TENNESSEE WILLIAMS WRITING CONFERENCE

In March I attended the Tennessee Williams Writing Conference in New Orleans. I drove there from Atlanta, and Larry flew there to meet me the following weekend so we could drive home together.

I am trying to get my writing published, so this seemed like a good venue to learn about the art of writing. Many of my favorite writers were presenting, so I was thrilled to me there.

ARMISTEAD MAUPIN signed my first edition copies of TALES OF THE CITY. I spoke with him at length after his presentation. He is a brilliant speaker. The conference room was packed. I skipped a session beforehand so I could get a front row seat. He told stories about his difficult life choices but with great humor.

He had the audience in stitches. I met so many amazing men who love his work and thanked him for validating their lifestyle. I met a young guy from Thibodeaux, LA whose family owns a grocery store business. We talked about growing up in LA and shared stories about experiences in big cities. He has traveled to San Francisco and is personal friends with Mr. Maupin.

ROBERT OLIN BUTLER, a former McNeese professor who now teaches at Florida State won the Pulitzer Prize in 1993 for A GOOD SCENT FROM A STRANGE MOUNTAIN. Butler served in Viet Nam from 1969 to1971, first as a counter-intelligence special agent and later as a translator. He received the Tu Do Chinh Kien Award from the Vietnam Veterans of America for outstanding contributions to American culture by a veteran.

The New York Times praised the book’s “startling, dream-like stories about the lives of Vietnamese immigrants living in Louisiana.” I was mesmerized by the verisimilitude in this text. Butler manages to write so realistically that this fiction text seems like real life. He autographed my books, and we spoke about Lake Charles since Larry and I lived there in 1976 when I taught at Iowa High School.

JASON BERRY, a New Orleans resident and an investigative reporter wrote CrUp From the Cradle of Jazz, Earl Long in Purgatory, Last of the Red Hot Poppas, and Vows of Silence [about abuses in the Catholic Church].  He delivered an amazing presentation about his investigative work and about the nature of writing about Louisiana politics.

DR. DARRYL BOURQUE, Professor Emeritus at ULL and a resident of Sunset was the highlight of this conference for many Louisianians and conference attendees from all over the country. 

Dr. Bourque was named Poet Laureate of Louisiana in May 2007 by Governor Kathryn Blanco. But because of an oversight, his name was not submitted to the Senate for confirmation that year. In 2009 Governor Bobby Jindall named Dr. Bourque Poet Laureate of Louisiana.

Dr.Bourque spoke about his writing and served on several panels with other prominent national writers. He is the author of six books of poems:  Plainsongs, The Doors Between Us, Burnt Water Suite, The Blue Boat, Call and Response: Conversations in Verse and In Ordinary Light: New and Selected Poems. He has a new book forthcoming in 2011: Holding the Notes.

You will recognize in his writing the hum of the bayous, the accordion melodies, the sounds of the swamp, the nature of the Cajun soul, and the beauty of our unique region. His poetry will move you as does the flight of an egret, the sounds of the swamp, and the smell of sugar cane at grinding.

You will connect with it because of its humanity, voice, and truth. If you have not read his work, you must. I used his poetry in my classes when I taught World Literature, and I invited students to bring in poetry from their cultures as well.

Dr. Bourque’s poetry has inspired me to write about my memories of growing up in Loreauville, Louisiana. Larry and I were delighted to meet him in New Orleans and to discover his contributions as an ambassador for our Cajun culture

I have attended writing conferences throughout this country, and I was elated to hear a fellow Cajun discussing the art of writing with such intelligence, conviction and ease.

I say that because my Atlanta friends keep asking me if my relatives are stars on SWAMP PEOPLE. I would not be embarrassed to admit that if it were true; however, I believe that television sensationalizes everything.

