Life's Autumns

2012-02-01T23:24:00.000-06:00

This new year of 2012 has started off with quite a bang for me. After extensive phone calls and tests here in Lake Charles, LA, I flew to Tampa, FL and had back surgery. It was a success and here I am13 days post-op, with an incision scar barely one inch long and no back pain!!! That deserves at least three exclamation points.

Now the bad news. I've lost my Kindle. No, it's not somewhere in Florida. It went missing before the trip. Today I finally gave up looking for it and had a chat with an Amazon.com rep. who cancelled the account so no one can charge books. All that's left for me to do is call my credit card company and tell them what happened. Sigh. I loved my Kindle. It was so easy to get spoiled.

If any of you reading this want information about the wonderful place in Florida where they do minimally invasive back surgery, just leave a message for me on this post. Oh, and if you do wind up in Tampa, the food and the ambiance is really good at Bahama Breeze restaurant.

No Shooting Required

2011-12-27T22:36:00.003-06:00

In one of my earlier blogs, I asked to be shot if I didn't get a memoir finished within a year. Don't shoot! I produced a memoir. If I remember correctly, I did not specify exactly what kind of a memoir? What I finally produced is a chapbook of poetry containing a bit of genealogy, and then the "story" of my life thus far.

It is a hit! I published (that means my computer and printer and I published) two versions. The first was so not cool, just normal typing paper folded in half, with a poem on each page. And no pictures. Instead, I used STICKERS! I know, I can't believe I stooped so low. And the type font was so tiny even sharp eyes could benefit from a magnifier. The next version is 30-something pages of 8 1/2 X 11 paper, with card-stock fronts and backs, a clear plastic cover sheet and a binding by Office Depot. I used photographs of some of my photographs for the cover.

My family is in love with the product. Now of course they're not prejudiced. Not at all. Well, I'm almost certain they're not influenced by love, or just hilarity, or embarrassment. Never mind, I'm happy with the product. I'll leave you with two of the poems.

Life in Five Stanzas

I fell into a ditch near school
when I was in first grade,
trying to walk across a pipe
over that ditch--I fell, my classmates
didn't. I wondered what that long
word uncoordinated meant?

I fell out of a chinaberry tree
when I was about ten and
landed on my head and mama
said I was lucky 'cause that was
the hardest part of me and she
wasn't worried even a little bit.

I fell off my big horse Judy
when I was twelve and was sure
I was dead or about to die but
eventually my breath came back
and I inched my way up in the saddle
and rode her back to the barn.

I fell out of love with my husband
when I was in my twenties and had
too many kids to leave so stayed and
had two more plus scars on my body
and deeper ones on my heart and
fearsome ones inside my head.

I fell in the yard and broke some ribs
when I grew old and had no one to blame
except for my love for gardening and
perhaps Father Time. I didn't tell anyone
about that either, just forgave myself
and continued to putter away.

defeat is an ugly word, as is divorce

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state. . .
Wm. Shakespeare, Sonnet 29

If William could experience such an ugly word
and live to write about it in forever terms, surely
I will not let the slattern little word become a
motley mantra for me? Divorce can be a good thing.
Defeat, disgrace--World, do you think I care more
for what you think than I love my children? Forget it.
Ladle out to us what you have to offer and I will take
it and cook a better stew or perhaps a soup to fill
our bellies and warm our souls.

Yes, I do remember how these children tried what
little patience I could find--the tomato war inside
the kitchen was a memory for the ages with its red
collages decorating the ceiling, walls, and counters.
Yes, I do remember the boy locking himself inside
Grandfather's roll-top desk as he sought privacy in
a house where there was little to none. Ah, where
was the elusive key? Nowhere. Then rescue by my
oldest son: Lift the top straight up. Prisoner sprung!

Stumbling, working, attending endless ball games,
dance, piano, and band recitals, knocking on doors
to sell everything but my body--Avon, Amway,
World Book encyclopedias. And grading papers,
making lesson plans, directing plays, National Honor
Society, producing the school paper, overseeing the
library and counseling untold students while my own
roll-top boy ran away down the railroad tracks only
to be stopped by waiting sheriff's deputies--so hard.

Oh, God, I can't do it anymore. Now the second girl
has packed her clothes in a bandanna and says she
will run away. I make her a peanut-butter and jelly
sandwich and tell her I do not want her to be hungry.
She stops at the cattle guard and rethinks her situation.
Lord, how do I go on? I'm tired, yes, I know I'm feeling
sorry for myself--is that always bad? Oh, too many "I's"?
Let you carry the load? This is why you came to earth?
So I had it backwards all this time? Thank you.

What a Wonderful Thursday Through Saturday

2011-11-27T16:15:00.005-06:00

Thanksgiving dawned sunny, bright, and pleasant. My contribution to Aunt Josie's meal sat on the kitchen island wrapped in my Tupperware cake container. It was a "death by chocolate" cake. Devil food cake+sour cream+milk chocolate bits. Yum! We (the cake and I) started off at about 11:45 and arrived safely in only ten minutes. As usual, Aunt Josie's huge family brought tons of food. It took three tables to hold all of it. Everything I tasted was delicious, and I did try most of it--small portions, of course.

After eating and visiting I headed out for my second Thanksgiving at a good friend's home. As bad as my friend wanted me to eat more with her family, I could not put down another bite. Visited there about an hour and then headed home for a much needed rest. (You know how sleepy you get when your tummy is full)? Of course, my friend sent several packs of her food with me. I didn't protest. All of it looked divine. To my surprise, by the time darkness settled in, I was ready to eat again. So I did eat two Thanksgiving meals.

All this talk about food takes my mind off of the subject it is usually on, especially at this time of year. I dreaded getting together with anyone this particular year because of losing my youngest son in July. How in the world would I cope? How could I stand to be around lots of people laughing and enjoying themselves? When Aunt Josie called me to remind me of the upcoming meal, I politely refused. She promptly informed me that I had to attend, putting off and/or closing myself off would not do. Her closing statement sealed the deal:

"Pat, we loved him too. But life has to go on and he wouldn't want you stop enjoying life."

"You're probably right, Josie. Yes, I'll come."

Yes, I went and went and feel so much better for it, although I feel about five pounds heavier. But that's the way this particular holiday makes almost everyone feel, isn't it? And then we can all commiserate over the stuffing (of ourselves).

I was blessed to be able to give the rest of the chocolate/chocolate/chocolate cake away. My thanks to the recipient--you know who you are.

Next came Saturday and the much-touted football game between our LSU Tigers (ranked #1) and the Arkansas Razorbacks (ranked #3). I watched it with my daughter-in-law, Judy Marcantel. It was a great game. The Tigers took their time to show why they're ranked 1st in the nation. They let Arkansas put up two touchdowns and extra points before they "woke up." From the waking up and the end they ran the score up beautifully. The only bad thing about this win is that it will no doubt put LSU facing Alabama once again. Their game a few weeks ago almost did me in. Guess I'll pull a Scarlett O'Hara: "I'll think about that tomorrow."

Belated happy Thanksgiving to all.

The Soul-Baring Anne Lamott: Traveling Mercies

2011-11-02T11:23:00.000-05:00

Most of you who write are familiar with Anne Lamott. If not, you should be. She wrote a wonderful book, Bird by Bird, that is often used in writing courses in colleges and universities. I stumbled across another of her books, Traveling Mercies, while looking for more of her writings. This book is a wrenching, soul-bearing, honest-to-God experience. From her upbringing by a beloved atheist father and an agnostic mother, to her frequent use of the "f" word, it covers her years' long conversion to Christianity. Jesus chased her up mountains, down to the seashores, through births and deaths of loved ones, through self-hatred, promiscuous sex, drugs and alcohol. Jesus was that Hound of Heaven that the poet, Gerald Manley Hopkins, speaks of in his poem by the same name.

To get the full impact of this book you must read every word of it. There are some pages that will rip your heart into shreds. Other pages will bring on a visceral.reaction in your gut, and in-between those emotional reactions, you'll be laughing at her wit/wisdom. Go ahead. Buy the book. Or ask for it in your local library. If they don't have it, they'll order it for you. You too will then laugh, feel, experience,and live in the life of this remarkable writer.

Kudos to an Encourager

2011-10-21T13:38:00.001-05:00

Encouragement is important to all human beings and animals too. It is especially helpful to writers. A friend of mine, Jessica R., is an encouragement machine! At present, she is teaching a Leisure Learning class at McNeese State University and I've enrolled in it. I missed last week's class and checked with her regarding homework.
Before I could get everything straight in my noggin, she had encouraged me all the way to writing a 400 word essay on Grandmother's Cooking, dusting off a piece written long ago, and entering both of them in competitions.

The piece on Grandmother was a small tour-de-force, as I had very little contact with my grandparents. But Jess kept pushing me. She made several suggestions, I adjusted the piece (because she was right-on in those suggestions), and voila! I had a decent product to send on its way. Thanks Jess.

If I Don't . . .Just Shoot Me

2011-10-19T15:28:00.001-05:00

If I don't have a memoir out by this time next year, just shoot me. It doesn't matter if I self-publish it (this seems to be the way to go now-days), or have it published by some big-named publisher (like that's going to happen!).

Today I ordered more books on memoir writing from Amazon. I must say this about Amazon: they offer almost any book you could desire and on many, many subjects. Perhaps you have already found out this gem of information, and if so, bully for you. For those of you who didn't realize this, especially if you are or want to be a writer, get to reading AND writing. Many of the books I ordered have lessons, or short writing assignments, in them. Makes me wonder, "Now why aren't my blogs lessons enough?" Obviously if they were, I would have several books finished by now. Perhaps even published. Read by thousands, maybe even millions. Okay, let's get back to reality.

I'm going to give you a list of the books I ordered (most of them used).

Story Matters by Margaret Love-Denmon and Barbara Shoup
Tell It Slant by Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola
So You Want to Write Memoir by Marge Piercy and Ira Wood
What If? by Ann Bernays

One of my biggest stumbling blocks to writing a memoir is boredom. I always compare my life to people who are famous or have accomplished much more than I. Boring a reader is what I fear. This is where creativity comes in. Assisted memory. I'm going to learn all about it in the above books.

See you at the book signing. Chow.

Dr. Seuss for 2011

2011-10-07T23:57:00.000-05:00

Dr. Seuss for 2011:

I do not like this Uncle Sam, I do not like his health care scam.
I do not like these dirty crooks, or how they lie and cook the books.
I do not like when Congress steals, I do not like their secret deals.
I do not like ex-speaker Nan, I do not like this ‘YES WE CAN’..
I do not like this spending spree, I’m smart, I know that nothing’s free.
I do not like their smug replies, when I complain about their lies.
I do not like this kind of hope. I do not like it. Nope, nope, nope…

Thanks, Mike McCall

An Adorable and Smart Redhead

2011-10-02T12:54:00.000-05:00

Her name is Linda Yezak, she hails from Nacogdoches, Texas, and she was the guest speaker for our Bayou Writer's Club yesterday, October 1.

This meeting was one of the winners for the year, as Linda gave us a wealth of information which she was able to make interesting. We loved it when she said, "I just have to get up and walk around when I talk. It lets off some of this nervous energy." She talked and moved back and forth on one side of our rectangular setup. It was perfect. Being a professional editor, she gave us important information about the subject of editors and the editing process itself, including, as she put it, "The boring subject of punctuation."

Linda and I began an acquaintance on Twitter about one and a half years ago, and then extended it to being friends on Facebook. She also follows this blog.We finally met in person on Saturday. Big hugs abounded. But our most heartfelt connection is death: her stepson died on May 31 of this year and my son died on July 1--only one month apart. As we spoke of it, both of us teared up and scrambled for Kleenex. This happened after the meeting while standing in an interminable line at a local cafeteria. Running late, our group ended up behind a large busload of teenagers. Instead of being a hassle, this gave us time to get to know each other a bit more, and the teens paid no attention to us, tears or no tears. God bless 'em.

Thank you, Linda, for your expertise which you share so clearly, and thank you for your great heart. I know these are God-given, but you don't have to share, you just want to. We were the beneficiaries of a great blessing. Love you.

Hillsong - Desert Song

2011-09-29T13:15:00.000-05:00

"Living the New Life . . ."

2011-09-27T20:17:00.008-05:00

"Since you have been raised to new life with Christ, set your sights on the realities of heaven, where Christ sits in the place of honor at God's right hand. Think about the things of heaven, not the things of earth. For you died to this life, and your life is hidden with Christ in God. And when Christ, who is your life, is revealed to the whole world, you will share in all His glory."
Colossians 3:1-4

GLORY: 1. a) a great honor and admiration won by doing something important or valuable; fame; renown
b) anything bringing this
2. worshipful adoration or praise
3. the condition of highest achievement, splendor, prosperity, etc.
4. radiant beauty or splendor; magnificence
5. heaven or the bliss of heaven
6. a) a halo or its representation in art b) any circle of light

New World Dictionary of the American Language

Wow! I can't wait to be naturally (or supernaturally) glorious. And meet up with all of my beloved relatives and friends who will be glowing and glorious too. All of our lives here on earth we struggle to be glorious.

"Eat correctly and exercise and you'll have a healthy glow." Buy the best (most expensive) products for your face and body and you'll glow.

At the first hint of any wrinkles, have those injections of Botox (a dangerous poison). Viola, wrinkles disappear (for a relatively short time).

If you forget about diet, don't worry, liposuction will remove any unwanted lumps of fat from your body. If you're not pleased with the size of just about anything on your body--why there's an "app" for that.

Need a complete face lift? No problem. Just show them the money and you'll look twenty years younger. (Just remember that this will last only about five years).

Lips too small? Plump them up with some of that fat they take out at liposuction?

Now I'm not saying that we shouldn't try to keep ourselves in good shape, or looking our best. I am saying that we have carried all of this to the extreme. We are more worried about how we look to others here on earth than how we look to our Maker, God. Thank the good Lord that we have doctors who can work miracles on burn and accident and war victims. But the other extremes are so out of balance, it is ludicrous.

2011-09-27T12:57:00.001-05:00

. Thanks to the website Novel Matters, and Amazon.com

Good Tips on Writing:Novel Matters Blog

2011-09-27T12:06:00.000-05:00

This is an informative blog on writing, shared by several good writers.

A Good Weekend - No, a Great Weekend

2011-09-25T23:04:00.007-05:00

How I loved this weekend. How all of Louisiana loved this weekend. Our beloved Saints won their game, our treasured LSU won their game, and our great McNeese Cowboys here in Lake Charles won their game. Football doesn't get any better than this. What leaps, what catches, what kicks! Grace personified. You would think the fellas majored in dance. The LSU defense did a war dance for West Virginia. This was the only game I actually watched.

I had a blip on my radar screen at church today and was so flustered that I forgot all about the Saints game. Unbelievable. This was the blip: No keys in pocket of my purse where they should have been. Stare into car window. Keys are resting comfortably on the driver's seat. Pop-a-Lock? $50 to $75. Gulp. Wonder of wonders -- a nice man is standing in front of the service desk when I returned to the church foyer, moaning about being locked out of my car, and the prospect of dollars flying away to Pop-a-Lock.

"Mam, don't call them. I work for the Sheriff's department and we have a vehicle that patrols for problems like this. I can call them and they'll have you fixed up in no time."

"Oh, you are a life and face-saver. Please do call them. Thank you, thank you." I could have kissed his feet.

He called and I waited, quite comfortably ensconced in a comfortable chair, playing Scrabble on my iPhone. It took them quite a good amount of time to get to the church. When they arrived, they went right to work trying to open the door. None of their tools worked. All of them were too short to reach the lock mechanism. One of the deputies came walking into the foyer.

"Mam, do you know if there's a coat-hanger around the church? I think we can get it open with that."

No sooner had he said this than a young man came walking into the foyer and I asked him if he knew where any of the church staff happened to be. He said, "I work here. What do you need?"

Within ten minutes he came back with a coat-hanger. Success! Now, if it would only work. The officer went back to my car, hanger in hand. In no time at all one of them drove the sheriff's car to the front of the church and the other deputy pulled up right behind him in my car.

"How great! You got my door open, huh?"

"No, mam. My partner went in through the top of your door and hooked the coat-hanger into your key ring and just fished them right out of the door."

Wow. How easy it is to get into a locked car when you have the right tool.

"Thank both of you so much."

"Our pleasure, mam."

God bless those two nice men. They drove a white car and had shiny badges on that reminded me of coats of shining armor.

We Remember Them: September 11, 2001

2011-09-09T12:51:00.002-05:00

At the rising of the sun and at its going down,
We remember them.
At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of Winter,
We remember them.
At the opening of buds and in the rebirth of Spring,
We remember them.

At the rustling of leaves and the beauty of Autumn,
We remember them.
At the beginning of the year and when it ends,
We remember them.

As long as we live, they too will live,
for they are now a part of us, as we remember them.

When we are weary and in need of strength,
We remember them.
When we have joys we yearn to share,
We remember them.
When we have decisions that are difficult to make,
We remember them.
When we have achievements that are based on theirs,
We remember them.

As long as we live, they too shall live,
for they are a part of us, as we remember them.

Author Unknown

Life on the Farm

2011-09-08T23:32:00.003-05:00

These were the "good old days". And this occasion was one of my children's birthdays, only I can't remember which one. Since they were all born in the summer, it's impossible to remember whose we were celebrating.

I still had dark brown/auburn hair, my neighbor, Edwina, was still slim, and most of the kids were still young. I had six children, she had four. We had great times out in the country--a large, fenced-in yard, two barns, one nearby, the other about a quarter mile to our west, a 36 acre wood filled with blackberries, birds, an interesting, mysterious, great mound and a pond stocked with fish. All around us were soybean and rice fields and canals to swim in. There were cattle to feed and horses to ride and feed and a country club within walking distance. It was a slice of heaven but we were usually too busy to appreciate it as we should have. Some of the Bowles kids were at this party, and I think their mother, Helen, was there too. She's well hidden behind Edwina and I almost missed her.

Days, weeks, and months seemed to creep by back then. Now that I'm on the other side of it--way on the other side--I wonder how it went by so quickly. Perception is a strange creature. Our "Baby Boy", Patrick, is the cute little fella third from the right sitting at the table. Sorry the picture isn't sharper. Michael is next to Patrick, then Philip, then Mary Alice. Laurie is second on the left. Don't know where Carey was that day. He may have been there and is just hidden behind the crowd.

We never have our children with us as long as it seems. It pays to try to do it right. We fumble and bumble along, but with the good Lord's help, He eases us through the rough waters, providing all that we need.
Thank you, Lord..

The Books Speak for Themselves

2011-09-08T17:59:00.004-05:00

A Coil of Rage

The character of any man is defined by how he treats his mother as the years pass . . . need I say more about this person below other than there is no character, no integrity but there is a ton of attitude and arrogance that defines his shallow past and hollow future .... I rest my case.

I bought and read Audacity of Hope. It was difficult to read considering his attitude toward us and everything American. Let me add a phrase he used to describe his attitude toward whites. He harbors a "COIL OF RAGE". His words not mine.

THIS IS OUR PRESIDENT

Is anyone out there awake?

