Kittie Howard

A Saloon Hall Dancer (LA Memory)

2012-01-24T14:22:00.002-05:00

Once in awhile, I'd ride into Baton Rouge with daddy to visit Great Aunt Edna, his favorite aunt and his mother's oldest sibling. I didn't know why at the time - adults didn't tell kids much then - but Ma didn't like Great Aunt Edna. I only knew not to mention her name to Ma and never to tell her when we visited. I knew what happened when daddy, for some reason known only to daddy, would mention her name: Ma would slam her dish towel on the kitchen counter, storm out of the room, and slam her bedroom door. Slam! Slam! Slam!

One time, when she exploded like a hurricane, I tip-toed down the hall and widened a crack in the doorway. (Ma slammed a door so hard, it always bounced back.) Ma was on her knees praying. I wouldn't know until I was in my late teens that Ma prayed for Great Aunt Edna's soul. Her sister had been a saloon hall dancer on the Delta Queen and Memphis Queen riverboats that plied the Mississippi River between New Orleans and Memphis in the 1920s and 1930s.

Great Aunt Edna had also held her own playing blackjack and poker with the boys. She'd gotten lucky at the craps table a few times. Even better, she knew when to walk away and played more for the fun of it than a a compelling need to do so.

Great Aunt Edna never married, never put any babies up for adoption (or otherwise). When the years caught up with her, as they do with us all, she retired to a modest house not far from the Louisiana State University campus in Baton Rouge. She paid cash for the house, as she did for everything.

When the weather permitted, she liked to sit on the front porch on Sunday afternoons and smoke two cigarettes while she sipped one highball. Daddy said that when a passing neighbor fussed at her for smoking and drinking (on a Sunday, no less), she told the neighbor, "When you get to be my age, you can think about telling me what to do." Great Aunt Edna was in her late seventies at the time.

Daddy love to quote his aunt:

When another neighbor complained about her not going to church most Sundays, she said, "The Good Lord made me. He knows what I'm doing. There's no reason for me to pester Him all the time."

When the neighbor pushed, she retorted, "You take care of your sins, and I'll take care of mine."

When a cousin said she should marry a gentleman caller for two decades, she said, "I'm not a babysitter."

The Great Aunt Edna I remember had fluffy white hair, hazel eyes that sparkled, and a warm smile in an almost-plump face. Her skin was as soft as a cloud.

She fussed over me, the way that kids like, with oohs and ahhs about how good I was, how pretty I was, how she loved my smile and so on, until I melted, totally melted, into a curled-up ball next to her. She'd then stroke my hair while she and daddy talked and talked. I don't remember a word they said.

Great Aunt Edna died in her sleep from natural causes. She was 96 years old. Her face was as smooth as Ivory soap.

Blogger's Solution (for me, hope for you as well); Updates

2012-01-19T07:11:00.002-05:00

Susan at Susan Fields e-mailed she'd had Blogger woes and said, ". . . I changed my Comments format to be a pop-up window and it fixed the problem." I immediately did as she suggested and - voila! - the old format returned (without the reply/delete options). I e-mailed to ask if she could drop a comment to see if it really worked now. She did and -voila! - the comment had taken.

Thank you, Susan, for your help. You're a sweetie! When the old format returned (I kinda like what works!) and your comment took, I felt an enormous sigh of relief. Susan's a wife, mom, and YA Fantasy and SciFi writer. For her blog, go here. You won't be sorry you did. Susan's a really, really nice, kind-hearted gal with a super blog.

And please take a sec to take a look at an addition at the top of my sidebar. Rachel Morgan at Rachel Morgan Writes launches her "Creepy Hollow" series on March 5th - there's the gorgeous cover!!! Congrats, Rachel! I know you've got a winner here! (If you're not following Susan and Rachel, tisk, tisk!)

And thank you for your comments. I'm sorry so many of us were/are in Blogger's roughshod path. I honestly don't understand why people sitting in offices somewhere decide to screw with what works. But they do. Hub says it happens in industry all the time. No wonder he likes ESPN. I get it!

And a hearty welcome to new Followers! Thank you for following! I'm looking forward to getting to know you. But a challenging situation definitely slowing me down. When we returned from the Christmas holiday, I tweeted that someone had gotten around security and entered our garage. While hub's been in North Carolina this week, there have been other incidents. The police have been fantastic.

Security upgrades are in progress (and expensive, yipes!) that start kicking in tomorrow. Simply put, I want to catch who's doing this. (Why does this stuff happen? I'm just in my house, minding my own business.)

So, I'm sorry about not posting today about Great Aunt Edna (we called her such; she was proud of her years) but with the security issues, my mind's on the here and now, not yesterday - need to get my pea brain in gear as I hope you love Great Aunt Edna as much as I did/do.

Thank you, thank you for your patience! Hugs! xo

Blogger Woes

2012-01-15T21:24:00.000-05:00

Guess it's my turn in the barrel with Blogger. Will wait a few days for Blogger to get off its high horse, then post about my grandmother's oldest sister, Great-aunt Edna. She was a saloon hall dancer on the Delta Queen and Memphis Queen back in the day. Till then, hugs!

Links, Links, Links!

2012-01-09T15:07:00.004-05:00

(If you're in a hurry, scroll down for the links.)

If you read my last Christmas Memory post, you know that a nasty bug invaded my body and tried to pull me down. It took awhile to get rid of that dude and regain my spirit. I am forever grateful for the smallest ray of sunshine or the darkest cloud in the sky, for all that breathes life into each day.

And this includes you, each of you and each of your marvelous blogs. Yes, I'm a bit slow at making the rounds, and for this I apologize. But I don't scan blogs; I really do read what you write. Lots of times you trigger something that deserves deeper thought. When this happens, I leave the computer and give considerable thought to what you wrote. Sometimes I flop on the sofa and go hmmmm and allow the mind the freedom to roam.

I can't thank all of you enough for what I've learned from you. You are amazing!

So, I thought it would be nice to give shout-outs, not in any particular order and certainly not limited to this list today (as more shout-outs will come, for sure!) But the last time I gave shout-outs, everybody seemed to know everybody, so I've listed blogs I don't think I've listed before.

If you have time, please stop by and visit these awesome blogs, each a blessing among many blessings I hope to continue to share.

And for those of you who're following me on Twitter, thank you. I am not a gadget person (an understatement) so this is a really big leap for me. (It's okay; you can chuckle - I am.)

Now, about some amazing blogs (for which I apologize in advance for any errors made):

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Susan Flett Swiderski's blog, I Think; Therefore I Yam, never fails to delight. If you click on her blog title, you'll also go to an awesome post she wrote about Louisiana. At the end, she includes some of those whacky state laws that bring curious smiles, snorts and laughs. (Today's post is here.

Karen Kyle Ericson at Greetings from Monmouth County is a photographer in New Jersey with the most amazing photographs, often with tips - and, hark, these tips apply to one's writing as writers paint a picture - Karen also includes little stories upon occasion that are as delicious as her photos. I've learned sooooo much from Karen's posts.

Nancy at Nancy S. Thompson is a true grit gal with an optimistic spirit that warms the heart (when so many seem to be addicted to doom and gloom). She's just finished her first novel, "The Mistaken".

Ricardo at Ricardo Minyana is in Spain (translations available) and whether he posts photos or writes, it's sheer bliss.

Tracy Jo at Brave New Day is a photographer with a soul-stirring blog with something for everyone.

Joylene at Joylene Nowell Butler, Author is a Canadian who wrote "Dead Witness", one of my fav reads I can't stop recommending to others. A Canadian witnesses a murder in Seattle, and the story rolls with 'Leave me alone, I'm reading' intensity as Joylene moves her characters between the U.S. and Canada, with incredible dialogue that tells the reader in which country the story continues, without cliches but with an expert knowledge of two distinct cultures. The super plot also makes for a great read!

David at Brits in the USA is a journalist, writer, and educator presently in Suffolk, Virginia, with his family. And he knows how to write!!! You're gonna love his posts, each a bit different with a twist or an observation or an experience. And, as a Southerner, I've gotta say David feels the Southern heartbeat. His last post was photos of a Southern sky - ohhhh, so perfect.

Alison at Adventures of the Cautionary Tale is amazing. She's smart, writes like an angel - a writer's writer - and - don't skip this part: if you've got a button for your book, she'll post it on her sidebar. Like I said, Alison's amazing!

Pat at Pat Newcombe, Thriller Writer's blog (aka writing saved my life) has three completed novels and a BA Hons Degree from Derby University (er, that's tough work). She tackles issues like fear and other demons that prey on writers with such optimism and expertise you'll wonder why you worried about those demons in the first place.

Liza at Middle Passages is poetic prose that makes you wonder, think, and, above all, see what you've written with refreshed eyes.

msmatch at mainewords always, always has a golden nugget on her posts that hits home. She also critiques each month, is presently accepting submissions for February.

Crystal Jigsaw has several blogs, all of which you'd enjoy. However, Amy's Special Stories is a selection of stories and a journal by an eleven-year-old girl who has autism. If this blog doesn't warm your heart and inspire you, I'm clueless as to what will.

Katie at Katie Gates: Stories and Opinions is a writer and artist who lives in Los Angeles. Her debut book, "The Somebody Who," was nominated for a literary award by the Library of Virginia. (Er, this is a very particular library, so a high honor indeed!)

Linda King at Excuse me while I note that down is a writer at heart and new to blogging. Hey, stop by welcome her to our wonderful world!

Carla White at Readers' Guild is very new to blogging and off to a great start with a super book list for 2012. I just know in my heart you're going to click over and follow!

Louisiana

Haunting at the Bourbon Orleans Hotel

2012-01-06T13:13:00.000-05:00

The Bourbon Orleans Hotel enjoys a rich New Orleans history that involves my great-grandmother. While a young girl, her parents booked passage on a ship destined for New Orleans in order to escape rampant persecution of Jews in Spain. Her parents died in the 1867 yellow fever epidemic in New Orleans.

Spanish Carmalite nuns found her begging on a street corner. My great-grandmother was approximately seven years old. The Carmalite nuns didn't want a Jewish girl in their convent so brought her to what is now the Bourbon Orleans Hotel (and where my husband and I stayed during Christmas, as we did last year.) The African-American nuns gave her shelter and educated her. (She later converted to Catholicism, sorta.)

In 1867, this French Quarter hotel housed a Roman Catholic convent and orphanage run by the Sisters of the Holy Family, the first African-American Catholic order, founded in New Orleans by Henriette Delille (1813-1862), "a free woman of color", and recognized by the Vatican in 1842. The Sisters of the Holy Family remain an active order to this day. In 2010, the Catholic Church declared Henriette Delille 'venerable', the first step toward sainthood. (In 2001, Lifetimetelevision premiered a movie about Henriette Delille's life, The Courage to Love.)

This year we stayed in room 421. The night of December 28th we slept soundly. The occupants of room 424 did not.

They called the desk several times to complain about the noise above them. The irritating noise sounded like a food cart being rolled back and forth. They also complained about the light going on and off in their room.

Staff checked the floor above the fourth floor, where the convent used to be. The large room contains little today and is locked during the night. Staff found no one hiding on the convent floor, no one who had slipped in during the day for a mischievous trick.

An electrician checked the wiring in room 424 and found nothing wrong.

However, once the staff left and people had settled into the night, the noise returned on the convent floor, and the lighting continued to irritate the hotel room's occupants. The checking - and finding nothing wrong - continued throughout the night.

Later that morning one of the staff told me about the haunting (what they're called in New Orleans, where hauntings abound) and said, "Maybe it was because you're here. Your great-grandmother was looking for you." He wasn't joking. As far as the staff of the Bourbon Orleans knows, I am the closest descendant of anyone in the convent from that era who's ever stayed there.

The night before the haunting, December 27th, as I sat on the room's sofa, I felt a whoosh of air and double-blinked at what looked like a puff of white that disappeared.

No, I hadn't been drinking. (I wouldn't have a couple of glasses of wine until New Year's Eve.) No, I hadn't had a Henry VIII-type meal or had otherwise indulged. Louisiana natives don't go wild in the French Quarter.

Like last year, we stayed at the Bourbon Orleans because I wanted to touch my great-grandmother's history. I can't say that I did; I can't say that I didn't. I can only say that the staff couldn't find the source of the noise on the old convent floor or the source of the lighting problems. But I did feel that whoosh of air. I did see that puff of white.

Because I didn't make reservations earlier in October, we had to go to the Monteleone Hotel on the 29th. Before we left New Orleans on the 2nd, I walked over to the Bourbon Orleans and asked if there had been another haunting. There hadn't been another. Hmmm.

Anyway, Happy New Year to each of you! May your inner light shine. May your smile bring smiles to others. And, whatever your goal, may you feel the joy of success.

Inside Myself - A Christmas Memory; Blog on Hiatus until Jan. 5th.

2011-12-18T20:48:00.001-05:00

Updates: My husband and I will leave for New Orleans early Tuesday morning, returning to Virginia in early January. We're driving. I am soooo looking forward to tucking into dat gumbo and slurping dem oysters! There's no laptop on this trip. However - surprise! - I'll be tweeting.

See the little Twitter sign in the sidebar? Yep, that's me, Ms. Gadget, OMG, who woulda thunk it? Anyway, I'm not saying now but will tweet our stops en route.

Before today's Christmas Memory, I want to thank each of you for being who you are and for enriching my life. I've learned so much from you and am humbled by your graciousness and sense of humanity. Yes, there is much that is wrong in the world. However, when I read your posts, comments, and e-mails - and also when I go t the grocery, the laundry, the post office and other places in my daily world - I am pleasantly reminded that there is much, much more goodness, so many more blessings, in the world.

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This is the fifth Christmas Memory, a personal one that touches a time when I learned a forever lesson about what is important in life. We all need clothing, food and shelter, but when one learns one's life could slip away, it doesn't really matter if the purse on the counter is a Louis Vuitton or a burlap bag, if the house is a mansion or a yurt, if a Morton's steak or brisket fills the dinner plate.

Many of you asked what went through my mind when I saw the refugees from Darfur and the drought in Sudan. These refugees didn't have a burlap sack, a yurt or brisket. They had the haunting look of death. The scene was so enormous, so destitute, so beyond the definition of 'poor', I knew I witnessed a holocaust of human misery and felt a helplessness that lingers. When George Clooney lobbies for something to be done about Darfur, I get it, I so get it.

I say the helplessness lingers because I've come to believe that no one can go through life without a period when the chips are down. Cinderella is a fairy tale.

However, for the majority of refugees from Darfur, the chips had not only fallen; they had disappeared.

When there is hope, there is light. But even in the darkness, light can shine from within. This light can sustain one through the toughest of times, because what is 'tough' is relative to each of us.

In the fall of 1978, I began to feel as though I was dragging and, hard as I tried, couldn't seem to get my mojo up and running. I went to the doctor and returned a couple of days later for the results of basic tests.
After being ushered into his office, the doctor motioned for me to sit down. When the nurse closed the door, he said to me, "Well, if you're going to get it, you've got the best of the lot: Hodgkin's Disease (cancer), two to three years to live."

My white blood cell count was 22,900, a very high and dangerous number.

A second doctor's opinion disputed, but did not negate, the Hodgkin's Disease diagnosis. There was a possibility I had some type of infection from a flea bite. My condition was to be monitored.

My husband and I had returned from the Middle East, where we had lived a year each in Egypt and Israel. Apparently there's a desert flea, to which Bedouins are immune, but to which others are susceptible. I had been in the desert many, many times.

For about a year, I lived in medical limbo. Each Monday, I'd have blood drawn; each Wednesday I'd return to the doctor's office for the results. As much as I fought - diet, positive thoughts, and so on - the numbers remained the same, high and dangerous. Also, I couldn't gain weight but easily lost weight. I was pencil thin, drawn and tired-looking. It was a tough, tough time, a time when getting dressed in the morning meant resting to gather strength for the next task, a time when I had to dig really deep within myself to remain focused, that I was going to beat this thing and that wasn't going to happen if I didn't keep at it.

In November, 1979, Bethesda Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland, ran every test possible. Results lifted the curse: No one knew what I had, but I did not have Hodgkin's Disease.

Blood drawn the first week in December showed, for the first time, the white blood cell count had dropped by 200 points, with another drop the next week, and another drop the following week.

I remember sitting in the living room Christmas week and staring at the Christmas tree until the tears and holiday lights blurred into a grateful peace.

My husband and I hadn't been married that long, didn't own much beyond the basics (including a $2.00 garage sale recliner that leaked its innards when opened), but we had each other and our health. We were rich beyond words.

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From our house to yours, the warmest of Holiday Greetings. May the light within you shine brightly now and throughout the New Year! XOXO Kittie

An African Moment; Taking a Few Days Off

2011-11-21T14:59:00.001-05:00

Some years ago, my husband's job took us to Nairobi, Kenya, for three years.

Then, as now, Kenya possess gorgeous scenery, amazing wildlife, and probably some of the politest people in the world. While walking down one of Nairobi's sleek street's, the slightest bump elicits an immediate poll (sorry). Relatives and close friends do not enter a home without first asking, "Hodi"? (May I enter?)

A few years after our return to the States, we lived in Honolulu, Hawaii. After the Honolulu Marathon, I crossed a patch of Kapiolani Park to get something from the car my husband requested. He'd completed the Marathon in a pleasing time and, along with other ripped marathoners, rested beneath a nearby tree.

En route, I heard Kiswahili being spoken near a bus. I'd learned a smattering in Kenya and understood them. I dipped my head so the Kenyans wouldn't think I was eavesdropping. As I did so, another Kenyan rounded the bus and bumped into me. When he apologized (poll), I automatically said, "Hakuna matata." (There's no problem.)

Surprised, but delighted, the Kenyans and I talked for about 10 minutes, in Kiswahili and English. (Most Kenyans speak four languages.) I then went to the car, and, when I passed the bus, exchanged waves and smiles with the Kenyans, as I walked toward my husband's group. Jaws littered the ground. I had been talking with some of the rock stars in the world of marathons. One marathoner had broken a record that day.

Now, like the U.S. and other countries, Kenya possess social and economic problems. The story I'm going to share could have taken place anywhere in the world. But it transpired in Kenya and became a forever memory.

When the time came to pack-out for our return to the United States, I couldn't find a matching green sandal, not an extraordinary event, as a shoe goes missing now and then. When an African friend saw the lone survivor on a shelf of ad hoc items, she asked, "What are you going to do with this shoe?"

"I don't know."

She removed the shoe from the shelf and held it. "May I have it?"

"Yes, of course."

She squished her ten toes in her flip flops and said, "I know a mama (woman) with one leg who would be happy with this shoe. Green is her favorite color." When my friend's eyes met mine, she said, "There is always one who is worse off."

* * * * *

This - and every Thanksgiving - I'm grateful for all that I have, from ten toes to ten fingers. I'd like to whine about some bug going around that knocked me for a loop, but I am grateful it's not worse. I'd like to whine that my hub returns very late Thanksgiving Day, and not the day before, from a six-week business trip and two long-haul flights, but I'm grateful he will be here. I'm grateful the Boy Scouts held a food drive to which I was able to contribute (and hear from the Scoutmaster that, unlike last year, an enormous number of people were contributing.)

In my heart of hearts, I'm sad so many will go without this Thanksgiving Day (or any day, for that matter) and wish I had a magic wand for so much. But, like rock star athletes who weren't too important to talk with a passer-by, I hope and pray those in positions of power everywhere will take the time to talk and to listen to those around them. I am grateful I live in a world where communication is possible. I'd like to be grateful communication actually worked.

From our house to yours, Happy Thanksgiving.

(When I realized this bug wouldn't let me get around to visit you, I decided I needed to turn off the computer and rest up a few days. Hope you are well. See ya next week! XOXO Kittie)

Getting Back into Gear - A Brighter Tomorrow

2011-11-16T09:28:00.020-05:00

Life was a bit hectic for awhile. (Courtesy of Photobucket)

But now that Remy Broussard's left home. . . (Photo source unknown.)

No more of this stuff - fav is Whopper, no mayo, no catsup, no cheese . . . as for fries, let's not go there *sighs* but back to the healthy stuff - most of the tine . . . (Photo courtesy of Photobucket)

And a bit of relaxation . . . (if you want to think that's me, I don't mind) and getting organized for the holidays. I'm always on the go and have a high metabolism, a good thing or I'd look like . . .

the Thanksgiving turkey . . . (Wikipedia)

After our national day of grace, hub and I are kicking into Christmas gear - going to New Orleans December 21st ... (Montage courtesy of Wikipedia)

Friends are taking us to K-Paul's restaurant. In 1979, Chef Paul Prudhomme, left, and his wife, K, opened a small restaurant in New Orleans that rocked the culinary world. (Executive Chef Miller is to the right.) I'm soooo looking forward to this night. Food is a major Big Deal in New Orleans. Chefs are like rock stars. Restaurants are rated by beans. K-Paul's has so many beans, you could serve red beans and rice, a South Louisiana staple. Yum!

We have tickets for Pat O'Brien's New Year's Eve party in the old Jackson Brewery - went last year, loved it! After the ticket gets you inside (overlooking the Mississippi River), food islands await - I never made it past the gumbo - loooove that Creole goodie - and a waitperson brings your choice(s) of beverage - and the dancing goes on and on - a Louisiana party rocks like you wouldn't believe!

And this is a dress-up party with lots of slinky dresses and bling and men in tuxedos. Bet you're thinking 'old?' HA! The average age is maybe 30. Age doesn't matter at a Louisiana party! Laissez les bons temps rouler! (Let the good times roll!)

Now, see that cool looking drink above? That's a Hurricane, a nice blend of sweet and thirst-quencher - a Hurricane can go down real easy - and explode in your head! (As I learned midway thru my second one during college days.) So, I'll take a pass and take the souvenir glass home for a friend whose son is in college. College kids collect the distinct Pat O'Brien's glass, a New Orleans trophy.

But - WHOA! Time out! - back to kicking into holiday gear! Saturday, November 26th, is Small Business Day throughout the United States. October's statistics said the economy is turning around in many areas. Let's get out there and give our Mom and Pop stores a push. (Or order from an online Mom and Pop. They need love, too!)

Stay away from that (Boo! Hiss!) Made in China crap and buy some home-grown tomatoes. I'm going to a shop in my village that has the most gorgeous candles - made right up the road, in Maryland.

If you've got the cash for a burger and fries, drop the calories and drop by a Mom and Pop instead. American jobs depend upon Americans buying Made in the USA products. Every candle purchased helps light the way toward a brighter tomorrow.

More Sharecropper Photos - Remy's a Story about Real Lives

2011-11-11T14:02:00.006-05:00

(For those of you who have visited before, I thank you! If you're in a hurry, please scroll down to the added info above the new photos. Er, en route, you'll see Rachel's blog highlighted. She's the artistic genius who designed Remy's cover. If you have a sec, please stop by and say Hi before moving on. Thanks!)

When a classmate physically and mentally bullies Remy, the third-grader withdraws from friends and family and imagines the worst about his parents. Starring at the Christmas tree is the classroom enables the sharecropper's son to escape his poverty-stricken life and dream about opening a present on Christmas morning and having turkey for Christmas dinner, neither of which has ever occurred.

Friends blame the changes in Remy's behavior on Leonard's bullying and encourage Remy to talk to his parents, his teacher or his priest. Remy refuses, often with open hostility. As Christmas Day approaches, Remy's struggle to understand why he has so little and others have so much deepens. He concludes that Jesus is punishing him for hating Leonard and his bullying.

A bayou-laced, South Louisiana comes together in 1952 to stop Leonard's bullying in a compassionate manner and open Remy's heart to the meaning of Christmas through love and forgiveness.

Remy Broussard's Christmas is available on Kindle. The cover design is by Rachel Morgan. Thank you, Rachel for Remy's gorgeous cover. The candle is Rachel's. She focused to highlight and photographed the candle on her table in South Africa. Rachel blogs at Rachel Morgan Writes. Please stop by and say Hi. If you're not a follower, tsk! tsk!

* * * * *
Through December 25, 2011, 10% of sales will be donated to the United States Marine Corps Wounded Warrior Foundation. No tax deduction will be claimed for the donation. Thank you for your support! Sales are steady, and I'm greatly encouraged. Out of 750,000 books on Kindle, Remy has broken through the 21,000 position. It would be beyond a dream come true if Remy broke through the 1,000 position!

* * * * *

I've been digging into the Memorial Room's archives at the U.S. Library of Congress and have included more photos. These will be at the top of the previous photos. I want to write a story that involves Remy with the kids of American-American sharecroppers. Black and white sharecroppers lived in segregated housing in the Old South. Their living conditions were usually far worse than those of white sharecroppers. Jim Crow laws prevented blacks from voting. In many instances, the inability to own land prevented whites from voting.

Sharecroppers occupied the bottom rung of the ladder and were usually ostracized, as if they didn't exist. In a way they didn't - since landowners didn't pay into the Social Security System and since sharecroppers lacked the means to do so and since most didn't vote and since health care or benefits didn't exist, thousands of people lived apart from mainstream society, like ghosts who lived and worked and died.

Conflicts between the races occurred. The KKK (KuKluxKlan) easily preyed on black sharecroppers. And, yes, some white sharecroppers belonged to the KKK. As I mention in a caption below, the 1964 passage of the Civil Rights Act dismantled the sharecropper system. However, the KKK remained active for some years afterward.

* * * * *

Remy's story will reflect much of what you see in the photos. However, the story does have a happy ending I think will warm your heart. Amid the heartache, some goodness did exist. The new photographs:

Sharecropper children in Plaquemine Parish, Louisiana. Photo courtesy of Ben Shahn.

The son of a sharecropper hooks up for field work. Although most landowners owned tractors and many kids did drive tractors, kids learned young how to work a horse- or mule-pulled plough. Landowners could - and often did - loan out sharecroppers to other landowners, especially when hay was baled or the crops came in. Landowners worked together to maximize weather conditions. It was not uncommon to see sharecroppers walking down a road to get to another landowner's property. Or a landowner provided a horse- or mule-pulled wagon to transport field hands. Photo courtesy of Russel Lee.

Daughter of tenant farmer in kitchen. Note the skirt's split seam. Many churches had a donation box for used clothing. Some landowner families provided used clothing. Without the financial access to toilet/hygiene products, sanitation was a problem. It wasn't unusual for infants to die shortly after birth, for mothers to die in childbirth. Toothaches claimed lives. Since sharecropper shacks (so called then by all) lacked in-door plumbing, out-houses existed, sometimes close to the shack. During the winter, especially, each shack usually had what was called 'a slop bucket' for human waste during the night, emptied into the out-house in the morning. Little or no maintenance of these out-houses existed. They were nasty, smelly places, constantly buzzing with flies. Photo courtesy of Russel Lee.

Same daughter. Photo courtesy of Russel Lee.

Sharecropper clothes drying on the ground. Containers like you see above were often used to wash clothes, often without detergent. Human dignity prevailed as much as possible. Photo courtesy of Russel Lee.

Tenant farmer wife slices hard tack, basically fat with a sliver of meat. Tenant farmers saved fat from cooking or purchased lard in the landowner's store for lard sandwiches, a common staple. Photo courtesy of Russel Lee.

Two tenant farmers. Note the boarded window. Winters were cold. Photo courtesy of Dorothea Lang.

A sharecropper's wife. Photo courtesy of Arthur Rothstein.