I tell them that my dad hunted and fished, and I always asked our domestics what type of meat we were eating before I took a bite of anything. Our protein could have consisted of rabbit, squirrel, deer, rabbit, fowl like duck, doves, or endangered robins; seafood such as alligator, crawfish, crab, catfish, oysters, etc. Hogs Head cheese and brains are served as delicacies in Europe, but it is a commonplace food in Louisiana.  You get the picture.

 When my sister and I found a dead armadillo on Main Street, we removed the carcass and threw it in the bayou in fear that it would show up on our dinner plates. Our dad raised a goat that became our family pet. We were served that goat at a meal, and we cried for days.

I left Louisiana in 1970, but it did not leave me.

Mardi Gras Classroom Lesson

I served as English Division Head, in high schools with populations of 2,000-3,000 students in Texas and Georgia. I taught at Lafayette Junior High, Scott High School, Acadiana High School where I sponsored Annual and Newspaper, and at Iowa High School in Calcasieu Parish.

My career included teaching Cajun students, Muslim, Hispanic, Chinese, Japanese, Buddhist, Jewish, Hindu, Asian, Russian, and Louisiana children who escaped Katrina to live in Georgia. You can imagine how much I loved those kids!

Atlanta is a multi-cultural city, so I learned as much from them as they did from me. I taught American and British literature, the Bible as Literature, and a World Religions literature class where we studied Holy books and epics from the Old and New Testament, Indian, Persian, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Sumerian, Greek, Roman, selections from the Middle ages, and Nineteenth and Twentieth Century literature to Honors Gifted students.

I was a fish out of water as much as some of these international students were. They all assumed I was grew up in a large city. So I set the record straight. I spent the entire first week of class discussing our multi-cultural attitudes and genealogy.

I told them I was born in a French Catholic village of farmers and working class people who loved life and shared a culture of family, religious traditions, and a joie de vivre. They assumed I had grown up in Europe.

So I told them about Loreauville and the entrance sign that reads Welcome to the Village of Loreauville. I told them about my graduating class of 24 students, about separate schools for whites and blacks, the curriculum, about the landmark Supreme Court decision of Brown versus Board of Education in 1954 that paved the way for the civil rights movement.

They learned about my friends, and listened intently as I described my social life at T- Lee’s, Aunt Tee’s, Masso’s, George Andrus, Ebou’s, the movie theater, Crip’s, and the Teenage center in St. Martinville.  They told me that nicknames we gave to each other were politically incorrect. How I wished I could have beamed them to Loreauville and St. Martinville so they could understand small town culture.

They could not believe I was Cajun. So I had to prove it. I had come to class armed with copies of Louisiana children’s books including Tim Edler’s books about La swamps and wildlife. I read and spoke in Cajun dialect. You could have heard a pin drop in that classroom.

I anticipated the next question. “Mrs. Barras, would it be possible to have a Mardi Gras party so the girls can drop their tops?” I was ready for that one, too. I announced that on Mardi Gras day we would schedule a cultural study of Mardi Gras as a festival generated from Roman Lupercalia, European traditions such as marching a decorated fatted calf down streets, and Fasching in Germany. They were absolutely thrilled!

I would bring King cakes, Mardi Gras umbrellas, and beads, and they would present short reports on the history, origins and cultural aspects of Mardi Gras. I created a tri-fold brochure outlining Mardi Gras facts and fiction in Louisiana. I told them I would perform and teach them Second Linin'.

I got permission from the football coach to take them to the stadium for our party. The word spread around the 2,000 student body like wildfire. Suddenly, even students who feared my Honors class were scrambling to get in.

I handed out written rules explaining the objectives of my lessons, the curriculum connections, and told students they would not be able to participate unless I received parent signatures.

I forwarded my plans to the Administration to cover my bases. I heard through the grapevine that these esteemed school leaders did rock, paper, scissors to see who would supervise this event. I invited the special services department to bring their students so they could enjoy the festivity.

