CINDY

Tomorrow, December 8^th, 2011, is the one year anniversary of my sister Cindy’s death. She is with Dad in an alternate universe laughing about the coincidence of dying on the feast of the Immaculate Conception.

Any of you who knew Cindy loved her for her ability to challenge the status quo, but in a respectful, intelligent manner. She grappled with her faith and questioned many of the tenets of Catholicism based on her study of different faiths. For some time, the Unitarian church seemed to deliver a modicum of healing and it spoke to her sense of neutrality. Coincidentally, a Unitarian church sits next door to my neighborhood. I attend services occasionally. Cindy would have loved the service led by Buddhist monks who played long, copper horns and fashioned a mandala as the congregation watched.

When we talked the weeks before Cindy slowly faded away, I asked her if she wanted to speak with a priest. I thought for a moment that she had resigned herself to come back to the fold, but she said to me, “Yes, only because I want to go where Daddy is.” So, she did receive the Sacrament of Extreme Unction, the Last Rites, and she seemed at peace.

Cindy was an amazing mother to Des. She was the typical Earth Mother-- comforting, cuddly, welcoming, and nurturing of Des’s heart, soul, and body. When Des recalls growing up with Cindy as her mom, her eyes light up. Not your typical soccer mom, Cindy let Des wear a bathing suit for days in the winter because that was Des’s favorite clothing when she was a toddler. When I worried that Des would come down with deathly pneumonia, Cindy told Des to put a coat over her bathing suit.

Dressing up made Cindy’s dramatic sense of style unfold . Amazingly photogenic, she would don fancy hats and scarves and walk down Main Street in Loreauville. If anyone dared to call her eccentric, she would thank them. Any article of clothing she wore looked like a million dollars on her tiny frame. She leaned toward the nostalgic, old Hollywood mavens, like Rita Hayworth and Vivien Leigh. As my sisters and I looked through her clothing after her death, we recalled memories of her escapades wearing those clothes--such a good memory of her fun loving nature.  In one of my favorite pictures of her, we wear large, elegant felt hats with feathers and stand posed provocatively with fancy scarves wrapped around our necks.

A voracious reader since childhood, she drank in the written word. As I rummaged through her book collection, I was amazed to discover the depth and variety of the titles she owned.  She had a number of books on philosophy, mythology, and world religions, and I realized then that I owned the same titles. I felt sad because we never got to speak about the similarity in our reading. I was stranded on the East coast most of my married life, and she lived in Louisiana and North Carolina. Life got in the way.

Cindy ‘s resume would fill up a filing cabinet. A gifted intellect bores easily in mundane job situations. After her career as a librarian, media expert at a college in Clear Lake City, Texas, she worked for Sprint, for a real estate company,  in sales for an office equipment company, as a researcher, and many more jobs searching for a career that fed her soul. I don’t think she ever found it.

I am looking at a portrait of the two of us as very young children, I the six year old brunette and she, the four year old, fragile, delicate younger sibling. Both fiercely independent, I recall vividly how we fought tooth and nail. I was stronger, so she grew very long nails. I recall that the last time I walloped her was the first time she dug those very long nails into my skin.

The most tragic event Cindy suffered as an adolescent was the loss of her two best friends, Paula Fontenot and Jeanette Louviere, who both died in a tragic car crash on I-10 in the 1950’s. I did not realize until I became an adult teaching adolescents the emotional turmoil Cindy must have felt. Teens bond because they have such a handle on friendship, camaraderie, and trust.

I would give anything, even my shoe collection, to see and talk with Cindy just one more time. I would tell her that I love her more every time I look at Des and see what an amazing person she nurtured, that  I loved having her as a sister, that I was proud of her, and that she left a timeless legacy for her family and friends.

WEEKEND TO HELL

In October, as I prepared for a huge houseboat party for forty guests, a FALL FOLIAGE CRUISE ON LAKE LANIER, my husband, LJB, committed so many grievances  that I decided he was going to ride a HEAT SEEKING MISSILE TO HELL.

STRIKE 1 

THURSDAY before the party, I spent the entire day cooking two types of gumbo and the chicken, sausage, and a trinity of vegetables for jambalaya. I had an appointment at 1:00 p.m., so I ran upstairs to get dressed.

I heard the oven buzzer go off, so I ran downstairs into the kitchen barely clothed in my underwear to remove the food from the oven. As I lifted the baking pan, I caught a glimpse of a man peering into my kitchen windows which look out up the mountain so no curtains obstruct the view.

I jerked and the pan seared my abdomen in two places. I dropped the food and ran upstairs to call LJB who calmly told me that he was having a security system installed at our home. Why that issue was not a subject of discussion beforehand was my question.

STRIKE 2 DAY BEFORE PARTY

SATURDAY morning at the boat, as we awakened, we stepped on the bedroom carpet, and our feet squished as the carpet was soaked with water. Larry called our friend Ray, a technology executive, a nautical expert, and an amazing fix it man. They removed the bedroom floor entry which is the size of a door, so they could descend into the hull. As they discussed, negotiated, and engaged in extemporaneous talk about sports and the new Coors Light packaging, I cleaned the guest bath with wet wipes, as they had turned off the water.

I noticed a leak in the shower, so I yelled into the hull so they would hear me. They emerged and continued to talk as they dismantled the shower.

I had to finish cleaning the boat because a former student and her boyfriend were coming to spend the afternoon with us to watch the GA game.
     I carried folded laundry to the master bath, and forgetting about the opened hull door, I fell five feet into the hull. My back and right ankle slammed against the door opening, and my head hit the bottom of the hull. I breathed deeply and decided I was still alive, so I mustered the strength to crawl out and lie on the bed.