Everyone of voting age should read these two books: Don't buy them, just get them from the library.

From Dreams From My Father:

"I ceased to advertise my mother's race at the age of 12 or 13, when I began to suspect that by doing so I was ingratiating myself to whites."

From Dreams From My Father :

"I found a solace in nursing a pervasive sense of grievance and animosity against my mother's race."

From Dreams From My Father:

"There was something about her that made me wary, a little too sure of herself, maybe and white."

From Dreams From My Father:

"It remained necessary to prove which side you were on, to show your loyalty to the black masses, to strike out and name names."

From Dreams From My Father:

"I never emulate white men and brown men whose fates didn't speak to my own. It was into my father's image, the black man, son of Africa , that I'd packed all the attributes I sought in myself the attributes of Martin and Malcolm, DuBois and Mandela."

And FINALLY ........... and most scary:

From Audacity of Hope:

"I will stand with the Muslims should the political winds shift in an ugly direction."

Tom O'Halloran

Please refer to this link to Snopes: http://www.snopes.com/politics/obama/coilofrage.asp
While Snopes maintains that most of this contained in Mr. OHalloran's article is true, there are some discrepancies. In the last sentence referring to Muslims, Obama is speaking of protecting "American Muslims".should the USA turn against them.

New Look

2011-09-03T22:57:00.002-05:00

After several years of Life's Autumns being the green/blue template, I decided I needed a change of scene. After all, it is autumn and we're supposed to do fall cleaning, aren't we? At least, that's what my mother always told me. This blog isn't the only thing that's getting changed/cleaned around Southwest Louisiana today. The tropical storm Lee has blown in with a fury. Fortunately, the winds and rain were only blow-your-umbrella inside out every few minutes and leave-every-inch-of-your-clothes-and-skin wet.

Sadly, I didn't make it to our Bayou Writers Club meeting. I learned via e-mail that our speaker for today did not drive in from Texas because of the weather. Smart girl. She has a new book out, a "Western romance comedy" titled Give the Lady a Ride. I bought it for my Kindle and enjoyed it.But I didn't find it to be a comedy. To me it is a touching story of loss and yearning--as Robert Olen Butler tells us must be in every piece of fiction we write. (Linda, rethink the comedy tag). :>)

Now the rain has let up. Perhaps Lee is on his way north. What a shame our friends from Texas missed his visit. Good grief, Charlie Brown, I just realized that I'm committing a writing sin talking about the weather.And then a cliche' on top of that. Does this last faux pas bother me? No. Not today. LSU beat Oregon!!! Go Tigers!

Back's Against the Wall. . .

2011-08-27T10:58:00.003-05:00

In only one week there will be a meeting of the Bayou Writers Club and I surely don't want to lie when someone asks me, "What have you been writing lately?"

The truth would be, "Nothing."

Nothing creative, that is. Oh, I've been posting on several blogs, but they're all quotes. No brain power necessary there. My brain is jumbled up with the recent loss of a son. When I do try and think of something to write, all I can think of is him.

I'm afraid that I'm jealous of God. There, I said it. It's a pathetic place to be in, even a dangerous place. Jealousy is a horrible thing. And after all, our children are given to us by God and we are supposed to give them back to Him. Usually we do this symbolically, but sometimes actually. I did the symbolic route when he was born, but never dreamed that he would make his journey back to God before I made mine. It's good to remember that God understands and loves us anyway, even when we have emotions that aren't so pretty.

I miss Patrick intensely. He was a great communicator: local, state, U. S. and world politics, religion, family, music, NASCAR, finance, genealogy, local school problems. . .we talked about anything and everything. Now I wake up thinking of him and it's the same when I'm trying to get to sleep. Usually praying for others helps at night, and my dogs "knocking" on my bedroom door take care of the "missing Patrick" thoughts for a while in the morning. If I keep busy during the day, then I'm okay, so there's more house-cleaning going on around here than usual. And that's a good thing, especially since both of my dogs are now inside dogs. The extreme heat this summer was too much for them.

I can't imagine how much Patrick's precious wife and daughters must miss him--they who were with him all the time. That inexplicable, wonderful Grace that only God can provide sustains them. Thank You, dear God, through Your Son, Jesus Christ, for all You provide for those who love you.

Unprepared

2011-08-06T11:54:00.000-05:00

There is a legend of an oriental king, whose servant was also his personal friend and favorite.

The king, one day, impatiently presented him with a golden bell, saying, "If ever you find a greater fool than you are, give this to him."

Years passed and the king lay on his death bed. To his servant the king said, "I am going on a long journey, and alas, am ill prepared."

"Is it an unexpected journey?" the servant asked.

"No, on the contrary, I have been forewarned these many years; but so engrossing have been the cares of government and the pleasures of court that I have given this matter little attention." Whereupon the servant silently handed him the golden bell. He had found a greater fool than himself at last.

from Leaves of Gold

Letting Out the Reins

2011-08-03T10:23:00.000-05:00

"Every year I live I am more convinced that the waste of life lies in the love we have not given, the powers we have not used, the selfish prudence that will risk nothing, and which, shirking pain, misses happiness as well. No one ever yet was the poorer in the long run for having once in a lifetime 'let out all the length of all the reins.'"

Mary Cholmondeley

     Have I "let out all the length of all the reins" in my lifetime? Have you? Some may have the idea that this means living selfishly, enjoying life for one's self. What I see it to mean is living unselfishly, helping others, taking risks--not on the NASCAR track or the horse racing track--but facing life courageously. I haven't done it enough, but I do it when I can. All of us could do more.

When a Heart is Broken. . .

2011-07-27T16:17:00.001-05:00

"When a Heart is Broken"

Meant to last a long lifetime,
hearts are made so strong and yet,
We never know just how much
pain and disappointment each can
bear. I knew a heart that was so big,
it loaded early with friends and laughter.
It treasured family and wanted more of
work and love and true, pure joy. That
heart learned early to trust in the Savior,
the One who delivered him from early pain,
and now has ushered him in to eternal joy
and peace. This Patrick wishes for all those
souls he ever knew or ever hoped to know.

It All Began on Malta

2011-06-30T16:26:00.008-05:00

This is the first poem in a chapbook I am organizing.

It All Began on Malta:
Great-Great-Grandfather Horatio Peter Borge
                     1789-1863

         Once upon a time and long ago,
         on an island far away there lived
   a family who did what everyone
   else on the island did: they fished
and prayed to many gods. Then
one night there was a shipwreck.
All of the men on the boat were saved,
   and then one of them built a fire for
warmth. As he reached for wood an asp
bit his hand--he lived and became a god
to us. Denying divinity, he told us of a man
named Jesus, who came to earth, healed
the sick and lame, died on a cross yet lives
in the hearts of those who believe in Him.
"It is He who healed my hand."
   My family believed from that time on.
We would live again!
And so it was we worshiped.

This is the first draft and I will continue working on it here and you'll get to see the "agony and (hopefully) the ecstasy." (Pardon the cliche'.)

Poem a day for April, Poetry Month, Day Four

2011-04-04T10:12:00.005-05:00

Subject for Day Four: Pick a type of person and write a poem about him or her. You may want to title your poem as who the type of person is as, "firefighter," "Cynic," "Optimist," etc.
My poem for today is:

Stepmother

Grimm were the Fairy Tales -

brutal giants, amorphous wraiths,

but the worst of all were the

Stepmothers: Purveyors of evil

perched in the heart of home.

How did I escape, what or who

saved me from a life of toil and tears?

Was it because I was quiet, neat,

lovable, sweet? Quite opposite:

Inquisitive, a daredevil, hidden behind

dimples and a short two years.

There had to be a God who led

my staid father to an angel who

took such a child and said: “Look,

see, this is a picture of your real

Mother. See how beautiful she was?

You’re going to look just like her, and

everyone loved her. Everyone will love

you too.” I believed, I believed and

my childhood lived in its own Fern Hill.

Poem a day for April, Poetry Month

2011-04-03T15:34:00.004-05:00

Join in the fun! Even if you've never written a poem in your life, at least try it. You could unlock a deep well of creativity plus an outlet for frustrations. I'm going to share my first attempt with you. The link will be at the end of the poems.

Day 1 Subject: "What got you here?"

Just Another Thursday Critique at Stellar Beans Coffeehouse

Pocket poems got here first and we barely had time to digest them
along with our raspberry chi tea because the espresso machine broke down, so we lurched along, pulling information out of Marsha until she read her first tiny poem to us-- ". . .pocket full of lint, don't know where the money went, "passing smiles all around, then Linda spoke:"Robert L. Brewer -- you know, like beer brewer, he's going to give subjects for a poem every day of April and you can look him up on line, join in the fun, win the challenge, or just participate to get out of your same old, same old -- what do you mean, Angie, you can't find him -- I thought your Mac could do everything -- use Lee instead of L."
Gotcha!

Day 2 Subject: "Write a postcard poem."

Day 3 Subject: "Write a poem in which you imagine the world without you."

The link for the poetry challenge is: http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/

When You Get a Card . . .

2011-03-16T15:54:00.011-05:00

"I just don't function normally without you."

"Dear Pat,

"Are you still tweeking? (tweeting) When I need a good laugh or a warm glow, I re-read one of your letters. It has been a while since I heard from you, but Lord knows, I'm worse about writing. I truly, truly miss hearing from you. It seems you are way over yonder and out of reach. . ."

What would you do if you received a card like this? Feel guilty? Shed a small tear? Laugh uncontrollably? Write a reply as quickly as possible? Or all of the above? Yes, I did "a.o.t.a."

     You must get to know this woman, this lady, this gentle soul, this dear friend of mine. Her name is Claudis H. and we met because she left her car headlights on -- or I thought she did. At the time I wasn't familiar with cars that were new enough to have lights that turned themselves off.

     I had just moved into a new house in a new town and didn't know a soul in the neighborhood. As I gazed out my kitchen window late one afternoon, I saw that my backdoor neighbor's car lights were on. So what's a good neighbor to do? I marched over and knocked on the back door to save a car battery. Instead of saving a battery, I gained a BFF, the most adorable friend one could ever hope to meet.

     She opened her back door and then the screen. I was face-to-face with an elderly angelic being. Blue eyes sparkled, perfect lips smiled in a cupid's bow, short gray hair fell in natural waves. I said, "I'm your new backdoor neighbor and I just came over to tell you your car lights are on."

     "Oh, thank you, but they'll go off by themselves. I've been wanting to go and welcome you to the neighborhood but I was waiting 'until the lace curtains went up,' as the Irish always say. Do you have time to visit? Let's sit here on the patio."

     "It's about supper time and I don't want to keep you from your family." I didn't make a move toward the offered chair.

     "I'm the only family here. You're not keeping me from a meal. Come, sit and let's chat a while."

     So I sat and we visited and immediately clicked. She was warm, down-to-earth, funny. . .and she thought I was great too. We even found that we had a friend in common and also attended the same church. As the stars began to appear, we parted and her last words to me were: "I'm so happy to find a new best friend."

     "So am I. "

     Our friendship was seven years old when each of us moved to different cities to be nearer our children. We always write or call now and then. I called her not long ago and we had a nice phone visit. But she, a reading lover, wants those written letters.

     Her many friends, her children and grandchildren, and even in-laws love this gem of a lady. How blessed I've been to have such a friend--even though she wears her bra on the outside of her dress.

Can I "Write Down the Bones"?

2011-03-01T16:10:00.009-06:00

     Our Bayou Writers Group writers' conference gets better and better every year. At our 2010 meeting, held last November, I had an interview with a childrens' editor, Harold Underdown, who had critiqued my childrens' book Jason John and the Moss Gatherer. He was kind ("I like your book") and helpful ("You need to increase the length, develop the main characters and show their interaction more") and then advised me to buy two books - Writing Down the Bones and Children's Writer's & Illustrator's Market. After looking over the latter book, I quickly saw how important it is to writers and illustrators. And now that I've read the "Bones" book, well, I'll have to begin a new paragraph.

     Writing Down the Bones is a book that immerses you in the writing process itself, although you're reading it, not writing. Read it slowly and let it wrap itself around you. The author, Natalie Goldberg, inundates you into that process from cafe to riverside to Paris to mountains to juke joint. As I rode the great flood of images, she introduced our past as our "compost heap," because the good and the ugly cook, turning over in our minds every so often, and then coming out in a piece of writing, either prose or poetry, that sometimes amazes us. But (isn't there always a "but"?) amazement only comes out of composting plus diligent practice. Write every day. Where have I heard that before? Oh yes, it was an art teacher who said, "Even if it's only fifteen minutes a day -- draw. That's the only way you're going to improve your drawing skills." And then there's old adage, "If you don't use it, you lose it," remember that one? Forgive me, I forgot to announce "cliche' alert" before that last sentence.

     Where to write, how to write, is there a formula? Whatever works for you is your formula. She does encourage longhand and a nice fat, lined notebook instead of some gorgeous journal that is deserving of only perfection. Writing down to your bones takes truth -- truth about one's self, not perfection. She also encourages writing together with a friend now and then and in a public place -- a place that smiles upon writers who may only buy one cup of latte in a session that may last two to three hours.

     Natalie advocates an awareness and an opening up to everything in the universe. Only then can that brilliant red tulip be born out of the compost pile. This reminds me of the Coushatta Indian woman I interviewed for a book. She was the tribes' most accomplished basket weaver. She told me that as she gathered the pine needles to make the baskets she thanked the tree for giving her the needles, and then she thanked the Great Spirit for providing the tree. Now that's getting down to the basics.

     I encourage all writers who have not read this book to do so, and soon. It will jump start creativity, fill up several hollow places in your psyche and generally make you feel good.

What Artists Do When They're Not Painting

2011-02-20T17:04:00.014-06:00

Besides cooking, cleaning, baby-sitting children or grandkids, and shopping, these are other things artists do when they're not painting:

They hassle with airline clerks over travel minutiae in airports while others make lists while standing in line. They hang onto their luggage and hold onto their Mexican baskets and hope they'll get home soon. Travel is fun but when you're ready to get home, you're ready to get home.

The list maker, her nickname is "Annabanana," doesn't seem to be worried about her luggage. This artist had what could have been an eye-loss incident while in San Miguel, Mexico. A piece of straw got into one of her eyes after we passed a truck loaded with hay. She ignored it for a day or two and finally had to seek medical attention. I went with her on this journey and we found an eye doctor. To call him an ophthalmologist would be stretching it because his office was quite a bit below our standards in this country. The floors in his two-room clinic were dirt. Trash was swept up into the corners in the room where he examined patients. I don't think Anna even noticed this. She just hopped up on the table and let him dig the straw out. The doctor insisted that I stay in the room while this went on. Ugh. After the procedure was over, we had to find a pharmacy for the prescribed antibiotics. We found one and also found out that meds are much less expensive in Mexico, even though they are made by top-name pharmaceutical companies in the USA..

Artists surprise other artists during their lunch break.
This is Helen Chance, one of our group at River Oaks art center in Alexandria. She constructs wonderful collages, wins lots of awards and sells many of her creations.

This is Katheryn Snyder, a fine watercolor artist. She has an "I see you, you sneaky photographer" look in those eyes, doesn't she? She enters many shows, wins prizes for and sells paintings regularly. (None of us are getting rich from our painting, but we have husbands or other income to subsidize us).

I told them a Boudreaux and Thibodeaux joke and they cracked up. Lunch together was always fun. Usually there were several more with us but that day was a slow one.

Oops, bad scan--crooked. But my student's painting looks okay. She was so proud of it. This is a rendition of the hospital where she worked and she knew exactly what she wanted to put into the painting. We had fun doing it. Each year River Oaks sponsored a "Van Gogh Gala" where people from the community (non-artists, usually) came in and with our help painted something which was later auctioned off for charity.

My arm is all of me that made the photo...or could I have cut myself out of it? Yes, I believe I did. Anyway, this is an art show somewhere. I sold this painting to a nice lady whose husband loved boats. Since they kept it, I assume he was pleased with it. The painting is done in watercolor. I had fun doing it...took a picture of a boat in dry-dock in Lake Charles, came home and painted it on a body of water. Name: Lady Contraband.

Showing off my Indian man in our gallery room in a new venue. The mayor of a neighboring town asked us to "bring some culture" to the town, and provided us with a building. We jumped at the chance and never looked back. At first there were seven of us and now there are only four left. Our only man died, one other artist left in a huff and we have yet to figure out why. I left in 2005 to move nearer my youngest son and his family. I still miss my art family. I keep up with them via e-mail and cards, but it's not the same. Oh, and I don't even paint anymore. Why? It's a long story and would bore you.

"And a pox upon them!"

This is what happens when your printer really messes up. These are some of my com-padres in the midst of our hanging a show in downtown Alexandria, LA. From left: Helga Benoit, Ina Cowen, JoAnn Thompson, Gloria Rabelais and me. We were almost as frazzled as the printer snafu made us look. I had to include our spottiness in this post--it was too funny. (They may not feel the same way when they see this).

Last and least is moi, ready to do my duty at my church's Halloween gala for the children. I did the face painting for the evening and it was great fun.

Fini

Hastings Revisited

2011-01-06T12:28:00.005-06:00

I was addicted when I was in college in the late 60's and early 70's. My addiction was to British history as many of my ancestors were from that fair isle, and some from France fought in the Battle of Hastings in 1066 -- on the Norman side. I had a wonderful teacher at university and he captivated my mind and heart with a little-known, short-term king of England named Harold Godwinson. The king just before Harold, Edward the Confessor, really only cared for the monastic life, not the kingly one, and willingly turned the throne over to Harold. William the Conqueror, also known as "the Bastard," felt he had a stronger claim to the throne than did Harold and in less than two years, invaded England, killed Harold at the Battle of Hastings, and assumed the throne. This shift brought over 20,000 French words into the English language, and only the good Lord knows how many new French bloodlines.

Here's a poem dedicated to poor Harold.

Hastings Revisited

It's only when the moon of Wyrd
Arises atop the chalky cliffs
That the ghost of Harold Godwinson
Comes striding, striding across the miles.
He cannot rest when Hastings is reached --
The Huscarles must be resurrected
And thanes and even the lowly churls
Urged to arise from sleep and follow.

"I died but did not die in vain.
I lived to be the island's king.
Confessor Edward cared not for the world,
Even less the Saxon's golden throne.
I took the crown but not until
Edward had invested on me
The powers he had always spurned
And, denying all save this, I ruled.
'My liege, my lord,' men asked my favor
They loved me well, just ask the priest
Who heard confessions along the wall.
He knows their hearts were bound to me.
How else could we have marched to York
And fought until the blood-soaked bridge
Did groan and creak beneath the weight
Of Swedes and Danes and our own Saxons?
And when the giant invaders fell,
We learned of disaster to the south --
Norman ships had crossed the channel
And the Bastard waited on Hastings' plain.
He killed me there after blinding my eye.
He and his brothers cut me down,
Divided my body like a pack of dogs,
Leaving me without rest 'till Judgment Day."

Wulfstan comes from out of the mists:
"Harold, Harold Godwinson. You did lose,
Let it be. Dominus vobiscum, Harold,
Et cum spirit tu tuo."

