Area firefighters visit a memorial to the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting victims outside the school's entrance .

 

           The end of the year approaches. The Mayans predicted that Friday, December 21, 2012, was the End Time. Metaphorically, “The End of Innocence,” that Don Henley sings about in his 1989 ballad, rings true.

            Christmas cards arriving in the mail, children sitting on Santa’s lap and tidings of joy and goodwill sent or spoken at this time of year prove ironic in the light of the Sandy Hook Elementary school massacre. Media images and sound bites produced a groundswell of support for the victims’ families and for their small town, but shocked national and international communities, and sparked a fierce debate about gun control. Ratings greedy media showing the faces of innocent school children being led out of their elementary school by teachers and first responders angered the public.

           A political divide, unlike any other I have seen in my lifetime, unhinged the populace. On social media, particularly Facebook and Twitter, people posted comments supporting or attacking our second amendment right to bear arms, and mankind’s established religious beliefs about a merciful, punishing, or non-existent God.

           Tragedies like this help us to put things in perspective. A sense of normalcy will return, but, in the meantime, we realize that we cannot take things for granted. We live in a changing world. Our lives are ephemeral.

            

             In a religious context, the term, “Felix Culpa,” from the writings of St. Augustine, refers to the fall of man, describing how a series of unfortunate events will eventually lead to a happier outcome. On a secular note, we say, “Life is short,” . . . “Live life to the fullest,” . . . “Treasure every day” because these words resonate and remind us to hug our children, reconnect with loved ones, and recognize our mortality.

 

 BACHELOR'S DEGREE IN FERMENTATION SCIENCE
      
     I am a life-long learner. I have three university degrees, and I am in my second year of study before I earn my fourth degree. My program of study includes a comprehensive curriculum that will give me the knowledge and experience in setting short and long term goals.
     I have earned a Bachelor's Degree at this university, and, in the process of my studies, I have received tangible as well as intangible rewards. If I continue to be diligent and responsible, I can earn the a Master's Degree, become a Professor, Dean, then Chancellor, in that order.
     
    And that is why I love Taco Mac. Oh, my gosh! Classrooms with big screen tv's, waiters, friendly patrons, kegs, and hundreds of beers lining the walls . . . eye candy for beer lovers, and rewards for imbibing. Imagine all those college classes I attended, miles I drove, papers I wrote, presentations I made. I would like to meet the founder of this chain. What a smart entrepreneur!

     Now there are over 2,000 breweries in the U.S. Thus, hundreds of different beers are sold in restaurants like Taco Mac. Brewversity card carrying members accrue points for each unique beer they consume. . . one point for each different beer. Only six selections are allowed per day.
     My husband accompanies me to class on Friday nights, but he is not interested in furthering his education. He prefers to stick with his usual, boring beverages, Coors, Bud, Michelob Light, which he refers to as his diet choice.
      So 125 different beers to add to my Brewversity card before I earn a Master's Degree. Let's see. My calculations indicate that if I drink my limit of two beers every Friday night, I will be named a Chancellor after 875 more beers. Hoegarrden Belgian is my next choice.
    
    

Larry and I attended the premier of "Remember When Again" at the Essanee theater in New Iberia Thursday night. Talented local performers gyrated and belted out 60's songs on the set of Ye Olde Soda Shoppe, the jail, and streets in The Berry [New Iberia]. 

The script was hilarious, the costuming retro, and the cast a mix of ages, from high school to generation 60's. This musical had all the classic elements of a great plot: love stories, grudges, politically motivated town officials intent on destroying historic sites in the name of progress, concerned citizens organizing protests, marital spats, and generation gaps.

Although the entire cast was amazing, lead actors, the Mayor, a short, loud, bald buffoon, his two sycophants, the town attorney, his sidekick- a madcap flunky, and the owner of the soda shop stole the show. Their long standing feud provided the background for the plot. The script included localisms and double entendres that New Berrians would understand and enjoy . . . like the Navy officer, Admiral Doyle.

