HOMETOWN VISIT-- SW Louisiana September 2010

I just returned from a week-long visit to Loreauville to celebrate my 86 year old mother’s birthday. The eight hour drive from Atlanta on Sunday provided some contemplative time so I could bolster my spirit to assess the upcoming family drama common in large families.

Arriving late Sunday evening, I walked through the carport, stopped to pet some feral cats, and opened the unlocked back door. AMD [Anna May Vaughn], my mother, regal as all get-out, sat all bundled up in her recliner in the living room. We hugged and kissed and the scent of Toujour Mois enveloped me. She listened and spoke little as I updated her on my Atlanta family. When I stopped talking, she commented, “Pat, you’re a vision.” We so seldom see each other that I thought later about the powerful meaning tied up in her comment.  I suggested we retire and continue our visit in the morning, so her Sunday caretaker assisted her to her bedroom. I kissed her good night and was struck by her frail, spent appearance.

Monday morning I rose early to walk three miles. One step outdoors, and I was hit by a wave of heat and humidity. An acquaintance of mine who flies helicopters in Africa claims that Africa is cooler than Louisiana. Walking on the gravel driveway to Main Street, I turned right and down the sidewalk the full mile to the Rural Clinic manned by Dr. Romero. Nothing much has changed, but everything has changed.

TMae’s home is still there, but Picasso’s son must live there now. His front yard abounds with abstract art. HOWs [Houses on Wheels] sit on our family property at the site of my grandfather’s general merchandise store.  A female resident dressed in a bra and briefs unabashedly mowed her front yard as I walked by. Dr. Finley’s home has new occupants. My good friend Nancy Finley lived there,  Tan’s barber shop is gone, but LHS is still there and looks amazing. Garfish and snow cones are for sale at the old post Office.  A body shop is housed in Gam’s Garage.  Tootie’s Beauty Shop has disappeared, and Miller’s market sits at the site Granger’s Store.

That morning I managed to find my way near Lydia to pick up AMD’s best friend at her home. I drove around before I got to her house and was amazed at the huge, beautiful cane fields! She described planting and harvesting of the cane as we drove back to Loreauville. AMD moves little, but her mind is on target. Her friend has dementia but still cleans her own home and tends to her plants. We enjoyed a nice lunch. I was disappointed that AMD seemed nostalgic and sad as I left to drive her friend home. Aging is horrific.

 Tuesday, my sister Wanda and I drove to New Iberia to shop and drive around, bought diet cokes at Sonic, then spent the rest of the day visiting with AMD.

On Wednesday, Wanda and I drove on HWY 90 to pick up my daughter Alicia at the New Orleans airport. Her flight from Atlanta was early. We hustled to the vendors near the French Market, a smidgen of the market pre-Katrina. We ate crawfish etouffee, fried oysters, and bread pudding at Mother’s, then hopped into an air conditioned van for the three hour KATRINA REBIRTH tour.

The driver, a Katrina survivor, drove us to the Convention Center, the Superdome, the 17^th Street Canal, Lake Ponchartrain, New Orleans East Vietnamese Community, the Lower Ninth Ward Industrial Canal, Fats Domino’s pink house, Brad Pitts’ Global Green Home and Make-It-Right houses, the Musician’s Village, the Steamboat-like houses, and the Marigny Neighborhood. When our tour ended, she asked if we were in a hurry. Since we were not, she added a few other stops. We saw the cute, colorful New Orleans style row houses funded by the Barnes and Noble Foundation, the NASA project, St. Bernard community, bought sweets at a Vietnamese bakery, and saw Six Flags’ abandoned theme park.

Our last stop was to the stunning Katrina Memorial developed by Coroner Frank Minion. Six marble mausoleums hold the remains of some of the unidentified dead. The labyrinth design stands atop the ground that was formerly the Charity Hospital Cemetery. The reflective granite walls inspire a meditative feeling.