A sharecropper's child suffering from rickets and malnutrition. Photo courtesy of Arthur Rothstein.

Evicted sharecroppers. They received a small salary for work in the fields six days a week, but most landowners charged exorbitant rents and inflated prices for subsistence goods in the farm's store. This was a sharecropper's greatest fear and fueled the system. There was no place to go. Many huddled near roads until police made them move. Photo courtesy of John Vachon.

Patched window on sharecropper's house. Few landowners made repairs. Shacks (as they were called) lacked in-door plumbing; most didn't have electricity. Sharecropper families tended to be large. Shacks usually had one or two rooms and a kitchen, often a galley kitchen. Kids slept on discarded mattress on the floor, as many as possible to a mattress. Each field hand received a small salary, so the drop-out rate from school was alarming. Illiteracy and poverty prevailed. The Federal government made numerous attempts to dismantle the system, but nothing cracked the unified Old South until the passage of the 1964 Civil Rights Act. Photo courtesy of Arthur Rothstein.

Interior of sharecropper shack. Photo courtesy of Ben Shahn.

Sharecroppers weighing cotton. Photo courtesy of Ben Shaln. Post's header courtesy of Carl Mydens. All photos are in a collection of donated photos in the Memory Room in the United States Library of Congress. Go here if you wish to see more. Type "tenant farmer" in the search box, at the top right.

Jessica Bell's "String Bridge" is Five Stars

2011-11-09T19:01:00.001-05:00

As you know, I write stories, not book reviews, but was so awed by Jessica Bell's talent, so evident on her blog, I offered to help promote her book, String Bridge. Jess asked if I'd like to read String Bridge. I said that I would. She sent me a copy, but with the stipulation that if I chose to write a review, she didn't want me to patronize her. She said she was a Big Girl and could take the licks. And you know how I admire a self-confident person who can stand on his/her own two feet.

I settled into String Bridge and quickly found myself captivated by the story. Even more, my eyes popped. Now, I've got a few years on most of you (Ha!) and wondered, how in the world did someone this young know these emotions? How could someone this young (remember, just about everybody's young to me), touch the soul of what happens later in life? I was absolutely, totally and completely blown away by String Bridge's depth, and it's lyrical approach to life (for life is lyrical). I devoured each page, reaching for more, couldn't get enough of String Bridge.

Right from the git-go, the main character's name, Melody, said it all. She's an Australian who married a Greek and lives in Athens but is soon trapped between her dreams and life's reality. So, via incredible dialogue, Melody talks (sings/laments) about where she is, where she was, and where she wants to be, all the while, imprisoned by domesticity and wrapped in another culture.

Now, I was so impressed, I asked my husband to read parts of String Bridge. His father had been an infant when his parents immigrated from the Flemish part of Belgium, and later worked as a cobbler (made shoes by hand) in a small factory owned by Greek immigrants. My husband went to school with the children of Greek immigrants, learned a smattering of Greek from being around them, and later took two semesters of Greek at Providence College in Rhode Island. When he read what Jess had written, he said, "She nailed it."

My husband said what I'm trying to say: If you're looking for a great read with an awesome plot involving two cultures that weaves a sense of joy into - well, I'm not going to go much further and spoil it for you - then get moving and get a copy of String Bridge on Amazon. Jessica Bell has immeasurable talent and is a rising star who will shine on you.

Jessica blogs at The Alliterataive Allomorph. If you can, stop at Amazon first and tell her you've opened String Bridge. I was so impressed with String Bridge, I purchased a copy. Support goes beyond the freebies.

Remy Broussard's Classroom

2011-11-07T18:52:00.000-05:00

My Christmas story, "Remy Broussard's Christmas," now available on Kindle, evolved from my formative years on my grandparents' farm in South Louisiana in the 1950s. Last year, I blogged about how my grandfather left to work on the Panama Canal the day after his marriage to my grandmother. For a year, he lived in a primitive barrack, somehow avoided malaria, ate the slop the company served for food, saved every penny earned, and returned to Louisiana to pay cash for a farm that prospered.

My younger sister and I lived with our parents for awhile, in campus housing (Quonset huts) for married students (demolished years ago) while my father attended Louisiana State University's School of Law in Baton Rouge. About a year prior to graduation, my mother, sister, and I moved to my grandparents' farm, into a lovely new house across the pasture from my grandparents' Big House. (In the South, the owners of the land, with family for neighbors, lived in the Big House, so-called, regardless of how big or small.)

The Louisiana stories I've blogged are from this period, when I ran barefoot, as free as the wind that tousled my hair and as happy as the sun that tickled my freckles. "Remy Broussard's Christmas" fast-forwards, to a three-room schoolhouse, with two elementary grades in each room. I attended this schoolhouse. Each year, when schools re-open though out the country, my eyes tear up. I can see myself standing in the first-grade line. What makes the tears fall is that I see Daddy, when I take a last look backwards, as the line begins to move inside, and he's waving a little wave. Tears are streaming down his face. (I'm tearing up now, writing the memory. Will take a little break.)

After a friend read a draft of "Remy Broussard's Christmas," he said he loved the story but suggested I exaggerated the Spartan classroom. He paled when I said I sat in Remy's chair in that classroom.

The positioning of blackboards, doors, windows, and workstations are accurate, as are George Washington's portrait-like image and clock above the blackboard at the front of the room. There is no positioning of maps or educational toys because they weren't there to position. However, in order to move my fictitious characters, I did shorten class rows, removing two students from each row.

In my story, the classroom is a combined third- and fourth-grade classroom. Remy is in the third-grade and sits next to the row that begins the fourth-grade.

Because my parents and grandparents had spent time with me, when I entered first-grade, I could read, knew my numbers, and then, as now, possessed an inquisitive mind. When I completed first-grade assignments, I'd listen to what the teacher taught the second-grade. I knew not to raise my hand during second-grade lessons (as that was forbidden in the combined classrooms), but the teacher began putting their worksheets on my desk.

At the end of the school year, I passed a special test with flying colors and skipped the second year of formal education. This enabled me to enter university at the age of 16.

But, whoa! I had family who spent time with me. I had food. I lived in a lovely home. This home had electricity, running water, and in-door plumbing. This home had heat in winter and fans in summer. I didn't pick cotton or milk cows or help bale hay or chop wood for a wood-burning stove. I had chores, of course, but a kid's chores. I had to keep my room neat (and keep a neat house to this day), help set the dinner table, and contribute what a kid could to the family unit. I had a doll (Betsy) I loved, the extent of my toys. I didn't think to ask for toys, didn't dream about toys, didn't know a toy shop existed in Baton Rouge.

Many of my classmates, however, didn't live a kid's life. It wasn't unusual for a third-grade boy to drive a tractor or handle a mule-pulled wagon. Many of my classmates wore their parents' clothes to school. When the school day ended, they stopped being kids and entered an adult's world. Their parents were sharecroppers.

In my next post, I'll write about the sharecropper system, the world that imprisoned Remy.

Since my grandparents and parents didn't approve of the sharecropper system, sharecroppers didn't live on the farm. When my grandfather needed help, he paid a fair wage for honest work. Unlike many other landowners, my grandparents and parents allowed me to visit sharecropper kids who were friends from school (and vice versa) when time opened up. Decent, hard-working people shouldn't live like what I saw. And therein lies my passion: Their lives can't be forgotten.

Nor can the lives of decent, hard-working African-American sharecroppers be forgotten. In the segregated Old South, they lived apart from white sharecroppers. The KKK (Ku Klux Klan) knew where they lived.

Birth Announcement

2011-11-06T09:07:00.007-05:00

On Friday, November 5, 2011, at 11:32 PM, Eastern Standard Time (U.S.), Remy Broussard entered the world! A few hours ago, Remy left Kindle's nursery (draft) and is walking and talking on his own and is available for purchase on Kindle.

Click HERE and you'll meet Remy.

OMG, I'm published. Wheeeeee!

Rachel Morgan designed the outfit (cover) Remy would wear as he couldn't walk around in his birthday suit. She also prepared the delivery room (format) with such meticulous care and dedication my little push at the end was easy.

Rachel blogged about formatting elements a bit earlier. Please drop by (click link above) for e-pub details that could help you. Rachel's very kind and generous and only said she 'helped a friend'! I'm here to shout it from the roof tops that without Rachel's extraordinary talents, Remy would still be in the womb. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, Rachel!

At about 14,000 words, Remy's short.

"Remy Broussard's Christmas" will be $3.99. (I hear you gasp!)

Although I've been under a rock (at the computer non-stop) for a few weeks, I'm fully aware of discussions in Blogville about how much an e-pub should cost. I didn't weigh in because I had to give the matter some thought, not only because I knew Remy was in the chute, but because I'm new at this and lacked a point of reference. (Hope this makes sense.)

Well, a quick break for a hamburger did the trick. (Didn't have time to cook, so slipped into fast foods. I'm pretty much a health nut, but something had to give so time could open up.)

I paid $5.99 for a Whopper, fries, and a drink. The burger line at a nearby food court was long. I could have gone to the much, much line for a huge slice of pizza for less than $2.00 and free water, but, no, I waited because I wanted a Whopper.

Okay, I enjoyed the burger, am blessed with good cholesterol numbers (and rarely eat burgers, actually) and left the food court quite happy.

On the way home, I got to thinking, hmmm, why should fast food cost more than an e-pub that required a zillion HOURS to write??? Something's not right here, I thought.

I knew, from a link Rachel had sent, that pricing at $2.99 pushed the envelope. So, hmmm, a decision loomed: Did I want to push the envelope or open the envelope?

Me being me, I decided to open the envelope and priced Remy at $3.99. I fully realize this affects number sales but am willing to take the hit to touch a larger issue. I think indie books are priced waaaaaay too low but think pricing should be fair. As far as I'm concerned, people who can afford to purchase fast food can afford to purchase an e-pub.

Kindle allows sharing for 14 days, i.e, a reader who purchases Remy can share with countless friends during that period. That's a pretty good deal. Imagine sharing a burger with friends for 14 days!

More about the lessons Remy taught me another day. Right now, I've got household stuff to do *groans* and Remy's dad will call soon. *smiles at the thought* Dad's in the Middle East on a business trip, not anywhere near harm's way, and is popping buttons on his shirt he's so proud.

Self-pub Decision Made

2011-10-21T13:18:00.000-04:00

Hours of research went into my decision. I decided to go with Kindle Direct Publishing.

Lulu appealed. I learned much from Lulu's professional presentation. Go HERE for a thorough table of contents that contains much information which pertains regardless of which company you choose. Lulu presently offers an increased royalty rate until around the end of January. Lulu also said that an author did not have to submit a Federal Tax ID Number (U.S. citizens/residents take note).

Smashwords frustrated! I had to join (for free, natch!) to learn more. I didn't want to do that so surfed around and gleaned enough to know the company shouldn't be rejected.

My next stop was at Kindle Direct Publishing, where the link led after I signed into my Amazon account. I then learned I had to join Author Central before going further. Lulu's easy information greatly appealed at this point. I did not like the 'Accept' to join Author Central so called Amazon (1-866-216-1072 in the U.S.), got routed to someone who could answer a few particulars, and joined Author Central.

I found their 'Learn More' avenue lacking. This business of a Tax ID number haunted. I couldn't find an answer. In order to obtain a Tax ID Number, a U.S. citizen/resident needs to have an LLC (Limited Liability Corporation). I had attempted earlier to go down this road with dismal results (which I blogged about). As are several other states, Virginia is actually the Commonwealth of Virginia with some quirky laws linked to the colonial era. In Virginia, several towns are within a county but much jurisdiction falls to the town. In my case, an LLC had to go through the town.

My husband and I live in a condo. One of the rules is that one can't operate a business out of the condo, except from the computer. When I pursued the LLC path, I had thought to pay for then printing of chapbooks that would be mailed to me and touched a very thin line. I'd have to go before the town council for selling the books through the mail to people who ordered one. I knew this wouldn't get approved and looked at securing a commercial mail box in a mall. But I also wondered about all the trouble when I could e-publish.

So, back to KDP. I called Amazon about whether or not I needed a Federal Tax ID Number. No one could answer the question. (I found this odd. Their business is e-publishing, right?) So, I e-mailed Amazon. I did not need a Federal Tax ID number. I could use my Social Security number. If there are royalties, the money's filed as income. This information does not apply to non-U.S. citizens/residents. Those outside the U.S. need to check carefully and follow Amazon's regulations in force.

At this point, I got ticked at Lulu for what I consider misleading information. Saying they don't require a Tax ID number implies other companies do.

Although it concerns me that (1) Amazon is stove pipped and the left and right hands don't know what they're doing, (2) the attitude of the Company is they've got the market cornered, I held my nose and made the KDP decision.

Enough e-pub stuff for now. More links and info another day.

A guest blogger will be here the 24th. And Jessica Bell's book tour will stop here on November 10th.

Thanks for your helpful comments. I haven't gotten around to everyone to thank you personally, but will! (Remy's getting all dressed up to enter the world. The kid sure does take up a lot of time!)

Have a great weekend!

Really Need Self-pub Advice (Seriously!)

2011-10-17T19:23:00.000-04:00

Just when life was rolling along, I ran into an obstacle, one of my own making, of course: I'm not literate enough in the ways of self-publishing. I really, really need your in-put.

I wrote a Christmas story, "Remy Broussard's Christmas."that I want to self-pub on Amazon before the end of the month. I called Amazon for the particulars. By the time the conversation ended, my head was spinning so much I laced up my Nike's, put in a quick mile, returned and ate a bowl of clam chowder (but passed on the Saltines, thankfully), and plopped on the sofa.

What to do? What to do? What to do?

The answer is, I don't know. So I thought I'd turn to you for in-put, what do you suggest? Keep in mind, I'm a Big Girl (even bigger after that bowl of chowder, groan) and will make up my own mind. (I'm famous for that, seriously!) It's just that I've never self-pubbed before and lack the lessons learned experience provides.

Amazon said they offer three types of publishing:

l. Create Space (Print on Demand)

2. Advantage Program

3. Kindle Direct Program

What is my goal? you ask. Well, I'm in the habit of going to my Kindle, typing in a book from my TBR list, and reading a sample. (I usually buy.) But, now that I have to think about it, I don't know if that book resulted from Kindle Direct or one of the other programs Amazon offers.

This is my quandary. I'd really, really appreciate your in-put. And I really, really thank you for taking the time to help out!!

My Vermont photos should be up this week. Hub's safely landed on the other side of the world (his business trip). Yep, I'm gonna stay away from that chowder!

A big Welcome to new followers. And a big Thank You to Alex and Matthew for introducing me to such nice bloggers. As soon as I get Remy settled (hey, he's only eight years old!) I'll be around more often. Oh, where does the time go???

Alex and Matthew Host a Blog Hop

2011-10-10T10:07:00.002-04:00

Thanks for your travel wishes! We returned from Vermont late yesterday, tired but happy. Every minute of the quick trip lived up to expectations. I've got photos to share later. Today, I'd like to share the news about a super blog hop that begins on the 14th.

Please visit Alex's blog here or Matthew's blog here and add your blog to an amazing Linky List of fellow bloggers who hope to increase their Follower base.

When I began blogging, I didn't realize the importance of the number of Followers one has. But, if one is going to write and hope that others will read what one has published (regardless of how it's published), it's important to get one's blog Out There.

I confess to being a bit shy about this. One part of me wants to jump into the lake and go for it. Another part of me pulls back because the water looks cold ... or hot ... or murky, whatever excuse works at the moment. But my Christmas story, "Remy Broussard's Christmas," is ready for Amazon.

Deep down, what's driving me is getting my message out. As tough as economic times are now, there was a time when life was tougher for many, during the sharecropper era in the Old South. But hope and faith and community eventually prevailed.

As Alex and Matthew requested, I'm listing three blogs. If you have a sec, please drop by. The idea is for all of us to meet each other and join together. Since we're just a click away, a big Thank You to Matthew and Alex for this awesome fest!

Play off the Page

Teresa Evangeline

Sempiterna-me

Ikea? - What's happening? and Going to Vermont - Leaf Peeping and Need a Writer's Break

2011-10-03T14:34:00.000-04:00

Thank you for your comments about my Best Buy experience. I'd like to say your comments about your frustrating experiences at Best Buy lifted spirits - misery loves company and all that - but what a sad indictment that so many people in such a wide area have such a negative impression of Best Buy. Surely, Best Buy must know they're not exactly loved?

Okay, moving along - the other day, I decided to finally use the duvet and pillow covers I'd purchased in South Africa some years ago.

So, I put the folded pillow casing into my purse and went to Ikea, for the European-style pillow match. A saleslady offered to help me. Hmmm, I thought, very nice. We walked to the pillow section. She took one look at my pillow cover and informed me that the only available size would be two inches too big and wouldn't work.

I knew, from my sewing days, that the cover is usually two inches wider than the pillow to accommodate a pillow's fluff. She didn't agree with that info, very politely offered, and didn't want to unhook the sample pillow for me to test, insisting that the cover would be too big and would look awful.

I politely said that the pillow was decorative and that it didn't matter if the casing were a bit large. She dug in, no she didn't want to unhook the sample pillow for me to test the cover, all a waste of time, she said, starting to walk away.

So, me being me, I asked for the ladder to get the pillow down. I guess the look on my face said I'd get the manager because she agreed to unhook the sample pillow.

The sample pillow fit into my cover perfectly! Sold, I said, reaching into the bin for a pillow to purchase.

On the way home, I couldn't help but wonder why a $6.99 purchase had been so difficult and so counter-image my previous trips there. Am I on a Bad News Bear roll? Gosh, I hope not!

Anyway, since hub has a long business trip coming up, we decided to take some Us Time and drive to Vermont (from Virginia) simply to enjoy the leaves and pancakes and maple syrup at mom and pop places. It was on the national news that the large majority of the roads affected by the deluge have been repaired. But there are very few tourists. Hub's from New Hampshire and feels for his neighbors. I'm from Louisiana and am grateful for those who trekked to post-Katrina New Orleans to help.

I also need a writer's break. Without going into boring detail, it wasn't until this weekend my mojo returned. I zipped through edits for my Christmas story, "Remy Broussard's Christmas" because I could finally hear my writer's voice. (I know this sounds odd, but it's the only explanation I have.)

I feel as though I can leave Remy for a few days and he'll be just fine upon my return. Wow, what a relief...finally!

So, we're leaving early in the morning, returning Sunday. Can't wait to see those bright leaves and hike a few trails (for fun and to work off that maple syrup!) I'll take some pics to share!

Shopping at Best Buy

2011-09-29T09:26:00.001-04:00

Best Buy, that big box store, re-entered my life.

I didn't want to buy a new computer just yet. The plan was to limp along with what I had until the Thanksgiving/Christmas holidays.

Last Saturday night, the motherboard died.

I drove to Best Buy rather light-hearted, relieved problems with the old computer had forced my hand. The previous computer, two-years-old, had suffered problems this past year. No one could make lemonade out of the lemon I seemed to have bought.

However, shopping at Best Buy, always a challenge, turned into pure frustration. Between Sunday morning and Wednesday night, what ensued involved one stupid glitch after another: not enough sales personnel on the floor (in a busy store with customers who wanted to guy); weak or depleted inventory that caused customers to put names on waiting lists or, like me, pick up the product at another store in another county (thanks to help from dear friends); the inability of computers at sales counters in different parts of the store to talk to each other (causing a sale to be voided at one counter, only to ring it up again at a different counter, wasting everyone's time); improperly trained personnel, native English speakers, who try to cover what they don't know with extraneous conversation; properly trained and harried personnel who are picking up the slack for others; and mistakes that evolve when a store's right and left hands don't communicate.

Okay, stuff happens. Life isn't a bowl of cherries and so on.

Still, me being me, I pursued why Best Buy wasn't more customer oriented. Personnel offered two suggestions: since consumers have learned to wait for shipments to stores, there's no need to carry a deeper inventory; consumers have learned waiting for a sales clerk at Best Buy is just the way it is, so there's no need to cut into the bottom line by hiring more personnel.

I've heard the same thing from personnel who work in other types of stores. In all fairness, many times too few clerks have to assume the work other clerks could do. Harried personnel make mistakes.

So, last week I blogged about the mother and daughter looking for coupons in my garbage. Here I am sitting on the money to buy an Apple when money's so tight for some a child probably doesn't have the opportunity to bite into an apple.

This isn't right! When it gets to the point where a mother and daughter have to recycle garbage into their lives in order to survive, something is terribly wrong.

Stores like Best Buy (and those capable of hiring) need to get off their fat asses and hire people. If my dear friend hadn't picked up my computer elsewhere, I would have had to wait until October 11th, for a new shipment, if I got lucky. The waiting list was long. There was no guarantee corporate would ship enough of the model I bought to satisfy the full list.

And it wouldn't hurt if new hires could subtract $20.00 from a solid number. A customer shouldn't have to wait - and wait! - while the cashier searches for her calculator.

Making Progress; A Little Girl Loves Tuna Fish

2011-09-21T15:37:00.001-04:00

Thank you, thank you for your patience! Nature's damage has been repaired. Summer and fall/winter clothes have been switched. What a relief it is to have a sense of order. I'm a Cancerian and have to have home and hearth in sync, not every mag or tea cup, but enough so I can focus on other matters.

Like "Remy Broussard's Christmas," my Christmas story I want to upload to Amazon soon. (Any suggestions as to when would be the best time? I have had visions of Remy buried beneath an avalanche of holiday stories. Poor kid. He's only eight-years-old.)

I think it worked out for the best that my net book died while we were on holiday. Not reading Remy for some weeks opened my eyes. Yep, there were mistakes I wouldn't have known how to correct if it weren't for all the fab blogs I've read. Thank you to all who were so honest and up-front about what could go wrong and how to correct it. This is not to say I've spotted every angle begging for help (Ha!) The story is my first time out of the block. Six weeks from now, I'll probably read what I wrote and die a thousand deaths!

But that's a minor emotion compared to how I felt earlier this morning, a routine morning where garbage/recyclables are picked up. I'd put the bags out last night. This morning I decided to add a couple of Diet Pepsi cans to the recycle bag.

Looking like one does in the morning, I opened the front door, stepped outside, and froze.

A little girl, about eight years old, with long brown hair, neatly brushed back from her face, rummaged through the bags.

She was careful not to dirty her dark blue smock (with coordinated turtleneck beneath) or scuff her lace-up shoes with white, folded socks at the ankles.

My mind raced - what to do? Should I offer her a peach and a banana? Should I call the county? A child going through rubbish, no no.

In the split second when I had to make a decision, her mother appeared, walking around the corner on the left. As her mother approached, the child looked up. She had eyes as blue as a spring sky.

"Can I help you?" I asked the mother. She was neatly dressed and groomed.

"We are looking for coupons," she replied.

"I love tuna fish," the daughter added.

My face fell. "I'm sorry there aren't any coupons. I clip and pass on to a neighbor what I don't use."

"Maybe next time," the mother said, waving as she walked away, daughter in tow.

"Wait," I called. "I have tuna fish in the pantry."

"Maybe next time," the mother said. "I'm sure we'll find some coupons."

Links, Lots of Links!

2011-09-12T17:19:00.000-04:00

Weather-wise, the past few days have been gorgeous! After Mother Nature's onslaught, from New Orleans to Vermont and northward to Canada, sunny blue skies and mild temps are treasures.

Unfortunately, clean-up prevails. Compared to those who lost everything and the devastation that destroyed buildings, homes, and roads and claimed lives, my situation is minor: Winter clothes stored in our godson's basement had to be removed and stacked 'wherever' in our house. Tropical Storm Lee flooded his basement. Being pro-active instead of re-active saved his possessions and ours. Flood insurance covers damage to the basement. We are very grateful for the little things in life!

However, those bags of clothes (mostly heavy winter gear as we usually visit New Hampshire, hub's home state) have got to be integrated into our condo, spacious and with a garage (but a garage doesn't have the protection of a cooled basement, why the heavy stuff was stored there.)

Minor as my situation is, it's stretched available time - especially since I've got to finalize my Christmas story to get it on Amazon in a timely manner. So, I'm going to take a couple of weeks off from blogging to get my house in order and re-group.

In the meantime, I thought I'd introduce new Followers to you. (I hope to continue with the list in a future blog.) What with all that's been going on, I haven't visited them - or longtime blogging buds -as often as I should and feel badly about that. (Did I tell you I do guilt very well?) My apologies if I skipped anyone...if I did, drop a comment and you're at the top of the next list.

If you have a chance, please visit these nice folks listed below!! Kittie xoxo

Ellen Brickley at Pink Tea and Paper

Katie Mills at Creepy Query Girl

Towanda at Blue Skies Sunny Days

Betsy at My Five Men

Susan -- sorry, can't link

Jeremy Bates at Jeremy Bates Books

Amy Jarecki at Amy Jarecki Writes

Tracy Jo at Brand New Day

Possum -- sorry, can't link

Hilary Melton-Butcher at Positive Letters ... Inspirational Stories

Ann Best at Ann Best's Blog

Ron at The Old Geezer Blog

Mark -- sorry, can't link

Seemz at Tiana's Thoughts Talk

Ellie at Ellie Great

C F Legette at Portfolio - cflegette

Edu-mattos at Cidade do Porto - Pedra Sobre Pedra

A J Kulig at A J Kulig's Blog

Yesenia Samatha Steward -- sorry, can't link

The Sarcasm Goddess at For the Love of Writing

Andres -- sorry, can't link

Julie at Julie Musil

Dafeena -- sorry, can't link

Josh Hoyat at The Blog That Helps You Diagnose Your Characters

Siv Maria at Been there, done that

Melissa Bradley -- sorry, can't link

M.J. Fitfield at My Pet Blog

Kane at Not Mandatory

Eli at Eli Ashpence

Cheryl -- sorry, can't link

Acadia1997 -- sorry, can't link

Bryce Daniels at The Bryce Daniels Preservation Society

Dorothy at Dorothy Evans

Crystal Collier at Compulsive Writer

Stephanie -- sorry, can't link

Susan at Susan Fields, Writer

Katherine at Katherine's Corner

Rani Chatrath at Hope Floats

Sylvia Ney -- sorry, can't link

Andy at Thoughts of Beauty in the Stillness of Dawn

"Goodnight, Irene" - A Louisiana Memory

2011-08-29T21:24:00.003-04:00

My heart goes out to all those in Irene's path. It's difficult to look at the news. So many lives lost. So much devastation. My hub's from New Hampshire...we were in Vermont not long ago - drove up through central New York - Irene's path rips at our hearts. When the tears dry, we're just going to have to take a collective breath and re-build. Queen Elizabeth II said it best (when Princess Diana died, I believe), "Stay calm and carry on." Back when I was in my twenties, I learned that lesson the hard way. But, once learned, the road opened. Today's quickly jotted down Louisiana Memory . . . .

* * * * *

"GOODNIGHT, IRENE," - LOUISIANA MEMORY

I sat sideways on the porch's top step and hugged my knees. Mama wiped her brow with the back of her hand and settled into the rocking chair near the ivy-filled planter. She tossed her blond curls and made a face at the pasture in front of her.