Then the moon, full on its course,
Does drop into the sea again,
And the ghost of Harold Godwinson
Rests for a time at Walthum Abbey.

*Only parts of Harold's body were ever found to bury at the Abbey in Essex, England.

2010-12-27T00:33:00.003-06:00

"Christmas comes but once a year..." or so the saying goes. My Christmases go on and on and on, and it's so much fun and full of joy. Loved ones are sprinkled all across this wonderful land of ours and we always try and "catch up" at this time of year. We don't all meet but we do greet -- by card, letter, Facebook, Twitter, e-mail or telephone. How wonderful is that? So many ways to keep in touch that we are blessed beyond measure.

One of my friends gave me such a plethora of gifts, they almost covered the twelve days of Christmas. Here was this huge bag filled to the top with wrapped (and all beautifully wrapped) gifts. The first gift I opened was a good-looking black, gray and white wool scarf.

The second was a bottle of paprika, lemon and various other spices. Next was dryer balls. I had never heard of them but am enjoying the speed-up of drying time for my clothes. Fourth was a present for my dogs: Denta bones for good teeth cleaning. Fifth was a package of all the fixings for a Tuscan chicken dish. Sixth was a small pot with a New Orleans Saints insignia on it. Seventh was a box of gourmet crackers -- cornbread crackers. Who knew? Eighth was a book of "Ten Rules for Writers." Funny and excellent. One rule was on use of the exclamation point: "Use one only every 10,000 words." Ninth, and last present, was a package of fruit cheese-ball mix. I opened one present each day beginning on the day the bag arrived. Then on Christmas I still had quite a few left to open. What a workout for hands and fingers. And here I am typing away!!! Quick, call the grammar police! Exclamation points are falling from the sky!

Hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas and that the New Year will be wonderful too.

Louise

2010-10-23T19:33:00.010-05:00

     Louise and I both worked for a large mental hospital in mid-Louisiana, first meeting when she moved into an office just across the hall from my office. I was still a "newbie" when she came into my life, with few new friends and trying to learn tons of new routines. During a lull in our work, I walked across to her office and welcomed her to the workplace. She was a typical charming lady of the 1960's: warm, open, friendly, and had a pertness that was attractive. We immediately became "new best friends."

     Louise was married;I was divorced. But that never mattered to either of us. She had three children, all grown while I had six, all still at home. That too didn't bother either of us. Since I lived about sixty-miles away from work and commuted each day, we rarely saw each other out of the workplace.

     On one of our rare outings, we explored Caroline Dorman's wonderful sanctuary - a bit north of the town where we worked. The spacious grounds were filled with native plants growing in a natural setting. (There's a wonderful new book out on Louisiana women of renown, one of whom is Caroline Dorman. The book title is
Louisiana Women - Their Lives and Times edited by Janet Allured and Judith F. Gentry).

     Louise's husband was a geologist and worked for the state of Louisiana. He gained renown in this state by finding a new water aquifer for the city of Alexandria. In fact, he and Louise moved to Alexandria from their home state of Georgia specifically to find that water source - and what a source it was. Louise told me that the new water find was one of the best in the state, if not the best in the state.

     Within a few years of our meeting, Louise's husband died. After getting over the trauma of his battle with cancer, and my moving to a job closer to my home, we began visiting more and going on photography and art jaunts. These were nothing like the large, planned trips that are so costly. We just went to places in Louisiana that sounded interesting, taking photos or sketching in: New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Lafayette, Lake Charles, Washington, Opelousas, St. Francisville, New Iberia, Ruston, Monroe and Shreveport to name a few. Then there was the Kasatchie National Forest, Fort Polk, and the plantations of Rosedown, Nottoway, and Oak Alley. After that we ventured across the Mississippi River into Natchez, visiting many of the old plantations there. Next we explored a bit in Texas:the hill country, and visited an Indian reservation in east Texas where we spent a whole day. One of our last trips was to the famous Trading Days in Canton, Texas - one of the largest open-air flea markets in the USA. She was interested in all of it, taking in the sights and sounds with the delight of a child, camera clicking away or filling her sketchbook with drawings.

     Louise was a gentle soul. She battled diabetes that came upon her in her early teens and never once did I hear any complaints or even casual talk about the disease. If I asked her any questions about her health she would answer politely, but never elaborated. How many women would not take advantage of an interested friend to belabor every nuance of their ailments? That's right: not many.

     I learned that she was born adventurous. Her mother played the role of the "grand dame" and tried her best to hold her back from exploring around their Georgia home. "Nice girls don't do this or that, or go here or there." Louise's father took her side in the "nice girls don't..." debate and she continued to learn new things and to go to new places. Later on, when she finished college, she worked for a few years for one of the top book publishers in New York City. Then she married her beau and settled down into married life back in Georgia, producing three children. Sometime after the children came along, they moved to Alexandria, Louisiana and her last job before retirement was at the mental institution where we met.

     Until I finally met her mother, I wondered why Louise chose to dress in such a plain manner and keep her hairstyle the same way:short haircut, no perm, no "frou-frou" whatsoever, even down to her subdued jewelry which consisted of tiny, plain earrings and a small, no-frills watch. As you may have already guessed, her mother was the complete opposite. Beauty-shop appointment once, sometimes twice per week, ruffles, jewels always on display, high heels - even at her advanced age. Still the grand-dame. And personality? She was definitely controlling and demanding to be the center of attention. She lived with Louise for a few years, before exhibiting signs of Alzheimer's. This quickly escalated and she didn't live more than a year once her doctor diagnosed the disease.

     My wonderful little friend had a few good years after her mother's death. She even had a beau (I use this word loosely) who escorted her to dinner once a week (dutch, of course). She regaled me with tales of their "conversations" during these rides to the cafeteria and during the meal.

"How was your day, John?" (John was still working).

"Fine."

"What have you been doing in your spare time?"

"Not much."

"John, isn't that a beautiful sunset?"

"I suppose."

The poor guy never initiated any conversation, nor offered a semblance of a sentence in his answers. She was always exhausted after one of their meals. What a shame. Louise was one of the best-read persons I ever encountered and a fine conversationalist. What a waste. I finally asked her why she put herself through the torture because the scenario never changed for the better. Her answer was:"He never married and he has no friends. I feel sorry for him."

     That's my precious friend. She died about seven years ago, succumbing not to the diabetes but to her mother's ailment:Alzheimer's. I still miss her.

Tutorial: Most of my stories about people follow a time line of first encounter and a progression from there to the story's finish. This story follows that progression. Once in a while there will be flashbacks, but I don't like to use many of these, as they not only slow the story down, they can also be confusing. The number of people introduced is also important, since in a short story, too many characters can also lead to confusion.

     This story, beginning when I first met Louise, progresses mostly about facts in her life and goes through our friendship and our mutual interests. To keep the writing in a rhythm, I use short, long, and then longer, more complicated sentences - not necessarily in that order. I tend to use more longer than the short! Go ahead, say it: "Long-winded."

One of a Kind-Part 1

2010-09-24T08:03:00.012-05:00

Our small mental-health clinic in that little southern town was in a bad way. There were six of us trying to work there, but it was hard to tell the patients from the staff. We were so dysfunctional I really don't know how we stayed open. The staff consisted of a manager who was popping controlled pain medication like it was candy, a nurse who was beginning to have characteristics of Nurse Ratchet, two office workers who hated each other and two counselors. I was one of the two counselors and the last person hired. Oh, and Nurse R. hated the other counselor. Don't ask me why, I was new on the job. I probably don't have to mention that communication was almost nonexistent, do I?

Time moved on somehow, the manager was fired, and Nurse R. took over as manager. Soon a call went out for a nurse to fill her position. The only applicant was Margaret Flynn, Major USAF, retired and Irish to her innermost bones. She was sixty-something but looked like fifty-something, with dark brown hair worn in a sophisticated chignon. Her blue eyes sparkled, long almond-shaped nails were polished to perfection and on her dainty feet were expensive high-heeled shoes. She blew in like a colorful kite, caught up in a fresh March wind. Her charisma, like her scent, penetrated every corner of our bland world.

When she spoke, and she spoke to each of us on her way to be interviewed, we were taken aback with her Yankee accent, so unusual in our Deep South. I thought to myself, "She'll never make it. Nurse R. will be intimidated and that'll be that."

The interview lasted a rather long time - at least an hour. The door opened and out walked Margaret, followed by Nurse R. who introduced her to each of us. She was hired! Wonder of wonders. What would happen now?

To be continued...

Tutorial: Foundation: This is a "falling into your lap" story. Its main character, Margaret, is such a charismatic person she needed no fictionalization..

1st Paragraph:This is all about capturing the reader's attention with the first sentence and then setting the stage for all that follows. Who, what, where, and why. The cast of characters is laid out--including the mental health patients, although just in passing. It should make the reader want to find out "How in the world can this place function, let alone help clients?"

2nd & 3rd Paragraphs: Situation arises that opens the way for Margaret's entry. Color is added to story with description of her dress, looks, and personality. The story moves constantly as our heroine sweeps into and through the clinic on her way to the interview.

4th Paragraph: Leaves the reader wanting more - what will happen?

One of a Kind:Part 2

2010-09-23T16:36:00.008-05:00

Margaret settled in, learned her duties and carried them out effortlessly. And all the while, she charmed each of us with a Southern flavored charm that she had obviously honed with masterful skill. I told her one day that she put Scarlett O'Hara in the shade. She laughed and agreed with me. Then she gave me some concrete examples of her philosophy:"My dear, a lady should never do anything physical that she can get a man to do for her." The next jewel came about over a remark about sweating: "Horses sweat, gentlemen perspire, ladies glisten." Our little clinic settled into a bearable routine for the first time in its existence.

Margaret and I began a friendship that lasted a lifetime. She was thoroughly impressed by my situation: rearing six children by myself, going to college and graduating, and now working to clothe and feed the seven of us. I was thoroughly impressed by her whole life story: born in Philadelphia to a mother she felt ignored her, a father who left the home when she was a young child, receiving an education that included the study of Latin (an unheard of subject in my part of the world), becoming an R. N., joining the service and finally retiring from the service. At first she joined the Army, but as soon as that enlistment was up, she left and promptly joined the Air Force. I asked, "Why, Margaret?"

She looked at me as though I were the dunce of the world and should have known the answer intuitively. "The blue uniforms were more flattering to my fair skin and blue eyes." Silly me, I should have known that.

Another question I asked was, "Why didn't you ever marry? You're attractive and I know you like men."

"I would have made the poor ones miserable and the rich ones were already married."

Margaret was a shopaholic before the term came into general usage. She had 150 pairs of shoes, all in their original boxes, and enough expensive clothes to outfit several women. In addition, there were accessories--you were not presentable until you accessorized. Were any of the staff females jealous of such splendor? Were any of the males disgusted by what seemed such frivolous self-indulgence? Not at all. Everyone was not only charmed by Margaret, they were actually in awe of her. She lived life on her own terms, did not "suffer fools gladly," and had no regrets.

Her stories of service life were varied and always interesting. On one of her assignments she served under General Benjamin Davis, the first black man to hold the rank of general. In Margaret's eyes, he could do no wrong. He was not only a perfect gentleman, he had great admiration for her and her work ethic. From that tour of duty on, any moves she had to make were always first class, compliments of General Davis. Heavy pieces of furniture, endless expensive bric-a-brac, lots of luggage, and, of course, her two Siamese cats were always crated and shipped with due diligence.

To be continued...

Tutorial: This section of the story is a "getting to know the heroine personally". Since Margaret has such a strong and distinctive personality, it almost writes itself. The author's main job here is to include as much dialog as possible to break up the plain facts--although even facts regarding Margaret could hardly be considered "plain".

The last paragraph includes a nationally notable person in her life, their respect for each other, and sets the story into movement as the reader senses a foreshadowing of a possible move.

One of a Kind:Part 3

2010-09-23T16:28:00.006-05:00

The tours of duty Margaret spoke of frequently were Formosa and Alaska. Her fondest memories were for Formosa, and why not? The climate was wonderful--after all, it was an island in the China Sea and had a tropical climate(so good for one's skin). Her rented home was palatial, and she had servants galore: a cook, a maid, a chauffeur, and a gardener. The quiet and beauty of this earthly Eden was shattered when word went around that the gardener had disappeared along with Margaret's sterling silver service for twelve. When the cook, a small, wiry Chinese man, heard about this theft, he was so furious she was afraid he was going to have a stroke. Hurling Chinese curses into the air as he prepared for a trip into the city, his face was as red as the peonies that were blooming in the garden. In short order he found the thief, recovered the silver and returned home. He and the loot were both unscathed.

Margaret explained to me just how important that cook was to her. If she had tried to live in her wonderful home without someone "native" to the island to watch out for her, in short order she would have found everything in her house stolen and, quite possibly, she would have been killed. This was just a fact of life for foreigners who did not know the "ropes" of their society. She told me that the cook had quite a reputation in the city and was afraid of nothing. She felt blessed to have him working for her.

Alaska was another story entirely. She landed there against her will as a punishment. At another post, a high-ranking officer took quite a shine to Margaret. This man's wife saw to it that she was not only transferred, but transferred to a base that was at the bottom of every service person's wish list. Always a trouper, she endured it--the interminably long dark during the winters and the ever-present light during the summers. What many women would feel was a positive, having a plethora of males and few females on base, turned out to be a danger. It was here that she learned to shoot a pistol and she also bought a German shepherd dog. This dog saved her from at least one attacker. She never had to use the pistol, but I have no doubt she would have if any situation called for it.

Her most memorable event while in Alaska was flying over the North Pole, the first woman to do so. She still had the newspaper clippings that told of her daring adventure.

To be continued...

Tutorial: There is no relief of dialog in this part of the story but the facts themselves are so interesting that it really doesn't need dialog. You should get an immediate picture of the island of Formosa (Taiwan now) in the opening paragraph and an distinct idea of the "welcome" most foreigners received when they didn't know the way of the island.

The Alaskan tour of duty was brutal and Margaret didn't try to portray it as anything else. We leave her after her news-making flight over the North Pole. What in the world will she do next?

One of a Kind:Part 4

2010-09-23T16:22:00.005-05:00

The longer I knew Margaret, the more she told me about her childhood, and it was fascinating to see how she was led to the life she finally chose. As best as I could figure, she was born around 1925. By the time of the stock market crash in 1929, things were fairly bleak in the Flynn household. Mr. Flynn, who had a drinking problem, had taken off for God-only-knew-where and gave them little or no support. The in-laws helped a little, but eventually Margaret's mother took in a boarder. This was around the time Margaret was in second or third grade. The boarder was a nice woman who happened to be a friend of her mother's, but Margaret was forced to give up her bedroom to her. She resented it and resented the time and attention her mother allotted to the woman. M. felt abandoned not only by her father, but now also by her mother, and, although this was emotional abandonment, it hurt.

During high school Margaret worked at a job at one of the large department stores in Philadelphia.

"Do you know why I have so many clothes and shoes today?" she once asked me.

"No, why?"

"When I worked in that department store, I had one dress to wear to work. One. Every night I had to wash it, let it dry overnight, then starch and iron it for work the next day. I guess that's where I got the Scarlett O'Hara syndrome," laughing at herself as she finished her explanation.

"Well, Margaret, when you joined the service, at least they provided clothes for you, even if they were uniforms."

"Yes, the service was good to me."

I can't remember how Margaret came to settle in the South after her retirement from the service. Perhaps she told me and I've forgotten, or perhaps that was one of the questions I forgot to ask. I do know that she loved the South and its people. She served a tour of duty at Lackland AFB at San Antonio, Texas and that tour produced stories of two ladies whose names were funny, even without the stories: Mrs. Flatbush and Mrs. Cowturd. I didn't really believe the latter name and told Margaret so. She insisted that it was a valid name.

Another Southern placement was at Chennault AFB in Lake Charles, Louisiana. She enjoyed this base except for one "incident"--an atomic bomb incident. I'm not sure if Chennault was part of the Strategic Air Command base system, or the SAC plane carrying the A-bomb just made an emergency landing there. Whatever the reason, there was a real chance that the bomb was going to explode. All base personnel evacuated--that is, all except medical personnel. That meant Margaret. Fortunately, the bomb did not explode and the base and Lake Charles and the surrounding areas were spared.

"It was quite a white-knuckle time for all of us." No amount of repartee or savoir-faire could have helped her out of that one, although knowing her, she was probably comforting and calming everyone else.

Whatever the reason or reasons for her decision to stay in the South, we were blessed by that move. Association with Margaret made people feel they could be better than they were before meeting her, and there was interest and happiness just being in her company.

She died as she had lived--on her own terms:No long, lingering death for Ms. Flynn. Sitting in her spacious, comfortable living room in front of the television, highball in hand, watching her beloved Raiders (her "Bad Boys"), her heart just stopped beating. Her make-up flawless, her elegant silk dress intact, she went quietly into her "Wild Blue Yonder." Charming, as always, Major Margaret Flynn, USAF retired, I salute you. You were truly one of a kind.

Tutorial: We do some flashbacks into Margaret's early life which explain even further how she came to be who she was. Breaking up the story of her life into segments forms a weaving in and out in her story, giving texture to the piece as a whole. Then we learn how her love of the South and its people caused her to spend the last years of her life there.

An upbeat finish is the only way to go with someone as dynamic as she was. By the way, she is buried in Arlington National Cemetery. She wanted to be buried there to "take back a small piece of their land in the South for Gen. & Mrs. Robert E. Lee."

*I learned after her death that she knew she had serious problems with her heart. Advised to have surgery she remarked, "I treasure the quality of my life rather than the quantity." No operation for Major Flynn. It would have been an unwelcome inconvenience. Almost seventy years, lived on her own terms, was quite enough for her. Margaret, I hope our mansions are near each other. I look forward to it.

**The next tutorial will be on the post titled "Consuelo Godboult:Unexpected Heroine," further down in the blog.

The Trip West

2010-09-21T20:06:00.005-05:00

As we slowly moved west, my future father-in-law wanted to see Judge Roy Bean's quarters - the "only law west of the Pecos" had become very popular and to that day was still a tourist draw. The landscape was right out of the western movies where the outlaws are making their way to hideouts in the mountains, surrounded by scrub bushes and rattlesnakes. We crossed a large bridge over the Pecos River and were soon at the Judge's digs--a very small building with an open front porch with a couple of rocking chairs on it. Nothing much inside but a desk. Ho-hum. It was very boring to me except the scenery was intriguing--wild, very "wild west." Mr. M enjoyed it, while Mrs. M at least pretended to be interested.

Back on the road again, our stop for the night was in the charming little town of Alpine, Texas. There was a college across the road from our motel. The motel itself was neat and very clean. The altitude now was much higher and the air was crisp. It felt wonderful. From Alpine we turned north toward New Mexico and on to Carlsbad Caverns. Since you who have been along on this saga have already read about the "Cavern Caper," I'll move right along to what I can remember about the next leg of the trip.

