A picture of a tiny yellow bird, species unknown, taken in Livingston, Louisiana by my friend Dave Beatty.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Every Day Except Sunday
Marilyn and I recently spent the afternoon with a personal injury attorney. Four years after Marilyn being rear-ended, we finally settled the case today. Despite an injury, resulting in having three donor bones surgically implanted in her neck, and then a brain aneurysm that almost killed her she wound up with little more than her medical expenses paid.
The problem is Oklahoma. The reddest state in the Union is ultraconservative and rarely finds for the plaintiff, no matter what the injury. Despite the lack of satisfaction, we finally received closure, and we were happy to have the episode in our lives finally at an end. Our very colorful attorney (a very good one, I might add) regaled us with one last legal story. It is good enough that I need to share.
Seems our attorney’s parents-in-law were rear-ended and he represented them in the resultant lawsuit. One of the claims was loss of consortium, defined in law as the losing of conjugal services. Well, you know what I mean.
According to our attorney, in a deposition, the opposing attorney always tries to embarrass the man. This tactic, he said, can backfire in a trial. J’s mother-in-law was less than a handsome woman, and he confided that he could barely imagine her even having sex, much less enjoying it. J, our attorney held his breath as the opposing attorney grilled his father-in-law.
“Sir, I need to know how the wreck affected your sex life. Since the accident, how many times a week does you and your wife have sex?”
“Once,” J’s father-in-law, a man approaching seventy answered.
J’s mouth dropped when his wife’s dad answered the question about how many times they had sex before the accident.
J’s parent-in-laws were good Oklahoma Baptists, and his father-in-law answered, “Six - everyday except Sunday.”
J and his parent’s-in-law won their case, including the claim for loss of consortium. Still, considering his own marriage, he couldn’t help but think that he’d been robbed, as he and his wife (the plaintiff’s daughter) had never had sex six times in any week, much less every week.
Eric'sWeb
The problem is Oklahoma. The reddest state in the Union is ultraconservative and rarely finds for the plaintiff, no matter what the injury. Despite the lack of satisfaction, we finally received closure, and we were happy to have the episode in our lives finally at an end. Our very colorful attorney (a very good one, I might add) regaled us with one last legal story. It is good enough that I need to share.
Seems our attorney’s parents-in-law were rear-ended and he represented them in the resultant lawsuit. One of the claims was loss of consortium, defined in law as the losing of conjugal services. Well, you know what I mean.
According to our attorney, in a deposition, the opposing attorney always tries to embarrass the man. This tactic, he said, can backfire in a trial. J’s mother-in-law was less than a handsome woman, and he confided that he could barely imagine her even having sex, much less enjoying it. J, our attorney held his breath as the opposing attorney grilled his father-in-law.
“Sir, I need to know how the wreck affected your sex life. Since the accident, how many times a week does you and your wife have sex?”
“Once,” J’s father-in-law, a man approaching seventy answered.
J’s mouth dropped when his wife’s dad answered the question about how many times they had sex before the accident.
J’s parent-in-laws were good Oklahoma Baptists, and his father-in-law answered, “Six - everyday except Sunday.”
J and his parent’s-in-law won their case, including the claim for loss of consortium. Still, considering his own marriage, he couldn’t help but think that he’d been robbed, as he and his wife (the plaintiff’s daughter) had never had sex six times in any week, much less every week.
Eric'sWeb
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
February Spirits
It is a windy beginning to the month here in Oklahoma. Except for the wind, the weather is fifty degrees and gorgeous. Marilyn and I went to Pearl's Graveside for their Cajun brunch. There was once a Pearl's Lakeside on the banks of Oklahoma City's Lake Hefner. This restaurant abuts a large graveyard, thus the spooky reference.
Marilyn and I usually sit at the bar and all the bartenders and wait staff know us. Some nights when the crowd is “dead,” spirits wander in from the nearby graveyard for a zombie, or bloody Mary, the pretty blonde bartender told us. She was not kidding!
The young bartender’s story got me thinking about the dating habits of spirits. Do they chase after other spirits and where do they go for happy hour? Hey, is there a happy hour in the beyond? I am working on a ghostly short story to help answer my questions on the subject. When I finish it, I will let you know.
Gondwana
Marilyn and I usually sit at the bar and all the bartenders and wait staff know us. Some nights when the crowd is “dead,” spirits wander in from the nearby graveyard for a zombie, or bloody Mary, the pretty blonde bartender told us. She was not kidding!