I didn't have to follow her eyes to know the grass had blurred into a white haze beneath the hot Louisiana sun or that the road in front of the farm reached long and empty, with neither car nor mule wagon to break the monotony. Nothing moved, a sound of nothing I liked because I'd been born into it. Not Mama. On days like today, when steaming hot quiet would stretch into sultry dark quiet, Mama fussed about leaving New Orleans for 'this,' what she called my grandparents' farm in South Central Louisiana.
"Oh, to hear a streetcar's rumble," Mama moaned as she balanced a magazine clipping of a shirtwaist dress, the latest 1952 fashion, on top of the ivy. And, then, after a long sigh, "We live in the middle of nowhere."

I did what I always did when adults made statements that made no sense: I froze into a cross between a freckle-faced, five-year-old kid and a bug-eyed frog, mouth agape in either species. Sarah, two years younger, shattered the stillness by slamming the screen door and screaming Ma was coming. "Great," Mama groaned as her mother-in-law, the inhabitant of The Big House across the left pasture (because she and Pa owned the farm), the queen of gossip along the bayou (according to Daddy), and decider of all issues, big and small (according to Mama), approached our porch from a path that ran alongside our house (a bit sneaky, even I had to admit).

But, the sin warranted immediate forgiveness: My grandmother, a petite stick of Creole dynamite, carried a plate of cookies covered with waxed paper. Sarah and I erupted into giggles and raced to Ma's side. By the time Mama made lemonade, Pa returned from checking cows in the back pasture and joined us. Minutes later, Daddy turned into the farm's entrance. On weekends he returned home from Louisiana State University's School of Law in Baton Rouge.
As the cookies disappeared and conversation mellowed, late afternoon turned into evening shade. Sarah and I played on the steps with our dolls. Mama and Daddy sat on the swing, opposite Ma and Pa in the rocking chairs. As he sometimes did, Daddy stretched his long legs, clasped his hands behind his head and hummed a song during a break in the conversation. I couldn't see, but knew his blue eyes twinkled, just like Mama's did whenever Daddy came home.

Tonight, though, he stood as he hummed and tugged Mama to her feet. She laughed as he pulled her closer, then, hands and arms positioned outward, he swirled her around the porch as he sang,"Goodnight, Irene; I'll see you in my dreams . . . . " They looked like Clark Gable and Ginger Rogers. My mouth fell open.

Years later, on the day their divorce became final, I thought friends had exaggerated how disastrous a divorce could be. After all, they were still my parents. Life went on. It took time for the enormity of what had happened to sink in, for me to repair my soul.

Yes, goodnight, Irene. You won't be forgotten, but we will move on.

German Fairy Tales and Great Expectations

2011-08-26T12:05:00.000-04:00

Updates: Thank you, thank you for your get-well wishes! They greatly helped. After a challenging week (we had a bit of damage - not structural - from the earthquake), yesterday was the first day I felt like my ole self and jumped into the day - to prepare for the hurricane that's barreling up the East Coast. Please, please, if you're in the zone, take Irene seriously!! This Louisiana gal doesn't trust hurricanes. Those things are trouble!

Anyway, the prelude to a question that bothers me: some years ago I decided what knowledge I possessed of the German language required an infusion and registered for an intermediate course at Georgetown University. The course description, which I carefully read, built upon my level one abilities. Pleased, even excited, I traipsed to the bookstore, only to learn the instructor would provide the book in the classroom for students to purchase.

Two weeks later, German fairy tales and quaint words focused my life.

Instead of much-needed conversational scenerios, I struggled with headless horsemen and forest witches. With my head bombarded by verbs I'd probably never use at the Haufbrau Haus, I thought to drop the course. This urge to take flight disappeared, however, when reality dawned: People died in some of these fairy tales. I wanted to know how this could be. Unhappy endings didn't occur in Cinderella's world!

Over cups of coffee, I asked a German friend visiting the States, "How can you have fairy tales without a happy ending?"

"Because life is life," she replied and went on to say, basically, that if one always expected a happy ending, this expectation magnified the impact of even the slightest bump on the road of life.

By the end of my German course, I felt a sense of academic accomplishment: I'd survived rather nicely. In the personal sense, I had a stronger grip on my mother's favorite saying: "Life isn't a fairy tale." A U-turn back to basics kept my hands on the wheel whenever life's road got bumpy.

Now, I mention this today because, during the past six months, I've noticed more and more crisply written book reviews in various newspapers conclude with, "The ending wasn't what I expected."

True, a book review reflects what the reviewer thinks. Some reviewers live in the first person. That's okay; the ground rules are laid out. It's when a crisp, third person review concludes with tacked-on personal sentiment that I wonder what's going on. Even if the reviewer says the unexpected ending 'worked,' a tiny cloud hangs over the entire book. In a tight market, this cloud can turn into the kiss of death.

So, okay, who's in charge of a novel or story's resolution, the author or a reviewer's great expectations for sugar-coated, fairy tale-like endings?

Dikembe Mutombo and "Play Big"

2011-08-14T16:24:00.001-04:00

Dikembe Mutombo, the Congolese-American NBA basketball player, caught my attention in a Sports Illustrated summer issue. The 7'1/" (2.18m) superstar retired in 2009 after earning the Defensive Player of the Year Award four times and with a reputation as one of basketball's greatest shot blockers. What caught my attention, though, was how he accepted his height and tuned what others thought a liability into an asset.

When Mutombo was a kid - a very tall, very skinny, very poor kid in a dusty African village -some though thought he was a phantom and ran from him. Instead of bemoaning his fate, Mutombo maintained a forward-thinking attitude and, well, the rest is history that bubbles into a retirement centered on humanitarian works that include building medical facilities in his home country, with his own money and through his foundation. Dikembe Mutombo has received many awards for his humanitarian work.

To help support his humanitarian projects, Mutombo gives speeches world-wide and sells various basketball-related items, one of which is a T-shirt that says "Play Big." The logo made me sit up straight - and start thinking! I don't know about you, but I do know there have been times when I've held back for fear a character's personality would be too bold (or too sensitive). The fear, of course, corresponds to societal norms of what's expected, norms that are often more perceived than real. No one wants to be rejected by society or sense disapproval. No one wants others to run from him/her. The compromise is to play safe - characters don't ever live outside the box, so to speak.

I've had time to think about this because I'm recovering from strep throat, an unwelcome holiday souvenir in the larger sense - who likes being sick? Ugh! - but time to think is good. What I've come up with is this: I sometimes want to stifle my characters to protect myself. I don't want the reader to think that the character's sensitivity (or boldness or anger or happiness) is my emotion, a release of my character and a path to who I am, for I don't believe any writer can fully distance himself/herself from the written word.

Just as I decided to face that fearful word change and open up more, my hub handed me the latest issue of Vanity Fair. On the cover was a quote from Johann von Goethe: "We must always change, renew, rejuvenate ourselves; otherwise we harden."

Mutombo and Goethe - they play well together.

Maw Maw's Kitchen (Eileen's Louisiana Story); Going on Holiday

2011-06-23T18:02:00.003-04:00

(Updates: Hubby and I are going on holiday next week for five weeks, returning early August. After six months of planning, we are very excited that British friends will join us for a week!!

Like last year, I'll have my net book (aka "Jenny") for a few posts. Jenny is downright cranky at times. I'll keep in touch as best I can. But, from our house to yours, hub and I wish all of you a glorious summer that's forever in your hearts!

I hope Eileen's Louisiana story today touches your hearts. As I mentioned in the previous post, Steen's cane syrup in the yellow can triggers a certain nostalgia. Yes, plastic came along and does what plastic does for products. It's the 'yellow can,' though, that begs another time. Eileen has written eloquently - and truthfully - about those days. She's the little girl in the story. The photo after the story is of her grandparents' house.

Eileen is a dear and wonderful friend who lives in Ascension Parish, Louisiana. I'm honored she's sharing her 'yellow can' story and hope you will heart her.

* * * * *

Maw Maw's Kitchen
Maw Maw's shadow dances across the wall as she goes from room to room lighting oil lamps as dusk turns to dark. The braid which had been coiled into a tight knot at the nape of her neck now hangs freely like a shining silver rope down her back and falls across her shoulder as she bends to offer a good-night kiss.

Mosquito netting draped around the antique bed sways gently in the cool winter breeze which whistles through the slightly opened window, and the final licks of flame shrink as the fire calms itself for the night. Silent prayers of thanks are interrupted by the cadence of croaking frogs, the mournful howl of an unknown animal, and the hushed voices of Maw Maw and Paw Paw as they sit waiting for the embers to fade to ashes.

Sleep comes quickly to the child beneath the stack of handmade quilts who knows she will soon be awakened by the smell of sweet, hickory bacon and the sound of it sizzling in Maw Maw's favorite little black skillet. Warm bread fresh from the oven will be covered with thick black syrup which pours so very slowly from the bright yellow can, its sweetness tempered by the bitter pureness of milk straight from the cow. Only later will she realize this was a place and time of simple goodness.

Eileen's photo of Maw Maw's house. It's so warm and inviting. So much goodness there!

"Amazing Grace" in Cajun French; Up, Up, and Away (Romantic Friday Writers)

2011-06-17T08:12:00.003-04:00

A warm welcome to new followers! I'm humbled by how my blog has grown. I never, ever thought this would happen when I first sat at the keyboard. A new computer later (old Bertha decided to move on), I'm in the same room, my left leg propped on the chair, window open, the fan humming - - thanks to all of you for sharing this evening with me. I'm forever grateful for how all of you have enriched my life from Day One.

But, ahem, I can't reach some of you. I really want to get to know you! Please check your avatar to see if your photo links to your blog. (Or leave a comment; that'll get me back to you.) For those of you in a rush, the Romantic Friday Writer's entry is after the video clip.)

Eileen, a beautiful, caring friend I'm blessed to have, lives in Gonzales (Ascension Parish), Louisiana. The other day she sent me a YouTube link to "Amazing Grace" in Cajun French. My eyes misted - the singing, the landscape scenes. In an upcoming post, I hope to share with you Eileen's memory about Steen's cane syrup and her Maw Maw's house. She won an award for what she wrote. Her terrific writing tugs at the heart and stirs the child in each of us.

For today's video, a Southwest Louisiana singing group, Les Amies Louisianaises, sings in the background of the YouTube clip, until the final scene. The literal translation of La Grace du Ciel is "The Grace of Heaven."

Louisiana Belle posted this video Christmas before last. As when Eileen sent the clip, I watched it several times. I thought you would enjoy a certain sense of purity the video captures. (If you get a chance, check out Louisiana Belle. She takes amazing photos and has an equally beautiful writing voice.) My thanks to Eileen and Belle for this gorgeous slice of Louisiana HERE!

* * * * *

And, now for Romantic Friday Writers.

Please note prior to reading today's entry: Whether wise or not, I've decided to remain within my characters: Pierre, Yvette, and Windsor.

Since I can't carry the back story in 400 words, this is a synopsis of previous entries: Pierre dumped Yvette for another gal. Yvette fled to Hawaii to work for her Aunt Claire in a surfing shop. Yvette fell into a party-hardy crowd. Aunt Claire screwed her head on straight. Ginger, the trust-fund gal who mistakenly got Yvette into that crowd, had pangs of guilt and treated her to a weekend at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel - so she could meet Windsor Smith, her uber-rich, gorgeous cousin. Back in Grand Isle, Louisiana, Pierre worked on a shrimp boat after the gal he left Yvette for dumped him. He thought he'd forgotten about Yvette until something silly stirred his passion.

The theme for for this week's Romantic Friday Writers' entry is "Up, Up, and Away."

"Up, Up, and Away" (400 words)

The flight attendant stared at Pierre, then at his boarding pass. "Follow me, sir." She turned left, toward the jet's business cabin.
"But my ticket says I'm in coach," Pierre protested as he manipulated his carry-on around passengers.

She half-turned. "Chuck - the guy who owns Chuck's Place on Grand isle - he's my brother-in-law."
"What?"

"Chuck e-mailed me your photo. He said you needed quality time with a gal you love in Hawaii." She held her hand up. "I'm not interested in the details. I just told Chuck I'd help." She escorted Pierre to seat 3A. "There's no first-class on this flight from New Orleans to Honolulu, only business." She secured his carry-on in the overhead bin.
Pierre glanced at her name tag. "Thank you, Monique." He dipped his chin. "I - er, I could've stored my bag." His eyes scanned the cabin. "Now I know why Chuck insisted I wear a sports jacket. Guess I was blown away by the upgrade and forgot my manners. I apologize."
"No prob - "
"Excuse me," a passenger interrupted as Pierre sat near the window. "Where's seat 3B?"
Monique gestured into the aisle seat next to Pierre. "Right here, sir. May I help you with your carry-on?"

"That's okay. I can handle it." Monique nodded to the smartly dressed man with Hollywood good looks and moved to return to her coach cabin. The passenger extended his hand to Pierre as he sat down. "Windsor. Windsor Smith."

"Pierre. Pierre Lafourche. Nice to meet you."

"Same here." Windsor reached for a glass of champagne on the flight attendant's tray. Pierre followed his lead. Windsor took a sip of his champagne and relaxed into his seat. "I should be on the corporate jet to Venezuela with my father. We had business in New Orleans. I don't normally fly commercial. But - " He flashed a conspiratorial grin. "Something's hot in Honolulu." He paused. "I'm in international investments. What about you?"

"Seafood," Pierre answered. A smile played on his lips.

"My company's in New York City. We work the anchovy market in Argentina."

"I'm more into shrimp and catfish."
"The catfish that got away?" Windsor laughed at his joke.

Pierre's black eyes narrowed. "Maybe."

"Sorry, old boy, didn't mean to pry." He leaned into Pierre. "I know how it is. My father would disown me if he knew I was meeting this Cajun chick in Honolulu."

Pierre gave him a curious look. "Really? What's her name?"

"Yvette."

* * * * *
To return to Romantic Friday Writers click here.

Steen's Cane Syrup; Romantic Friday Writers

2011-06-09T22:29:00.001-04:00

My entry for Romantic Friday Writers is further down, after this about Louisiana:

With no disrespect to maple syrup (for it is delicious and natural - I love natural,) I never tasted maple syrup when I was a kid in South Louisiana. We drizzled Steen's Cane Syrup on our pancakes or French toast. Now, I mention this, not because I'm pushing a product - I'm not - but because I'm reading more and more about cane syrup these days, an alternative to the sweet stuff manufacturers dump into some products. Cane syrup is made from sugar cane, a major crop in Louisiana, and is a natural golden sweetness.

Since I only enjoyed, never made cane syrup, I turned to Wikipedia for this: Cane syrup is a concentration of cane juice produced through long cooking in open kettles. It's sweeter than molasses because no refined sugar is removed.

There was a time when other companies in the U.S. besides Steen's produced cane syrup. But as the population acquired a taste for artificial sweeteners and refined sugar, company after company disappeared. Only Steen's remains. It's been in business since 1910, still in Abbeville, Louisiana, in the heart of Cajun Country. The picture's a bit fuzzy (as I enlarged the tiny one from Wikipedia.) Nevermind. I love that yellow can. I hope it doesn't disappear.
* * * * *

Romantic Friday WritersFor those of you who are new (Hi!), I try to participate in Romantic Friday Writers - didn't make it last week; we had a houseful of guests. Each week, Denise and Francine post the week's theme. We have to remain within 400 words. Now, I'm not a romantic writer and make no pretensions as such. However, I am in love with Louisiana. These entries have helped me strengthen verbs and so on for my stories. I am thankful for that improvement! (The trailer for my first self-pub, "Remy Broussard's Christmas," is at the top of my sidebar.)

Whether wise or not, I'm continuing with a story line. Since I can't carry the backstory in 400 words, this is a synopsis: Pierre dumped Yvette for another gal. Yvette fled to Hawaii to work for her Aunt Claire in a surfing shop. Yvette fell into a party-hardy crowd. Aunt Claire screwed her head on straight. Ginger, the trust-fund gal who mistakenly got Yvette into that crowd, had pangs of guilt and treated her to a weekend at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel - so she could meet Windsor Smith, her uber-rich, gorgeous cousin. This week's entry centers on Pierre. (400 words)

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Forgotten (Maybe Not)

Pierre swung himself over the shrimp boat's railing and onto the dock. About twenty-eight years old, he was tall and muscled-lean, with classic French features. He adjusted his LSU baseball cap and whistled as he walked toward Chuck's Place, the honky-tonk bar on Grand Isle where shrimpers gathered for cold beer and Cajun music. A warm afternoon breeze off the Gulf of Mexico fluttered his short-sleeve, unbuttoned shirt. The tail hung loose over faded jeans.

"Hey! You stepped on a new penny," a man called. Pierre stopped. The man, a shrimper with white hair and gnarled hands, wrapped a final loop of rope to tie-up his shrimp boat. He then straightened, legs parted to balance waves that lapped the boat. "Better get that penny before we have bad luck. We don't need another oil slick." He pointed to a wood-plank behind Pierre. The copper coin glistened in the sun, an orb of hope beneath a cloudless blue sky.

"Thanks, Bertrand. We had a good catch this morning. Don't want to mess things up." Pierre turned and reached for the penny. "Who knows," he laughed. "If I find enough of these babies, I'll be able to buy my own boat."

"Be careful what you wish for. I barely made payroll last month." Bertrand shook his head and disappeared into the boat's cabin.

Pierre shrugged a carefree nonchalance and flipped the coin high. He missed the catch. The penny landed on the dock and rolled toward a crevice. He rushed to grab the coin. "Damn," he muttered as it fell into the water.

"Why the long face?" Chuck asked, after he popped Pierre's usual, a long-necked beer.

"Oh, nothing important." Pierre downed a long swig of the beer. "I dropped a new penny I found into the water. Hope that sucker didn't take my good luck with it." He finished the beer. "How about another? It's hotter than hell outside."

Chuck placed the second beer in front of Pierre. "Weren't you with some gal at Mardi Gras who talked about saving pennies for a wedding?"

Pierre froze. The color drained from his face. "Yvette," he muttered. "I thought I'd forgotten about her." He drained the beer and picked at the label with his finger nail. "Where did you go, Yvette?" he asked himself. He laced his hands around the bottle. "Why did you return?"

Chuck placed another beer on the counter. "This one's on me."

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(To return to the fest, click here)

Tuskegee Airmen and Louisiana Memories; Fictional Characters

2011-06-07T12:36:00.164-04:00

A big Thank You to Alex J. Cavanaugh for hosting the "It's All Fun & Games Blog Fest." We bloggers know how to have a good time!

And a big Welcome to my new Followers - It's nice to meet you! *waves* (Would Cheryl and Arcadia 1997 please drop me a comment; I can't link to you. *sighs*)

A PBS television program about the Tuskegee Airmen and numerous descriptions of fictional book characters who have 'nothing' prompted this post. Specifically, I'd like to take a look at this 'nothing' so many write about, ie, in the physical possession sense. It's all relative, of course. And therein lies the fault line. How does an author describe a character so the reader can relate?

First, to the Tuskegee Airmen - Two years ago, my husband and I had the honor and privilege to sit with several of the Tuskegee Airmen at a function held in Washington, D.C. These distinguished African-Americans helped crack the racial ceiling on March 19, 1941 with the formation of the 99th Pursuit Squadron (47 officers and 429 enlisted men.) At that time, widespread opinion in the United States was skeptical that blacks could fight as good as whites in World War II. However, the Tuskegee Airmen earned combat ribbon after combat ribbon and proved everyone wrong.

At war's end (1939-1945), combat forces returned home to a hero's welcome.

Not so fast.

In February 1946, African-American veteran Issac Woodard was attacked and blinded by policemen in Aiken, Georgia. (The Harry Truman Library) In July 1946, two African-American veterans and their wives were executed (60 bullets) by a white mob in Georgia. (Harry Truman Library)

Amid significant controversy, President Harry Truman signed Executive Order 9981 on July 26, 1948 that desegregated all units within the United States military. Accustomed to following orders, the military desegregated and is today, by all accounts, an integrated military that marches as one.

Some of the Tuskegee Airmen remained in the military after World War II. Those who returned to the South returned to 'separate but equal' facilities (Plessy v. Ferguson, 1896 Supreme Court decision) that enabled segregation.

The sharecropper system also divided along racial lines. This economic system, whereby field hands worked off exorbitant rents for houses occupied, divided black and white sharecroppers: White sharecroppers usually lived in the more front-facing shacks; black sharecroppers usually lived in shacks positioned further back on a farm.

These two groups of very poor people, the poorest rung on the economic ladder, interacted during working hours, usually because a white sharecropper supervised a black sharecropper.

The U.S. Census couldn't accurately record how many sharecroppers existed. Dirt paths or wagon-rutted farm roads usually led to these tucked away shacks. For both races, babies were born and babies died, often buried on the farm, without record. As were the sick and the infirm. Few sharecroppers paid state or federal taxes. Pay taxes on what? So, scant records there.

Many sharecroppers - and especially black sharecroppers - lived in shacks without electricity. Or running water. Roofs leaked. Windows had patched cardboard to block the cold. Sharecroppers could grow their own food - this sounds rather quaint, almost self-sufficient romantic - but sharecroppers didn't have the run of the farm for personal gardens. Shacks usually had hardened 'yards' where scrawny chickens pecked. Chicken eggs provided year-round food, unlike green beans. So kids played where the chickens crapped.

People died. Lots of people died young. No medical insurance. No dental insurance (it was common for people to die from dental infections.) No Medicare. No Medicaid. Social Security existed - but back to those missing records. Lots of sharecroppers - especially black sharecroppers - simply didn't exist. So, no Social Security checks.

For many white sharecroppers, though, the KuKluxKlan provided a measure of superiority. Ever heard of those dudes in white sheets and pointy hats? The KKK rode against my grandfather once - tried to intimidate him into selling off some land at a cheap price. (He didn't!) It wasn't until I was a grown woman that my father told me who had been active in the KKK in our area: The fathers of lots of kids I went to school with, that's who. You see, the yellow school bus picked up all white kids and delivered them to a segregated school. Black students got to school (if a schoolhouse existed) as best they could. Black and white sharecropper kids dropped out of school at alarming rates.

The sharecropper system needed the students who dropped out of school. They fed the system with a stream of muscled labor.

The Civil Rights Act of 1964 destroyed the sharecropper system. A Federal law mandated that if a sharecropper occupied housing not maintained for a significant period of time, that plot of land belonged to the sharecropper. Practically overnight, farmers had shacks torn down.

So, back to a WIP character (a work in progress character) having 'nothing' - this is all relative. I don't think a struggling college student who works two jobs and carries a student loan has 'nothing' - to me, the character maximizes opportunity for a broader future. I know a 64 year-old man and his wife who lived in million-dollar waterfront property. He earned enormous income. But, by his own admission, he cut one deal too many and lost it all to bankruptcy.

They now live off of Social Security in a small, rented apartment. Does he have 'nothing?' Not if he has a roof over his head, food, and some income, the physical basics. But he struggles. There's a difference. 'Nothing' is a basic bottom line, not to be confused with what one wants.

One of the Tuskegee Airmen at my table in that posh hotel said, "It's not easy to survive nothing."

Tuskegee Airman (Wikipedia)

Restored P-51 Mustang associated with the Tuskegee Airmen (Wikipedia) Note the red tail...the Airmen painted tails red so Allied forces wouldn't mistake them for the enemy. This wasn't racially motivated, but a preventive combat measure. However, the Airmen proudly refer to themselves today as the "Red Tails" and often wear signature red jackets (which they wore the evening I met some of them.)

Support training squadron airplanes, with the Tuskegee Airmen's Red Tail, at Randolph Air Force Base, Texas, honor the Tuskegee Airmen today. (Wikipedia) You can visit the Airmen's Web site here.

The Games People Play

2011-06-06T10:52:00.001-04:00

Alex J. Cavanaugh is hosting a blog fest. I hadn't thought to enter because I'm seriously challenged for time. But, it's such a super idea I couldn't resist. (Time expands, right?) Thanks for hosting, Alex. You're a sweetie!

We're supposed to list our three favorite games.

Monopoly - Yep, the old favorite still enthralls. For awhile I collected the various themes, but, er, space became a factor. So I donated all but two to a senior citizen center and a community center. I kept my trusty basic set and the Hawaiian themed set. Park Place has always been a favorite place to stop. But I'm a quiet utility collector - big bucks there down the road.

Scrabble - I've been known to play this game into the wee hours. And, oh, the memories - my family loved this game. We had so much fun! I can still hear the laughter! My hubby also loves the game - he can turn that 'x' into major points!

Canasta - It's thought of as an old-ladies card game. But, I don't care. It's major fun! My parents and their friends used to play a lot. My parents taught us to play so we kids wouldn't bug them (as was rumored among us kids!) So, the game spread among the younger set. My girlfriends and I even had a canasta club! I still play whenever possible, mostly during the winter, when we trudge through the snow to get together. A little glug also brings smiles.

To return to the fest, click here

Tension and Romance

2011-05-26T15:53:00.000-04:00

Updates: I've had problems with Blogger all week, as I've read others have. What's going on?

But I do want to thank old followers and welcome new ones. My eyes popped when I reached 400 followers. Thank you, thank you! I'm beyond excited!! And, yes, I'm thinking of a way to celebrate!

I didn't get around to visiting many of you this week like I wished (please understand) because (a) Blogger acted up too much and (b) I had to meet deadlines for the chapbook I'm self-pubbing this summer. The honest truth is, the behind-the-scenes stuff is tedious and frustrating, just like I'd read on other blogs. No one exaggerated. I'll post my experiences soon. However, a very bright, shining light was Wendy Tyler Ryan (Lemon Twist Press). Thank you, Wendy, for the fantastic job you did on the trailer for my chapbook. I loooove it! I'll link to it and my new Web page (put together this week) another post.

In the meantime, I've got two blog fest entries (and hope you'll hop over to meet new bloggers) - The Power of Tension Blogfest and the Romantic Friday Writers- yep, it's been a busy week - and yep, yep, I'm learning a lot from writing these entries. Thanks for hosting the fests, Rachel and Denise/Francine. (And if you, dear reader, are in a hurry, I totally understand if you select the entry that matches the blog fest you've entered.)

* * * * *
Tension

Isabella tossed her car keys into the basket on the kitchen table, dropped her purse on the floor, and stormed up the townhouse's stairs. She slammed open the door to the computer room and stood in the doorway, hands at her thick waist. "Why didn't you tell me the mechanics came for my car while I was showering and getting dressed? You knew I was meeting Clarissa for lunch. Since you're driving your car to a business meeting, I'm stuck."

Nick, her husband of eleven months and three weeks, ignored her. He sat tall at the computer, oblivious to his Brad Pitt good looks or Clarissa's first maternity dress. She stepped closer. "So! That's how it's going to be. Another one of your I'm-not-talking moods this week." She blew out her freckled cheeks, brushed back strawberry-blond hair. We can't continue like this. I don't understand why you're acting weird."

Nick swiveled the chair around. He gave Isabella a pointed look. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Unless, of course, you'd prefer I didn't attend the meeting. We don't need money, Isabella." He gestured into the air. "We can live off of love. Instead of having a baby, we'll have a love child."

"What the hell! You're not making sense - again!

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're not."

Nick threw his hands up. "Okay! I'm not. Happy?"

"N-No, not when there's all this tension."

He cocked his ear. "Answer the door bell, will you?"

"Why can't you?"

"I've got to change into a suit for the meeting." He left the room.

Isabella forced a smile and opened the front door. Clarissa handed her a set of car keys. A pale-green Ford Escape, with a red bow on the windshield, was in the driveway.

"Happy Anniversary," Nick whispered in his wife's ear.

