Weirdness of Children

My earliest recollection is crossing the South Claiborne pedestrian bridge. It was deconstructed in October 1952. I was born in august 1951. My sisters brought their sons to visit. Mercedes brought 5. Lu brought 3. They played with my two brothers. Ricky often slipped away and drew pictures for me on our little upright chalkboard.

Until my first godchild was born, that was my total experience with children. Though I was 16, I didn’t babysit. I held her at the christening ceremony and a few other times. When she got old enough to ask for things, she did. I don’t know if it was what she wanted or if her mother told her to ask. I know Sarah told me to get a Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy birthday cake for their third birthday. When I went to pick it up from Gambino’s, a white woman saw it and wanted it, and the clerk told me they didn’t have an order for me. That was 1971.

My second godchild was born in the early ‘70s. His mother wanted her best friend to be the godmother, but I’d asked first. I was unaware until the day of the christening. I saw him a few times before I left New Orleans. I’m sure the best friend took care of him. I hope so. If I ever get rich, I always figured I would leave a bundle for him or his progeny in my will. Names on paper. What exactly does it mean? Like marriage licenses, baptismal certificates.

My third godchild was actually born in one of the plain states. I saw him when he was in elementary school in Atlanta. We kept in touch on and off while he attended Jesuit High School in NOLA and perhaps annually after he grew up and got married a few times.

Cristina was my fourth godchild. She asked me to be her sponsor at confirmation. In her country, the sponsor is the godparent. I was honored. I took her to New Orleans Centre for lunch and window-shopping. She asked for a $250 stuffed bear from FAO Schwartz. I didn’t make that purchase.

Three and a half babies before I had my own. I did have one other encounter at a shower. One of the ladies had a toddler. Everybody held her and she cooed. She wouldn’t even come to me. After the gifts were opened, she toddled over to me and held her hands up in the traditional fashion of pick me up. I did. I set her on my lap, she peed on my new outfit, then slid down.

I had my first at thirty. Neither her father nor I knew what to do with her. We were both the youngest in our families, but fortunately, he liked babies. She was perfect for a few days, then we had to have her eyes checked. She was allergic to all soaps except glycerin that costs more than we could afford. My friend said, “Be glad she’s not allergic to your milk or cow’s milk. My Vanessa can only drink goats milk. With all the animals I have, I don’t have a goat and don’t know where to find one in Clearwater.”

My daughter was different from whatever I expected. By age three, we knew she had some sort of power. We met a Kabbalistic Jew just before we left Northern California who said, “She’s got a gift. I would love to teach her.” He didn’t say what or how, and we were too dumb to ask the questions we needed to find another interested person when we moved again.

When we got back to Georgia, she walked around my mother-in-law’s property, always looking down. She stared at a spot for so long, we [i]moseyed over to see what she saw. After about five or ten minutes, she reached down and picked up a piece of quartz. My husband and his six brothers said they’d played and dug around every inch of land growing up and never found quartz. They watched her do her thing, then had a brilliant idea. They investigated a part of the yard while she was inside. They found no quartz. Then I brought her out and they walked with her to the perused site. She stared at the ground and soon stooped and picked up a piece of quartz.

Another of her abilities is a connection to me that was so strong, I could feel her when she was away from me. She knew when I was close by. If she was with her father or someone else,  when she reached a certain range, I knew she was close.

After the third day in the nursery, the daycare workers watched her closely. They said they’d never seen anyone like her. Her pediatricians told us to always let her know what we were about, so we did. When I dropped her off at daycare the first day, her dad and I explained that we would be at work and I would return to get her at five thirty. Her caregivers were concerned because she refused to eat all day, then at five thirty, my six month old daughter, stood up in her crib and stared at the door. I opened it and entered. She did this every day. Eventually her dad and I must have said something about food, because she began to eat in the day time, but always stood and watched the door just as I entered.

At four years old, I bought her a Burger King milkshake while we waited for the KART (Kings Area Rapid Transit) shuttle. As was her nature, she slurped it down quickly. Then she regurgitated. I found she was allergic to milk. She still insisted on eating ice cream. When I was 3, I belched then threw up every time I drank milk. I prayed to God that I would not belch.