The music was phenomenal, the singers unbelievable. Local talent mesmerized or brought the audience to its feet. Glenn Oubre, band member, and Loreauville native, crooned a beautiful love song. His son Trent Oubre, played harmonica and guitar simultaneously in a spot on impersonation of Bob Dylan. The audience roared as the four man group impersonating the Beatles ran down the aisles onto the stage.

I sat next to Jackie Blanchard Eastin. We laughed and reminisced about our adolescence 48 years ago, growing up in Loreauville and St. Martinville in the 60's. Larry sang along very loud to every song. I couldn't believe how many lyrics he remembered. . , Blue Moon, Twist and Shout, Love me Tender, Jailhouse Rock.

At the finale, cast members ran down from the stage and rocked out in the aisles. I couldn't help myself. I had to get up and dance with a cute little cast member for that last song.

Was I at the Majestic on Broadway?

WORD PEJORATION

       My mom, born in 1924 during World War II, sat with me on her front porch swing one balmy spring day last year. Out of the blue she quipped, "We had such gay times when we danced."
        
     What? Did she just say what I thought she said? Surely not. She was a straight as all get out.
        
      It was clearly a good time to tell her how language evolves. But word pejoration didn’t seem like a topic I should discuss with my mother. And I was not about to get into a linguistic oration about the Great Vowel Shift or the fact that Shakespeare spoke Modern English as opposed to Chaucer’s Middle English. So I decided to talk about how familiar words have changed meaning over the years.
  
Me: “Mom, what does hanky mean?”
  
Mom: “As in ‘hanky panky?’’
  
This was not going well.
  
Mom: “What’s the meaning of expletive?”
  
Me: “Bad word.”
  
Did she just steal my lesson?
  
Mom: “It means to fill out. Ex means out. The other part means to fill."
  
Mom: “What’s the meaning of harlot?”
  
Me: “No one you or I know.”
  
Mom: “Originally, it meant rascal.”
  
Me: “I didn’t know that.”
  
Mom: “Do you know the origin of idiot?”
  
Me: “Uh, no. but I think it means someone really stupid.”
  
Mom: “It originally meant a person who is not a clergyman, a layman."
  
Me: “Mom, how do you know all this?”
  
Mom: "I watch EVERYBODY LOVES RAYMOND.”

...Whew. All that in one little conversation. And I read Mencken's American Language.

THOMAS CONNORS DUGAS

       My only brother, Thomas Connors Dugas (Tommy), was born in 1967 in Loreauville, LA, our hometown. I was a junior in high school. He grew up in an estrogen war zone with six sisters and our mother. I sang "Little Robin Redbreast" to him as I rocked him to sleep at night. I left home two years later to attend college. After I graduated from college and married, I moved to Texas, then to Georgia, so I saw little of him as he grew up.

            He is a successful adult and an accomplished writer. His resume indicates that he is “above the fold.” He is brilliant and, I believe, has an eidetic memory. He escaped in books because reading was his manner of coping in our noisy household. I think he read our whole set of Britannica encyclopedias cover to cover. A conversation with him is usually one-sided. He can talk for hours about almost any topic. I am amazed by his repertoire; however, I can never get a word in.

            Our paternal grandfather hunted and fished all year long and was the source of Tommy’s hunting passion. Tommy cut his teeth on an arsenal which included a magazine fed .410 shotgun, a single shot shotgun in 20 ga., and a Winchester Model 61 Pump .22 rifle. He describes himself as a shot gunner. He is a member of the NRA, and despite, my reservations, has continued this practice.

            He was nurtured by our sister Cindy who took him under her wing. She was fifteen years older. I didn’t realize how close they were until I read Tommy’s memoirs of their relationship. She helped him to grow up and was the source of his passion for reading.

            He now lives in Virginia with his wife. We talk occasionally. If I could rewrite my life, I would wish I had not left home so soon. Perhaps being the eldest sibling was a misfortune.

            Happy Brother’s Week to you, Tommy. I love you.

I left Louisiana; it did not leave me.

To Teachers everywhere and to Kelsey

            I retired from a 40 year teaching career four years ago . . . sort of.

            Even now, every August, I prepare mentally for the Back to School rush. I dream about painting my classroom walls purple, setting up my classroom, hanging posters, decorating bulletin boards, and begging the custodians not to replace my ancient blackboard with an ugly white dry erase board.