Thursday I grocery shopped and cooked 100 confetti meatballs and my special Italian sauce for AMD’s birthday dinner. I topped the pineapple chocolate birthday cake I baked with AMD letters cut out of cake. That stupid decoration looked like a kindergarten project, so I told her the grandchildren designed it. For lunch we ordered hot dogs and chili on French buns, onion rings and fries from the Tiger Inn, just down the street. Twenty family members attended AMD’s dinner birthday celebration, and we had only two loud exchanges and skirmishes the entire night. Thank God for her hearing loss.

Friday morning Alicia and I walked another three miles. We followed the sidewalk leading to the new Post Office. The sidewalk ends abruptly in a cane field, so Alicia, my city-bred daughter, suggested we trek through the cane field. I refused. I walked on the headland. I had to explain that the headland was very important for farming vehicles and as a parking place for teens, so I hear. She asked why they wanted to park cars there. Oh, my.

We walked along the defunct railroad track and down Lake Dauterieve Road. I told her about my childhood best friend and next door neighbor, Dankie, who was like a brother to me. After Dankie and I fed worms to garter snakes, we sicced crawfish on them. Then we played marbles and placed nickels and pennies on the railroad track so the train could flatten them.

Later in the morning, we visited my ninety year old mother-in-law in St. Martinville, ten miles away. So cute but very short, she’s shrinking by the minute! For lunch we ate fried shrimp and oyster poboys from Richie’s Drive In. Alicia toured my sister-in-law’s goat cheese factory, bird habitat, Shetland pony farm, and played with hairless cats.

Back to Loreauville so my 34 year old corporate executive daughter could ride bikes with her nieces and nephews. Friday night we ate boiled crabs at Jane’s Seafood in New Iberia. I got lost driving back to Loreauville, and my Garmin thinks Loreauville is a distant planet, so I had to stop at a Food and Fun to ask directions. I was embarrassed because the Food and Fun is located on the Loreauville Road.

Saturday my sister Willette, her daughter Nadine, Alicia and I shopped at Tinsels and Treasures at the Cajun Dome in Lafayette. I bought a pricey matching copper ring and artsy cuff bracelet made in Croatia. My sister Laurene told me that some blacksmith in Portage, a fishing community located on the levee,  probably pounded out that copper jewelry for people like me. When she saw my Chanel toenails, she asked why I had the initials of Chantel Chatagnier from Catahoula painted on my big toes. She’s a riot, isn’t she.

Saturday afternoon we sat on swings in the backyard. My cousin Mark Vaughn arrived with his grandsons, adorable fourteen month old twins. Saturday night Laurene made meat pies with all sorts of Cajun concoctions for the huge group of family members.

Sunday I dressed and drove to the Loreauvile cemetery at 6:00 a.m. for a special visit to Dad and Cindy’s tombs. I watched the sun rise. The air was cool, birds sang, and I marveled at the beautiful Louisiana tradition of interring the dead above ground. I attended early mass, prayed for strength, told AMD goodbye, and Alicia and I left for Atlanta.  

MAGNALITE COOKWARE

My brother Tommy, the last of seven children, and the only male child, was born when I was a junior in high school. He and I are the only siblings who moved  far away from Loreauville because of careers. He now lives in Baltimore in a beautful home with his wife, a native of France. I know the name of the company Tommy works for, and I know he had an extremely high security clearance. I suspect he is really CIA because he gives me inordinately detailed answers when I inquire about his work. He spends a lot of time at meetings in DC and in other countries.

A voracious reader and researcher, Tommy has encyclopedic knowlege about many subjects. I love Magnalite cookware, and over the years noticed that Tommy was amassing an amazing collection. I purchase Magnalite on EBay; Magnalite is no longer in existence as a company. Cheaper knockoffs are sold at Walmart, and the difference in quality is notable.

I began collecting Magnalite cookware a few years ago, to accompany the set I received as a wedding gift forty-two years ago. I got into bidding wars with cooks employed in the oil industry and quickly learned the value and expense of the most sought after pots. With Tommy's guidance, I outbid someone for a small Magnalite pot used for making sauces. That was my most expensive purchase.

