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

(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.

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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)

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!

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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."



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To return to Romantic Friday Writers click here.

Steen's Cane Syrup; Romantic Friday Writers

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.
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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

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.)

* * * * *

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.