That day I wore my Mardi Gras Queen Evangeline VII gown, Larry wore his King Gabriel costume, and the Captain of our Mystick Krewe des Acadiens, Dimitri Schreckengost, a Coca Cola executive attended and participated.

Some of the students managed to find an online catalogue and showed me various naughty items they wished to bring to the celebration.  I asked them to spell SUSPENDED.

My classes had an added section the next spring semester.

SAN JUAN, PUERTO RICO May, 2011

Larry took me to San Juan, Puerto Rico for my lalalala birthday. We stayed at the Sheraton in the heart of Old San Juan. From our suite we could see San Cristobal Castle, the largest fort built by the Spanish in the New World.  When we toured the fortress castle, we stood in a dungeon prison 5 x20 feet, and the guard turned off the light. A tiny slit let light in. Prisoners there subsisted in bread and water; most prisoners died within a few years.

We stood on the balcony of our suite and saw huge cruise ships docked a block away, the amazing hues of the Atlantic Ocean, government buildings, and locals walking to work or play. We toured Old and New San Juan, ate in locals’ favorite restaurants, walked on the brick streets to shops and small city parks, and shopped at local businesses.

Larry bought a handmade hat, and I, of course, bought brightly colored clothing and jewelry so I could blend in with the female population. Adorned with big costume jewelry and heavily scented perfumes, local women dressed colorfully and beautifully, walked on high wedged shoes or stilettos as they walked to shops or to work. I bought a pair of zebra wedge shoes that I will wear using a jeweled cane to keep me from falling on my -----.

Our second day there we got an early start walking on streets by 9 a.m. Although store signs posted opening time as 9 a.m., local businesses opened arbitrarily –some at 10 a.m., at 10:30 a.m., at 11 a.m. we drank coffee at local coffee shops. Coffee in Puerto Rico is robust and strong, almost like espresso, and is often served with steamed milk.

We took a taxi to Plaza Las Américas Shopping Mall San Juan, a whopping 2.1 million square feet shopping center, boasting over 300 shops. We are friends with the former store manager of the J.C. Penney store there. It is the number one Penney’s store in the United States and the largest mall in the Caribbean. This must be what heaven is like.

The cosmetic department covers almost an entire floor, and cosmetics are sold in every department.That must be why Puerto Rican women are so beautiful. Larry spoke with an Assistant Manager, a Puerto Rican woman who told us about the layout of the store. Larry bought shirts and a pair of sandals. Much of the merchandise I saw looked very similar to stores in the US.

Our first venture to a restaurant/nightclub, LATIN ROOTS, a Salsa club near our hotel included locals and tourists. We ordered succulent roasted pork, rice mixed with beans, root vegetables, salads, drank refreshing mojitoes and local beer. A pound of roasted pork covered with crispy skin was served on a platter. The meat reminded us of a Cajun boucherie.

A sign posted on the door of the restaurant read FREE SALSA LESSONS 6 p.m. At 8:00 Lessons began.

I quickly volunteered to dance with a male Salsa dancer. Salsa is a combination of cha cha, twirls, and hip movements. The music is a blend of Spanish, African, and Latin American sounds. The songs are lengthy.

I kept up with the dance steps, but after 15 minutes, I was delirious, and my side hurt. That lovely young man with slick black hair and swiveling hips dipped me to the floor as I held my breath. I thanked him. We were the only couple on the floor. I told Larry to give him a big tip as I tried to breathe and recuperate.

 Later, Larry accompanied me on the dance floor as locals twirled and gyrated. He danced like a tourist; at one point, he started doing THE JERK, while I gyrated and twirled with the locals. Later that night I developed a pain in my side and had to recuperate in a hot bath with a tequila shooter and various local remedies. It was all worth it.

On Sunday we took a taxi to the Cathedral of San Juan Bautista, the second oldest cathedral in the Western Hemisphere, just three blocks from our hotel because it was raining. I wore a dress and heels, and noticed the taxi driver was taking us through the entire city thinking we were stupid tourists. I told him CATHEDRAL, made my SIGN OF THE CROSS, and said, “llévenos a la masa en la cathedral.”