When I was 4, my nine year old brother and I walked to the library. We saw downtown buildings being drawn swiftly, as if a giant artist’s invisible hand reached down from the sky and created tall buildings among the flat ones with which we were familiar. The buildings are still there. We both stared. My brother said, “I didn’t see anything and you didn’t either.” Had he seen something like this before and denied it? Had he and our older brother seen something and my older brother told him he didn’t see it?

My son was gray when he was born. The doctors whisked him away, and after what seemed forever to me, he let out a high pitched wail. The medical people brought him to me, stating, “You must have had the worst heartburn in history. We’ve never seen hair this long.” It looked short to me, but one of the doctors grabbed one of the curls and unfurled it. It was coarse and almost eight inches long, but coiled so tightly, it looked like a cap.

My son’s ability was empathy and during his childhood, this empathic gift was quite painful for him. He taught himself how to not feel other people’s emotions so well that by the time he got to high school, this talent was relegated to close friends and family only.

Number three – I think being born in the Devil’s Triangle in the year of the dragon on the winter solstice was important to this one, because 12 years before, her dad (whom I had not yet met) and I were both en route to Miami when our paths shifted direction.

She looked like my baby picture sans freckles, but I had a disturbing feeling that she was my mother. She looked the same everyday for six months, but when we woke on the summer solstice, I didn’t recognize her. Changeling? I searched the house. All the doors and windows were closed and locked. Our apartment had no chimney. I talked to her. She cooed, giggled, and crossed her eyes as usual. Her thighs were huge as they had been, but she wasn’t even the same color. My six year old son joined me at the crib—looked at her, looked at me, stared at her again and asked, “Is that Ronda?”

As an adult, she looked exactly like me, so what happened to the first baby or do miracles happen like that and we decide what to look like? At what time does an infant, toddler, child, become the person they are meant to be?

During her early childhood, I saw people staring at her. I stared at them. When I turned away and turned back, they stood next to her and said quietly to me, “Take good care of her. She’s blessed by The Lord.” But aren’t we all?

My grandson wasn’t quite three when he frustratedly said, “I wish I was big again.” This was his fourth odd statement since we could understand his speech. But while his parents watched a movie a few months later, he said, “I like this part.” My son asked him when he’d seen the movie. His answer, “I was watching this just before I died.”

Recycled people?

Who are we? From where do we come? Are we all the same person? Is Adam still in the garden playing what if with God?

          “Well, Adam, what do you want this one to look like?”

          “What if the eyes were like water, the hair like silk, and was yeigh tall?”

          “I think we already have four of those. What if the eyes were like flower petals, hair like lamb’s hair, and we make it wider and taller?”

          “I know we have a lot of those already.”

          “Well Adam, we have several billion all different in some way. What if we erase this lot and start over?”

PJ PARTY

I just enjoyed the most remarkable experience with my Red Hat sisters, the Rockin’ Red Suga Mamas. We had a pajama party at an Embassy Suites close to a major shopping area. You know – Neiman Marcus, Nordstrom, Von Maur, Taco Bell, Goodwill, Barnes  & Noble. I always feel blessed just being around them. We spent so much of our lives in the 20th century and first couple of decades of the 21st sharing the same world history, but we each participated in diverse places with unique individuals. Unknowingly, many of us were in the same place at the same time and are familiar with similar issues that offered different outlooks. Others of us come together knowing nothing of what the others’ life involvements have been. Through conversations at lunch, dinner, and breakfast, we continue to learn. Food really helps to bring the world closer.

Then, of course, there was the PJ party for fun and pleasure. There are about five dozen Rockin’ Reds. We meet monthly and are not always able to have in depth talks with each  person, so it’s wonderful to meet occasionally in smaller groups where we can each be a part of a segment of another’s rich life. It is truly and honor and a blessing to be a part of this group of amazing women who have endured so much, risen so high, and become benevolent queens of their own lives.

1922

The Roaring Twenties - 1922

All my mother’s young life, her Papa worked on Girod Street at a bag factory. It, along with the Girod Street cemetery, are all a part of the Superdome complex now. And in the 50s and 60s, brown paper bags took over the market. My grandfather sewed bags/sacks twelve hours a day, five and a half days a week. He was promoted to supervisor in 1922, and killed for being Black—a white immigrant thought he should have the job.