            In my dream, I challenge myself once again to learn all 150 students’ names in three weeks before their parents barge through the school doors at Open House. I write objectives, fill out lesson plans and temporary class rolls reminding myself that class changes will occur for three to four weeks, so writing names alphabetically in permanent ink in a roll book the first week will just tick me off. Neatness is next to godliness.

           I picture myself in day long meetings every single “teacher workday/preparation day” before that first day of school . . . cockamamie, top-down directives and the powers-to-be figuring out creative ways to read the 100 page faculty handbook to our bright-eyed, smiling faculty. I’d rather read the darn thing at home and during faculty meetings catch up on everyone’s summer adventures and plan Friday afternoon Happy Hour.

           Every August I reach for a 200 page ring binder that is filled with notes, letters, and cards from students, parents, and colleagues that I received over my long career. I kept that binder on my desk at school. When I was stressed out about school matters, I thumbed through the binder so I would be reminded that I was reaching students, and I was making a difference.
           

One of my 12^th grade students in 2008,

Kelsey, created an eighteen page scrapbook for me the year I retired.

She must have spent hours writing that parody of

“The Night Before Christmas”

 to describe my classes’ adventures through World Literature.

It is funny, moving, creative, intelligent, poignant, and clever.

I stored my teaching career in twenty boxes that live in my basement.








This gift I keep in my home office so I could relive her moving and adorable memories of that one semester she was in my class.
           

            I don’t think Kelsey realized how much that gesture meant to me, and I don’t know if
I conveyed to her how moved I was by her gift.

It was not a class assignment. She intended it to be a going away gift.

She had no idea how stressed and sad and relieved I was about retiring.

My dad was in the final stages of Alzheimer’s. He lived ten hours away, and it was difficult for me to visit as often as I would have liked. Career and family commitments got in the way. 

I took Kelsey’s scrapbook with me when I visited him in June, the month after I retired. 

I read it to him and told him how much I was going to miss teaching and how much I appreciated the opportunities

I had to help students excel. He smiled, but I don’t think he understood what I was saying. It still felt good to be able to talk to him about my life.

            Kelsey’s scrapbook symbolizes the most important outcome I tried to instill in my students:

the ability to think creatively and synthesize learning concepts.

She achieved that in a

spectacular way.

And, in the process, she gave me a gift that takes on multi levels of meaning and touches my heart every time I read it.

           

There is so much in my head that I could tell teachers from the experiences I had in the classroom. Educational philosophies aside, I would tell them to know their students. If they do, they will figure out that subject matter means nothing unless it is delivered to each student’s needs and expectations.

“The aim of education should be to teach us rather how to think, than what to think—rather to improve our minds, so as to enable us to think for ourselves, than to load the memory with thoughts of other men.

         Clay P. Bedford

Have a good school year.

           

Mom and Pop Wick

My maternal grandparents, May Segura Vaughn and Willie Wickliff Vaughn were both born in 1898. To put things in perspective, the first insurance policy in the US was issued that year, the first automobile was sold, the US declared war on Spain about Cuba, and  Louisiana adopted a   new constitution with a "grandfather clause" designed to eliminate black voters.

A common practice then was to name a grandmother after her husband; thus, as the wife of my grandfather, Willie Wickliff Vaughn, she was addressed as Mom Wick by her ten grandchildren. We called my grandfather Pop Wick.

Born in 1946, I was her first grandchild. Because my Catholic mother birthed children every two or three years until 1967, my grandmother made me a priority and babysat me at her house next door to my family home. I have fleeting memories of both her and Pop Wick when I was four or five. I remember my Pop Wick holding my hand as we walked down the sidewalk from his house, across Main Street, to his General Merchandise store. He sold everything from tractor parts to costume jewelry. He propped me on the meat counter and fed me ham that he sliced with a big machine. I watched him handwrite customer receipts and punch numbers on a huge NCR cash register. Farmers bartered chickens, milk, pigs, and cows in exchange for food, clothing, or other necessities. He forgave debts to struggling townspeople.