  Ray walked into the bedroom and asked if he was disturbing my nap. After unleashing a torrent of expletives against him for failing to shut the hull door, he ran away to find Larry, who was reluctant to talk with me. When he asked me if I was okay, I stared daggers, so he knew it was best to discuss this matter at a more feasible time.

Since I planned to drive the 10 hour trip to LA to see AMD on Monday, I knew if I saw a doctor, they would probably advise me to postpone my trip. I had to expunge my anger and test my physical fortitude, so I went shopping. Next to a woman’s clothing store, I visited a male pharmacist and asked him to look at my back. I lifted my shirt in full view of other customers and my glare dared them to speak.

  The pharmacist told me I had a laceration and contusions and advised me to soak in Epsom Salts, apply a topical ointment to heal the bruising, and to take Aleve. I inquired about a potion of hemlock for LJB, but the pharmacist said he was fresh out.

I returned to the clothing store, then to a furniture store to purchase pricey items. Then I drove back to the boat to wait for our afternoon guests.

Strike 3 SUNDAY FALL FOLIAGE CRUISE

Guests arrived at noon. As I prepared last minute appetizers in the kitchen, I asked several guys to take the huge pot of gumbo to the top deck and to ask LJB to secure it.

     A few minutes later, an ashen-faced male guest came to get me in the kitchen. As soon as he said, Do not be upset, I ran upstairs to see male guests hosing my gumbo off the deck. As I screamed WHAT HAPPENED, several women guests said that someone had placed the heavy pot of gumbo on a side shelf of the barbeque grill and the shelf broke. All the men scattered, and all I said to LJB, was STRIKE THREE.

Despite the eventful circumstances that weekend, everyone had a wonderful time. The HOT DAMNS and the Jaeger probably softened the blows a bit. Eventually, at 10:00 p.m. LJB and two of his friends fell out of their high barstools on the top deck, but as they were feeling no pain, the night ended well.

I drove out of the marina at 6:00 a.m. the next morning to drive to LA.

THANKSGIVING TRAUMA

This time of year is ridiculously hectic. Every year I remind myself that I am going to breathe deeply, pace myself, and not behave like the control freak that I am.

Didnt work. . .

By Thanksgiving Day I planted 100 bulbs and 10 beds of petunias, themed the kitchen and dining room in Harvest decor, decorated the fourteen foot Christmas tree with the help of my grandchildren, put fresh pine garland and red sequined silk poinsettias on all the banisters, around the hearth, and on various other surfaces.

I tripped on the garland as I walked down the stairs but, luckily, I was able to break my fall by grabbing onto the railing.

I adorned the front door with a huge pine wreath with red berries and pine cones and swirled the front door lights in sprigs of blue spruce [which crackles in the fireplace a delight to my grandchildren). Placing ten ltall nutcrackers around my home was a challenge.

I decorated the back deck railing with white lights and garland, set the lighted reindeer up the hill in the back yard, planted winter herbs and vegetables in ten horizontal sphagnum moss baskets that hang on the deck railing, and accidentally fell off the ladder when I tried to hang my three Christmas clocks.

My three year old grandson told me that my decorated mailbox looks like reindeer antlers. I stuck huge fresh pine branches around the mailbox. He said the red ribbon looks like Rudolphs nose. I was shocked. I thought it looked like a Southern Living masterpiece!

I drove to five stores to get last minute Christmas and Thanksgiving adornments, created a Thanksgiving menu on Publisher, and slid down the slope in the leaf-strewn front yard as I attempted to stick fake roses around my statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary in my front yard.

Two days before Thanksgiving,I took out all my Harvest china and glassware. I prepared turkey, honey ham, pork loin, Cajun chicken pies, rice dressing, cornbread dressing, yam souffle, corn casserole, green bean almondine, spinach souffle, creamed cauliflower, pecan pie, pumpkin pie, ambrosia, cranberry relish and cranberry glace, and rolls.

Kelly brought strawberry salad and peppermint pie. Nichole made gingerbread martinis for dessert. Then I slipped on the kitchen floor when I spilled the Savignon Blanc I tested as I cooked the turkey.

My daughter is an amazing cook, but every Thanksgiving, I am reminded about the first time she baked. She made muffins; it was a disaster! I bit into a beautiful muffin and thought I tasted macadamia nuts, but it was smushed up COOKED egg whites. I loathe egg whites; I throw up a little in my mouth every time I see cooked egg whites, and she is well aware of that idiosyncrasy of mine.

Her explanation--- the recipe on the box calls for three egg whites. Raw egg whites are clear; cooked egg whites are WHITE. I boiled the eggs, threw away the yolk. I mushed up the cooked whites and added them to the batter. Voila! Muffins! She is ridiculously intelligent, and thats the problem.

But, the most hilarious and frightening episode occurred Thanksgiving Eve as I drove away from a furniture store that was holding exquisite Chinese lamps for me.

I drove out of the parking spot, started to move down the driving lane when I received a text from my son. I stopped the car, read the text, texted him back, then we texted back and forth for about ten minutes.

I looked up to see a police car facing me, actually about a hairs breath from my front bumper. The policeman looked like Robocop, and he stared daggers into me. I didnt know whether to s--- or go blind.

I realized that I still hadnt paid the speeding ticket I was awarded in Montgomery, Alabama, last month for driving 84 in a 60 MPH. Every time I call the number I listen to a ridiculously long recording, so i just hang up.

Looking through my windshield, I apologized profusely, and used very dramatic, emotional body language to indicate to Robocop that I was definitely at fault.

He waved me on, so I drove around him, and I winked at him. Never hurts to compliment a Robocop.

And then, theres Christmas .

REQUIEM FOR MY FRIEND JOHN

REQUIEM FOR MY DEAR FRIEND JOHN

John Sheffield was my best friend, next to my husband, Larry. I met John when I began my career as English Department Head at Harrison High School, the flagship new school for Cobb County in Kennesaw, GA in 1991. John was Science Department Head. His left-brained classroom and Science lab was next door to my eclectic, right-brained classroom.

