HOMETOWN VISIT-- SW Louisiana September 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MAGNALITE COOKWARE

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

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

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

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


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


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


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

And Aluminum and Magnesium can easily be alloyed together.


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


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


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


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


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

And now you know the rest of the story.

Une Boîte Très Grande [A Very Big Box]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does anyone else sense a Boudreaux-Thibodeaux joke here?

BRAGGIN' RIGHTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MYSTICK KREWE DES ACADIENS Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FAST TIMES AT LOREAUVILLE HIGH

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

REIKI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BYE, BYE B.B.

 Granddaughter Talia holding BB

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

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

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

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

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

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

We love you, BB. Goodbye and good rest.

JACKIE'S FIGHT NIGHT

The BIG ROCKOUT, a professional boxing event in Atlanta held at the Westin Peachtree on Saturday, August 28th, showcased some of the best professional boxers in the Southeast. Only two women participated in the six bout challenge. Our group of twenty friends attended to watch and support our good friend Jackie Breitenstein who boxed Leslie McNamara in an exhibition fight.


Jackie, born in Houston, Texas, in 1976, is a dedicated recreational therapist working with patients at Shepherd Spinal Center in Atlanta. Jackie was awarded MVP on the University of Texas rowing team in her senior year. She then attended graduate school at UNC. As a light welterweight boxer since 2001, slugger Jackie has won Knock Outs in all four of the boxing matches she’s boxed in. A natural talent, she can mop the floor with a boxing opponent. This soft-spoken beautiful brunette trains relentlessly at Decatur Boxing Club in Atlanta with world champion professional boxing trainer Terri Moss.

Jackie’s opponent cancelled at the last minute, so she was forced to fight an exhibition match. Swathed in a white silk hooded robe trimmed in red, Jackie, pumping and jogging as she entered the room to the sounds of D.J. Kalid’s ALL I DO IS WIN, followed by a posse of female boxing friends, brought the crowd to its feet. She’s an Atlanta favorite.

Using a series of hooks, cross punches, counterpunches, and power punches, Jackie nailed her opponent who, after four rounds, was saved by the bell. The 900 person crowd, dressed to the nines, included Evander Holyfield, who was there to accept the Ring of Honor for his contributions and accomplishments in boxing.

Great entertainment and such skill deserves appreciation! I can't wait until the October boxing event when our friend Mike Brown debuts as THE SITUATION!

SUMMER PLANTING 2010

Summer's almost gone

Almost gone


Yeah, it's almost gone


Where will we be


When the summer's gone?


-------The Doors

Such a busy, intolerably hot summer! Just five minutes in the yard tending to my plants, and my mascara is running down my face! Heat indexes of 110 do not encourage gardening or other outdoor activities. I refuse to water my plants every day in this torrid heat, especially those down the hill of my front yard surrounding the mailbox. I had to figure out another strategy to highlight my yard with color.

So I purchased gorgeous orange SILK poufy carnation bunches and jammed those plastic stems in the soil. The azaleas and other green leafy plants provided a stunning contrast to those perfectly- uniform flowers. Several weeks later I noted a commendation for prettiest mailbox in our subdivision newsletter [600 homes] for our address. Merveilleux!

I drove back to Garden Ridge the next day to purchase varying autumn hues of more SILK flowers-bronze, gold, yellow, chestnut. I jammed bunches and bunches of silk flower combinations in two large shopping carts. The check-out lady asked if I was a decorator. I told her I am a horticulturist experimenting with growing fake flowers. Her expression was priceless.

These colorful fakes I planted in the garden boxes on the left side of our property, along our steep driveway, and surrounding the back of our one acre lot. I stuck ruffly SILK purple gardenias alongside my statue of the Blessed Virgin in the front yard. I did plant Knock Out roses there earlier this summer, but they look tattered. I was all over this phenomenon wondering if anyone suspected my equivocation. My handyman asked what fertilizer I used. My husband said all my hard work with my plants was finally paying off.

I never planned to deceive anyone. My priority has always been to create beautiful surroundings. With my fall planting accomplished, I shall now have more time for reading.

MAN CLOTHES

Since Parisian closed, Belk is on my list of stores to check out occasionally, especially during end of the season sales. After perusing men's clothing, I noticed elegantly cut and tailored men's lined summer sport jackets, regularly priced at hundreds of dollars marked down 50-60% this month. Purchased four light weight coats and coordinated with silky tailored slacks. A light blue sports coat to wear with dressy jeans was mailed to our home from another Belk store because my husband's size was unavailable at this store. Paired with a tailored peach-colored srriped shirt, he looked dapper. The clothing choices were easy, but getting my husband to try clothes on for two hours was challenging.

FASHION FINDS

Catalogs stuff my mailbox. Most I discard; however, METROSTYLE has great buys on sleeveless hip-length flowing cardigans [strange label because these lightweight tops have a summery feel]. Wear these over sleeveless summer tops to cover up that mid-life middle. These classy tops elongate your look, especially if you pair them with like colors. Available in solids, animal prints, and southwestern print.