Pop wick had a metal ice container in the back room of the store where he kept ice he bought from the icehouse in town. He lifted huge blocks of ice with a large forceps-like device to cool down some food before refrigeration was common.

Pop Wick hired my family’s next door neighbor and Mom’s best friend, Mrs. Dan Decuir, affectionately called Bebe, to manage the clothing department. She taught me how to measure fabric by turning my head to the left and stretching the cloth from my nose to my right outstretched arm. I never understood why she did that because a yardstick was nailed to fabric table. We wrapped gifts together. I curled the ribbon with scissors while she measured and taped the paper to the gift. We washed cotton feed sacks to sell to seamstresses. I think I wore flour sack clothing until I was a pre-teen. Bebe babysat us sometimes. When we misbehaved,she chased all six of us girls. Like squawking geese, we scattered under beds and in closets. 

My uncle (Parrin) and godfather, and my mom’s only sibling, worked with my grandfather at the store. I loved him like a father. He had an infectious laugh. He let me eat Hershey bars, jawbreakers, Sky Bars, Pay Days, and Oh Henrys until I was green in the face. We drained glass bottles of Coca Cola, Seven Up, Nesbitt, Frosty Root Beer, Cream Soda, and Orange Crush. My dad told me that Pop Wick would go broke because of all the candy and soft drinks we “borrowed.”

Cookie salesmen, Lejeune’s French bread, Holsum, and Evangeline Maid delivery trucks parked in front of the store on Main Street. I remember the aroma of Lejeune’s to this day. When I visit home, the scent of that bread evokes powerful memories of my childhood.

 The porch extending across the storefront became a gathering place for men who smoked unfiltered Lucky Strike, Old Gold, Chesterfield, and Camels. Some even rolled their own “tabak,” a practice popular even in the sixties. Nonck “Uncle” Fat, my dad’s uncle, had a hunchback, a curvature of the spine. He could tell stories and jokes that made the other men fall out of their chairs. He lived in a cabine “cabon,” on Lake Dauterive road, a few miles from Pop’s store. Another porch sitter was Uncle White, Uncle Fat’s older brother, who pounded horseshoes on an anvil in his shop across the street. He was a quiet man who loved to listen to Yankees games on his shop radio. His wife Nanan knotted her long gray hair in a bun at the base of her neck. She cooked white beans with salted meat for our family. One day I found a white hair strand in the beans. My dad told me it was protein. I wasn’t convinced. Yuk!

Carlos, a beloved black man in our village, hitched his horse to a railing in front of the store and offered rides to children. Pop Wick had an outhouse [bathroom, privy] behind the store. Cindy and I locked Carlos in the outhouse one day. We told Pop Wick that he needed to rest after riding all those children on his horse. He made us sit on a bale of hay for 15 hours, or so it seemed.

One of my youngest memories is about my great grandmother’s wake. She lived in a small white wooden house behind Pop Wick’s store. I remember her open casket displayed in the center of her parlor. People dressed in black surrounded the coffin or stood nearby. Someone lifted me above the coffin so I could see my great grandmother. I can visualize that moment very clearly. My mother said she could not believe how clear my memory was because I was two years old when my great  grandmother died.

Pop Wick had store clerks deliver groceries to Mom Wick every day. I don’t ever remember seeing her in the store. She could not read or write, as it was uncommon for rural women during the depression to attend school. She could read numbers, but Pop Wick created recipe cards for her by drawing pictures of ingredients and methods. She made homemade bread, cush cush, smothered chicken, Jambalaya, cakes from scratch made with Royal Baking Powder, and cooked frosting that she made with clear Karo syrup. On Halloween she made Tac Tac, popcorn balls made with Steen’s syrup. At Christmas mom Wick made coffee colored pralines with melted marshmallows. My Aunt Pat, her daughter-in-law, called Mom Wick a short order cook. She whipped up any dish her grandchildren requested. I loathe egg whites, so, for my breakfast she fried an egg yolk with bacon or bologna [we called it baloney].  She invented the first microwave oven. When I attended Summer School at USL, she kept dinner [lunch] hot for me by simmering water in a deep Magnalite pot and setting my food on a plate covered with aluminum foil on top of the cooking pot.