The young bartender’s story got me thinking about the dating habits of spirits. Do they chase after other spirits and where do they go for happy hour? Hey, is there a happy hour in the beyond? I am working on a ghostly short story to help answer my questions on the subject. When I finish it, I will let you know.
Gondwana
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Garden Penis - a pic
Here is a pic of a strange plant Marilyn found growing in one of our flower beds. Any one know what it is?
Monday, September 21, 2009
Lily's Cajun Coffee
My first wife’s family lived in Chalmette, a city south of New Orleans devastated by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. Gail and I would often leave work at night from our respective menial jobs and drive to Chalmette for the weekend. We would enter the old wood-framed structure quietly and go to sleep in the empty bedroom in back. At five, our nightly rest always ended with the booming bass voice of a distant cousin named Admiral.
"Hey Harvey, you and Lily gonna sleep all morning?"
Gail’s parents, Lily and Harvey were already awake, although barely, and Lily would let Admiral into the kitchen (he always came in the back door) and start a pot of strong coffee. Lily did not use a modern coffee pot. She made hers in a simple drip pot that she heated on the open natural gas flame of her little stove. Like many Cajuns, she used a blend of coffee and chicory that produced a strong, aromatic brew. I still remember the aroma of Lily’s Cajun coffee.
Admiral’s voice was so deep and booming, it actually shook the walls. At least it felt that way after only four hours of sleep. Soon, Gail and I would succumb to the cacophony, and stories about Fats Domino we had all heard before. She would roll out of bed, put on her robe and tread down the hall to the kitchen. Finally, I would rub my eyes, take a big whiff of the coffee aroma wafting from the kitchen, and follow her.
Two wives later, I still love coffee, but in all my travels I have never had a cup as good as Lily brewed, or smelled that wonderful aroma that can revive you fully from a hard day’s work, a long drive, and only four hours of sleep.
Fiction South
"Hey Harvey, you and Lily gonna sleep all morning?"
Gail’s parents, Lily and Harvey were already awake, although barely, and Lily would let Admiral into the kitchen (he always came in the back door) and start a pot of strong coffee. Lily did not use a modern coffee pot. She made hers in a simple drip pot that she heated on the open natural gas flame of her little stove. Like many Cajuns, she used a blend of coffee and chicory that produced a strong, aromatic brew. I still remember the aroma of Lily’s Cajun coffee.
Admiral’s voice was so deep and booming, it actually shook the walls. At least it felt that way after only four hours of sleep. Soon, Gail and I would succumb to the cacophony, and stories about Fats Domino we had all heard before. She would roll out of bed, put on her robe and tread down the hall to the kitchen. Finally, I would rub my eyes, take a big whiff of the coffee aroma wafting from the kitchen, and follow her.
Two wives later, I still love coffee, but in all my travels I have never had a cup as good as Lily brewed, or smelled that wonderful aroma that can revive you fully from a hard day’s work, a long drive, and only four hours of sleep.
Fiction South
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Novels, Screenplays and Free Time
I have completed almost seventy-thousand words of my novel-in-progress Bones of Skeleton Creek, and probably have less than ten-thousand words to go. Problem is, I stalled out about thirty days ago and have been unable, or unwilling to complete the last few chapters, even though I already know the ending, or at least much of it. I got a possible hint as to the reason for my malaise while reading Screenplay, the foundations of Screenwriting, one of Syd Field’s books.
Called the Guru of Screenwriting, Field has launched more screenwriting careers than possibly anyone alive has. In his book, just one of many that he has written, he mentions that it is a common occurrence for his students to experience the same phenomenon as I when nearing the end of a screenplay. The reason, he says, is that your characters begin talking to you, often moving in directions and situations you never predicted. The writer begins enjoying his involvement and interaction with the characters to the extent that he (or she) does not want it to end. To this, I say amen.
Why am I reading a book on screenwriting? Every novelist should read Screenplay because Field offers lots of good advice on writing that transcends genre. Oh, and I had a call from a Hollywood producer asking if Big Easy’s movie rights were optioned.
“You had never written a book until you finished your first one,” he said when I protested that I knew nothing about writing a screenplay.
Hey, maybe the real reason that I am having trouble finishing Bones of Skeleton Creek is because there are only so many hours in a day, and many of mine now filled with the adaptation of Big Easy into a movie script.