Thank you Muse

Life - a quick look

No matter how organized and structured our lives, no matter how strict and nurturing our parents, we’ve all got to go through our teen years. During this time, we know ourselves better than anyone else. After all, we’ve lived with ourselves among others for more than a decade. We know where we’re going and with whom. We have some idea of what we might want to do with our lives and definitely know what we don’t want.

However, one day, we will say the wrong thing to someone, behave in an off putting manner, or just rebel and do something stupid. Our life flips, turns, and we find ourselves off and running in some vague direction with unanticipated twists and turns.

At thirty, we think if only. And in less than a decade, we begin to see that the twists, turns, anger, hostility, animosity, stupidity, and all the things that we did wrong made us the success that we became. At which point, we should laugh and thank God for being in control.

MUSES

I grew up among the muses. After Dad ran away from home, we lived in a tenement on Carondelet Street in NOLA’s lower garden district between Thalia and Melpomene Streets. Silently, I suppose, I’ve always relied on the muses for everything. However, since my Pullman book signing, my personal writing muse has been on hiatus. I’m acknowledging the street names of my childhood, hoping the sisters and I can once again be friends. NOLA is famous for misspelling and mispronouncing street names - sorry Polyhymnia. #Calliope #Clio #Erato #Thalia #Melpomene #Terpsichore #Euterpe #Polymnia #Urania

Hello classmate and neighbor #EmilyNelson, wherever you are.

Sunday Morning Rosary

Sunday morning very bright…

As I prayed the rosary this morning, I decided not to mediate on the mysteries (a complicated task), but to think about the Catholic churches I’ve attended.

As a child, Mother, my brothers, and I attended St. Monica on South Galvez Street in NOLA. That had been her church since she was converted to Catholicism in 1935. Dad’s family always attended All Saints in Algiers, a generational tradition. When they lived in the 9th ward before I came along, my brothers attended Holy Redeemer School just outside the French Quarter, so Mother went to that church on Sundays.

I was registered at Holy Ghost school for 8 years, so Holy Ghost became the family church. During that time one move put us in St. John the Baptist Parish (SJBP) and in the summer months when students didn’t have to attend Mass as a class, we alternated between SJBP and St. Theresa of Avila. In 7th grade, we moved a block away from st. Monica in the Calliope Project, so during high school, that was the family church again.

Mother told the housing authority when I got my first job after high school. Rent increased $300 per month, so we moved to Mid-City and churches were up for grabs. I went to Mass every morning on my bicycle at Sacred Heart, but on Sundays, Mother and I mostly attended the Jesuit Church of the Immaculate Conception downtown or Our Lady of Guadalupe aka St. Jude.

I became active in Sacred Heart as a youth advisor, lector, community activist, and rock choir member. It became my regular parish until I moved to Atlanta. I lived on Lenox Road in the Cathedral of Christ the King parish. I was a lector there for three years when Archbishop Donnellan was pastor.

When my firstborn joined us, I moved around, looking for churches that offered comfort to mothers with babies. I settled at a church in Stone Mountain with a windowed balcony for nursing mothers. One of the priest gave communion there at the door. I think it was Corpus Christi.

Across the country in Vallejo, I joined St. Basil the Great church when Fr. Guapo was pastor (the Filipino ladies called him that because he was handsome). I became a lector. In the valley, we attended St Peter Prince of Peace in Lemoore, but switched to St. Brigid’s in Hanford. We liked the priest there. When a baby cried during service, the mother rose to take him outside, Father interrupted to say, “No, no, bring him back, he may grow up to be pope.” There was always a sense of camaraderie and happiness in that church.

Back in Atlanta, Vanessa attended Sts. Peter and Paul Catholic school, so we went to that church. We sometimes joined my godson and his family at St Thomas More in Decatur. In Florida, we lived closest to St. Clement of Rome, but when Ronda was born, the priest there said that we would have to have a Catholic godfather and hubby insisted that his non Catholic best friend be the godfather. So, I shopped around and found St. Helen’s. Ronda was baptized there. Within the year we were back in New Orleans, minus hubby.

