Wednesday, April 6, 2011

JUICE PLUS

Last week I attended a JUICE PLUS seminar at the Waverly in Marietta, GA near my home.

Dr.Richard E. DuBois,a specialist in Infectious Diseases and Chief of Internal Medicine at Atlanta Medical Center delivered a compelling talk about the health benefits of JUICE PLUS. He cited research from stellar medical groups and universities in the US and other countries citing longtitudinal studies that prove the health benefits of JUICE PLUS.

Dr. DuBois Honors: The Award of Excellence in Teaching at Atlanta Medical Center, where he was chosen as "most valuable physician" and re-elected to eight consecutive years as Chief of Internal Medicine. President of the Georgia Society of Internal Medicine. President of the Infectious Disease Society of Georgia. President of the Medical Association of Atlanta. Listed in Best Doctors in America every year since 1994. Chosen by his medical colleagues as their "physician of choice" in his specialty.

The United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) recommends we eat 7 to 13 servings of fruits and vegetables every day. Most people don't come anywhere close.

A very close friend of mine introduced me to JUICE PLUS. Clinically proven Juice Plus helps you bridge the gap between what you should eat and what you do eat every day.

This nutritional supplement JUICE PLUS provides nutrition from 17 different fruits, vegetables, and grains in convenient and inexpensive capsule form.

Unlike most diet and nutrition products, Juice Plus is backed by numerous scientific studies conducted specifically about JUICE PLUS. Findings from researchers at leading hospitals and universities across the country and around the world prove that this product helps to relieve stress, protects DNA, provides a healthy immune system, and protects cardiovascular stress.

IIf you are interested in this amazing product, read the research. Contact my friend jimgonsoulin@me.com from my hometown for expert information, advice, and important details about this life-changing protocol.

I have been taking this supplement for several months, and Larry says I have transformed into a lovely person. Kidding aside, it prevents and dissipares wrinkles, and that is good enough for me. Read the studies.

https://www.juiceplus.com/nsa/content/Welcome.soa

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

TEAVANA

My Vietnamese hair stylist and good friend of fifteen years, Yvonne Hoang, knows how much I love tea. Every time I visit her salon, I ask if she is hair stylist to the stars because her fees are out of this world. She keeps telling me that I should visit TEAVANA [play on NIRVANA] at North Point Mall. I have seen the store, but I have  never walked in.
Larry accompanied me to the mall one Saturday morning and got a massage while I was fiddling around the tea store. The first teapot I picked up was $250. STICKA SHOCK! I cased the shelves and noticed a BUDDHA pot that I fell in love with. The nice, perky little sales girl announced the price: “This is a specialty pot handmade in Asia [I immediately thought [Made in China], and it retails for $350.
Now I was in awe AND in shock. I looked over my shoulder and noticed a cute little green tea pot that could hold about 8 ounces of tea, clearance priced at $150. Comparatively speaking, that seemed like a fair price.
Then the sales girl began a dissertation on the history and craft of TEAVANA cast iron teapots. Known as Tetsubin in Japan, these teapots were originally crafted in the mid 17th century in Japan. A fine Tetsubin can be distinguished by the hand crafted, high grade iron interior and the smooth enamel exterior. The completion of one Tetsubin requires the skill of 17 craftsmen. I asked her if they all signed the pot I intended to buy. She just looked at me. She handed me over to the TEA goddess.
The TEA goddess explained the benefits of drinking tea out of these expensive teapots. She then recited, in alphabetical order, tea flavors: cherry blossom, chrysanthemum, coins, dragon, dragonfly, elephant, grapevine, imperial dragon, Koi Fish, Lotus, Monkey, Rooster, Tea Leaf, Tiger, and I was relieved when she stopped at Turtle.
I was so thankful Larry or his good friend Murray Fuselier, were not there. Can you imagine what those two Cajuns would have said and done?? Murray would have asked to smell the Monkey tea, and I would have flushed like a hot flash at midnight.
Then Larry walked in. I told him that we should return later as I preferred to speak with him outside of the range of the twenty members of the TEAVAN staff. He insisted I show him the teapot I wanted. I explained to him that everything in the store was extremely expensive. He said he would not leave the store until I showed him the tea essentials I deserved.
I showed him the clearanced teapot. He asked me several times if I were favoring that teapot because it was on sale. I insisted that I wanted THAT teapot. He asked the clerk if I needed any other essentials to brew and serve tea. Then began a marathon of showing him trivets, tea sets [cups, saucers, trays], and fresh teas that ranged from $5 to $35 per pound.
He knows I love dark tea and peach tea, so he purchased 2 pounds of tea totaling $70, tea cups and saucers [undisclosed price], a bag of German rock sugar $25 [un-believably tasty rocky crystals], and a bag of Javana Mate, a choc lately tea [$30], and, of course, the teapot. The tea goddess mentioned that I loved the BUDDHA teapot, but I declined, saying that while I could dole out that much cash for a designer handbag, the esthetics of a Buddha teapot was not in my realm of taste.
As we walked out of TEAVANA with bags of tea stuff, we were
accosted by more tea goddesses holding small paper cups of tea
under our nostrils. Larry looked at me, and I said to everyone,
“さようなら.”GOODBYE in Japanese.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

FRENCH CLASS

Had first FRENCH test Thursday at Alliance Francaise in downtown Atlanta.

Recited French alphabet in front of the teacher and five adult classmates. Enervating.

Studied pronunciation as though I were preparing for a Calculus exam. Watched Ernie on Sesame Street pronounce French alphabet. He can do so much with  lips, tongue, and facial expressions.

Received perfect score, and my professor, Monseiur Sebastian [Say-bahs-tee-onnn] said I "haver-ee eh goodh hacc-cehnt."  Merci.

Next week, recitation of numbers and verb conjugations.

Masculine feminine thing is challenging my brain.

JENNIFER NETTLES

JENNIFER NETTLES of SUGARLAND performed at the Country Music Awards last night. 

Alicia and Mary Cole, our dear friend and an alumnus of Agnes Scott, a private all girls' school, took me to hear Jennifer speak and perform at Agnes Scott College in Decatur March 31st. Decatur is a suburb of Atlanta near Alicia's home.


Jennifer spoke and performed in the campus theatre to a packed house of students, faculty, and other admirers like Alicia, Mary, and me.