He pretended he did not understand. When we arrived at the Cathedral, I was livid. Larry walked across the street to a hotel to find a hotel employee who could speak English and Spanish. After getting nowhere, I told Larry to pay him the $20 with no tip, and I asked a local who spoke English and Spanish to say to him: “rogaré para su alma porque usted va derecho al infierno.” [I will pray for your soul because you are going straight to hell.]


Lest you think i travel as THE UGLY AMERICAN, I assure you, when I travel, I much prefer hanging out with locals rather than venturing out to consort with the bourgeois. I try to speak the language, and I am friendly and kind. I do not, however, feel justified in letting a business person take advantage of me.


Back to the cathedral----The Cathedral was not air conditioned. Fans bolted 10 feet high on the beautiful marble columns cooled us. As the three priests and four altar servers entered, one of the servers swung the thurible so incense could purify us.

The Catholic Church still uses incense in accordance with prophecy of Malachias, the fragrant smoke symbolizing our prayers rising to Heaven and purifying what it touches. Incense was used throughout this mass.

The homily lasted 50 minutes. I could imagine men at our church looking at their watches and signaling the priest that a sports event was soon to happen. No congregant seemed to mind as everyone listened attentively to the priest’s loud, fiery, chastising sermon which I gathered with my limited Spanish, was about sin and retribution. Imagine that.

After mass, the rain increased, but we both had umbrellas, and I insisted we walk back to the hotel. We stopped at a local market to buy fruit, at a boutique drug store where I bought two hats and jewelry, and Larry bought alcohol and chocolates.

We stopped at a Subway, went back to the hotel and watched movies until the rain stopped. Later we went to a local bar with just 10 barstools and drank freshly made pina coladas as we viewed pictures and artifacts of Marilyn Monroe covering the walls. The story is that a previous owner loved was enthralled with Marilyn Monroe, so locals contributed to his collection. A lazy cat slept on a stool by the door and a sign said that he had his own FACEBOOK page.

This is a wonderful city and the trip was  a great birthday present.

THE RAPTURE

I would never offend anyone whose religious beliefs differ from mine. As a point of information, a fringe religious group has designated May 21, 2011, as the date of Jesus' return to Earth. People are selling their homes, forfeiting credit loans, and shopping for nice clothes, I presume.

I grew up in a Catholic household. My mother designated every Saturday of my life as a cleaning day. Although she hired two  domestics to help, one showed me how wine tasted and told me never to drink on a empty stomach, taught me to jitterbug, and smoked in the driveway while my mother napped. The other domestic took care of the babies and cooked.

My Catholic mother's usual Saturday mantra as we rolled out of bed at 7:00 a.m. was, "Jesus or the Kennedys may visit us today. Wouldn't you feel embarrassed if we received them as company in a dirty house? Cleanliness is next to godliness."

My five sisters and I washed walls, cleaned baseboards, mopped wood floors, changed bed linens, washed and hung clothes on the clothesline, folded and put clean clothes away or as we say in Louisiana, "saved" the clothes, as though they were in danger.


We swept sidewalks, washed and dried dishes, lined up missals [prayer books], rosaries, dresses, hats, and shoes for Sunday morning mass, and prayed for deliverance.

Jesus or the Kennedys never arrrived. If they did, they must have skipped our house, but perhaps May 21st, if Jesus does arrive, I hope her house is clean as a whistle. The Kennedys, on the other hand, possibly have more pressing matters on their agenda.

Picture: trucker hat that reads RAPTURE READY.

TRAFFIC COURT

The County Solicitor entered the Fulton County courtroom fifteen minutes late. She explained the different pleas available to criminals that day. I wasn't listening because I was admiring the gorgeous outfit a beautiful woman of color wore. She sat next to me clutching a Bible and holding her 18 year old son's hand. I happened to be the only Caucasian and the only female charged with a lapse in judgement. Every adolescent in the courtroom was escorted by a parent and some had parole officers or attorneys.