Accessories, shoes and bags are my favorite finds in this magazine. Bought these wedges in silver. They're a takeoff on a very expensive Marc Jacobs style.

Need some wedge tennis shoes? Check out the Sketchers on this site.

FASHION FINDS

Strolled into T J Maxx for a quick review of new merchandise. Thursdays are great days to do this. Voila! New arrival: a luxurious silver polyester-acrylic-spandex fully lined long-sleeved belted knee length VERTIGO lightweight spring coat marked down. Sleeve tabs have magnetic buttons. Original tag read $200, clearanced at $60. Very classy and conmfortable. Wore to Broadway show in NYC in June.

DINNER AND A MOVIE

My daughter and daughter-in-law took me to dinner and a movie last night-belated birthday present. We dined at the WORLD PEACE CAFE in Sandy Springs. The two story, airy restaurant is Buddhist themed in every way; paintings of Buddhist monks; soft chants in the background music, large circular paper balloons swirling between floor, and delicious organic food. Notices about meditation classes and volunteering grace this place. I wore a large PEACE pendant, a large PEACE ring, and large PEACE earrings. My daughter said I looked like a throwback to the sixties. Hul-lo! My dinner salad included a vegetarian burger surrounded by beet strings, carrots curls, cucumbers and chickpeas. I've never felt so healthy! The pleasant atmosphere makes you want to speak in hushed whispers. And your stress levels out. And you want to mediate.

Then . . .  we saw SEX AND THE CITY II. The shoes, the clothes, the accessories, the shopping. I was beside myself. Although I had never viewed any episode of SEX AND THE CITY, this movie appealed to my shallow nature.  Should I, like Carrie, wear stilettos, 24 hours a day? Is there enough drama in my life? Should I lunch out more often? Alas, Charlotte is a bit too simpery-dimpery, Miranda too driven. And Samantha will likely combust if her sex meter continues to climb.  Living in New York City sounds so glamorous--for Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda. I do love NYC, but after visits there, I, like Candide, long for the solitude of my garden.

An Abu Dhabi sheik,enamoured with Samantha's public relations expertise [no pun intended], invites the four women to stay in an exotic, glamorous $22,000 suite in his magnificent hotel. They fly on his private airline, and upon arrival in Abu Dhabi, learn that each has been assigned handsome male servants who dress like Princes of Persia. At that point, lounging around the pool, sitting around their fancy boudoir sipping cocktails, shopping at the bazaar, riding camels, or dining under a Ritz Carlton-like tent in the desert, they wear haute couture outfits: long flowing gowns, bodacious jewelery, and sexy summer strapless dresses. The palpable irony in this movie is obvious. Four sexy American women garbed in glam provide a stark contrast to the oppressed Muslim women draped from head to toe in Abayas.

Then, of course, Samantha's lacivious behavior changes the entire dynamic of the plot.

Throw out the gossipy talk, the girly interventions, the philosophizing about life, and feast your eyes on the fashion.

Thank you, Alicia and Sloane, for such a wonderful evening!

NEW YORK, NEW YORK

NEW YORK PALACE HOTEL

http//www.newyorkpalace.com/hotel-new-york

Allstate President's Conference, June 2010

Frugal is a word I cannot define; therefore, my husband prefers to let me think we are destitute. So when he won this Allstate recognition of the top ten percent of agents [1600] in the entire country in this unstable economy, I was pretty impressed.

Allstate recognitions over the years have been amazing. We've traveled all over the world. The company wanted to stay state-side this year because of the onerous tactics permeating big business over the past few years. Helping the economy here in the states was also a consideration.

The trip to New York was fantastic. Arriving at The New York Palace, our hotel, late afternoon on Monday, we were greeted with chocolates and wine in our room, which faced St. Patrick's Cathedral. We attended morning mass there.

Later that evening, Allstate hosted an early evening cocktail party near the skating rink at Rockefeller Center. Roving servers enticed us with cocktails and hors d'oeurves. At 9:00 we walked to Times Square with another couple then back to the hotel

Tuesday after the hotel brunch, Allstate hosted a recognition ceremony and lunch at the new Yankee Stadium. Giant video screens scrolled names of agents from each of the regions. The CEO of Allstate addressed the crowd, and NYPD bagpipers and officers in full dress saluted us. During lunch, singers entertained. Quite a treat for Larry who loves baseball.

That evening we dined at a wonderful Italian Restaurant just off of Madison Avenue. The lamb in plum sauce was amazing. We then found a small restaurant bar with a sing along piano player who had been stationed in Augusta, GA in the forties.

Wednesday we toured China Town and had lunch, alfresco, at our favorite Italian restaurant then had cannoli's from Ferraro's Bakery in Little Italy. By then I had to have a power nap to prepare for the evening gala.

