Sam turned 20 on November 4th. She asked me to get her a cookie cake (which we do every now and then). So I got her a Mrs. Field’s cake with balloons on it (made of frosting, of course) and with the text comprised of LSU colors spelling out “Happy 20th Birthday, Sam”. She loved it. It was a nice day. The next day I had work. When I came home I saw the red cookie cake box sitting on the counter and I peeked inside to see how much was left and I saw one piece. But what I saw about that one piece took my breath away! Continue reading Superstition With Reason
…is a wondrous place. Jen and I used to go to the lakefront with Dad when we were little. Always on a Sunday. Sometimes Kim would come and we’d take our paper kite and fly it while we ate lunch. Kim was a close friend of Dad’s. They grew up together and he was at our house a lot before he got sick. He was diagnosed with cancer later on. I think Kim’s funeral was the 2nd funeral I’d ever been to (after Rie). We never cooked out down by the lakefront. I don’t even think they had BBQ pits down there back then. We just picked up Kentucky Fried Chicken. Dad brought the fishing poles sometimes and we would fish on the seawall. Every now and then he’d bring the crab nets and we’d try and get some blue crabs (that didn’t happen too often that I remember–and if it did, usually the crabs were too small to take home).
Sitting on the seawall with Dad, Kim, and Jen was magical. Continue reading The Lakefront
Sitting on my front porch was one of my favorite things to do after a day of playing in the dirt, or walking down the street to school to run up and down the football field. The porch was like the day’s final resting spot. Not like a death, but more like a place for contemplation and reflection. Sitting on the brick-laid steps I’d watch the lizards jump from bush to bush and try to guess what color car would drive by next. The mosquitoes hadn’t quite come out for their time in the sun yet, so sitting on the steps, catching a breeze here and there, watching the cars pass, while I try to guess what’s for dinner by sniffing the air for any sign of red beans or baked macaroni seemed to be the best idea at the time.
Mrs. Reynolds would come out and put her sprinkler over by the azaleas, Continue reading My Front Porch…
I had to share this. I read this on Walt’s blog a couple of weeks ago and came back again today to read it again. It reminds me of home and I just love this post. Have fun!
Right after dinner after getting the girls in bed I get to the garage and grab my bike and I’m ready to go. Rode it yesterday after not riding it for years and stuffed it in the van and drove it to the QT to inflate the tires for free and rode that bitch. It’s got one sticker on it from the move up north and one from the move back down and all the dust and rust from in between and the front tire is flat again already. Goddammit.
I can stuff it in the van one more time and fight traffic to the QT or I can go two blocks to Wal-Mart and buy a pump. Or I can go back inside and stare at the computer again for a couple hours before I have to get up.
Wal-Mart has the kind you pump with your foot and…
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This would be a perfect day for me right now. The kids were small (before they got their own ideas and preferences and boyfriends and all that stuff). We were too! We were in Florida (my favorite place to vacation in all the world!). Dad would be there too. Perfect!
In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Today Was a Good Day.”
“Come on, y’all, let’s go!” Dad would call.
We were getting ready to go to my grandmother’s house. Dad was an only child so Rie (that’s what we called her–short for Marie-with the emphasis on the first syllable) doted on him so. He didn’t mind, I don’t think. He talked to her nearly every day and had dinner with her (and all of us) once a week, every Wednesday. My grandmother was a real character. She said what she wanted to say and did what she wanted to do. Her house was next to the Sterns (which if you’ve ever been to New Orleans is down the street from Longue Vue Gardens on Bamboo Rd. near the Palmetto St. canal). Of course back then it was just the Sterns. I went to school with their grandson and we used to play in the gardens all the time. Funny that when I grew up it turned into a big deal. Continue reading Wednesdays At Rie’s
I read a post written by a lovely lady (Cathy Lynn Brooks) who keeps a blog devoted to her daughter, who was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and lost her life in an accident about a year ago. Truly a tragic story! Her story had me thinking about my situation surrounding my dad’s passing last month.
When I was little the backyard was one of my favorite places to be. There were so many reasons for this. In the middle of the yard we had the biggest pecan tree I’ve ever seen that dropped nuts all the time. I’d go out to play by the rowboat we had on the left side of the yard, often. One of my favorite things to do was to turn the boat over and see what was underneath. My dad kept it upside down and usually we just sat on it and played cards or talked but I LOVED to look and see what was underneath! Lots of juicy worms would curl up and writhe free from the dirt along with some slugs and skinks. I loved that!
Where did I look to answer that question when forming my “About” page? It’s hard to look in the past for that, unless you carry your past around like an old suitcase, which (hate to say) I do occasionally… I look at what’s on my mind. What am I consumed by? I’m coming to discover that what I write about will always be pertinent as long as it means something to me or someone else, for that matter. Right now, taking action to move back home to be with my family and friends is foremost in my mind even more than it has been in the last 10 years. Dad’s passing has shoved it under a magnifying glass.
I reside in the Midwest. “Reside” is a good word to describe my existence every day. My heart is at home in New Orleans. For those of you not from New Orleans (or even from the deep south) you may not get my attachment to my hometown. New Orleans is a different kind of city, almost its own country, in a way. The day we were traveling to Rockford was very sad for me; not only because I had to leave my family and friends and the only home I’ve ever known, but we arrived the day after 9/11. It was a remarkable day in history and a life-changing event, personally, for me. It was an unpleasant day. I continue to hold on to the belief that one day I will get back. With my dad gone now it feels even more important that I make it back home. My sister is my only sibling and I so miss my friends from so long ago. What all of us have in common, however, is that we all have a home town. Many of us leave home to go live somewhere else either by choice or necessity. My experience is only one story. What’s your story? Are there similarities in our hometowns? I’m sure there are!