When the female judge was introduced, I was not happy. Two old women wearing severe buns and glasses on the ends of their noses. I knew this would not be pretty. I had to change my strategy.

After the judge dealt with the high crimes perpetrators, she left the courtroom. I was flabberghasted! I had planned to approach the podium to speak with her, but now I had to deal [double entendre] with the Solicitor. When she called my name, I whispered to Larry, "How should I plead?" He was enjoying the spectacle and said, "Weren't you listening to the choices?"

I approached the Solicitor who moved papers on a table as she stood in front of the Judge's bench. She asked me my plea.

I answered, "Guilty with stipulations."

Solicitor: "There is no such plea. You can plea 'pre trial' as I mentioned earlier."

I was about to tell her that I never missed an episode of LAW AND ORDER, but instead I said, "Pre-trial." Whatever that meant.

When she asked why I was speeding that morning, I said I would speak quickly, and I did.

"Your Solicitousness, I called my 87 year old mother that morning to check on her, and my sister told me the emergency room attending physician said she had symptoms of Parkinson's disease and that my mother would undergo tests that week. I was told to call and speak with her later that day."

"I was rushing to travel the 45 miles to my first French class at Colony Square in downtown Atlanta. Besides being traumatized by my mother's condition, I was unfamiliar with the area around Colony Square. I drove onto 75 where the speed limit was 65 and was not aware when I entered the Perimeter that the speed dropped to 55."

"I was traveling with the pack. I noticed a small car shaped like a Mustang perpendicular to 75 and wondered why it was parked there. When I realized it was a State Trooper in a fast car, I adjusted my speed. Lights flashing, that car drove behind me, and I heard a booming voice, 'You are parked in an HOV lane. Move over!'"

"The kind officer asked me why I was speeding and I explained the events of that morning."

[I did not tell the Solicitor that the officer took 10 miles off my traveling speed so I would not be designated as a Super Speeder.]

She did not have a traffic offenses DMV report on me, thank heaven. Nor did she have the DMV report Larry had that showed I ran 3 stop signs in Forsyth County near the Marina. If she had, I was prepared to tell her that those signs were purchased from the lowest bidder and were not reflective at night.

The Solicitor dropped my $450 fine to $400 and told me I had to attend a traffic class. I asked if I could write a paper instead, as the Judge had assigned papers to each of the adolescent offenders. I explained that I was a writer.

She just glared at me. I promised to attend traffic school and pay the fine. She asked me to have a seat on the bench near the State Trooper who charged me. He looked like he was 15 years old. I sat next to him and said,"Good morning. I have already thanked you for dropping my speed to 79, but shouldn't you be out there catching more speeders? I didn't expect to see you this morning. Do you remember me?"

The officer said, "Good morning, Mam. And, incidentally, you were not traveling with the pack, you were leading the pack.The Solicitor will have good news for you. Have a nice day and remember, 'Speed kills.'"

The solicitor called me back to the table, handed me papers to sign, and said, "Is that your husband wearing that ALLSTATE shirt?'

I replied, "Yes, and you can imagine the recriminations I'll have to suffer forever."

She spoke directly to Larry, "I am quite certain you know how this works." Larry smiled.

She addressed me again. "None of this will reflect on your driving record, no points, no citation, if you attend the class, get sgnatures, return paperwork to the Clerk of court's office, and pay your fine. Now, you have a good day."

Thus was my education in courtroom rules and demeanor. I would hate to have a title such as Solicitor. It has so many different meanings.

9/11

My good friend Kristen Keene lost her husband in 2001 on 9/11. He worked for Firzgerald Canter in the Twin Towers. They lived in New Jersey at the time, and Mazalee, their daughter, was just a baby.