Eric'sWeb
Called the Guru of Screenwriting, Field has launched more screenwriting careers than possibly anyone alive has. In his book, just one of many that he has written, he mentions that it is a common occurrence for his students to experience the same phenomenon as I when nearing the end of a screenplay. The reason, he says, is that your characters begin talking to you, often moving in directions and situations you never predicted. The writer begins enjoying his involvement and interaction with the characters to the extent that he (or she) does not want it to end. To this, I say amen.
Why am I reading a book on screenwriting? Every novelist should read Screenplay because Field offers lots of good advice on writing that transcends genre. Oh, and I had a call from a Hollywood producer asking if Big Easy’s movie rights were optioned.
“You had never written a book until you finished your first one,” he said when I protested that I knew nothing about writing a screenplay.
Hey, maybe the real reason that I am having trouble finishing Bones of Skeleton Creek is because there are only so many hours in a day, and many of mine now filled with the adaptation of Big Easy into a movie script.
Eric'sWeb
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Crawfish Etouffee - a weekend recipe
Perhaps the quintessential dish served in the Big Easy is Etouffee, made with either shrimp or crawfish. There are as many variations of this dish, but here is my favorite:
■ ½-cup cooking oil
■ 2 cups finely chopped white onion
■ 1 large bell pepper, medium diced
■ 1 stalk of celery, medium diced
■ 2 cups whole tomatoes, mashed
■ 2 cups tomato juice
■ 1/4 cup lemon juice
■ 6 tablespoons roux
■ 2 tablespoons Worcestershire
■ 1/4 cup minced parsley
■ ½ cup chopped leaf of garlic, or green onion tops
■ 2 cloves of minced garlic
■ 1/4 tablespoon of red pepper
■ 1/4 tablespoon of salt, or to taste
■ 1/4 tablespoon of pepper, or to taste
■ 1 pound of cleaned and de-veined crawfish
Pour oil into a heavy skillet and sauté onions, bell pepper, and celery until limp. Do not overcook. Add tomatoes, tomato juice, lemon juice, roux and Worcestershire.
Bring to a boil, then reduce to medium hat and add parsley, garlic leaf, garlic cloves, red pepper, and salt and pepper. Cook for about five minutes, then add crawfish and cook for fifteen more minutes. Simmer until ready to serve. Over rice, this dish serves four.
Bring to a boil, then reduce to medium hat and add parsley, garlic leaf, garlic cloves, red pepper, and salt and pepper. Cook for about five minutes, then add crawfish and cook for fifteen more minutes. Simmer until ready to serve. Over rice, this dish serves four.
Hey, and read my book Murder Etouffee for more recipes, southern short stories and a taste of the French Quarter.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Chalmette Retrospective
I visited New Orleans for the first time when I was eleven. My Aunt Carmol was an elementary school teacher. She made sure my brother and I saw every historical site, museum and park in the City. Having grown up in rural northwest Louisiana, New Orleans was the first cosmopolitan area I ever visited. It wasn’t the last, but it remains in my mind as the most unique city in the United States and perhaps the world.
My first visit wasn’t my last. As a college freshman, I marched in the Venus parade during Mardi Gras, experiencing Bourbon Street and the French Quarter for the first time as an adult - or at least close. Most of that particular visit was spent in a drunken haze, much in the manner of college students today visiting the City and savoring Mardi Gras for the first time.
I worked in the City once during summer break from college. My job title was assistant micro-photographic technician seismologist. From my salary of two dollars per hour, you can tell the description was a bit overblown, but it did look good on my resume. I bought my first camera, a 35 mm Yashica range finder, that year. New Orleans provided a plethora of scenic opportunities.
Shortly after that sweltering summer I married a girl from Chalmette, a city separated from New Orleans only by name. My marriage to Gail didn’t last but during our seven years together, I learned to love her French Acadian parents, Lily and Harvey, and her entire family. It’s a shame sometimes that you can’t divorce a wife and keep her family.
Gail had two brothers, four sisters and many aunts, uncles and cousins. Most were wonderful cooks but none better than Gail’s mother Lily was. No two pots of gumbo are ever exactly alike. I know because I’ve consumed my fair share. Taste, like I guess just about everything else, is subjective. That said, Lily’s gumbo was the best I ever tasted and, in my opinion, the best in the world.
