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

Headless Chicken and Other Fowl Stories

There is a statue in Fruita, Colorado of a headless chicken. That chicken was Mike. Legend has it that this particular chicken lived for a year and a half as a beheaded bird.

Veterinarian Fred Baylor, believes it, too. "The base part of the brain, where your basic biological functions were regulated, were still intact," Baylor explains.

On Sept. 10, 1945, a man named Lloyd Olson, the great-grandfather of Troy Waters, chased Mike the chicken around the barnyard and decapitated him. But Mike continued to run around.

A resident, Thomas said, "He still tried to peck at the ground even though he didn't have a beak," Thomas continues. "It was like he really didn't realize he didn't have a head."

"How did they keep him alive? They fed him with an eyedropper. Just right down his neck," Thomas adds. "Very healthy other than not having a head."

Here was a chicken that not only ran around with its head cut off, it hired an agent and went on tour. Many sent contracts, but only one got Mike to scratch on the dotted line. It cost 25 cents to get a look at Mike, and all those quarters added up. Dirt farmer Lloyd Olson had the headless chicken that laid the golden egg.

But, as happens with all too many superstars, disaster struck. Tragically, Mike the chicken choked to death in an Arizona motel in 1947. The little fella was only two years old.

No one knows where Mike is buried, but all agree he lived an uncommonly good life, considering he was born a fryer.

---adapted from Bill Geist, CBS News
_______________________________________________________________________________

    Why am I writing about a headless chicken? Because that story reminds me reminds me of my early marriage in the sixties.

     Determined to be the perfect wife, I cooked three meals a day, even though I had a full time teaching position at Acadiana High School. I was extremely confident about my culinary skills. After all, I won the Betty Crocker award for the state of Louisiana and placed first at state rally for Home Economics. Never mind that those contests were written exams.

     And I observed Mom Wick, my maternal grandmother, as she negotiated her way through countless relatives on Sundays to produce seven course meals from scratch without using recipes.  I never really thought about actually cooking because everyone else prepared meals for our large family: AMD's three domestics, Dad, Parrin, and countless aunts and cousins. There was really no more room in the kirchen.

     My first foray into meal preparation was amazing. That meat loaf tasted delicious, as did my meatballs. I failed the spaghetti test. Throw onto a wall, not the ceiling to test for doneness.

     Anything I cooked that required water was a disaster. I just didn't trust box directions. Rice was difficult as rice cookers were not yet invented. My rice was goopy and mushy. Grits ran like creeping water when I spooned it onto a plate.

     But, to return to the chicken issue. I walked from our duplex apartment on East Vermillion Street in Lafayette to a tiny grocery store nearby to purchase a chicken to cook for dinner. Noticing that whole chicken was much less expensive than cut up pieces, I walked home with that atrocious looking fowl. Raw chicken is so unappetizing when it's covered with that bluish white, grainy, loose skin.

     I plopped the bird on a large wooden cutting board. My cutting tools included a hatchet and a hammer.
I raised that hatchet and slammed it down with great force to slice the chicken horizontally. I used the hammer to pound the hatchet into the very bony pieces like the drumsticks.
 
    Puzzled at the stringy appearance of the cut up chicken, I dumped it into hot oil sprinkled with my Cajun trinity: onions, garlic, and green pepper. Stirring the mixture to brown it made it look like spaghetti. I added a teaspoon of sugar to carmelize it and created a beautiful brown gravy.

     I set our dinner table with my wedding china, crystal, and silver, and flowers from my neighbor's yard.
My rice was vastly improved as a friend of mine showed me how to measure water using the knuckle rule. Since my husband is a carnivore, detests any vegetable he can't spell, and requires a carb-filled menu, I served white beans, Niblets corn, and Le Seur tiny peas, along with salad and garlic bread.

     I handed a cold Miller to him as he walked in from work. We talked about his day, then sat down to dinner.  He bit into a piece of chicken, and surreptitiously raised the cloth napkin to his mouth. I waited for his approval.

