How Now, Brown Cow?

(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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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:
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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.