* * * * *

The theme for Romantic Friday Writers is "Glitz and Glamour" and comes in at 410 words. Yvette remains in Hawaii. In the words allotted, I couldn't recap everything. I also left the ending hanging as I thought it might be a base for next week's theme (whatever that is).

Glitz and Glamour

Haleiwa's rustic shops and golden beaches faded into the shimmering afternoon as the black limousine sped inland, past the Dole Pineapple Plantation, and onto the traffic-filled artery into Honolulu. Inside the luxurious Mercedes, Yevette and Ginger sipped Dom Perignon champagne from fluted Waterford crystal and nibbled lobster canapes.

Dressed in Prada casuals, the two doyennes - Yvette with her French seductiveness and Ginger with her Nordic good looks - sat opposite each other in deep leather seats, legs crossed. Polished toe nails peeked from Louis Vuitton sandals. "Ginger, If I'd known you were drop-dead rich, I would've been nervous when you came into Aunt Claire's shop." She reached for a canape. "I - I never thought I'd live like the rich, even for a second." She smoothed her sleeveless white tee. "Or wear Prada. I feel like I'm in a fairytale - a weekend at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. In a two-bedroom suite overlooking Waikiki Beach!"

"You can have the sunken bedroom. Open the curtains and you'll lie in bed and star gaze."

"Oh, Ginger, thank you." She raised her champagne glass.

"After Keoni's antics, I owe you. The beach party I told you about was further down, near the WW I monument. I didn't know Keoni and his friends would be across the street. Since I was born in Hawaii, and everybody knows everybody else's business, Keoni knew I had a trust from from my grandparents. When I bought a weekend house in Haleiwa, Keoni's crowd thought they could weasel money out of me. No way!"

"What happened wasn't your fault. I had to learn to take responsibility for my actions and not blame Pierre."

"You've got to forget about Pierre. That's why I want you to meet Windsor Smith. Like I said, he's a distant cousin, a bit older, in his late twenties, and too gorgeous for words. Windsor doesn't want a romantic commitment until he takes over his family's financial empire, in about five years. He's a perfect escort for you tonight to the Art Society gala."

"But, I'm wearing your clothes now. Your black Chanel dress tonight."

Ginger laughed. "Don't worry. Windsor returns to New York City tomorrow."

The limousine entered the palm-shaded, circular drive that graced the Royal Hawaiian's Spanish and Moorish architecture with its signature pink paint. "This is unbelievable," Yvette enthused as they walked over thick carpet through the chandeliered foyer that led to a tropical garden.

Ginger tapped Yvette's shoulder. "This way." Ginger turned right, into a wide hall lined with gilded chairs and potted palms. "I told Windsor we'd meet him on the terrace for a cocktail."

Tag; Romantic Friday Writers: "Lost"

2011-05-20T13:13:00.002-04:00

(Note: "Lost" is after the tags.)

Last week I accepted an invite to make a connection on Linkedin, signed up, and now have eight connections (hint! hint!.) My hub told me LinkedIn's Initial Public Offering (IPO) was at $45.00/share and that the company's value jumped to $4.25 billion (and became the biggest Internet offering since Google went public.) I hadn't a clue!

The fabulous Denise at L' Aussie Writing tagged me. I have to answer eight questions and tag others. Here goes: *gulps*

1. If you could go back in time and relive one moment, what would it be?

The morning I drove into Capetown, South Africa, for the first time. The sudden view of Table Mountain was beyond majestic!

2. If you could go back in time and change one thing, what would it be?

From the historical perspective there's so much I'd like to change. But within rather recent history, I'd change the Versailles Treaty that ended World War 1 because it actually set the stage for World War II. For me personally, I'd change nothing. I may not have liked each domino, but I like how they have all tipped each other thus far.

3. What movie/TV character do you most resemble in personality?
Don't know. Friends say it's Julia Roberts.

4. If you could push one person off a cliff and get away with it, who would it be?
I couldn't push anyone off a cliff just to do that.

5. Name one habit you want to change in yourself.
I can be too sensitive and have been working on this for years. Happily, there's been some progress.

6. Describe yourself in one word. Curious.

7. Describe the person who named you in this meme in one word.   Kind.

8. Why do you blog? Answer in one sentence.
I blog because I like to meet interesting people.

About tagging others, I've had problems with the Internet "diming" out on me and couldn't get around to everyone to ask if they'd like to play along (and tag a like number.) I hope this isn't a problem as I'd like to tag the first five who commented on last week's post:

Decca

Nicki Elson

Suze (Girl Wizard)

Linda Starr

Lorikeet

* * * * *
The theme for this week's Romantic Friday Writers is Lost.  I'm learning so much from this endeavor.  Plus, it's lots of fun! So, to continue from last week, Yvette's dire moment has led to . . .

Blasts from a car's horn shattered the morning's quiet. Birds squawked and circled high over Haleiwa, angry at not being able to feed in the turquoise-blue water below.

"Oh, my head," Yvette moaned and sat up. Her hour-glass body imprinted the sand. "I can't keep doing this." She pulled her toned legs forward, bunching sand against her shorts. "Coming to Hawaii was a mistake. I should've stayed in Louisiana." Tears gushed from her bloodshot eyes. "I hate you, Pierre!"

From the grassy incline across a narrow road that fronted quaint shops owned by 1970s hippies, a bare-chested surfer, bronzed and fit, stared at Yvette for long seconds. With a shrug, he hoisted his surf board above his head and walked toward a bench on the beach. He positioned his board, then nudged knee-length shorts lower on his slim hips, finger-combed his dark brown hair, adjusted his Ray-ban's, and approached Yvette. His flip-flops slapped against his feet. "Cajun Queen!  How come you're sitting on the beach like the world's ending?"

She shook her head. Sand sprinkled like diamonds from her long black hair. "I can't take these beach parties. Leave me alone, Keoni."

"No way!" He grabbed her hand and pulled her up. As he brushed sand off her back, he snapped the purple sting to her bikini top.

Yvette whirled around. "Stop it!"

"You didn't complain last night." He flashed an even, white smile.

"Don't brag. I was drunk. Still am."

"Nah, you're fine." He reached to wipe her tear-stained cheek. "Nice rack."

Eyes on fire, she lunged at his chest. "I curse the day I met you two months ago."

Keoni grabbed her wrists. "Then why did you leave your aunt's shop and join the party? You wanted action after Pierre dumped you, that's why. No one made you chase beer with shots. I'm the one who stopped you from taking off your clothes and dancing like a wild woman."

"So, okay. But I believe I paid the bill last night . . . in full. Now let go of me!"

"Do as she says, Keoni," a middle-aged woman demanded. Her voice held a slight French accent.

Yvette rushed around Keoni. "Aunt Claire!"

Claire's weathered face contorted. She pointed an angry finger. "I told your mother I paid your way here so you'd help me in my shop. But I don't know what to do with you. You dropped out of college to marry Pierre. Now you're drifting from party to party, too hung over to help me. Yvette, you've got to get your act together."

Romantic Friday Writers: Dire Moment

2011-05-13T19:39:00.002-04:00

I'm sad about the flooding along the Mississippi River. It's a tough, tough situation that mutes the senses. Those of us, like myself, who are born into life along the Mississippi know that the Mighty Mississippi can be contained, even controlled for a bit - until she decides to have her way. I grew up hearing 'old timers' talk about the 1927 flood. My husband I drove across the Morganza Spillway after the Christmas holidays, en route, first to Natches, Mississippi, then to Virginia, where we are now. So, as the flooding continues and forced flooding looms in South Louisiana, we prepare for the worst and hope for the best. It's hard to look at the news sometimes.

The honest truth is that I'm having an open affair with South Louisiana. It's one thing, though, to feel in the heart and quite another to get those feelings on paper. So, when Denise asked if I'd like to join Romantic Friday Writers that she and Francine had formed, I thought this was a great opportunity to sharpen my skills. Thanks, guys, for this opportunity!

There's no way I can post every Friday. I mean, where did last Friday go?? But Denise and Francine are okay with that as we do what we can. So, if you'd like to hop on board, click the link above for info, and have a go at it. Now that Blogger is back up and running, our routines return. (Thanks to everyone at Blogger for their long hours and dedication, as I can only imagine how many cups of coffee you chugged.)

"Dire Moment" is the romantic theme this week. My scene comes in at 398 words (with 400 as max).

* * * * *

As golden rays flickered through the moss-draped magnolia tree and onto the floor, Yvette snuggled into Pierre. The sofa on the screened-in porch creaked. The amicable sound suited their hideaway, the simple cabin Yvette's father used for fishing weekends in the South Louisiana bayou. Pierre laughed when Yvette wiggled to slap at a buzzing fly and pulled her closer. She reached for a kiss, then nestled her head on his shoulder. Strands of long black hair shaded her doll-like features. "I cannot live without you," she whispered. "You are my love, my heart, and my life."

Her fingernail traced the writing on his sleeveless tee, Low Country Marathon. "I'm so proud of you." She tiled her head upward, eyes black as night. Yvette smiled at her fiance'. The amber light profiled his classic French features, his deep-set brown eyes, aquiline nose, and full lips. "You beat your best time. I'm glad you went to Charleston, even if - " She bit her lip when Pierre stiffened. He sat upright, forcing her to angle away from him.

"I'm sick of hearing about how much the plane ticket cost. And a single room at the Palmetto Hotel wasn't expensive. Give me a break!" He rolled his shoulders. Tight abs rippled beneath his taunt tee. "I can't stop running marathons because you want a big wedding." He leaned forward and cupped his chin. Yvette placed her hand on his shoulder, as if to rub away a dark cloud. "Leave me alone," he said and shrugged her hand off.

"Pierre, I don't understand." Her voice was soft. "I refused an engagement ring so we could have a wedding. You know how it is in New Iberia. We have to invite everybody. What with your relatives and mine - " She threw her hands up. "The problem's not the Charleston marathon or our wedding. It's something else. You've been distant for weeks."

He stood and crossed to the screen door. After long seconds, he faced her. "Get off my back! Nothing's wrong." He opened the screen door and stepped outside. The door slammed behind him.

Yvette slumped into the sofa, where Pierre had sat. "Ouch!" she cried. She reached into the crevice between the pillows and wrapped her fingers around a folded paper. She opened it. Beneath the heading, Palmetto Hotel, was the billing information: Number of persons in room: 2.

Romantic Friday Writers

Dead - Dead at Last!

2011-05-03T08:14:00.001-04:00

The near-mythic Osama bin Laden died behind a woman's skirt.

Congratulations to the U.S. Navy SEALS for a magnificent military operation that took out the face of evil and respectfully delivered the body to God.

Thank you, President Obama, for making the gutsy call.

* * * * *

During the Vietnam War, a U.S. military operation failed to rescue POW's (prisoners of war) held in what was then called North Vietnam. Shared intelligence among allies filtered back to the Vietnamese, who then had time to move the POW's to another location.

My husband, then a Captain in the U.S. Marine Corps, was selected for the next raid to retrieve the POW's. Just as training (with mock villages and so on) was to begin, Watergate happened and diverted President Nixon's attention, so much so, the raid was cancelled.

We in the United States are in a unifying moment now. We cannot allow partisan politics to re-surface and extinguish the fire that unites. We must look beyond politics and work together for the common good of our country. We do not have to throw the baby out with the bath water to achieve goals. We can find common ground upon which to build.

It's an old expression that the lesser moral gives way to the greater moral. This is all very subjective and pressure-filled. But grace under pressure is a class act.

Welcome to Okinawa; Blogfest

2011-04-04T20:51:00.002-04:00

Welcome to Okinawa is a story about a long-ago day. Before we get on that airplane (or after our journey), please take a sec to visit Tami Marie at The Things We Find Inside. It's her birthday! She's celebrating with a birthday bash to remember - and lots of giveaways and a blogfest! Tami Marie's from Trinidad and has a business there. She's a self-described "80's baby, a lover of animals and nature...and a lover of life." We met through some photos she'd taken of a harbor in Trinidad. She's got an awesome number of followers, but finds time to make each of us feel special. I like that. And think you will, too.

* * * * *
This post is dedicated to my husband, a recipient of the Silver Star medal, and to all those who serve and have served. Semper Fi!

Welcome to Okinawa

Days come; days go. Days roll into life. Days shrink the calendar into a vacation. Days challenge with the unexpected. Days end with dreams come true. Days roll emotion and tragedy and beauty together. Every now and then there is a day when time pauses and one wonders Why? How? If? and thinks Yes; No; Maybe; I don't know; I understand; I don't understand - before the next day dawns. Here was such a day:

After graduation from Louisiana State University and a couple of years teaching experience, I decided the time had come to test my wings. I accepted a teaching position with the United States Department of Defense to teach on one of our military bases. My assignment: Okinawa (then a U.S. territory but long-since reverted to Japan.)

Family members shook their heads. The Vietnam War raged. How could I live on a faraway island, a staging area for the Vietnam War, when life was so good here, in New Orleans? They meant, of course, convenient access to family, that the bird would fly the nest and live - around the corner? A puddle hop wasn't my idea of soaring.

I bought two red American Tourister suitcases, sewed appropriate dresses, skirts, and casual wear (for most everybody sewed in 1968), and flew from New Orleans to San Francisco.

With red suitcases in hand (for wheeled luggage hadn't been invented), I traversed to the international terminal, presented my government orders to the clerk at the the old Northweat Orient Airlines counter, and checked in for the flight to Kadena Air Force Base, Okinawa.

It was a chartered flight, a jumbo jet filled with soldiers, sailors, marines, and civilian government employees like myself. I wore a simple sleeveless dress with a simple jacket. Over 95% of the other passengers wore military service uniforms. I was off to see the world. They were off to war. Big difference!

Prior to leaving New Orleans, no one had briefed me on what to expect, except for a two-page letter from the U.S. Government. The first page provided Okinawa's geographic location: An island about 464 square miles (1,201 sq. km) approximately 400 miles south of Japan that was the largest island in the Ryukyuan chain. The second page listed suggested clothing to bring, most of which I sewed. The mink coat the letter recommended, well, forget that!

The first leg of the flight, to Honolulu, Hawaii, was quiet with the (then) expected meals and movie. When the plane left Honolulu for the next leg, to Wake Island (a U.S. territory), many in uniform became nostalgic. We were officially outside the borders of the United States. I can only imagine their thoughts. Surely it had to be difficult for the news about Vietnam war casualities was never good.

When we landed on Wake Island, we made a mad dash to the terminal for our last taste of fresh (not reconstituted) milk, disguised as ice cream. Like others, I ordered three vanilla scoops. And, like the other passengers, I stopped midway back to the plane. The landing strip on Wake Island didn't leave room for error. The plane's nose wasn't that far from very blue water.

The flight from Wake Island to Okinawa turned into a long haul. Some slept. Most didn't. Conversation that had been sparse since the journey began disappeared. A certain nervousness had permeated the aircraft. I say 'certain' because I have never since felt such tight vibes. I have also never since flown into a staging area for a war.

The plane landed at Kadena Air Force Base at about 3:00 a.m. Very tired, we straggled off the plane. Among the uniformed personnel, a slight streak of gallows humor prevailed as we walked from the tarmac to the terminal. If I had been inside a movie, I suppose the director would have inserted raw expletatives. That seems to be the way these days with books as well. But, no, the profanity many have come to rely upon in 2011 wasn't said in the wee hours of that August morning in 1968. And, counter image, everyone was unfailingly polite.

I sometimes think back to that walk, from airplane to terminal. Most of the uniformed personnel would remain on Okinawa for scant days, then face their fate in Vietnam. Yet, politeness prevailed. When I crossed toward Safeway's entrance last week, the nicely dressed young teens ahead of me couldn't drop expletives fast enough. I couldn't help but wonder how they'd handle the rest of their lives.

Anyway, inside Kadena's large waiting area, soldiers, sailors (medics), and marines waited. Lots of them. Enough to fill the jumbo jet we'd come in on. They began boarding before I exited that section of the terminal - on their way to Vietnam. Laughter filled their steps. The fear that laced the laughter made my blood run cold. Statistics said some would return to the United States in a flag-draped coffin.

Outside the brightly lit terminal, organized chaos reigned. Military buses dropped off troops for the next flight to Vietnam or picked up troops from my flight. The few civilians either left with waiting colleagues or, like me, got into the taxi line. I didn't know what to expect so made sure I stood far back enough in the line to learn the procedure: Produce my government orders and state the destination. For me, it was Naha, Okinawa's capital, and an army base near the city.

My taxi driver didn't speak English. He opened the door for me, put my two red suitcases in the trunk, and off we went for the 30-mile drive. It was about 4:00 in the morning now. I'd like to say I was nervous, but, no, such a different world opened up before me, my heart raced with anticipation. On one side of Highway 1, moonlight danced on the bluest water. On the other side, small shops with Japanese signs advertised their wares. Since Louisiana is water-logged, I concentrated more on the shops, some with lanterns, many with banners, all with windows filled with bolts of cloth and kimonos or lacquer bowls or children's toys or shoji screens or volumnes of books or - oh! - one slice of Okinawan life after another.

From my family's tearful farewell at the airport in New Orleans to this taxi ride, I'd lived in my head, speaking only when a specific situation called for specific English. Early on, I realized this trip wasn't a gab-fest with idle chit-chats to pass the time. Commercial passengers to San Francisco wanted to be left alone with their thoughts. Military passengers to Okinawa needed to be left alone with their thoughts.

My taxi driver showed identification that permitted entry to the army base at Naha. Security had my name on a list and which building I'd live in. The driver passed rows of army barracks, rounded a downhill curve, and entered a housing area with hundreds of flat-roofed, square, cement buildings, Bachelor Officers' Quarters, with four people to a building. (I would make life-long friendships with the two female teachers who came later. One visited this past weekend. Glorious!)

The taxi driver carried the two red suitcases to an unoccupied, unlocked building. I paid the man, an elderly gentleman with a weathered face, and thanked him with words from my phrase book: Dome arigato.

He replied, "Welcome to Okinawa, sensei." He bowed very low. I bowed as best I could. He bowed again and returned to his taxi.

I entered the BOQ and switched on the lights. I saw basic furniture in the central living room, a kitchen with a frig and a stove, four bedrooms (two on either side), and a full bath on each side. No sheets or blankets. No kitchen utensils. I didn't care. I kicked off my shoes, flopped on a lumpy mattress, and fell asleep in a nano second.

I awoke around noon to the drone of planes landing and taking off on the nearby military airstrip. It was a bright, sunshiny day. I wondered how the troops boarding that flight for Vietnam had managed.

For two years I saw a lot, traveled a lot, learned a lot, and wondered a lot. I will share this: what people at home think is happening over there isn't always true; the truth is there for people to read, but it's more convenient to think.

Welcome to Okinawa.

Traditional Okinawan house (Photos courtesy of Wikipedia)

One of the many fabulous Okinawan beaches.

There are many caves from filtered rainwater as the island is mostly coral.

Okinawan farmland; present day

Mad Hatter Days!

2011-03-28T14:13:00.002-04:00

From the bottom of my heart - and from our house to yours - thank you, thank you for warm comments. Yes, I read each one and truly appreciate that you stopped by. More that I can say, actually. Since January 10th, when we returned from New Orleans, it's been like one freight train after another. Thankfully, hub's brother is recovering nicely. I'm just as thankful my brother-in-law from my side of the family is recovering without incident from having a stent placed in an artery to the heart, a week ago Friday.

In the happy, all's-going-well days that have followed, I've felt like the Mad Hatter? How many-are-coming-to-dinner? days. Haul-out-spring-clothes days. And, write days.

And, as promised, I've got updates on my entry into the self-publishing world. For those of you interested in any form of self-publishing, Em Craven begins a series on April 10th about the ins and outs at The E-book Revolution.

About what I've learned - after some errrr, grrrr, oooooh, ahhhh moments. First, the good stuff:

My story must fulfill chapbook requirements and be between 6000 and 7000 words. My story falls comfortably within this range.

The story survived a couple of bare knuckle edits. (I don't like prissy edits with disguised suggestions.)

Since the story is a Christmas story, I'll be able to bring it in on time for a summer print, fall market. This means the copyright and ISBN numbers fall into place.

Okay, now for the hurdles, stuff I learned the hard way:

The most difficult problem I faced involved cultural differences. Southerners speak indirectly. The format for Southern stories requires a slow set-up. Why? There wasn't much to do in the evenings Back Then. Stories built slowly to allow the day's heat to fade into the evening shade. Also, elders wanted kids to pay attention. I lost this luxury and had to pull my story upfront faster without losing the story's innocence to the fast-paced world. This drew blood, as the saying goes, for a bit.

I would have 'blocked' my characters longer in my head, as directors do with a play, ie, each stage movement is choreographed. Until I got this under control, my story lacked warmth. If I attempt another chapbook, I'm going to let the story swirl longer in my imagination before I hit the keyboard. The devil is definitely in the details!

I had to get right of that. Oy! And a few too many adjectives. Eeesh!

Gosh, a few paragraphs for hours of blood, sweat, and tears. It's always the way, eh?

When my story cleared some major hurdles, time opened up for me to visit around more. I know it's selfish of me to put the story first, *cringes* but until I got the story under control (in the week that followed the time that was - back to using 'that'), I was like a flopped mop.

Anyway, if, this time last year, you had told me I'd get this involved in a writing project, I'd have wondered what space ship you'd flown in on. Quite the opposite, you've motivated me to expand horizons, dream new dreams.

These past few days I've relied upon my Blog Roll. Alas and alack, more pings need to be sent. If you're not pinging, please go here.

And a hearty welcome to new followers! If you're new to my blog and I haven't been by your blog, please check your avatar. If your photo doesn't open up with your blog's address, I can't get to you. If you have this problem (and, sorry to say, quite a few do among all followers), please go to your group of followers on your sidebar. Where it says 'Sign in', click open. Go head and fill in the slots for your blog's address. Click save. Your address will now appear with your photo. Thanks to Rachel Morgan for this helpful tip! By the way, Rachel's in South Africa and has a super blog. Please drop by!

I hope spring is springing for everyone north of the equator. For those of you to the south, I hope you have a glorious fall. Enjoy! xoxo Kittie

Blogfest Story; News to Share

2011-02-26T19:46:00.005-05:00

These past weeks my head has been in and out of the Louisiana bayou. I work to expand one of my stories into a chapbook (whatever fits into 48 pages.) So, I've fallen into what my hub calls my disappearing-and-reappearing routine. He means "mentally." I'm physically here, will be too much here if I don't stop snacking between thoughts! Anyway, I can hardly believe what I type: Dana Hoeschen, Red Bird Publishers, is now my editor! She's wonderful! I'll keep you apprised as I dive into the self-publishing world and hope to be able to show you a photo of my little chapbook by mid-August.

For those of you interested in self-publishing, Wendy Tyler Ryan's blog Wendy Tyler Ryan - Author offers amazing information, including a link to A Newbie's Guide to Publishing, for sale at Amazon for ninety-nine cents.

In the meantime, I took a break from my story and, for fun, have entered Tizzy's Nifty 50 Blogfest at Impossible Dreams to help her celebrate reaching 50 Followers. Instructions said participants had to use the number 50 in any manner or combination the imagination allowed, including years. So, without further ado, a little story:

A Whole Lotta Rockin'

At the sight of the filled parking lot in front of the American Legion Hall, not unusual for a Saturday morning, Melodie shrugged. The Legionaries opened the gate to the adjacent pasture to accommodate guest parking. Four hundred tickets had been sold for the evening's fundraiser to benefit the children's hospital. Even St. Martin's twenty-something crowd had responded to the 1950's theme.

With practiced ease, Melodie pulled in behind a silver Cadillac SUV, turned off the ignition, and yanked the key.  The matronly driver gave Marilyn's Louisiana license plate, DR ON CALL, a quick smile. Marilyn was the pediatric psychiatrist at the children's hospital and a childhood friend. Melodie pushed aside Weight Watcher's literature on the seat next to her and reached for the large, wide-mouthed, Vera Bradley shopper tote.

Unable to grasp the black- and gold-patterned tote, Melodie angled out of her black Z-4, rushed to open the 2010 BMW's opposite door. As she slammed the car door shut, an April breeze stole a grape-like cluster of wisteria flowers from the expanded tote.  Her Nike's crunched on the gravel as she scrambled to catch the paper wisteria mid-flight, above the BMW's license plate, LSU TIGER.

As if overwhelmed by a breeze, Melodie, who had turned 60 the previous month, walked with slumped shoulders to the flat-fronted, wood-sided building painted yellow. The Legionaries rented out the non-descript building for civic functions, a lucrative side business. St. Martin, with a population of 5423 registered voters (increased from 5380 the previous year) enjoyed a laid-back lifestyle residents in nearby Baton Rouge envied.

After Melodie placed the tote bag on a work table in the wide foyer, she unzipped the jacket to her DKNY sweatsuit, and massaged her left shoulder, as if to flatten out a soreness. She then sighed and straightened her New Orleans Saints emblazoned tee shirt. Manicured hands combed short, frosted hair into place -- slanted downward over the right eye and forward behind ears, each with a two-caret diamond framed in a platinum oval. With a bright, white smile, Melodie entered the cavernous Legion Hall. She froze mid-step, eyes wide at the flurry of activity.

The evening's catering crew hurried to assemble and position linen-draped round tables outward from a hardwood dance floor. A disc jockey in the far right corner toyed with an amplifier's sound. Intermittant high screeches pierced the room. Eleven volunteers, a small-town sorority of childhood friends turned into 1968 graduates of St. Martin High School, worked to change a drab room into a southern garden. Small groups of giggling women manipulated paper cut-outs into trellising purple wisteria on white walls or arranged silent auction donations on a table at the back of the long room.

"Great balls of fire, you're here!" Marilyn called across the din, beneath streamers looped across the dance floor ceiling. The 1965 St. Martin High School Homecoming Queen wore an LSU tee shirt over khaki Bermuda shorts and purple leggings. She had pulled salt and pepper hair into a short ponytail and wore no make-up. Except for small laugh lines around brown eyes that twinkled and generous lips that loved to laugh, time had by-passed a flawless, dewy complexion. Marilyn laughed as she walked toward her childhood friend. "I thought you'd gotten lost on Blueberry Hill."

Melodie suppressed a giggle and struck a pouty, Marilyn Monroe pose. "Don't be cruel. I've lost five pounds. Only thirty more to go. That fat's gonna be all shook up!" Melodie felt a hand on her shoulder and turned around.

"That'll be the day we throw another party," Helen laughed and shook her pony tail. "Where've you been? I worried your diabetes had kicked you."

"Nah, the beast is under control, thank God. I got hung up coming from Weight Watchers. The town's installing that new traffic light today. Can you believe St. Martin's going to have three traffic lights? If this keeps up, we will be a suburb of Baton Rouge."

Helen looked around the room. Workers placed pastel spring floral arrangements she'd donated on tables. She sighed. "It's a double-edged sword. Those Baton Rouge people give me a lot of business." The ten classmates who had gathered around Melodie and Helen grew quiet.

After the birth of their third child, Helen's husband had left her for another woman in another state, beyond the law's limited child support reach. Hard work had turned a fledgling business into a success that had not only supported and educated her three grown children but had branched into a Baton Rouge shop her son managed.