BUT FIRST, I had to bedazzle the tacky black Allstate badge that we had to wear to every event. I sent Larry into a high-end hootchie-mama store off Madison Avenue to purchase a rhinestone-covered tank top. At the hotel I cut it up and super-glued sequins on my name badge-front, back, and on the neck loop. I wore a silver sequined ensemble to the gala; now I felt totally accessorized!

Allstate took the entire group to Battery Park for cocktails, then we had to embark on ferries to get to Ellis Island for the evening event.  The red carpet was laid out to lead us to the dinner event. Beautiful tables were set outdoors on the lawn. Strolling servers brought us wine, appetizers, the main courses, and dessert. Keith Urban, our surprise guest, entertained the crowd.

Thursday evening we dined at Sardi's, then walked across the street to see MEMPHIS, a Broadway musical based on the story of a DJ who plays black rock and roll music on a Memphis radio station challenging the segregated music industry during the sixties in Memphis, Tennessee. Rousing music, hilarious but poignant script, and choreography that makes you want to dance.

Friday we strolled down Madison looking for a notary for papers Larry needs for new agency he is purchasing as a legacy for our children and grandchildren. He's hiring more staff so he can semi-retire, two words that frighten the dickens out of me. I have a perfectly happy unsupervised daily life schedule as of now. What if he asks me what I'm doing every five minutes?

Then we awaited our transportation to LaGuardia. Very nice trip. Next year; San Francisco and Hawaii.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Tomorrow, May 14th is all about me. I plan to attend weekly Friday morning mass and Perpetual Adoration with my husband, have breakfast at IHop, let my maids houseclean, sun bask at the lake, read a  book, and have dinner with friends. Simple stuff.

I shall be 64 years old. How the heck did that happen? I remember as a child thinking that only grandmothers were 64, and I wondered what I would be like when I arrived at that aged number. Well, here it is!

I realize that my emotional age does not match my chronological age. I feel young, except when I Jazzercise 6 days in a row for an hour each day and have to empty a bottle Advil bottle into my mouth to ease the pain in my muscles.

My career is over, and my life has changed drastically. Instead of basking in the joy of watching my children grow up and become independent, my grandchildren bring me a different kind of joy. I have more time to observe their little milestones, spend time reading to and entertaining them, and bother their parents with my wisdom about childrearing.

I am botoxed, manicured, and pedicured. I always knew I would not age well. I sleep with Frownies on my forehead, magical creams on my face, and whitening strips on my teeth. I wish my body would defy gravity. I am considering plastic surgery, but I want my grandchildren to see my expressions, so maybe not . . . .

I don't suppose any woman considering a facelift would ask her plastic surgeon to make her look like a grandmother.

I have the wisdom to look back on my life and consider the choices I made. Wisdom trumps the challenges of risk-taking. Youth is terribly frightening. What adult wants to relive the angst of adolescence, the stress of the job market, or the worry of childearing? There is a sense of calm and confidence about life at this age. We have the option of becoming self-serving and independent. Climbing the ladder of success or obsessing about minor life details suddenly do not seem so important. An afternoon spent napping, luxuriating in the sun's rays, reading a good book, watching a grandchild sleep, contemplating, or enjoying the beauty of a flower garden is soul-fulfilling.

Life is good.

MY LIFE WITH THE SAINTS

Pick up a stack of prayer cards of saints and you’ll notice that few are smiling. Most are martyrs who devoted their lives to prayer, worked to care for the sick and destitute, or died horrific deaths defending tenets of the Catholic Church. Mel Brooks’ HISTORY OF THE WORLD deprecates church traditions, but you can’t help laughing at the hyperbole-- monks diving off of cliffs or priests who stutter or speak with a lisp.

Reading about the saints does not seem fun or enticing. But pick up a copy of MY LIFE WITH THE SAINTS by James Martin, SJ, and you’ll love the storytelling, the wisdom and humor, and the manner in which this Jesuit priest and scholar viewed the saints during his life to help him survive spiritual and human struggles.

At twenty-eight, a graduate of Wharton and an executive at General Electric, dissatisfied with his life in the business world, Martin, inspired by viewing a PBS program about the Catholic priest Thomas Merton, joined the Jesuit order. Like those of us Catholics who pray to favorite saints, Martin discovered that his fellow Jesuits also developed strong devotions to their favorite saints. He began to read biographies of the saints and reflect upon their places in history, their sense of humor [Pope John XXIII}, their courage [Joan of Arc], their intelligence and will [St. Theresa of Lisieux- the Little Flower].

The book is organized chronologically, and each of the eighteen chapters is devoted to a specific saint. Read about poor Bernadette, who was chosen by the Virgin Mary to deliver a warning to the world, and no one believed her. Or Pope John XXIII who, when asked by a reporter how many people worked at the Vatican, responded, “About half of them.” [Read THE WIT AND WISDOM OF GOOD POPE JOHN].