John died at his home, March 28, 2008. He was only 61 years old. Larry and I arrived at his home at noon that day to pick him up to come to the lake with us. He didn’t answer the doorbell. His car was parked in his carport. I looked through the kitchen window and noticed his laptop and cell phone on the table. After an hour of checking with neighbors, noticing that his mail had not been picked up, and failing to get a response, we called 911. Police and fire department personnel discovered him in his bed. John had succumbed to heart failure the night before.

John was born in Ozark, Alabama on November 15, 1946 to the late Bert & Frances Carroll Sheffield. John’s parents were only children, and he was an only child, so we welcomed him as part of our family. He spent holidays with us and loved planning and participating in activities with our family.

John and I were cohorts in angst as we worked diligently to blend the two feeder high schools, including a staff of teachers hired from GA and other states. We had an amazing talented principal, a visionary, who was a master at team building. But, on Fridays, we flew out of the building at 3:30 p.m. to meet other teachers for a well-deserved Happy Hour. We became a powerful support group for each other.

John managed to keep me out of trouble when I challenged the principal who told me I was setting the bar too high for these students. Using some Cajun gris gris and a lot of dialogue, I managed to convince him to trust me. That first year, our test scores beat every other school in the county.

In another incident, I was furious that a plebe, very young assistant principal who looked like Doogie Howser, had twenty student aides who were given walkie talkies to communicate with each other while department heads had to walk long stretches of hallways to get anywhere in this 2,000 student building. And walk in stilettos!

So I purchased 10 Strawberry Shortcake walkie talkies at Big Lots for the teachers in the English Department to communicate with each other. I was thrilled how well they worked.

My favorite custodian, who stuttered, asked me to check out the writing lab as he had seen two students "r-r-r-r-r-iding thhhhaaaattt trrrrain." I did not understand the idiom until I unlocked the door. They were all tangled up, and the room smelled like burning rope, to which the custodian responded, "P-p-p-p-p-o-t."  My Strawberry Shortcake Walkie Talkie enabled me to summon another teacher who notified administrators.  After that incident, students scattered when they saw me on duty, which made my job tremendously easy.

John tried to talk me out of using those Walkie Talkies, but I was determined to prove a point. I was caught when the County channels picked up my professional dialogue with another English teacher. Every school cop in the county was on the hunt for me. Fortunately, I was allowed to argue my case, and Walkie Talkies were distributed to Department heads the next week. I suppose it didn’t hurt my case that I called favors in on the other four principals who were my bosses when I served as Department head at other high schools.

John was my guardian angel at school. He calmed me down when my fiery temper erupted and saved me in countless department head meetings when I introduced viable but controversial agenda items. We collaborated about curriculum and joked about school personnel who were absolutely daffy, like the young science teacher whose pet Gila monster rode on her neck when she taught classes, and the English teacher who  herded his 15 cats into his classroom for our first Open House for parents. I told him he'd better be discussing T.S. Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats upon which the musical CATS is based.

John attended Emory at Oxford and graduated from Emory University with a degree in Science and earned Masters and Specialist degrees from Georgia State University. A dedicated and beloved educator, John’s 36 year career in Cobb County Schools included 22 years at Campbell High School where he served as Science Department Head, sponsored National Honor Society and served on the state level of National Honor Society, and 14 years as Science Department Head at Harrison High School.

After retiring from Cobb County Schools, John was hired by Pearson Education to develop and present training workshops to Science and Language Arts teachers in the Southeastern region of the United States. He rose quickly in the ranks to become the most professional and knowledgeable consultant in the Southeast. He asked me to consult with him on his Language Arts presentations. I was amazed at his ability to develop amazing Language Arts presentations after spending his entire career teaching science.

John had incredible artistic abilities. A talented pianist, as a young man, John served as organist at First Baptist in his hometown of Ozark, AL. he loved to entertain friends at sing a longs. Attending Atlanta Symphony Orchestra events had a special significance for John.

As a teenager, John saved his allowance for a special Mother’s Day gift. He commissioned a local artist to paint his portrait and walked to town several times a week for months for sittings until the painting was completed. As an only child, the painting held special significance for his parents. John placed the portrait above the grand piano in this home.

At his funeral, John’s former college roommate received the portrait in John’s will. It was displayed near the coffin during the service. When I inquired about the portrait, I was told it was to be cremated with John’s body. I was livid! I offered to purchase it, to rescue it, to donate it to the church where John played organ, or to display it in my home, to no avail. That man has a bad, bad gris gris on himself. And the voodoo doll of him regularly gets stabbed with needles.

John’s appreciation of art and nature was evident in his collection of art, antiques, and in his beautifully landscaped back yard nature sanctuary. He filled his home with special artifacts and mementos of his world travels and had a great affinity for creating memorable dining experiences for friends and was developing a plan to participate in an antiques market in Marietta. Just before he died, he had his kitchen transformed to a chef’s kitchen so he could indulge in entertaining his friends at unique formal dinners.

John’s birthday is November 16^th. I will be very sad. I plan to dig in the ground and plant a very special shrub in his honor so my children and grandchildren can stand around it and remember John at Thanksgiving in a few weeks.

Thanksgiving was very, very, sad last year as we stared at John’s empty chair. So I invited Theron, our server at IHop after mass every Friday morning, to join our family. He’s a single 25 year old whose family lives in North Carolina and IHop will not give him the morning off. He will join us at 1:00 for our family feast as I remind him what big shoes he has to fill.

CONFESSION

     Mention the word confession and people think you're referring to a crime. Catholics, however, instinctively picture a dark booth shrouded in mystery, the place to reveal your deepest, darkest deeds.
    
