OCTOBER 23, 2026
Breakfast thoughts travel on rays of sunshine. My body’s used to waking up mid-day, enjoying leisure then an early afternoon breakfast. I don’t want to miss half a day as they grow shorter during these fall and winter months, so I try rising earlier. To insure it, I skip a meal the day before. The hunger lessens my sleep time. After acclimating myself to the day, I work a couple explorer jigsaw puzzles. This morning the mystery puzzle was so beautiful, I followed up with a drone tour of Symi, Greece. What an exciting place to live, I think, as I travel from the harbor to the mountaintop, roamed by goats.
The coffee and chicory have percolated, so I pop two slices of bread in the toaster and dine with a view of my backyard, sun streaming over every leaf and blade of grass. Each emitting it’s own reflected ray onto my back porch and into the dining room. I love it—another special blessing from God.
At first, I’m reminded of my childhood. Our daily breakfast, my brothers and I, was three slices of buttered bread and a cup of coffee. We each had our own cups and saucers. My brothers’ pairing, one of gold and the other clear cut glass. I had yellow ceramic.
I tear my toast and dunk the tip in the coffee. It breaks and falls into the cup. As children, we held the bread in the cup for seconds and it never broke. Bread was obviously made differently then or Little Miss Sunbeam made tougher thicker slices. I look though the door and think of my mother—in-laws kitchen and the months I spent with her while my husband was in “A” school in Millington, Tennessee. I could write a book about that short period of time, but my mind turns to the December visit he made after our son was born. He’d been with me during the birth six weeks earlier, now we were celebrating ourselves at the Stone Mountain Inn. My mother-in-law was babysitting, though she swore she never had for the other six sons. We made sure the baby had milk, but neither of us thought in advance of what would happen to my breasts when feeding time came around again and there was no baby to take care of the problem.
There were other breastfeeding incidents. Many happenings in my mother-in-law’s kitchen. Much excitement in my backyard, from horseshoes when we first moved in to it being my walking path now. And since my country kitchen and dining area face the east, hopefully many more sunny early morning meals.
October 13, 2026
Sitting where thoughts flow freely, I remembered the international students I hosted as the century changed from 1999 to 2000. They both worked in the Public Health Ministries in their respective countries. Anastasie, our host student was from Cote d’Ivoire. Her roommate, whose host family relocated to a Midwest state—fortunate for us because she was a jewel—was from Tanzania.
My kids often asked to stop for ice cream when we passed Baskin Robbins. Both our host students admitted they didn’t see the appeal. Adults no longer needed milk, yet all the locals got excited about ice cream.
Ten months into their stay, we drove along Lake Pontchartrain. The kids and I stopped at Baskin Robbins and offered ice cream to Anastasie and Mariamu. Our Tanzanian friend decided to try it and encouraged Anastasie to do so as well.
We sat outside with a view of the lake and watched the rapturous looks on the faces of our foreign friends. “How could milk taste so good?” they wondered out loud. They were only in New Orleans for another month and we only saw them a few times more before bringing them to the airport, but each time, they asked if we could stop for ice cream.
Yesterday’s uber driver was from Saint Catherine, Jamaica. I usually ask the drivers if they are enjoying their day. This one said, “No, it’s terrible.” I asked if there was anything I could do to make his day better. He said, “Be nice.”
“I like your accent,” I said. “Where are you from?”
“Jamaica,” he responded. I made some positive comments, then assured him that I’d never been, but had worked on a college campus and heard some things. Heavily accented, he said something that lasted about a minute. St. Cat is all I got out of it. He hesitated several times during the telling as he maneuvered thru traffic. Then he seemed to complain about short trips and the cost of gasoline until he dropped me off. I’m not sure if he liked long or short trips, but he did not like the design of Georgia roads.
When I had time, I do as I always do – checked out my driver’s home on tour sites (preferably walking tours). I looked up St. Cat tours online. The first thing I came across was a multimillion dollar property for sale. This was not the Kingston/Montego Bay Jamaica my friends, acquaintances, and coworkers told me about. I switched to a walking tour. It repeated itself every 12 seconds. Some guy told a tween to dance. So much for St. Cat.
As I sat on my porch after breakfast, I thought about yesterday’s drivers. Maybe it was the moon, but two of them were not having good days. The young Lyft driver left my driveway talking about the gout in his foot. Fortunately the drive was only about ten minutes – seemed like an hour. I am thankful that I always get good drivers.
I realized that today is the first day of October. No leaves fell. No leaves from one end of the street to the other nor the trees along the sides of properties are yellow. Nothing is falling. Last year, after the first September rain, the leaves began falling as if the ground was heaven and they needed to get there fast. Is Mother Nature being erratic, or is this normal for her every few decades or so? My older neighbors have all died or been taken away by their offspring, so there is no one to ask. My new neighbors all seem to be from south of the U.S. from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific Ocean all the way to Patagonia and the ones I’ve talked to were not alive in the ‘70s.