St. Peter’s shortcomings and St. Francis of Assisi’s dissolute youth will help you understand the human condition and the struggles ordinary men endured before God touched them and helped them to be really good people.

Martin reminds us that we don’t have to live in a cave and pray all day or work with the poor in Uganda to achieve sanctity. He speculates that God wants us to be ourselves. He reminds us that the Second Vatican Council discusses “the universal call to holiness” which means that ordinary people can grow closer to God and achieve moments of special grace. Martin offers this text as an encouragement “ in our journey with the saints.”

I read this book, a chapter a week, on Friday mornings. While not a page turner, it is very educational and inspirational.

Happy Birthday

Happy 8th birthday, Talia!

CHANEL AND PRADA

Last time Larry and I visited New York, we returned to China Town for an afternoon of shopping. Any woman who visits China Town returns home with imitation [fake] designer handbags, sunglasses, or wallets.


I entered a shoe store and the owner asked me in hushed tones,”You want Chanel?”

“Do I want Chanel? I even taught my pedicurist to paint a Chanel symbol on my two big toes!” I exclaimed.

He led me to a back room. While Larry watched a vendor hawking raw fish next door, I followed the store owner to the back room. He used three keys to unlock the door. I peeked inside and at least 15 women fondling fake Chanel, Prada, and Ralph Lauren merchandise turned to glance at me as I entered the room.

I heard a click as the manager locked the door. I chatted with a beautiful woman of color who told me she and her group of friends were on a church mission. She asked where I was from. When I told her “Atlanta, “she said, “We’re from Lawrenceville,” so I said, “Actually, I live in Marietta. So we don’t live that far from each other!”

Then, I thought,” A church mission? Why are they purchasing illegal merchandise?”

As I turned my attention to shopping, I realized that possibly 500 handbags lined tables, walls, and hung from the ceiling! This was a shopping mecca!

I grabbed a large Chanel bag hanging from the ceiling. Perfect! I unzipped it and located the forged authenticity papers in a side pocket. The price tag read $150. Reasonable. But then, as I ran my hand across the outside of the bag and sniffed it, I realized that this bag was imitation leather!

I turned to exit the room, and one of the church ladies, carrying two Pradas and a Chanel wallet headed to the door. She turned the door knob and realized the door was locked. Turning to face me, she asked, “Why did he lock us in here?”

Joking, I answered, “Because he plans to stuff us in shipping crates, load us on foreign ships, and make us sex slaves in China.” What were they thinking? We were perusing and purchasing illegal merchandise!

I heard a piercing wail emanate from the back of the room. Then all the other women, screaming, rushed the door. Thankfully, I could hear the store manager’s keys unlocking the door. They ran like hell into the street.

My husband stood behind the store manager. “What happened in there?”

“I guess they didn’t like the quality of the merchandise,” I said.

THE JUNIPER MASSACRE

I love digging in the soil. My love affair with indoor and outdoor plants began long ago. I have a special relationship with every plant I nurture.

I have a green thumb. My plants flourish because of my attention to them. When I¿m in a planting mood, I spend all day outside, and, by the end of the day, I am covered head to toe with dirt.

Georgia soil is not user friendly. It is rocky, red clay mixed with some soil. Essential tools are a pickax, a strong shovel, and a hoe. I buy small plants, start them in pots, then transfer them to my yard.

Fifteen years ago, I purchased a 12 inch peace lily at Kmart. It is seven feet tall and the first thing you see when entering the two story foyer of our home. I have transferred it to larger and larger planters every year. My husband swears it is of alien origin and will attack us one night.

I tended to my flowering pink spireas for many years. They grew to a ten foot height. The hydrangeas that lined the railing of our backyard deck sported massive blue flowers that I treated with coffee grounds to change the flower hues. Huge yellow forsythias, three of them, peeked around the corner of our house. Each spring I reveled in the beauty of my plants.

Then, the yard workers showed up.

While I was out shopping, my husband employed three workers to spread 200+ bales of pine straw on the three islands in our front yard and around my many azaleas.

They were also instructed to prune plants. Instead they chopped off my spireas, my hydrangeas, and my forsythia. My hydrangeas died, my spireas grew back looking like gnarled trees near a witch¿s habitat, and my forsythia looked feeble.

When I returned home, I was livid. I accosted those workers in the best Spanish I could manage. One of them asked my husband if I was eres loca [born crazy] and said they would not return unless he planned to be there to supervise.

My anger increased every time I walked out on our property. Then I remembered the eight 15 foot junipers gracing the front of our house. Junipers cannot be pruned, so the workers braced them with tacky pieces of wood that they covered with pine straw. I kept waiting for the junipers to be replaced.

So I got to work. I went to Home Depot and purchased a nose mask and an electric tree lopper. I climbed up a ladder and starting from the top, I lopped off branch after branch until the only part remaining of those junipers were the chunky short parts near the soil. I threw all the branches in the driveway. My husband could not drive up the driveway because the ten foot high pile of branches prevented his access to our home.