Our fist stop was at Our Lady of the Rosary. As I had been doing for almost 20 years, I sat as close to the front as possible. While attending a youth rally in the superdome, the moderator asked how we chose to buy concert tickets. Everybody wanted to sit up front, so he raised the question, “Why not sit up front for the best performance of our lives, Holy Mass.”

The priest refused to begin mass until we moved to the back of the church. The ushers en masse came to move the four of us. Their reasoning—the baby might cry. She might cry in the back of the church as well, but for the fifteen minutes they surrounded us and all but physically removed us from the pew, she didn’t even whimper. So mass began and we never went back to that church.

Because I’d been active my entire adult life I thought it was time for the kids to become active participants. We went to a different church every Sunday searching for one they liked. When we moved from Mother’s house six months later, we were in Mater Dolorosa parish, one of the most beautiful churches I’ve ever seen. No burning candles were allowed because all icons except windows were made of wood. The whole structure was wood. When that priest had an issue with skin color and tried to involve the white principal of the public school my kids attended, we switched to Our Lady of Lourdes. Eric made his first communion there. None of us liked the service, so we began shopping around again. A couple of dozen churches later, my children fell in love with St. Joan of Arc where we stayed from 1995 to 2005 (Hurricane Katrina).

The kids pretty much grew up there. They joined the CYO, actively participated in everything, especially The Black Arts Festival. Ronda went to school there for a short period. The two oldest became altar servers and 12 year old Van served with the Archbishop at a special Mass. Steve, a friend from work came to Van’s confirmation. Dexter and Henry, friends from work joined us for my son’s confirmation and Leydin, another friend from work came to Ronda’s.

Back in Atlanta, I tried the local church, Saint James the Apostle. Definitely didn’t fit in there. So went to Our Lady of Lourdes in Atlanta. People stared suspiciously at me. I preferred being invisible as my brown skin had been at st. James. The priest hesitated before he offered communion and I never went back to that church. I went downtown to the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception and even to the Basilica of the Sacred Heart. That church had changed tremendously. I settled at St. Philip Benizi for a while, then lost interest. The congregations all gave me a feeling of uneasiness as if God was not present and they were gathered for some unknown reason. I worshipped in my backyard and felt much more fulfilled.

And now, fifteen minutes later, I made the Sign of the Cross and set my rosary across the chair arm. Amazing how pleasant a feeling it is to be able to contemplate for brief periods. Amazing how far one’s thoughts can travel.

Vidalia to Visalia

I accidentally picked up a bag of Vidalia onions. Every time I look at the bag, I think of Visalia and Rosa. We worked together at Candlewick in Lemoore, CA. When people talked down to her, she said, “I’m not a country hick, I’m from the big city.” New people always asked, San Francisco, Los Angeles? And Rosa said, “No Visalia.” Most new people had never heard of it. At the time it’s population was 12,500. I lived in Armona, an area too small to be a town. It didn’t even have RFD. We had to actually go to the post office to get our mail.

My little family left a small town in Georgia to live in an even smaller place, but eventually came back to another small town in Georgia. Vidalia onions were well known here, but no one had ever heard of Visalia and few knew where the San Joaquin Valley was until Sons of Anarchy became a TV show.

Life offers connections in everything and so many wonderful memories.

Joie de Vivre

I knew I didn’t like roller coasters the moment the cars began their downward spiral. The speed took my breath away and for the next three minutes I lived in breathless terror. Life is like that. Every time something out of the ordinary happened, I dreaded it as soon as it began. I feared it.

I remember my first fight. I was in third grade. Having watched too many movies, I tried to defend the girl being picked on from the bully. For my valiant effort, I was accused of fighting and kept the fingernail trail of defeat from my forehead to my chin for two weeks. For years I lived in fear of the next fight, but it never happened. There were other things to fear.

My children, on the other hand, Fear Nothing, Fear Little, and Fearless to a fault, did not understand why I didn’t grab life by the horns and go with it. Grabbing the nubs was good enough for me. I think I would have liked to grab for the gusto, but I always held back.

My Aunt Vickie called it timid. She insisted that I was like my mother, a fraidy cat. My mother’s sister took joie de vivre to a whole new level and according to those who witnessed her life, lived it to the fullest. In truth, she, too, held back. After all, she was a woman, born in the 19th century. Being less than five feet tall and petite, she got her jollies by instigating trouble, then disappearing into a crowd or hiding behind her 6’2” husband.