Mom Wick and my mother attended Home Demonstration meetings held in homes. This government funded organization was formed to establish agricultural extension work by trained men and women agents. They disseminated educational information on agriculture and home economics to individuals who did not attend college. She and my mother learned how to preserve and can foods correctly, which they did with large groups of women in the cafeteria of our small high school. They had meetings on nutrition, hygiene, child rearing, crafts, and flower arranging.

Pop Wick bought Mom Wick a black 1050’s Chevrolet that looked like the Batmobile. I was learning to drive my paternal grandfather’s road grader at thirteen. He worked for the Police Jury. I was very young when I sat next to him as he graded ditches. I learned to drive a 5 movement stick shift. Mom Wick, afraid that she would sideswipe other cars with her bat wings car as she drove down Main Street, negotiated the car halfway on the street and halfway down the sidewalk. I sat in the passenger seat and recited my Act of Contrition as people walking on the sidewalk jumped out of her way. She drove this way at five mph all the way to Granger’s store, about one-half mile away. I begged her to park across the street in the church parking lot rather than parallel park. I was determined to learn to drive that car very soon. Because of my road grader driving experience and because few people checked driver’s licenses in our one cop town, my grandfather let me drive the Batmobile as soon as I was thirteen and one-half.

I do not remember days; I remember moments.

HOUSEBOATERS

HOUSEBOATERS are a rare breed. They play in water communities, live for the sunny weekends, and bond with other water lovers.

My husband and I joined the boating community at a nearby lake six years ago when we purchased an 80 foot, double-decker, Sumerset houseboat. We live there on weekends and weekday holidays. We soon realized that like small towns, boat owners bond with each other on docks in marinas. Personalities, lifestyles, peculiarities, and idiosyncrasies become apparent very quickly.

We also purchased a pontoon boat for trips to restaurants, water parks, and short excursions. We soon noticed clever boat names painted on houseboats, cruisers, cigarette boats, and sailboats that seemed to reflect the owner’s occupation, wish, situation, or sense of humor. GOT DEBT, WESPENTIT, BROTHERS-IN-LOSS, MOM’S MINK, and MOMAS PIST are huge ocean-going cruisers. SEA YA is always out on the lake. SIR OSSIS OF THE RIVER and SHIP-FACED are very drunk friends. SHIP FOR BRAINS hopefully is not a brain surgeon.  HELL FROZE OVER is what he told his wife when he bought that boat. HER HARLEY and GAS HAUG are very fast and very long, gas guzzler cigarette boats. THE OTHER WOMAN, WETTED BLISS, MISSED STRESS, WET DREAM, WET SPOT, and EAT, DRINK, AND RE-MARRY are self-explanatory.

The cruiser facing our houseboat is named NA DEUS. I told my husband that these people were probably atheists. I thought, “Is this a Latin name?” translation: God not available. I was too polite to ask. Sue and Dan introduced themselves, and I realized that their boat name was Sue Dan spelled backwards.

The GUMBALL cannot ever be used as a getaway boat for anyone fleeing authorities. A huge picture of a gumball machine surrounded by colorful gumballs decorates both sides of this unique houseboat. A large gumball machine stands in the middle of the den, and the walls are speckled with colored gumballs. A decorator’s nightmare….

Good friends of ours knew the owners, so we were able to step inside the largest houseboat in the world; a three-story 100 foot behemoth featured on the television show HOUSEBOATERS. The bottom deck features a huge media room the size of a movie theater. Every seat is a recliner lounger. Showcases of Lalique and Baccarat line the walls of the formal banquet room. A statue of Marilyn Monroe in an erotic pose reflects in the mirrored walls and ceiling in the master bedroom. The red themed décor in the den screams boudoir. A sheik now owns this wonder of the water. Its former owner lives in a very tiny jail cell, the result of his lack of judgment in offering an illegal substance to an incognito DEA “party” guest.