September 28, 2026
Black in the ‘80s won’t mean the same thing to everybody. I only lived in four states during that decade, but within each city and town the reception was different. I suppose it depended on how the country portrayed Black people, women, Black women, families, Black families, children, Black children. What propaganda had been written about me in periodicals abroad and at home.
Some parts of the manuscript are harder to write than others, I suppose because of emotions. I remember writing a letter to the editor when my children were in school. It was immediately attacked from quarters I didn’t even know existed. “I was making excuses,” they said, for mistreatment of my children and color was not one of the issues.
Besides my home city of New Orleans, the town of Armona, California was the most worthy place anyone could live. My opinion. I wish my husband had not gotten homesick and we could have raised our children there. It was not the ideal place by a longshot. My friend Darrell shared his copy of the Kings County 100th anniversary memory book that chronicled each year in its history. The pages of school children tickled me pink. There were faces of every child in every class. The names written underneath with more commas than names. Darrell wanted to know what was so funny. By the time he asked, it wasn’t funny anymore. I knew the names of several Chinese people and we hadn’t lived there a year. There was not a Chinese name in the whole book. Those faces were the commas. The commas were still among the citizens – generations of them.
In that same county, an elderly gent joined me as I bicycled on the Hanford Armona Highway. He might not have known I was the same person each time because we all look alike. He began each conversation with, “You know there’s no prejudice in California.” Yet a similar looking old geezer called my son a pickaninny in the main branch of the Hanford Bank.
There are so many cultural differences in and among families, and our country is so mobile that having a round table discussion one state over can insure disparities. College campuses should fix this, but it doesn’t appear on any curriculum.
My grandson’s other grandmother (both of us southerners by location) pointed out to me yesterday how different we handle things. It was as if after three quarters of a century, we’d lived on different planets. She was happy to hear my younger points of view because she didn’t know anyone during those days who would have handled the situations in the same way or even similarly.
My mind wanders so many places, but I have to get back to the book.
Autumn Day 2 2026
The 2nd day of fall and the mailbox can’t hold anything else. Seven catalogs, solicitations from Boys town, Tuskegee, and various Native American missions. Have I missed something? Oh, yes, tax bill and those types of insignificant posts.
I’m debating. Was planning to listen to music first thing, but I’ve only two hours left of a great book by Danny Dagan. It’s called The Game. That must be a popular title idea. I’ve thought of calling one of my mental books about angels by the same name. And, of course, there’s the Michael Douglas movie.
No songs are playing in my head this morning, and no new writing ideas attacked me when I woke. Perhaps, I will get a different feeling when the rain begins in a few minutes. The wind has already whipped up and I hear no thunder. Maybe I will enjoy the downpour on my front porch as it pounds on my tin roof.
And of all the songs I know, No Sugar Tonight is the song that entered my mind. It has to be because of the alternate title, the New Mother Nature. Foreboding?
autumn 1st day 2026
FRAMPTON got me to the computer
Beginning to have morning thoughts again, maybe writer’s block is gone for good.
1st thought – my BFF JoAnn. When I think of her, I can’t help thinking of God. She is goodness and light. Thoughtful, kind, loving – an inspiration of life. I love her. She is one of God’s great gifts to me, that she shares her life with me since she was 20 and I 19. The reason I got out of bed this morning, thinking that I could pen the thoughts rampaging through my mind.
I headed to my computer to put it all down. Once here, I went through 3 years of fb posts looking for what I wrote about 911 a couple of years ago. Fortunately, I don’t post much. I was two years in before I realized I must have deleted it as I do with all my personal thoughts that I post on fb. I found some funny stuff that had no likes. I was obviously the only person who thought it was funny.
I woke up hungry today. That is rare. So I got up to get a cuppa. Instead I went to text my daughter to let her know I couldn’t find the info. She texted it was okay, she needed her rough draft for class tomorrow. Chillun. Had I kept searching and found it next week, I would be upset that she no longer needed it, and she would not have updated me.
I must have been a really happy person living a good life in the ‘70s because music from that decade is the spark that gets me started. If I have major cleaning to do, a week’s worth of dishes to wash, anything motivating, the ’70s helps me get it done.
Dust in the wind is playing now. My thoughts are pleasantly interrupted. Fernando and I doing inventory in my L’eggs van in City Park with the wisteria vines wrapped beautifully around a pedestal.
While I ate a pumpkin spice muffin with my java, Frampton waled away on his guitar. I don’t think I’ve heard that song when it wasn’t a live recording. He plays a few notes, the crowd goes wild. As he gets closer to the part where he makes his guitar talk, near pandemonium breaks loose. When Blake heard it, he would stop talking or listening to hear those rifts as if he’s never heard them before. His fingers played air guitar as if he knew what he was doing. He and I both had guitars. Neither knew how to play. At Village Inn Pizza, he and our waitress Darla’s conversations usually started with guitars, Frampton, Beck. I ate pizza and listened. I had no interests whatsoever.
Now that I’ve started writing, it will be easier to add a few hundred words to one of the things I’ve been working on – as long as the music plays.
JoAnn
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.
Politically incorrect to the max
#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.