Tears rolled down Melodie's plump cheeks. "I'm sorry, Helen. I didn't mean to - "

"Nonsense," Helen interrupted, "you didn't say anything wrong.  It's the times. Everybody's caught. We're damned if we do and damned if we don't, even in little St. Martin." She wiped Melodie's cheeks with rough fingers, but with a mother's touch. Melodie's husband and their mentally challenged, grown son had died eight months earlier in a mall parking lot in Baton Rouge when a drunk driver had veered onto the walkway and hit them full force. "Now," Helen said, "come on, girl. We've got work to do."

Melodie shook her head. "Maybe I should go home. Being cheerful is too difficult. I thought I'd never finish those wisteria cut-outs. I would get it together for a little while, then I'd fall apart and have to start over. Oh, but Harry loved to dance." She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

"But you accomplished your goal, Melodie. You didn't give up." Marilyn stepped through the group, took her friend's hands, and cupped a quivering chin. "And you're here. You're not at home crying. These are positive steps. Each day can't be perfect. You've got to focus on the positive, not the negative.  Emotional healing takes time. Don't beat up on yourself."  After long seconds, Melodie sniffled and smiled. "You can do this," Marilyn continued. "There will always be two scars on your heart, but it can still beat with love."

"Maybe my little Jake, my only grandchild, would have died if you and Henry hadn't built the children's hospital," Mary Ann whispered.

"And what about the expenses your foundation pays when parents don't have insurance?" Lettie asked.

Becky leaned forward to speak. A loud screech from the DJ's corner drowned her words. "What'd I say?" she asked, in the pause before another screech blasted the room. The group laughed at the oldie-but-goodie reply, then broke into whoops, and raced to the dance floor.   "It's our theme song," Marilyn called to the DJ.

Long-ago jitterbug partners grabbed each other's hands and fell into familiar routines. Tired legs morphed into a filly's grace. Quick feet moved with the Fifties magic.

One for the money. Jitterbuggers whirled outward and stopped.

Two for the money.  Energized memories whirled inward and waited.

Three for the money.  Eager feet tapped into the pause.

The young DJ smiled and cranked up the volume.

Now, go, cat, go!

And the cats let go, pony tails flying.

Pronouns and Verbs and Dialogue

2011-02-23T10:51:00.005-05:00

Before today's post swirls in verbs and pronouns, I'd like to send prayers to the good people of New Zealand. The horrific earthquake so sucked the breath out of Christchurch my heart cries. I know the strong and resolute people of New Zealand will bury their dead wrapped in tears, rebuild at whatever sacrifice, and carry on with their lives, however painful. A visit to Gallipoli several years ago defined and honored the national character of the New Zealanders and Australians (for they have suffered much from natural disasters.) Each year, Anzac Day commemorates a spirit that neither retreats nor runs from adversity. Sadly, this April 25th will be especially poignant.

I'd like to give a warm welcome to my new followers and a hug to older followers who've hung in there with me. My eyes pop when I see the number, over 300! Who, me? I think. When I began blogging, I honestly didn't know where the experience would lead. I thank you for the richness you've brought to my life, for all that I've learned from you, and for allowing me to be me. Another day we'll celebrate the 300th Follower milestone.

In the meantime, a conversation with sixteen-year-old Michelle, a neighbor's lovely daughter, triggered today's post. When Michelle complained the YA book on their coffee table had made her "feel stupid", I asked to take a look. The next day I returned the book, eyebrows raised. Michele had spoken the truth. If, however, the author (and, presumably, the editor) had paid attention to basic English grammar, an age-appropriate book with a strong plot and interesting setting would have elicited a different reaction. Here's why:

Excessive pronoun usage caused the reader, yours truly, to flip pages to determine who was who in much of the dialogue, why a vague who said what to another vague who, and, by the way, this it referred back to . . . more flipped pages. Without help from the author, I thought I'd fallen into Albert and Costello's Who's on First?  However, slapstick doesn't work in a non-comedic read. The constant annoyance at flipping pages faded the plot and characterizations into a reader's survival blur, certainly not the author's intent.

The second dialogue problem I encountered involved the past progressive tense (was going, was looking, was thinking and so on.) I knew, from teaching seventh through twelfth grades, that ninth graders (usually about 14 years old) live in the past progressive tense. However, because all of the older characters in Michelle's book lived in this awkward tense, characterizations came across as forced and unbelievable. The past progressive tense (was going, was looking, was thinking and so on) can be an evasive tense which allows time to bridge a threatening why asked in the present progressive tense or to evade what's anticipated and so on. Some real examples, with the teacher's thoughts, from classroom days:

Why are you standing near the window?
(When you should be seated at your desk. Hmmm.)
I was looking to see if it was raining.
(It's a bright sunny day. Hmm)

Why are you talking to X?
(While you're taking a test. Hmmm.)
I was telling X my mother wants to talk to h/h mother.
(While you're taking a test! HMMM.)

Why don't you have your homework?
(Again! Hmmm.)
I was cooking breakfast and an egg fell on it.
(Really? Hmmm.)

The book I borrowed from Michelle, a book more for an eighteen-year-old, lived in the past progressive tense. By the age of 18, a student's verb usage has evolved into more mature choices:

Ninth-grader: I was going to see that movie, but my friend said it sucked.

Eighteen-year-old: I heard that movie sucked. Or, I've heard that movie sucked.

Michelle's book so frustrated, I thought I'd never escape that read. I did, however, keep in mind what had irritated and made a point to listen intently to dialogues of all ages, both in real live and on television. I found the past progressive tense common with young teens in real life turned into strong verbs on television. Otherwise, I rarely heard the past progressive tense. . . except for one itty bitty observation: I was just going is popular with everyone.

Hmmm, I was just going to Home Depot when the phone rang. Honest!

Blogfest; Taking Day Off

2011-02-16T10:16:00.001-05:00

I'm delighted that Nicole at One Significant Moment in Time is hosting a really fun blog fest. Hope you can click over and join in the fun.

I hope to meet some lovely new bloggers. I also need to feel the love. Here's why:

In early December the knob to the shower in the master bathroom broke. What I didn't think would be much of a big deal has turned into a major, continuing project. In order to get to that shower knob, workers had to gut the room! Manufacturers no longer made a replacement knob. To get any new knob to work, pipes had to be changed. Tons of dust, a massive disarray, and much money later, the completely re-tiled shower worked. I felt like throwing a party! But we were off to New Orleans for Christmas and celebrated in the French Quarter.

Workers are now in the guest bathroom, the room on the other side of this computer room Same problem. That shower knob broke (same style). Another gutted room. Oy! Oy! Last night I thought to tidy up the dust, didn't see a thingie on the floor, and, yep, tripped. Had a soft landing in a chair, but the ole butt's a bit sore today. Eeeesh!

Double Eeeesh! The plumber just told me a piece is missing from the sealed box I bought at Home Depot. I've got to return the box, get a new box, and pay the plumber double. And, just called Home Depot...there are shoplifters who can re-seal a box to make it look like it came from the factory. Sick! But Home Depot said the plumber could return the box/check new box (as I'm clueless). Plumber had to go there for another job so will cut my cost a bit.

Nevermind. Let's drop the adult stuff and have some fun. As part of the blog fest, I've got to answer these questions. Here goes:

1.What is your favorite word?

          Really?
2.What is your least favorite word?

          Impossible.
3.What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?

          A walk in the park.
4.What turns you off?

          Those dreadful TV programs where politicos yell at each other, all in the name of discussing current events. I'm fed-up with all that stupid stuff so I turn them off.
5.What is your favorite curse word?

             Same as in Shakespeare's time: zounds.    (Which was the f-bomb during Shakespeare's time; I get to cuss and others think it's quaint, whoo hoo!)
6.What sound or noise do you love?

               A gentle rain.
7.What sound or noise do you hate?

               Screeching electric guitar 'music'.

8.What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

                 Anthropology.

9.What profession would you not like to do?

                 Pizza delivery (I have NO sense of direction!)

10.If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

                  Happy you made it!

How Now, Brown Cow?

2011-02-08T10:20:00.001-05:00

(Today's Louisiana story lacks a plot or complex characters.  Today's story is about the mundane, the ordinary, that evolves into a larger picture, life. I have warm memories of childhood games that led to much for me, but know others who carry different memories. For too many, the Good Ole Days were anything but that.)

* * * * *

The house felt empty in the morning quiet. Like a rabbit afraid to move, nervous eyes scanned the bedroom's celery green walls, rested upon the framed crayon drawing of a yellow clown, and blinked a smile.

My room looked the same:  red-haired Raggedy Ann sat atop the white chest of drawers near the closed door;  three green- and yellow-swirled cushioned stools waited beneath a low table painted white, a yellow lamp at the left corner, near a jacks-filled Mason jar; and to the left of me, lacy white curtains shadowed a drawn shade above a white bookcase, small books in neat rows. A white rocker with a menagerie of stuffed animals filled the corner, between the bed and the chest of drawers. My yellow robe draped over the chair's arm.

Comforted by the familiar in the heavy, mid-January light, I pushed aside the bed covers, stepped into fuzzy slippers, and tip-toed to the rocker for my robe. The yellow slippers slapped against the hardwood floor: one, two, three, four, five, six. I stopped, took a deep breath, and named the months: January, February, March, April, May, June. In almost six months, on July 9, 1953, I would be six years old. At the happy thought, I buttoned the yellow robe Mama had made, hurried out of the bedroom, and raced down the hall toward the kitchen, slapping and counting . . . seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven . . . . I slammed on the brakes before entering the kitchen.

Mama stood tall and slim at the edge of the white-tiled kitchen counter, near the wall clock. She had big blue eyes in a fair-complexioned oval face with high cheeks and full lips. Mama wore a chocolate-brown, long-sleeved, shirt-waist dress, stockings, and dark brown flats, the shoes she'd bought on Canal Street when we visited her mother in New Orleans weeks earlier for Christmas.

Mama didn't wear the pretty shoes outside. She fussed that the January rains had turned our South Louisiana farm into a mud puddle. This wasn't quite true, but I'd learned that adults talked indirectly, that the words I heard usually meant something else. Since it wasn't raining today, I knew Mama complained about living on a farm and not in New Orleans. However, I didn't say anything. Adults made things too complicated to talk about.

Mama waited with a bright, white smile. After I completed the morning ritual and told her the time, 8:33 a.m., she kissed my forehead, poured me a glass of cold milk, then crossed to the stove. While the bacon fried, I counted the big sips of milk, twelve, wiped one white moustache with one yellow napkin, and waited five minutes for breakfast: one egg buried under grits, two strips of bacon, and one slice of unbuttered toast (which made butter a zero.)

Midway through a bite of toast, my eyes froze into blue saucers. I was minus one sister. Sarah's chair stood empty. My three-year-old sister had disappeared. Much to my surprise, the bumbling, knock-everything-down activity that infuriated on a normal day left a worried emptiness this morning. I pulled closer to the kitchen table and tilted my head to see through the window, across the pasture to Ma's house.

My grandparent's Big House looked empty. Scalloped shades hung low in windows, like a white house with Band-aids. Ma raised the shades every morning at 8:00. In an era when few had telephones, the ritual told passers-by in the rural community the day had begun without incident. Unable to grasp why Ma had broken the routine, I scrunched my nose into deeper thought (a habit Sarah said made me look like a freckled bass.)

Mama saw the confused look and half-smiled an apologetic explanation. Sarah had dressed and run across the pasture to sweet-talk Ma into making pancakes. Daddy, who had graduated from Louisiana State University's School of Law, had gone to his mother's to get Sarah. He was in a hurry because he had to be at the courthouse in Baton Rouge by 10:00. However, when Ma learned about the trip, she decided to go. She wanted to visit a niece in Baton Rouge. Sarah then cried she wanted to go. To keep the peace and with precious time fading, Daddy acquiesced.

After the explanation, Mama patted me on the head and left to tend to Dan, my baby brother. He slept in a crib in my parent's bedroom.  Alone in the kitchen, I stared at grits and bacon that now looked yucky. I felt left out. Everybody had something exciting to do except me. Tick! Tick! Tick! The clock sounded like a canon in the too-quiet room.

Dan's sudden cry snapped me back to reality. I hid the bacon I didn't like on the window sill, behind the yellow curtain panel, to dispose of later, and swirled the yellow egg yolk I didn't like into grits divided into two mounds. After I ate the white mound, I flattened the smaller yellow mound, just as Mama entered the kitchen. She smiled at the almost-empty plate.

That morning ritual accomplished, I dressed, helped Mama make my bed, and selected a book to read. While we sat on the living room sofa, as we did most weekday mornings, Mama held Dan in the crook of her left arm, and listened to me read. I hoped there would be a really big word.  Mama turned tongue twisters into a game. The day before, we'd laughed at how many cows could fit into a coliseum.

Just as I'd turned the story's last page, I heard my grandfather's steps on the porch and rushed to open the front door. I giggled and laughed as he swooped me up, swung me down, and removed his felt grey hat. My grandfather was tall and muscled thin. He had deep blue eyes in a clear oval face, chiseled cheeks, and a firm jaw. Pa asked if I wanted to ride with him to check on the cows in a back pasture. He didn't have to ask twice. Mama bundled me into a heavy coat and warm mittens. The cap she'd crocheted pushed my auburn hair under the black coat's collar.

I chatted about my favorite book, One, Two, and Three Kittens, while Pa drove the Ford truck, careful to stay on the dirt track and not disturb bordering grasses. A man of few words, he listened, nodded, and asked questions that sparked my chatter. When we reached the back pasture, he cut the truck's engine. We walked toward the scattered, brown-faced cows he had separated from the main herd. Accustomed to Pa's presence, they continued to graze.

Some minutes later, satisfied that nothing looked amiss, Pa pushed back his hat and asked how many legs a cow had. I giggled the obvious answer. My mind went blank when he asked how many legs existed when the number multiplied . . .two cows times four legs . . . eight legs.  Several cows and many legs later, my mind exploded with energy. I didn't have to count the legs on my fingers, stop at ten and begin again. By the time Pa drove me home, I had become like Sarah, too eager to sit still. Multiplication was fun. I couldn't wait to tell Mama.

Epilogue:

If you read "Remy Broussard's Christmas", a holiday story I posted, you know that Remy was fictitious, but the setting was real. For two years, first and third grades, I attended a three-room school with two grades in each room. I skipped the second grade because my family had spent time with me, preparing me for school, and because I sat where Remy sat, next to the second-grade, I could absorb lessons there.

Today, as I sit at the keyboard and think back to that classroom, I see eager faces who learned under difficult conditions: crowded, unheated classrooms in a school that lacked a cafeteria, educational toys, and, often, barely trained teachers, if that trained. I was one of the lucky ones because my family owned land and enjoyed a comfortable income.

I say 'lucky' because, there for the grace of God go I: the majority of my classmates were the sons and daughters of sharecroppers, hard-working people trapped in a system that prevented economic progress. My family had the money to purchase books.  My parents didn't work in the fields from dawn to dusk and had the time to spend with me. Most of the kids I attended school with dropped out of school when they turned 13, to work in the fields alongside their parents. It is sad to think how their lives might have been if opportunity had existed. Parents needed their kids in the fields to work off exorbitant rents or face eviction. With nowhere else to go, the system perpetuated itself. Until 1964.

The 1964 Civil Rights Act broke the back of the sharecropper system. Recovery takes time.

Great-grandmother's Secret

2011-01-27T15:27:00.003-05:00

You've got to be the sweetest, nicest people in Blogville! *smiles happily, sends hugs* Thank you, thank you for your get-well wishes, bowls of soup and awards (will post later). That nasty bug has finally taken a hike! Of course, with life being life, other things happened to keep me away a bit longer, but, enough, we gotta move on! This includes welcoming new Followers! *sends big hugs* There are some great mug shots in the sidebar. Those of you who haven't met, come on, click on over and say Howdy!

When I began blogging, I knew the twist for my Louisiana stories resulted from 1867 occurrences. What I didn't realize, though, was how much the simple docking of a ship in New Orleans rippled into history. The Christmas holiday trip to New Orleans showed me that often what's taken for granted once swirled in a hubris which resulted in change, both real and superficial.

I have distinct memories of my great-grandmother, Ramona Garcia Oubre. As was the custom Back Then, families regularly interacted, especially on Sundays, with an entire day devoted to doing, well, not much beyond what families did when they got together (hang out with their posse): talk, laugh, eat, tell stories, and linger into the day.

Great-grandmother Oubre always wore, in an era of absolutes, a long prairie dress and bonnet, even inside the house. On Sundays she always made a pie for after-dinner dessert. As fruit trees and berry bushes abounded, these pies reflected what was in season. However, her lemon meringue pie reigned as the favorite.

Everyone gathered around when my great-grandmother removed the pie from the oven (for she wouldn't relegate this task.) We always oohed and ahhhed. She had baked a pie with a peaked, feathery light, golden meringue in a wood-burning stove!

Ramona Garcia was about six years old when she (and probably other siblings) and her parents came to the United States.  Her family fled a village in northern Spain. This Jewish family fled from a pogrom, where Jews are massacred, that had reached the village nearest them.

My great-grandmother's parents had sufficient money to buy passage on a ship leaving Spain, as it turned out, for New Orleans. The family gathered those possessions they could carry and trekked to a port.

Ramona Garcia's parents died in the 1867 yellow fever epidemic in New Orleans. Spanish Carmalite nuns found her begging on a street corner. She was approximately seven years old. The Carmalite nuns brought her to what is now the Bourbon Orleans Hotel (and where my husband and I stayed during Christmas.)

In 1867, this French Quarter hotel housed a Roman Catholic convent and orphanage run by the Sisters of the Holy Family, the first African-American Catholic order, founded in New Orleans by Henriette Delille (1813-1862), "a free woman of color", and recognized by the Vatican in 1842. The Sisters of the Holy Family remain an active order to this day. In 2010, the Catholic Church declared Henriette Delille 'venerable', the first step toward sainthood. (In 2001, Lifetime television premiered a movie about Henriette Delille's life, The Courage to Love.) For more about Henriette Delille go, here and here for more about the Sisters of the Holy Family.

The many orphanages in and around the French Quarter refused to give my great-grandmother refuge because she was Jewish. Henriette Delille's order thought differently. African-American nuns not only sheltered her but provided a first-rate education.  She learned to read and write in Spanish and French and became proficient in those arts then expected of a young lady: cooking, sewing, embroidery, singing, and ballroom dancing. However, those days being what they were, with such prejudice against Jews, the nuns decided Ramona Cohen should be Ramona Garcia. Again, the days being what they were, her given religion became Roman Catholic.

When I asked my grandmother if her mother had converted out of belief or out of circumstances, the thoughtful answer was that she never converted, but did attend the Catholic Church with her Catholic husband and their children, who were born into the religion. However, as each of her eleven children became an adult (my grandmother was the youngest), she told the story of how and why she came to the States and that she was a Cohen, not a Garcia.

My great-grandmother met my great-grandfather though a whistle: he, a fourteen-year-old French sailor on Bourbon Street; she, a thirteen-year old standing at a convent window looking down. He whistled first! The two song birds married. My great-grandfather was the nephew from the family line that first came to, and remained in, what is now Louisiana in 1679, ten years before Iberville founded Biloxi.

The secret, that Ramona Garcia was Ramona Cohen, reverberated, much like a pebble skimming across water. Even though my grandmother was born into the Roman Catholic faith and followed its tenets (well, okay, followed what she chose to follow), she feared neighbors along the country bayou, all devout Catholics (who also chose which tenets to follow), would "sense" (her word) something was amiss "and nose around" (her words) and "turn against the family" (her words) if they learned of the Jewish heritage that, by Jewish law, said my grandmother was Jewish, as was her son, my father, but not his kids as lineage passes through the mother. My grandmother held a deep fear that neighbors would cut her out of a rural lifestyle where neighborly relations determined much.

So, grandmother had embarked upon what my father called "an exaggerated Catholicism" to shield the secret. My father, of course, knew the secret, didn't care, and rolled his eyes when the Catholic Church excommunicated him for joining the Masonic Order. But he said nothing about the secret as he had promised his mother not to do so while she lived.

her later years, my grandmother had come to believe that what caused fear had to change, in essence, my great-grandmother was who she was, and should be embraced for being that person. She wanted the secret to be a non-secret, not only because she was proud of her mother for surviving much, but because my grandmother spoke openly about how "people need to learn to work together." (her words) Actually, that afternoon in the kitchen on her Louisiana farm, my grandmother spoke at length about mistakes she'd made and lessons learned and how she didn't want my generation to fall into the trap of living a life that pleased others or what others wanted. (Trust me on this one, I haven't.)

Since my grandmother had traveled outside of Louisiana, I asked her if she thought people elsewhere wouldn't have turned on Jewish roots. She didn't hesitate to say no and talked at some length about how she thought either hid in a group mentality or liked a group's power as much as they feared the group turning on them. Bottom line: my grandmother thought people everywhere should respect each other.  And, so, with the secret released today a promise is kept

I'd like to thank the management and staff of the Bourbon Orleans Hotel for their time, interest, and enthusiasm. I can't rave enough about everyone's warm and generous hospitality. Plus, rooms facing Bourbon Street are out-sized, like an apartment; the dining room has a chef (lured away from Muriel's) - the 'Chef's Creation' is to die for, lots of crawfish and seasonings scrambled in those eggs, ohhhh, so good!
I'd especially like to single out Mr. Ron Laigale, the widely respected and long-time concierge at the Bourbon Orleans, for providing me with invaluable materials and information. I learned from Mr. Laigale that New Orleans, because of its Spanish history, was a common destination for many ships with Jewish passengers escaping persecution in Europe in the 1800s and that a significent percentage of the Catholic population in New Orleans could trace family roots to this era.

Mr. Laigale also encouraged me to contact a French Quarter resident who is writing a book on Henriette Delille. And he pointed me in the direction of a French Quarter resident whose family came to the United States to escape persecution and who could be descended from a brother my great-grandmother may have had. I totally love how all this interacts and how, as big as the world is, it's pretty small after all.

In the meantime, I'm going to post my Louisiana stories as usual, when the whim hits. If a bit of exaggerated religion interacts, just smile and read on. You know the secret.

Jumping into the New Year!

2011-01-08T12:27:00.001-05:00

Happy New Year! From our house to yours, heartfelt wishes for a healthy, happy, and prosperous New Year. And I hope ya'll had a great holiday season!

Thursday evening, hub and I returned from our trip to New Orleans (after driving from Gatlinburg, Tennessee, to the Northern Virginia, environs.) We had a glorious time in the Big Easy (New Orleand)! (I've posted some photos on the sidebar.)

Thanks to the helpful personnel at the Bourbon Orleans Hotel, I learned much about my great-grandmother's early history. (Her parents died in the 1867 yellow fever epidemic; Spanish Carmelite nuns brought her to an orphanage/convent, now the Bourbon Orleans Hotel.) Yes, yes, I felt her energy!! And I'm going to share this with you, including Great-grandma Oubre's 'secret', after I cross-check my notes. Her life was such a rich tapestry, I'm awestruck at how she persevered and prospered.

In the meantime, I'm posting photos from our drive along Mississippi's Gulf Coast (going to New Orleans) and across the middle of the state (returning to Virginia). A lovely Mississippian, Shelley Rickey, is in Rotterdam, The Netherlands. She's doing what young people do: seeing the world, learning and growing in the process. Shelley plays the ukulele and has quite a following in Europe, along with the band she's in! I also learned much from her blog about holiday customs in The Netherlands.

From one who's spent a lot of time overseas and remembers how it feels to touch Home to one who's There now, as promised, some Mississippi photos:

Crossing into Mississippi from Alabama!

The Welcome Center at the state line.

Elvis still rocks!

Even in the South, a region known for its hospitality, Mississippi's graciousness is legend.

Holiday display at the Beau Rivage Hotel, Biloxi, Mississippi, on the Gulf Coast. Hurricane Katrina wrecked this beautiful resort, but management rebuilt, and it's more beautiful than before. There's also a $15.00 buffet that offers every mouth-watering treat imaginable. And slot machines and card games for those so inclined. And golf. And a luxurious spa, ahhh, very nice!

View of the Gulf of Mexico from our 19th floor room. That's a man-made boom/barrier. I lack the words to express how much I longed to see the Gulf, smell the Gulf.

Trees that survived Hurricane Katrina.

Right across the road from the Gulf of Mexico.

So many homes were destroyed. But houses in the background show efforts to rebuild.

Hotels have rebuilt or are buying up cheap land to build. The fear is that the Gulf Coast will become a strip mall of hotels.

With beautiful, rebuilt homes dotting the shoreline drive, lost amid commercialization. But people need jobs that hotels support...they also need the money the rich pour into the area as tourism is seasonal, all a vicious circle. So many people said that they were on the verge of turning the corner when the BP disaster hit and the tourists didn't come.

The beaches along the Gulf Coast are magnificent. Since Louisiana has maybe ten feet of beaches, Louisianians enjoy frequent visits here. The white sand and the blue Gulf are a holiday-perfect combination.

Protected grasses on the beach.

More rebuilding.

Shrimp boats at Bay St. Louis. A slice of Cajun life is here as Cajun Country incorporates the Three B's: Beaumont, Texas; Baton Rouge, Louisiana; and Bay St. Louis.

Just stop here for some delicious po'boys. (That's my hub to the far left.)

Or enjoy roasted pig (couchon). . . at the Beau Rivage buffet.

As much as I my LSU heart would like to say otherwise, Ole Miss has got to have one of the prettiest college towns in the U.S. (And Tracy left a lovely comment about Blind Side and Ole Miss. Michael Oher was the African student adopted by a wealthy white family who became a star at Ole Miss. Thanks, Tracy. Ya'll be sure and check out Tracy's blog!)

Gorgeous!

William Faulkner loved Ole Miss.

He lived here, just outside the campus, round the corner.

Linda Mead, one of Mississippi's Miss America's.

Shotgun house. Prior to the Louisiana Purchase, Mississippi was a French colony, with Biloxi as the capital. The French influence remains. This photo was taken in Natchez, a city with an incredible historic district. . . so many beautiful homes from riverboat days. . . with a few shotgun houses here and there.

Driving across the Mississippi River from Louisiana into Natchez.

Mississippi on the left; Louisiana on the right.

A bench in Mississippi. . . sit and rest a spell.

Louisiana Beckons; Lots of Links

2010-12-16T19:28:00.001-05:00

Louisiana beckons!  Saturday morning we begin the drive from Northern Virginia to the Bayou State. Hub and I also get to visit briefly with dear friends in Marietta, Georgia. I'm really excited about this trip!
So, with this post, there's a holiday pause. From our house to yours, my husband and I wish each of you a joyous holiday and a happy new year! May you enjoy life's many blessings!

But, before I plug in the Christmas tree and crank up the music, I'd like to give a big thank you and warm welcome to my new followers. I'm really appreciative you're here, as I am with everyone who has faith in me. There are times, when I can't get a word just right, and think, wow...you believe that I can...and, so, I think harder. A big Thank You and a bigger Hug to each of you (including my "Anonymous" family and friends) for reading my blog and for leaving such motivational comments.

Some weeks ago, The Blogger Formerly Known As ...graciously awarded me the Cherry on the Top/Life is Good Award for a good read ...and also had me blushing for this gal in the U.K. is an amazing writer with amazing stories. Thank you Blogger Formerly Known As.... You're terrific! If you haven't checked out her blog, hmmmm, you're missing out.  Before passing on this delicious award, I've got to tell you several things I'd change in my past:

                                          1. Even though I took a lot of risks for my generation, I wish I'd taken more.
                                          2. I wish I'd bought that emerald ring in Hong Kong. Drats!
                                          3. I wouldn't have worried about stuff that faded into nothing.
                                          4. Even though I am aggressive, I would have been more aggressive.
                                          5. Even though I danced till the wee hours, I would have danced till dawn.