Our next stop for the night was a God-forsaken, bug-infested dump of a motel. Mr. M drove until night fell and had to take whatever he could get as our sleeping (and scratching) quarters. Mrs. M and I were so tired that everything was hysterically funny, even the critters. Have you ever been that tired? Since Mr. M rarely thought anything was funny, he did not join in our hilarity. After all, he was getting chewed on too, though I doubt he really felt it--one of the few benefits of that ever-present brown-bag-wrapped bottle. Don't remember getting to sleep. Don't remember waking up either, but evidently my shower and head washing rid me of the unwanted guests, because I wasn't bothered after that. On to California.

I believe we stopped in Tucson, Arizona, but can't be sure. I vividly remember the change in scenery as we neared San Diego. The mountains were smaller and suddenly there was the city lying below, looking like a Spanish senorita with her billowing skirts spread down to the harbor where hundreds of Navy ships greeted her. Down, down we went and the next thing I remember was hugging and kissing my darling, my husband-to-be, looking so handsome in his sailor suit. Believe me, girls, you really are in love if you think of "handsome" in the same breath as that goofy sailor suit. Yes, I was in love, and so sure that it would always feel and be this way: the white horse, the knight in sailor-suit armor and all.

Tutorial: One of the best things about writing of a journey is that there's built-in movement. The reader is in the moment yet knows more traveling/movement is just around the next paragraph. Try to use more nouns in descriptions than adjectives. There is a use of personification in the description of San Diego--comparing the
city as it marched to the harbor to the skirt of a Spanish girl. This is an introduction to the reader of San Diego's Spanish roots. The last sentence leaves the reader wondering, "Will all be well with this relationship?"

Near Tucson

2010-09-21T20:02:00.001-05:00

Since the dreaded hitch-hiker has been dropped off near Tucson, and my three hour's worth of sleep, I want to back this story up. (We'll just call it a flashback, like they do in the movies. Stargazer Spielberg?)

This trip turned out to be a microcosm of my 18 years on earth: Naivete regarding my future father-in-law's alcoholism; klutziness displayed in the depths of Carlsbad Caverns; the list will go on as my tale progresses.
Mom and Pop store in the middle of nowhere, very much west of San Antonio on Route 66. Mr. M couldn't wait to get away since Mom and Pop didn't carry liquor. I hurriedly gathered my small purchases and practically jumped into the car. Fifty miles down the road, I discovered that my wallet was missing. In that wallet was my entire fortune, $100. In 1950, that was a small fortune for a teenager. Mr. M begrudgingly turned the car around and headed back, all the while predicting doom. "You can bet your money'll be gone, if they even admit they have the wallet." Fifty miles of west Texas heat (the car was not air-conditioned), fifty miles of complaining.
We were finally there. I went in alone to face my fate. Mom and Pop smiled at me as I walked in. "You forgot your wallet, didn't you? We put it up for you." God bless those two sweet people. Pleasant and honest. Everything was safe, including the $100. Mr. M was not happy over my good fortune, because that made his predictions wrong. More grumbling while I, the recipient of a great blessing, could not have been happier. I really tried not to smirk but I'm not sure I succeeded.

Tutorial: Flashbacks can help clarify your story but you don't want to overuse them, as too many soon become an aggravation to the reader, slowing the story down and may also confuse. This flashback gives insight into the nature of the future father-in-law: not trusting, not optimistic, and a poor loser to boot! In contrast, it gives insight into my personality and character.

The Trip Home and Beyond

2010-09-21T18:57:00.002-05:00

The in-laws-to-be and I headed home. That whole long leg of our Western safari is a total blank. All I could think of was that each mile was taking me further away from the one I loved. Once I arrived home, wedding plans kept me busy, so the strange parts of the trip faded away.

The Wedding: Except for one thing, all went smoothly. It was a simple wedding. I had only one attendant. We had the reception at my parent's home. The exception to the smoothness was my now-in-laws not wanting to come to the reception. My mother and father asked, begged and cajoled. They finally agreed to come but did not mix with the other guests. Strange. But actually, the strange one was moi. Who in their right mind after experiencing "the trip" would marry into this family? Who could be so blind? Duh, a sheltered, 18 year old country bumpkin, that's who.

Can you guess that the marriage was not a successful one? Our only successes were that six beautiful children came to live on this earth as a result of our union. After our divorce I went to college, becoming a teacher. Somehow we got through life, the kids sporting holey jeans and tennis shoes when this garb was not cool. Sometimes supper was catchup sandwiches and breakfast was just grits. But we made it. I didn't tell my Dad how bad off we actually were, since he had supported us up until the time I finished college and got my first few paychecks. At first I thought my big $500+ a bonanza. But by the time they took out for this and that (you know the routine), there was not a great amount left. Seven mouths to feed (including one football player), bodies to clothe and feet to shod, well, you do the math.

Three-fourths of the way into my second year of teaching, my Dad died. My Mom had died five years earlier. Gulp. By now I was 41 but felt more like 14. What would we do without our "anchor?" You would never guess in a million years what I did, so I'll tell you. We had $60 left in the bank and I had not tithed on my $570 paycheck. It was about the third week of the month. I wrote a check for $57 to my church, praying the whole time I was writing it. More catchup sandwiches and grits. Within a week I received a check from a lawyer for $5,700. This was part of the division of my Dad's estate. What an amazing God.

Guest Blogger:Sandy Guillory--Sheepdog trials in Meeker, CO

2010-09-18T19:46:00.005-05:00

http://www.meekersheepdog.com/

2010

http://www.meekersheepdog.com/posters.htm

A few shots from the two days I attended. The first day was rain, About the third shepherd up – can you believe it -was a Boudreau. (We have a gazillion Cajun Boudreaus in Louisiana.) So I had to meet him. Little wiry guy. Works on a ranch in Sheffield, Texas but had nothing Cajun about him. He was originally from Minnesota or Wisconsin. He used to do horses, jockey a little. Has gone down to Brazil to teach Gauchos how to train sheepdogs. I wanted to shoot him and his dog, but he was playing golf. I asked where in that hole of a depressed town was a golf course. Someone said it was 9 holes. Confused with PuttPutt.

The dogs go way out to bring in the sheep, at least 500 yds. You can’t even see them. It’s hard to win this. To get them to the pen for the shepherd to open and help in - must be in 11 minutes. One shot is a woman – champion last year and a champion of Canada also. Sheep finally got to the gate and as often happens, they bolt, and that’s it. Some shots near to me were the Live Free or Die recalcitrant ewe. She really needed some horns. You might see where the dog bites her on the nose.

Somewhere out there are sheep and dog

There are some sets of simulated gates the dog needs to bring sheep through, but doesn’t always happen.

Waiting to send dog out

Bringing them in to where we are can take a long time with clock running. A lot run out the clock.

but the sheep took off.

Here come the sheep. Remember we're described as sheep in the Bible.

Ewe that should have been a ram

"I'm not afraid of you, dog!"

Penning the sheep


Great Breakfast

Many walls of Meeker hotel covered with innocent creatures.

I met Julie Hansmire of Campbell-Hansmire sheep operation, who raises and supplied the sheep for competition. Sheep and dogs are always in the hills. Said the dogs will even get in the trailer with the sheep instead of leaving them.

http://www.meekersheepdog.com/randy_campbell__julie_hansmire.htm

Link for the Akbash guardian dogs she uses and raises to sell. Sells to folks to guard their kids from coyotes.

http://www.dogbreedinfo.com/a/akbashdog.htm

Consuelo Godboult:Unexpected Heroine

2010-09-13T20:30:00.005-05:00

I was on the hospital elevator going up, juggling a dozen yellow roses (they were on sale), a small book and a card. Ding. Third floor.
Walking down the hall, I dreaded what I would find in her room. Crohn's disease had already taken a toll on her small-boned, 5'7" frame. What would it be now - skin-and-bones, labored breathing? I hesitated at the door. Finally I knocked softly.

"Come on in," Connie's voice boomed out, strong and clear. Encouraged by that voice, I hurried in. Setting her gifts down on her food table, I gave her a hug. Those arms and shoulders were mighty bony. Holding her hand, I looked into her face. Her beautiful white teeth gleamed against her almost black skin. Elegantly structured cheekbones gave her the look of a long-ago Ethiopian queen.

"Sis! You came - and look at all these beautiful presents!"

"You thought I would forget you? I came to see how you are, and I don't want any of that 'I'm just fine' stuff. I want the straight scoop."

She laughed her 'Connie' laugh, deep and heartfelt. "Sis, you know I always tell it to you straight. How many years I been cleaning your house? Have I ever lied to you?"

"No, but when it comes to your health, you always tend to hold back or play down the seriousness of it, right?"

"Well, yeah, I kinda do. Guess I don't want people feeling sorry for me. I'm telling you right now my doc says I'm in remission and if I do what he tells me, I'm gonna make it a good many more years. Why, I'll be going home in just a couple of days. Be back cleaning up your messes in no time." We both laughed at that. I was never known for spotless housekeeping.

I found dear Connie through my sister. For twenty years Connie worked for her every Monday and for all of those Mondays she charged twenty dollars. Twenty years, twenty dollars. She began to work for me in 1998, apologizing for charging me twenty-five-dollars, and worked for seven years. In fact, the only reason we parted company was that I moved to another city.

Since Connie and I both loved to talk, she always stayed longer at my house. Actually, she did most of the talking. I was delighted, since her stories were far more interesting than mine. Most of these stories revolved around the deplorable conditions in her neighborhood: gangs, drugs, shootings, fights...

One Monday morning as she walked in, she was about to explode. She had a fire in those eyes - red mixed in with the white that stood out against her ebony skin.

"I tell you Sis, last night I was fed up! They were out in the street in front of my house making so much noise, shooting their guns, there wuzn't no sleep for nobody! You know what I did?"

"What?"

"I called the mayor at 3 a m, that's what I did! I said, 'Mr. Mayor,' - yes, he answered the phone himself - I'm sorry to be bothering you at 3 a m, but I can't sleep with all this racket going on over here--hollerin' and shootin' guns. I thought, why should you be able to sleep, and that you needed to know just how bad it is over here, Mayor. You got to do something about it!"

"What did he say, Connie?"

"He told me he would look into it. Said he would talk to the police chief - and I believe him."

"I hope he'll follow through."

"He better, 'cause if he don't, I'm gonna keep calling him, no matter what time it is."

Things did get better after that but only for a while. Eventually the gang activity picked up its pace. I moved in 2005 and aside from a couple of phone calls where she promised to stop and see me on some of her trips to Houston (that never materialized), I lost track of Connie. One day lately I began to think about her, wondering how she was, and called her. Her phone was disconnected. Oh, no! What if she died and I didn't know about it? I called her only child in Houston. Connie answered the phone.

"CONNIE!"

"SIS!"

We caught up on both our lives. She keeps fighting the good fight in her health battle and is still in remission, but she lost the battle with the neighborhood gangs. They burned down empty houses on either side of her and did so much damage to her front door, she had to have it replaced. Finally the police chief himself came to see her, telling her they could no longer protect her and she needed to move. Her house would be the next one burned and probably with her in it! "Leave town for your own safety." (What a police force. Where are the TV Matt Dillon's and real Wyatt Earp's for today)?

Connie was able to sell her house last year. ("For almost nothing, Sis, almost nothing.") She moved to Houston where she lives with her daughter.

"I hate this city! It's got a million people in it, but they only seem to care about themselves. The churches are big, but not friendly. The Council on Aging has folks doing kiddy projects and playing goofy games. I mostly putter around in the yard and cook supper for my child."

"At least you're in a safe neighborhood here and you're not alone," I said.

"Maybe so. You calling me sure has me feeling better. I may not even take my evening dose of medicine!"

"Don't get carried away, Connie, yellow roses are too expensive now. Goodbye, my friend. Take care."

Living in poverty all her life, cleaning people's houses even when she was sick, fighting to keep crime at bay in her neighborhood and losing the battle, yet able to hang on to that indomitable spirit - she is an unexpected heroine. She is as strong as our Louisiana oaks. Consuelo Godboult: Unexpected Heroine; Connie: my friend

Tutorial: This piece begins with movement - on the elevator with the picture of arms full of flowers. Dialogue is used throughout and moves the story along. Within the first page you learn who-what-where-why: Connie, my maid, is in the hospital because of a life-threatening chronic illness. The description of her should give you a strong picture of how she looks: Slim, good bone structure, dark as an Ethiopian with white teeth against that dark skin. You also learn some of her strength as she makes light of her illness, exposes my foibles, yet our respect and care for each other stands out.

Her low wage for cleaning houses give you a window into economics in the area. Her humility comes out as she apologizes for charging me five dollars more than she charges my sister. Lifelong struggles with her health
and poverty gave her strength. While she isn't really content in her new situation, she makes the best of it - an obviously lifelong habit.

Such strong characters' stories, as in Margaret Flynn's piece, almost write themselves. We who are fortunate enough to have such wonderful people in our list of friends, are blessed indeed.

.
As strong as the live oaks of Louisiana Photo by Sandy Guillory

Arrel Carrier Tells It Like It Was

2010-09-13T18:49:00.002-05:00

"The Carriers go back to the 16th century in France," said Arrel Carrier. "They came to Nova Scotia and were run out of there. Then they drifted down to Louisiana and settled in to be farmers. A few of them had other trades, but most of them farmed. They spelled their name a different way back then. It was 'Carriere'. When I started school in 1932, we still spelled it with an 'e' on the end. In fact, up until the time my grandpa died in 1936, we still spelled it that way."

"My grandpa's name was Dorselin Carriere. He lived in the Oberlin, Louisiana area when he was an eight year old child. His daddy was Eursanian Carriere and Eursanian was born in 1815. He had eleven children and all of them were still living in 1936. Eursanian crossed the Calcasieu River when he first came to this part of the country, and ever since then, the place where he crossed has been called the 'Carriere Ford.' It was somewhere in the LaCaze settlement, I believe. That's north of Guy. Great-Grandpa Eursanian came here during the Civil War days."

"My grandpa, Dorselin, told me this story when I was just a kid. Eursanian had a brother named Ozamey who was a jay-hawker. In fact, he was the leader of a large band of jay-hawkers who robbed and killed for food and supplies, gold and other precious metals. They didn't want to fight for either the North or the South in the Civil War. 'It is not our fight,' Ozamey said. He was an Adadian, and in fact, could speak only French. He called the Civil War 'la gare de Americain' (the American war). At one time the North offered him a commission if he would join with them. Evidently he considered it, because he asked who would be giving him orders. When he heard the name he stated: 'That man is too military. I won't serve under him!'"

"When my grandpa was eight years old something happened to the family that he could never forget. It haunted him all of his life. Because Ozamey refused to fight for the Union, they had put a price on his head, dead or alive. Due to his expert horsemanship and cunning, he had managed to escape capture for years. One day while visiting his brother Eursanian, they were sitting on the front porch, enjoying a sit-and-smoke after a good meal. Suddenly, before they realized what was happening, the U. S. Calvary was almost in the front yard. Ozamey jumped up, grabbed his hat, ran through the house and out to the stables. He leaped onto his big white horse and went sailing across the split rail fence, and down into a nearby gully. The soldiers' bullets rained across the gully, clipping the limbs of the trees over Ozamey's head. He was able to escape, as he had so many times before."

"After the troops lost Ozamey, they returned to the house, burned it and all of the outbuildings. They killed every animal except two oxen. They left one ox cart standing. The soldiers allowed Eursanian's wife and children to leave with the cart pulled by the oxen. She and the children never knew what happened to Eursanian. The family feels he was killed for allowing his brother to be on his property. My great-grandmother, pregnant with their eleventh child, and her ten children made their way from the Calcasieu River in the Oberlin area back to Opelousas where she had relatives. The good Lord only knows how long it took them to get there. My grandpa picked berries and foraged for food in the woods as they traveled. That was all they had to eat. They finally reached Opelousas and lived there until the children were grown."

"Meanwhile, Ozamey rode back to his headquarters in the Bayou Mallet woods near Opelousas. There he had more than a thousand men under his command. His lines, or territory, started in the Mamou area and included two to three parishes below St. Landry. His second in command was a free man of color. Until the end of the Civil War, Ozamey and his men continued to terrorize the countryside. After the war, most of his men headed back to their families. Only his second in command stayed with Ozamey. It was not long afterward that Union troops hunted them down, killing both of them on the same day. They also blew the head off of his faithful white horse. No one knows where the two men are buried--or if they were buried."

"Supposedly Ozamey hid most of his stolen money before the soldiers killed him. The story is that he dug a great hole near the old Carriere Ford on the Calcasieu River. Many school children today tell their parents, 'I'm going swimming at the money-hole' without even knowing why the area is called by that name. People through the years have searched for Ozamey's buried treasure. As far as I know, no one has ever found it."

"There's a story that some years ago two men from the Oberlin area decided to try to find the money hole. They brought along a black fortune teller, Eddie Hall, to help them. Eddie told them where to dig but hours of work turned up nothing. Hot, sweaty, tired--they decided to take a dip in the river to cool off. Their last remarks to Eddie were ugly and he sat by the hole worrying about what might happen to him if the men didn't find the treasure, and soon. He peered into the hole and noticed that the shovels had fallen in the shape of a cross. This gave him an idea."

"When the men came back from their swim, they asked Eddie to tell their fortunes. Eddie took their coffee cups, swished the dregs around, and blew on them three times. Then, closing his eyes, he asked, 'Where's the money? Where's the money?' After this, Eddie spun each cup on the ground, looked into it seriously, and told the men, 'Yep, we're right on it. In the morning, the first one of you who digs will hit that money. And when you do, Carriere's going to come out of there on his white horse with no head. He'll let out a war whoop like you've never heard, and one of you is going to drop dead."

"Which one of us will die?"

"I don't know."

The two men looked at each other and one of them said, 'We might as well go home.' And they did."

The Carriere saga didn't die with Ozamey. Down the family line came another jay-hawker, Hiliare Carriere, born in St. Landry Parish in 1886. He was known as the terror of six parishes in South Louisiana. He had already served six stints in jail for theft and receiving stolen goods, when he killed a fisherman, Dave Pierce, who had dared to fish in a spot on a bayou that Carriere considered his own. This happened in 1916. (Most of this account is from newspaper records).

Arrested for this murder, Hiliare managed to escape. In July of the same year the sheriff of St. Landry Parish, Marion Swords, headed for the Mallet Woods. He got a tip that Hiliare was hiding in a cornfield. He and his deputies closed in on Hiliare. Shots rang out. Two of the deputies were hit. Then the sheriff stepped into one of the cornrows; the sunlight glinted on his badge. Carriere shot him through the heart, killing him instantly. The remaining deputies fled.

The public was outraged. Sheriffs from neighboring parishes formed posses and continually combed the area for Carriere. He eluded them. After a month, the sheriffs disbanded. Then in mid-August, they got a break. A former running mate of Hiliare's (some say it was one of his own family members) sent word to Sheriff Y. O. Reed of Allen Parish that Hiliare was holed up in an abandoned mill on the property of the Putnam family, six miles north of Elton.