There are many who exist in fear of living, of moving forward, of increasing the dimensions of their life. Many others are exhilarated by just the thought of danger and can hardly wait to put themselves into its path.

When I finally learned that I am the most important person in my life, I learned to delight in living my life, enjoying every aspect of my being. You might not see it, but my soul sings with every action I take. Joie de vivre.

Pullman by Debra Lee

Queen New Orleans, setting in the crescent of the Mississippi River, is my home. I thought it was a great place to grow up. The culture was unique, mixed, multi-cultural within itself. The flavor was deep and rich—lasting long after its roots began to decay. Though the city grew ethnicity by ethnicity, each with its own niche, it blended true.

Here we are in the 2020’s. These ‘20s are roaring, but not with the wild love of the 1920’s my parents witnessed in what they called the good ol’ days. The city still has an underbelly of turpitude that has not been interrupted by the influx of new people who arrived after Hurricane Katrina. I invite you to get a glimpse of life as my parents knew it in Pullman by Debra Lee, available to you on August 19th, in stores and online.

1920s - family view

From what my folks didn’t tell me, I imagine the 1920s was a preview of the sex, drug, and rock and roll of the ‘60s and ‘70s. I knew about my mother’s first party during the year-end holidays when 1923 turned into 1924. She and my dad met at that party. She also met her husband Willie, his brother Freddie, and Freddie’s wife Louise. Mother and Louise would soon become sisters-in-law and BFFs. My sister was one year old at the time. Our dad was married to Ida who was expecting my second sister. Thirty years later, Louise would become my godmother. And collectively, they would be overprotective and strict. I would be on a short leash and chaperoned until I was eighteen. At which time the leash would loosen, but never release.

Mother often talked about the good ol’ days. No longer cohabitating with Ida and Willie, she and Dad met at a sailor bar at the foot of Canal Street. New Orleans had the country’s second busiest port and despite prohibition, many nationalities opened bars along the wide thoroughfare. Dad’s family rarely crossed the river, but he rode the ferry to meet her at the Greek bar and she rode streetcars from uptown New Orleans.

He was born and raised in Algiers, rumored to be a hot spot for voodoo. Her family was leery of him. Her brothers thought his only redeeming quality was that he was a musician. His family saw no redeeming qualities in Mother. Her skin was too light and she lived on the east bank.

As they got to know each other better, he accompanied her to movies at an arcade near the river. When he wasn’t playing music, they enjoyed vaudeville shows at the Palace Theater on Iberville Street. Soon, she braved crossing the mighty Mississippi and walking through the streets of Algiers to watch him play. She was proud that everyone always knew when she appeared. When he saw her, he always missed a beat and was teased. He and his cousin played together, so their secret dating got out among his clan. Two of his seven sisters, Neola and Thelma, became good friends with Mother.

Dad saw his daughters often because they lived close by. Mother lived at home and her mother raised my brother, so she saw him daily.

One of Mother’s older sisters married into a musical upriver family from Lutcher. She introduced them to Dad, and the cousins began following them into seedier uptown areas around First Street and along the disreputable South Rampart Street. Mother gave no details about those years, but into the ‘50s and ‘60s, neither wanted my brothers to hang out along the strip because of its lingering seamy reputation. As much as she loved moving pictures, she avoided taking us to the Ritz on Rampart when we moved into a nearby neighborhood.

Pullman Porters

My 40-year-old American Uber driver could not comprehend Pullman and never had any dealings with trains. Silly of me to make assumptions -

From Wikipedia

Pullman porters were men hired to work for the railroads as porters on sleeping cars.[1] Starting shortly after the American Civil War, George Pullman sought out former slaves to work on his sleeper cars. Their job was to carry passengers’ baggage, shine shoes, set up and maintain the sleeping berths, and serve passengers. #PullmanPorters served American railroads from the late 1860s until the Pullman Company ceased its United States operations on December 31, 1968, though some sleeping-car porters continued working on cars operated by the railroads themselves and, beginning in 1971, Amtrak.

