Tuskegee Airmen and Louisiana Memories; Fictional Characters

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.



 

Welcome to Okinawa; Blogfest

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.

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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

Pronouns and Verbs and Dialogue

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!

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.)

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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