    He twisted his fork around on the plate as he tried to scatter the crushed up chicken bones. I took a bite of that massacred chicken and burst into tears.

    I walked back to that grocery store the next day and told the elderly owner about my experience. He laughed, and asked where I was from.

     I told him my grandfather owned a General merchandise store in Loreauville and that when I picked up chicken for our family dinner, my grandfather had already cut it into pieces to save the cook time. I told him how Mom Wick, my grandmother who lived next door to our family, chased chickens around her yard, grabbed one by the legs, held it upside down, the shoved that squawking bird down through a chute hung on the fence where she promply sliced off its head and neck. The first time I witnessed her decapitating a chicken, I vowed to eat fish and steak instead.

   The nice store owner laughed at my stories. Allowing me to go behind the meat counter, he demonstrated how to cut a chicken properly using the proper tools. How logical, I thought.

I thanked him and thought how good tamales from that street cart down the street from our duplex sounded for tonight's meal.

HALLOWEEN - the true story

Why do we celebrate Halloween?

     Long before Christianity, the Druids of Great Britain used to celebrate the festival of Samhain - summer’s end- practicing mystical rites and ceremonies.

     November 1 was the first day of the Druid year and the festival of their sun god. They celebrated the day by lighting fired, just like Cajuns light bonfires for parties.

     Druids believed that on the eve of the new year, the god of death summoned all the souls of the dead who had died during that year and decided what animal form their spirits would take when they came back to life. They believed that the souls of the good would return as humans and the punishment for evil people could be lessened by praying and offering gifts to the god of death.

     Cats were sacred to the druids, as they were thought to contain the wicked souls of the dead.

     Later, under Roman rule, aspects of the Roman pagan harvest festival of Pomona were added. In the seventh century Pope Boniface IV recognized the day of the festival, November 1, and the night before, giving it the name All Hallows or all Saints Day, thereby making it into a celebration of Catholic saints.

     The practice of carving a pumpkin can be traced back to the Druids. A man named Jack was banned from heaven because he was too stingy and was not allowed into hell because he played pranks on the devil. He, holding a lantern, was condemned to wander the earth in limbo, waiting for Judgment Day.

     Druids believed that on the eve of St. Hallows Day, ghosts and witches roamed the earth. So people wore costumes to fool evil spirits.

     Our custom of trick or treating comes from 17^th century Ireland. The Irish poor would go from door to door asking for money to buy food for a feast in honor of St. Columba, who had taken the place of Samhain, the old god of the dead. St. Columba, a 6^th century monk, converted the Picts to Christianity.

    

----Adapted from THE BOOK OF TOTALLY USELESS INFORMATION

THANK GOD FOR MOMS

     I survived my two children’s toddler years, adolescence, and maturity into adulthood. Today is Saturday. As I spruced up home for the weekend, I remembered Saturday mornings growing up in a large family.

     My adolescence was fraught with angst brought on by my mother, AMD.   We six girls had to kiss a tacky ceramic version of the Blessed Virgin Mary every time we committed a venial sin such as calling each other bad names under our breath. I wonder to this day how I did not become a lesbian after being forced to kiss another woman so often. Please forgive me, God.
     
     AMD seldom cooked or cleaned. She worked just across the street from our home as bookkeeper and financial wizard for my dad’s business. Like a fairy godmother, she waved a magic wand over our house and home, and things got done.

     I chose to become very busy twirling my baton, marching with the band, playing my flute, bouncing basketballs, joining clubs, studying for tests, and dancing on the weekends hoping that my limited leisure time would free me from doing chores.

     Weekend nights were wild fun-pep rallies, football games, movies, and partying till late at night. The first time I dated, I returned home to find the front door locked in an era when no one ever locked doors. I rang the doorbell. AMD, feigning sleep, unlocked the door, hugged me so she could smell my breath, and bid me good night.