Harvey, Gail’s father, was a cattleman and fur buyer. During trapping season, Harvey filled the shed behind his house with raw fur. He gave me a lesson once on how to grade a nutria pelt. Like calculus and religion, the lesson didn’t stick. One short story: Harvey and Lily once found six hundred dollars in cash in their deep freeze. Since trappers do not take Visa or MasterCard, Harvey always had large amounts of cash around the house.
They did not own a safe, so -.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Born To Be Wilder
I had just started a new job in 1976 and was undergoing a divorce from my first wife. With the divorce finally finalized, I found myself truly free for the first time in seven years.
I was already drinking and partying too much, so the only thing left for me was to buy a motorcycle. When Dave, a fellow geologist and my closest friend, told me he was going to put an ad for his motorcycle in the newspaper, I naturally asked him how much he wanted for it.
"Five hundred bucks," he told me.
"I'll take it, but you'll have to teach me how to drive it." I had never been on a motorcycle.
A lesser friend would have told me to go jump in the lake. Dave, in fact, did grumble a bit but in the end he promised to teach me how to ride a motorcycle, even if I didn't buy his motorcycle. That Saturday, he drove it to my house and gave me my first lesson. The bike was a 500cc Triumph dirt bike. I know! There is no such thing anymore and the bike would probably be worth ten grand these days if you could even find one. Anyway, Dave showed me the ropes and persevered until I finally got the hang of it.
I began riding the bike to work but soon found its knobby tires were more suited for off-road than freeway. I also soon learned that my ex-girlfriend was a better rider than me. I found this out as the reluctant passenger on back as she demonstrated how to race around a corner while nearly kissing the pavement. I traded the little dirt bike for a 750cc Triumph Bonneville street bike, quickly discovering the gears and brakes are on opposite sides than those on the dirt bike. Again, my bud Dave helped me transition through the difficulty.
My ex and I were unable to sell our house immediately so we took turns living in it until we sold it. One night, we had an impromptu party that included many of my new friends and many of hers. Do not ask me to explain! We were incompatible and did not hate each other. I soon began getting requests to take people for rides on the Bonneville.
The long trip around the block would begin as uneventful but ended the same way a half dozen times. The grass on the front lawn was wet and every time I jumped the curb and hit the grass, I would lose control and we would slide across the wet yards on our rear ends. Did I mention that we were all drinking?
No one was hurt and the Bonneville suffered only a few superficial scratches. I have a picture of the Bonneville around somewhere but only a memory exists - not even a tiny scar - of my first motorcycle. It is a shame because that cycle and friends like Dave helped me through a very rocky patch in my life.
"Five hundred bucks," he told me.
"I'll take it, but you'll have to teach me how to drive it." I had never been on a motorcycle.
A lesser friend would have told me to go jump in the lake. Dave, in fact, did grumble a bit but in the end he promised to teach me how to ride a motorcycle, even if I didn't buy his motorcycle. That Saturday, he drove it to my house and gave me my first lesson. The bike was a 500cc Triumph dirt bike. I know! There is no such thing anymore and the bike would probably be worth ten grand these days if you could even find one. Anyway, Dave showed me the ropes and persevered until I finally got the hang of it.
I began riding the bike to work but soon found its knobby tires were more suited for off-road than freeway. I also soon learned that my ex-girlfriend was a better rider than me. I found this out as the reluctant passenger on back as she demonstrated how to race around a corner while nearly kissing the pavement. I traded the little dirt bike for a 750cc Triumph Bonneville street bike, quickly discovering the gears and brakes are on opposite sides than those on the dirt bike. Again, my bud Dave helped me transition through the difficulty.
My ex and I were unable to sell our house immediately so we took turns living in it until we sold it. One night, we had an impromptu party that included many of my new friends and many of hers. Do not ask me to explain! We were incompatible and did not hate each other. I soon began getting requests to take people for rides on the Bonneville.
The long trip around the block would begin as uneventful but ended the same way a half dozen times. The grass on the front lawn was wet and every time I jumped the curb and hit the grass, I would lose control and we would slide across the wet yards on our rear ends. Did I mention that we were all drinking?