The recipients below are requested to pass the award on. (More awards follow this list; keep scrolling.)

Lyn (Torquoise Moon) at http://daily-turquoisemoon.blogspot.com/

Kimberly Franklin at Confessions: The Secret Life of a Writer

Jayne at A Novice Novelist

Rachel at Rachel Morgan Writes

PK at PK Hrezo

E. Elle at The Writer's Funhouse

For some time I've wanted to initiate an award but didn't know how to design one. I got lucky at e-how.com where I discovered an award that anyone could use. A freebie I can handle, yay! So, to those who commented on my last post (as of this blog's posting), this Smile Award is for you. There are also lots of new followers in this long list, so I hope everyone will click away and gain some new followers as well. Followers and Comments are a lovely combination!!

Recipients, please pass on the award as you like:

Shelly Sly at Stories in the Ordinary

Project Hyakumeizan at One Hundred Mountains

Rachel at Sweet and Sour Realism

Katherine Magendie at Writing from My Mountain

Shirley Wells at Shirley Wells

Morrow at Practicing Poetry

Jane at Gaston Studio

Linda Starr at Blue Starr Gallery

Marguerite at Cajun Delights

T. Anne at T. Anne Adams

Pam Torres at So I'm Fifty

Zara at Gypsy Village

Ann Best at Long Journey Home

Talei at Musings of an Aspiring Scribe

Kristy at Koda's Totems

Cricket at Cricket and Porcupine

Steve at Out on the Prairie

Jackee at Winded Words

Erica at A Novel - Hypothetically Speaking

Louanne at Louanne's Kitchen

Decca at A Case of Myth-taken Identity

Rezden at Randomnesws for Now

MT at Michelle Teacress

Francine at Francine Howarth

Mary Aalgaard at Play off the Page

Manzanita at Wanna Buy a Duck

Inger at Desert Canyon Living

Roland at Writing in the Crosshairs

Stephanie at Hatshepsut: The Writing of a Novel

Talli at Talli Roland

From the Kitchen at From a Writer's Kitchen

Tracy at My Thoughtful Spot

Su at Cheekyness

Tsipise at Tsipise

Hilary at The Smitten Image

Stella at Tales of a Super Nova

L'Aussie at L'Aussie's Writing Blog

Into the Holiday Spirit

2010-11-30T11:52:00.000-05:00

The Thanksgiving holiday worked its magic. I'm definitely into the spirit of the season. I learned long ago my inner child can't sit around wishing for laughter and good times. She's gotta exert some energy to make it happen. And so it is. Hub and I and the inner children (for he has an inner child, too) will be taking a trip during the Christmas holidays.

But, first, before I share the excitement, a warm welcome to my new Followers. Lots of new blogs to enjoy, yum! However, if you don't hear from me, it's because I can't link to your blog. Please, please check your profile page to ensure there's a link! (I can usually link to you, tho, if you drop a comment. Hey, I don't pretend to understand Blogger!)

Speaking of Blogger, some of the blogs I follow are back on the sidebar. These blogs will be rotated so that everyone gets linked (and, hopefully, readers will click over and say Hi!) How the selected blogs came to be was very scientific: I scrolled through the blogs I follow and clicked a blog when hub said 'stop'!

I love comments, read each one, and thank you for taking the time. I also enjoy the interesting info you share. Fantasy author N. R. Williams commented that he was descended from the Pilgrims, the ones who didn't come here for religious reasons, but from the Mayflower's crew, many of whom married within the religious group. Wow, what an interesting family history!

My southern tummy purred when I read Baroness Radon prepared Okinawan sweet potatoes for Thanksgiving. I adore sweet potatoes and, having lived in Okinawa, Japan, for two years, could taste the delicious sweet potato that is purple! (If you haven't checked out her blog, tsk, tsk!)

Near and dear to my LSU (Louisiana State University) heart, Grandpa commented from Malaysia that "many agriculture graduates from LSU" work for the company he works for there. This company is headquartered in North Carolina. It's amazing -- and really fabulous -- how the world links up!

Besides meeting nice new people like you, blogging has encouraged me to stretch myself. I surprised myself when I decided to enter a fictitious story before December 7th for the optional writing half of Erica's Blog Fest. This is a stretch I'm enjoying because I haven't dipped into the fictitious world since some writing courses at LSU years ago. You're very kind readers who've given me the confidence to relax with a character I've come to love and I thank you for that. HUGS!
Now, about that trip hub and I are taking during the Christmas holidays. It's to New Orleans, not exactly a surprise. But, wait! Instead of staying with family (they will visit us), we're staying in the French Quarter. Here's why (and why I'm beyond excited):

Some posts ago, I introduced you to my great-grandmother in a two-part story, A Rose by Any Other Name Is Paint. Grandma Oubre was approximately four years old when she came to the United States, from Spain, in 1863, when Abraham Lincoln was president. Her parents were among the 3107 who died in the yellow fever epidemic in New Orleans in 1867.

Spanish Carmelite nuns saw my great-grandmother begging for food on a street corner, coaxed her in their carriage, and brought her to their convent, specifically for her to become a Catholic nun.

Great-grandma, then a little girl, lived in their convent, in what were called 'cells', along with the other novices. However, great-grandma chose another path. One day, while standing at her cell window and looking down at Bourbon Street, a young French sailor whistled to her. She was now 13 years old and whistled back. A few weeks later, she slipped out of the convent, met the young sailor, and married him that day. My grandmother was the youngest of their eleven children.

Hub and I will be staying in that convent, now the Bourbon Orleans Hotel. As far as anyone knows, the French Quarter boutique hotel is the only such converted convent in the United States (outside of places for retreats and the like). During the Civil War, the hotel was a Confederate hospital.

I've been in the hotel more than a few times, each time awed by how my great-grandmother came to live there and the history of what followed. It's been a long-held dream to stay in the Bourbon Orleans. But the room had to face Bourbon Street. The dream comes true this Christmas. I want to stand at the window and feel the history. I honestly can't wait! (Be still, Inner Child; you must!)

(And, one of these days I'll tell you great-grandma's secret. You're gonna go, say what? But you must wait!)

When It Rains It Pours

2010-11-08T11:49:00.000-05:00

There's a family situation that needs me There, not Here. It's not a life-threatening situation. Basically, one of my sisters needs an extra set of hands to help out. This is what sisters do, so I'll be winging my way There in the Friendly Skies. Everything's going to be fine, just one of those things. But I won't be able to post for a bit...don't think there will be extra time.

I'll catch up with you later :)))

XOXO Kittie

A Scary BOO! and Awards

2010-10-30T11:25:00.007-04:00

I think of Halloween as a time for kids of all ages to have fun. Fun costumes. Fun parties. I've never been one for scary movies. Yipes! Steve McQueen's Blob did me in, all very funny now, but not at the time. We gals would go en masse on Saturdays to one of the two movie theatres in our small town in Louisiana. We dressed to the nines. Snuck on a bit of make-up later (really, not much; twas a small town; we weren't totally stupid). A hurricane wouldn't have fazed our much-sprayed hair-dos. We always arrived a little early and sat demurely in the same area (bottom right), in the same seats (I sat between Melodie and Wheezie) and munched popcorn in unision.

The boys sat in the same area (bottom left, across the aisle from us). They swam in their dads' after shave cologne. Achoo!  Tossed popcorn landed on their crew-cuts (which resulted in them bopping each other on the head.) When the popcorn ran out, they'd look across the aisle with pleading, hound dog looks.

No deal! No popcorn! We knew each other too well. Lived around corners from each other. Walked to school together. Cheered together at each others' sporting events. We liked each other a lot.  (Still do.) Just not when it came to popcorn.

These days I've been munching a lot of popcorn.  Have this ms that needs revising and editing. While hub's in California on a business trip, I've been burning the midnight oil. Well, not always at the computer. Gotta take a few breaks and curl up on the sofa with a good book. (Professional enrichment, if you get my drift!) The end result is there's been enormous progress with the ms and I've got this scary, off-the-wall non-schedule that would make a gobblin scream. Think it's best I share my popcorn with hub when he returns Wednesday. And get caught up with your posts and get my hair trimmed and wash that pile of clothes in the laundry room and cook something besides meals that require three minutes to nuke.

In the meantime, before I dash out to buy a few more of those nukable bombs, I'd like to thank Mary Aalagaard for the Literacy Builder Award she so generously gave me. Wow, Mary, what an honor! And humbling. I'm not exaggerating when I say my eyes popped! When I began blogging a year ago in August, I wondered if anyone out there existed (besides close family and friends called Anon.) Mary responded with an "I do" and and the beginning of a fabulous blogging experience resulted that sometimes mades me wonder how I managed without all of you.  Again, no exaggeration.

If you've got a sec, please check out Mary's blog at Play off the Page. She's got a WIP, three boys and lots of fun ideas.

I hope those listed below pass on the award (there's a tie):

                                          Jack Matthews at Sage to Meadow for his efforts in making printed material about Nature available to more people;

                                          Kat and Angie for their efforts at Rose and Thorn Journal to find and showcase new literary talent;

                                          One Thousand Mountains for efforts to combine physical fitness and history in a way that makes others want to learn.

And Happy Halloween to All!

Fun Challenges; A Lion Lives in an Oak Tree (Louisiana Stories)

2010-10-22T14:56:00.007-04:00

You may not know this about me but I rarely enter contests. Today, though, I've entered Rach's Second Crusader Challenge, a fun writing challenge as I had to weave the post's opening phrase (in italics) and three specific words into today's story. Can you find the three words??

What you do know about me is that I love sharing links. Madeline's got a fun link-up post at Scribble and Edit. If you've got a sec, please drop by and join in!

A big hug for Marieke, a YA writer, at Marieke's Musings for being my 200th Follower! Whoot!

And, now, today's Louisiana story:
* * * * *
The four of us huddled beneath the Live Oak tree and stared at the spoors. We worried a lion had hidden among the tree's massive branches and would see us, but were too curious not to look at what had to be lion droppings. We whispered because we didn't want Mama to hear us. She was working in her flower garden. It overflowed with mounds of fall chrysanthemums.

Word had spread along the bayou that over a million lions had escaped from the Audubon Zoo in New Orleans. The ferocious animals had taken up residence along our twenty-five mile stretch of country road in South Central Louisiana. Parents wouldn't allow kids to play outside unless chaperoned. Farmers, like my grandfather, had moved cattle to different pastures. Fences had been checked, repaired and re-enforced where necessary. Dogs had been let loose at night to sound the alarm.

Since Sugar Bowl now had to sleep in the open and not in his doghouse, I worried a lion would eat him. Not everyone loved Sugar Bowl like I did. My black mutt ran in circles and howled until we kids shared sugary treats (which wasn't often in the 1950's). Maybe a lion would think Sugar Bowl looked like a treat.  He'd eaten a lot of sugar yesterday.  The ornery dog had snuck into the house, somehow toppled the sugar bowl and licked the kitchen table clean. Mama had been really mad at the mess she said he'd made.

Louis, Jr. scoffed at my worry.  His lofty attitude had become an umbrella response to everything now that he'd entered first grade.  My neighbor's son didn't think a lion would eat Sugar Bowl because Sugar Bowl was a boy. Lions feared boys.  At the slight, I narrowed my blue eyes and scrunched my nose. Louis Jr. laughed at the pugnacity, but bolted from the group.  Baby Joe, also my age, five-years-old, ran toward his friend, all the while daring Sarah and me to catch them in the open pasture.

The chase began as my mother dropped her gardening trowel into a basket. The clank of metal upon metal caused Sarah to stop.  My three-year-old sister wanted to help Mama gather stems of orange and yellow chrysanthemums for a vase in the living room. Mama preferred that Sarah played and got some exercise.

Crocodile tears gushed from Sarah's big blue eyes and rolled down rose-petal cheeks. I tugged on her hand. Again, Mama encouraged Sarah; they'd gather flowers later.  A bit peeved, Sarah shook her mop of sandy curls, then snuggled into me to ponder the options while Mama walked to the porch.  Sarah's brown Teddy bear dangled from her hand and brushed my bare legs.

It was one of those corn silk afternoons when birds chirped, bees buzzed and sunbeams blurred time. October's pumpkin sun had muted South Louisiana's searing heat and softened long afternoons into an autumnal skeleton that danced on gentle breezes. Mama's shoulder-length blond hair shimmered like golden topaz in the porch's reflected light.  My mother, a city gal from New Orleans with a German, not Cajun heritage, settled herself into a white rocking chair. The view overlooked an expanse of flat delta and bayou she had yet come to love.

When Sarah refused to leave my side, Louis, Jr. and Baby Joe laughed that she couldn't run with a Teddy bear. To everyone's surprise, Sarah dropped her beloved companion and lurched forward. The boys, who had sisters, knew how to play into the game. They allowed Sarah to catch them, then impersonated defeated roles to much applause and good-natured laughter.

After Sarah joined Mama on the porch, Louis, Jr., Baby Joe and I played tag. Sugar Bowl chased us as we ran barefoot across flat-lying sticker plant without fear of being stuck by white pincers. We ran and ran, from one side of the pasture to the other, from my grandparents' house to my parents' house. We ran and tagged each other for the sheer joy of having fun.

When our little legs grew tired, we returned to the porch. After Mama tethered Sugar Bowl in the backyard, she surprised us with homemade sugar cookies and cold milk. (Yes, Sugar Bowl received a treat later!) Louis, Jr. and Baby Joe then walked home, along the country road that fronted our fenced-in farm, but both houses within easy sight.

That evening, after supper (Kartoffelpuffer or German pancakes topped with applesauce) and after Sarah and I had prepared for bed, Mama said that we couldn't leave our bedroom (except to go to the bathroom.) A Louisiana Black bear, sometimes called a Honey bear, had wandered out of the densely wooded area at the deep end of the farm.

Men, including my father, would lie in wait for the bear to appear that night. A veterinarian would sedate the bear with a dart. The bear, thought to be a grown male, had been seen during the previous week, always at dusk.  He hadn't appeared malnourished and was thought to have a serious infection.   The veterinarian wanted to check for festering sores, also the bear's teeth. The possibility existed the bear had contracted rabies and would have to be put down. But the men who'd seen the bear didn't think the situation would come to this. The bear hadn't exhibited rabies-induced behavior. Still, the men would be armed.

Parents had spread the rumor about escaped lions because most of us kids had a Teddy bear. Parents worried that kids would think the bear was cute and harmless and try to pet it. Although the bear hadn't entered front pastures during the day, the mature animal had learned to navigate front pastures during the night.

Sarah and I slept through the excitement. Around midnight, the bear had appeared in the pasture behind the Live Oak tree where we kids had huddled, was sedated and found to have an infected cut. After cleaning the infection and injecting the bear with antibiotics, the men left the bear to sleep off the sedation and returned home.

No one saw the bear or any spoor in the pastures again.

When winter came and leaves had fallen, my father and others searched the skeletal forest. They discovered the den where the bear hibernated. They let him be.

In the spring, my grandfather allowed some cleared acreage that bordered the forest to return to its natural state.

Epilogue:

The Louisiana Black Bear, a sub-species of the American Black Bear, inhabits parts of Louisiana, Mississippi, southern Arkansas and Eastern Texas, though in greatly diminished numbers today. It is now listed as 'endangered', the result of habitat lost to cultivation.  Louisiana's Department of Wildlife and Fisheries works with farmers and others to restore forested land (as do departments in Mississippi, Arkansas and Texas, a multi-state cooperative effort, actually). Some (but not enough) progress has been made in the four states.

Within Louisiana, statistics are encouraging in the Atchafalaya National Wildlife Refuge (as they are within protected areas in neighboring states.) If you've got a few minutes, you might enjoy surfing this site. The entire Atchafalaya River Basin area is one of Nature's crown jewels.

And, yes, you will encounter the 'lion' in today's story again. Within our family, the 'lion' came to mean What doesn't exist can get you if you let it, the result of us kids having active imaginations and playing fun tricks (so we thought) on each other, a popular form of entertainment in an era when television and gadgets didn't dominate lives.

They Knew (How Sitting on the Louisiana Stoop Saved the Day)

2010-10-18T12:17:00.001-04:00

My Louisiana stories primarily center around growing up on my family's South Louisiana farm. However, today I'd like to fast-forward to a series of events. Why? Well, I'm a firm believer that generational stories help prepare the young 'uns for life. There have been many instances in my life when long-ago generational stories whispered a caution that positively affected a situation. Here's one:

My parents separated when I was a graduating senior at Louisiana State University. They'd had marital problems for some years, but divorce had never been mentioned. In the late Sixties, divorce remained a major stigma in very Catholic South Louisiana, a stigma my politically-involved, attorney father wanted to avoid (but retain his mistress).

Anyway, one weekend I drove home from LSU to find the house devoid of furniture. My mother had flown the coop, to her brother's house in New Orleans (I learned some hours later from a neighbor.) It was all quite a shock, actually. So, with my father and my siblings nowhere around and without my bed to sleep in, I returned to LSU. I'd been offered a teaching position in Jefferson Parish, Louisiana, the parish (county) that neighbors Orleans Parish (New Orleans) and, with limited time to accept or decline the teaching position (the reason I'd driven home), I decided I had no choice but to step into the real world on my own. I accepted the position.

While my parents dug into their battle positions, I tried to remain neutral. As such, I'd periodically visit my father in South Central Louisiana. We'd sit outside and talk late into the evening. One such evening the conversation veered toward the 1930s Great Depression in the United States. My father had been an adolescent and old enough to remember the hardships during that era. He had stories to tell. I listened.

When the stories drew to a close, my father assumed what we kids called his 'lawyer position' and leaned forward, eyes intense. I didn't realize at the time that the words he said would be forever seered into my memory, "If you ever find yourself in that position, where the economy's getting too hot too fast, don't make any lifestyle changes. Just wait it out."

Okay. Let's fast-forward to April 2006. My husband and I actively looked to buy a detached house and sell the condo where we presently live. (I can't complain about the condo. It's spacious with lovely amenities and situated in a beautiful area. However, privacy is an issue. There's none.)

So, the afternoon of a morning spent looking at houses, I was involved with some early spring flowers out front when this gal who'd been fast-walking stopped to chat. I'd never seen her before. Our condo association isn't large; we know who's who, usually most of the guests, too.

During the introductory chit-chat, I mentioned I'd miss my flowers because we were looking to buy a house.

At this, she practically screamed, "Don't!"

I guess she saw the surprised look on my face because she then said, "Look, I'm a banking regulator. Something really, really awful is coming and nothing can stop it. Don't buy anything. Don't owe anybody anything. Save every penny you can."

In the silence that followed my father's long-ago advice echoed. True, there'd been the odd newspaper article that warned the economy was heating up too fast only to be shot down by just-the-opposite articles. I needed more information. Had my father sent me an angel?

I asked, "Did Alan Greenspan (then Chairman of the Federal Reserve Board) know?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. They all know. I'm a bank regulator not a bank teller. There aren't that many of us. We brief."

I wanted to know why the public hadn't been informed of this looming nightmare. "That's politics," she replied, "I don't have that authority," and went on to say she was "strictly numbers", wasn't even registered to vote, that she was a relatively new bank regulator and that if she'd known what she'd get herself into she would have run in the opposite direction. The numbers on her screen were so bad, kept getting worse, she couldn't sleep. Which was why she'd been fast-walking.

I thanked her for being so candid, went inside, washed my Miracle-Grow hands and wrote down our conversation.

My husband and I didn't buy a house. Not ones for accumulating debt and practioners of living beneath one's means, we nevertheless reigned in those few lifestyle extras and deposited the money into savings.

I told everyone I knew about the conversation with my father and the conversation with that gal I never saw again. Each laughed. Tsk, tsk, I was being paranoid, they said, and in April 2006 they continued to spend money like there was no tomorrow.

Well, tomorrow has come. I believe this gal was telling the truth, that officials knew and that nothing could have stopped this economic nightmare. There are times, though, when I wonder how many people could have avoided an economic hell if financial transparency had existed.

Lovely Spa Visit and Quick Story

2010-10-17T11:55:00.000-04:00

Ahhh, life is good! Gertrude (Big Mama computer) and Zoe (baby HP) returned home a family picture of glowing health. Her parents (that's us, the ones with the checkbook) also got lucky. An older and very experienced computer technician found and corrected the glitch that had eluded others. We didn't switch to Windows 8. Why? $500.00!

Much of what we thought had been included in our insurance turned out to be either obsolete or one-time promotions that it would have been more productive to buy a new computer. This computer is only a year and a half old. I firmly believe leaves grow on trees, not money. So, with our insurance covering the glitch that gave Gertrude rosy cheeks, we said thankyouverymucy and brought our kids home. When the time comes to have another kid, its name will be Mac!

In the meantime, I'd like to share with you a consumer's house of mirrors story that occurred three weeks prior to our visit to Eastern North Carolina, where my husband and I have a house, presently rented until spring. This house has a recessed area in the back, off the kitchen, and measures about 150 sq. ft. After the renters left, we wanted to bump this out and extend to the right and left for a screened-in porch.

The realtor who manages the property offered that the builder who had built her house had done a fabulous job but needed work because of the recession. I thought she jumped into my gig a bit quickly but also thought obtaining a bid would provide insight as to how prices fluctuated in this semi-rural area, an area we knew from frequent visits but not from living there, a major difference in the South. Since we plan to move into our house this spring, it was time to get to know the locals from the business side of the house, so to speak.

So, okay, a week passed. We didn't hear from the builder. Another week passed. Nothing from the builder. I sensed this guy was playing with us, wanted to see how eager we were. In the real South it's never good to appear eager. So we waited.

At the end of the third week, the realtor e-mailed the builder's bid. He chose not to bump the porch out as we had requested. What he chose to do was to bump out the recessed area about five feet. (This would in no way affect the existing square footage. That remained intact.)

The builder's proposal bid was $17,800.00. If we wanted to brick the supporting cinder blocks, that would cost an additional $3,000.00.

Of course I laughed at this. I mean, duh!

What made me really laugh, however, was that the builder had submitted a drawing of a lean-to, basically a screened-in shed. A lean-to kit can be purchased for $1,000.00. (Construct a lean-to yourself for about $500.00.)

But what made me laugh until the tears fell was that the builder had flanked his proposed lean-to with -- are you ready for this? -- very tall Greek columns!

When the laughter subsided, however, a nagging question emerged: why would a builder with a sterling reputation (I checked) but one who also needed work to keep his small business alive be so arrogant (ignore what the consumer wanted) and get so greedy?

The nagging question lingers.

YA Books and Reading

2010-09-28T10:53:00.000-04:00

A big Thank You to Jennifer Daiker, Elana Johnson, and Alex Cavanaugh for hosting The Great Blogging Experiment this past weekend. I learned a lot about Writing Compelling Characters, the event's focus. I'm also thankful for new Followers (*waves*). Hi, y'all *peaches dripping*! I look forward to reading your blogs and getting to know you. These aren't empty words. I think of blogging as a learning experience and am truly interested in what you've got to say. But, er, sometimes I get busy with other stuff (called Life) and fall behind. Nothing personal. I'll catch up!

Many of you write young adult books. Since I write stories and not YA books, I thought I'd share with you why I'm not only interested in this genre but buy and read YA books.

I think reading is the key to so much in life. Unfortunately, only 35% of students who graduate from high school in the United States do so with decent reading proficiency skills (according to statistics just released.) Of course, this dismal score didn't happen overnight but required years, probably decades, to evolve. The situation has no easy fix. But we can all do our part.

I pass on to friends or donate to the library novels I've read.  I tend to give children age-specific books or picture books for obvious reasons. But I buy and read YA books with some regularity because I believe adults can best communicate with young adults (within the family and the larger community) by understanding the issues, problems, and dreams that swirl within the young adult world. Giving someone a book also encourages reading. Though Kindles have a definite place, there's something special about owning a book.

When a blogger reviews a book I know a particular young adult would enjoy (or is conflicted and needs inspiration), I make a notation to buy that book. Of course I read the book first. You never know; perhaps the recipient will want to talk about the book, even open up about personal issues.

I'm involved because this is what an adult does. An adult provides avenues of communication. I remember being excited when my parents, aunts and uncles gave me books. I remember curling up with these books and being awed by what I read. New worlds opened up. Characters like Nancy Drew became friends. Problems had solutions. Dreams lived.

I've also carried young adult books overseas. My husband and I lived in Macedonia, a country once part of Yugoslavia, for two years. For four years after we left, I continued to bring YA books to Marija, the daughter in the family we sponsored in Skopje, the country's capital.

To give you an idea of how expensive books are in Macedonia, my ho-hum bi-lingual dictionary cost well over $100.00.  A paperback translation of The DaVinci Code? Well, that was slightly over $50.00 (I didn't buy it.) Young adult books in either Macedonian or English are practically non-existant. Why? The market doesn't exist. Neither does Pizza Hut, Toys R Us or Victoria's Secret. McDonald's is a status burger joint popular with the rich.

Libraries offer a spotty inventory. In a country where the middle class has practically disappeared, Macedonian friends say unemployment among the working poor now reaches above 50% (and is probably higher). Libraries aren't a top priority.

Libraries also charge a fee for a library card. In a country where the minority 'haves' control everything and think nothing of a shopping spree in Vienna, Austria, a fee for a library card is more an inconvenience than an expense. Unlike the working poor, which can't afford college tuitions and scholarships aren't part of the education culture, the elite, smart or not, will attend college. And graduates with connected parents will obtain status jobs. Money under the table buys much.

Not so for the unemployed, the working poor or those without connections. Even with a college degree, working as a cashier at Vero's, their Safeway, is considered a good job and, with little turnover, is difficult to obtain. The job pays about $200.00 a month (eight hours a day, six days a week, sparse benefits kick in after two years' employment).

Working parents can jointly bring in about $400.00 a month. Almost half pays for built-in utility expenses common to Soviet-era apartment buildings and can't be pared down much but can be shut off for lack of payment. And, trust me on this one. Winter in Skopje is cold. The city sits in a valley surrounded by the Balkan Alps. Once temperatures drop, Alpine winds trap the cold and turn the valley into a freezer. Staying warm is serious business. And expensive.

The other half of the parents' income buys food, clothing, medical insurance (only those working and their kids by extension or retirees who've met requirements have access to medical care), transportation, and school expenses. Fruits and vegetables are seasonal but not the bargain you'd expect. Meat is brutally expensive any time of the year. And, seafood, well, dream on. Diet mainstays include fried eggs, beans, and toast. The latter is basically a grilled cheese sandwich. When money gets really tight, eggs are cut, then the beans. Toast reigns during the long winters.

A small tube of toothpaste costs about $6.00; a tank of gas for a small car, about $60.00; a pair of shoddy shoes, $60.00 and up. And so on. In order to get Americans to work in Macedonia, companies have to provide a steep cost of living allowance.

At the beginning of each school year, teachers submit a list of required textbooks and supplies to various stores. If parents don't purchase items listed, indiviudal teachers can (and usually do) refuse permission for the child to study in that classroom until supplies are obtained. Textbooks and supplies for a ninth grade student run about $150.00.