    Thinking how fortunate that she didn’t demand a litany of my activities, I flopped down on my bed in the front bedroom; the bed felt warm—yuk!  And thus began eight years of my mother taking nighttime naps in my personal space during my high school and college weekends so she could give me a breathalyzer, peer into my eyes, and assess the condition of my clothing.

    Worse, however, was AMD’s habit of waking us up at the crack of dawn on Saturday mornings. Carrying a large, round silver tray filled with pungent French coffee served in demitasse cups, she sauntered from one bedroom to another to stir awake her six girls so we could drag ourselves out of bed and begin the routine Saturday cleaning.

    After crawling to the bathroom, prying my eyes open, chewing gum, removing my clumped on mascara, and pretending to be pert, I waited for the mimeographed work list she doled out to each girl. Were we galley slaves?  Odalisques?

   Under each of our names were bulleted lists of chores to be completed. We  waxed floors, cleaned bathrooms, hung clothes on the outdoor clothesline, polished shoes for church, washed walls, changed bed linens, dusted furniture, washed and dried dishes, starched frilly layered underskirts, and  ironed dad’s uniforms on the huge professional ironer in the laundry room. When  our specific chores were completed, we were allowed the freedom to read or nap.

     AMD hired three domestics to help maintain our large family. Mrs. Bob cooked. Chriscola tended to our baby brother, and Telitherina, hired to supervise us worker drones, taught me how to sip Mogan David from a coffee cup  when AMD was coffee klatching at 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. on Saturdays. After perusing AMD’s chore list at 7 a.m. on Saturday mornings, wine did seem to soften the blow.

     As the first of AMD’s six girls, I was her prodigy. My fifth sister and girl number six, LT, arrived in my sophomore year of high school. By then, AMD, depleted of energy, begged wolves to raise her, let her fend for herself, and allowed her to stay out all night.

  

DAVID SEDARIS

     I heard David speak/perform readings of his work at the Cobb Energy Performing Arts Center last night. I feel that we are now on a first-name basis because I love his work and am amazed at his talent as a wordsmith. I have read all of his books several times, so seeing him in person was phenomenal.

      David is a playwright and a regular commentator for National Public Radio. He is also the author of the bestselling Barrel Fever, Naked, Holidays on Ice, and Me Talk Pretty One Day. Central concerns of his writing – family and childhood – are ones that everyone can relate to. He travels extensively though Europe and the United States on lecture tours and lives in France.

     David grew up in Raleigh, NC, was discovered by at a Chicago club who heard him read his diaries. David's stories are enlightening, hysterical, laugh out loud. He captures the essence of our humanity, parodies family, and his descriptions and stories are intentionally exaggerated and manipulated to maximize comic effect.

     Sedaris became a frequent contributor on a Chicago Public Broadcasting radio show. He essays appear in Esquire and The New Yorker. He was named "Humorist of the Year" by Time magazine. He received an honorary doctorate from State University of New York at Binghamton.

      Sedaris has a skewed sense of humor and his spot-on observance of those peccadilloes in daily life that ultimately makes us laugh at ourselves. David's family, friends, and neighbors again serve as fodder for his short essays, from his miserly Dad to his slovenly brother, to his sister whose sense of humor may be more outrageous than his.

    His performance and readings last night had the audience laughing out loud the entire evening---the kind of laughing that makes you cry and grab your sides.

    Sedaris recounted his experiences playing Crumpet the elf at Macy's in New York during the holidays. Almost overnight, he went from obscurity to sought-after talent. Now, he is a best-selling author who still appears on public radio from time-to-time.


   If you'd like to read his work, start with "Santaland Diaries."

LAUGH AT YOURSELF

 U gotta love the opening scene of Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth.

The former presidential candidate takes the stage, PowerPoint clicker in-hand. His famous Global Warming Slideshow appears on the enormous screen in the background. Thousands of bright-eyed college students anxiously await his opening remarks.