A wealthy antiques dealer in Atlanta has a 46 foot Rough Rider XP cigarette boat that faces our houseboat. He owns 120 vessels at marinas all over the world. His appearances at the dock merit much attention when he races into the parking lot driving a BMW convertible, Mercedes, Aston Martin, or a Bentley. Escorting scantily clad women wearing clanky jewelry, stilettos, and painted faces, he inspires our husbands to hose, wipe, shine, or congregate outside their boats.

Like homes in a subdivision, boat owners come and go. Because of the declining economy, For Sale signs are posted on boats more frequently these days. Consequently, we have met countless couples and singles who coffee klatch with us in the mornings, beach out on islands in the vast lake, pile into pontoons or cruisers to dine at lakeside restaurants, or host weekend dinner parties.

When I told my dad that we were thinking about buying a boat, he said, “My advice? Stand in the shower and tear up $100 dollar bills.”  He was correct. Boating is an expensive hobby, but the adventure is worth it.

TEACHING

[Picture of me dressed as a Geisha for our Chinese Japanese lesson]

     I retired four years ago after a forty year  career teaching English/Language Arts.  I still study. I am taking French classes and listening to French speakers on television and CDs. Although my family’s ancestry is French, they spoke a Louisiana dialect of French, much like Canadian French.

     This week I began my fortieth piano lesson. Although I played flute and piccolo in middle and high school and can read music, this effort is one of the most challenging of my life. Playing different notes and different rhythms with each hand and reading treble and bass clef at the same time is very difficult. I played my first jazz piece this week, and I thought the synapses in my brain would explode.

     Do I miss teaching? Yes, I miss the daily dialogue with young people. I miss their candor, enthusiasm, intelligence, sincerity, and those teachable moments. I miss seeing their faces light up when I asked their permission to read their PROSE MODELS [excellent, well thought out writing assignments] to the class.

     I miss my classroom: the painted ceiling tiles, the Mardi Gras masks, the comic strips students created, their poetry, web pages, song lyrics, their original music and lyrics, and plays that represented their interpretations of literary works we studied.

    I believe that every student has an individual intelligence. Some are left brained and mathematically or technologically gifted; some are right brained and creative or musically inclined; some are gifted creating with their hands, and many think out of the box. Those talents are gifts, and I made every effort to give students opportunities to improve their grades by creating EGOs [extra grade opportunities]. A student who had difficulty conceptualizing a literary work on a writing assignment, one who had extreme test anxiety, or those who had stage fright when speaking to their classmates had opportunities to demonstrate their individual intelligences.

     My teaching experiences were exciting, memorable, and frightening. I taught in fourteen schools in three states, moving from one to another to gain experience and expertise.

     During my first year of teaching, I was assigned to teach in a rolling classroom [a trailer]. As I walked around the room helping students to conjugate verbs, I fell through the floor. My students raced to help me. I calmly told them to return to their seats and to continue conjugating the verb PLUMMET. I managed to climb out on my own, dust off my ensemble, and resume teaching the lesson.

     My first effort to adjust to a new school was to gain the trust of the custodians who felt alienated from educated professionals. They fed me invaluable information about other faculty members and school administrators. They offered to help me after school on the days I worked late into the night. They told me stories about student transgressions. Bruce, the head custodian at a high school, stuttered. I asked him how he liked his job. He told me that one afternoon when he cleaned the bookkeeping room after school, he heard strange noises near the computers. He haltingly told me that two students “were ri-ri-ri-ridin’ that train.” I didn’t understand what he meant until I heard that song lyric on the radio. I was quite certain that cleaning classrooms was not his greatest challenge.

     In the seventies, I taught in a high school where no classrooms had interior walls, an experimental educational theory pilfered from California educational gurus. Classrooms were bordered with green chalkboards mounted on wheels. On the other side of the chalkboard, a drama teacher dressed in leotards lay on the floor to demonstrate breathing techniques to her students. She told them to BREATHE. My students heard the word BREED. Every male in my class asked to observe the class next door. I reminded them that drama was a very difficult, enervating, strange elective.