AGNES SCOTT COLLEGE is affectionately known by alumni as the institution of the BLACK RING MAFIA because graduates are presented a beautiful gold ring with a black onyx stone upon which the letters ASC are engraved. At concerts, if an alumnus shows Jennifer Nettles that ring, that person may receive free passes to future concerts.

At Agnes Scott, Jennifer wrote her master's thesis in Spanish, performed with college music groups, played piano and guitar, and is remembered by professors as a stellar, straight A student, very nice, friendly, and poised, as she used to lead other students by chiding them to behave appropriately. She performed often in Decatur, a suburb of Atlanta, during and after college.  Her album back then was "Soul Miner's Daughter."

Her music now is a departure from that era because she has risen to to great heights in the world of country music. You will know her by her hit, STUCK LIKE GLUE, an upbeat, sing-along with lyrics that stay in your brain for hours.

Jennifer's speech/lecture about music resonated with the audience as she discussed the history of music and the people or ideas that inspired her lyrics. She mentioned WORTH, a song she wrote when she was just out of college, a heart-rending tune. A mistress is the subject of the song. time Jennifer wrote this song at a time when a subject like this was very unique and controversial. She remembers writing those lyrics while sitting on the couch in her apartment in Decatur.  She explains how the mistress comes to terms with her situation. The themes of self worth, redemption, and power resonate in this song.

Jennifer said that writing lyrics that got picked up on radio was a challenge. Songs had to be no longer than 3 1/3 minutes, had to reel in the listener with a hook [like that line you adopt like a mantra in those those sing-song commercials: "A liitle dab'll do ya. She used the word vibration as a reference to that hook and talked about the difficulty of telling a story in a conversational tone, employing that hook to grab the listener, in just 3 1/2 minutes.

 BABY GIRL deals with the theme of a person leaving home and family to seek the bright lights of fame. It is a sad song because she misses her family, but it ends on a good note [double entendre]. The line "down on your knees," a reference to her mother reminding her to pray, was interpreted in all sorts of ways, some negative. She mentions being a bit taken back by this clean-cut, Southern girl  in her song who some listeners view as tainted by the drama of the big city and fame.

By the way, after her talk, she sang all of these songs, prefacing each with her inspiration and joy in writing these.

Jennifer the sang CLOWN, which she had not yet recorded. She said she tries to paint emotions in each of her songs. This one she wrote to cheer up a sad friend.

 INCREDIBLE MACHINE delivers the idea that hope changes your day or your life and your energy and refers to the power of the spoken word. This song stirred some controversy with radio stations that tore the song apart, sometimes deleting parts of the lyrics. Jennifer was astounded. She compared that notion to removing a star from the famous painting "Starry Night."  Fans spoke out; there were over 1 million downloads of INCREDIBLE MACHINE, and  radio stations resumed playing the song in its entirety.

STUCK LIKE GLUE, which speaks to my heart, sounds like reggae. Like a rap song, "up in your hair," is one of my favorite lyric. The person in love is obsessed with her lover or perhaps her friend?? Open to interpretation.

Jennifer's delivery this night was formal;  she used a newscaster's formal accent. Her elocution and enunciation were perfect. She did not sound like that twangy Southern girl from Douglasville, GA. I think she adapted her speech to the scholarly audience. She used an allusion to Samuel Taylor Coleridge's coined phrase, the celebrated suspension of disbelief, which refers to the verisimilitude we feel when a work of art draws us in so powerfully that we become part and soul of it. I was beyond impressed. What a smart cookie! She wrote her thesis in Spanish, for heaven's sake. Wow! Think about that next time you hear one of her songs.

By the way, in her early career, three people were part of SUGARLAND. What happened to that other female singer??

And, I think next time I visit Alicia, we may stalk Jennifer at a Decatur coffee shop so I can get her autograph and tell her how much I love her music and how I admire her.

Friday, April 1, 2011

BROWN SUGAR

A really good friend of mine told me about the nutritional value of brown sugar as compared with Aspertame. She aso recommended that I read DEADLY DECEPTION: THE STORY OF ASPERTAME. I spent $35 on the text, which contains copies of double-blind studies done by medical organizations, medical newsletters,  reports from THE NEW ENGLAND JOURNAL OF MEDICINE, research studies conducted at top universities and medical research facilities in the US and abroad, newspaper and magazine reports, and even studies conducted by National Science Fair winners in the US.

I was shocked by the research findings. I see a nutritionist regularly, and he told me that he believed sugar producers in this country were railing against against companies that manufacture and sell synthetic sweeteners. I happen to be a discerning patient, and this time, I doubted the validity of his advice.

Recently, on a very unique and amazing trip to Pensacola Beach, Florida, I purchased some brown sugar to sweeten my coffee: Demarara Sugar, Pure Florida Cane Sugar Crystals. I tasted a spoonful and thought my tastebuds were in love. This is the most flavorful sugar I have ever tasted; not as sweet as refined white sugar, and not as strong and pungent as dark brown sugar.

It is really amazing that all the time I lived in Louisiana in a sugar cane producting area, I don't remember using brown sugar to sweeten drinks. I am beginning to believe that brown sugar is a healthier and safer option than refined white sugar or aspertame.

It may be; however, at the rate I'm chunking this amazing sweetener down, I may have a self-induced sugar high for some time.

http://cajuncoop.com/
http://books.google.com/books?id=S-0oAAAAYAAJ&pg=PA136&lpg=PA136&dq=louisiana+brown+sugar+picture&source=bl&ots=3Qh4Nprr8X&sig=qeaJdR1TXqOW3HHw0oKKcBW1IyQ&hl=en&ei=W62WTYO7LKiw0QHSvtiEDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=5&sqi=2&ved=0CCIQ6AEwBA#v=onepage&q&f=false

Alicia's 35th Birthday, APRIL 1, 2011

My April Fool baby is 35 today.

ALICIA ALAINE BARRAS, born in Lake Charles, LA in 1976, burst into the world playing her first practical joke on me because April 1st was my due date. I begged my doctor to induce labor BEFORE my due date because I had reservations about her celebrating her birthday on APRIL FOOL'S day the rest of her life.

Alicia became the practical joker and never ceases to make us elated, happy, or embarrassed by her well-thought-out escapades.

She has done well.
She graduated from the University of Georgia with degrees in French and International Businees. She attended the Universite© Jean Moulin - Lyon III 8Ãrrondissement Lyon, 69008 Lyon, France, her entire junior year of college and backbacked alone or with other students all over Europe.
I was mortified that, at 20 years old, and her first time abroad, she had the independence to travel to churches all over western Europeto research French documents in hopes of tracing our family geneology. I hoped she would return to announce that I was a descendant of a royal family, perhaps a relative of Eleanor of Acquitaine.