A TRUE BROTHERHOOD

On my first cross country trip by train, my dad, who worked for Southern Pacific in their Algiers railyard, met with several porters. He wanted to assure my safety. When he and Mother accompanied me to Union Station, he found my guardians and introduced us. As I was taking my final step onto the train, he was double checking with the porter who would hand me over to his friend when we reached El Paso. True to his word, I met a new porter in West Texas who made sure that I arrived safely in Los Angeles.

I’d told all my LSUNO friends that I was leaving, but only #NormanElfer came to see me off. Thank you Norm, I never forgot.

1982

Thank you #CaseyOsburn perfect background music for remembering. Just listened to #Top100of1982ReUpload on #youtube.

1982 was a blur as I lived it, but listening to #CaseyKasem and 100 most popular songs of the year has brought it all back

Always a Casey Kasem fan, I missed this one at the end of 1982. New baby 18 months after the first one. Hubby left #DCPD Georgia shortly after Wayne Williams was arrested -- and joined the navy. End of the year found me packing for our cross country move when my friend #GrindlynWilliams asked me to make her wedding gown quickly. The wedding was to be two weeks after the proposal. The family spent the first week discovering wedding prep took a lot longer. Unable to get a wedding dress during the first week, she asked me to make it with 7 days to go. We spent one of those days looking for a pattern. After choosing the hardest designer piece in the #Vogue pattern book, she pretty much moved in to babysit while I cut, basted, sewed, fitted, basted some more, then hand sewed the soutache braid onto the masterpiece (her family still has the dress). Of course, she wanted me in the wedding. I dressed quickly, gave the kids to my mother-in-law and with needle and thread in hand made some last minute fixes in the back of the church.

1982 had been one of those years. In January, the ob-gyn said I was expecting. I said impossible and I was probably right and should have believed myself – maybe. Our son wasn’t born ‘til the last 3 days of October – over ten months later. What a bundle of joy and happiness – glad the doctor was an idiot, though he performed a miracle when it was absolutely necessary. My precious package was gray and not breathing when he was born. Long minutes later after being whisked away and worked on, we heard his high pitched scream. I’m sure all the dogs for miles around came running – yes that high.

I was enjoying marriage wrapped in a cocoon of life in our #StoneMountain apartment. Work was wonderful. I loved spending my days in Visual Merchandising at #Richs in downtown #Atlanta. #SharkeysMachine was being filmed and I spent some lunch hours looking over the rail into the original subterrain Atlanta watching the boredom of seeing it all come together. My spouse, on the other hand, was not happy. He’d enjoyed being a decoy in the #AtlantaMissingAndMurdered Children’s case. He was not having fun in uniform and his mother constantly pressured him to follow in his six brothers’ footsteps and join the army.

I had a doctor’s appointment and went home midday. I parked the car, gathered my things, said hello to a stranger leaving the building and went in. While turning the key in the lock, the sights I’d just passed flitted through my mind. I turned. Looking down the corridor, I saw that almost every door had been broken and an axe was still hooked in one. I relocked the door, left the parking lot, and drove to the rental office where I called the cops. My husband joined the bevy of officers threading their way through the complex, especially my building. Fine time for the rest of the world to know that not only was I not perceptive, I couldn’t describe people, including my mate. They discerned that I’d probably said hello to one of the culprits who probably got in a car with others as I went in the building. Then drove away when I went to the rental office.

Because of this, it was the general consensus that I should probably not stay alone in the apartment while my partner went to Navy basic training in Florida. So, his little family stayed with his mother in the country. I should mention that she didn’t like me, didn’t want her son to marry me, and didn’t speak to me. What an arrangement! He told me his version of what she was like and gave me 10 commandments to live by. Again, I shouldn’t have listened. I don’t think any of her sons knew her and definitely didn’t understand her. He told me she especially wouldn’t appreciate my sense of humor. But, of course, that proved to be the ice breaker.

After basic, he went to AQAN Millington, Tennessee.  All thought, it was too close to birthing to be moving around so much. So, I remained in Georgia, where I made Grindlyn’s wedding gown and watched #JukeboxVideo late night while breast feeding.

Back to Casey Kasem – currently listening to #MichaelMcDonald, seeing the song performed on LSUNO’s campus. Performing artist must have used UNO’s campus as a practice when they toured in #NewOrleans, because the #DoobieBrothers weren’t the only group I saw there. I saw# CCR.