During the year teachers will request additional materials that parents must purchase, from art supplies to gym clothes.  Keeping up is a vicious cycle. But no sacrifice is too much to keep a child in school. This includes kids not eating lunch (either brown bag it or eat toast at school), saving every dinar (their currency). Out-reach programs, soup kitchens religious or civic, and government welfare programs don't exist. Just not a part of the culture.

When we first met Marija she was nine years old, as skinny as a toothpick, and wore a fat lady's dress, wrapped around the middle, and belted secure with a rope. But the school fees had been paid.

So, for Marija, now growing into her teen years (and in age-appropriate clothing), to have young adult books to read in English was a big deal. Schools do teach English. Classes are competitive. Learning English is considered a way out, a ticket to a job as a translator with a foreign company and a salary somewhat comparable within entry-level European Union or American ranges.

One Macedonian with a job tied to a foreign company can pull an extended family forward. As such, ambitious students are obsessed with enlarging vocabularies, learning idioms and slang, and, above all, speaking unaccented English fluently. Macedonia is a clan-centered country. If one person has the ability/opportunity to support his/her family, the responsibility must be honored. Just the way it is.

Somehow, within this stark environment, most survive. Few become translators. (Marija's still in school; we'll see.) Many obtain jobs in the small stores that dot the city. More work cleaning those stores. Honest work, however menial, is considered honorable. Parents worry a daughter will became an old man's girlfriend (but accept the situation when faced with it).

May-December relationships are common. (Daddy War Bucks buys food for the family, helps with school fees.) Affairs are also common. (Divorce is a major stigma for a woman, but not the man. Divorce laws tilt toward the man. There are no women's shelters. Spousal abuse is common, and, I sometimes thought, when women talked, even expected.) However, it's the fear that a daughter will turn to prostitution that totally terrorizes parents. Because it happens.

Macedonia is at the crossroads of the trafficking in the sex trade that runs from the former Soviet states and some satellite countries into the upper Balkans. Several years ago, Sixty Minutes did a segment where hidden cameras showed young girls living in large boxes with windows, all kidnapped or lured into prostitution along a trucker's corridor not that far from Moscow. U.S. presidents, regardless of political party, during State of the Union addresses have called for an end to this trade. As have leaders of the U.K., Australia, Canada, European and other countries. To no avail.

I saw this dark side when my husband and I visited Kiev, Ukraine. While my husband went to pay our hotel bill, I lingered over the newspaper in the hotel's breakfast room. (Hotels in countries from the Soviet era tend to be overly grand and overly expensive, a real rip-off. I have no desire to return to some of these countries.) Since some Macedonian words crossed into Ukranian, I tried to 'pick out' a news story in the Ukranian paper.

Within minutes, three middle-aged men, Texans with cowboy boots and Lone Star belt buckles, sat opposite me. They eyed the Ukranian newspaper, assumed I didn't speak English, and spoke freely.  I heard that they waited for a Ukranian girl to join them. My heart raced when I further heard that this girl would recoup their expenses within a month when she got to the States. They made jokes about sham marriages.

I folded my newspaper, gathered my purse, left the breakfast room and entered the hallway, where the girl would have to pass, and sat on an ornate chair, out of the men's line of vision. Within a couple of minutes I saw a girl, about eighteen years old, who looked like the one the men had bragged about. About this they were right: She was absolutely gorgeous. She also appeared scared.

I initiated conversation that involved broken English and Macedonian.  Yes, she was meeting the men. Yes, she knew she'd end up working as a prostitute somewhere in the States. No, she wouldn't accept the $100.00 bill I offered her to leave the hotel, not to join the men. Why? They promised to give her parents $5,000.00 in cash when she married the man of their choice. She understood my concern. But there was no other way to help her family. She had to go through with the deal.

On the verge of tears, I pleaded no, to run, now. She took my hand, held it tightly for long seconds, then turned and entered the breakfast room to join the good ole boys. Seriously trembling, I met my husband in the lobby. He had just paid the bill. In rushed English I related what had happened. He pointed to an opened album on a nearby lobby table that, in multiple languages, advertized wanna-be brides.

That evening we reclaimed our luggage from hotel storage and boarded the overnight train to Odessa, then rode the ferry across the Black Sea to Istanbul. Upon our return to Macedonia, I contacted a friend at the American embassy in Skopje.

Over coffee at an outdoor cafe, she explained that the State Department was well aware of the sham marriages but there was little they could do. "Every American has the right to marry the person of his or her dreams," she said. Having said that, sham marriages were illegal and were prosecuted to the full extent of the law. They were difficult to prove, but convictions occurred. Marriage to an American didn't guarantee a visa. The visa process in place often required a year or more. She took my descriptions of the parties involved in Kiev and sent a message to our embassy there.

So, you ask, what do these events have to do with writing YA books?

Well, if you write a book that massages a young adult's self-esteem or makes that young adult feel as though there's a chance in life or allows that young adult to know she's not alone with her problem or brings a smile to a face that lives in fear or pure fun to an insecure heart, if your book keeps that young adult from drifting into drugs or walking the streets, you're doing exactly what you're supposed to be doing in life.

We have many problems in our country.  However, it could be worse, the reason I related this series of events. You have the power to move mountains. Write until your fingers ache, then write some more.

September 11, 2001

2010-09-11T11:57:00.002-04:00

On September 11, 2001, my husband and I flew from Rome, Italy, to Istanbul, Turkey, on Turkish Airlines, an airline we had flown before to Istanbul. After a glorious week in Rome, where we, two Americans, had once lived for six months, we were pleasantly tired from playing tourist, a bit plump-cheeked from all that delicious Italian food and gelato, and, well, peacefully happy.

After the plane gained altitude and leveled off, my husband and I chatted about how much we looked forward to seeing long-time Canadian, British, American, and European friends at a reunion that had been organized by a Turkish colleague, all students years earlier at an international school in Rome. Before joining our friends in Bodrum, a spectacular seaside town a brief plane ride from Istanbul, Dick and I would first spend three days in Istanbul, at a boutique hotel near the Grand Bazaar, our ultimate shopping destination.

Midway through the trip -- a beautiful flight across a bright blue sky above sparkling blue waters -- flight attendants demanded the return of coffee cups, insisted purses be stored in overhead bins,  and wanted all seats in upright positions. Like other passengers on the sparsely filled flight, we complied, not sure what to think, a bit nervous, though, for a tremor of fear raced that the aircraft had problems that would force a water landing.

The normally polite and courteous attendants refused to answer questions. They walked up and down the aisles, constantly surveying passengers. Anyone going to the bathroom had to be escorted. The aircraft flew in eerie silence.

To our relief, we landed in Istanbul and cleared customs without incident.  However, we were surprised that the bustling international airport, polished and gleaming with every amenity possible, serviced few people.  But our airport pick-up waited. We hurried outside.

We recognized the young man who waited from a previous stay at the boutique hotel. He greeted us warmly, and bags loaded, off we sped to the hotel. When asked if there were a religious holiday, for Istanbul's normally crowded streets rather mirrored the airport, the young man replied by referring to all the problems in the world. The unexpected and vague answer muted us. And, unusual for Istanbul, the radio had been turned off. Again, we didn't know what to think.

When we entered the hotel, we saw that about 20 people had gathered around a flat screen television near the far wall. Since no one stood behind the check-in counter, we walked toward the group.

I lack the words to describe the raw horror we felt when we saw what had occurred in New York City. And continued to happen.  Minutes later the second tower fell.

Like others in the group from around the world, we remained in front of the t.v. until late into the evening and experienced every emotion imaginable. Like others, we wanted to be home, to wrap ourselves in decency and fend off this insane monster at loose, this evil thing that chilled the soul.

The Canadian doctors among us had traveled to Istanbul for a medical conference. They were frustrated at not being able to help the injured, and, with fear spreading that a major Canadian city could be hit, they wanted to get home where medical skills might be needed. Young doctors. Brave young doctors. The hotel staff went to great lengths to get them to Toronto, but to no avail.

Nothing moved while evil lurked. The world had coalesced into one.

The next day, hungry, for the hotel lacked a restaurant, and in need of fresh air and a walk, we headed toward the food court at the Grand Bazaar. En route, we lost our appetites. Unlike in the United States, photos in British, European, and Turkish newspapers are graphic. I remember staring at a photo of a woman leaning out of a window waving a white shirt, desperate for help. I still feel the tears falling, knowing she would die, like thousands of others, horribly so.

But hope also emerged that the evil that had inflicted this terror would be reigned in. As if emotions had spiraled between extremes, I lack the words to describe the warmth and graciousness shown by the Turkish people that day. Of course we bought nothing -- How could one think of shopping? We had forgotten about food. -- but we hungered for a nugget of information, that the terror had ceased, that sanity had regained control. Turkish merchants refused payment for newspapers. They even translated headlines and articles we couldn't read, plied us with tea, offered food, cried with us, condemned what had happened. Not only the merchants.

In the Grand Bazaar that day, September 12, 2001, people from nations around the world collectively recognized the face of evil and stood together as one. Hope reigned. Very briefly. But it reigned.

I don't have to tell you what happened during the ensuing years. You know.

But, nine years later, I yearn for a return to that moment when hope and sanity triumphed.

We've got to get our act together.  We've got to recognize self-righteous bandwagons, wherever they are, for what they are; focus on the greater good; quit blaming everyone else for being self-indulgent and greedy; and stop clawing at each other.

I'm totally sick of being in a situation where someone comes up with a great idea only to hear some pip squeak worry it might rain and watch what could have worked fall apart. That's because I read fairy tales but live life. We each make adjustments to get along. If not, well, a house divided cannot stand.

In memory of those who died on 9/11 and those who still suffer from 9/11, I resolve to be a better person.

Betty Grable's Over Here, Over There (Louisiana Stories)

2010-08-31T11:31:00.004-04:00

(Notes: South Louisianians are passionate about family, food, football, politics, and religion. As one would expect, these passions sometimes collide, the kernel within today's story. For those of you super sensitive about religion, I hope you'll stick with the story as equilibrium returns.  I used the term 'preacher' throughout as that was the proper form of address during this period. It later evolved into 'minister' and 'preacher' being interchangeable. I never named the preacher because I don't remember a name. Kids during that era always referred to a religious leader by proper title, a sign of respect parents enforced.

To the post's right is a photo of Betty Grable, the famous World War II pinup.

But, before today's story, in the previous post I had a typo. Marie Rust's beautiful nature blog can be found here. My apologies, Marie!

And, now, today's story.)

* * * * *

Life on a farm sneaks up on you.

That's what Mama, a city girl from New Orleans, always said.

Actually, Mama sounded wise beyond her twenty-five years. Uninvited guests arrived at our South Louisiana farm in half an hour. In the early 1950s, friends and family visited without formal invitations all the time. But people met once who announced a visitation and had a specific agenda, that threatened.

The problem began two weeks ago, the first part of October, when a handwritten card arrived in the mail. The Baptist preacher and his wife announced they'd arrive for morning coffee at a specific time, 10:30, on a specific day, today. Circumstances around the unsolicited visit escalated into all hell breaking loose yesterday. Tensions now smoldered into this morning's wait for the guests and the formal, living room social. To pass the time, Daddy sorted through papers on the back porch. Sarah, my three-year-old sister, and Dan, my year-old brother, napped in the middle bedroom off a long hall that led to the porch.

I watched Mama pace.

Her brown pumps tapped on the hardwood floor when she crossed the living room.  Mama wore a dark yellow shirtwaist dress accented with a cluster of canary-yellow flowers appliqued on the pointed collar and a fabric-covered brown belt ringed with the dainty flowers. A strand of pearls at the open neck and matching earrings accessorized the ensemble.

Long-legged and slim, with a narrow waist, Mama walked model tall. She had big blue eyes and full lips in an oblong face. Thick blond hair, tamed into loose curls, brushed her swan-like neck and framed a fair complexion with naturally rosy cheeks.   Mama looked pretty, like a movie star. But she didn't look happy.

Mama surveyed the living room with a practiced eye:  Coffee cups, saucers, and serving essentials positioned on great-grandma Peterson's marble-topped coffee table; cross-stitched pillows, a collage of nature's pastels, fluffed to attention on the forest green sofa; cherry wood side chairs with damask cushions angled for shared conversation.   Creamy rich draperies, loosely tied back at the four long windows, permitted autumn breezes to circulate. Though muggy outside, the room felt cool.

Pleased with her artistry, my mother leaned against the door frame and lit a cigarette.  She exhaled, eyes to the high ceiling, then looked at me, as if a five-year-old kid understood how a farcical situation had turned into a value's statement.  Not knowing what to say, I stood muted in front of the linen chest. Sarah said I looked like a freckled-face alligator with bangs when I got bug-eyed and my mouth fell open.

But, really, I didn't understand what happened yesterday, why that fat woman at Mr. Luke's grocery yelled at Mama for wearing shorts. Nor did I understand what had happened two weeks ago, why the Baptist preacher and his wife had invited themselves to our house or why their card had thanked Mama for joining the Baptist Church, when she hadn't.  Even worse, the card had said the preacher and his wife looked forward to ministering to Mama's needs. At this insult, Mama, a private person, had exploded. She had torn the card into a thousand pieces and showered the living room with confetti. Just as Ma walked in.

My father's mother lived in The Big House across the pasture from our house. She had a history of manipulating circumstances to pressure my Lutheran mother into converting to Catholicism. When Ma learned about the preacher's visit (from Mrs. Picard, a cousin who lived near Mrs. Guillroy, the postman's neighbor), Ma decided to pay Mama a visit.

What followed turned into legend along the twenty-five mile strip of country road that fronted an old bayou. When Ma told Mama that Baptists wouldn't pester her if she were a Catholic, Mama, who normally brushed aside Ma's proselytizing, retorted with pent-up fury. She told Ma to mind her own business, stormed out of the living room, and slammed the door.

No one had ever told Ma to mind her own business, an eyebrow-raising event Ma ignored when she complained to eager listeners what had occurred. Many along the bayou chuckled. And, though Catholics themselves, friends whispered Ma went too far, always trying to push her beliefs on Mama. For, generally speaking, Louisianians preferred to live and let live.

Besides, Ma had created a bit of trouble among the Catholics along the bayou. She wanted to worship in a proper church. A traditional Catholic Church didn't exist in our area. About every two months a priest came from Baton Rouge to say Mass in a private home, a well-attended event, especially the picnic afterwards. Ma and a few others had regularly petitioned the Baton Rouge diocese to build a church. Attempts always failed.

The overwhelming majority of parishioners liked the system the way it was. Folks wanted to relax after the Mass with a cold beer, Jack Daniel's or cherry bounce, a potent homemade brew. These picnics were too much fun to relinquish. That's what Mama and Daddy said, for they sometimes attended the picnic.

Anyway, after two weeks of Mama and Daddy fuming over the preacher's visit and Ma and Mama not speaking, reality approached. Mama had to prepare for the next day's social. But a minor mishap turned the preparation into a disaster:  Mama dropped the ceramic coffee canister on the floor. Splinters of red glass and dark brown Community Roast coffee splattered the kitchen floor like measles on a hound dog.

Not willing to ask Ma for coffee and unable to contact Daddy in Baton Rouge, Mama made a decision that reverberated: She herded Sarah, Dan, and me into her old Ford and drove to Mr. Luke's grocery. Too harried to change into a shirtwaist dress, how respectable women appeared in public, Mama left the house in shorts. Specifically, in white shorts not really short and a green and white polka dot blouse.

My mother bought the coffee but returned home in tears. Ma waited in a rocker on our front porch. She accused Mama of wearing shorts to the grocery to show off her Bettle Grable-like legs. With tears falling, Mama hustled us inside and slammed the front door shut. Ma rushed to Miss Mary's house, her opposite neighbor, for solace.

By the time Daddy returned from Baton Rouge and stopped at Mr. Luke's grocery for gas, word had spread. The men congratulated Daddy for marrying Betty Grable's cousin. The women ignored him, except for Cousin Antoinette, a distant relation. When Daddy approached the cash register to pay for the gas, Cousin Antoinette burst into tears. Cousin Antoinette had worked at the cash register when Mama had entered the store wearing shorts.

Cousin Antoinette wanted Daddy, now an attorney and no longer a student at Louisiana State University, to press charges against the Baptist preacher's wife for her criminal behavior.

Shocked at seeing Mama in shorts, the matronly woman had run from the store shrieking about Mama's lack of morality and how Cajuns lived in sin. However, Cousin Antoinette wasn't upset Mama had worn shorts. Nor did she care that Mama resembled Betty Grable, the serviceman's favorite World War II pinup.

The preacher's wife had left the store without paying for a bunch of bananas.

Cousin Antoinette thought the woman should serve two years in the state penitentiary at Angola for shoplifting. Morals had deteriorated too much, she complained to Daddy, after a long sip of cherry bounce to calm frazzled nerves.

When Daddy arrived home, he told Mama he wanted to drive half-way to Baton Rouge, to the Baptist Church, and cancel the next day's social. But my mother had cried herself out and regained control. She had decided to take the high road and serve morning coffee to the Baptist preacher and his wife.

So, when my mother saw an unfamiliar car turn into our long driveway and the dreaded event now upon us, she rushed to get Daddy.  I heard them lock the inside door to the back porch, so Sarah couldn't wander if she awakened.

Even though I'd been told to remain in the kitchen when the guests arrived (I wore a smock, Mary Jane shoes and socks; guests liked to meet the oldest child, who then disappeared), I unhooked a tie-back, slipped behind a drapery panel at the far end of the living room, and wrapped the fabric around me. From my cocoon, I could peek out at the seating arrangement. I giggled at the excitement that awaited.

Mama and Daddy rounded the corner from the hall into the living room just as the preacher stepped heavily onto the porch. Daddy buttoned the coat to his blue suit before opening the door. My parents greeted their guest with bright smiles and warm words of welcome.  However, the bespeckled preacher with slicked-back, thinning grey hair ignored Daddy's proffered hand, hooked his black hat on the coat rack, and walked to the center of the living room, his wife in tow.  Ignoring the insult, Daddy ushered the reticent couple to the sofa. After an awkward exchange of morning pleasantries laced with silence, Mama excused herself to make drip coffee in the kitchen.

The preacher, about fifty years old, wore a black suit, starched white shirt and grey bow tie. His wife, also about fifty years old, wore a plain black shirtwaist dress, a black hat, and sensible black shoes. Sitting stiffly on the sofa, they looked like two old people in a funeral parlor, afraid to talk for fear God would hear them.

Daddy, though, talked about the weather, anything bland to fill the silence. Mama returned with the silver coffee server and a plate of sugar cookies. The Baptist preacher and his wife accepted a cup of coffee and a cookie with formal politeness. Cups and saucers tinkled too-loud in the silence that followed. Wrapped like a mummy in the drapery panel, I felt hot and sticky.

But just when I thought to slide to the floor and crawl into the dining room, Sarah ran around the corner, from the hall into the living room, laughing and giggling. She held Daddy's Betty Grable calendar in her pudgy hands. The keepsake had fallen from the wall behind the hall door when Mama and Daddy hurried to lock it and rush into the living room to greet the preacher and his wife.

At the sight of Sarah holding Daddy's Betty Grable calendar, the movie star poised with her back to the camera, wearing a one-piece swimsuit, the preacher's wife shrieked. The preacher bolted to his feet. Cups and saucers shattered. Mama, in the side chair nearest the door, lunged to protect Sarah from hot coffee that splattered.  While Daddy rushed to wrap his arms around Sarah and Mama, the preacher and his wife left in a huff.

When Sarah stopped crying, she ran to join me in the dining room. Before I led my sister into the kitchen for milk and cookies, Mama retrieved the notebook-sized Betty Grable calendar from beneath the over-turned side chair.

Years later I learned that my mother had given her husband this calendar before he shipped out to Iwo Jima during World War II. Because Daddy bragged Betty Grable reminded him of Mama, she wanted him to carry that reminder.

While on Iwo Jima and during a period of strict censorship, Daddy had recorded the dates of letters written and received, war-time events (from bloody combat to the fear of waiting to war's end), names and addresses of guys in his military unit, and the names and dates of those who had died.

Epilogue:

A week after the calamitous social, Mama deliberately wore her white shorts and polka dotted blouse to Mr. Luke's grocery. Folks chuckled but got the point.

Approximately five months later, the Baptist preacher and his wife rotated to an out-of-state church. Whether the transfer resulted from members of his congregation complaining about the preacher's over-zealous techniques or he was positioned for a routine transfer, no one knew.

However, the new preacher and his wife brought joy to everyone, embracing not only their congregants with warm, caring hearts but also non-Baptists within the wider community. They even attended one of the picnics after a Catholic Mass. Yes, they drank sweet tea, that Southern favorite. But so did many of the regular attendees. Live and let live.

Ma and Mama never really patched up their differences. But, hey, what did you expect? Dis ain't no fairytale (a common expression along the bayou. Sometimes what you experienced is bigger than what you thought.)

Welcome Aboard; An Experience with An Agent

2010-08-23T13:47:00.001-04:00

A Louisiana story awaits, after a bit of spell checking and so on. You know the drill. In the meantime, I'd like to extend a warm welcome to new Followers. I'd also like to thank Emma Michaels (http://emmamichaels.blogspot.com/) for the Blog Hop that brought most of us together.
I've tried to be thorough about following you as well. If I missed you, please drop a comment. You're only a click away!

This was my first Hop, and WOW, what a positive experience! You did a great job, Emma! Thanks!

And a big thank you and hugs to the pre-hop Followers for hanging in there. I had problems with the HPmini/wifi in Europe (probably of my own making; a computer genius I'm not) and couldn't keep up as I had hoped.

Anyway, as I guess you've figured out, yes, I plan on doing something with my stories. Just not yet. In true Southern fashion, my stories will lead (eventually!) to a twist that will have you saying, "Huh", just as I said when Ma (my grandmother) told me the family secret some years ago. This is why I had to introduce you to her mother in the two-part story, A Rose by Any Other Name Is Paint. I knew the stories were a bit long. But no way around it to move the blog forward. (And, no, I'm not revealing the secret this year!)

As with any dream, albiet a new one, reality must prevail. I need to sharpen my skills and learn more about the industry that swirls around writers. This happens daily, when I open the writers' blogs. I thank all of you for sharing your experiences, for being so candid. And, like you, I rejoice when a writer secures an agent and/or a contract (which seems to be happening regularly these days, yay!) I'm constantly impressed by the talent in Blogville...no, more in awe of the talent out there.

This honesty and sharing are important. Publishers and agents work to make money. While most are professional and work hard, I personally feel the business in general sucks too much from the writer, ie, others can't do it but can tell you how to do it. My sensing is that publishers and agents look for the finished product, a fast way to print.

Of course the bottom line is money. A book is a commercial product for sale. Discounted books/e-books and so on have cut into profits. I understand this. What I don't like is this pushing for a finished product when there are others in the food chain who need to earn their keep. I've read so many posts about agents and how so many feel sorry for them. Well, I don't. Not a bit. If an agent is harried and overworked and can't deal with the caseload, then, there's the door. Find a new profession. I mean, either do what you're doing with a smile on your face or bye-bye.

Unfortunately, my hub says this whining, finished-product attitude is going on in the sports world. This weekend we met a father with his son, a 6'8" guy 18 years old who wants to play professional hockey. The perceived road to riches these days is for the athlete to by-pass college, pay for his training camps, then audition for the pros. Coaches want a finished product, the e-jock reading for opening night.

Anyway, back to writing: When we lived in Hawaii (and just prior to our living in Macedonia for two years), I wrote a couple of kids' stories about our cat, Chester. A writer's conference came up. Top agents in Honolulu would be there. A friend who had published several books urged me to showcase my stories. So I went.

Not without nervousness. I pulled the agent with the toughest reputation in the state. The room drew quiet when she snapped open her case and gave me her card, with the words, "Call me."

I didn't drive home. I floated.

Reality turned into a nightmare. This agent tried to get me to sign over my stories and another MS I worked on with an imperial nature that, I thought, tried to intimidate (and I'm not easily intimidated). She also wanted money, $3,000.00. I didn't sign a thing, didn't give her any money, and told her to take a hike. However, I tucked away the experience and am cautious about going where angels fear to tread, if you get my drift. Information and education provide a powerful foundation.

Anyway, my husband's business soon brought us to Macedonia. I put my writing on hold until we returned to the States and got back into the routine. Blogging seemed like a great way to learn more about the writing industry, polish my skills, and, above all, meet others with like objectives. However, my initial posts weren't Louisiana stories, more ad hoc. Then, Fate intervened. My nieces, as I've written before, showed a lack of interest in their family legacy that bothered me. I got the idea to blog these stories for them to read when they're ready (not any time soon; they still don't get it.)

Along the way, encouragement from so many of you led me to think that perhaps others would be interested in my stories. Each Follower (that's you!) brought a bright smile to my face.  However, I'm not ready to think about finding an agent, need more stories, need more time. And I don't want to feel rushed, that I have to produce. When I sit at the computer, I zone back in time to that Louisiana farm, feel the hot sting of that August heat, feel how it was, and let the fingers fly.

I've brushed aside several opportunities to showcase my work (even as a guest on a tv program, of all places) because the little girl who grew up on that farm has major input into my stories and can't be commercialized right now. I still need to feel, if that makes any sense.

I live near Washington, D.C.. My little girl's heart is on that Louisiana farm. Still a free spirit with so many interests that bring smiles of discovery.  One of these interests is a love for the outdoors, from a gentle rain to the sweet smell of freshly turned dirt...even like squiggling my toes into the tip of a crop row...and have been known to walk barefoot (oh, happy day!)

I enjoy all of the blogs I follow (read thoroughly, don't scan). Many are about Mother Nature's delights and challenges. If you want to feel good about small moments in Nature that warm the heart, click on over to:

http://onthepondfarm.blogspot.com/
http://sempiterna-me.blogspot.com/
http://marierust.blogspot.com/
http://oko-organic-clothing.blogspot.com/
http://atasteofdenmark.blogspot.com/
http://onehundredmountains.blogspot.com/
http://swamericana.wordpress.com/
http://www.lakemarymusings.com/
http://teresaevangeline.blogspot.com/

AND, if you're hungry from being outdoors, if you like food, mouth-watering food from South Louisiana, click over to http://cajundelights.blogspot.com/ Marguerite's a real Cajun with some real Cajun recipes who posts recipes she's putting into a cookbook. Talk about a treat!

Just a bit more -- thank you for being so kind about the photos I posted. I was a bit nervous, I mean, I don't know much about taking photos beyond snapping away. Lots of credit goes to my Nikon digital camera and, of course, to the fantastic scenery in Greece. (Also miss the hospitality. So many Greeks sent foods to our taverna table for us to enjoy! YUM!)

But, to give balance, we also enjoyed our days and the scenery in Tirol (Tyrol), Austria. My husband took the header photo above from the top of a ski slope behind where we stayed in Achensee. I think he captured a certain free spirit.  Great job, sweetie!

Photos, You've Got Photos

2010-08-17T18:57:00.000-04:00

Patio plants, Greece

One of Greece's famously narrow roads; olive trees forever.

Everywhere we went in Greece there were lemon trees, fresh lemonade, too, at small restaurants (tavernas).

One of the many fresh water spigots to fill up the water bottles. The green at the bottom has no relation to the fresh water.