     I attended a church mission this week led by Ron Hoye CM, Parish Mission Presenter and Adjunct Faculty, DePaul University, a gifted speaker whose FRIENDSHIP IN JESUS series kept the attendees riveted to their seats in our huge cathedral-like church. Unlike the typical Sunday homily, he skillfully related  Biblical parables to everyday life, weaving hilarious true stories from his priesthood into a tapestry of lessons we could actually perceive doing to improve our lives.
    
     His first lesson related stories about how Catholics, particularly those who were instructed by nuns, learned the ritual steps of the confession model. 
     
       Since I  knew the topic beforehand, I was whisked back to the 1950's when I first trained to participate in the sacrament of Penance. My stomach churned as I recalled the name of the nun who tortured, I mean, taught our penance class composed of seven year olds, mostly second graders. Sister Mary Anastasia --who looked like a man.
    
     Very tall, sporting dark facial hair above her lip, and coal black eyes, she intimidated us just walking into the classroom How could we know she was really a woman? Her entire body was covered head to toe with a black habit which draped to the floor, a white coif, a black veil and a belt around her thick waist. A scapula hung around her neck, and a rosary hung from her belt. Her thick black shoes looked military issue. 
     
    She scared the heck out of me. I witnessed her rapping a student on the fingertips because he chewed jawbreakers in CCD [catechism] class. Dumb kid. How can you hide a jawbreaker in your mouth?
    
     She almost beat a kid to death with her huge black rosary. I want to think that was a frequent nightmare of mine, but I remember it like it was yesterday.She said he was having impure thoughts. She was a mindreader?? That thought kept every kid in the class reciting the Act of Contrition over and over and over again. The boy sitting next to me wet his pants every time Sister walked close to his desk. I told Mom, and her reply was, "He probably deserved it." No sympathy there.
    
     Anyway, Sister Mary Anastasia, determined to give all the chance to wipe clean our  sinful souls, marched us into our huge Catholic church next door. Leaving the comfort of the church pews, we formed two lines, one boys and one girls. Our palms pressed together and heads bowed, we practiced marching toward the altar and kneeling at the railing to receive a future blessing from the Bishop before he placed the sanctified host on our tongues. One boy kept getting out of step. Sister Mary Anastasia yanked him out of line and practiced a German kick step with him until he got it.
    
     Satisfied that we could master the Eucharist part, she lined us up, again separated by gender, to practice penance/confession. We marched to the back of the church and lined up near the confessional. She insisted we practice the formulaic entrance prayer in unison.


     "Bless me, Father, this is my first confession, and these are my sins."


     We were then to enter the dark confessional that smelled like moth balls, pull back the crushed red velvet drapes to ensure privacy, and listen for the priest to slide open the long, squeaky door. A heavy screen separated us from the priest, who appeared as a shadowy, scary figure hunched in prayer.
    
      "Bless me Father, this is my first confession, and these are my sins." [How many sins, both venial [minor] and mortal [deadly and go straight to hell] does a seven year old have etched on his soul? Missing morning prayers? Hitting a sibling?]
    
     My good friend, whose name I shall not reveal in the case that sister Mary Anastasia is now the Inquisitor, and I decided to look through the Bible to come up with some sins to confess since we faced a weekly stint in that confessional. It took me forever to copy that list. Looking at my prepared list of random sins from the Commandments, I confessed: lying, adultery, murder, coveting my neighbor's wife, and a few minor sins.
    
     The priest answered, "Say your Act of Contrition," which I did, and he absolved me of my sins, and my penance was two Our Fathers and three Hail Marys. I thought that he must have had horrible sinners confess before I showed up.
    
     How to get the list from my hand to my friend without Sister Mary Anastasia seeing me? I wadded the list up and slipped it to my friend as she stood in line.She grabbed it, went in, and confessed.
    
     The next week, we held on to our lists, but decided that one of us should read it from the bottom up so the priest wouldn't catch on. He kept absolving us from those deadly sins. Wasn't he listening??Anyway, thank God, Sister Mary Anastasia couldn't go into the confessional with us, or we would have been done.
    
     My mother marched my six siblings and me to confession every Saturday the entire time I was living at home. As I grew older, I no longer needed a written list. I had managed to live life fully and became a dutiful confessor with little need to fabricate sins.


     St. Augustine describes sin as a "caving in," similar to being in a dark cave, alone, hungry, cold.
    
     Father Ron used the Biblical parable that Jesus tells of the Prodigal Son to make a point about the wonder of God's forgiveness.The following is paraphrased from his talk.
    
     The Prodigal Son's father misses him terribly and prays for the safe return of his son who has abandoned the family. When his son does return, the thankful father throws his arms around his son, smothers him with love, so grateful that he has returned home. The son tries to explain his actions, but his father does not want to hear; he wants to celebrate, to kill the fatted calf.
     
    It's difficult to imagine a parent today reacting that way when a son who has abandoned and embarrassed the family returns home. Likely a father would say,"Were were you? Do you have any idea how worried we were? Do you know how much you hurt your mother?!! You are so grounded, and no texting for a month!!!"


   But the father of the Prodigal Son demonstrates radical forgiveness.


   Sin is not about what you did wrong. It's a turning from love. Simply asking God for help gets you out of the darkness--out of the cave. It doesn't matter what you did. It's the desire to be back.
    
     The very beginning and the very end of Jesus' ministry were about reconciliation.  In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus came out of the River Jordan to begin his ministry. He said, "Repent and hear the good news. Your sins are forgiven. Live a new life."  Hanging on the cross, tortured, Jesus said, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."
      
    Forgiveness is a key part of what it means to be a child of God. It's not what you did wrong; it's what you want to do better, how you want to change your life. The sacrament of penance is not about judgment or finger pointing; it's about changing and moving on.
      