AAB is smart and independent and good. She has headed a network, sort of an inderground railroad, to ask people to volunteer to transport rescued dogs from one part of the US to another. She is single and owns her own home on an acre of property, just 45 minutes from Marietta, closer to the energy of Atlanta.
Alicia owns three rescued dogs, Simone, Dakota, and Satan. The third is named after me because he tries to bite me every time I visit her. He has tried to take chunks out of my derrierre. Larry says that's because he's an a___ man. Those dogs are as large as small ponies.

Just this month, in Dallas, TX, Alicia was awarded an REA  [Real Estate Executive] designation by the National Association of Realtors for commendable and consistent educational advances, proven participation and presentations in local, regional, and national real estate seminars, and scoring high on a national real estate exam.

This year, she was the youngest designee in the nation, of the 200 real estate executives achieving such a designation. She hopes to get a raise, but the real estate market in Atlanta is hurting. When she told me the CEO said they could not afford to serve bottled water at executive board meetings, I told her to brush up her resume.

Alicia's titles:

Director of Membership & Professional Standards at 400 North Board of REALTORS [Atlanta Board of Realtors-8,000 members]

Director of Membership & Professional Standards at Georgia Association of Mortgage Professionals

Director of Membership & Professional Standards at Gordon Association of REALTORS

She's a busy girl. I hope she realizes that she is in the prime of her life.

Check our family out on LINKED IN: Alicia Barras, Braden Barras, Pat Barras


I

Thursday, January 20, 2011

EDWIN EDWARDS

My favorite pretend boy toy former Louisiana governor, EDWIN EDWARDS, was released from prison after serving 10 years on trumped up racketeering and fraud charges.

The womanizing and gambling simply prove that he could multi-task with the best of them.

Known for his political quips, Edwards said," It's hard to get elected unless you're an indicted politician."

His advice to Bill Clinton during the Jennifer Flowers affair, "Tell the press that there's no such thing as a 12 year torrid love affair."

What a wordsmith.

I relished every page of his 650 page biography.

I am not an Edwards apologist, simply a native Louisianian thanking God that magnolia state politicis can rival any Las Vegas show.

I wonder what HUEY would say?

RAP ABOUT EDWIN EDWARDS
Back on the streets now
Headed for the White House.

( Repeat this chorus two times )

Verse #1 :

Caught you in the cookie jar
Slapped you real good
But you walked out without a doubt and headed for the hood
With your homies-those phonies couldn't keep you locked up
But we can't wait to see
what you got up your sleeve !!!!

Chorus :

Oh - Ewe - You ain't no thug dogg
You in a half-way house
Back on the streets now
Headed for the White House.

P.S. Ewe is a nickname for Edwin Edwards - ( just in case you didn't know)

Back on the streets now
Headed for the White House.

( Repeat this chorus two times )

http://www.youtube.com/user/TheBrookBezar#p/u/0/nUx-fqV_nVo

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

LOREAUVILLE VISIT DEC 26-JAN 2 2010

Larry, Braden, Kelly, and I spent the week after Christmas in LA. I stayed at Mom’
Larry, Braden, Kelly, and I spent the week after Christmas in LA. I stayed at Mom’s in Loreauville, Larry stayed with Mama Dottie, and Braden and Kelly stayed at Murray and Carolyn Fuselier’s house in St. Martinville.


The weather was bitter cold. I was determined to pry AMD [Mom] off that couch, even if it meant I had to drag her on a walking trek through her house. We sat in her front living room gazing out of her picture window at the cane trucks driving by. We talked about the past, and I told her I wanted to buy Mom amd Pop Wick’s house and property so I could still have physical ties to Loreauville after she died. I hope that my siblings don’t take issue with that decision.


Rising at 5:30 a.m., I read, donned my workout clothes to attend morning classes at Baron Babineaux’s Health and Court Club in New Iberia. Monday, Mary’s zumba class kicked my butt. What a workout! Tuesday, Yoga with Shu Shu relaxed me as I listened to her orgasmic breaths after every stretch. Wednesday Cardio Kick proved a great work out with weights and bars. Thursday, more Zumba, and Friday, another class that I left drenched but feeling great.


After returning to Loreauville at 10:00, AMD was finally awake. She drank hot chocolate and did not touch breakfast I prepared for her. She listened as I told her about my workouts and the nice retired men I conversed with at Baron’s.


I dressed for the day; Kelly drove to meet me each morning at 11:00 so I could take her on a shopping tour in the area. We spent four hours at Ricky’s at Bayou Landing talking with Angela who helped us to find great bargains and stunning ensembles. After dropping a load of cash there, we drove to Lafayette to Academy where I purchased a camouflage jacket and belt to match my camouflage LSU hat and later found a sexy camouflage shirt at a Lafayette boutique. Wearing all this to the LSU Alumni Cotton Bowl viewing at Wild Wings in Roswell, GA this Friday.


We enjoyed lunch at another Broken Egg Café on 112 Rue Promenaden in Lafayette. After several dirty martinis, we headed back to New Iberia to run errands for AMD and hit a few other boutiques on Main Street.


En route to Loreauville, we stopped at that pharmacy near Joyce’s in St. Martinville to check out the fleur de lis inventory.


We both had to lean on the car trunk to close it as our purchases defied the space in my SUV.


New Year’s Eve we dined at Clementine and met Wayne Peltier, the owner. We joined Glenn and Julie Martin Oubre, and Kirk Crochet and his wife. My friend from the past, Bonnie Decuir sat next to our table with her husband and sons. We had a great reunion.


Charming restaurant. Wayne kept the integrity of the former restaurant as evidenced by the bar, ceilings, and other structures. The restaurant was named Clementine Dining & Spirits to pay tribute to owner Wayne Peltier's favorite artist, Clementine Hunter, a folk artist born in 1887 at Cane River, LA.


While working at Melrose Plantation, Clementine found tubes of paint lying around, beginning her life as an artist. Clementine would paint on whatever she could find. Her first painting was rendered on a window shade. Her paintings came from daily life on Melrose Plantation – baptisms, funerals, wash-days, and the harvesting of sugar cane are a few events that she documented. Clementine Hunter died in 1988 at the age of 101.