Once again, the sheriffs teamed up: Y. O. Reed with deputy Oscar Tate of Oberlin; Sheriff Henry A. Reid, Sr. of Calcasieu Parish with deputies Jerry Caruthers, C. W. Harmon, and Leslie Richardson. They met in the town of Elton and arrived at the mill at about 9 p. m.

There are two stories as to what happened next. The Y. O. Reed version: Reed climbed up into the top of the mill, fell through the rotten boards, and landed on top of the outlaw. Before Carriere could ready any of his guns, Reed shot him. The other version is the account given to the newspaper. Sheriff Reid, waiting in the bushes just outside the mill, ambushed Hiliare as he came walking by at about 2 a.m. The gunshot wound almost killed Hiliare. Lawmen brought him for treatment to Dr. T. S. Smith in Elton. He finished recuperating in the Calcasieu Parish jail. From there he was moved to Opelousas for trial.

Carriere, found guilty, was sentenced to hang. His appeals went on for less than a year. The date for his execution was October 19, 1917. Because Hiliare had a dread of being hanged, he tried to starve himself and also cut his throat with a razor. Neither attempt was successful. To get him to the scaffold to be hanged, deputies had to literally drag him every step of the way. He was thirty years old.

I asked Arrel why he was willing to drag out family skeletons. Although there are few secrets in such a small town as Oberlin, most people don't want the bones laid out in print. His answer was refreshing: "It's history. We can't help what our relatives do, and we can't change it. I think it's an interesting story."

Jay-hawkers, galloping horses, flying bullets, buried treasure, desperadoes--interesting is too tame a word. This is indeed the stuff of legends. For a little while we get to participate, glad that it's only in our imaginations, and glad that Arrel Carrier wasn't afraid to tell it like it was.

Miss Lily Burleigh, Fisherwoman Extraordinaire

2010-09-13T12:44:00.004-05:00

Summer on the River With Miss Lily

It has a mystique for those of us who love it, and most of us do love it, for the Calcasieu River was our childhood. I reach back in time and remember Miss Lily Burleigh's camps at "Silver Springs," not far from the river bridge. The camps were earthy, rustic buildings set in a large semi-circle around a clearing in the woods. The buildings blended into their surroundings so well that it seemed they had always been there. Many of the camps were built with cedar wood, and that distinctive smell was a delight to little noses.

Most of the camps had wood stoves placed outside and the food cooked on them was better than than any food I had ever eaten. The air smelled of pine and sassafras and wild azaleas, of smoke from the wood stove's oak fires, and of the musky root cellar where Miss Lil kept her perishables. There was no electricity on the river in those days and I'm sure she preferred it that way.

Everything about the area was a delight to me:vines to swing on hanging down from the trees, wide sandbars on the river itself with fine, white quartz sand. There were often other children to play with, for most families delighted in camping on the river. It was certainly Miss Lily's favorite place to be--it was her life. She shared that life with me because not only did she love children, but she had been a good friend of my "first" mother's. They fished together and also played bridge together. After my mother died when I was around two, I guess she always considered me "half-an-orphan," even after my wonderful stepmother came along.

Miss Lil' lost her husband in the First World War. She eventually settled back in Oberlin where she had family and land. Her father had moved the family to the town in the early 1900's and eventually owned and ran the only general store. Miss Lil' inherited the big, comfortable family home in town and the camps at the river.

Each summer she rented the camps and she also had a government pension. Frugality was a way of life for everyone during Miss Lil's adulthood and she managed quite well. She was fun to be around, with a good sense of humor and an understanding of children, that, looking back on it now, was quite remarkable. To look at her she seemed very prim, always wearing a dress, stockings, sensible shoes, and her long, straight hair was always in a neat bun, situated on the back of her head. Her camp clothes were a bit more sturdy but were still dresses. Dress or not, she still could out-fish most men. One old friend said, "She fished everywhere there was water--in ditches, in ponds, everywhere."

Evidently her lifestyle agreed with her, for she stayed active well into her eighties. I remember the time she insisted on taking four of my children crabbing down near Cameron. Why, I was sure she shouldn't be doing this at her age--how would she keep up with the rest of us? The joke was on me. The children and I tired out long before she did.

She kept her cabins ready for the friends and family who came for long stretches of time each summer, and for the kids like me whose parents didn't care about camping or fishing, or swimming or playing on the sandbars. My dad and stepmother were "city-slickers" who were both reared in New Orleans.

There was a hard packed trail from her cabin down to the river, and often I walked it with her. We would fish until the sun sank low behind the canopy of trees across from us. Then we headed back to camp. She would light the coal-oil lamps and I would pile a few more pieces of wood in the stove. I could almost taste those fish I knew she would soon be frying. And always when I was with her, she made sure to have a made-from-scratch lemon pie for dessert--she knew that was my favorite.

It didn't matter that the floor was just the sandy dirt, or that we had a privy outside instead of an indoor bathroom; it didn't matter that once in a while the moss mattress was lumpy, or that I had to have mosquito netting around me as I slept. I adored it all. It was summer and I was on the river with Miss Lily.

Malcolm Dillard Carroll

2010-09-13T12:39:00.007-05:00

My brother Bubs, (Malcolm Dillard Carroll, but always just "Bubs" to me) was fourteen years older than I. The fact that he quit school in the 7th grade and went to live with my grandmother in New Orleans put us even further apart. Our dad had him enrolled in the Delgado trade school as soon as possible.

School was always a "jail" for Bubs. What he lacked in motivation for studies, he certainly made up in love of adventure and in the looks department. There was no doubt in anyone's mind, including mine, that he was one of the most handsome fellows anyone had ever seen. With a shock of black hair, fair skin and eyes the color of the sea, he was lump-in-the-throat-handsome.

My mother used to say, "Humph, handsome is as handsome does." She was determined that her children were going to be well educated and Bubs' grades were deplorable. When she had visits with his teachers, all female, they would simper,"Oh, but when he looks at me with those beautiful blue eyes, why..." Mama would come back from those engagements huffing/puffing/ready to blow the schoolhouse down. But since she was best friends with the superintendent of schools' wife, I could never figure out why someone didn't do something about either the simpering teachers or the unwilling student.

Bubs loved to swim and spent many happy hours swimming and diving into the Calcasieu River, which was about three miles "down the road." I only learned after his death that he once saved an older boy who was drowning. This boy later became our parish(county to most of you) clerk of court, Percy Cole.

My brother was determined that I was going to be a tomboy and he got his wish. He hounded me about doing things right. Not very well coordinated, I had a terrible time learning to jump rope. I remember him chasing me once, determined that I would learn to jump while staying on the same linoleum block in our den. Mom was washing dishes and I ran between her and the sink. "Now, Bubs. Stop this instant."

He listened to her. Although Myrtle Beatrice Corcoran Carroll was our stepmother, Bubs and I loved her dearly and usually obeyed her. Ah, I was safe, at least for awhile.

Our dad, Malcolm Carroll, was always working - struggling to turn a profit each year to pay for the farm. He went from a railroad worker to a plantation manager to a bookkeeper - and then a farmer on his own (and the bank's) land. He didn't have a lot of time for his children. After dad died my sister told me that once Bubs fell off the back of some vehicle dad was driving, knocking himself out.When Bubs came to, dad was on his knees holding him Later Bubs said, "Dad does love me, he does!"

During the time Bubs was in trade school, he decided that this kind of school was also for the birds. He wanted to join the Navy - guess he wanted to "see the world" as did many before him. He was so young that he had to get dad's permission before they would take him. That took a lot of time and skilled persuasion, or perhaps it was persistent persuasion. Dad finally gave in.

Within only a few years after joining the Navy, World War II came along. Bubs, serving on a destroyer, soon decided that he wanted to go into the submarine section of the Navy. Again, dad was asked to give his formal permission for this. You can imagine how reluctant he was to do so. Their push and pull over "the signature" went on forever, or so it seemed to me. Dad finally gave in and signed.

When the USS Herring went down near Japan with all hands on board, dad never got over it. If only he hadn't signed Bubs would still be alive. I learned before I was 12 that guilt was a very heavy burden to carry.

Bubs loved me dearly, that I know. He and I carried on a long-running correspondence. When the Navy sent his few possessions to us, there were all my letters - from clumsy block letters with no punctuation to a fairly passable cursive style. I still have them.

Mom and dad used to ask him, "Don't you have a girl friend? Aren't you ever going to get married?"
Bubs would reply, "I don't want to leave a widow and orphans," and give a big grin.

My Huck Finn - gone down to Davey Jones locker on a big herring "raft." Always reaching for adventure, always loving life, I believe he handled facing death the same way - my brother Bubs.

My Sister: Adine Carroll Owen

2010-09-12T16:11:00.000-05:00

Adine, my sister, was a paradox. She was quiet, unassuming, actually very shy. During her growing up years, the family moved often and changing schools was painful for her. She was sixteen years older than I, so my knowledge of her young life was zero until, when she was in her eighties, I talked her into recording bits and pieces of that life.

She married soon after she graduated from college and began her family, eventually having four children---boy/girl/boy/girl. After about 16 years of an unhappy marriage, her husband left her. Their two younger children were still in grade school. Fortunately, our Dad was able to help her financially and she returned to college to get her master's degree in social work. She graduated magna cum laude and immediately had a job with the Department of Welfare. Her first degree in Home Economics was almost useless, since those teaching jobs were usually held by the same person until retirement.

Now, for the first time in her life, she began to work outside the home. It must have been daunting, to say the least. Some of the cases she worked on were challenging, some frustrating, some scary, but most were interesting. She would visit us and usually had us holding our sides laughing. One day as she opened her mail she had a note from a client that stated: "I'm not man-tainin' and you all cut me off. Sally has been man-tainin' a long time and you never cut her off. Why did you cut me off and I'm not man-tainin'?" (The language of one of the "rules" for receiving aid was: "You must not be maintaining an illicit relationship with a member of the opposite sex..." That's as close as I can get to the wording).

Then there was the cross country flight to bring a black baby to relatives living in California. The time was "back in the day," and there were lots of raised eyebrows on that trip.

The last story I recall was a trip out into the wilds of South Louisiana to call on a family whose baby needed an operation to repair a hernia. The mother was balking and Adine was sent to try and change her mind. The road in to the house was impassable so at some point, Adine had to park the car and walk in. She sank ankle deep into gooey red mud. When she finally arrived at the house, the mother and children came out with a dishpan of water and some flimsy towels. They insisted on washing and drying her feet and cleaning her shoes. That went just fine but changing the mother's mind didn't go as well. After Adine used persuasion and cajoling and thought she was making real progress, the mother yelled,

"She doan need dat operation! Look, I's got the same thing and I's just fine!"

Then she raised her dress up and showed Adine her naval.
Sure enough, there was a big hernia displayed. That was the end of that.

After she retired she began to travel, eventually visiting every country she had ever dreamed of seeing. She reveled in this, often going on Elderhostel trips, or other organized adventures. Often a friend or two would decide to go along. But whether she had a friend along or not didn't really matter to Adine. Anyone who liked to travel and learn suited her just fine. Again, she would regale us with stories of her adventures.

Egypt: This was her favorite place in the world to visit, and she was especially impressed with the temple of Karnac. A trip down the Nile on one of the Egyptian boats(I believe they're called "falujas")was a special treat. This trip lasted quite a long time, a day and a night. Adine and her friend spent the night in one of Egypt's finest hotels. During the night she woke up and realized that the air-conditioner was no longer working. She went down to the desk and reported this. The clerk replied: "Oh no, Madam, the air-conditioner is not broken, it is resting."

At an Egyptian restaurant out in the more sparsely settled countryside, she and a friend were asked by two American priests to share a table. They did so and began to have a lovely conversation. After a tasty meal they were relaxed and just enjoying the late afternoon. Suddenly, the priest who had a view of the landscape outside the fence surrounding the restaurant said, "What in the world...?" They looked around and saw some of the restaurant employees washing the dishes in the sheep/cattle/camel trough. Oh well, what were they going to do, report the incident to the Department of Health? None of them were any the worse for their experience. Of course, I had always told my sister that she had a cast iron stomach. This just proved it.

My shy big sis. How she bloomed and made a way in the world for her four children, and how she enjoyed the years after retirement. Way to go, Adine.

Nottoway:Restored to Glory

2010-09-10T15:27:00.007-05:00

The largest remaining plantation house in the South has been restored to its former glory. In fact, it is undoubtedly more glorious than it ever was due to all of its modern conveniences,albeit hidden in "reproductions." New faucets, etc., look old; new furniture is in perfect keeping with the actual antiques. The original master bedroom furniture has been returned, courtesy of a descendant of the Randolphs, the original owners. She visited Nottoway recently and said that it must have the "real thing" which she had long had in her possession. What a generous lady. The above picture is of part of the white ballroom. The eyes of the woman in the picture above the fireplace follow you no matter where you are in the room.

The man who has made all of this possible is from Australia and recently spent $10,000,000 on improvements. Not only was the main house updated, there is now a swimming pool, a spa, separate cottages and a two-storied house on the grounds to accommodate more guests. A small exquisite formal garden greets guests as they head to the back of the house from several parking lots. There are also two restaurants--one free-standing and one on the bottom floor of the main house. We were told that there are still 7,100 acres of land surrounding the home where once sugar cane grew. The Randolphs had 1,000 slaves to work the fields and 59 household servants. There are over 50 rooms in the mansion.

The family who owned the home for 59 years is that of Dr. White Owen. My sister, who was married to one of the two grandsons of Dr. Owen, told me that Dr. Owen was given possession of the home in payment of a medical bill. That's not the story that the tour guide told us. But at least now the guides are mentioning the Owens. The first time I made the tour, many years ago, they only mentioned the Randolphs. It is so strange, telling you that I took the tour of Nottoway as a grown-up. I was a frequent visitor there during much of my childhood. I delighted in sliding down the large banisters of the staircases in the house.

While restored beautifully, Nottoway is still a formidable place to spend the night. The main house is a mecca for ghosts and ghost stories. Recently there was a call to all of the rooms coming from room 12. No one was in room 12. On the same night all of the lights in one part of the house went out at the same time.
My one-night-stay in one of the caretakers cottages was uneventful. Perhaps the ghosts were afraid they would catch swine flu?

A Blessing of God: Rebecca Botley

2010-09-10T14:23:00.002-05:00

You know, people tell me that the way I can remember so clear is a blessing of God. I'll be ninety years old come January of 1994. The stuff from my childhood comes back to me better than what happened last week. That's the way it is.

My grandmother was from Alabama. She was sold as a slave to some people over here near Oberlin, Louisiana. Her name was Anna Moriah Alex. My grandpa, he was from Opelousas. My grandmother's folks were in Opelousas, too. She had two brothers, Henry and Steve Alex, and two sisters, Harriet and Rachel Alex. I remember all of them except Rachel. She died before I was born. Grandma married a man named Eli Captain and they homesteaded over in Hickory Flats--between Oberlin and Kinder. Really, my grandmother had done the homesteading herself. She had eighty acres of land. But they took her land. You know how things used to be. This is what happened:

Around about 1912 or 1913 my grandpa and grandma owed a store owner forty dollars. At that time grandpa and grandma were separated and grandpa, he went and charged groceries. When the bill got to forty dollars and grandpa hadn't paid it back, the store owner went in the night and put my grandma and her family out of the house. So that man got my grandma's eighty acres and her house.

Grandma was out in the yard when the man came and did this and she didn't know what to do. An old colored man who used to work for the white store owner came by and saw them out there. He told them, "Ya'll go back in the house and stay the night." They did. The next morning grandma found a place to stay, in the back of an old store that an uncle used to run--Uncle John Captain. It had been closed for a while, but was still all right to stay in. It was a little store right beside the train tracks, sort of where the Starlight Baptist church is now.

I had an uncle who lived on a farm at Keystone, south of Kinder. He worked in the rice fields. That uncle and some more of the family came down with wagons and moved my grandma to the litle store. There was a kitchen built onto that store so she lived there for some years. Grandma had a little granddaughter, a brother, and her youngest son, Burl, living with her then. She died along about 1915, but just think, my grandma had been living on her land ever since she had stopped being a slave. She died not ever getting her land back. I don't think that was legal. I don't believe they could do that today.

Grandma used to tell us about the white lady who owned her in Alabama. She said the lady was good to her. One story I remember is about grandma cleaning in the lady's dining room. They used big fanners over the table to keep cool. The mistress thought the fan had mites on it and she told my grandma to hold the fan over the fire that was in the fireplace and singe the mites off of it. My grandma misunderstood her and just threw the whole fan into the fire and it burned up. Someone asked her later if her mistress whipped her for that. "No, she knew it was a misunderstanding."

Now my old uncle, Julian Captain, my grandma's husband's brother, he had it rough where he stayed when he was a slave. The people who owned him weren't good to him. He had to eat with the hogs--but the cook used to slip him some good food on top of the hog slop and he would get behind the hog pen and eat. You know, there's an interesting story about him.

Years later, after he was free, he did well for himself. He built a nice two-story-house, right over in Hickory Flats. He had a syrup mill--they called it a "sugar mill"--and he had equipment to rake and bale hay. So he made a pretty good living for himself and his family. One thing bothered him. He had never learned to read. You know, it was against the law to teach a slave how to read. Anyway, he had ambition for his children to do better than he did. When schoolteachers would come to teach the children, he would let them stay at his house. Three of his children went on to be schoolteachers.

One rainy, cold day my Uncle Julian and his family were sitting down, fixing to eat dinner, when a strange white lady walked up to the house. The children didn't know what to think 'cause at that time you never saw a white lady out walking in the country They were always in a buggy. My uncle knew the woman, but she didn't recognize him. He asked her to come in and she was glad because she was about frozen. She told my uncle she was on her way to Kinder to catch the train so she could go to live with her daughter in Lake Charles. Her husband had died and she had fallen on hard times. All she had was a dollar and twenty five cents for her train ticket. My uncle asked the lady if she was hungry and she answered, "I'm starving." So he asked her to eat with them. They always had a big table of food 'cause they raised most everything they ate. When they finished eating, he asked the lady, "You don't remember me, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"This is Julian, the slave boy. You remember I used to feed the hogs?"

She went to crying. It came back to her, how she had done him, making him eat with the hogs. Uncle Julian hitched up the buggy and gave her a ride to the depot and he told the man--you know, the depot agent--"This used to ber my mistress, Miss Liney. She wants to go to Lake Charles. I need to get back to my place before dark so I don't have time to wait 'till the train comes. I wish you would see to her."

The agent told him he would see to it that she got on the train safely.

When my uncle got back home his children were mad at him for being nice to someone who had treated him bad. Uncle Julian said, "Un-unh, God forbid. I'm a Christian. It's all right. God has blessed me, pulled me through all that. Today I'm living good and she's not."

To be continued...

This is part of a chapter from the book I put together and edited called Oberlin:The First 100 Years and the interviewee was Rebecca Botley. She has since passed away.