     So, I did enjoy listening to Father Ron. He seemed to drive home a valid point about accepting our weaknesses, being penitent, forgiving ourselves, and becoming better persons. No more sackcloth and ashes.







    






   

"Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass. It's about learning to dance in the rain."

AMD

"Well has it been said that there is no grief like the grief which does not speak."

--------------Henry Wadsworth Longfellow    

     My eighty-five year old mother, AMD, no longer speaks. Her physical health is good, but a deep, lingering sadness shows deep in her eyes. No longer excited by dressing elegantly or applying makeup, she wears comfortable lounging clothes during the day.

     Two years have passed since my dad's death, and one year since her second child's death. This once vibrant, energetic, feisty matriarch of our family lacks even the will to speak. She sits or naps all day. No elixir exists that can bring her back to us, except, perhaps, time.

     Last week I spent seven days trying to cheer her up. We spent time sitting on the swing in her back yard, snacking on confections I created, and gazing at the beautiful sky on a perfect fall day. She listened as I recounted my most recent adventures back home in Atlanta and seemed to anticipate the arrival of my grandchildren and daughter-in-law later in the week. She observed as I prepared meals she likes but missing were the usual comments we shared at the kitchen table.

     Saturday she spent most of the afternoon outdoors observing her extended family- children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren and their cousins and friends enjoying a Halloween party in her back yard. She seemed to enjoy tasting the many appetizers offered, but sat quietly as the young children laughed, played, and cried.

     AMD has excellent caretakers who cater to her and make certain she's comfortable twenty four hours every day. Doctors appointments and a weekly visit to the hair stylist are the only ventures outside of her home that she allows. Nothing seems to interest her. Listlessness and frailty are consuming her because she does not have the energy to move. Moving would certainly keep her muscles from atrophying.

     AMD's favorite hobbies were writing and photography. Her formidable picture albums provide years of historical images of Loreauville. Stashed in drawers and closets are hundreds of journals she wrote during her lifetime. My favorite reminders of her artistic ability are free hand pencil illustrations of a womans profile. In her twenties she wrote a society column for The Daily Iberian.

     Like a candle slowly flickering, my mother waits. I pray every day that her strong will breaks through the depression and brings her back to us so my grandchildren who see her a few times a year can remember her as the amazing person she used to be.

LOREAUVILLE CEMETERY ALL SAINTS DAY 2010

      Family ties in south Louisiana are celebrated by paying homage to deceased family members interred in above ground tombs in local church parish cemeteries on All Saints Day, November 1.

     In Louisiana culture, family bonds are strong, and All Saints' Day reinforces that element by stressing the ties to deceased members of the family group and the community.

     The wonderful custom of sprucing up and festooning tombs and graves with flowers, usually chrysanthemums, the November birth flower, creates a beautiful visual representation of honoring the dead and speaks to posterity about the importance of praying for the deceased. In some Catholic parishes, tombs and grave markers are decorated with lighted candles.

     The week before All Saints is a time of intense preparation. Undergrowth, weeds, and any cemetery trash are cleaned up, and tombs and graves, most of which have copings or slabs or in some other way conform to the South Louisiana style of raised grave structures, are painted or washed.

     Sometimes the congregation, led by the priest, walks in procession to the cemetery. There they pray for all the holy souls in front of the cemetery, the priest recites the liturgical prayers for the dead and blesses the graves with holy water. Afterward the families separate to offer private prayers at the graves of their loved ones.

     Rows and rows of decorated tombs and graves surrounding the huge crucifix centrally located in the Loreauville cemetery speak to the devotion of this community to maintain strong ties to deceased family and friends.

      On the afternoon of All Saints Day or in the morning of All Souls, the faithful visit each individual grave of relatives and friends. Sometimes the congregation, led by the priest, walks in procession to the cemetery. There they pray for all the holy souls in front of the cemetery, the priest recites the liturgical prayers for the dead and blesses the graves with holy water. Afterward the families separate to offer private prayers at the graves of their loved ones.

      Lower Louisiana is famous for its "Cities of the Dead," the cemeteries of above-ground tombs and wall crypts, or "ovens." Because so much of the area is below sea level, coffins did not readily stay in the ground but rather floated to the top. It only took a heavy rain to raise the dead. To address the problem authorities at times prohibited interment in the ground. Thus, most south Louisianians were, and still are, buried above the earth's surface.
    
     My sister Willette and I spent an afternoon bleaching family tombs and cleaning debris surrounding family plots.

     I took a nostalgic tour, walking down every row of the cemetery, noting familar names of friends and acquaintances. The bird is on the wing, as poets say, as the past seems to have flown by.

     Standing and praying at a cement memorial housing the remains of a loved one seems to ease the separation of physical and enhance the spiritual sense that our loved ones are still connected to us.

DENNIS ROMERO 1946-2010

During my very special visit to Loreauville last week, our family friend and a Loreauville icon, DENNIS ROMERO, died suddenly and unexpectedly from complications of surgery. My four sisters and I attended the wake at a New Iberia funeral home. I did not recognize many people in the packed viewing room, but the grief was palpable. My last image of Mr. Romero was at the last minutes of my dad’s life. Dennis and his beautiful wife, Linda, visibly shaken by the realization of this last visit, grieved and prayed with our family.

Tiger Inn faces Main Street and is located on Nadine Drive, just one block from my parents home. Eight of my family members live in that same block.

I met Dennis Romero at Tiger Inn, a local fast food establishment and favorite Loreauville teen hangout in the late 70’s when he worked there as an employee of Wilbur Leblanc, of this name I am uncertain. Wilbur’s wife now either works or runs the Seafood connection Restaurant in New Iberia that my parents, Homer and Anna Mae were so fond of.  Since I left Loreauville in 1968, on visits home, my second stop was to visit Tiger Inn to order chili hot dogs, scrumptious onion rings and fries for my family.