Smart man that he is, he knocked on our neighbor¿s door and inquired about my demeanor. My neighbor said, ¿Your wife has been cutting down trees for six hours. I call it the Juniper Massacre. It might not be safe to go home just yet. Would you like a drink?¿

I purchased ten full grown azaleas to the tune of $70 apiece. My husband hired the illegals to plant those azaleas the same day.

That¿s what I call efficiency.

And, yes, I am trying to work on my patience.

BLENDING OF FAITHS

In this picture my Jewish grandchildren are mesmerized by a recording of my voice reading THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

When our son announced his engagement to his fiancée, I knew that my future grandchildren would grow up practicing their mother's religion. My son remains Catholic, and his wife is the third child I never had. I love her as I love my own children. She is an amazing mother.

My two grandchildren attend private Jewish schools. Every day they assimilate and practice their faith in an academic atmosphere.

I knew I had to reconcile and acknowledge the two faiths so my grandchildren would understand the importance of both religions. When they visit, we pray before meals. I recite the Catholic Grace and end with a litany, recitations of names of deceased family members, and the sign of the Cross. My grandchildren sing Bracha Hamotzie together. They end with a Sign of the Cross. I enjoy that. Later I may correct them.

Learning Hebrew prayers and Jewish traditions gives them a sense of belonging, of constancy, and of family cohesiveness.

They celebrate Catholic traditions with us. Christmas, of course, is secular to them, although I have explained and they understand and respect the historical significance of the Christ child. After receiving gifts on the eight days of Hanukkah, they revel in opening lots of Christmas packages.

Easter, for us, the most important Catholic holiday, for them means coloring eggs, Easter egg hunts in our front yard, and colorful spring clothing. They see our Lenten traditions and understand the importance of that time for us.

Mezuzahs hangs over their bedroom doors as holy water fonts grace ours. Crucifixes, displayed in several rooms of our home, inspire questions from these two precocious children. Skipping the shocking historical context of the cross as the popular execution method in biblical times, I explain this icon as an important symbol of Catholicism, as the Jewish star of David is to their faith.

As we live as a part of our Catholic community, my grandchildren learn, play, and practice Jewish traditions in school, in their neighborhood, and with friends.

Karen Armstrong, a powerful religious historian, notes that the one philosophical constant in the major religions is COMPASSION. If my grandchildren live compassionately, I shall feel proud.

St. Augustine said, ¿To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary. To one without faith, no explanation is possible.¿

GIRLS OF RIYADH

I picked up this book on a whim. My fascination with Muslim culture began years ago when I assigned my twelfth grade honors students Azar Nafisi's text READING LOLITA IN TEHRAN. Nafisi assigns forbidden Western texts to her college students who meet in the basement of her home in Tehran to discuss literary style, themes in popular Western texts such as THE GREAT GATSBY, and the diparity between cultural norms in the West as opposed to customs during the Ayatollah's reign in Iran.

Girls of Riyadh is a delightful read.

A young female, Rajaa Alsanea, first time author, creates a narrator who sends emails to subscribers of her online list serve. The narrator links the lives of her four wealthy, elite young Muslim girlfriends as they struggle through love relationships, professional responsibilities, and the drama that ensues when they must deal with very strict Muslim customs in every aspect of their lives.

The internet provides a way for them to communicate and provide support to each other.

In Saudi Arabia men and women are forbidden to mix. Virginity is protected at all costs. Special police enforce strict codes: a woman caught with a man suffers public humiliation and a trip to jail.

Reviewers who compare this book with SEX AND THE CITY are off the mark. Intelligent, professional Saudi women living in this modern world chat online as they tell us funny, sad, and profound stories about their lives. I loved the book.

SLI USL ULL The University of Louisiana

Southwestern Louisiana Institute-University of Southwestern Louisiana- The University of Louisiana

I graduated from USL in 1968 with a Bachelor's degree in English Education, minors in Library Science and French. My husband's departure from the university was delayed because of his love of scholarship and Bouree, not necessarily in that order. I immediately entered Graduate school, but my Master's was postponed until the 80's while we moved from La to Texas, back to LA, then to GA.

Baker Hall, my residence as a freshman, meant that I had four roommates. My friend, Mary Beth, Blo Byars and a striking brunette from Eunice, and a thin, willowy blonde whose names escape me, shared the suite. Sadly, we lost touch. Like Harry Potter or a gnome, many nights I studied in a stairwell with my lamp to escape the constant activity. Growing up in a family of six girls, I had no problem walking down the hall to the community showers.

I graduated from USL in 1968 with a Bachelor's degree in English Education, minors in Library Science and French. My husband's departure from the university was delayed because of his love of scholarship and Bouree, not necessarily in that order. I immediately entered Graduate school, but my Master's was postponed until the 80's while we moved from La to Texas, back to LA, then to GA.