A Blessing of God--continued

2010-09-10T14:22:00.000-05:00

"Now I'll tell you about my family. My mama was one of Eli Captain's daughters. Her name was Jaycenthy. Daddy's name was Mac Robinson. Both of them worked a lot for the Coles in the Cole settlement. They were nice to us and everybody liked to work for them. Miss Ophelia Cole was kind. Mama and Daddy picked cotton and brought me along to babysit with my little brother and baby sister. I remember we were out under a big old tree and Miss Ophelia came out and made us come inside. She said it was too hot out there for that baby. She put one of her nice, clean quilts and a pillow in the big hall for us to sit on. And every day after that we got to stay inside. We got to eat dinner there too. On the last day of work, my folks got through before noon and came to get us to go home. I cried 'cause I wanted to eat dinner there. I got spoiled!

My folks settled in Moeling (Maylin). Daddy went to work for Mr. J. A. Bel. He was a lumber stacker for him when Mr. Bel had a sawmill at Moeling. (That place was named for Mr. J. A.'s half-brother, Walter Goos Moeling). Mama and Daddy had five children, three girls and two boys. I was the oldest, then Timothy, Anna, Leitha and Mack. Mack died when he was about twelve years old. He took sick during my mother's wake. He never did get better. My sister Leitha got burned up in a fire in my house when I lived over by Dugas's Grocery Store. I never have gotten over that.

Growing up, I never worked in the fields. I just couldn't do it. I tried my best to pick a hundred pounds of cotton in a day, but I never could. I had a brother-in-law who could pick over two-hundred pounds in a day. He could tear a field up! So you know my little ninety pounds wasn't good enough. In those days cotton was a dollar a hundred pounds.

I went to work in people's houses. I worked for lots of nice people in Oberlin--the Rhorers, the J. D. Marcantels. It was funny the way I started to work for Mrs. J. D. I heard that the woman who worked for her was fixing to leave and move to Alexandria. So I spoke to Mrs. J. D. about my going to work for her. She wasn't interested 'cause she didn't know anything about me and she didn't know that her maid was going to quit her! Then, when the maid just didn't show up for work one day, Mrs. J. D. started asking around town about me. Well, I knew all the Coles and the Lyles--Miss Mary, Susie, Lou and Maggie Lyles. They told her she better hire me quick! So that's how I went to work for the Marcantels.

I got married when I was seventeen--worked in peoples houses since I was fourteen. Well, my husband had a job and a house. That was really something at that time. We never had any children. You know, no one in all of his sisters and brothers ever had any children. That's kinda unusual.

Now I mostly read to pass the time. But you know, I think about my life a lot. I remember all the things that happened, and all those stories my grandma told me. Sometimes when I'm lying down, fixing to go to sleep, they all come back to my mind. Yes, a clear mind is a blessing of God."

Habib Karam:The Man, The Store

2010-09-10T14:16:00.002-05:00

He started out in Louisiana as a peddler over in Lecompte. He and his family lived in a little house--to call it adequate would have been a stretch of the imagination. Peddling and living in a substandard house he could handle. What he had faced in his old country, as he called Syria, was much more formidable. The "Terrible Turks" usually conscripted young Christian men to fight on their front lines in wartime, and they were always at war with someone. Rounding up another nation's young men to fight saved their own young men. Of course, since the Turks considered Christians infidels, that eased any guilt they might otherwise have felt. This practice led to the death of many Syrian boys.

Habib Karam make up his mind he wasn't going to be another of the lambs led to slaughter. First, his mother made her way to the United States, settling in Lecompte. Peddling goods from door to door, she saved enough money to finance Habib's trip to freedom. He carefully planned his escape and soon he was aboard an ocean vessel, bound for the USA. His brothers were to follow his lead, even to settling in Louisiana.

Life itself had been hard in Syria--food scarce, living conditions poor, and always the threat of the Turks. So even peddling with a heavy load on his back must have seemed better than conditions he faced in the old country. Several Syrian families eventually moved into the region--in Allen Parish and nearby parishes such as Jefferson Davis. Habib ended up in the town of Oberlin, while his brother, Tom, chose to live in Kinder, ten miles to the south. A third brother, Sarkis, made his home in the small town of Fenton, about ten miles south of Kinder. Since all three of them were merchants, it wouldn't have been good business to locate in the same town. Now just why the Karam family left Lecompte is something of a mystery--some thought it may have been Ku Klux Klan threats, others felt that Oberlin, being the parish seat, offered more potential to Habib than Lecompte.

Also living in Kinder were the Carroz family (who changed their name to Cook"), the Ashy and the Khoury families. Another Syrian family in Oberlin for many years were the Josephs, moving there from New York. When the depression hit high gear, they moved back to the north. Then there was the Doumite family with brothers Norman and Mack. Norman went on to become mayor of Oberlin with a long tenure in office. And there was the Sweeney family--originally also Carroz. Mr. Sweeney changed the name when he entered the USA at Ellis Island. He and his wife and two young daughters moved to Oberlin in the early 1920's, coming from Winnfield.

Habib Karam opened Karam's first general store in Oberlin in a spot facing Main Street, directly across from the present city hall. The family lived in the back of the store. That's how many store owners started out. It was while they were in this location that a tornado ripped through Oberlin, toppling over a tree near the store and killing a young girl from a family named Mitchell.
She was visiting the Karam's only daughter, Jenny. Many of the older people people in the area still remember that storm. Everyone was upset that a child so young lost her life. Other people had injuries but hers was the only loss of life.

Habib was a friendly man. He loved being in the USA, was pleased with Oberlin itself, and enjoyed interacting with his customers. That interaction taught him the English language, although his speech always remained somewhat broken. In his suit and tie he zealously watched over his emporium--walking up and down the store aisles, joking with customers, checking with clerks to see that all was well. He had a full bag of little corny jokes and sayings that pleased the country men and women who traded with him. Before too many years went by, the business outgrew the first little store. With the move to a new frame building on the corner of Main and Seventh, Karam's Store became the general store in Oberlin. There had been many others: Funchess, Darbonne, Smith, Prudhomme, and St. Romain. Karam's eclipsed them all.

Of these stores, Karam's and St. Romain's were the only large stores still in operation after the economic firestorm of the depression. And then the St. Romain family was blessed with oil--no, not at church--black gold, drilled on some of their land. They "up and moved" to Lake Charles, building a beautiful home near downtown. It looked like something out of a fairy tale. Well, who could blame them for moving. Many people left Oberlin during the depression. It not only robbed people of incomes and homes, it also robbed them of their hopes and dreams. But Habib Karam didn't lose hope. He stayed on to fulfill his dream.

Karam's new store seemed to be a half block long, especially to little children. Actually, it was perhaps one-fourth block long. At first the family lived, once again, in the back part of the store. The new store had long, wide aisles, with the ever-present barrels containing all sorts of foodstuffs. It seemed that there was everything in the world for sale:food, material, lace, pots and pans, feed for the animals, tires, buggy parts, shoes, hats, etc.

Good merchant that he was, it was not all work at the store. Habib loved to play checkers and dominoes. Every Saturday night, weather permitting, there was a checker game on the sidewalk in front of the store--with Habib usually winning. Other days or different players would mean a heated domino game. Again, you know who usually won. One man commented, "Humph! When I got to where I could beat him pretty regularly, he didn't want to play with me anymore."

By this time, the Karam family was getting quite large. They had ten children, nine boys and one girl. In those days, many families had 8, 10, 13, and sometimes even more children. Unfortunately, many of those children didn't make it to adulthood. There were no hospitals around, few doctors, no modern medicines, and often people died from something such as blood poisoning. The Karams were blessed. All of their children lived and were healthy. They were typical children always full of mischief and constantly pulling pranks.

Willie Karam, second to oldest, shared a story of just how much of a rascal he was. During one particularly bad winter, one of his younger brothers had pneumonia. Willie was jealous of this little brother, and when his parents weren't watching, he took the little patient from his bed and sat him outside on the gatepost. Then Willie ran as fast as he could until he reached a good hiding place. Well, Papa Karam found him.

"He gave me the worst whipping I ever got in my life."

The new store and lots of hard work brought more prosperity to the Karams. Soon Mr. Karam built a large frame house on Seventh Street, situated just back of the store. Directly across the street was the two-storied home of Tom Funchess. The people of Oberlin were most impressed by the roof of the Karam's new home--slate. Who had ever dreamed of such riches? Another source of wonderment to the community was a four-seater privy. This was the likes of kings. The Karam home is still standing but is now a rental property...

To be continued.

Habib Karam: The Man, The Store

2010-09-10T14:14:00.002-05:00

New home or not, Habib had to find some way to keep all of his energetic boys busy. Obviously just work wouldn't do it, even though there was plenty of work involved in operating such a large store. Mr. Karam knew many other young men in the community needed an entertaining pastime. So he organized the "Oberlin Sugar Nines," a baseball team. Karam's store furnished the material for their suits--used sugar sacks. (Some of you may not remember when sugar came to stores in sacks made from material.) The women of the community volunteered to do the sewing.

Mr. Karam also donated the land for the baseball diamond and grandstands. The field was located directly across the highway from the cotton gin--U. S. Highway 165 was between them. All that's left where the cotton gin once stood is an old warehouse, now housing a flea market. The baseball field is grown up in weeds. A closed-down chicken eatery/grocery store sits at the northeast corner of the former field. But let's get back to the Sugar Nines. Whenever the team had out-of-town games, Habib furnished a truck to transport them. The young men had great fun and so did the townspeople who came out to watch. In fact, people from all of the surrounding area attended the games.

But it wasn't all work, or games and fun for the Karam children in Oberlin. Because people called them "foreigners," and because they didn't look exactly like the Anglos and the Acadians, they were subjected to cruel teasing--both from other children and adults alike. They learned to laugh at it in public. "When you could act like it didn't bother you, then most of the time they would quit," remarked one seventy-two year old Syrian man I interviewed.

Many people in the Oberlin community probably never realized the amount of help Mr. Karam gave to the people. His own family never knew the full extent of it. He helped families when they were having a tough time financially--whether from the arrival of a new baby, a crop failure, or a death. And he knew everyone and their particular circumstances. He had compassion for those that he knew had honestly tried but hadn't been able to succeed. To these he gave food. He let the men farm some of his land on shares, bankrolling the crop plantings and harvesting. When death came, he helped by giving materials for burial: coffins and Evening in Paris perfume. No embalming in those days.

Some of these people were able to pay him back, some could not. His attitude about those unpaid debts was pragmatic. He would say, "It's between God, the man, and me." No one knew just how many people he helped through the Great Depression. After he died, many people--more than the family ever dreamed he had aided--came to various family members, telling them of Habib's generosity.

He finally replaced his old frame store with a brick building. He continued to prosper in this new setting. But in the years after the Korean war, the changing times, progress, began to take their toll on the business. Supermarkets and super chain stores for hardware and dry goods opened up in nearby towns. Their prices were lower. Most people had good transportation, good roads to travel and also liked to travel. Business at the Karam store began to slide. After Habib died, that meant the profits from the store had to divided among nine remaining children and Jenny's three children.(Jenny died after the birth of her third child.)

One of Habib's sons, Albert, reluctantly closed the store. He moved to Kinder, going into an automobile dealership. The old store is now leased to an automotive parts chain.

Habib Karam never had it easy, although he managed to make it look easy. He was eternally optimistic, even though he faced
periodic threats from the Klu Klux Klan and other forms of prejudice. He never gave up on Oberlin, staying on for the rest of his life. One of his sons, Jack, remembers his Papa saying, "Some day you'll be proud of the name Karam!" He was right.

In Honor of Della Mae Binion Melton

2010-09-06T12:06:00.001-05:00

"Remember, there is only one foundation, the one already laid:Jesus Christ. Take particular care in picking out your building materials. Eventually there is going to be an inspection. If you use cheap or inferior materials, you'll be found out. The inspection will be thorough and rigorous. You won't get by with a thing. If your work passes inspection, fine;if it doesn't your part of the building will be torn out and started over. But you won't be torn out; you'll survive--but just barely."

"You realize, don't you, that you are the temple of God, and God himself is present in you? No one will get by with vandalizing God's temple, you can be sure of that. God's temple is sacred--and you, remember, are the temple." 1Corinthians 3:11-17

A Life Winds Down

2010-09-05T18:23:00.010-05:00

Miss Della

A wise, dear lady is dying. Miss Della, or more formally, Della Mae Binion Melton, is finally going to meet her Lord, person to person. According to my friend who just called me, it's probably only a matter of hours, not days.

Several years ago I talked Della into letting me help her write her autobiography. At first she was doubtful that anyone would be interested in her life--after all, it was nothing spectacular, she said. I came up with two reasons her thinking wasn't on target: First of all, I knew her children and granddaughter would appreciate having a written record of her life. Second, any marriage that lasts over fifty years and any person who has such a wealth of friends as she has can classify as spectacular, at least in my estimation.

So we embarked on recording her life story. It was much harder than I thought it would be. After all, she was in her 90's when we began, albeit the early 90's. By that time, while her long-term memory was excellent, her short-term memory was not. She could never remember from day to day what she had told me and I would have to stop her as she went over already plowed ground.

"That's already recorded, Della."

And her reply every time was, "Well it should be."

I finally learned to give her more guidance and it still took two years, interspersed with her physical problems and active social life. When the book was published it was a big hit. Every friend and even acquaintances had to have one of Miss Della's books. She was pleased and grateful.

One of Della's greatest gifts is her understanding of people and her ability to give excellent advice when called upon. She never intruded into anyone's privacy unless asked. That advice is always right on. I know. She gave me several servings of it.

Family, friends and faith have always been important to her. She loves Jesus Christ with a steady, burning love that has been with her since she was in her early twenties. Many times in these last years, she remarked, "I'm so ready to go and see the Lord. I just don't understand why I'm still here."

Well, my take on her longevity is this:She is doing such a good job praying for so many people, and giving such godly advice that God wanted her to keep on doing so as long as that frail, small body could hold up. Now that body, whose spirit is intertwined with the Holy Spirit, is ready to give the precious gift back to a loving God. She promised me that she would greet my daughter Mary Alice for me and give her my love. Thank you, Della, for all you have meant to me and to many others. Godspeed.

A PostScript: Later on this date a dear friend of Della's called to tell me she died. She certainly was blessed of God, for she died in her own bed and on the Sabbath.

Interviews:You Can Say We Survived:The Struggle For Civil Rights--the story of Joe Bushnell--Part 3

2010-04-10T15:05:00.002-05:00

So Wednesday my children came home from school with a paper. It said, "Go to the school of your choice." You know what? We had to bring them to school for them to go. Martel brought his kids too. Our kids couldn't ride the bus--not the black bus or the white bus. We carried them to school for a whole year. I went back to the superintendent. It was a fight every step. It was always the same way: "We can't do anything." Then when we stood up for ourselves, they found out they could do something else to block us.

I think about my poor people--so many years they got treated so dirty. They lost so much that they did get--their land, their houses. But I tell you, the real hell we got was when we started to vote! In about 1946 we started getting registered. There was a poll tax and a lot of my people lost their places 'cause the law said they hadn't paid that tax. When we were going to vote, you know what the people at the courthouse told us?

They said, "Before you vote, you'll be walking in blood up to your waist!"

I told them (excuse me for saying this to you)"No you'll be walking in s--- up to your waist before we walk in blood."

We went on and started registering a few people at a time. Every day we would go back with a few more. The black people that had a good bit of property, they didn't want to help us. They were scared they might lose what they had. If they would have helped, it would have made it easier. In fact, it would have all been over. The people in the courthouse would have figured, "Those blacks have money and property. They can afford to hire a lawyer. We better leave it alone."

But we didn't stop--we just kept going. We brought all the old people. Then we had to fight for some black commissioners. They gave us one. That wasn't enough. If we didn't watch, those white commissioners would come over and get our people and try to vote them. And you know what that meant. They would vote them the way they wanted, not the way the people wanted. One time they even got ahold of my mama and were trying to vote her! I had to go over and get her away from them.

It came down to this: We just had to get our own poling place here in the quarters. You see that little place over there next to my house? That's our voting place. It's little, huh? That's what they do to us. Yeah, you can just say we survived."

Interviews:You Can Say We Survived:The Struggle For Civil Rights--the story of Joe Bushnell--Part 2

2010-04-07T11:43:00.002-05:00

The trainman started walking through the train hollering "Jim Crow, Jim Crow," as soon as we hit the south. I asked him what that was.

"You better just pull down your window shades unless you want some bricks inside of this car." There I was, been to the service and to come back to that. It made me dread to get back even more.

I worked for Leroy Navarre--farming a little. Got married in 1945. Then I went on the GI Bill and got to farming for myself. One time your daddy came to me to help him get both of his combines out of a bog hole. The man that was supposed to have cut the water off the fields didn't do it. Then when it came time to cut the rice, the field was too wet. I finally got all those tractors and combines out. Mr. Carroll tried to get me to go to work for him, but I said no, I got to tend to my little farm.

Then I got involved in the Civil Rights movement. You know, it was pitiful. When my people would ride the bus from Alexandria to Lake Charles, they couldn't get nothing to eat or drink, and they couldn't go to the bathroom if they needed to. You know, we been through something, yes! If we would ask for a drink of water they would say, "Go to that faucet out back. But don't run the water long and waste it." So you would have to drink the hot water, you know, when it first comes out of the faucet. It's just the good Lord that pulled us through all that. Then when Mr. Thompson got elected sheriff, that helped us a little bit. But he couldn't do much 'cause too many of the white people would get mad.

We got accused of a lot of things that we didn't do for the Civil Rights movement. Martel Goodley and I worked together for our rights. You know, he used to be in the service too. Then come back here and can't even get a cup of coffee. We would go to the restaurant in Oberlin and sit down. They wouldn't serve us. They would call the law. The law would come and put us in jail. I went to jail plenty--maybe 12 to 24 times. Even when I had a school bus route, they kept me in jail--and them knowing I needed to go deliver the children. This one lawman told me,

"I'm gonna make you lose that school bus."

I asked him,"How would you feel if you took a trip and you couldn't find a place to eat or drink or go to the restroom?" He didn't answer me.

One evening when I got back home, my wife said, "The priest wants to see you and Martel."

We went to see Father Bill (Father William Van Stratton) and he told us to stay quiet. He talked for two solid hours, said we had tried to make a march. When he got through I told him I didn't know what he was talking about. We had never planned a march. All we did was sit at a counter and ask for service. And they would arrest us. The law had lied to Father Bill. He put that lawman out of church for a whole year because of that.

Now you take the school business. It was about 1967 and my oldest son got out of the 12th grade. He didn't know much more than before he started school, it seemed to me. I asked about what was going on. Our children were coming out of school crippled--I found out that what they taught them for their last year in high school was like the white childrens' seventh grade. They they called them graduating from high school. I went to Mr. Armstead, the principal of the black school, to find out what we could do. He told me I had to go through channels. So I went to talk to the superintendent. He said he "Couldn't do anything." That was Mr. L. L. Smith.

Nothing happened. I waited. Nothing happened. So I went back to Mr. Smith. I told him that I couldn't see any more of my children come out of school like I did--not knowing nothing. I wanted them to do better than I did. Mr. Smith said he couldn't do anything. So I told him that was alright, I would go on to Austin (Texas) to see about it. Then he said, "Give me until Wednesday."

To be continued...