Clementine thought the normal C was rude, with its back to you, so she signed her C backwards with its arms reaching out for a hug. Wayne has incorporated her insignia into the placement of the silverware, which answers my question about the strange arrangement on our table.




I dined on roasted half duck topped with a spicy honey raspberry glaze set on a ppear and andouille hash with vegetable du jour. Delicious! The prices were very inexpensive as compared with fine dining in Atlanta.




We danced to music from our era provided by a DJ. Great time!


Saturday I served New Year’s dinner to 20 family members at AMD’s: pork loin, black eyed peas and rice [Hoppin John], steamed cabbage and ham, fromage potato casserole, green beans almondine, salad, and cheese garlic bread, peach cobbler and other desserts made by family members. AMD sat at the table for an hour. I could tell she was enjoying every minute with our family. Becky Vaughn and her sons, and Mark, Rona, Zack and Mattie Vaughn and their twin babies joined us.


Kelly and Braden left to return to Atlanta Saturday morning.


Larry and I left on Sunday morning.


Great visit.

















her I wanted to buy Mom amd Pop Wick’s house and property so I could still have physical ties to Loreauville after she died. I hope that my siblings don’t take issue with that decision.
Rising at 5:30 a.m., I read, donned my workout clothes to attend morning classes at Baron Babineaux’s Health and Court Club in New Iberia. Monday, Mary’s zumba class kicked my butt. What a workout! Tuesday, Yoga with Shu Shu relaxed me as I listened to her orgasmic breaths after every stretch. Wednesday Cardio Kick proved a great work out with weights and bars. Thursday, more Zumba, and Friday, another class that I left drenched but feeling great.
After returning to Loreauville at 10:00, AMD was finally awake. She drank hot chocolate and did not touch breakfast I prepared for her. She listened as I told her about my workouts and the nice retired men I conversed with at Baron’s.
I dressed for the day; Kelly drove to meet me each morning at 11:00 so I could take her on a shopping tour in the area. We spent four hours at Ricky’s at Bayou Landing talking with Angela who helped us to find great bargains and stunning ensembles. After dropping a load of cash there, we drove to Lafayette to Academy where I purchased a camouflage jacket and belt to match my camouflage LSU hat and later found a sexy camouflage shirt at a Lafayette boutique. Wearing all this to the LSU Alumni Cotton Bowl viewing at Wild Wings in Roswell, GA this Friday.

SIDDUR

Last month during Hanukkah, I drove to my granddaughter Talia’s school, Alfred and Adele  Davis Academy, in Atlanta, at 7:30 a.m. to attend the SIDDUR ceremony specifically held for second graders so their parents could present to their child an individual SIDDUR , a Jewish  prayer book containing a set order of daily prayers and hymns.
Each family designs and creates a decorative, unique artistic cover for the SIDDUR, constructing it of needlepoint, embroidery, or artwork painted on cloth. Talia’s Aunt Joan, a professional artist, painted the cover on cloth, and then reproduced the same artwork in a painting for Talia.
In a classroom, parents of the second graders individually dedicated and presented the decorated SIDDURS to their child, and spoke of the significance of the Jewish faith, the legacy of the family, and the importance of  this symbolic holy book.
After the individual ceremony, the entire school, faculty, students, parents, grandparents, and other relatives filed into the gymnasium to honor the second graders who sat on bleachers facing the crowd.
Rabbi Menashe Goldberger welcomed and congratulated the second graders who sat holding their treasured SIDDURS. Playing a guitar, he accompanied the second graders as they led parts of the shacharit (morning prayer) service in Hebrew, using their SIDDUR for the first time.
Second graders then sang traditional Hebrew songs. The Rabbi spoke of the relationship and importance of this holy book to their lives and cautioned them to protect and cherish it. Since that day, Talia has slept clutching her SIDDUR.
After the dedication ceremony, Rabbi Goldberger, asked the crowd to face East toward Jerusalem and everyone sang a traditional Hebrew closing song while Talia’s four year old brother Jake twirled and threw, using his magic fingers, Spiderman webs at the crowd.
Impressed by the ritual, the participation by the crowd, and the understanding of these eight year olds of the importance of their connection to their Jewish faith, I drove away from the school feeling grateful and proud that my grandchildrens’ appreciation of their faith will help them to cherish the principles and symbols of Judaism that will guide them to become good people.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

CINDY

Tomorrow, December 8th, 2011, is the one year anniversary of my sister Cindy’s death. She is with Dad in an alternate universe laughing about the coincidence of dying on the feast of the Immaculate Conception.
Any of you who knew Cindy loved her for her ability to challenge the status quo, but in a respectful, intelligent manner. She grappled with her faith and questioned many of the tenets of Catholicism based on her study of different faiths. For some time, the Unitarian church seemed to deliver a modicum of healing and it spoke to her sense of neutrality. Coincidentally, a Unitarian church sits next door to my neighborhood. I attend services occasionally. Cindy would have loved the service led by Buddhist monks who played long, copper horns and fashioned a mandala as the congregation watched.
When we talked the weeks before Cindy slowly faded away, I asked her if she wanted to speak with a priest. I thought for a moment that she had resigned herself to come back to the fold, but she said to me, “Yes, only because I want to go where Daddy is.” So, she did receive the Sacrament of Extreme Unction, the Last Rites, and she seemed at peace.
Cindy was an amazing mother to Des. She was the typical Earth Mother-- comforting, cuddly, welcoming, and nurturing of Des’s heart, soul, and body. When Des recalls growing up with Cindy as her mom, her eyes light up. Not your typical soccer mom, Cindy let Des wear a bathing suit for days in the winter because that was Des’s favorite clothing when she was a toddler. When I worried that Des would come down with deathly pneumonia, Cindy told Des to put a coat over her bathing suit.
Dressing up made Cindy’s dramatic sense of style unfold . Amazingly photogenic, she would don fancy hats and scarves and walk down Main Street in Loreauville. If anyone dared to call her eccentric, she would thank them. Any article of clothing she wore looked like a million dollars on her tiny frame. She leaned toward the nostalgic, old Hollywood mavens, like Rita Hayworth and Vivien Leigh. As my sisters and I looked through her clothing after her death, we recalled memories of her escapades wearing those clothes--such a good memory of her fun loving nature.  In one of my favorite pictures of her, we wear large, elegant felt hats with feathers and stand posed provocatively with fancy scarves wrapped around our necks.
A voracious reader since childhood, she drank in the written word. As I rummaged through her book collection, I was amazed to discover the depth and variety of the titles she owned.  She had a number of books on philosophy, mythology, and world religions, and I realized then that I owned the same titles. I felt sad because we never got to speak about the similarity in our reading. I was stranded on the East coast most of my married life, and she lived in Louisiana and North Carolina. Life got in the way.
Cindy ‘s resume would fill up a filing cabinet. A gifted intellect bores easily in mundane job situations. After her career as a librarian, media expert at a college in Clear Lake City, Texas, she worked for Sprint, for a real estate company,  in sales for an office equipment company, as a researcher, and many more jobs searching for a career that fed her soul. I don’t think she ever found it.
I am looking at a portrait of the two of us as very young children, I the six year old brunette and she, the four year old, fragile, delicate younger sibling. Both fiercely independent, I recall vividly how we fought tooth and nail. I was stronger, so she grew very long nails. I recall that the last time I walloped her was the first time she dug those very long nails into my skin.
The most tragic event Cindy suffered as an adolescent was the loss of her two best friends, Paula Fontenot and Jeanette Louviere, who both died in a tragic car crash on I-10 in the 1950’s. I did not realize until I became an adult teaching adolescents the emotional turmoil Cindy must have felt. Teens bond because they have such a handle on friendship, camaraderie, and trust.
I would give anything, even my shoe collection, to see and talk with Cindy just one more time. I would tell her that I love her more every time I look at Des and see what an amazing person she nurtured, that  I loved having her as a sister, that I was proud of her, and that she left a timeless legacy for her family and friends.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