No one was hurt and the Bonneville suffered only a few superficial scratches. I have a picture of the Bonneville around somewhere but only a memory exists - not even a tiny scar - of my first motorcycle. It is a shame because that cycle and friends like Dave helped me through a very rocky patch in my life.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
A Night at VZD's
VZD’s is a little cafe that I used to frequent when I had an office in Oklahoma City. I often stopped in after work for a little conversation and a drink or two. To say the bar is eclectic is stating a fact rather than a supposition. Once the location of Veasey’s Drugs, thus VZD, bottles and assorted paraphernalia remain on the north wall - old bottles, without the drugs anymore, thanks to an order by the DEA.
The rectangular bar, about the size of a small swimming pool, hosts around fifty customers comfortably, but many more than that often jam the premises. The walls match the atmosphere, always dark and smoky. A group of patrons seems to live there because they are always present every time I visit.
Dr. Pete, a PhD political pundit, James, a carpenter from Louisiana and, of course, Brian - the names changed to protect the innocent. Many other denizens populate the bar, mostly lawyers and politicians since VZD’s is close to the Capitol. When the business of Oklahoma law is in session, politicos pack the place every night.
Brian is a former cop turned landman, turned death examiner, turned embalmer and cremator. We had all partaken of several drinks as light outside the big picture window finally gave way to darkness. Brian got a phone call from a new client. He needed to pick up a body.
“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll give you something to write about.”
It was getting late and pretty Miss Lilly had just shown us the latest addition to the colorful tattoo on her backside. Who was looking at the tattoo? In a state of black and tan-induced euphoria, I acquiesced to go with Brian.
We picked up Ruby, the very recently deceased person, at the hospital. “Let me do all the talking,” Brian said. “They’ll know you’re drunk and these people are already upset enough.”
I did not bother pointing out that he had as much to drink, or more, than I did.
The relatives dutifully left and we lifted the body of the old woman onto a gurney. Her eyes were open, along with her mouth, her body stiff but surprisingly still slightly warm. We drove her downtown to the crematorium.
I helped Brian put Ruby into cold storage, and then watched in surreal amazement as he rolled out the body of an old man, fired up the furnace and preceded to cremate the body. Later, he removed the metal from the ashes.
“Most everyone these days has metal screws and clamps from some surgery or other,” he explained.
We headed back to VZD’s. Along the way, in downtown Oklahoma City, Brian stopped at a construction site in the road. There was a hole in the street, covered with a yellow tarp.
“Are you down there?” Brian called out the window.
Someone answered, obviously distraught, obviously crying. “The police are trying to get rid of me.”
“Do you need something to eat?” Brian asked.
“I haven’t eaten in two days,” was the answer.
Brian and I drove around the block to a McDonald’s, near the exit to the interstate, and bought a Big Mac, fries and a soda. The person under the tarp took our offering with the show of only a slender arm, and was appreciative.
The night was not over. After returning to VZD’s, Brian received a call. Bob worked for a livery company, a company that supplies hearses, mostly Cadillac’s, to various funeral homes around town. He needed someone to drive him home after delivering a hearse. When Bob arrived at VZD’s, he had a hamburger and then we followed him and the hearse he drove, to a funeral home in Midwest City, a suburb of OKC.
When Brian, Bob and I finally returned to VZD, I was sober enough to make it home to Edmond, the night’s memory girded around my brain for months to come.
The rectangular bar, about the size of a small swimming pool, hosts around fifty customers comfortably, but many more than that often jam the premises. The walls match the atmosphere, always dark and smoky. A group of patrons seems to live there because they are always present every time I visit.
Dr. Pete, a PhD political pundit, James, a carpenter from Louisiana and, of course, Brian - the names changed to protect the innocent. Many other denizens populate the bar, mostly lawyers and politicians since VZD’s is close to the Capitol. When the business of Oklahoma law is in session, politicos pack the place every night.
Brian is a former cop turned landman, turned death examiner, turned embalmer and cremator. We had all partaken of several drinks as light outside the big picture window finally gave way to darkness. Brian got a phone call from a new client. He needed to pick up a body.
“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll give you something to write about.”
It was getting late and pretty Miss Lilly had just shown us the latest addition to the colorful tattoo on her backside. Who was looking at the tattoo? In a state of black and tan-induced euphoria, I acquiesced to go with Brian.
We picked up Ruby, the very recently deceased person, at the hospital. “Let me do all the talking,” Brian said. “They’ll know you’re drunk and these people are already upset enough.”
I did not bother pointing out that he had as much to drink, or more, than I did.