Every small town in Greece seemed to have a plaza with folks sipping coffee and talking beneath a shady tree.

The stadium at Olympia.

King Leonidas I; Battle of Thermopylae; trees in background are for decorative purposes; in back of the trees are the battle plain, the super highway, and the rail tracks. I didn't have a wide-angle lens to capture the enormity of the plain. It's just a flat, nothing stretch of land. However, as I think you've figured out, it was this precise nothingness that impressed me the most. All of those men died because armies had nothing to do but fight, and warriors don't pick olives.

Greek olive trees, mountains, sea *sigh*

Very small part of the magnificent ruins at Delphi

Old fishing boat, Greece

Side street, Greece; vegetables for sale; honor system for payment

Patio grill and grape leaves

Side Street in a small town, Greece

View from our room, Hotel Navarone, Peloponnesian Southwest Coast, Greece

Pertisau, Austria; Off To Vienna Tomorrow, Then Home on the 4th

2010-07-31T08:09:00.000-04:00

Pertisau, Austria, hugs Achensee, an alpine lake about 3,000 feet above sea level in the Austrian Alps. Approximately 500 people live in Pertisau, Tirol (Tyrol). The picturesque homes and shops have the traditional flower boxes and stenciled designs near windows, all very similar to the lifestyle in Bavaria, Germany (which Tirol (Tyrol), an Austrian state, borders,) If you've seen The Sound of Music you are inside a postcard with me. No one would think it odd if the von Trapp family walked down the village street singing "The Hills Are Alive with Music." For they truly are.

This is our second trip to Pertisau. This morning Dick and I hiked the trail that follows the lake. And what a fabulous morning it was -- the soft sun, the emerald green lake, the alpine mountains, the wildflowers along the trail, and the fresh mountain air.

Yes, I have photos for you and long to share them. But this must wait until we return to the States. Which will be August 4th. It's hard to believe we've been on the road almost two months. For awhile time seemed to stand still. We neither knew nor cared which day of the week it was.

When we lived in Skopje, Macedonia (or Former Yugoslavia Republic of Macedonia, whichever name floats your boat), we transited through Vienna. So, it will be nice to enjoy a couple of days re-visiting old haunts.

Upon our return, we're attending a wedding at The Homestead in Virginia, not far from Richmond. I remember when Jenny was a toddler (which sometimes seems like yesterday). She's marrying a very nice young man, and we wish them life's every happiness.

In the meantime, I want to thank you for your comments, for hanging in there. I've got a bit of catching up to do with your blogs and plan to do just that after the wedding on the 7th. I'm looking forward to seeing what you've been doing. All of you have such interesting blogs. And, a year later, there's a comfortable rhythm that warms the heart.

Until then, I'd like to share with you a quotation from Friedrich Nietzsche that the hotel posted this morning at breakfast: The hurry in human life is a flight from oneself. XOXO, Kittie

A Statue in Thermopylae, Greece

2010-07-28T09:53:00.000-04:00

A larger-than-life bronze statue of a Spartan icon, King Leonidas I, stands in an eclipse near a wide, long, and dusty plain in Thermopylae, Greece. The king's raised right hand holds a javelin. The downward left hand grips a shield. A Spartan helmet, with its now famous Mohawk swoop, covers the warrior's head. Otherwise, King Leonidas I stands naked. The Spartan king fought naked.

Leonidas died at the Battle of Thermopylae in 480 BC, more specifically, at the Pass of Thermopylae, where, in the combined area of mountain pass and lower plain, Leonidas and his 7,000 soldiers held off Persia's King Xerxes and his 2,641,610 soldiers for several intense days. When the ferocious fighting ended, only two of the 7,000 Greek soldiers survived. The victorious Persians, though, eventually tasted defeat at the Battle of Plataiai in 479 BC., where history also changed course.

But, for the moment, I'd prefer not to trod another war-torn path, but remain at the Battle of Thermopylae, one of history's most studied and respected battles. However, without the drama of war, the Pass of Thermopylae rises above the extended battle plain below and appears more a snapshot of Greece's spectacular mountain scenery than an extended setting for one of history's bloodiest battles.

The battle plain below, large enough to hold over two and a half million men, lies flat, like a discarded remnant, as if Mother Nature had created a rugged masterpiece and dropped the scrap of land to perfect a turquoise-blue sea to lap the peaceful shoreline. If not for the Battle of Thermopylae, an historical quirk, the long plain would simply exist, neither pretty nor ugly, just there, a wall flower among Greece's more imposing battle sites.

But, trapped and out-numbered by Xerxes, Leonidas refused to surrender, basically said to the Persian king, "If you want me and my men, come and get us," and, so, Xerxes complied. Leonidas and his men fought to the bitter end with heroics that earned the Greeks dictionary definitions of honor, valor, courage, and bravery, definitions that have since translated into the world's various militaries with equal respect. For there are times when something so powerful occurs even sworn enemies agree to agree.

So, today a statue of Leonidas faces burial mounds and thousands of soldiers who died on that dusty plain. Behind Leonidas, in the far distance, a modern highway and parallel rail tracks cut through a land that once ran scarlet with blood. This morning, however, the hum of fast cars and heavy trucks whirs like gnats on a hot day. Save for an occasional chirping bird, diesel- and gas-powered modernity is the only sound one hears. For it is hot. Perspiration runs from the brow like a salty river.

I look at the statue of Leonidas and wonder about history's enormity: The millions of men gathered to kill, the armada of ships in the sea needed to transport the soldiers, the why of it all. True, the Peloponnesian Wars eventually followed the Battle of Thermopylae, wars that produced innovation and change modern military leaders follow, but the Battle of Thermopylae seduces today's warriors primarily for the raw courage that prevailed.

Historians like to point out that most wars or significant battles began because of economics or a need for land, truisms that socialists say exist today. However, the Battle of Thermopylae happened because it could. Leonidas and Xerxes didn't really want to fight each other. Attempts to prevent the conflict didn't work because Leonidas and Xerxes had nothing else to do. As my husband, a military history hobbyist, said, "Warriors don't pick olives."

So the armies fought. Men died. And time moved on.

Sad, actually.

Greece's Navarino Bay

2010-07-15T08:16:00.001-04:00

Greece's Navarino Bay, near the western tip of Peloponnese, offers more than spectacular Mediterranean vistas, pristine beaches, olive groves, and white stucco houses with red tiled roofs. The sun-drenched bay, with its turquoise-blue waters, shimmers not only beneath open blue skies but within Greece's heart.

On October 20, 1827, at the Battle of Navarino, naval forces crushed a fleet of Ottoman ships, an outcome that ensured Greece's independence after 350 years of Turkish rule. History documents this rule as harsh. The Ottomans governed with a cruel whip. Greeks lived in abject poverty under tyrannical conditions, free only to dream about tomorrow.

Three and a half centuries is a long time to hold onto a dream, to work toward throwing off the master's yolk, to retain one's identity, as an individual and as a country. But this is exactly what happened. After the downfall of the Ottomans, the Greek culture re-surfaced, wiser and stronger, determined not to be subjugated again, by the Turks or anyone else.

The Greek language, once a language that traveled the Mediterranean -- and beyond with Alexander the Great, retains its purity, if localized to Greece these days, still, though, a remarkable feat after 350 years of linguistic onslaught. The Turks had worked to erase the language from the world's lexicon.

Unlike in Bosnia, where, basically, an entire country converted to the Muslim religion to avoid mass slaughter, Greek Orthodox Christianity thrives throughout Greece. (To be fair, the Ottomans didn't threaten the Greeks as such; however, lifestyle improved greatly if a Greek converted. Few did.) Regardless of one's religion, the fact that the Greek people preserved their spirituality deserves a certain respect (about which I'm not the first to write -- but more fully understand now -- as historians have long linked the Greek's preservation of their religion to much that is Europe today, not necessarily in a religious sense.)

However, I think the inner determination to retain core beliefs, all the while occupied by a voracious empire, speaks volumes about the strong character of the Greek people. (And I would write the same if the Greeks had occupied Turkey, if the Turks had retained their identity under such brutal conditions.

Because the character of the soul is more than a religious symbol.

Because wanting for the sake of wanting destroys an individual, brings a country to its knees, as it destroyed the Ottoman Empire (and others throughout history). It is the recognition of needs greater than simple wants that fuels the forward motion that protects society from itself.

As such, from occupied to free again (for Greece has a deep history, a rich history that gave birth to democracy and rational thought and so much more), the country's genealogy continued, families held together by stories of tragedy and hope, a freedom attained, a dream realized, a tomorrow that shimmers like the waters in Navarino Bay, mostly calm and inviting, but sometimes a bit harsh -- for Greece struggles, like other countries, with today's recession -- but always, the waters in Navarino Bay lap the shore and whisper the dream that lives.

In an era of globalization, we can still be who we are, not robots made in some factory in China, cheap goods sold on a mass market, made to fall apart after the first wash, imitations with a commercialized logo that screams for attention.

So, as I sit in a quiet lobby in a lovely hotel in Peloponnese, I am rejuvenated. Regardless of nationality or religion, regardless of the day's challenges, regardless of fears that work to mute the soul, our ancestors whisper that dreams live.

If only we'd listen.

If only we'd want more of what can't be bought.

If only we'd get our hands dirty from doing our own work, honest work that laps the soul, like the waters at Navarino Bay.

Arivederci, Italia!

2010-07-06T09:56:00.001-04:00

Arivederci, Italia! Tomorrow evening we sail to Patras, Greece, two nights and a day aboard a Greek ferry, slicing across the Adriatic Sea. New memories await. And, to be honest, I possess the traveler's eagerness to explore new frontiers, to experience Peloponnese's Mediterranean terrain, to visit Delphi and Sparta, to sip the local wine and nibble green olives, to walk quiet villages, to feel what is and imagine what was, how it all came to be, this miracle called democracy.

But I'll miss you, Italia. Your serenity. Your beauty. The patient and understanding lifestyle. The optimism: How piave, rain, nourishes more flowers than floods; how food feeds the soul, not just the body; how doing nothing can trump doing something.

I'm going to miss morning walks down narrow lanes, the afternoon siesta, the after dinner strolls in the piazza with my husband, and, later, sitting on our balcony, mesmerized by the moon's white shimmer on calm waters, enthralled by twinkling lights on cruise ships that approach Venice, and, talking into the night, about this and that, nothing important, just enjoying each other's company.

And, of course, our four trips into Venice or nearby islands, like Lido Beach, where the Duke and Duchess of Windsor frequented, or Burano, the quaint and colorful island where lace was made (but now imported from China), or Murano, the home of that magnificent glass, still made locally. Since this is our fourth year at the same hotel, we've come to treasure the routine: Bus No. 5 to Punta Sabionni and the ferry ride to the day's adventure.

And returning to our hotel room, tired but pleased with the day, happy to crawl into a book. Readings this year included Thuborn's Shadow of the Silk Road (almost brilliant); Harris's Pompeii (contrived); Ericksson's Girl with a Dragon Tattoo (too dark); and Gregory's The White Queen (interesting). I learned from each.

We also rode the bus to Treviso, into the countryside, to an old Italian town, locals gathered in the sleepy piazza, eating pizza, drinking beer. We walked the side streets, ancient streets filled with shops, probably like they were hundreds of years ago. But too many shops had shuttered, also the reason too many locals gathered in the piazza. Italy's economy struggles. Unemployment's high. House after house is for sale. New buildings stand empty.

And I wish I could say that the situation with the Russians at our hotel had a happy ending. It doesn't. Last night, at dinner, tempers flared over the food grab. It wasn't pretty.

Nor has the pool been peaceful. There's no lifeguard, but international signs say No Diving, No Running, No Soccer Balls, No Topless. Only the latter has been followed. Small kids run alongside the pool, everywhere, actually. Older kids dive into a rather shallow pool. Teenagers play rough with a soccer ball, yelling to each other. One father decided to make a game of tossing his kids into the pool, turning and flinging them into the water. On-lookers complained, worried about injuries. Management's intervention had no effect. The Russians continued to do as they pleased. This morning, some guests checked out early. They'd had enough.

For we've also had a problem with crime. Last week, at 0235 and 0315, someone tried to gain entry to our room. We flipped on the lights and started talking to scare them away. It worked. However, several rooms in the hotel next to us had been robbed. Police out front that morning. A desk clerk said police are looking for three Russians on our floor who'd checked out that a.m., before the police arrived.

The other night, fake whistling like birds awakened us, and others, at 0300. Police out front that morning.

More police this morning. Someone robbed the money exchange in the piazza.

True, Italy has a pick-pocket reputation. And, it's not totally unfair. One has to be careful. However, this is all a bit much. I mean, this is a very nice hotel, not exactly cheap. Nor is there a downtrodden beach area along the strip. Everything looks respectable, very neat, very clean. Then, again, according to the lady at the money exchange, the couple who robbed her looked very respectable.

Sigh.

I still want to visit you again next year, Italia. Ti amo. I love you.

The Italian Language Sings

2010-06-30T11:59:00.000-04:00

The Italian language sings. This was the topic of after-breakfast conversation around a table on the hotel's terrace. British friends said that when they're shopping, back in Liverpool, and happen to hear spoken Italian, they stop briefly, just to enjoy the language's beauty. "We haven't a clue what anyone's saying," Brian said, "but, for a few moments, we want to get lost in the beauty of a language that sings."

I couldn't agree more. Sometimes, when I'm walking, I'll pause on a bench simply to hear the beauty of passing conversations. I love how the vowels stretch, how phrases roll higher, then down into a sentence that mellows out, like a bell that tinkles, the last sound a dainty reverberation that soothes the soul. I can't imagine a really angry person speaking Italian and retaining the anger. Of course, it must happen. People are people.

Still, for the wandering tourist, snippets of conversation here and there, greetings in stores, background commentary on television, all merge into a language of beauty, a language that sings "Co me va?" (How are you?) with such purity one has to feel good or at least better, if only for a moment. And, sometimes, it only takes a moment for a day that has started out poorly .... kids crying, a rough e-mail ... to turn around, for a smile to reach upward.

The hotel solved the problem of the disappearing food last night by bringing out more food: a second round of beef (like one sees at huge receptions), more lamb chops, huge piles of French fries, more pasts, double the cut fruit selections, increase ice cream flavors, and so on and so on until one looked at these mounds of food with a weakened appetite. For it's not normal, I don't think, for this much food to feed what in reality are few people, about 100.

But, not knowing the increases would appear, others didn't rush to stand in chow lines, but held back, maintained a firm grip on the leisurely pace of dinner traditions. This is a part of the Old Europe it took centuries to reach. No one was going to forsake tradition for a lamb chop.

I can't say at which precise moment it happened .... perhaps the sight of so much food had a sobering effect, that no one in the room starved ... but civility returned, the rush abated, and order prevailed. That one could feel a certain sense of harmony blessed a pleasant evening. Except that there are murmurs prices will rise, that this hotel will be too expensive next year. However, I don't think this will happen. The British and the Germans and the Austrians are the hotel's core guests. Some have been returning yearly for decades. Without this nucleus, occasional Russian groups can't keep the hotel afloat.

A reader asked if I knew thirty-three from the Russian Federation read my blog? And, in a roundabout way, if I worried about the political correctness of what I had written?

Yes, I knew about this readership, am grateful for their support, and have sometimes wondered who they were, what they did, where they lived in Russia (I've always wanted to visit Siberia, romanticized a reader lived there).

About the political correctness, no. Actually, hell no.

When a group of people assumes others don't understand their language and makes ugly comments that can be understood, this is a xenophobia that can be called to task. I wish I could say I'm alone in this but am not. A couple of weeks prior to leaving the States, we had lunch with a Russian speaker from one of the former Eastern Block countries. Mariyan complained about the same issues I have written about but hadn't yet experienced. "They give us all a bad name," he had moaned.

And I understand this helpless feeling. Wasn't it Graham Greene who wrote about The Ugly American? I can't say Greene was wrong. Oh, but the times I saw my countrymen/women behave overseas in a manner they wouldn't think of doing back in the States and felt a sense of shame. Time has seasoned most Americans to tuck their manners into the suitcase when traveling. Still, the problem often persists, The Ugly American who needs to get his/her act together. I'm not personally insulted when others are reprimanded. The Russians I've known aren't either.

Like Shakespeare said, "All the world's a stage...."

Italy Charms

2010-06-29T07:14:00.000-04:00

Italy charms. Slowly. Like a flower whose scent drifts, pulling you into an orbit of beauty, where bad happens in another place, another time, like yesterday's newspaper, left on a terrace table, the English gaining my attention, the headlines so dramatic, so far away I recoil from what threatens and walk away, preferring the scented beauty, the Italy that charms, the Italian language that seduces, like a lullaby, into feeling safe and secure.

After four lovely days in Munich (which I'll blog about after returning to the States, for something interesting happened which I'd like to share, hear your input), we're into our routine at Jesolo Beach, an hour's ferry ride across the bay from Venice, Italy. It's a tourist area that shuts down in winter, reverting to the gray emptiness expected from a narrow peninsula victimized by seasonal winds and heavy rains.

In the meantime, tho, the sun shines in a cloudless blue sky, tourists wander the town's shaded streets, beach devotees have claimed lounges or locals go about morning errands. The atmosphere is peaceful, very relaxing. Dick's out by the pool, content reading a Daniel Silva novel, half-shaded under his umbrella.

I don't like sitting in the sun, umbrella or not, even with sunscreen, a hat, and so on. I enjoy exploring side streets, taking photos, and walking and not really thinking, just absorbing. Around noon, Dick and I meet at a beach hangout popular with Italians (for most of the tourists here are Italian). He usually orders a beer and a panini. I don't order anything. There aren't any calories in what I pinch from his plate!! That sip of beer, too!

What I've noticed most about the area, is how generational the lifestyle is. Sons work with fathers in the small shops. Grandmothers push strollers (prams). Long-time friends gather in the piazza and talk and laugh. Small kids know to endure the pinch on the cheeks, the kisses, the exclamations about how beautiful they are. Dogs know to flatten down, to wait until they can return to being dogs, tails up, paws moving, styling and profiling. It's Italy. Everybody and everything looks good. Not a speck of dust on constantly washed cars. Store windows sparkle.

Our hotel serves dinner at 7:30. It's the only hotel in the area to include breakfast and dinner in the daily price. Dinner includes a long salad bar, a soup and pasta bar, and a buffet of fresh vegetables and grilled (while you wait) meats and fish. Dessert consists of a table filled with mouth-watering tortes, with a parallel fruit table, the cherries, strawberries, and melons that are in season. One can top off the fruit with gelato.

And, so, for a week we enjoyed a leisurely paced routine. Until a large group of Russians checked in. Now, no one knows what to think. Not just us, the lone tourists from the United States. But the numerous Brits and Germans and Austrians. We've begun to gather and compare notes. Decide what to do. When there's only one thing to do: Come to breakfast and dinner earlier, change our leisurely routine.

If not, there's little food, with the hotel staff scrambling to find fillers.

It's beyond comprehension that a group of people can put so much food on plates (for each balances more than one filled plate), move as a group, not following the course order, piling on the really good stuff (for a menu is posted daily). And they eat it all, every crumb, scraping plates clean, as if an eating marathon exists. Then, they leave. With the rest of us sitting there, wondering, what the hell was that all about?

There's a bit of sympathy, that that many people are that hungry. But sympathy only goes so far.

For those of you new to my blog, my hub and I lived in Macedonia for two years. I learned to speak Macedonian fairly well. Some Macedonian laces Russian (or vice versa). So, I understand a bit of these Russian conversations. In short, they don't like us, look down upon us, enjoy talking about us. By 'us' I mean those of us from the West, be it Austria or Germany or England or the United States or wherever. I wish I could list exceptions and say this couple or that person was very nice. I can't. They move as a group with a group mentality. Nothing individual here. Not even a response to routine greetings in their language.

I wish I could say that this is the experience from one tour group. Not so. Out desk clerks say it's the same with Russian tour groups everywhere here.

And the Russians shop en masse, flush with euros (oil money), buying high-end designer items with the same abandon with which they fill dinner plates.

So, where am I going with all this? Nowhere, really. Except to say that I, like other hotel guests from England, Austria, and Germany, am a product of the Cold War. We're a bit taken aback by this East-West divide we're experiencing. For there are guests here from European countries who speak Russian. I'm told overheard conversations get harsher when one understands Russian fluently.

One can't buy Paradise. Reality always slips in.

Thank You for a Lovely Milestone

2010-05-12T12:41:00.017-04:00

Oh, how the days have rolled one unto the other! Happily so! Around August 3rd last year, I blogged for the first time, a bit nervously, for I knew nothing about Blogville. Simply put, I began this blog because my grown nieces are more interested in Crate 'n Barrel (er, themselves) than our family's history. They don't know about my blog. When the time is right, I'll tell them.

One of the reasons I was a bit nervous about posting my Louisiana stories was, What if no one's interested? Then, I could see my nieces rolling their eyes, oh, bore, bore. But this didn't happen. Thanks to you, I'm really enthused about the day when I say to The Girls, Hey, if others enjoy our family's history, you might, too.

For new Followers, Kittie is a nickname my grandmother gave me years ago. Howard is, of course, fake. I had just completed Philippa Gregory's book about Katherine Howard, the last of Henry VII's beheaded wives and thought Kittie Howard worked. Hence, the name of my blog, The Block, where bloggers can end up for sticking their necks out. Yep, I've got one of those dry senses of humor. I also love to laugh until the tears fall!

Anyway, what I have learned from blogging is that Blogville is a community filled with heart!

When my blog reached 85 Followers, I began receiving encouraging e-mails about reaching 100 Followers and how much fun the milestone would be. I watched in amazement (with my hub beaming from ear to ear) as the numbers climbed. Much closer to the Milestone, I began to think of how to celebrate. Several months earlier, when I passed on awards generously given to me, I had also thought to have a contest and give out a couple of bookstore coupons.

However, Leezra at http://skitzoleezra.blogspot.com/ commented that she was surrounded by blessings and how about a donation to an animal shelter instead? Followers concurred.

So, to Thank You, all 106 of you, for enriching my life, this morning I made a $106.00 donation to P.A.W.S. or the Plaquemines Animal Welfare Society at 9596 Highway 23 South; Belle Chase, Louisiana 70037.

Many shelters need donations. I selected a Louisiana shelter because Leezra, who is from Louisiana, had the idea; Plaquemines Parish is a significant part of the area you see on TV in danger from the horrible oil slick in the Gulf of Mexico, and because my great-great grandfather Stilly died during a best two-out-of-three poker tournament in one of the bayous there. (I blogged earlier how someone shot Stilly dead after he'd won the first round. Without Crime Scene Bayou in the 1800s, no one knows who did the deed!)

This morning I spoke with Mary Ann (504.392.1601), a lovely lady who works at P.A.W.S. She reminded me that shelters are being inundated with unwanted kittens who desperately need homes. I've also learned that, without any neutering, two cats will eventually produce 740,000 cats in seven years! Thanks to your interest in my Louisiana stories, Blogville's heart sprinkles a bit of love to P.A.W.S. and a helping hand.

However, I don't have to tell you I'm saddened by the oil disaster in the Gulf of Mexico. Plying the Gulf for seafood is often a generational profession within Louisiana's lower parishes (counties). These fishermen possess a love for the wetlands and Gulf waters that travels beyond words or money. A way of life is endangered that is beyond measurable impact.

I am also angered that the probable lack of regulation created a disaster of Biblical proportions. The possible damage to Louisiana's outer islands is immeasurable. For example, many migrating birds from South and Central America MUST rest on these islands before continuing their journeys. If not, they fall into the Gulf of Mexico and drown. (Actually, this began to happen prior to an oil slick that could only make matters worse.)

We in the United States have got to get tougher with legislation that better regulates industry that feeds off Nature. BP made $38 BILLION dollars last year. Yet BP didn't want to pay $500,000.00 for a special shut-off valve above the ordinary. Didn't have to, actually. The United States is the only country in the world that doesn't make this valve mandatory for drilling in our waters. But, make no mistake about it, BP's probably not the only company without the valve. That's how greed works, spend as little as possible to make as much as possible. And, then there's dear old Halliburton, Dick Cheney's true love, that did the bottom pipe work where the methane is thought to have begun. Ohhhh, but I'm fed up with greed!

But you've heard the news. You're aware the oil slick could travel the Gulf's arc, leaving decades of environmental and economic destruction in its path, from Texas to Florida. And this slick could travel around Florida's peninsula, around the hook, and up to New England's beaches. What a nightmare!

It takes more than a donation, though, to help Mother Nature. We all have to work together to protect our planet. So, beyond the donation, I want to recognize those blogs that focus on Nature, in her many glorious forms. Allison from http://adventuresofthecautionarytale.blogspot.com/ gave me the idea when she graciously listed The Block in a linkage project. For blogs run on love that links to others.

A big shout-out to Talli Roland at http://talliroland.blogspot.com/for being my 100th Follower and a note to fellow bloggers that Talli is a debut novelist. Her book, The Hating Game, will be published in 2011. Prior to writing novels, Talli wrote travel guides for London and Paris (two of my favorite cities.) If you're an aspiring writer, please check out her blog!

The very lovely Jeanne at http://collageoflife-henrqs.blogspot.com/ awarded me the 101 Follower award (posted at right) which I'd like to pass on to Jayne, my 101st Follower, at http://jayneferst.blogspot.com/ with hugs to both gals.

Sweet and very kind Elle at http://thewritersfunhouse.blogspot.com/ awarded me the Blogger Buddy Award (posted at right) which I'd like to pass on, in no particular order, and hoping I haven't left anyone out. My apologies if I have for I've pages and pages in front of me. Please pass on the award to others as it suits your blog. Remember, there's no obligation to post the award or link to me. I just want to pass on my appreciation to those quiet heroes who do so much to share Nature's joy and protect her beauty:

                      Jack at http://swamericana.wordpress.com/
                      One Hundred Mountains at http://onehundredmountains.blogspot.com/
                      On the Pond Farm at http://onthepondfarm.blogspot.com/
                      Teresa Evangeline at http://teresaevangeline.blogspot.com/
                      Baroness Radon at http://baronessoftao.blogspot.com/
                      Zoe at http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/
                      Grethe at http://atasteofdenmark.blogspot.com/
                      The Wanderer at http://thewanderingpebble2.blogspot.com/
                      Linda at http://bluestargallery.blogspot.com/
                      Cheryl K at http://www.lakemarymusings.blogspot.com/
                      Kitty Shepherd at http://kittyshepherd.blogspot.com/
                      Marie at http://marierust.blogspot.com/
                      Kristy at http://starkravingzen.blogspot.com/
                      Leslie at http://oko-organic-clothing.blogspot.com/
                      Enigma at http://watergatesummer.blogspot.com/
                      Decca at http://mythtaken.blogspot.com/
                      Thyra at http://thyra2005.blogspot.com/
                      Lyn at http://turquoisemoon-wordstoliveby.blogspot.com/
                      Joan at http://sempiterna-me.blogspot.com/
                      Vesna at http://vesnikus.blogspot.com/
                      Mundo at http://bioinformas.blogspot.com/
                      Chris at seamistsandsunsets.blogspot.com

From the bottom of my heart, I thank all 106 of you (and those who follow anonymously, quietly read) for sharing the love. If you have time, I hope you'll click open these blogs, even more, scroll through the pics of Followers and have a glorious feast on all the talent that's out there. Hugs and love to you. Kittie