WEEKEND TO HELL

In October, as I prepared for a huge houseboat party for forty guests, a FALL FOLIAGE CRUISE ON LAKE LANIER, my husband, LJB, committed so many grievances  that I decided he was going to ride a HEAT SEEKING MISSILE TO HELL.
STRIKE 1 
THURSDAY before the party, I spent the entire day cooking two types of gumbo and the chicken, sausage, and a trinity of vegetables for jambalaya. I had an appointment at 1:00 p.m., so I ran upstairs to get dressed.
I heard the oven buzzer go off, so I ran downstairs into the kitchen barely clothed in my underwear to remove the food from the oven. As I lifted the baking pan, I caught a glimpse of a man peering into my kitchen windows which look out up the mountain so no curtains obstruct the view.
I jerked and the pan seared my abdomen in two places. I dropped the food and ran upstairs to call LJB who calmly told me that he was having a security system installed at our home. Why that issue was not a subject of discussion beforehand was my question.

STRIKE 2 DAY BEFORE PARTY

SATURDAY morning at the boat, as we awakened, we stepped on the bedroom carpet, and our feet squished as the carpet was soaked with water. Larry called our friend Ray, a technology executive, a nautical expert, and an amazing fix it man. They removed the bedroom floor entry which is the size of a door, so they could descend into the hull. As they discussed, negotiated, and engaged in extemporaneous talk about sports and the new Coors Light packaging, I cleaned the guest bath with wet wipes, as they had turned off the water.
I noticed a leak in the shower, so I yelled into the hull so they would hear me. They emerged and continued to talk as they dismantled the shower.
I had to finish cleaning the boat because a former student and her boyfriend were coming to spend the afternoon with us to watch the GA game.
     I carried folded laundry to the master bath, and forgetting about the opened hull door, I fell five feet into the hull. My back and right ankle slammed against the door opening, and my head hit the bottom of the hull. I breathed deeply and decided I was still alive, so I mustered the strength to crawl out and lie on the bed.
  Ray walked into the bedroom and asked if he was disturbing my nap. After unleashing a torrent of expletives against him for failing to shut the hull door, he ran away to find Larry, who was reluctant to talk with me. When he asked me if I was okay, I stared daggers, so he knew it was best to discuss this matter at a more feasible time.
Since I planned to drive the 10 hour trip to LA to see AMD on Monday, I knew if I saw a doctor, they would probably advise me to postpone my trip. I had to expunge my anger and test my physical fortitude, so I went shopping. Next to a woman’s clothing store, I visited a male pharmacist and asked him to look at my back. I lifted my shirt in full view of other customers and my glare dared them to speak.
  The pharmacist told me I had a laceration and contusions and advised me to soak in Epsom Salts, apply a topical ointment to heal the bruising, and to take Aleve. I inquired about a potion of hemlock for LJB, but the pharmacist said he was fresh out.
I returned to the clothing store, then to a furniture store to purchase pricey items. Then I drove back to the boat to wait for our afternoon guests.
Strike 3 SUNDAY FALL FOLIAGE CRUISE
Guests arrived at noon. As I prepared last minute appetizers in the kitchen, I asked several guys to take the huge pot of gumbo to the top deck and to ask LJB to secure it.

     A few minutes later, an ashen-faced male guest came to get me in the kitchen. As soon as he said, Do not be upset, I ran upstairs to see male guests hosing my gumbo off the deck. As I screamed WHAT HAPPENED, several women guests said that someone had placed the heavy pot of gumbo on a side shelf of the barbeque grill and the shelf broke. All the men scattered, and all I said to LJB, was STRIKE THREE.
Despite the eventful circumstances that weekend, everyone had a wonderful time. The HOT DAMNS and the Jaeger probably softened the blows a bit. Eventually, at 10:00 p.m. LJB and two of his friends fell out of their high barstools on the top deck, but as they were feeling no pain, the night ended well.
I drove out of the marina at 6:00 a.m. the next morning to drive to LA.

Saturday, November 27, 2010

THANKSGIVING TRAUMA

This time of year is ridiculously hectic. Every year I remind myself that I am going to breathe deeply, pace myself, and not behave like the control freak that I am.

Didnt work. . .

By Thanksgiving Day I planted 100 bulbs and 10 beds of petunias, themed the kitchen and dining room in Harvest decor, decorated the fourteen foot Christmas tree with the help of my grandchildren, put fresh pine garland and red sequined silk poinsettias on all the banisters, around the hearth, and on various other surfaces.

I tripped on the garland as I walked down the stairs but, luckily, I was able to break my fall by grabbing onto the railing.

I adorned the front door with a huge pine wreath with red berries and pine cones and swirled the front door lights in sprigs of blue spruce [which crackles in the fireplace a delight to my grandchildren). Placing ten ltall nutcrackers around my home was a challenge.
I decorated the back deck railing with white lights and garland, set the lighted reindeer up the hill in the back yard, planted winter herbs and vegetables in ten horizontal sphagnum moss baskets that hang on the deck railing, and accidentally fell off the ladder when I tried to hang my three Christmas clocks.