Here is Tommy's recent Paul Harvey commentary to me about Magnalite----
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Did anyone ever tell you why Magnalite pots were so popular and how they got their reputation?


Before World War Two, almost all cookware was cast iron.  And heavy.  Very heavy.  Aluminum was an exotic rare metal that could only be justified for lightweight applications like aircraft.


Along came World War Two.  We (the USA) discovered a huge bauxite reserve in the Guinea when we decided we needed a ton of raw material for World War II.  Bauxite is the ore aluminum is extracted from.


Also, because of engine development for heavy bombers, the USA also invested heavily in Magnesium ore and production.  Many airplanes were made with aluminum frames/wings/structures and many engines had magnesium parts because they weighed so much less than an equivalent steel part.  Magnesium is about 1/2 the weight of steel.

And Aluminum and Magnesium can easily be alloyed together.


So after World War Two, there were huge surpluses in the metals markets in aluminum and magnesium.  The metals markets almost collapsed in 1946-1950.  For that period, the price of aluminum and magnesium, dropped below that of cast iron.


And Wagner Ware, in Sydney Ohio, who had been making cast iron cookware since the 1800's saw an opportunity.  Why not make pots and pans out of this new cheaper lighter metal?


And so they called it "Magnalite", because they alloy they used was made with Magnesium + Aluminum.  Which was mostly recycled bombers and engines from World War II.


The metal surplus lasted until the mid 50's, but when the price of those lighter metals began to rise again, the American homemaker had become addicted to their new lighter prettier cookware and sales took off.  Cast Iron cookware slowly disappeared to be replaced by lightweight aluminum alloys like Magnalite.  Which lasted until Dupont came out with Teflon non stick coating (1963), and any cheap metal could be used for the foundation of the pot, and then teflon coated applied very inexpensively.


Which is what killed Wagner Ware.  By the early 1970's they were in bankruptcy as consumer tastes switched over to lighter cookware with non stick surfaces.

And now you know the rest of the story.

Une Boîte Très Grande [A Very Big Box]

Several years ago, my husband Larry developed an interest in woodworking. He took classes, spent $$$$ on tools and machines and set up a state of the art woodworking center in our huge basement. I was thinking about purchasing a wooden box to store my patio cushions, but he offered to build a box for me.

He worked for months in the winter, often late at night. Our two cats meowed and howled when they heard the ruckus of machines down there. I checked on his progress periodically and witnessed the detail in his woodworking. The box seemed rather large. I mentioned that it was supposed to fit UNDER the three windows on our backyard deck. He built the box then covered the top with beautifully crafted strips of wood. Fancy box.

Weeks later, the box was finished. I asked if it would fit through the basement door. His eyes grew wide. He waited for good weather to move it outside, but he needed help. So when his St. Martinville buddies, Larry D, Murray, F, Roy P, and Nicky M visited with their wives in the spring, these four Cajuns, after a breakfast of OJ and vodka took measurements of the door, helped to dismantle the box and conversed about the best way to carry this monstrosity into the back yard.

Three of my favorite flowering trees alongside the house proved to be an obstacle to their progress. So they cut them down. They struggled but managed to move the behemoth to the back yard NEAR the patio/deck and plopped it down, at a slant.

I returned from shopping and looked at box, then at the butchered trees, then at Larry and his friends. They scattered, and Larry mentioned that they were late for golf. I said, "Later."

As spring rains fell, the box began to warp. I dropped a question into a conversation we were having about politics, "Did you happen to use waterproof wood for THE BOX?"  No answer.

As months went by, rats got into the box and chewed on my expensive chair cushions. Then a green tarp secured by stretchy, tacky ropes, appeared one day on top of the box.

His buddies inquire about the box occasionally when we see them. Murray says that thought he saw it floating down the Bayou Teche during the Christmas bayou parade.

Does anyone else sense a Boudreaux-Thibodeaux joke here?

BRAGGIN' RIGHTS

My eight year old granddaughter Talia is a replica of me.

I have trained her to be independent and to love shopping, dressing up, reading, playing, baking, and competing.