When Wilbur began to manage Tiger Inn, his wife was expecting twin boys, both of whom are now grown and married with their own families.  My brother Tommy’s earliest memories of Tiger Inn are babysitting the twin boys and being compensated with a hot dog and coke at 8PM, the closing time for Tiger Inn in those days.

      Wilbur ran into financial troubles in the mid 1980's and as part of the settlement, deeded Tiger Inn to my dad, Homer, in lieu of lease payments.  I lost track of the legalities after that.  I recall being shocked in the 1980's that Dad had given Wilbur a 15 year lease on the property for something like $150 month. I assume that Dennis became the owner at some point.

      Dennis and Tommy used to chat briefly when Tommy visited Loreauville.  At first, whenever Tommy visited, Dennis refused to let him pay for anything.  After a few visits, Tommy felt intimidated, because part of the Tiger Inn experience was being able to order anything he wanted and pay for food with his own money. Dennis understood. And promptly refused to let Tommy pay for any future orders.  God love him.

      So, Tommy gave up and just ordered a Hot Dog, fries, and a Coke each time he visited, because all he really wanted was the Hot Dog and the conversation. 

     Tommy says, “Thinking about Tiger Inn reminds me of those crisp cool Fall Football days when I would walk back from a LSH football game and stop for a hot dog at Tiger Inn.  If there is a memory in my head that defines fall, it is those days in Loreauville in fall when everyone walked to the High School for the football game.  I also thought about mentioning to Dennis that the Tiger Inn sign at the street was missing but decided against saying anything, since by that time, it was a moot issue.  You either knew about Tiger Inn or you didn’t. The last visit I made to Tiger Inn was for dad's funeral.  Dennis and I both started to cry at the same time when we saw each other, and it was pointless to try and say anything to assuage the grief.  He told me 'I am so sorry' and I said 'I am too' and that was pretty much all we were capable of saying.  I shook his hand, thanked him for the food and left.”

     My sister Laurene remembers residing with Mom and Dad in Loreauville as she recuperated from her bout with Guillain–Barré syndrome  during her pregnancy with her Natalie. For two months, nurses wheeled her down the sidewalk to the Tiger Inn and back as she tried to regain use of her legs. Dennis would stick his head out of the window at Tiger Inn and yell, “GET OUTTA THAT THING AND WALK!”  She also recalls that he reported dangers noted on children, grandchildren, and siblings for over thirty years.  

    Wanda, my third sister, recalls that Dennis Laviolette managed leased Tiger Inn and sold alcohol there until neighbors’ complaints halted the alcohol sales. Wanda lives behind Tiger Inn which was a stopping point and hang out for her two boys, Beau and Taylor as they rode bikes all over Loreauville. Beau, career Army, lives in Okinawa with his family, and Taylor is an employee at Cox Enterprises in New Iberia.

    Jacquie Dastugue, my niece, was heartbroken at Dennis death. She and her mother live next door to my parents. Jacquie practically lived at Tiger Inn. Dennis and Linda babysat her when she was ten to twelve years old whenever Mom and Dad traveled on Senior citizen trips. She and Taylor played in the game room for hours each day and got free snack food from the Romeros. AMD set up a charge account for Jacquie’s meals, the only charge account in Loreauville at Tiger Inn. Jacquie insisted on eating shrimp po-boys every day for dinner and supper. AMD paid the food fees every week until Jacquie reached 18. Jacquie closed her charge account in 2003 when her daughter Kandis was born.

 Jacquie insisted on eating shrimp po-boys every day for dinner and supper. AMD paid the food fees every week until Jacquie reached 18. Jacquie closed her charge account in 2003 when her daughter Kandis was born.

I am certain that Dennis death brought back the tremendous grief Jacquie felt at the death of her grandfather, my dad.

Word is that Tiger Inn will remain open for the time being. I hope it does not go the way of Aunt Tees, Massos, and T Lees.

Glenn Oubre's Tribute to LHS 1960 District Championship Football Team

     My friend and former neighbor in Loreauville, Glenn Oubre, an extremely talented musician and vocalist, wrote this address to present during halftime at the LHS Football 50 year Reunion during the Friday night game in Loreauville on October 16, 2010.

     Unfortunately, during his half time presentation, as the 1960 District Championship team stood on the football field, the microphone died. I am publishing his words on my blog so former classmates and other Loreauvillians can read his impressive tribute.

FOOTBALL REUNION

Loreauville High School

1960-2010

Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Glenn Oubre, and I have been asked by Mr. Joe Judice, who organized this reunion, to help make a presentation this evening.

Some of you may have seen the newspaper article in the Daily Iberian about the team we are honoring tonight.  On the field you will see many young men who came back to Loreauville tonight from all over the area, and some from out of state, to take part in this reunion. 

I would like for you to go back 50 years to the year of 1960. Some of you may remember what Loreauville was like then.

There were businesses like Crip Oubre’s Grocery, Masso Restaurant, Tee Lee’s place, Granger’s Dept store, Aunt Te’s restaurant where the kids hung out after school.

Loreauville even had a hospital then. It was the time of the year like tonight, fall; you could see the smoke coming from Vida Sugar Mill refining our sugar cane. 

The village was quiet and laid back as it is today, but there was something exciting and amazing going on this football field in the fall of 1960.

These young men you see lined up on the football field accomplished something that had never been done before in Loreauville.  These young Loreauville football Tiger players were undefeated and finished 11-0 winning the 7B district title and went on the playoffs.

They were pioneers. It was a first. They didn’t have the size or the speed that you see on the field tonight, but they had heart, and they played as a team.

They were coached by the late Jay Broussard and Benny Lissard. These two dedicated men  did a wonderful job of molding these young boys into winners. 