My three year old grandson told me that my decorated mailbox looks like reindeer antlers. I stuck huge fresh pine branches around the mailbox. He said the red ribbon looks like Rudolphs nose. I was shocked. I thought it looked like a Southern Living masterpiece!

I drove to five stores to get last minute Christmas and Thanksgiving adornments, created a Thanksgiving menu on Publisher, and slid down the slope in the leaf-strewn front yard as I attempted to stick fake roses around my statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary in my front yard.

Two days before Thanksgiving,I took out all my Harvest china and glassware. I prepared turkey, honey ham, pork loin, Cajun chicken pies, rice dressing, cornbread dressing, yam souffle, corn casserole, green bean almondine, spinach souffle, creamed cauliflower, pecan pie, pumpkin pie, ambrosia, cranberry relish and cranberry glace, and rolls.
Kelly brought strawberry salad and peppermint pie. Nichole made gingerbread martinis for dessert. Then I slipped on the kitchen floor when I spilled the Savignon Blanc I tested as I cooked the turkey.

My daughter is an amazing cook, but every Thanksgiving, I am reminded about the first time she baked. She made muffins; it was a disaster! I bit into a beautiful muffin and thought I tasted macadamia nuts, but it was smushed up COOKED egg whites. I loathe egg whites; I throw up a little in my mouth every time I see cooked egg whites, and she is well aware of that idiosyncrasy of mine.

Her explanation--- the recipe on the box calls for three egg whites. Raw egg whites are clear; cooked egg whites are WHITE. I boiled the eggs, threw away the yolk. I mushed up the cooked whites and added them to the batter. Voila! Muffins! She is ridiculously intelligent, and thats the problem.
But, the most hilarious and frightening episode occurred Thanksgiving Eve as I drove away from a furniture store that was holding exquisite Chinese lamps for me.

I drove out of the parking spot, started to move down the driving lane when I received a text from my son. I stopped the car, read the text, texted him back, then we texted back and forth for about ten minutes.

I looked up to see a police car facing me, actually about a hairs breath from my front bumper. The policeman looked like Robocop, and he stared daggers into me. I didnt know whether to s--- or go blind.

I realized that I still hadnt paid the speeding ticket I was awarded in Montgomery, Alabama, last month for driving 84 in a 60 MPH. Every time I call the number I listen to a ridiculously long recording, so i just hang up.

Looking through my windshield, I apologized profusely, and used very dramatic, emotional body language to indicate to Robocop that I was definitely at fault.

He waved me on, so I drove around him, and I winked at him. Never hurts to compliment a Robocop.

And then, theres Christmas .




Sunday, November 14, 2010

REQUIEM FOR MY FRIEND JOHN

REQUIEM FOR MY DEAR FRIEND JOHN
John Sheffield was my best friend, next to my husband, Larry. I met John when I began my career as English Department Head at Harrison High School, the flagship new school for Cobb County in Kennesaw, GA in 1991. John was Science Department Head. His left-brained classroom and Science lab was next door to my eclectic, right-brained classroom.
John died at his home, March 28, 2008. He was only 61 years old. Larry and I arrived at his home at noon that day to pick him up to come to the lake with us. He didn’t answer the doorbell. His car was parked in his carport. I looked through the kitchen window and noticed his laptop and cell phone on the table. After an hour of checking with neighbors, noticing that his mail had not been picked up, and failing to get a response, we called 911. Police and fire department personnel discovered him in his bed. John had succumbed to heart failure the night before.
John was born in Ozark, Alabama on November 15, 1946 to the late Bert & Frances Carroll Sheffield. John’s parents were only children, and he was an only child, so we welcomed him as part of our family. He spent holidays with us and loved planning and participating in activities with our family.
John and I were cohorts in angst as we worked diligently to blend the two feeder high schools, including a staff of teachers hired from GA and other states. We had an amazing talented principal, a visionary, who was a master at team building. But, on Fridays, we flew out of the building at 3:30 p.m. to meet other teachers for a well-deserved Happy Hour. We became a powerful support group for each other.
John managed to keep me out of trouble when I challenged the principal who told me I was setting the bar too high for these students. Using some Cajun gris gris and a lot of dialogue, I managed to convince him to trust me. That first year, our test scores beat every other school in the county.
In another incident, I was furious that a plebe, very young assistant principal who looked like Doogie Howser, had twenty student aides who were given walkie talkies to communicate with each other while department heads had to walk long stretches of hallways to get anywhere in this 2,000 student building. And walk in stilettos!
So I purchased 10 Strawberry Shortcake walkie talkies at Big Lots for the teachers in the English Department to communicate with each other. I was thrilled how well they worked.

My favorite custodian, who stuttered, asked me to check out the writing lab as he had seen two students "r-r-r-r-r-iding thhhhaaaattt trrrrain." I did not understand the idiom until I unlocked the door. They were all tangled up, and the room smelled like burning rope, to which the custodian responded, "P-p-p-p-p-o-t."  My Strawberry Shortcake Walkie Talkie enabled me to summon another teacher who notified administrators.  After that incident, students scattered when they saw me on duty, which made my job tremendously easy.
John tried to talk me out of using those Walkie Talkies, but I was determined to prove a point. I was caught when the County channels picked up my professional dialogue with another English teacher. Every school cop in the county was on the hunt for me. Fortunately, I was allowed to argue my case, and Walkie Talkies were distributed to Department heads the next week. I suppose it didn’t hurt my case that I called favors in on the other four principals who were my bosses when I served as Department head at other high schools.
John was my guardian angel at school. He calmed me down when my fiery temper erupted and saved me in countless department head meetings when I introduced viable but controversial agenda items. We collaborated about curriculum and joked about school personnel who were absolutely daffy, like the young science teacher whose pet Gila monster rode on her neck when she taught classes, and the English teacher who  herded his 15 cats into his classroom for our first Open House for parents. I told him he'd better be discussing T.S. Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats upon which the musical CATS is based.