For years now, I have begged and cajoled her to play a team sport. She refused. She participates in gymnastics, drama classes, cooking classes, and swimming.

This year she joined a soccer team. She is the only girl on the team who has not played soccer before. Today I attended her first game accompanied by other family members and friends. Her jersey number is 5.

Her team, the Brazils, beat the USA team. We yelled for all the girls as they played. Teamwork is a challenge for these little girls. The heat and all that running for forty minutes, even with lots of breaks, was challenging.

Talia attempted eight goals. When she scored the first goal, she jumped into the air and yelled. She made three goals, and one of her teammates scored another goal.

I was amazed as my prissy little granddaughter aggressively chased that soccer ball, stole it from opposing team members, kicked it short distances as she manuevered around other players, and slammed it into the goal.

I commented to her dad, my son, that she contorted her face as she played with the same face I see when I suggest she clean her room.

Parents on the opposing team kept yelling, "Watch number five!" Her three year old brother Jake, uninterested in this exciting game, rolled in the grass, asked me for gum five times, and kicked an imaginary ball.

As the game ended, we ran onto the field to congratulate all the girls. It was obvious they all played for fun. I hope I didn't embarrass Talia when I yelled, "NUMBER FIVE IS MY GRANDDAUGHTER!!"

MYSTICK KREWE DES ACADIENS Part 1

About 18 years ago, fifty LA transplants to Atlanta joined the Mystick Krewe Des Acadiens, an organization started by Dimitri Schreckengost from Atlanta and the Trahans from Crowley, LA. As the only authentic Mardi Gras krewe in Atlanta, the names and identities of the twelve selected to serve on the court for the Saturday Ball each February, were known only to krewe members. The King and Queen's identity was announced to the two members serving in that capacity and to the Captain of the Krewe. We elected officers, adopted bylaws, and held monthly meetings to discuss each year's February ball theme, costumes, Royal Court, and enjoy food and fun. Our annual Black Tie Ball for 500 guests, invitation only, was held at the Fox Theater Egyptian Ballroom. Sadly, our group disbanded two years ago when hard economic times affected invitation sales. Here is the first interesting story.

In 2000, my husband Larry and  I were elected, by secret vote, King Gabriel VII and Queen Evangeline VII, respectively. We were the first husband and wife members to serve as King and Queen. We were not allowed to reveal this status to anyone else. Our identities would be revealed on the night of the scheduled Ball. We had about eight months to plan and meet with costume designers and prepare for the event. My friend, cindy, LouHoo, the Costume Mistress at the Atlanta Alliance Theater offered to design our costumes. I was way ahead of her. I plopped a Barbie 2000 doll on her desk. "This is the costume I want to wear. I realize the traditional King and Queen's costumes must be white and gold, but I want that gown. And I'm going to lose a lot of weight. And I want Larry's costume to resemble King Henry VIII's suit."

She looked at me, then back at the Barbie, and I don't think she trusted my promise because she handmade a whalebone corset with strings. For the fitting, she stomped one foot on the wall and dug in with her other foot, pulled those strings, and my chest rose to great heights. She first constructed a muslin model of the gown, then completed the full skirted silk and tulle low cut gown. I purchased a white fitted crystal encrusted gown to wear after the presentation of the Court.

Larry's costume cost much in labor and whining. When I told him he had to wear white tights, he thought I'd gone mad. We drove to several dance/costume stores, and each time I said I wished to purchase white tights for my 235 lb King, the clerk snickered or suppressed a laugh. I told them to pretend Baryshnikov had gained a bit of weight.  No deal. I finally found a pair of leggings at an online nurses' supply. Larry's finished costume was a work of art. He had to wear the tights to the final fitting. I watched him lie on the bed, hoist both legs in the air and begin the ordeal of putting on the tights. Hilarious! I had to instruct him in the one-foot-at-a-time method of wearing tights.

Then the royal crowns. I looked online at Crystal Crowns inventory and asked the to send me the largest crystal crown in stock. Larry selected a magnificent heavy, manly crystal crown that had to be custom made to fit his head.