Of course many years later, Coach Kirk Crochet was able to put Loreauville on the map again by winning 12  championships and carrying on this great tradition. He is in the Hall of Fame today, but I believe the ground work, which I’m sure Kirk would agree, all started with these young men on the field tonight and the coaching of Jay Broussard.

We are also thankful that we have Coach Delahoussaye who is keeping the tradition going and will bring home more championships for LHS.

    

I am going to call the names of the men who are on the field. Please hold your applause until I called out all their names.

    

Also, this all came about through the hard work of Joe Judice, Number 12, who not only planned and coordinated this event but wrote a synopsis of each game played that amazing season to present to the other players. Please give him a round of applause.

Since I am a vocalist, Joe asked me to sing a song that would have some meaning tonight. I selected the song STAND BY ME which was one of the top songs in 1960. I believe these young men can relate to that song because it talks about depending on one another as they had to do back then.       

STAND BY ME

When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we'll see
No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand, stand by me

And darlin', darlin', stand by me, oh now now stand by me
Stand by me, stand by me

If the sky that we look upon
Should tumble and fall
And the mountains should crumble to the sea
I won't cry, I won't cry, no I won't shed a tear
Just as long as you stand, stand by me

And darlin', darlin', stand by me, oh stand by me
Stand by me, stand by me, stand by me-e, yeah

Whenever you're in trouble won't you stand by me, oh now now stand by me
Oh stand by me, stand by me, stand by me

Darlin', darlin', stand by me-e, stand by me
Oh stand by me, stand by me, stand by me.

-------Ben E. King

FOOTBALL LHS GOLDEN ANNIVERSARY OF 1960 TEAM

Last Wednesday night as I read THE DAILY IBERIAN online, I noticed an article about a Loreauville High School football reunion, the Golden Anniversary for the first district championship team coached by legendary L.J. “Jay” Broussard. Pictured were the players on the 1960 team. As I scanned the picture of the 28 players, my heart skipped a beat.  There, in front of my eyes, were three of my former boyfriends and other players who were my almost boyfriends.

I ran upstairs to tell Larry who was racing on his treadmill. I screamed, “You’re not gonna believe this! The Friday night football game in Loreauville is a reunion for the 1960 team. I want to go!”

He nodded his head “ok,” so I checked plane fares. The least expensive flight was $700 round trip. I could fly to China with that fare. As I contemplated driving, Larry came downstairs to book the flight. He insisted that I fly because he knew how important this was to me. I convinced him that I would leave early the next morning, drive slowly, and check in every two hours. After all, I had driven the 600 mile trip alone many times before.

I arrived in Loreauville Thursday evening, hugged AMD forever and told her about the weekend. I was looking forward to the game, and told her I intended to crash Ronnie Dressel’s after game reunion party that I found out about through the Loreauville grapevine.

Friday night, Wanda and I arrived at the stadium at 6:00 p.m. for the 7:00 kickoff. I insisted we sit four rows down under the Pressbox in the center of the seating area. What a perfect 50 yard line view of the field!

Anticipating Laurene’s arrival, I placed my black fringed leather handbag on the seat next to me. I watched as excited fans walked into the stadium. As they filtered in, I was a bit taken by some guests who seemed to crowd us. I kept asking Wanda to move down, and soon we were no longer centered at the 50 yard line. Miffed, I told Wanda that these people were just rude!

Looking at my watch, it was now 7:30 and holding on to a seat for Laurene was getting difficult as the mass of people crowded the stadium.  My cell phone rang. Laurene told me she was in her car parked in the front of LHS and that she was finishing her fourth beer so she could have a buzz at the game. I told her that if she didn’t get there in the next five minutes, I would relinquish her seat to those pushy people crowding me.

Did I mention you that on the next day after the game on Saturday, Willette, my sister, told me that we were sitting in seats belonging to SEASON TICKET HOLDERS? I was mortified! Why didn’t anyone tell us? Why didn’t a security person walk over and ask us to move? I thought, because we’re in Loreauville, and people are nice. If this game had been in Atlanta, we would have been loudly reprimanded and embarrassed.

During the game I was taken back in time. The crisp fall air, the band marching onto the field, the announcer in the Press box welcoming the crowd, the coaches, the players with their little tight butts doing pre-game warm-ups! I was getting flushed.

During halftime, the honored players filed onto the field. Forming a horizontal, single-file line, they waited for the announcer to begin. As Glenn Oubre spoke, he said that he was going to read a prepared statement about those glory years. Then the mike blew a gasket. So instead, he sang STAND BY ME, acapella. As the players filed off the field, the mike came on. Glenn recited the names of each player, but they had already left the field. I was ticked. I wanted so much to see something in a program delineating this team’s magical football season or hear an acclamation of their hard work.

Wanda and Laurene left after the half. Sitting alone, I heard someone yelling, “Patricia! Patricia!” It was Beth Walet Boggs, married to Larry’s nephew Paul Boggs. I moved up to sit near her and her two sisters. We laughed as we reminisced about LHS and Loreauville.

The game ended with these stats: Nick Julien rushed for 238 yards and two touchdowns as Loreauville blew past Opelousas Catholic 35-14 in this District 6-2A game.

Jeanne Dugas, my cousin, gave me directions to Mick’s home. I drove across the bridge, turned left at Breaux Baycraft, drove down a very dark road past Cajun Drive to Mick’s well-lit property. I parked among the thirty or so cars and walked into a huge, beautiful entertainment room large enough to accommodate a huge party crowd. Glass walls formed the entire back and side walls of the room and which overlooked a serene setting graced by fountains.

I talked to Roberta and Julie Martin and glanced around the room to see if I recognized anyone else. I spoke with Darlene and Fefe, Hardy Broussard, my classmate Cheryl’s big brother, Kenneth Adcock, then Lynward Oubre introduced me to his beautiful wife, Lynette. She invited me to sit next to her on the couch. She asked Lynward to stand behind us so he could identify people for us.