Russ called her from an elevator he and other people used to try to escape. Once they reached the bottom floor, the doors opened slightly, so the men helped the a woman escape through the door, then the tower fell.

When Kristen  met with their attorney after the funeral, he handed her letters that Russ had written before that fatal day. Russ told Kristen that he had a premonition about his death, so he bought  insurance policies and instructed Kristen to move back to Atlanta so she would be surrounded by his business associates and friends. They had planned to move back to Atlanta soon.

Kristen and Mazalee will never have to worry about finances;however, losing a husband and a father was devastating to Russ's entire family. Mazalee has grown up without a father, but Kristen has managed to mold her into a beautiful child, just like her mother.

Russ was from North Louisiana. I have met his parents and told them how many people I spoke with who remembered him as a wonderful husband and father.

Kristen moved to Florida recently so Mazalee could be closer to her family. She still owns a houseboat on our dock. We don't see her as often, and I miss my beautiful friend.

HORA,HORA, HORA

The most exciting cultural event of my life was my Catholic son’s wedding to a Jewish girl from New York.

My Catholic mother, AMD, hyperventilated when I announced that the wedding was to be held at the Ritz Carlton in Atlanta. Breathing rapidly and faking the vapors, she screamed, “He’s getting married in a HOTEL??”

“Mom, it’s the Ritz Carlton,” I said. ‘The bride, groom and respective parents will stand under a chuppah as the rabbi conducts the ceremony. You and Dad will be seated on the front row. Please do not embarrass me.  This is the most important day of your grandson’s life. Do not ask him to confess his sins. Do not tell him he’s riding a heat seeking missile to hell. Do not wear sackcloth and ashes. The ceremony is very beautiful and historical. Just hold your breath and buy a pretty little flask that looks like a tiny water bottle.”

She muttered under her breath, “As I said, he is not going to heaven.”

My parents live in a French Catholic Cajun village in southern Louisiana, population 300, twenty miles from the Gulf of Mexico. The largest structure in town is the cathedral-like Catholic Church smack dab at the center of the one mile stretch of Main Street. Everyone driving by the church forms the sign of the cross and whispers a quick prayer . . . every time they ride up and down Main. When the church bells ring at noon, you can hear the collective masses in the mills, stores, and cane and rice fields reciting the Angelus. After mass on Sunday morning, everyone files into George Andrus bar to drink coffee, beer, or cokes. In this town, Catholicism is a cultural attitude as well as a faith.

I recall the hoo-rah generated when a Baptist family moved into town in the 1950’s. My mother organized a novena group to pray for their damned souls. I had never met persons of another faith, and I wondered if they threw snakes into the air as they spoke in tongues. AMD reminded me that stepping into that church was a mortal sin that I would be obligated to confess to Father ......., who my sisters and I nicknamed Father Sleepyhead because he snored in the confessional.

Feeling a need to educate my Louisiana friends and family [who I knew had seldom laid eyes on a person of the Jewish faith], I created a booklet explaining the significance of the Chuppah, a symbol of Abraham’s tent, the stomping of the glass  symbolizing the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem [which induced cries of “Kawww!” from the Louisiana delegation], and at the reception, the cutting of the braided Challah symbolizing the manna falling from the heavens to the starving Israelities, and the Hora, a traditional dance performed in a counterclockwise circle. I even discussed  the importance of the yarmulke worn by Jewish men as a respectful head covering. My husband’s Cajun buddies snickered as they secures their “beanies” with fancy barrettes and paper clips.

My son’s fiancé, petite and an Audrey Hepburn look-alike, wore a fitted white gown emblazoned with crystals, pearls, and bugle beads. But her veil was different. I helped her to shop for that veil, and I watched as she purchased a short, fingertip length illusion veil.

This veil was at least twenty feet long. Remembering that I related to her our local Louisiana tradition of pinning money on the veil, suddenly this all made sense. She hoped to accumulate wads and wads of cash and checks to pay off their mortgage. I knew then that she and I would become very close and corrupt each other with our financial excesses.

