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.