Interviews:You Can Say We Survived:The Struggle For Civil Rights--the story of Joe Bushnell

2010-04-01T12:12:00.008-05:00

I'll tell you about my life:I had three months of schooling, that's all. I never was able to get enough schooling to learn how to read. When I was nine years old I had to go to work. Mr. A. M. Moore hired me and I worked on his farm, Virginia Plantation. I was so little, he told me I could work around the yard. Old man Pierre Hardy was working there too. Poor old Pierre wasn't crazy but he didn't have all his mind. I tried to cut the grass with a push mow, but I couldn't do much. Then Pierre let me try a grass sickle that an old mule pulled. I did it and after that, it was my job. It was hard. After a while I had all the yard work. Then Pierre taught me how to milk the cow.

When I was twelve years old I thought I was big enough to go to work in the field. We worked on the levees. I was still little and it was hard for me to handle the slip. What's that? It's kind of like a bucket that scrapes on the ground. A mule pulled it. It had handles, and when it was full of dirt, we would lift it up and cap the levees. Sometimes the levees broke and the water would run off of the rice. So we had to fix them. Then Mr. Moore would pump more water on the rice and the field would be okay. My daddy had a little rice farm, but he got his water from the rain or the ditches. You talk about hard work! We used to take buckets, go to the ditches and lift out the water, then pour it on the rice fields. That was some back-breaking work, I can tell you.

A long time ago we used to cut all the rice with hand sickles. You know, they're shaped kinda round. We would tie the stalks of rice into bundles and stand them up leaning against one another. I guess there was about fifteen bundles and that made a shock. Doing them that way, the air could get through to dry the rice. They would stay like that until the rice dried. Later on the farmers had binders to cut the rice. Mules would pull them. Those binders had a bucket on the side that held about enough bundles of tied rice to make one shock. When the bucket was full and they would come to a levee or a hill, the driver would trip the bucket with his foot and it would throw the rice bundles out. That helped us a lot.

Threshing the rice was the fun part. When the rice dried, we got it up into the wagons with pitchforks. When the wagons was full, the mule pulled it to the thresher. The rice would come out the side of the thresher and the stalks and leaves would go out from the long spout and make a haystack. Mr. Moore, he always wanted me to be the water boy. You know what? I was supposed to keep the white men's water and the black men's water separated. Isn't that something? What do you think about that? It made me mad. I noticed a lot of things. The whites always put the blacks on the low side of the field and they took the high side. What does that mean? Well, the high side was usually dry and cleaner. The low side might still be wet, so you got more dirty.

I'll never forget one thing that happened. I've asked God all my days to forgive what happened, what those two men did. We were working in the fields and two white men, a Sonnier and a Darbonne, took a trace chain off of one of the mules and whipped poor Bijou. Bijou was a black men, kinda slow. Another man--he didn't have real good sense--he went and told Sonnier and Darbonne that Bijou had made him stand on the side of the binder where the dust came out. Then he said Bijou had cussed him. So the two grown white men beat Bijou with that trace chain. Can you imagine that? I've never forgotten it. I was the only one, and me a kid, to speak to Mr. Moore about that. Mr. Moore talked to the men about it when we all came in from the fields. He said, "Look, if anybody does anything, it's supposed to be me. I don't appreciate you coming in my field and doing something like that. And furthermore, I don't need you." The white men got mad because Mr. Moore took up for Bijou. Sonnier never came back to work in the fields. In fact, he took sick not long after that and he died. Darbonne came back and said, "There's somebody smart out here, going and telling Moore about what we did!" Nobody answered him. Before the fall was over, he died too.

I was so disgusted after that season, I decided to go to work in Texas. My brother-in-law had a job over there with some people named Croak. They were good people. I was still working over there when World War II came. I got my notice to go to the army. The man in charge of the draft board put on my service papers that I was a streetwalker and a beggar! And me working every day in Texas. I went through basic training--that was something. I stayed in the army from 1943 to 1945, most of the time in California. When it was time to come home, I was on the train, just dreading to get back.

To be continued...

Taken from my book Oberlin:The First 100 Years

A Series of Interviews: #1 Acadian Joie de Vivre

2010-03-23T14:08:00.011-05:00

I don't mind if you know it, I was born in 1910 in Mamou, Louisiana, 'a la bas.' I was raised in Mamou and my name was Agnes Ardoin. My mama died when I was three years old. I had a sister and a brother. Then Daddy remarried and had two more children, a boy and a girl. My daddy had a grocery store in Mamou and we had a good life. We even had help in the house. That was something back then!

When I was fifteen I got married. We had a small wedding with a little cake and some lemonade afterward, and we rode off in a horse and buggy. But I married a man who wasn't a good provider. He left me when I was expecting our second child--he left with a showman, like a carnival man, and my daddy had to support us. My husband and I finally divorced and I remarried to Newton Chaumont in 1930.

This is the way Newton and I met. I went to a dance with my brother and his girlfriend. I was their chaperon, that's the way they did things in those days. While I was sitting down, looking around, I saw this man looking in at a window. It was an old-time window that had shutters. Well, he was looking at me and I looked back at him but he didn't come in. I found out later that his daddy had died not long before this, so he didn't want to go in to a dance. He just looked and I just looked and that was the end of it.

"Did you get a good enough look to know if you were interested in him, Miss Agnes?" I asked.

Well, yes. But that was as far as it went. A few days later one of my girl friends told me, "Agnes, there's a fellow who wants to meet you." I told her to tell him to come over. She said, "No, you come." Her folks ran a restaurant on Main Street in Mamou, right across from where I lived. So I took my two little children and we walked over and I met him. It was the fellow in the window.

He asked me, "Can I come back and see you?" I told him it was up to him. He did come back and that started our romance. It was love at first sight, absolutely, for both of us. He was a good man, kind to my children, and later he adopted my boys. We moved near Oberlin, where Newton was from, and he worked for a barber in town, Mr. Kent. He learned how to barber from that man. Mr. Kent had his barbershop in the old hotel and after he died, his widow sold the shop to Newton. He barbered there for all of his life, except for a little while during World War II. Newton sold the barbershop then, thinking he was going into the service. But at the last minute, almost, he found out he didn't have to go. Later he bought the shop back.

He barbered, drove a school bus, and was a school board member for eighteen years. On his bus route, lots of days children would get on the bus and hand him a piece of paper and some money. This was a grocery list from their parents. Lots of people didn't have an easy way to get into town. So Newton would go and buy the groceries when he had the time and have them sitting in bags in the front of the bus. When the children got off, they picked up their groceries. Newton was a good man.

"Tell about some of the customs when you were growing up. Don't most Cajun people have many of the same customs?" I asked.

Yes, and Mamou where I grew up is as Cajun as you can get! When I was young everybody helped one another. If you had something like a barn or your house that needed to be fixed, or sometimes even to build a building, everyone came and helped to do it. The women would cook and hand things to the men for the construction. We didn't have much but I think we were happier than people are now. And everybody seemed to love one another and they didn't criticize each other. If someone needed something, people would see that they got what they needed. I remember when I was a young girl, there was a couple who lived out in the country and they were very, very poor. Now we had a store like the Karam's old store in Oberlin. We sold everything--from thread and lace, food and shoes, to plows and buggy whips. One day Daddy said to me, "Agnes, come with me. We'll go to this couple's house and bring them some food." He packed up sugar, flour, coffee--all the things he knew they might need and couldn't grow themselves. We put all of this into our buggy--no cars back then--and we took it to them. My daddy was a good, kind men.

Our family always got along together. My sister and brother and I, all from Daddy's first marriage, we saw to it that our younger sister and brother from the second marriage got whatever there was from our daddy's estate to help them get started. The rest of us were older and we knew they needed it more. They went to college and did well for themselves. But they didn't forget the rest of us. I have a brother in Opelousas,and boy, does he help me! They call him Dusty Ardoin. He calls me all the time, never forgets me. He's kind and generous like my daddy was.

You know, when Newton and I first married we lived out in the country east of Oberlin in Soileau in the back of the little schoolhouse at Hampo. Do you know where that is? You turn left at Mrs. Clegg Chaumont's house and it's between there and Castor Creek. Lee, Newton's brother, taught in that little schoolhouse. When they closed the school, Lee and his wife, Beulah, moved to Oberlin so he could teach there. So Newton and I moved into their house at Soileau. Up until that time I cooked in a fireplace. Have you ever tried that? It's something. I had never done that before, but it was fun. I was a daredevil and I liked to try new things. When we moved into Lee and Beulah's place, she had left a little coal-oil stove to cook on. That was a change. I still have that little stove in storage.

Out at Soileau we had a boucherie every Saturday. The neighbors would get together, taking turns at different houses, and we would butcher an animal. The women would cook bouille. I know you know what that is. Each family took home either five or ten pounds of meat for the week. Nobody had refrigerators and this was the way we kept the meat: We would put it into jars and seal them. Then we would lower the jars down into our water wells. We put our milk in the well, too. We had a hand pump for water, and to bathe we would pump water into big old tubs, let them sit in the sun all day. Late in that day, when the water was warm, we would take our baths.

I had a nice garden at Hampo. My daddy loved to garden and he had taught all of us how to grow vegetables. We had all we needed to eat. We moved to Oberlin in 1938 but I always loved living at Soileau best. It was beautiful.

Although Miss Agnes died only a few years after this interview, she was never "old," for she had a young spirit, that Acadian joie de vivre. Vivre la joie de vivre.

This is taken from my book--Oberlin:The First 100 Years.
The book may still be available at Amazon.com

Almost Thelma and Louise VIII

2009-10-30T15:13:00.045-05:00

As we were packing for our trip home, my mind turned once again to the Colorado National Monument. I have always been fascinated with rocks, rock formations, mountains...rocky road ice cream too. Seriously, I love rocks of all kinds. Living in South Louisiana, my closest association with rocks was the gravel in our driveway. When my dad replaced it with shells, I was horrified. Fortunately, dad had a small hill of gravel near his rice driers and I quickly transferred my allegiance from driveway to gravel pile. I spent hours pouring over each piece of gravel--carefully checking for fossils.

When we first drove onto the monument, I thought about the men who worked so hard to make a safe road, digging through the sheer rocks and cliffs so that across all these years, thousands of people have been able to enjoy being "on the monument." Many of those men gave their lives for this project. Thanks to them and thanks to the State of Colorado itself for allowing the area to become a national monument. Guess I should thank the federal government too. Thanks.

Sandy and I really hated leaving Laurie, knowing that in just five days she would be moving to her new home. Fortunately she was able to find a mover who not only moved but packed too, relieving her of so much time and effort, and at a reasonable rate. She assured us that all would be well. (Yes, all would be well except I know she was thinking about Ellie, the cockatoo. Would Ellie be able to find her in a new location? I said a quick prayer that Laurie would be able to "turn loose" of sweet Ellie once and for all.) The car was packed, goodbyes with hugs, kisses and "Thank Yous" were made--we were on our way. I70, here we come. Loui siana, here we come.

After driving for several hours we saw signs for a rest stop and also signs telling us the the White River was in the area. We pulled over at the rest stop and found Shangri-La. The facilities were pristine and the grounds splendid, as you can see from the picture to the left--Sandy taking a walk on those grounds. I headed toward the sound of water and found the White River in all its splendor. Rocks, trees, a mountain, a train, a feeder stream--my cup ran-eth over. I took picture after picture and many of them turned out quite nicely. As we were about to head back to the car, a train came into view, making its way around the mountain that loomed just across the river from us. It's hard to see the train in this picture because it blends in well with the terrain. Each place we saw on this river had photo op qualities. During the writing of this section I learned that this whole area is known as the "White River Wilderness." We were on famous ground. No wonder we loved it so much.

The climb up the Rockies became more steep and we soon saw a warning sign that said: "Ice on Road at Vail Pass." Oh, oh. Neither of us had any experience driving on ice or snow. Soon, we began to see snowflakes. Much to our relief, the road stayed clear and we were able to get a couple of pictures of the front coming in and some where the snow was accumulating. It was a treat to see snow, even though we were a bit anxious about driving in it. I forgot to mention that Sandy wanted me to drive through this questionable weather, even after the experience atop the Grand Mesa. Go figure.

Our first stop was a city community building and the sweet girl in charge was as excited over the snow as we were. There was a window-washer inside the main meeting room, busily washing away. The chandeliers fascinated me. They had delicate iron leaves holding each bulb and looked like a breath of air could cause them to fall. (Is that a very small child crawling on the floor of that vast room? Perhaps he/she belongs to the sweet-in-charge-girl? Or then, the baby could just be an extra-colorful chamois?)

Just outside the community building were the last of the summer's flowers--and snow clinging to some of the leaves. No "Last Rose of Summer" but close enough for me and Mr. iPhone. And a not so photogenic rock, of course. I love even those. Hey, nobody's perfect! Next, Sandy and I made an executive decision to tour Vail. My memory of how to go about this was fuzzy. My one trip to Vail was so long ago...hmmm. How convenient! Here was a police car pulling into a parking spot with an empty spot right next to it. And my, my he was good looking!

Me: "Sir, how do we get downtown?"

GLP: "You can't drive downtown. You have to go back to that parking garage and find a place to park and then walk into town. It's not far." He smiled endearingly.

Me:"Thank you so much!" Eyelashes batting, lips smiling, dimples showing. (Double chin was probably showing too.)

Well, we drove back to the parking garage and tried to find a spot to pull into. There were no spots. We drove back out and talked it over: Anywhere we went, we were going to have to walk back to the car. The prospect was not that appealing. We decided to just move on and see if we could find some picturesque spots on our own. And we did!

Once again Pueblo was where time and destiny dictated that we lay down our heads. We stayed at the same motel, only this time we made sure we were on the side away from the railroad tracks. And this time I took a tour of the motel and found a wonderful indoor swimming pool. Too bad. Our plebeian psyches had let us down. Neither of us brought a bathing suit. One should always be prepared for luxury. Did we find any photo ops this time around? No, although Sandy did see some interesting factory buildings that looked promising, we were not tempted. The upcoming vet bills were "cha-chinging" in our ears.

While we were still on the road, Laurie sent us a picture taken from one of her decks. Snow had arrived in the Redlands. I longed to be back with her, sitting in her new living area in front of the pellet stove, comfy in my PJs, sipping on a cup of herb tea, watching the snowflakes fall on the Bookcliff mountains in the distance and on Laurie's chunk of real estate. Hopefully there will be another autumn, Laurie. Love, Mom

Almost Thelma and Louise VII

2009-10-29T12:30:00.029-05:00

(Good grief, Charlie Brown, are these two characters ever going to end this trip--get back home and settle down? What else can they do? What else can go wrong? Surely we're near the end?)
Oh, contraire, mes amis! We haven't gone to the art exhibit or the municipal cemetery yet. Nor have we seen any views from Laurie's new home. And, of course, there's the trip back home. My picture of Sandy in downtown GJ after battling the fierce wind looks remarkably calm. The picture of me Sandy took in Laurie's living room soon after we arrived just looks remarkable. My wrinkles have almost disappeared and my nose has had plastic surgery. Even my hair is thicker. And all without spending a dime! Isn't Photoshop wonderful? Sandy's pic didn't need Photoshopping. It's a good thing, since I have not a clue how to do it even if I had the program.

Our next adventure was touring Laurie's new home during the daylight hours. Didn't even think to get a shot of it head-on. It's one of those many level jobs and is actually attached to its double, so I think it's a condo? The association (ah, the dreaded association) is in the process of encasing each set in an adobe finish. Some of them have been completed and speaking of photoshop, they look 150% better than their former wooden selves. I took pictures only from her decks, looking toward the west (the Colorado Natl. Monument) and toward the east to the Bookcliff Mountains, and you can get an idea of what her home looks like by some of her neighbor's appearances.

On Saturday night the three of us attended an art show gala in downtown GJ. The art work was even more fine than I expected. Prizes were handed out and wine & good eats abounded. A good time was had by all, although by the looks of Sandy's next pic of me, I don't seem to be having a very good time. Perhaps it was the little sausages? Or "Huh? Whad you say?" Or my "run-in" with one of the judges? No, that third one turned out rather well. We settled our differences quite nicely and even exchanged business cards. Okay, I questioned her "there is no wrong way to paint" statement, made during her address to the crowd. And she agreed that all of us must learn the fundamentals (rules) of art before we can blithely break them. She had not made this clear and there were many young students attending who might have had to struggle unnecessarily by not having this explained at the get-go. What nerve, or chutzpah, some old folks have. Sandy and Laurie pretended not to know me for a while.

Our last day in GJ was spent in the municipal cemetery. Sandy had happened upon it and couldn't wait for me to see it. Now, as stated earlier, we both like cemeteries, but the way she was raving, I couldn't imagine how this one could be as fine as she claimed. Well, seeing is indeed believing. We drove all around and then began to take pictures at the highest point. As soon as we left the car a rainbow appeared. Is that neat, or what? One of the good Lord's oldest known signs to His people is the rainbow. Enough to give a Christian goose bumps. Yes, it did give this one a good dose of those.

The cemetery had different sections for different faiths and/or categories of people, such as one for veterans and so on. The shadows did their amazing things in the vets' section. Depiction of our Savior on the cross always brings a lump to my throat and a tug at my heart. This cemetery had a love and a peace about it that one has to experience to get the full effect. Sandy telling me about it just scratched the surface of my brain and heart. Being in it was something I wouldn't have missed for the world. And since we who are Christians know that Jesus is alive, though He died and was buried, we know that our loved ones whose old natures died when they accepted Christ live also. Blessed peace to all who lie here.

Almost Thelma and Louise VI

2009-10-28T15:29:00.030-05:00

Wednesday was our day to refurbish any missing ingredients in our stash of supplies plus visit the local secondhand shops. I bought a purse and a mid-weight jacket. Can't remember what Sandy bought but I know she always buys something when there's a bargain looking at her. In these stores there were many. We had fun.

When the sun was about at the 3:00 o'clock level, Laurie took us to see the Colorado National Monument. As usual, I was entranced. Sandy was--well, the expression "ga-ga" seems appropriate to use here. Of course, the higher we climbed (in the car, of course) the colder the air and by the time we were on our way down, Sandy's fingers were numb.

I had so much fun watching Sandy marvel at the views on the monument. It reminded me of my first visit to this natural wonder. She found things that reminded her of stories from the Bible and was quick to point them out to us. I had to agree with her on most of them, because there was a "burning" bush, although it actually looked burned, not burning. And there was a root system that very much resembled a slain lamb. We were fortunate in that the light was right for photography--the light is everything and shadows are mandatory!

I haven't seen Sandy's pictures of the monument yet, but I have no doubt they'll be spectacular. So many of her photos melt people's hearts while she says, "Pfff, it's okay. Would have been better if I had opened the aperture more, or changed the shutter speed, etc." Give us a break! What are the rest of us--blind? Don't we know beautiful photography when we see it?

