075595820530212011-01-23T14:51:00.003-06:002011-01-23T14:59:49.551-06:00Did I Ever Tell You?... about the time I pulled up to a drive-in window at a local fast-food establishment and ordered a large drink and the person taking the order told me she couldn't give me that because they only had small and medium?<br /><br />Can somebody tell me why that isn't funny? I still recall my difficulty keeping a straight face. Truthfully, I thought at first she was deliberately making a joke, and I was momentarily impressed with her cleverness. Until I realized she was serious and had no idea why her response was funny.<br /><br />After telling this story a number of times, I have yet to find anyone else who thinks it's particularly funny. Can someone please explain, why not?<br /><br />For awhile I thought that would be my magic pea. Like in the story the princess and the pea, only I was looking for a prince and the pea was a fast-food story that nobody thought was funny. Except me. And, of course, the prince. Whom I haven't found, yet. Apparently.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-38573464248180503162010-12-13T17:49:00.004-06:002010-12-13T18:18:39.536-06:00What to Title This?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRLSPtT60JcWqlJusVXpGTCJ3a7UEbifv1o8GjiXXHasfhci41eflhTYputmWmjTeUwP9Xr2Bb4bEJ8pOKEXAPm-0WAYvyh2DLumq3r2Jtd7Kz2DjtAKnhwg7Ptn6vL5z0u0fttw/s1600/P5230137.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRLSPtT60JcWqlJusVXpGTCJ3a7UEbifv1o8GjiXXHasfhci41eflhTYputmWmjTeUwP9Xr2Bb4bEJ8pOKEXAPm-0WAYvyh2DLumq3r2Jtd7Kz2DjtAKnhwg7Ptn6vL5z0u0fttw/s320/P5230137.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550324765628373826" border="0" /></a><br />I'm not sure where to start to write today. I could go back 12 years and work my way forward or I could just start with today and trust that anyone who has ever shared her/his life with a dog will get it.<br /><br />I got the call from the vet while in the middle of preparing Sweet Potato Butter. It's good that I was already busy, involved in something I couldn't just leave. There is still too much of my Granny in me to allow good food to spoil, so I continued the process while pondering the implications of the information from the vet. Moose, the dog who has - to borrow a phrase from the writer Jim - licked the love back into me more than a time or two, has a bone tumor on the side of his head.<br /><br />The surgeon feels sure he can operate and remove it all, but he also assured me it would return. There is no cure, only decisions to be made concerning the best course of treatment. I'm not going to opt for the surgery. I suppose that may outrage some pet owners, but Moose is not in pain, now. He is not acting as if he is ill or uncomfortable or in any way distressed. I cannot justify deliberately distressing him, when the outcome is inevitable.<br /><br />As I stirred the pumpkin, waiting for it to thicken, I, of course, relived the many adventures of Moose - the Moose Tales. I'm not even sure I have a copy of all of them anymore. Computers come and go, and I have failed to print out or save much of my writing. I am sure there are a few who read this blog who know Moose as well as they know me; mainly through words that have been shared over the past twelve years. He doesn't hear much at all anymore, and his vision is becoming more tunnel-like with age and cataracts. He rarely ventures all the way to the bayou these days, preferring to stay close to the patio, closer to me. I can't remember the last time he brought me a dead thing.<br /><br />He still likes to sleep at the end of the bed, although now I have to pick him up and put him there. His weight is down about 19 pounds from his heaviest weight, but he always tended to be heavier than he should have been, so now he is pretty much the weight he should be. He has begun to bark to get his way this past year; mostly to let me know when he's ready to come inside or that Bella the Cat won't move away from the water bowl, where she plops just to torment him.<br /><br />He's a good dog. He's still possibly the best friend I've ever had; a major source of unconditional love in my life today. And I promised him a trip to the Grand Canyon some years ago. I'm gonna have to get busy to make that happen. I want to show him the stars from the North Rim. Heck! I want to see them myself! Before we both get too old, too blind, or just too tired.<br /><img src="file:///C:/Users/mtaucoin/Pictures/2010-05%20%28May%29/P5230137.JPG" alt="" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-21590392641584579602010-12-11T09:10:00.002-06:002010-12-11T09:43:48.741-06:00Fickle PickleI wake up most mornings with the intention of updating my blog with some particularly witty or intellectual comment that is sure to garner boatloads of traffic, only to be sidetracked by things of equal, albeit less satisfying, importance. Things like, working the daily Sudoku or letting Moose out for his daily dump. Letting him back in again. Letting him out again. Letting him ... well, you get the idea. I have all manner of things of pressing importance wearing away the minutes of my day. There just seems to be no time left for the frivolity of writing.