I’d not heard of #AirSupply before I got married, but I did like them - just discovered they’re #Australian. #AlanParsonsProject either. Didn’t know #StevieNicks wrote one of my favorite songs for #JessiColter and #WaylonJennings. Actually never heard of Colter before. #Leatherandlace #duet with #DonHenley. #ChariotsOfFire by #Vangelis took 22 weeks to make it to number one. No wonder it seems to have been played all year. It was one of my boss’ assistant favorite movies. #YoungTurks #33, I would use this song as a learning tool when my kids got to be teens. They didn’t get it. Maybe kids are not meant to get their parents. Can’t believe #WillieNelson was 49, his biggest country song of the year #32. #JoeCocker’s first number one hit was with #JenniferWarnes.

The theme from #HillStrteetBlues was also in this countdown. I’d never had time to watch TV until I got married. He thought that watching TV and reading album jackets was all the entertainment anybody needed. I never read jackets. But I digress.

He left for work, his first night in uniform. I turned on the TV and watched Hill Street Blues. All the rookies got killed. I turned off the TV. Never attempted to watch that again. Another reason not to watch television. I did watch movies that year. Poltergeist, Rocky III, and Rambo (my favorite).

RESET

Reset

I started using my computer this a.m. without my glasses. Big mistake. Didn’t realize how messed up my eyes were until I stepped onto the front porch and the tree leaves were blurred. Sat, reached for my #rosary, closed my eyes and said the #GloriousMysteries.

First time I ever heard the word meditation and paid attention, I was a student at #LSUNO. My #FineArts classmate #MariaBrunies, now friend #MariaBeard led a group of us to a meadow next to #LakePontchartrain. She’d been learning #TM; we practiced with her. After several times, I walked to the lake alone and tried, AND SUCCEEDED. FOR THE LAST TIME. Tripping, seeing myself sitting in the grass as my body rose closer and closer to the clouds freaked me out. Never did that again.

However, years later, thinking I needed a reset, I found a booklet entitled #ZenForChristians. Just the breathing while mentally repeating the chant was relaxing.

Many years later, husband and two children, I went on a #HolyWeek retreat in #SantaRosa California. I know, most people go there for the horses. Every day, I tried to climb a small hill, about the height of two or three #NewOrleans #levees. On #EasterSunday, I was determined to make it to the top. Joy at my accomplishment, I assumed the position. Silent chants, easy breaths, united me with TIMELESSNESS, WEIGHTLESSNESS, BEING AND NOT BEING, #SATORI, THE ALL.

What seems a lifetime later, I find it hard to concentrate, breathe slowly, and fill my mind for more than a half minute before I latch onto one or two pressing thoughts. But, I have rosaries throughout the house, a screened in front porch, fresh air, chirping birds by day, cicadas and tree frogs by night. One day, I remembered that I was taught to meditate on the mysteries. If you have nothing to think about, trying meditating on those. The old fifteen – Joyful, Sorrowful, and Glorious – will take you on many journeys. Or just reset. I’d known how to meditate a long time before I was introduced to TM.

Easter

This past week would have passed in a blur 70 years ago. There were no days off from school, because classes attended Mass every morning during Lent and students and their parents were expected to be present for the Stations of the Cross on Good Friday. Students were also expected to spend time in church for Forty Hours Devotion, a time when the Eucharist had been removed from the premises.

This left only Saturday for most to shop for their #Easter finery. Stores were not open at night. There were a few malls,  but they kept regular weekend hours and nothing opened on Sundays, not even grocery stores. Canal Street in #NewOrleans was almost as crowded as Carnival. There was no shoving or hysterics. Privileged children ran about the aisles and hid under clothing racks. People waited impatiently in long lines, but were cordial to each other and broached subjects of interests as they waited their turn in the waiting rooms. Women swapped recipes. Everyone wanted to know what other families served on Easter. At home, mothers prepared the dye and boiled eggs. With delight, children creatively colored the eggs while mother prepped for tomorrow’s meal. Late at night, all the beauty salons and barber shops closed. Women wrapped their hairdos and those of their daughters or lounged uncomfortably on sofas and day beds to prevent muss.