The pictures taken on the monument almost seemed to take themselves. At each overlook (where we could pull the car over and get out) there was a different aspect of the rocky beauty. And that clear, blue, almost unreal-looking sky! Sandy and I were both entranced, she for the first time, I for the fifth (I think-it could be 6th) time. I'm already thinking to myself, "Wonder when I'll be able to get out here again?" On the way home Sandy said to me, "I'm planning on coming back to Grand Junction, and soon." I told her that I had been thinking the same thing ever since our first day on the monument.

The next day, Thursday, we spent a long time roaming around downtown GJ. The city fathers, years ago, saw fit to hold sculpture contests each year with the winner selling his or her art to the city to grace various corners. There is no way to describe this popular trend so here are some pictures, even one of a gigantic dragonfly on the wall of an alley along with a girl beginning to climb a ladder.

The wind was fierce during our whole time downtown. We progressed from there to the old train station which is now for sale. It's a solid, impressive looking building. By this time, rain had set in so we had to forget about our longing for shadows and just go with what we had.

Look one way and it's rain and clouds; look another way and it's blue sky with only a hint of coming clouds.

Laurie, Sandy and I each hoped that the city would buy the old train station, refurbish it and turn it into something useful to the town. Perhaps they will.

Our next excursion will be to the Grand Mesa, 35 miles east of Grand Junction, and very much visible from the city. We were up fairly early and so excited to get into the heart of the golden aspen trees. This trip takes the better part of a day because the mesa is huge. In fact, it is touted as being the largest in the U. S. and possibly in the world. Our excitement turned into disappointment--big time! There was not a golden leaf left on any of the hundreds of thousands on the entire mesa. The strong winds over the last few days had decimated the leaves. We also learned that a bug is attacking and killing them. I took only two pictures on the mesa, one of small, sad little aspen trees, stripped naked. So sad. The aspens are a huge drawing card for all of Colorado and their loss cannot be measured.

While we were on the mesa, the "Thelma and Louise" theme overtook us. While we didn't get into any trouble with the law, I almost took us over one of the highest overlooks. I was so upset over the stripped bare aspen trees that instead of stepping on the brake, I stepped on the accelerator. Only the good Lord's angels saved us from going over that cliff. I still don't know how we were saved. Poor Sandy was a wreck and I know she must have felt like bodily throwing me over the cliff and going on in the car. Of course, she is much smaller than I am and probably couldn't have carried out her thoughts. Thank You, sweet Lord, for another saving of your servant, oh, and also my friend. To be continued...

Almost Thelma and Louise V

2009-10-27T12:04:00.023-05:00

This is what Grand Junction is all about--sure, the Gunnison and Colorado Rivers merge here, but the real wonder is this, the Colorado National Monument. To me, this is second only to the Grand Canyon in Arizona. This piece of real estate is overlooking the Grand Valley, composed of the city of Grand Junction in the middle and Palisade and Fruita anchoring the north and south ends of the valley. A small town called Clifton is in the mix, near Palisade.

We reached Grand Junction CO on our fifth day of travel, a Tuesday. Actually, the first day should not be counted since we didn't leave Lake Charles until almost noon. But then, why am I counting. Who really cares? Not I. Of course, when I get the bill for the dogs' boarding, I'm probably going to care very much!
I'm including a picture of Laurie's back taken on a previous visit--she's the dark-headed one on the right. The only picture I got of her on this trip was an early morning one where all you can see is her outline. The elusive Laurie.

When we reached her house, which took some real brain unscrambling--GJ had changed--we immediately headed to the patio while the light was still good. I had heard so much about this patio--what a great place to relax, what a mess the yard was when she first moved in, what a sad place when her cockatoo flew away, I had to see it for myself. It was a lovely place to relax, albeit somewhat sad to see Ellie's empty cage with the door standing open in case she ever came back. Laurie's had Ellie for ten years and was a wonderful bird. Laurie didn't realize that her flight feathers had grown out and one day, while on L.'s shoulder outside, she just flew away. Would she ever come back? All searching and tacking up posters and newspaper ads thus far had been fruitless.

Ellie had not returned by the time we left for home. Four days after we started back to Louisiana, Laurie moved again, this time nearer the Colorado National Monument, yet still in Grand Junction.
The next morning Sandy and I were up early and had coffee on the patio. To our delight, there appeared a double rainbow in the left quadrant of her back yard. I can see it in this picture and I hope it will show up here.

Almost Thelma and Louise IV

2009-10-21T11:08:00.021-05:00

Sandy finally sent me some of the pictures she took in and near the church at San Luis. I had to include a few of them here. One of them took my breath away--the first one. Hope you enjoy the fruits of her labor and her new digital camera. This view from the parsonage takes in the mountains that were very distant and across the highway from where we were viewing them. By enlarging this picture as much as I could, the sharpness has been somewhat compromised.

The second shot is again of the mountains, this time the parsonage had to give way to God's glory!

Now we'll go to some of the interior shots in the church itself. They are so glorious, they need no dialogue. I don't know if Sandy is that great a photographer, or I am just overly prejudiced because she's my friend, but her pictures are amazing to me.

Our last "Good-bye" to the church at San Luis. Its isolation, the mountain air, the incredible blue of the sky--all combined to give us a mystical experience of His nearness and His boundless grace.
We reached Pueblo, spent the night and moved on the next morning. If Pueblo had some photo ops, we didn't see any of them. Neither Sandy nor I took even one picture while there. The motel we stayed in was new and very nice. The only drawback is that our room was on the side by the railroad track. We were too tired to realize that before we rented it and also too tired to change rooms.

We had our coffee early the next morning, grabbed a bite of a continental breakfast from the lobby and were on our way. We took the loop around Denver, yet seemed to be in Denver for hours. Finally we were climbing, climbing those formidable Rocky Mountains. (Cell phones don't work when you get way up there. AT&T brags that it works everywhere but I beg to differ.) We stopped at Georgetown, CO. This town has reinvented itself and is quite charming. The downtown is in the process of complete restoration. Now we're back to my iPhone pictures. I thought they were excellent pictures until I saw Sandy's. Her camera cost over $800, not counting the great lenses. My iPhone cost $99+. I am not complaining or being snide (what exactly does "snide" mean? Don't have time to look it up, I'm on a roll.) These pictures were taken at a condo before we reached downtown.

Almost Thelma and Louise III

2009-10-20T14:41:00.061-05:00

After seeing the Millicent Rogers' museum, we were on our way to Pueblo, CO, via San Luis, CO. We were still in the Sangre de Cristos mountain range but would soon enter the San Juans. We stopped at an abandoned mill to take pictures and were soon joined by another photographer. To get to the mill we had to climb a fence, but all managed to make it over successfully.

I just took this one picture of the mill itself. Sandy and the pro who had joined us snapped away, even getting shots inside the mill, which was open at the back. See those large green leaves in the foreground of my picture? They're leaves of squash plants growing all around the mill. There was an old, broken-down red truck to the right and it was full of squash--leaves and the actual squash themselves. Wonder if they just grew up by themselves or some enterprising person planted them? Surely not in a truck? The squash were even growing inside the cab and in the bed of the truck.

We arrived at downtown San Luis and saw only one soul. This was now Monday. Maybe they heard we were coming and opted to stay indoors instead of possibly running into Thelma & Louise? Someone on Facebook commented about a picture from the first segment of this travelogue saying that a Texas town was deserted on a Saturday because everyone was over at the new Wal-Mart further down the road. That could very well be true, couldn't it? I took a couple of pictures: The old, abandoned store is more interesting than the well-kept church. But WHERE are the people? If some of these towns we've been in are any indication of the condition of much of this country, we really are in trouble!

We soon lost interest in the town itself and instead, were most curious about what seemed to be a church on a mountain a short distance from the town. We finally found someone who gave us directions on how to get there: "You go to that junkyard, turn left and just follow the road up to the top." Junkyard, here we come! The dirt road was fairly steep but we made it to the top without incident. The first thing we saw was an empty cross embedded in large rocks with a bronze Jesus seeming to float in the air. The title of the piece was "Jesus Ascending." It was beautiful. Beyond the bronze of Christ, were a few nice white rocks with purple flowers surrounding them. They pointed toward a distant path with a steep grade which was a meditation walk dedicated to Our Lady of Guadeloupe. On the other side of the bronze was a path to the church itself, with several interesting spots to stop and meditate. One was a statue of a monk holding Baby Jesus. It was in front of an adobe wall. To the left were a line of men who had been bishops in the area, all carved in stone. One was holding his hands up in prayer. The picture I took made it look like he was holding his hands up to the front of the church. I did not go inside the church but Sandy did and left an offering. She got some great shots. Perhaps later on, I'll use some of them in this post. She was most impressed at the great condition of the church. "Someone sure takes good care of this place."
We have to give the Spaniards credit for bring the Christian faith to this part of our world. This church looked like a completely different building when seen from different directions. One view looked like many of the churches on the Greek isles. It was almost eerie, although each view had a beauty to it. Sandy and I were both fascinated by the church as I'm sure you're able to discern! We have more shots of it than anything else on the whole trip. There was just something about it. It felt loved and that love was reaching out to us. And of course, the flame of the Holy Spirit that we carry within us gave witness to that love. God is so good.

On to Pueblo. We haven't even reached the Rocky Mountains yet. Denver is where those great mountains really begin and Denver is a "fur piece" from Pueblo.

Almost Thelma and Louise II

2009-10-19T11:49:00.039-05:00

Good bye to Santa Fe, hello Espanola and then Taos. One day to experience Santa Fe was not enough even though I had been to this city several times in the past. I knew it certainly wasn't enough time for Sandy. Ah, well, schedules sometimes have to be kept and this was one of those times. After all, the main purpose of the trip was to visit with my daughter.

Santa Fe became a pleasant dream when we reached the Taos welcome center. It was beautiful, clean--all that a tourist could want. We milled around, took pictures, picked up maps, found a spotless rest room and then were on our way to find a nearby motel. We soon found one: Hotel Don Fernando de Taos is its formal name. It was perfect, even down to the katchinas done in bronze on the adobe front. Inside, we found a most pleasant room waiting for us.

There was even an instant photo-op: the sun at just the right angle to cast an intricate shadow on the wall by the Spanish-style chair. My laptop soon occupied the table holding the magazines telling us about the wonders of Taos. One wonder that we did not get to see was the famous Taos Pueblo. We went to visit it twice and twice were denied entrance. The first time we were too late. It closed at 4:30pm and we arrived at 4. That really wasn't enough time to hear about it and then make the tour. As we were leaving the next day we "made a pass" by but again were refused entrance. The Indian who spoke with us didn't know why "they" were closing it--just that they were. I got one picture of it but it was at a great distance and left too much to the imagination. The pueblo is very interesting and large. They still use the round adobe ovens to cook in, at least they did when I last saw it in the late 80's.

Another opportunity missed. But Taos had lots of other opportunities for us. Sandy took the car and did some exploring on her own the next day. She was disappointed that there were so many dirt streets. I hadn't warned her that it was a town that liked to keep its culture as true to life as possible--dirt and all. Another type of coyote fence, this time decorated, was intriguing. Who, but someone from the west, would think to put all of this "stuff" on a fence? (Probably someone from Louisiana!)

This fence was on one of those dirt streets that Sandy objected to so much. Growing up in the metropolis of Jennings, LA, she knew little of roughing it while my home town, Oberlin, LA, had a main street of dirt until after the second world war! General Patton had his soldiers cleaning up cow doo to keep them occupied at down times during maneuvers.

The sun was beginning its downward path when Sandy discovered that the Rio Grand Gorge was nearby. "Let's go! The sun should be just right for pictures by the time we get there!" Her enthusiasm surfaced, the dirt streets were behind her--full speed ahead! We raced the miles to the gorge and drove to the western side of it, over the bridge itself. Humph! Neither of us could figure out how to capture the great depth of this behemoth. But that didn't stop us from trying.

To give you some idea of its depth, the first time I saw it was with an art teacher who told us to look down and see the plane that had crashed. It looked like a tiny toy, sending minute silver flashes of the sun back at us. On this trip, there was nothing to improve the perspective. These are my pictures taken with the iPhone.

By the time we got back to our hotel, it was full dark. After a night's rest, we were up early and on our way to Interstate 25 via Raton, NM. Before we left the Taos area, we stopped to see the Millicent Rogers museum. The first picture is of the elegant entrance to the museum. Ms. Rogers' father was a co-owner of Standard Oil Company. She had poor health, came out west to recuperate and found the Taos area much to her liking. It became her home. Her collection of native jewelry and pottery is fabulous. Sandy found an Indian man to her liking and Mr. iPhone did his thing. I love this picture!

There were so many things to see it was a bit overwhelming. Clothes, jewelry, pottery, a huge altar with manikins dressed in clothes from different periods of western history--really representing Catholic clerical dress. There were also many pictures of the heiress herself and some with her and her two sons. She never smiled in any of them and I found that strange. Here's another picture from the museum--looking out into one of the courtyards--and one of a new adobe home (really looks like a mansion) built near the museum. The sagebrush is in full bloom and looks luscious. No need to worry about planting much here! Our next destination is Pueblo, CO where we plan to spend our last night on the road. A nice man behind the desk at our hotel recommended that we travel a different way to get to Pueblo, going through a town called San Luis rather than go by way of Raton, NM...less mountainous. Since he grew up in Pueblo, I agreed with him. The next post will begin in San Luis.

Almost Thelma and Louise I

2009-10-16T13:10:00.064-05:00

This post, if it ever makes it into my blog, had better be a good one because it has given me many miseries. I have written much of it, edited all written, and fought the not-so-good-fight with every picture I've tried to insert. Since this is intended to be a travelogue of sorts, it wouldn't do to leave out the pictures, would it? That's what I thought too.

Since I'm not a quitter (usually), I'm going to try again. And just why do I tell you all of these things? Why not just begin again and let you go smoothly into my journey from Western Louisiana to the Western edge of Colorado? Because it's true that MISERY does love company. If you can't handle that, just go back to twittering or facebooking or e-mailing, or whatever a non-diehard reader does when confronted with a writer's angst.

I feel better now that I've gotten that out of my system. Let's go on a trip out west.

Prologue

My good friend, Sandy, had never traveled in the west. When I began talking about going to Colorado to see my daughter, Laurie, she immediately said, "I want to go too!" Now my talking was really in the "maybe so" realm since my last trip out there gave me some physical problems--the altitude problem for one. But Sandy's enthusiasm pumped me up until I just knew all would be well. In less than a week, we were packed and raring to be on our way.

We planned to leave on a Friday at 8 am. For once, I was ready on time. Sandy was not. "I want to bring everything I need to feel I have my 'comforts of home.'" She called me at 10:45 to say she would be ready at 11. When I got to her house, her driveway and front lawn looked like a circus had moved into the area. She had a purple bag on wheels, a large blue and black bag on wheels, a huge box of I'm not sure what, even tho' we hauled it over the continental divide twice, a large box holding a large coffeepot, a pound of our beloved Community coffee and various other things, a bar for hanging clothes in the back seat and clothes to go onto it...I've forgotten what else, but believe me, there was more. She managed to get everything into my four-door Buick and off we went. Our first stop for the night was in north Dallas with a nephew and his wife. After leaving our small city, seeing the Dallas skyline was a thrill. And my brand new iPhone took a decent picture of it while we were moving!

The Actual Trip

We enjoyed visiting with my nephew and his family, had a good breakfast and were soon on our way. Ate lunch Sandy had packed, sitting on the courthouse steps somewhere in Texas. It was a Saturday but from the looks of "downtown" it might as well have been a Sunday. No cars,no people.
Our lunch didn't last long because Sandy's keen sense of smell detected the odor or urine on those steps and we hurriedly said, "Goodbye" to that town. Not even the patriots on their monument next to the courthouse could talk us out of leaving! A bit further down Highway 187 we found a rest stop with an accomodating tree to shade our car while we ate.

The next "excitement" was seeing our first big hill/mesa/mountain ??? Whatever it was, we were really glad to see something different. It is strange to see such a mound all by itself in the middle of nowhere. Makes one wonder why it is all by itself--just an aberration? (On the way back from our trip, there was a big hill similar to this that was a once-active volcano. We were both too tired to stop to see it up close. Years ago I had seen it and the center of it was filled with very old lava).

We were hoping to get to Santa Fe for our second night of the trip--and we did. The sun was setting when we were about 15 minutes away. Sandy was driving and said, "Gee, I hate to get into an unfamiliar town at night." So I whipped out my new best friend, Mr. iPhone, and used the map feature to find a good place to eat. "Mama's Mexican Cafe" turned out to be a fine choice. How we ended up staying at the Sage Inn I cannot remember, but it was fine too, and very reasonably priced. We had good hot baths, comfortable beds, and restful sleep. Sandy was up at the old crack of dawn the next morning, making a pot of Louisiana coffee to get us started. Then we had a continental breakfast in the motel lobby.

On our way downtown we spotted a cemetery. Both of us love to take pictures in graveyards--go figure. The only good picture I took was of a rather stunning grave house. Then we headed back toward our objective. When we arrived, so had a festival--some sort of wine/chili/cheese celebration--and downtown was packed. We parked a few blocks away and I decided to hang around near the car while Sandy opted to jump into the melee.

I meandered around the neighborhood near where the car was parked and found some delightful scenes:

Sandy eventually returned and we were off to see the Fenn Gallery, which I had seen on several previous trips. It is one of the nicest galleries in all of Santa Fe. Wouldn't you know it was closed. Most museums and galleries are closed on Mondays.

We had to be satisfied with pictures of the outside and the courtyard. One of the most wonderful parts of this small gallery is the garden to the rear. It not only has wonderful sculptures, a small pond with a waterfall, but in addition, has its own pig--one of those oriental ones that become huge. There was a sign telling guests that the pig had the right-of-way at all times and this included roaming around in the gallery! Wonder if it's still alive after 20-something years? Perhaps its son or daughter or even a grandpig has replaced it. Obviously the pig made quite an impression on me.

Our next stop will be Taos, that artists' paradise further on North from Santa Fe. If we had had the time, I would have loved to revisit Ghost Ranch. But that will have to be for another trip. Taos will begin another post. Hope you've enjoyed the ride so far.

Capture of the Unicorn

2009-08-11T14:38:00.009-05:00

Today is poetry day. Either run for your life or settle in for an escapism read.

Capture of the Unicorn

Unicorn with seashell hoofs,
Come into my garden now,
I have prepared a place for you
Under the spruce's sheltering bough.

Cross the brook on lichen stones,
Up the path 'mid gorse and heather.
Follow the mists along the bog--
(His steps are lighter than great owl's feathers).

With a golden flute I play this tune,
Each trill to enchant you, draw you near.
There's clover to feed you with moon-made dew.
Come ever closer, have no fear.

Softly over your silver horn
I place a bridle of gossamer strands
That weave a spell to hold you close,
And dull the call of your distant lands.

I climb upon your trembling back.
You walk through the forest, hushed and still--
Canter to the edge of the meadow and stop--
Near the brook running by the mill.

You graze on the grass that covers the ground,
Sniffing the air that tells of Spring.
Drink of the waters before you go,
Galloping back like the steed of a King.

Back to the garden as darkness nears,
You enter your bower at the great spruce tree.
I close the fragile, gold-leafed gate--
Only stars see my medieval dream and me.