<br /><br />If I were Vianne, I would have a grand tale of being kidnapped by a roving band of gypsies and forced to perform for crowds at county fairs by day and privately entertain a different gypsy man every night, escaping only when she began to feel guilty for enjoying herself too much.<br /><br />But, I am not Vianne. The last I heard from her she was still holed up in some sleeze bag hotel with that scoundrel Mikey. Loving every aching minute.<br /><br />Thanksgiving was pretty much the usual assemblage of Catholics, Christian Fundamentalists, Muslims, and me. I was visiting my younger daughter and her husband who live near Fort Hood, Texas. The three men and one of the women are all currently serving in the US Army and have all spent time in Iraq and/or Afghanistan. In spite of what might be apparent religious differences, the day was delightful. Most folks I know don't get into discussions of a religious sort just for the heck of it, and the topic didn't come up. There was some interesting sharing of cultural experiences, with the only really awkward moment occurring when one of the CF's asked one of the Muslims if he were pro-Taliban.<br /><br />Seriously???<br /><br />After the silence fell and picked itself back up again, and the young man being questioned graciously answered "no" without appearing at all condescending, conversation was diverted to other topics.<br /><br />The only other issue that was remotely amusing was that my daughter has decided everything is better with bourbon, which she had added generously to several of the dishes. However, it was easy enough to tell which of those had been cooked enough to dissipate the alcohol, so no preferences were inadvertantly compromised.<br /><br />The rest of the visit was spent eating leftovers and decorating for Christmas. I am home again, and preparing for birthdays(not mine) and Christmas. The carpenters have finished the work in my house; the bricklayers did what they had to do outside; and life on the bayou, while unseasonably cold, is once again quiet.<br /><br />If you're passing this way, stop and get down for a cup of coffee and a chat, sha'!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-72318549682324366822010-11-22T23:00:00.006-06:002010-11-22T23:16:27.916-06:00AddendumWell, the dog didn't get to make the trip this time. He had to stay behind at the Vet Hotel and Doggie Spa for some much needed rest, relaxation, pampering and maintenance. Nothing serious. Getting old for dogs is just about like getting old for humans. Everything starts to fall out, fall down or fall apart.<br /><br />Thanks to the wonders of modern medicine and Visa/Mastercard, most of it is repairable.<br /><br />Vianne called to say she was stuck somewhere in small town Texas for the night, booked into a suite at regular room rates because she reminded the clerk of her grandmother.<br /><br />Nothing like the young to make us feel old.<br /><br />But Vianne assured me she is not alone. A brief stop at the post office on her way out of town led to the discovery of her very own copy of <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado. </span></span>You can find the link to his blog in the column on the right under 'A Little Lagniappe.'<br /><br />For tonight it's just Vianne and Mikey - in a suite right next door to the hotel lobby.<br /><br />In case Vianne needs security.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-48590752679078895642010-11-22T08:19:00.004-06:002010-11-22T23:00:20.181-06:00Vianne is trippin'!She's getting packed up, bathing the dog and heading on down the highway. Well, not 'down' actually. Just slightly up and to the west, past Lafayette and Lake Charles and right on into Texas. And she's wondering if it's really possible to say Texas without that accent which seems to emerge, unannounced, anytime she says Texas (Tayuhxas). Or Tennessee (Tayuhnnessee), for that matter. Mississippi (Meyahssissippi). Louisiana (Loueeyuhzeeayuhna). Alabama is almost neutral. Once you get past the initial 'A' that never seems to sound right unless you make it a two syllable sound - Ayuhlabama.<br /><br />Vianne left home awhile back, quite awhile, in fact, and has been roaming the highways ever since, looking for life, engaging herself in one adventure or the other. I know from long contact with Vianne that most of these adventures occur in her imagination only, but it's surely hard to tell truth from fiction. Sometimes. Not only for those of us listening to her tales, but, I suspect, for her as well. I've never known someone to live so much inside herself. And not even know that's where she is.<br /><br />I remember the time she called, full of the tale of the satin stranger. She described him as sleek and smooth and willing to do most anything in the world just to please her. They rode together for a day and a half before she pulled into a truck-stop cafe for morning coffee and saw a big ol' truck driver chatting with the waitress. As soon as I heard all about his muscles expanding his t-shirt, I knew she had found another travel companion. That particular day dream lasted for most of the week. It took her that long to find a suitable replacement in the check-out line at the D'ville WalMart. She was there just to pick up a half-gallon of Rocky Road and a Redbox new release. Never suspected she would find the man of her dreams.