The applause fades. The crowd falls silent.

And the first words out of Al Gore's mouth are, "Hello, my name is Al Gore, and I used to be the next president of the United States."

The students roar with laughter! Cheers, whistles and applause echo from the auditorium for the next 20 seconds. Even Gore chuckles a bit to himself on stage.

At that very moment, you realize something: Al Gore has every single one of those students in the palm of his hand. Instantly, he's become likeable, funny, and, believe it or not, sort of cool.

BEHOLD! The amazing power of self-deprecating humor:

------Scott Ginsberg

Greengross says: "Self-deprecating humour can be an especially reliable indicator not only of general intelligence and verbal creativity, but also of moral virtues such as humility."
            

My life is fraught with funny situations. I love retelling my stories because I am confident that I am somewhat eccentric and orange. Those of you who are familiar with the Color Personality Test and know me understand perfectly.

When I was named Queen Evangeline VII for our Mystic Krewe Des Acadiens, I kept my very big expensive crown in a special case in the trunk of my car. Why? I don’t know. I suppose in case I was called to reign over something.

I was driving home from evening jazzercise class intent on stopping by Kmart to buy something important at the Blue Light special when I noticed a police car with flashing lights tailing my bumper.

I quickly moved over into the other lane so he could pursue whatever felon he was chasing. I noticed that he started tailing me again so I increased my speed. I thought it strange that he turned his siren on. I had arrived at KMart, so I turned into the parking lot.

He pulled up behind me, strolled over to the car, and said, “Driver’s license and registration NOW.”

I was confused. I replied, “Officer, I was not in violation of a law, was I?”

“Ma’am, you were traveling 50 MPH in a 35 MPH zone.”

I immediately apologized, told him it was an accident, and requested that he turn off his flashing lights. He did not. Instead he walked over to look at my license plate, walked back to my window, and said, “What does QE VII on your license plate stand for?”

After I reminded him never to end a sentence in a preposition, I answered excitedly, "Queen Evangeline VII!”

He asked, “And what country are you queen of? …………That preposition thing again, but I ignored it.

“My husband is also a king.”

He had an incredulous look on his face.

“Officer,” I said, “My husband and I are King and Queen of our Atlanta Mardi Gras Krewe. We have a formal ball at the Fox every February. I don’t suppose policemen have balls, so if you would like to come, I will gladly invite you.”

I suppose the interval of silence could be described as a pregnant pause.

Shocked at the wording of my comment, I just prayed I would not be arrested on the spot and miss out on that Blue Light Special. I asked if I could step out of the car to retrieve my crown from the trunk of my car. after he gave me permission, I placed that big shiny crown on my head even though my hair was wet and matted from my exercise class. The crystals sparkled like diamonds in that lighted parking lot.

The nice officer said to me, “Lady, this is definitely the most entertaining traffic stop of my career. If you get into your car, drive the speed limit, and go home, I won’t cite you.”

I so wanted to ask the nice officer if he was headed to Dunkin donuts to recite this event to his partners in fighting crime. But, I didn’t. I thought it prudent to leave quickly, even though I was going to miss that great Kmart sale.

And, I promise this is a true story.

WALDO HARRINGTON Au Revoir

Our good friend, Waldo Waldo R. Harrington, age 76, of Stone Mountain died this week October 2, 2010, from complications of cancer.

He was preceded in death by his parents, Waldo R. Harrington and Stella Nunez and sister, Goldie Meaux. He is survived by his beautiful wife, Janice Harrington, daughters, Angela Ingram and Dawn Glaze, sons, Lance Harrington, Kelly Harrington & Kent Harrington, brothers, Roland Harrington & Dayton Harrington and 6 grandchildren.

Waldo grew up in Cow Island, LA, the son of a wealthy farmer. His father purchased a Piper cub so Waldo could learn to fly. After serving a stint as a pilot in the US air Force, Waldo  returned to Cow Island to work on his father's farm where he flew crop dusters.