Standing under the Chuppa was certainly a first for me. I was enthralled with the beautiful traditions being played out. My 80 year old mother wore a stunning beaded long sleeved gown, and my dad looked dapper in his tux.

Turning my head slightly during the ceremony to catch a glimpse of AMD, I froze. She held, close to her breast, a rosary with beads the size of golf balls. The gigantic Mother of Pearl rosary pooled on the floor near her feet. She cast a wicked smile at me and mouthed the word, “POPE,” which I feared meant she had bribed a cardinal in Vatican City to Fed Ex a rosary blessed by the Pope.

I heard snickering from the men on the Louisiana side of the ballroom and wondered if they were tossing those yarmulkes into the air. I didn’t dare look.

The glass was stomped, the wedding ceremony ended, and everyone filed into another ballroom to be seated at elegantly appointed tables. As his ex wife and young trophy wife glared at each other, the bride’s father spoke sincerely of his hope for a wonderful future for his daughter and my son.

Music for the Hora blared, and The New York crowd seated on the bride’s side of the room, burst onto the dance floor, formed a huge circle, held hands, and danced counterclockwise taking three steps forward and one step back. My mother asked everyone at our family table if that was a Wiccan ceremony. “Don’t those English witches dance backwards that way at the full moon?”

The wine tasted expensive, but I stuffed a $20 bill into the pocket of a cute server with a tight butt and requested he bring me a double dirty martini—quickly. Little did I know that the night would get longer and crazier.

             By this time the Cajuns have taken over the dance floor. Pumping pastel Mardi Gras umbrellas the ladies form a single line, and the men  wave white handkerchiefs to the beat of Second Line music, a rousing funereal hymn sung by Blacks in New Orleans as the lined up behind the casket to escort the deceased to the cemetery.

            After the bride’s dance with her dad, she and my son dance, then they are both tapped on the shoulder as other men and women dance with them and pin cash and checks on the bride’s long, long, long veil.

During The hora dance song "Hava Nagila" which in Hebrew means "Let us rejoice," the bride and groom were raised on chairs during the dance to increase the festivity of the celebration. It is considered a mitzvah (a commandment) to bring joy to the bride and groom on their wedding day.

After they were removed from the chairs, the parents of the bride and groom took turns being lifted in the chairs. I was a bit leery about this ceremonial gesture, but I was more worried that the skinny Jewish guys lifting my husband would drop him on his head.

As they circled me around, I noticed a group of men lined up in order of height. Horrified, I realized that I’d forgotten to explain the ceremonial chair thingy in my wedding brochure. Those Cajun boys were lined up to ride the chair! What to do! I signaled to one of my my sisters to do something to disperse that group before the fancy New York crowd noticed. Close call.

Guests and wedding party walked outside to see the bride and groom depart in a Bentley to ride around Buckhead before beginning the honeymoon. The crowd dispersed and everyone migrated to their rooms or drove home.

By that time I was exhausted and very tipsy. I walked up to the elevator with my best friend. We exited at my floor. Noticing a elegant damask Queen Anne bench slapped up against the wall in the lobby, I sat, then reclined, then fell asleep. I awakened the next morning in our hotel room with the romantic notion that leprechauns had carried me gently on a cloud of angel dust back to my room.

Several months later when my husband, son, his wife, and I visited Louisiana, we met friends at a local hometown bar decorated as a man cave with all sorts of petrified animal heads mounted on the walls. As I stood at the bar visiting with the ninety year old barmaid, Toy-ah, I noticed that the ossified deer all wore hats on their antlers. OMG! The yarmulkes!!  Was this a sign of disrespect for another person’s religion? A jibe at Jews? I apologized to my new daughter-in-law who said to me, “Can we come back to Robert's tomorrow?”  At that point I knew we would become great friends as well.