FOOTBALL LHS GOLDEN ANNIVERSARY OF 1960 TEAM

Last Wednesday night as I read THE DAILY IBERIAN online, I noticed an article about a Loreauville High School football reunion, the Golden Anniversary for the first district championship team coached by legendary L.J. “Jay” Broussard. Pictured were the players on the 1960 team. As I scanned the picture of the 28 players, my heart skipped a beat.  There, in front of my eyes, were three of my former boyfriends and other players who were my almost boyfriends.

I ran upstairs to tell Larry who was racing on his treadmill. I screamed, “You’re not gonna believe this! The Friday night football game in Loreauville is a reunion for the 1960 team. I want to go!”

He nodded his head “ok,” so I checked plane fares. The least expensive flight was $700 round trip. I could fly to China with that fare. As I contemplated driving, Larry came downstairs to book the flight. He insisted that I fly because he knew how important this was to me. I convinced him that I would leave early the next morning, drive slowly, and check in every two hours. After all, I had driven the 600 mile trip alone many times before.

I arrived in Loreauville Thursday evening, hugged AMD forever and told her about the weekend. I was looking forward to the game, and told her I intended to crash Ronnie Dressel’s after game reunion party that I found out about through the Loreauville grapevine.

Friday night, Wanda and I arrived at the stadium at 6:00 p.m. for the 7:00 kickoff. I insisted we sit four rows down under the Pressbox in the center of the seating area. What a perfect 50 yard line view of the field!

Anticipating Laurene’s arrival, I placed my black fringed leather handbag on the seat next to me. I watched as excited fans walked into the stadium. As they filtered in, I was a bit taken by some guests who seemed to crowd us. I kept asking Wanda to move down, and soon we were no longer centered at the 50 yard line. Miffed, I told Wanda that these people were just rude!

Looking at my watch, it was now 7:30 and holding on to a seat for Laurene was getting difficult as the mass of people crowded the stadium.  My cell phone rang. Laurene told me she was in her car parked in the front of LHS and that she was finishing her fourth beer so she could have a buzz at the game. I told her that if she didn’t get there in the next five minutes, I would relinquish her seat to those pushy people crowding me.

Did I mention you that on the next day after the game on Saturday, Willette, my sister, told me that we were sitting in seats belonging to SEASON TICKET HOLDERS? I was mortified! Why didn’t anyone tell us? Why didn’t a security person walk over and ask us to move? I thought, because we’re in Loreauville, and people are nice. If this game had been in Atlanta, we would have been loudly reprimanded and embarrassed.

During the game I was taken back in time. The crisp fall air, the band marching onto the field, the announcer in the Press box welcoming the crowd, the coaches, the players with their little tight butts doing pre-game warm-ups! I was getting flushed.

During halftime, the honored players filed onto the field. Forming a horizontal, single-file line, they waited for the announcer to begin. As Glenn Oubre spoke, he said that he was going to read a prepared statement about those glory years. Then the mike blew a gasket. So instead, he sang STAND BY ME, acapella. As the players filed off the field, the mike came on. Glenn recited the names of each player, but they had already left the field. I was ticked. I wanted so much to see something in a program delineating this team’s magical football season or hear an acclamation of their hard work.

Wanda and Laurene left after the half. Sitting alone, I heard someone yelling, “Patricia! Patricia!” It was Beth Walet Boggs, married to Larry’s nephew Paul Boggs. I moved up to sit near her and her two sisters. We laughed as we reminisced about LHS and Loreauville.

The game ended with these stats: Nick Julien rushed for 238 yards and two touchdowns as Loreauville blew past Opelousas Catholic 35-14 in this District 6-2A game.

Jeanne Dugas, my cousin, gave me directions to Mick’s home. I drove across the bridge, turned left at Breaux Baycraft, drove down a very dark road past Cajun Drive to Mick’s well-lit property. I parked among the thirty or so cars and walked into a huge, beautiful entertainment room large enough to accommodate a huge party crowd. Glass walls formed the entire back and side walls of the room and which overlooked a serene setting graced by fountains.

I talked to Roberta and Julie Martin and glanced around the room to see if I recognized anyone else. I spoke with Darlene and Fefe, Hardy Broussard, my classmate Cheryl’s big brother, Kenneth Adcock, then Lynward Oubre introduced me to his beautiful wife, Lynette. She invited me to sit next to her on the couch. She asked Lynward to stand behind us so he could identify people for us.

Fifty years had passed, and I wasn’t certain how many of these people I could remember. Lynward jokingly told me I would have to fend for myself. No one wore name tags. I left Loreauville in 1964 to go to college then moved to Texas and Georgia, so I had not been in touch with anyone there all those years. Life got in the way.

I knew Lynward and Lynette lived in La Triomphe, and I assumed she was not a native of Louisiana. When she said she was from Catahoula, we commiserated about how we felt like outsiders at that moment because everyone else seemed to share so many commonalities foreign to us.

Then Mick announced that Joe Judice, my favorite boyfriend in high school, would speak. Joe thanked several people who loaned him scrapbooks with clippings of every game during that amazing football season in 1960. He had taken the time to glean information about each game and invited the players to chime in as he traveled back in time helping them to resurrect specific memories.

He and the other players remembered so much about each game that I was really moved. Jackbean’s stories about being trampled and slaughtered by bigger players at every game he played, Craig Dauterieve, quarterback, recalling the Gueydon game when the players called out plays in French, Joe’s memory of a game they played in 18 degree weather, Butsy’s funny stories about the players throwing up or fainting at practice or being scared s----less of Coach Broussard had us all in stitches.  I so wished I had had a video camera.