Baker Hall, my residence as a freshman, meant that I had four roommates. My friend, Mary Beth, Blo Byars and a striking brunette from Eunice, and a thin, willowy blonde whose names escape me, shared the suite. Sadly, we lost touch. Like Harry Potter or a gnome, many nights I studied in a stairwell with my lamp to escape the constant activity. Growing up in a family of six girls, I had no problem walking down the hall to the community showers.

I worked as a student aide to Dr. Mary Dichmann, English Department Head. Her secretary, Isabelle LeBlanc, a refined, gentle, and extremely professional soul took me under her wing. I did not realize until I worked at my first teaching job how much I learned about professional decorum, conversing with professors, and organization. Dr. Dichmann and Mrs. Champeaux attended my wedding in 1968.

Girls were not permitted to wear pants to class, so I had to wear a raincoat over my ballet clothes as I ran down campus to my next class.

As a Southwestern Sweetheart, I performed at half-time football games. Our dance coach told everyone to lose twenty pounds. I was a size 8. Tofu, yogurt, and energy bars did not exist. What to do!

A sophomore in Dr. Dichmann's class, I realized I was different from some of the other students who had attended larger schools with more comprehensive curricula. I felt somewhat better when Dr. Dichmann read an article from Harper¿s Magazine, which I have subscribed to all my adult life, and some girl in the class blurted out how much she loved the fashions in that magazine, Of course, she meant Harper¿s Bazaar. Oh my. I earned an A in that class because I studied feverishly. Imagine having a class with the head of the English Department who is also your boss!

I moved to Harris Hall the next year and roomed with Marguerite Castex, Marcella Eustis and her friend Susan, from New Orleans whose home I visited. In my senior year, l roomed with Harlene Nance from New Iberia. Deborah Dunstane from Port Allen and I became good friends. Our tall dorm Mother dressed impeccably: high heels, dresses, severe bun, and provocative makeup. I imagined if she smoked, she used a cigarette holder, like Cruella Deville. I was elected President of the Judiciary Board my senior year. Like the Salem witch trials, we condemned girls who missed curfew or made out in the bushes at the entrance to our dorm. Their punishment: confined to quarters, except for classes. I loved pounding that gavel!

Smoking was permitted in the basement of Harris which we used as a study room. I remember typing papers on a typewriter and using Liquid Paper or those crummy little white pieces of tape for corrections. Oh, and we typed footnoted at the bottom of each page, so we had to know the exact length of the footnote combined with the text or the entire page had to be retyped.

The summer before my senior year I took Shakespearean English with Mr. Broussard who demanded readings of 10 Shakespearean plays in six weeks. Scared straight, I escaped to my grandmother¿s house, sequestered in a guest room and poured over every line of each play. I still have those copious class notes, and I filled three blue books answering the essay exam. Lady Macbeth tells Macbeth, ¿Screw your courage to the sticking place,¿ a martial metaphor, and I did.

My all-time favorite professors were Dr. Milton Rickels and Dr. Pat Rickels. Non-natives of LA, but enamored of LA culture, they published and promoted engaging histories and stories about south Louisiana. Their American literature classes promoted scholarship as well as camaraderie. Students enjoyed a meal and engaging conversations at their home at the end of each semester.

I loved USL. My husband and I belong to the 1000+ member USL Alumni club in Marietta. Each fall we attend a gumbo cook off and in the spring a crawfish boil with crawfish imported from Louisiana.

MONEYBALL

My 38 yr old son recommended I read MONEYBALL: THE ART OF WINNING AN UNFAIR GAME. I am a voracious reader, but unless the book is a sports hero biography, I would not spend time reading a book about sports to save my life. I then reminded my son what I don’t like about broadcast sports.


My husband Larry is a rabid sports fan. For an LSU, Saints, Falcons, or UGA game, he dresses head to toe in team colors and insignia: hat, shirt, shorts, and shoes. He stays up ungodly hours to watch the end of a Braves game. He watches golf with his eyeballs glued to the screen. He stands during football games, argues with the refs, yells at players, and grabs his head like he’s having a seizure. I don’t understand.

I spent $300 at Dollar General in Loreauville on LSU and Saints attire for him. The shocked sales clerk saw three loaded shopping carts and danced on the counter. Larry swears that the she was awarded Salesperson of the Year.

I have tried to watch sports with him. Golf is sleepy boring. Announcers speak in hushed tones. Complete silence for long minutes when the golfer aims for that tiny circle in the ground. Sleep-inducing.

Football , I’ve decided, is every man’s desire for Stone Age aggression to prove his strength and stamina. I cannot watch a football game without hearing bones crunch, heads pound, and backs crack. How can any wife, mother, or girlfriend view their men being attacked with such brute force? Although, I did watch every minute of the Super Bowl this year and reveled in the Saints’ big win.

And, my least favorite . . . baseball. Spit and scratch. Disgusting. What kind of message about civility and health does chewing tobacco, spitting on the ground, and moving parts around send? I am convinced that’s why the Brits don’t play baseball. I actually composed a passionate but direct letter to the Baseball Commissioner voicing my concern. Larry subtly suggested I table it until we discussed the discussion [laughter] it would provoke.