<br /><br />But Vianne is nothing if not open to knew suggestions.<br /><br />Vianne lives - or half-lives, might be more accurate - with Joe the Depressor. You know how we were taught as children that if we didn't have anything nice to say, it was better to say nothing at all. Joe didn't learn that lesson. Or if he did, he somehow got turned all the way around and interpreted it to mean just the opposite. Joe believes saying anything nice is a sign of weakness. And unfortunately for Vianne, he's the strongest man she's ever known.<br /><br />But the girl is on the road, again. Good things happen on the road.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-21592841569297295712010-11-21T22:44:00.003-06:002010-11-21T23:21:10.408-06:00Retirement, or What's it All About?On the 17th of December, 2010, I will have been retired for exactly one year. And sometimes, I still feel like I'm on vacation. Like when the holiday is over, I will be back in the classroom, writing lesson plans and IEPs and doing all sorts of inane paperwork that has little to do with the actual act of teaching. Sometimes, when I feel that way, I begin to feel a bit of anxiety - okay, more than a bit. More like panic, with an accompanying increase in heart rate and shallow breathing and even a little extra perspiration in the perspiring parts.<br /><br />Sometimes, I feel something else entirely, and I'm not at all sure how to describe it. As if the past 33+ years really didn't matter much at all. As if I tried much too hard to make it mean more than it actually did.<br /><br />Apparently retired teachers remain in the parish school board email system. I guess it's an easy way to communicate information to us, but, to tell you the truth, there doesn't seem to be much to communicate to retired teachers. Too often, it seems, my school email is used to inform me of funeral arrangements for other retired teachers. Rather disturbing to think there is nothing to report between the retiring and the dying.<br /><br />Occasionally, I receive email that should have been sent to someone else, an 'active' teacher, who has the same last name and first initial. I log in just to forward it on to her as an act of courtesy.<br /><br />I think one day I'm gonna have to send an email right back to them, address it to everyone in the school system, just to let them know that what they're doing is not really life. Life is what goes on out here when they aren't playing school.<br /><br />And I'm gonna tell them I'm not dead. In fact, I'm only beginning to feel alive.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-20125817112694121892010-11-12T20:05:00.002-06:002010-11-12T20:20:18.188-06:00How small is it?The place I live is so small that ...<br /><br />As I posted last week, the house was damaged by an out-of-control tire and I have spent the week trying to find a bricklayer (otherwise known as a Mason, but that's another blog for someone else with more time and more imagination). I simply want someone to remove the bricks that are no longer attached to the house, clean them up real pretty, and put them back again. Sounds easy enough.<br /><br />I had no idea how hard I was apparently trying until Thursday. I admit I had made quite a few phone calls, chatted about it in the grocery store, even stopped by a lumber yard for a few recommendations.<br /><br />But I never thought my gynecologist would get involved in the search. There I was, lying back on the table, feet in the stirrups, the sounds of instruments of torture clanging in my ears, and he, in his most doctorly manner says, "So, I hear you need a bricklayer."<br /><br />That's just not a conversation I ever expected to have at that particular moment. But have it we did, and I walked away with one more name to add to my list of possibility.<br /><br />If he does return my call, I won't be telling that bricklayer how I found his name.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-73547486465571102142010-11-06T12:49:00.003-05:002010-11-06T13:16:51.653-05:00Country Livin'<span style="font-family: arial;">Or - <span style="font-style: italic;">the day the house turned on a dime</span>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Actually, it wasn't a dime, and the house only shifted a bit.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">For those of you not so well-acquainted with living down de bayou, this may not be as amusing I awoke not too early after being up rather later than usual. I was still waiting for the coffee to brew when the house shook, glass shattered, and the cat leapt across the den and flew headfirst into the closed bedroom door. She was too frightened to realize the door wasn't open, attempting a failed quick retreat to the safety of the bedroom closet.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">After the initial moment of complete stupefaction, I began making the rounds, inspecting the windows, pondering "whatthehell hit my house!?"