We hosted a pre-Ball cocktail party in our suite at the historic Georgian Terrace across from the Fox. Our grand entrance at the 2001 Ball was stunning!  Court members wore stunning masks designed by a Brazilian artist. My own mother did not realize I was Queen. I felt that the time and money was well spent  because of the fantastic memory of that night. After the presentation of the court and Second Linin', Larry and I were escorted to separate dressing rooms so assistants could help us remove and store our costumes and dress in our Black Tie ensembles for the Ball. We and guests then enjoyed a delicious LA menu prepared by a New Orleans chef, greeted guests, danced Second Line and returned to the hotel late in the night. Sunday we met friends for a special brunch held in our honor. We returned home Sunday evening.

THEN. . . on Tuesday of the following week, as I sorted through our luggage and Ball paraphernalia, I could not find Larry's King costume. I called him at work.

He replied, "My costume is in that BLACK GARBAGE BAG."  My heart froze. He explained that his buddies who helped him to store his costume put it in a black garbage bag and brought it to our hotel room.

Trying to remain calm, I said, "A BLACK GARBAGE BAG!! WHERE IS IT?"

Larry: "I asked the porter to take everything to our car."

I called the hotel to ask for the location of the trash company's landfill, then I told Larry to get in his truck, drive to Ballground, GA and dig for that $2,000 costume or he'd have hell to pay when he got home.

Then the conversation came straight out of WOMEN ARE FROM VENUS, MEN ARE FROM MARS.
He said, "I don't understand why you're so upset. I wasn't ever planning to wear that thing again."

Me: "That costume was an original, hand made, specially designed, artifact! It's comparable to a christening gown or a wedding dress!! My gown was stored in a Neiman Marcus bag. Whatever possessed you to put it in a garbage bag?" I was miffed for weeks.

We never recovered Larry's King costume, but my gown is stored in a clear air tight dress bag so I can regale my grandchildren with this story.

My friends have noted that while driving through the metro area, they have seen a garbage man donned in a white and gold King costume doing the royal wave to his constituents.

FAST TIMES AT LOREAUVILLE HIGH

Eating a baloney [bologna], garden sliced tomato, with Blue Plate mayo on a white bread sandwich yesterday,  I had a flashback about my childhood friend Mary Beth. She lived down Main Street from me, and we played together after school. Her dad, Mr. Sandy, the AG teacher at LHS, served us bologna sandwiches when I visited. Mary had three brothers and one sister, and I had five sisters and one brother. Their house seemed quieter and more organized, as my home kept filling up with noisy babies and lots of hired help.

Her collie, Shep, chased us around the yard when we played Save the Country in her front yard. Mary and I pretended to be movie stars as we danced to made-up musicals on her front porch. Mary had gorgeous, thick naturally curly hair which she hated, and I had straight black hair chopped into a Buster Brown haircut, which I hated. I ironed her hair, and she set my hair in pincurls. Her grandfather owned Twin Pines Plantation, and we rode horses, played in the barn, or explored the property.  We both read tons of books in the summer; visiting the public library was a habit especially when the annual reading contest took place. We read and recorded titles of every book we read so we could get a prized  reading certificate.

Mrs. Sandy had gorgeous skin and beautiful lips. I marveled at the luscious lipstick colors she wore. One new tube of Revlon, and she looked Hollywood glamorous. Mr. Sandy played board games with his children, and he hitched up his pants as he walked. They took me along on Sunday afternoons to visit new Iberia relatives who delighted Mary and me with Brown Cows [ice cream-root beer floats].

Our adolescent escapades come right out of FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH. Our close friends  and partners in crime included Boobie, Det, Perry Lee, Janie, Linda, Tisha, and Sylvia, Mary's cousin. Someone in our group surreptitiously hid cigarettes in the girls' locker room at school. During breaks from basketball practice we even pretended to smoke before we were busted by a custodian. Janie had the greatest collection of 45s and albums, so we often congregated at her house in Marsh Field, just outside of the town limits. Det and Perry Lee bought a state of the art stereo system with money they made from picking pecans. The first time I heard a Barbra Streisand album, I fell in love with her voice.