And the game’s not over when the game’s over. Broadcasters spin statistics and dissect plays in jock talk for hours following the game. They pretend to be scientists: the impact of the climate on Friday’s game . . ., kinesiologists: that player can leap, spin and fly . . ., and sociologists; the entire country is betting on the odds on Super Bowl day. Excuse me. They’re all last generation former pro players.

But I did read MONEYBALL anyway. And I liked it. It’s not a page-turner but a worthy read. It’s about the game of BASEBALL. Lots of talk about trading, stats, and jock speak.

The premise of this book chronicles the unique strategy used by Billy Beane, General Manager of the Oakland Athletics, to elevate a poor team with a small payroll by using a different yardstick for success.

In the 2002 Billy Beane, a former pro baseball player, performed a science experiment with amateur draft players. Scouts swore to avoid qualities in players described as Rockhead, Soft, Wimp,or the worst . . . Bad Makeup [unsolvable problem.] The Oakland A’s had little money as compared with the Yankees, but each year they won more and more games. Unlike other GMs, Billy Beane hung around the clubhouse. He was resourceful, intelligent, and could scare the living lalalala out of his biggest players. He refused to watch a game during play, but viewed it carefully while he broke things in his office. He ran the show “like a Hollywood producer.” He called Miguel Tejada “Mr. Swing at Everything” and threatened to send him back home to the Dominican Republic. He was capable of humor citing that a player named Furbush should be drafted just because of his name. But Billy was capable of compliments “Great at bats” or “I love your approach,” and players like Scott Hatteburg said Billy created a sense of team for the players.

The Oakland A’s managed to have the best pitchers in the American League. Billy‘s team was playing a different game. A superior manager who used science, worked cheaply, was offered the spot as GM for the Red Sox. He turned it down citing his regret that early in his career he’d signed with the Mets instead of attending Stanford. He wanted to find better ways to build a great ball club with little money and find ballplayers’ virtues.

Good read.

May Segura Vaughn 1893-1978

My grandmother, Mae Segura Vaughn, of French and Spanish descent, struggled to speak English. I learned to translate French when I was very young, so I was able to understand and communicate with her. I taught her to write her name when I was ten.

A marvel and a brunette beauty, she wore dresses, earrings, and makeup every day. She never missed a weekly hair appointment. When she grew too feeble to venture out, I used bobbi pins and white papers to set her hair in pin curls and style it in her favorite do. Her dress up clothing featured neutral hued lined suits or dresses, matching hats and gloves, pearls or matching brooch and earrings, and a wool cashmere winter coat.

Mom Wick’s energy and determination were evident in the manner in which she presided as matriarch of our family. Extremely analytical and proficient, she invented recipes, whipped up seven course meals, canned foodstuffs, and became a gifted seamstress and dress designer.

My grandfather, Willie Wickliff Vaughn, used symbols and drawings on recipe cards to indicate measurements and ingredients for her special culinary concoctions. I marveled at the intricate steps she used to make Jambalaya or gumbo or her special confetti meatballs [boulettes-ground beef and pork stuffed with the trinity: onions, bell pepper, and celery.]Her parsley and onion top garden was located near the back door of her home along the red brick steps. Fresh herbs enhanced her cooking. She regularly delivered meals to needy relatives or friends.

Since she lived right next door to my parents, and I was the first grandchild, I developed an extremely close relationship with her. As a child I observed as she pulled a live chicken through a box nailed to a fence and summarily chopped off its head. That chicken when released squawked and ran around the yard until it dropped dead. She, with the aid of Mrs. Bob, a domestic hired to help with chores, dunked the chicken in boiling water and pulled feathers off until the chicken looked naked. I guess that’s what one would call fresh meat right off the farm.

But my grandparents did not live on a farm, although tenant farmers worked my grandparents’ farm off of Lake Dauterieve Road. They lived smack dab on Main Street in mid-Loreauville. No ordinances or covenants regulated barnyard activities. My grandfather’s barn, located behind his home, housed cows, chickens, an occasional pig, and squatter rabbit families in a fenced area. I remember him showing me how to hold infant rabbits that were as small as my tiny hand.

A cistern next to their home held fresh rain water used mostly for pure activities like washing special garments or watering plants. Even bottled tastes tainted as compared with pure rain water.

Mom Wick created the first microwave: boiling water in a Magnalite pot with a covered dish of food on top of the pot. When I attended summer classes at USL, I returned to her home to study in the afternoons after I dined on her delectable noon dinner.

Mom Wick’s sewing room ran along the entire side of her home. I called it the Glass porch because of the floor to ceiling windows. The walls were made of knotty pine recovered from a train wreck in Loreauville. She sewed baby clothing from flour sacks, Sunday dresses from exquisite fabrics, and elegant cocktail dresses from haute couture materials. We shopped for fabrics, patterns, and notions at quality fabric stores in Baton Rouge or at Heymann’s in Lafayette, fabric stores in New Iberia, or Granger’s in Loreauville.