After Joe finished his amazing trip down memory lane, I noticed that Butsy, halfback, seemed overwhelmed emotionally.

I decided it was time to visit again. I found Ronnie Broussard. I reminded him how he used to blow in my ear when we danced together. We laughed.

Terry Edler and I dated a few times. He reminded me that when we were both thirteen, I had hauled him behind Pop Wick’s General Merchandise store and laid a smacker on him that made him dizzy. I feel certain he imagined that memory. After all, I was President of the Children of Mary.

I talked to Mutchie for a long time. I asked him if he remembered dating Janie Suard, who was one of my close friends. I visited Janie often at her family’s home in Marsh Field. We played records from her amazing collection, Bobby Blue Bland, Aretha, Otis Redding, Mary Wells, and so on and talked about teenaged stuff.

I reminded Lynward that he escorted me when I was presented for some LHS function in the gym. I have the picture of that event, but I don’t remember the occasion.

And then, Jackbean. He was standing alone near a window. I walked over to him and kissed him on the top of his head. Shocked, he blurted, “Mais sha, I don know who you are, but I wanna know.”  Same Jackbean. Hysterical every time he opens his mouth.

I reminded him that he used to jitterbug with me every time our crowd went to Ebou’s to warm up as a precursor to our plan to go to the Oriental or Slick’s. I told him that he was undoubtedly the best dancer in Loreauville. When he danced a slow dance, he would take quick steps, then out of the blue, stop abruptly, look you in the eye, and assess your ability to follow his moves. Such a challenge!

I told Jackbean that I was angry with him all these years because I actually kept score of the  times he asked another particular girl to dance, and if he danced with her more often than he danced with me, I would go home and stick needles in my Jackbean voodoo doll and put a gris gris on him. Such a sweet guy. We had so much fun.

I was really disappointed that my cousin Curtis Dugas did not attend. Curtis dated my best friend Claudette and, I think, Linda Lissard. I’ve lost track of him. Donnie Ashurst was also missing. Donnie was my mentor in band. We both played flute and piccolo from 6^th to 12^th grade. He was like a brother to me, coaching and encouraging me in the many school activities I participated in.

I have lived in three states, taught in ten high schools in Louisiana, Texas, and Georgia, and never have I witnessed in schools I taught the amazing bond and camaraderie developed among these men. Schools where I taught had populations as large as 3,000 students. It is not uncommon to have a graduating class of 800 seniors. Only the very best players are selected for teams.

I feel tremendously fortunate to have lived in Loreauville and to have had the experience of small town life. The lessons I learned were very important in giving me the opportunities to live the good life, as Plato says.

 Coach Broussard did have the Vince Lombardi coaching repertoire, and he saw great potential in these boys’ work ethic, positive attitude, determination, leadership, and respect for each other. I admire them and the lessons they could teach upcoming players about how team building can affect life outside of the realm of the school and the football field.

The current LHS coach, Delahoussaye the Younger, should use the wisdom the 1960 team gained as players to teach the current team how the values they learned translated into real life. After all, they are successful businessmen, leaders in their communities, and will forever be remembered as the first LHS football team to bring home a district championship.

The Boys of Fall       

When I feel that chill, smell that fresh cut grass
I'm back in my helmet, cleats and shoulder pads
Standing in the huddle listening to the call
Fans going crazy for the boys of fall
They didn't let just anybody in that club
Took every ounce of heart and sweat and blood
To get to wear those game day jerseys down the hall
Kings of the school man, we're the boys of fall


Well it's turn and face the Stars and Stripes
It's fighting back them butterflies
It's call it in the air, alright yes sir we want the ball
And it's knocking heads and talking trash
It's slinging mud and dirt and grass
It's I got your number, I got your back when your back's against the wall
You mess with one man you got us all
The boys of fall

In little towns like mine that's all they got
Newspaper clippings fill the coffee shops
The old men will always think they know it all
Young girls will dream about the boys of fall

Well it's turn and face the Stars and Stripes
It's fighting back them butterflies
It's call it in the air, alright yes sir we want the ball
And it's knocking heads and talking trash
It's slinging mud and dirt and grass
It's I got your number, I got your back when your back's against the wall
You mess with one man you got us all

Well it's turn and face the Stars and Stripes
It's fighting back them butterflies
It's call it in the air, alright yes sir we want the ball
And it's knocking heads and talking trash
It's slinging mud and dirt and grass
It's I got your number, I got your back when your back's against the wall
You mess with one man you got us all
The boys of fall

We're the boys of fall

We're the boys of fall

 -----Kenny Chesney

Headless Chicken and Other Fowl Stories

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---adapted from Bill Geist, CBS News
_______________________________________________________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HALLOWEEN - the true story

Why do we celebrate Halloween?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    

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

THANK GOD FOR MOMS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

DAVID SEDARIS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

LAUGH AT YOURSELF

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

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

The applause fades. The crowd falls silent.

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

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

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

BEHOLD! The amazing power of self-deprecating humor:

------Scott Ginsberg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My husband is also a king.”

He had an incredulous look on his face.

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

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

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

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

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

And, I promise this is a true story.

WALDO HARRINGTON Au Revoir

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FRACTAL TIME

To see a world in a grain of sand,

And a heaven in a wildflower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.

     -----William Blake

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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----
_________________________________________________________________________
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.