John attended Emory at Oxford and graduated from Emory University with a degree in Science and earned Masters and Specialist degrees from Georgia State University. A dedicated and beloved educator, John’s 36 year career in Cobb County Schools included 22 years at Campbell High School where he served as Science Department Head, sponsored National Honor Society and served on the state level of National Honor Society, and 14 years as Science Department Head at Harrison High School.
After retiring from Cobb County Schools, John was hired by Pearson Education to develop and present training workshops to Science and Language Arts teachers in the Southeastern region of the United States. He rose quickly in the ranks to become the most professional and knowledgeable consultant in the Southeast. He asked me to consult with him on his Language Arts presentations. I was amazed at his ability to develop amazing Language Arts presentations after spending his entire career teaching science.
John had incredible artistic abilities. A talented pianist, as a young man, John served as organist at First Baptist in his hometown of Ozark, AL. he loved to entertain friends at sing a longs. Attending Atlanta Symphony Orchestra events had a special significance for John.
As a teenager, John saved his allowance for a special Mother’s Day gift. He commissioned a local artist to paint his portrait and walked to town several times a week for months for sittings until the painting was completed. As an only child, the painting held special significance for his parents. John placed the portrait above the grand piano in this home.
At his funeral, John’s former college roommate received the portrait in John’s will. It was displayed near the coffin during the service. When I inquired about the portrait, I was told it was to be cremated with John’s body. I was livid! I offered to purchase it, to rescue it, to donate it to the church where John played organ, or to display it in my home, to no avail. That man has a bad, bad gris gris on himself. And the voodoo doll of him regularly gets stabbed with needles.
John’s appreciation of art and nature was evident in his collection of art, antiques, and in his beautifully landscaped back yard nature sanctuary. He filled his home with special artifacts and mementos of his world travels and had a great affinity for creating memorable dining experiences for friends and was developing a plan to participate in an antiques market in Marietta. Just before he died, he had his kitchen transformed to a chef’s kitchen so he could indulge in entertaining his friends at unique formal dinners.
John’s birthday is November 16th. I will be very sad. I plan to dig in the ground and plant a very special shrub in his honor so my children and grandchildren can stand around it and remember John at Thanksgiving in a few weeks.
Thanksgiving was very, very, sad last year as we stared at John’s empty chair. So I invited Theron, our server at IHop after mass every Friday morning, to join our family. He’s a single 25 year old whose family lives in North Carolina and IHop will not give him the morning off. He will join us at 1:00 for our family feast as I remind him what big shoes he has to fill.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

CONFESSION

     Mention the word confession and people think you're referring to a crime. Catholics, however, instinctively picture a dark booth shrouded in mystery, the place to reveal your deepest, darkest deeds.
    
     I attended a church mission this week led by Ron Hoye CM, Parish Mission Presenter and Adjunct Faculty, DePaul University, a gifted speaker whose FRIENDSHIP IN JESUS series kept the attendees riveted to their seats in our huge cathedral-like church. Unlike the typical Sunday homily, he skillfully related  Biblical parables to everyday life, weaving hilarious true stories from his priesthood into a tapestry of lessons we could actually perceive doing to improve our lives.
    
     His first lesson related stories about how Catholics, particularly those who were instructed by nuns, learned the ritual steps of the confession model. 
     
       Since I  knew the topic beforehand, I was whisked back to the 1950's when I first trained to participate in the sacrament of Penance. My stomach churned as I recalled the name of the nun who tortured, I mean, taught our penance class composed of seven year olds, mostly second graders. Sister Mary Anastasia --who looked like a man.
    
     Very tall, sporting dark facial hair above her lip, and coal black eyes, she intimidated us just walking into the classroom How could we know she was really a woman? Her entire body was covered head to toe with a black habit which draped to the floor, a white coif, a black veil and a belt around her thick waist. A scapula hung around her neck, and a rosary hung from her belt. Her thick black shoes looked military issue. 
     
    She scared the heck out of me. I witnessed her rapping a student on the fingertips because he chewed jawbreakers in CCD [catechism] class. Dumb kid. How can you hide a jawbreaker in your mouth?
    
     She almost beat a kid to death with her huge black rosary. I want to think that was a frequent nightmare of mine, but I remember it like it was yesterday.She said he was having impure thoughts. She was a mindreader?? That thought kept every kid in the class reciting the Act of Contrition over and over and over again. The boy sitting next to me wet his pants every time Sister walked close to his desk. I told Mom, and her reply was, "He probably deserved it." No sympathy there.
    
     Anyway, Sister Mary Anastasia, determined to give all the chance to wipe clean our  sinful souls, marched us into our huge Catholic church next door. Leaving the comfort of the church pews, we formed two lines, one boys and one girls. Our palms pressed together and heads bowed, we practiced marching toward the altar and kneeling at the railing to receive a future blessing from the Bishop before he placed the sanctified host on our tongues. One boy kept getting out of step. Sister Mary Anastasia yanked him out of line and practiced a German kick step with him until he got it.
    
     Satisfied that we could master the Eucharist part, she lined us up, again separated by gender, to practice penance/confession. We marched to the back of the church and lined up near the confessional. She insisted we practice the formulaic entrance prayer in unison.


     "Bless me, Father, this is my first confession, and these are my sins."


     We were then to enter the dark confessional that smelled like moth balls, pull back the crushed red velvet drapes to ensure privacy, and listen for the priest to slide open the long, squeaky door. A heavy screen separated us from the priest, who appeared as a shadowy, scary figure hunched in prayer.
    
      "Bless me Father, this is my first confession, and these are my sins." [How many sins, both venial [minor] and mortal [deadly and go straight to hell] does a seven year old have etched on his soul? Missing morning prayers? Hitting a sibling?]
    
     My good friend, whose name I shall not reveal in the case that sister Mary Anastasia is now the Inquisitor, and I decided to look through the Bible to come up with some sins to confess since we faced a weekly stint in that confessional. It took me forever to copy that list. Looking at my prepared list of random sins from the Commandments, I confessed: lying, adultery, murder, coveting my neighbor's wife, and a few minor sins.
    
     The priest answered, "Say your Act of Contrition," which I did, and he absolved me of my sins, and my penance was two Our Fathers and three Hail Marys. I thought that he must have had horrible sinners confess before I showed up.
    
     How to get the list from my hand to my friend without Sister Mary Anastasia seeing me? I wadded the list up and slipped it to my friend as she stood in line.She grabbed it, went in, and confessed.
    
     The next week, we held on to our lists, but decided that one of us should read it from the bottom up so the priest wouldn't catch on. He kept absolving us from those deadly sins. Wasn't he listening??Anyway, thank God, Sister Mary Anastasia couldn't go into the confessional with us, or we would have been done.
    