Very early each morning, she and my grandfather recited the rosary in French as they listened to the rosary on the radio; I don’t ever remember them sleeping late, not even in their twilight years. They slept in double beds in a large bedroom with a fireplace. I doubt that they spent a night apart in their entire sixty year marriage. My grandmother took afternoon naps, and coffee klatched with my mom every day at 10:00 a.m. and again after naptime at 3:00.They sipped Mellow Joy Coffee laden with sugar and cream in demitasse cups.

Every Sunday Mom Wick prepared Sunday dinner after attending early morning mass. We feasted on fried or smothered chicken or chicken fricasse, roast, rice dressing, white rice, mashed potatoes, potato salad, sweet peas, corn, smothered cabbage, homemade bread and cake or pralines for dessert. Seasonal vegetables complemented the varied entrees. We ate organic food fresh from the farm. I seldom saw canned food in her kitchen. She baked cakes from scratch and glazed them with her special homemade icing. She secretly added yellow food coloring to boiled egg yolks to enhance the color of potato salad. Her chili sauce for hot dogs was scrumptious. As a special treat, she served homemade, churned ice cream, [the kind you freeze using ice, salt, and many turns of the wheel] when she served hot dogs. Her engagement photo, circa 1902, sits on a shelf above the stove in my kitchen.

A very spiritual person, Mom Wick worshipped at Sunday mass and believed in the power of praying to her favorite saints. Superstitions intrigued her. She warned me never to step on the sidewalk crack and to walk on the same side of a post or pole as she did. She admitted to me that when she was younger, she hung garlic across the back door of her home for protection against the Loup Garoux. Appearances and demeanor were extremely important to her. I never heard her raise her voice.

I watched her plant, propagate, and care for her many flowers and shrubs. Although she could not name all the plant varieties in her expansive yard, she instinctively knew landscaping and horticulture. In my favorite picture, she wears a floral gardening dress and a large sun hat and is seated on a swing canopied by a tall flowering shrub.

Mom Wick lived vicariously in my recollections to her about my teen activities. She loved to hear about my friends, their outfits, my dance partners, and my school experiences. I appeased her by reciting everything I could remember. When I became the mother of teenagers, I realized what a special relationship I had with my maternal grandmother. When my dates picked me up for the evening, Mom Wick stood on her front porch clutching her rosary as she watched me depart for the evening. Not until I became a mother and a grandparent did I understand the significance of her love and concern for me.

Living far away from her during most of my adult life was extremely difficult. Although I busied myself with family and career, she occupied my thoughts every time I cooked a meal, planted a garden, sewed a seam or dressed for the day. I wish I had told her more often how much I loved, respected and admired her and what an incredible influence she had on my life.

Calvin Borel Jockey

CALVIN BOREL

At Jazzercise class yesterday morning, a woman who exercises next to me arrived early for class. As we chatted, she mentioned that she and her husband attended the Kentucky Derby last weekend. I commented that the winning horse was led by jockey Calvin Borel, a native of my home state. She responded, “Yes, he is illiterate, isn’t he? Can’t read or write a word!”

Patience was never my strong suit, and I am opposed to physical violence. I could feel my face muscles tense, and my brain was firing off messages like ATTACK, DISPOSE OF, CRUSH. On the tip of my tongue, these words were getting ready to spill out: “Well, I hope you wore a magnificent hat large enough to ensconce your abundant derriere.” But, I didn’t.

Instead I said, “His family lives just a pirogue ride away from my family’s home in an idyllic settlement called Catahoula.”

I continued, “Calvin is gifted in other ways. He weighs only 116 pounds but can guide a 1000+ pound horse to the finish line. He became the sixth jockey in the history of Churchill Downs to win six races on a single race card. With his victory in the July 5, 2008 Calvin became the thirty-fourth jockey in North American Thoroughbred racing history to win 4,500 races. On May 16, 2009 he won the Preakness Stakes on Rachel Alexandra. This accomplishment marked the first time that a jockey won the first two legs of the Triple Crown on different horses. And . . . last Saturday, May 1, 2010 Calvin rode Super Saver to win his 3rd Kentucky Derby in a 4-year span, the first jockey ever to do so.”

And I added, “He has met U.S. Presidents, Queen Elizabeth II, and his picture has been published on the cover of major news magazines. Louisianians, especially my Catahoula friends, are extremely proud of his accomplishments. I hope you requested his autograph because he is able to sign his name and that autograph may be more lucrative than a bet on a horse.”

Of course, I was calmer after that. She was not offended and asked me to tell her more after class about Catahoula. I thought to advise some reading on emotional intelligences and traits of the gifted and talented, but I didn’t. What if she deliberately tried to fall on me in class?