</span><br /><br />I wasn't stunned that the house had been hit. These things seem to happen here with alarming regularity. I've known folks to install posts in the ground across the front of their homes to keep cars from plowing through their bedrooms. I've personally had vehicles fly from one side of my front yard to the other, damaging only the driveways on either side before rolling to a stop in the ditch. The same ditch that has hosted a cane truck turned on it's side and a pickup truck whose driver was epileptic and should probably not have been driving at all. Admittedly, each of these was a one-time experience, but my thinking has become "if it could happen once, it could happen again". And it has often enough to prove the exception.<br /><br />So, I live in expectation.<br /><br />It wasn't until I went outside that I was able to locate the source of the noise and apparent glass breakage. In one of those freakish moments that happen frequently during the grinding season in rural southern Louisiana, a tire had escaped a moving 18-wheeled sugar cane truck, had flown/rolled/crashed into the corner of my house, and had shoved a column of brick away from the outside wall. It also split some wood and send decorative objects flying across the dining room - the source of the breaking glass in the one room I had yet to inspect.<br /><br />So, I spent the next hour, rocking on the front porch, cup of hot coffee in hand, and watched the Keystone Cops try to figure "wha' happened?"<br /><br />Gotta love this country livin'!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-1127505724381674012005-09-23T14:55:00.000-05:002005-09-23T15:02:04.390-05:00Waiting for RitaIt is 2:07 pm, when I would normally be wrapping up the school day, and here I sit at home and at my computer. It was announced yesterday, before we left, that schools would be closed today. We have not yet processed all the fear of Katrina and her aftermath, and now we must react to new fears of Rita.<br /><br />There is a routine in areas that are consistently visited by the threat of hurricane. You watch every depression that forms during the season and monitor its progress. We know the names of all major storms in the past … oh, 50 years, at least …as well as we know the names of our family members. They are like members of the family – the unwelcome relatives who show up without invitation at family gatherings; the ones who sit at the table with bad manners and vulgar conversation, totally spoiling what should have been a warm, wonderful, and cherished family memory.<br /><br />Katrina left far too much of herself behind and now Rita is going to do the same.<br /><br />I didn’t evacuate this time. I think I am far enough east, somewhere here between Baton Rouge and New Orleans, and I know I am high enough to be safe from flooding. I felt getting on the road, in the way of others who had to evacuate, might not be the best course, this time.<br /><br />The morning started warm and drizzly, with the smell of the ocean in the air. That’s usually the first thing I notice. Our typically humid atmosphere takes on the eerie feeling of being closer to the ocean than we really are. I can’t say with any accuracy just how far I am from the gulf, but figuring how far it is from here to Morgan City and then from there to the gulf … and figuring how long it takes me to drive to Grand Isle … well, I guess I am about 150 miles inland. Far enough not to smell the ocean under normal conditions.<br /><br />The drizzle has segued into a more steady rain and just minutes ago tornado warnings were issued for the parish. I am concerned about that. I will continue to type and reflect while listening for the roar of the train that would indicate it is time to run downstairs, seeking the safety of the cinder block walls of the laundry room, calling for Moose and Bella to follow me or get left behind.<br /><br />I went out early this morning, while the drizzle was still light enough to barely notice, and moved all the patio furniture inside, along with the potted plants and anything I could carry that might become a flying projectile later on this evening or overnight. I moved the garbage cans into the garage and did a visual check of the yard for anything that might get caught up in the winds and thrown through a window. All part of that routine I mentioned earlier. There are limbs, still, from Katrina that I had intended to burn – before the “no burn” order was issued, due to the drought following the storm. I can do nothing but leave them where they lay.<br /><br />There is a bit of wind outside, blowing intermittently, not overly gusty at the moment. My apartment is upstairs, surrounded by big old oaks. I always say it is like living in a tree house. There is no one in the main house. The Katrina evacuees returned to their homes near New Orleans last week and are going to ride this one out there. They had no water in their homes with Katrina and feel they will be dry for this one, too – but I insisted they keep the extra key in case they needed to get out in the middle of the night.<br /><br />They aren’t on the same side as the water that is now re-entering New Orleans, overtopping the levees, re-opening breaches in the levee walls. They should all be safe.<br /><br />I am more concerned about my neighbors to the south of me … all those little fishing villages with the French names – Pointe-au-Chene; the Fourchon; Chauvin; Dulac. The TV is already showing the roads in those areas completely covered with water. Not still water, but rapidly moving water that looks more like an angry river than an overflow.