Fifty years had passed, and I wasn’t certain how many of these people I could remember. Lynward jokingly told me I would have to fend for myself. No one wore name tags. I left Loreauville in 1964 to go to college then moved to Texas and Georgia, so I had not been in touch with anyone there all those years. Life got in the way.

I knew Lynward and Lynette lived in La Triomphe, and I assumed she was not a native of Louisiana. When she said she was from Catahoula, we commiserated about how we felt like outsiders at that moment because everyone else seemed to share so many commonalities foreign to us.

Then Mick announced that Joe Judice, my favorite boyfriend in high school, would speak. Joe thanked several people who loaned him scrapbooks with clippings of every game during that amazing football season in 1960. He had taken the time to glean information about each game and invited the players to chime in as he traveled back in time helping them to resurrect specific memories.

He and the other players remembered so much about each game that I was really moved. Jackbean’s stories about being trampled and slaughtered by bigger players at every game he played, Craig Dauterieve, quarterback, recalling the Gueydon game when the players called out plays in French, Joe’s memory of a game they played in 18 degree weather, Butsy’s funny stories about the players throwing up or fainting at practice or being scared s----less of Coach Broussard had us all in stitches.  I so wished I had had a video camera.

After Joe finished his amazing trip down memory lane, I noticed that Butsy, halfback, seemed overwhelmed emotionally.

I decided it was time to visit again. I found Ronnie Broussard. I reminded him how he used to blow in my ear when we danced together. We laughed.

Terry Edler and I dated a few times. He reminded me that when we were both thirteen, I had hauled him behind Pop Wick’s General Merchandise store and laid a smacker on him that made him dizzy. I feel certain he imagined that memory. After all, I was President of the Children of Mary.

I talked to Mutchie for a long time. I asked him if he remembered dating Janie Suard, who was one of my close friends. I visited Janie often at her family’s home in Marsh Field. We played records from her amazing collection, Bobby Blue Bland, Aretha, Otis Redding, Mary Wells, and so on and talked about teenaged stuff.

I reminded Lynward that he escorted me when I was presented for some LHS function in the gym. I have the picture of that event, but I don’t remember the occasion.

And then, Jackbean. He was standing alone near a window. I walked over to him and kissed him on the top of his head. Shocked, he blurted, “Mais sha, I don know who you are, but I wanna know.”  Same Jackbean. Hysterical every time he opens his mouth.

I reminded him that he used to jitterbug with me every time our crowd went to Ebou’s to warm up as a precursor to our plan to go to the Oriental or Slick’s. I told him that he was undoubtedly the best dancer in Loreauville. When he danced a slow dance, he would take quick steps, then out of the blue, stop abruptly, look you in the eye, and assess your ability to follow his moves. Such a challenge!

I told Jackbean that I was angry with him all these years because I actually kept score of the  times he asked another particular girl to dance, and if he danced with her more often than he danced with me, I would go home and stick needles in my Jackbean voodoo doll and put a gris gris on him. Such a sweet guy. We had so much fun.

I was really disappointed that my cousin Curtis Dugas did not attend. Curtis dated my best friend Claudette and, I think, Linda Lissard. I’ve lost track of him. Donnie Ashurst was also missing. Donnie was my mentor in band. We both played flute and piccolo from 6^th to 12^th grade. He was like a brother to me, coaching and encouraging me in the many school activities I participated in.

I have lived in three states, taught in ten high schools in Louisiana, Texas, and Georgia, and never have I witnessed in schools I taught the amazing bond and camaraderie developed among these men. Schools where I taught had populations as large as 3,000 students. It is not uncommon to have a graduating class of 800 seniors. Only the very best players are selected for teams.

I feel tremendously fortunate to have lived in Loreauville and to have had the experience of small town life. The lessons I learned were very important in giving me the opportunities to live the good life, as Plato says.

 Coach Broussard did have the Vince Lombardi coaching repertoire, and he saw great potential in these boys’ work ethic, positive attitude, determination, leadership, and respect for each other. I admire them and the lessons they could teach upcoming players about how team building can affect life outside of the realm of the school and the football field.

The current LHS coach, Delahoussaye the Younger, should use the wisdom the 1960 team gained as players to teach the current team how the values they learned translated into real life. After all, they are successful businessmen, leaders in their communities, and will forever be remembered as the first LHS football team to bring home a district championship.

The Boys of Fall       

When I feel that chill, smell that fresh cut grass
I'm back in my helmet, cleats and shoulder pads
Standing in the huddle listening to the call
Fans going crazy for the boys of fall
They didn't let just anybody in that club
Took every ounce of heart and sweat and blood
To get to wear those game day jerseys down the hall
Kings of the school man, we're the boys of fall


Well it's turn and face the Stars and Stripes
It's fighting back them butterflies
It's call it in the air, alright yes sir we want the ball
And it's knocking heads and talking trash
It's slinging mud and dirt and grass
It's I got your number, I got your back when your back's against the wall
You mess with one man you got us all
The boys of fall

In little towns like mine that's all they got
Newspaper clippings fill the coffee shops
The old men will always think they know it all
Young girls will dream about the boys of fall

Well it's turn and face the Stars and Stripes
It's fighting back them butterflies
It's call it in the air, alright yes sir we want the ball
And it's knocking heads and talking trash
It's slinging mud and dirt and grass
It's I got your number, I got your back when your back's against the wall
You mess with one man you got us all

Well it's turn and face the Stars and Stripes
It's fighting back them butterflies
It's call it in the air, alright yes sir we want the ball
And it's knocking heads and talking trash
It's slinging mud and dirt and grass
It's I got your number, I got your back when your back's against the wall
You mess with one man you got us all
The boys of fall

We're the boys of fall

We're the boys of fall

 -----Kenny Chesney