     I was assigned restroom and hall duty between classes in the same school. I smelled an odor like burning rope emanating from the girls’ restroom. I walked in, checked each stall, and realized that students had been smoking something funky. I summoned the principal who told me that unless I saw students with a lit cigarette in their possession, he could do nothing. He noticed the odd smell and asked custodians to remove the ceiling tiles. They found a huge stash of marijuana hidden in the ceiling. Now I knew why some of my students’ eyes were glazed and bloodshot and why they told me they were starving.

     One year our senior class glued all the classrooms doors shut so no one could gain access. Another time they hid mice in a school closet and released them during a class change. I stood on top of my desk and gave students permission to do the same. Another year they stole the Ronald McDonald figure from a local McDonald’s and placed it on the school roof. Innocent pranks.

     The year I taught American Literature, I reviewed Hawthorne’s THE SCARLET LETTER. After leading students in a discussion of important symbols in the work, I rolled down the movie screen then walked to my desk to retrieve my copy of the text. The class’ raucous laughter befuddled me. I turned to look at the screen and someone had taped a picture of a scantily clad, buxom model to the movie screen with the name HESTER PRYNNE written in bold letters on the image. I remarked that had Hester Prynne looked like that, she would have been drawn and quartered. My education professors did not teach a strategy to deal with that situation.

     I could write a book about my exciting teaching experiences.  If I were asked to advise a beginning teacher, I would say that a sense of humor is essential.  If you care enough to make students laugh and you laugh at yourself, you will establish a climate of trust in the classroom. Humor is a universal language.

On Death and Dying

     I hit the Favorites button on my phone this morning to call my mom, a daily ritual I established over the past few years. I listened to the message, “This is not a working number; please check the listing.”  I know she’s not there, but the reality is too real. So I pretend.  She is on a trip somewhere with Dad. She will collect lots of travel brochures and write a paragraph in her journal every day.

     I want more than fleeting memories. Everything I took for granted seems so ephemeral now, and seemingly insignificant things carry so much meaning. . . the scent of Toujours Moi, a fuschia hand towel, the bench she sat on to primp, a delicate camellia.  

     I know her attitudes, values, and mannerisms are in me. Her aphorisms ring in my head: “Keep up appearances….Offer it up [to the saints in Heaven]….Early to bed…..”

     I want to hear the intonations in her speech, see her perfectly coiffed, dressed and bejeweled in purple. I even miss her challenging habits…that forever and a day grace before meals ending with a litany of every deceased person in our family, her constant demand for attention, and her persuasive talent of coaxing [manipulating] people to follow her agendas.

     Condolences imply that death has advantages. “She’s in Heaven with your dad…; she’s in a better place; her suffering is over; brighter days will come; she looks good [in the coffin].”  Really?

      The reality sets in as I look at her for the last time, just as the viewing of the body is ended. I worry about how cold she is and hope she is aware of the beautiful flowers and the grieving mourners.

     I am beyond grief and tears when I hear my five year old great niece ask, “Who’s that?” as she stares at the body of her great grandmother. Out of the mouths of babes….

     What is the prescription for the loss of a mother? Elisabeth Kubler-Ross lists a progression of stages we travel through after the death of a loved one. I prefer to remain in the denial stage a bit longer.

Anna Mae Vaughn Dugas September 23, 1924-February 16, 2012

My 87 year old mother, Anna Mae Vaughn Dugas, died last week. I grew up in the Village of Loreauville, Louisiana, USA, population 997, three numbers short of being classified a town. Our Dugas family consists of seven children, six females and one male, ages 49 to 65.

My sisters Wanda and Mercedes still live there. Our sister Cindy died a few years ago, a short time after the death of our Dad. Willette lives in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, USA; my brother Tommy lives in Vienna, Virginia near Washington, District of Columbia, USA; and I live in Marietta, Georgia, USA. Someone described our family as an estrogen war zone.

The following message is directed to the people of my hometown of Loreauville, Louisiana:

Everyone who loses a parent loses the family anchor. Loreauvillians have unique situations, because many of your nuclear families still live near you. So, for those of us who live away, your desire to maintain connections is very meaningful.


Thank you for your condolences, both public and private, and your attendance at Mom's wake, funeral, cemetery ceremony, and celebration of her life at our family home.