<br /><br />It seems southern Louisiana is undergoing another major cosmetic change, before the scars of the last surgery have healed. What will we look like when the bandages come off, when the waters recede? What more will we have learned?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152674.post-1126062979883085512005-09-06T22:08:00.000-05:002005-09-06T22:16:19.890-05:00SchooldaysToday ended like so many other schooldays – days from last school year, when I came home in the afternoon and bustled around to do a little housework, ate a quick sandwich and washed a load of clothes before or after tutoring a student in math or reading or occasionally some other subject. So much like so many other days, except today I continue to carry feelings that I don’t like having; feelings I cannot even express, yet, except for the obvious.<br /><br />Today was the first day we returned to school after the hurricane. Plans had been made to register those students who had come into the parish for evacuation. No one could predict exactly how many students were here, but we are a small parish – a farming parish, nothing much but sugar cane growing along the side of the road. There are the remnants of sugar mills that once refined hundreds of tons of sugar each year; a few insurance offices, a couple of attorneys, the city hall, the courthouse, a Popeye’s Fried Chicken and a few grocery and hardware stores. We have but four traffic lights in the entire parish. It is a truly rural community.<br /><br />Predictions were vague, but expectations were for perhaps fifty new students. By the time I left this afternoon, after assisting with getting papers and folders sorted and dropped off at various places, I had counted 137 … and there was a stack of at least fifty more. And that didn’t include the students who registered at another site. This doesn’t seem like a lot, but when you put it in context, it reflects the magnitude of the displacement.<br /><br />Donations had poured in for uniforms and school supplies – donations from children selling lemonade by the side of the road, boy scouts and girl scouts working together to collect spare change. Each family came through the center that had been set up for registration and filled out the necessary paperwork then went to the tables to choose three uniforms, searching for the right sizes, looking for empty rooms to try them on. Many of the children still wore a look of disbelief – as though they had been suddenly awakened from a deep sleep and were not yet sure they were really awake. As if they were hoping someone would tell them this is all a dream.<br /><br />I sometimes found myself in the position of trying to make someone comfortable as they waited in long lines to get to see the right person to help them. I would ask them about where they were staying, where they were coming from. And I asked about their homes. I know they are homeless, but they are NOT homeless ... not in the sense that is usually imagined. They have lives – had lives. Lives that were lost through no failing of their own. They need to know that others know that. Sometimes they need to talk.<br /><br />I spoke to a man from St. Bernard Parish. If you have been listening to the events unfold, you might know this is one of the parishes most heavily hit. Most of the parish is 8 to 10 feet under water. His home had been built on pilings, but the water still rose four feet inside his home. He recounted how, when he saw the water rising, he took his children to the attic. No sooner had he gotten them settled than he heard other children screaming outside. He ran out just in time to grab a child rushing past him in the swollen waters and to scoop another from where he had caught on a fence.<br /><br />He took the two of them to safety and found two other men to assist him in looking for others. They tied themselves together with water safety vests and began going from house to house. As they found people they would carry them to the second story of a building nearby and continue to look for others. Finally they found some boats and the task became easier.<br /><br />An older woman told of seeing an elderly man in front of her snatched away by an alligator. Another told of wading past the bodies of babies who had drowned.<br /><br />At one point I just looked around the room, at the shear numbers of people in our small community who had lost, literally, everything they had worked their entire lives to build; people who had had dreams and had worked to make those dreams come true; people who had believed that if they worked hard for something it could be theirs forever; people who continued to look for hope with grace and dignity. Sometimes, however, I saw the despair that was fighting just below the surface, struggling to reach out and around them and to pull them totally under.<br /><br />It was then I would walk down the hall to the ladies room, lock myself in one of the stalls, and cry for all the dreams that would never live again.<br /><br />Who was it who said, “The worst pain of all is the grief for what will never be”?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1