In the morning, everyone rose early to go to several dozen denominational Christian churches. They were all dressed to the nines. Shoes were shined and boys were warned not to scuff them whether they were new or old. Girls in flounced dresses, some with balloon slips beneath.  Parents in suits with pastel shirts to match spouse dresses. Everywhere, there were beautifully sculpted hats or pillboxes with netting. Afterward, children rushed to change their clothes and sneaked jelly beans while Mother prepared last minute food items and Father read the newspaper. A few children dared to open wrapped chocolates from their #Easterbaskets. They didn’t have to feign hunger. No one was allowed to eat anything before going to communion. Little children were too young and old people were exempt from this practice. Either company came to the house or the family went to other family residences. It was a festive day.

In a couple of weeks, my mother gave us all #CitrateofMagnesia, so we could maintain our good health.

L.A. ‘71

Politically incorrect to the max - - -not in # The Book

#PineapplePrincess song by #AnnetteFunicello 1960 – one year after our 50th state. I suppose this song is politically incorrect on several levels, but it was in a YouTube music mix and immediately reminded me of #NancyNakoa, a Hawaiian girl I hung out with in the summer of ’71 in L.A. My Spanish was still good after studying four years of it prior to college and my two semesters at LSUNO with #BeatrizCuellar and Senora Patron. The Chicanos hit on Nancy every few blocks and I answered in Spanish, because she didn’t speak that language. They just stared at me. Eventually, she got comfortable enough to laugh with me about it.

FUN(NY) PROJECT

not in # The Book

20th century Louisiana, the #BayouState. #New Orleans in movies and on TV. Leave #CityPark or #AudubonPark, enter a #FrenchQuarter front door and exit through the back onto a bayou. Pirogue waiting at the veranda. And Voodoo, of course.

Fun project for the two of us - I worked with a photographer for a short while. As we tramped around NOLA on a lazy Saturday morning, he lay down on the street to get the perfect shot. I did a bit of writing before I realized, he was still laying there. I told him several times that he needed to get up. We had places to go and things to do. He ignored me as friends are wont to do. As I walked over to him, he suddenly jumped up yelling at me to make it stop. “Make it stop!” he repeated, hopping from leg to leg ang batting his clothes. I was flabbergasted and wondered why he was shouting at me.

When I got close, I saw thousands of agitated ants scattering away from my dancing friend. He’d obviously not felt them as they crawled on his shoes, pants, and jacket, but once they got under the pants legs, he was alerted. I burst into laughter as I realized he’d fallen for the myth that everyone in New Orleans practiced Voodoo.

MALL ‘85

Steve Perry             Oh Sherrie              not in # The Book

Mall security guard Steve was doing his rounds. It was a slow day in the small mall, so I stood outside where he could see me. Most people rarely walked our way unless they were actually headed to Radio Shack, but word had gotten around that we had a desktop computer in the store. We were beginning to attract curiosity seekers and our on call computer expert Mike was contacted more frequently.

“Have you seen that girl in here before?” Steve asked.

“She’s here almost every day.”

“Do you know what she’s here for?”

“Sure, I asked her one day. She was so exasperated, I felt sorry for her.”

“Well, you’re the only one that knows.”

“Nobody asked me. I would have told them. But, you know, I’m the outsider.”

“Once they get used to you, you’ll be the hit of the mall.”

“If we were staying, I would have gotten to know everybody by now. As it is, I gave David my notice today.”

“I thought you were here for another year.”

“We are. I got a job at the factory. It’s practically across the street from our apartment.”

“That’s good,” Steve said patting my shoulder. He grinned, “I saw you pedaling your ass on the highway the other evening. Riding your bike home at ten o’clock at night is not safe.”

“That’s what David said. He wouldn’t let me ride the night we closed together. He grabbed my bike up and put it in the trunk of his car when he found out. He said if he’d known, he wouldn’t have hired me. Fact is, when I got hired, my husband was on a different shift. I had the car.”

A customer walked in the store. “Gotta go,” I said softly.

“See you.” Steve turned and asked, “Why does she come here every day?”

I giggled, “She’s looking for you.”

“Me? I passed her, she didn’t say anything.”

“Someone told her Steve Perry comes here every day. She’s his number one fan.”

“Journey?”

I shook my head.

Steve Perry, mall security, rolled his eyes heavenward and walked away.