Waldo had a stellar career flying for Eastern Airlines in Atlanta; he earned the rank of Captain and flew domestic and international flights. 

Tall, thin, Hollywood handsome, Waldo had grey hair and mustache, walked with purpose and a little swagger, and entertained everyone he knew with stories and exaggerations about Louisiana.

A phenomenal dancer, Waldo was constantly tagged by female friends who loved to dance as we do in Louisiana.

Bon voyage, Waldo et bonne chance. Puissiez-vous trouver un ange jolie Cajun à danser avec.

FRACTAL TIME

To see a world in a grain of sand,

And a heaven in a wildflower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.

     -----William Blake

FRACTAL TIME: The Secret of 2010 and a New World Age by Gregg Braden explores the mysterious ideas about the Mayan prediction of the world’s end in 2012. In this scholarly read, Braden looks back to predictions and recorded events made by ancient cultures by referring to  the cave drawings, songs, oral literature, and artifacts connected with the Mayans, the Hopi  Indians, India’s Vedas: esoteric  hymns sung by Vedic priests, the Puranas, the epic The Mahabharata , the I Ching, and the Book of Revelation.

Using references to scientific evidence, mathematical formulas, and poetry, Braden poses the notion that the human condition is affected by the patterns of nature in a cyclical universe of repeating ages measured in 5,125 year cycles of time.

Braden contends that the earth and our solar system journey in a cyclical pattern as the earth’s position in the heavens changes, and when the planets in our solar system cross the equator of the earth’s galaxy, we are connected with the energy of the Milky Way. Ancient cultures knew that the earth’s position in the skies would affect our world both emotionally and physically. As the earth moves closer to the core of the Milky Way, we become more conscious in our spiritual awareness.

Ancient traditions divide Earth’s 25,625 year orbit through the twelve constellations of the zodiac into five world ages lasting 5,125 years each. Our zodiac age is determined by which constellation provides the backdrop for the rising sun on the day of the spring equinox each year. We are presently transitioning from the Age of Pisces to the Age of Aquarius. Braden mentions the symbols and traits associated with past ages. The Age of Aries was represented by the ram-headed Ra for the Egyptians in the sixteenth century B.C. Early Christians chose as their symbol the two fish swimming in opposite directions during the Age of Pisces [ying-yang, East-West, body-soul, etc.]

Defining historical events happened in each Zodiac Age: Leo-global warming; Cancer-biblical flood; Gemini, alphabets and writing; Taurus, Egyptian civilization; Aries, the Iron Age, and Pisces, the birth of Christianity. The Age of Aquarius symbolizes humanity, developing a global community, modeling ourselves as mind, body, and spirit. Thus, Aquarius represents an age of unity.

A fractal is a pattern that repeats itself in similar ways on different scales. Braden cites mathematical research and formulas posed by brilliant mathematicians and scientists to show how man can understand this complex key to the universe.

The chapter on the mystery of Phi and the Golden Ratio 1.618 explains how nature approximates the Golden Ratio. Examples of how the human body is governed by the Golden Ratio include the following; ratio of navel to total body weight is .618; ratio of length of hand to that of forearm .618; ratio of human face from brow to chin .618 and countless other examples in our universe. Thus, the pattern.

Baton Rouge takes brunt o hurricane Gustave. The Ancients feared the events of our time. Our 21^st century world is experiencing massive flooding, earthquakes, droughts, and global warming that have affected the world’s infrastructure.

The chapter on Armageddon or the Second Eden challenges humanity to create mass positive emotion in a spirit of cooperation and a heart-based mode of living our lives, forgiveness and peace instead of betrayal and war, a far cry from the direction our species is living today.

You will be mesmerized by Braden’s text. It is not a quick read, but one that may inspire you to think about your place in the universe.