Det invited us to slumber parties held in a small house behind her home. No bathroom, so we hid a porcelain potty behind a shower curtain. We cast lots to see who would empty it. I am sworn to secrecy about our other activities, but we did pile into my car to drive to St. Martinville in the middle of the night in our Baby Doll jammies so Tisha could talk to her boyfriend on the pay phone by the courthouse. Even if we scraped all our money together, we could never afford to pay admission to the Drive In in New Iberia. Two girls hid in the trunk of my car, two hid in the bushes and walked in while we entertained the ticket taker, and we all congregated in a good spot to watch the movie and spy on couples behaving badly. Det, who always had a rosary handy, prayed for our safety.

We danced at the teenage center in St. Martinville on Saturday nights. We met boys from St. Martinville and swooned over teen music performed by the Chatagnier twins, Teddy Babin and other local talent. Chaperones and prison guards patrolled the dance floor to discourage hanky panky. We danced as male-female couples as we jitterbugged, bopped, shagged, and slow danced to popular music. Guys invited girls to dance. Our parents took turns driving us to and from the center. Phones buzzed as we chirped about Saturday night events at the Center.

We participated in Catholic Daughter activities, cheered at football games, played in band, twirled batons, marched in parades, sang in church choir, hung out at T-Lee's, and served as officers in school and community organizations. One year I joined the Civil Defense unit in our town so I could help with emergency evacuations. I remember being the youngest person training with Dad's friends, including Mr. Habetz. I was fine until I saw the ugly duckling gaudy yellow plastic jacket and helmet I had to wear if an emergency such as a nuclear attack or a hurricane occurred. I prayed long and hard that would never happen, and it didn't. Then I graduated.

As we matured into adolescence, we danced at Signorelli's, at the Oriental Club in New Iberia, and at Enasce Doucet's on the levee on Sunday afternoons. Although alcohol was served at these establishments, we danced. Our hair was teased and sprayed, our makeup perfect, and our clothing appropriate. We danced to have fun and sometimes had no idea whom we were dancing with, some random teenaged boy who had rhythm. We used all sorts of innocent comely moves to attract a dance partner, then we prayed novenas the next day. Music and dancing were fun and entertaining. Wish I could remember more.

REIKI

Reiki  (pronounced Ray-Key) is a Japanese technique for stress reduction and relaxation that also promotes healing. It is administered by "laying on hands" and is based on the idea that an unseen "life force energy" flows through us and is what causes us to be alive. If one's "life force energy" is low, then we are more likely to get sick or feel stress, and if it is high, we are more capable of being happy and healthy.

While Reiki is spiritual in nature, it is not a religion. It has no dogma, and there is nothing you must believe in order to learn and use Reiki. In fact, Reiki is not dependent on belief at all and will work whether you believe in it or not. Because Reiki comes from God, many people find that using Reiki puts them more in touch with the experience of their religion rather than having only an intellectual concept of it.

My good friend and neighbor, Dr. S, is a Reiki Master. As a practicing veternarian and feline specialist, she became interested in Reiki to enhance healing practices for animals she treated. She also studied for and obtained a theology degree to minister to members of the Christian church she attends. As her experience in the Reiki field grew, she opened a practice to treat people and animals using Reiki and color therapy. Although I was aware of her gift of healing and her ability to see a person's aura, I was skeptical about the practice . . . until my dad died two years ago. Daily mass, meditation, or therapists could not help me shake the tremendous sadness, guilt, and loss I felt. My friend suggested I see her for a consulation and session. With nothing to lose, rosary in hand, I scheduled an appointment.

Tinkling chimes, healing scents, calming music, and luxurious surroundings eased my anxiety about the session. We spoke for a few minutes. I lay, fully clothed, on  luxurious linens covering the examination table. She covered me with a sheet and told me to breathe deeply. She began the session by laying hands on my feet while invoking Jesus and the angels to heal me of the bad energy. Still skeptical, I let her continue. As she lay hands and prayed over my body, I dozed off for a few minutes. Her coughing awakened me. She excused herself, left the room to get water, returning to complete the session by laying hands under my head and invoking spirits to heal me.