My two children, Braden, 40, and Alicia, 35, are fluent in French. At the wake, the viewing of the body before the funeral mass, they were mesmerized by the recitation of the rosary in French by the Catholic Daughters, an organization of women dedicated to prayer, devotion to the saints, service to the community, and all things Catholic. I explained to them that their grandmother was the last living founding member of the Loreauville Catholic Daughters.

Many of you could not attend the funeral because it was held on a workday. I know you realize that the pastor of St. Joseph's Church, Father Buddy Hebert, is a godsend to the Loreauville community.

He delivered an uplifting, poignant homily. He eulogized Mom as she should have been described, a three dimensional character: personality, inner character, and actions.

Father Buddy spoke about his first time conducting Sunday mass in Loreauville. Mom waited to speak with him at the conclusion of the mass. He realized from that moment she was going to be a significant, formidable, and challenging person in the Loreauville community.

As he spoke, I pictured my Mom's soul being carried to Heaven on angels' wings. And throughout that journey, she lectured them on angelic behavior.

I will miss her, but her legacy of faith, community service, and dedication to family will live on in our memories.

Talia and the Nutcracker December 2011

The week before Christmas, I took my nine year old granddaughter Talia to see The Nutcracker at the Fox Theater in Atlanta.

I watched her dress up in the holiday outfit I bought for her to wear to the performance. She hoisted up a long sleeved, black taffeta dress from the floor to her shoulders. The skirt had a stiff tulle overlay. Then she put on a sleeveless back fur vest and red sequined shoes. I brushed her long, brown hair into a side pony tail and clipped on a red sequined barrette.

We arrived at the Fox at 1:00 p.m. for the 2:00 p.m. performance. A huge crowd milled around outside near the box office and inside the lobby: parents carrying small children, grandparents with grandchildren in tow, groups of young students, and adults wanting to generate some Christmas spirit.

We maneuvered our way through the crowd surrounding the gift shop. I wanted Talia to select something significant that would recreate the memorable performance she was about to see. Her eye caught a sparkling Nutcracker ornament suspended from a red and green ribbon hanging above the display case. She told me she wanted to hang the ornament on the miniature Christmas tree in her bedroom. I hoped that the ornament would be a yearly reminder of this day.

As we moved toward the theater entrance, we stood for a few minutes to listen to a child choir sing Christmas carols. Surrounded by Christmas trees decorated with colorful lights, the holiday music, and a crowd dressed for the occasion, I could sense Talia’s excitement.

After settling into our seats, I gave Talia some background about the performance she was about to experience.

The Russian Stahlbaum family has a Christmas Eve party. The children, Clara and Fritz, dance around as they await the arrival of their godfather, Drosselmeyer, a toymaker. He gives Clara a Nutcracker which becomes the hit of the party. Fritz, her brother, receives a drum. Angry that Clara receives a better gift, Fritz yanks it away from Clara and breaks it. Their godfather waves a handkerchief and the Nutcracker is magically restored.

As the family goes to bed, Clara sneaks downstairs and falls asleep holding the Nutcracker in her arms. At midnight, magical things start to happen. The toys come to life and an army of mice battle them. The Nutcracker fights the mice, but they capture him.

In the land of Snow, the Nutcracker turns into a prince, and takes Clara to a winter wonderland, then to the Land of Sweets, where she meets the Sugar Plum Fairy, who performs six dances.

At this point, Talia begins to hum the familiar music from the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. I tell her that the story ends when Clara wakes up from her dream holding the Nutcracker.

As the performance begins, Talia whispers to me, “Grandma, I’m so excited! This is my first ballet!”

Milestones in life create memories. I told myself when Talia was born, that I would endow her with memorable experiences.

Yesterday, we spent the entire day placing holiday pictures of her in albums. Over the years, we have put together picture albums depicting every year of her life.

She’s growing into a beautiful, intelligent young lady.  I know that as she grows older, she may distance herself as young people do when they become more independent and fill their lives with many activities. I am going to try my best to keep her grounded. She may not realize the value of these experiences with Grandma until she’s an adult. But when she does, she will understand the significance of time over toys.