     My mother marched my six siblings and me to confession every Saturday the entire time I was living at home. As I grew older, I no longer needed a written list. I had managed to live life fully and became a dutiful confessor with little need to fabricate sins.


     St. Augustine describes sin as a "caving in," similar to being in a dark cave, alone, hungry, cold.
    
     Father Ron used the Biblical parable that Jesus tells of the Prodigal Son to make a point about the wonder of God's forgiveness.The following is paraphrased from his talk.
    
     The Prodigal Son's father misses him terribly and prays for the safe return of his son who has abandoned the family. When his son does return, the thankful father throws his arms around his son, smothers him with love, so grateful that he has returned home. The son tries to explain his actions, but his father does not want to hear; he wants to celebrate, to kill the fatted calf.
     
    It's difficult to imagine a parent today reacting that way when a son who has abandoned and embarrassed the family returns home. Likely a father would say,"Were were you? Do you have any idea how worried we were? Do you know how much you hurt your mother?!! You are so grounded, and no texting for a month!!!"


   But the father of the Prodigal Son demonstrates radical forgiveness.


   Sin is not about what you did wrong. It's a turning from love. Simply asking God for help gets you out of the darkness--out of the cave. It doesn't matter what you did. It's the desire to be back.
    
     The very beginning and the very end of Jesus' ministry were about reconciliation.  In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus came out of the River Jordan to begin his ministry. He said, "Repent and hear the good news. Your sins are forgiven. Live a new life."  Hanging on the cross, tortured, Jesus said, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."
      
    Forgiveness is a key part of what it means to be a child of God. It's not what you did wrong; it's what you want to do better, how you want to change your life. The sacrament of penance is not about judgment or finger pointing; it's about changing and moving on.
      
     So, I did enjoy listening to Father Ron. He seemed to drive home a valid point about accepting our weaknesses, being penitent, forgiving ourselves, and becoming better persons. No more sackcloth and ashes.







    






   
"Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass. It's about learning to dance in the rain."

Monday, November 8, 2010

AMD

"Well has it been said that there is no grief like the grief which does not speak."
--------------Henry Wadsworth Longfellow    

     My eighty-five year old mother, AMD, no longer speaks. Her physical health is good, but a deep, lingering sadness shows deep in her eyes. No longer excited by dressing elegantly or applying makeup, she wears comfortable lounging clothes during the day.

     Two years have passed since my dad's death, and one year since her second child's death. This once vibrant, energetic, feisty matriarch of our family lacks even the will to speak. She sits or naps all day. No elixir exists that can bring her back to us, except, perhaps, time.

     Last week I spent seven days trying to cheer her up. We spent time sitting on the swing in her back yard, snacking on confections I created, and gazing at the beautiful sky on a perfect fall day. She listened as I recounted my most recent adventures back home in Atlanta and seemed to anticipate the arrival of my grandchildren and daughter-in-law later in the week. She observed as I prepared meals she likes but missing were the usual comments we shared at the kitchen table.

     Saturday she spent most of the afternoon outdoors observing her extended family- children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren and their cousins and friends enjoying a Halloween party in her back yard. She seemed to enjoy tasting the many appetizers offered, but sat quietly as the young children laughed, played, and cried.

     AMD has excellent caretakers who cater to her and make certain she's comfortable twenty four hours every day. Doctors appointments and a weekly visit to the hair stylist are the only ventures outside of her home that she allows. Nothing seems to interest her. Listlessness and frailty are consuming her because she does not have the energy to move. Moving would certainly keep her muscles from atrophying.

     AMD's favorite hobbies were writing and photography. Her formidable picture albums provide years of historical images of Loreauville. Stashed in drawers and closets are hundreds of journals she wrote during her lifetime. My favorite reminders of her artistic ability are free hand pencil illustrations of a womans profile. In her twenties she wrote a society column for The Daily Iberian.

     Like a candle slowly flickering, my mother waits. I pray every day that her strong will breaks through the depression and brings her back to us so my grandchildren who see her a few times a year can remember her as the amazing person she used to be.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

LOREAUVILLE CEMETERY ALL SAINTS DAY 2010

      Family ties in south Louisiana are celebrated by paying homage to deceased family members interred in above ground tombs in local church parish cemeteries on All Saints Day, November 1.

     In Louisiana culture, family bonds are strong, and All Saints' Day reinforces that element by stressing the ties to deceased members of the family group and the community.

     The wonderful custom of sprucing up and festooning tombs and graves with flowers, usually chrysanthemums, the November birth flower, creates a beautiful visual representation of honoring the dead and speaks to posterity about the importance of praying for the deceased. In some Catholic parishes, tombs and grave markers are decorated with lighted candles.

     The week before All Saints is a time of intense preparation. Undergrowth, weeds, and any cemetery trash are cleaned up, and tombs and graves, most of which have copings or slabs or in some other way conform to the South Louisiana style of raised grave structures, are painted or washed.


     Sometimes the congregation, led by the priest, walks in procession to the cemetery. There they pray for all the holy souls in front of the cemetery, the priest recites the liturgical prayers for the dead and blesses the graves with holy water. Afterward the families separate to offer private prayers at the graves of their loved ones.

     Rows and rows of decorated tombs and graves surrounding the huge crucifix centrally located in the Loreauville cemetery speak to the devotion of this community to maintain strong ties to deceased family and friends.

     
On the afternoon of All Saints Day or in the morning of All Souls, the faithful visit each individual grave of relatives and friends. Sometimes the congregation, led by the priest, walks in procession to the cemetery. There they pray for all the holy souls in front of the cemetery, the priest recites the liturgical prayers for the dead and blesses the graves with holy water. Afterward the families separate to offer private prayers at the graves of their loved ones.

      Lower Louisiana is famous for its "Cities of the Dead," the cemeteries of above-ground tombs and wall crypts, or "ovens." Because so much of the area is below sea level, coffins did not readily stay in the ground but rather floated to the top. It only took a heavy rain to raise the dead. To address the problem authorities at times prohibited interment in the ground. Thus, most south Louisianians were, and still are, buried above the earth's surface.

    
     My sister Willette and I spent an afternoon bleaching family tombs and cleaning debris surrounding family plots.

     I took a nostalgic tour, walking down every row of the cemetery, noting familar names of friends and acquaintances. The bird is on the wing, as poets say, as the past seems to have flown by.

     Standing and praying at a cement memorial housing the remains of a loved one seems to ease the separation of physical and enhance the spiritual sense that our loved ones are still connected to us.