She then invited me to sit in a chair across from her so she could consult with me about the session. I looked at the clock and was shocked when I realized I had been asleep for an hour and a half. I thought that perhaps I had been hypnotized. Inquiring about my feelings, she told me that many persons had surrounded me in the room.

Dr. S told me that Jesus, Michael the Archangel, my guardian angel. and four other people were there. Angels teased a tall man with black hair about why he was so quiet when all he did was entertain them with stories and jokes all day. He was concerned about my health and wanted me to know he was watching over me. An elderly woman of Spanish descent, named May, caressed my head. A beautiful blonde young woman in her twenties who had died soon after she was born, my guardian angel, told me that she watched over me every day. A tall, middle-aged man said he missed working with me at school and chatting with me on the phone.

My dad was a raconteur [storyteller].  My maternal grandmother's name was May Segura [Spanish]. My sister Wanda's beautiful blonde baby died at birth. My good friend and colleague John died unexpectedly of a heart attack a few months before Dad died. My husband and I had driven to his home to pick him up to take him to the lake with us. When he didn't answer the door, we called emergency services who discovered his body.

My neighbor and Reiki master knew my Atlanta family, but she did not know any of the particular information about my Louisiana family or about my friend John. She told me that after death young people appear older and old people appear younger. She told me she left the room coughing because when she lay hands on my neck, much bad energy flowed out. I had to have time to process this experience. I felt rested and relieved when I left. To this day, I still contemplate about this experience and wonder about this treatment as a healing process.

One of my best girl friends, who memorized the Bible and enjoys sharing an occasional glass of wine with me, told me the devil was going to come after me if I continued this travesty.  I did participate in meditation classes for a few months while I healed. Time does heal, and my Reiki experience was an interesting adventure. If anything, it did create a diversion in my thinking as I dealt with my dad, Homer's, death.

When I was much younger, I wondered how I would be affected by the deaths of my parents. Grieving the loss of a parent is extremely difficult.

BYE, BYE B.B.

 Granddaughter Talia holding BB

BB died today. He spent twelve years with us. When Alicia graduated from UGA in December 1998, she moved back home for six months, and part of her college detritus included a kitten she rescued from male college neighbors who delighted in blowing pungent marijuana smoke into the kitten's mouth. She said, "Mom, they're troglodytes!"

Alicia's new apartment complex did not allow animals, so we reluctantly adopted BB, for a short time, we thought. That kitten seemed so normal, entertaining us by flipping rubber mice into the air, purring contently when scratched behind the ears, and presenting me with small dead things left at our backdoor.

One night as my husband and I watched the 11:00 news in bed, BB started his engines in the long hallway on the opposite side of the house, gained momentum, and flew through our bedroom, landing way past us in the bonus room. I described his delirium as a sixties flashback, the residual effect of those college experiences.

As time moved on, BB witnessed family get togethers, tried to escape our rambunctious grandchildren, and mentored MEENOU, the kitten I rescued from the lake last year.  In the last few years, BB aged, became wise and even more independent. He preferred to observe Meenou's backyard antics. He no longer delighted in the hunt. He grew tired of being. He preferred to rest, curl up for a nap, and dine on the special cat food I bought to encourage his appetite.

My husband is on his way home from work to bury BB in the pet cemetery in our back yard on the mountain. BB will rest next to our previous pets, Bubba, our black retriever; Meenou, the kitten I mistakenly dropped a laundry basket on; Blackie, our previous cat, and Fancy, my beautiful Maine Coon that was attacked by a coyote.

The Ancients argued that animals do not have souls. Look into an animal's eyes. They have consciousness and awareness. They feel pain, and experience joy and love. They grieve when their owners die and understand the complexity of a close bond with humans and with other animals. Pets help us realize our humanity.

We love you, BB. Goodbye and good rest.