The relatives dutifully left and we lifted the body of the old woman onto a gurney. Her eyes were open, along with her mouth, her body stiff but surprisingly still slightly warm. We drove her downtown to the crematorium.
I helped Brian put Ruby into cold storage, and then watched in surreal amazement as he rolled out the body of an old man, fired up the furnace and preceded to cremate the body. Later, he removed the metal from the ashes.
“Most everyone these days has metal screws and clamps from some surgery or other,” he explained.
We headed back to VZD’s. Along the way, in downtown Oklahoma City, Brian stopped at a construction site in the road. There was a hole in the street, covered with a yellow tarp.
“Are you down there?” Brian called out the window.
Someone answered, obviously distraught, obviously crying. “The police are trying to get rid of me.”
“Do you need something to eat?” Brian asked.
“I haven’t eaten in two days,” was the answer.
Brian and I drove around the block to a McDonald’s, near the exit to the interstate, and bought a Big Mac, fries and a soda. The person under the tarp took our offering with the show of only a slender arm, and was appreciative.
The night was not over. After returning to VZD’s, Brian received a call. Bob worked for a livery company, a company that supplies hearses, mostly Cadillac’s, to various funeral homes around town. He needed someone to drive him home after delivering a hearse. When Bob arrived at VZD’s, he had a hamburger and then we followed him and the hearse he drove, to a funeral home in Midwest City, a suburb of OKC.
When Brian, Bob and I finally returned to VZD, I was sober enough to make it home to Edmond, the night’s memory girded around my brain for months to come.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Houses of Your Mind
I lay in bed this morning, unable to return to sleep after awakening with a full bladder and going to the bathroom. Like everyone else during times like this, once back in bed my mind began scanning data lodged for decades in my brain, dredging up memories and replaying what seemed like megabytes of useless information.
Mostly, during times like these, I want to locate a key in my brain and turn it off, at least for a few hours. This morning, it was not to be and proved somehow different. While raking through the trash piles of my brain, I discovered something that blew me away. I want say remembered, because this snippet of information is something that I have always inherently known, but have never put together in a logical thought process. What did I discover? Well, this may not sound so unusual to you fair readers out there, but the more I think of it, the stranger it seems to me.
For whatever reason, I was thinking about my grandparents. My dad’s mother, Dale and her husband Oscar lived on a farm outside of Atlanta in east Texas. My mom’s mother, Lela and her husband Jim lived about a mile from us in Vivian, Louisiana. As random thoughts raced through my brain like water through an empty pipe, I gradually became aware of an apparent truth that had somehow escaped me my entire life.
The houses of both my grandparents were identical. They were exactly the same size and all the specific rooms – bathroom, kitchen, bedrooms, dining room, and living room – occupied exactly the same place. They even had the same directional orientation.
Strange, I grant you, but not beyond the realm of simple coincidence considering they were all built about the same time, and not more than fifty miles from one another. Then it dawned on me. The house were I grew up was the same as my grandparents, right down to each individual room. The only difference was the directional orientation. My house was situated perpendicular to that of my grandparent’s.
Wide-awake at four in the morning, I began trying to remember my neighbor’s houses and those of my friends. My friend Clay’s house, I realized, was exactly like mine except it was oriented differently. I could not quite remember the interior of Rod, Wiley, Elwin and Tim’s houses although I think they were different.
What in the hell does all this mean? I admit the thought worried me at four in the morning. After ruminating on the matter all day long, I can conclude only one of three things. 1) Some builder knocked out copies of the same house, and managed to market his product over many miles. 2) We are random although somehow ordered creations in the mind of some stellar being, or 3) there is some sort of chaotic yet orderly recipe for the world, as we know it.
My logic tells me that the first explanation is correct, but I wonder – do we have the vaguest clue as to who we really are, or even loosely realize what motivations or earth-shattering processes control our destinies?
Eric'sWeb
Mostly, during times like these, I want to locate a key in my brain and turn it off, at least for a few hours. This morning, it was not to be and proved somehow different. While raking through the trash piles of my brain, I discovered something that blew me away. I want say remembered, because this snippet of information is something that I have always inherently known, but have never put together in a logical thought process. What did I discover? Well, this may not sound so unusual to you fair readers out there, but the more I think of it, the stranger it seems to me.
For whatever reason, I was thinking about my grandparents. My dad’s mother, Dale and her husband Oscar lived on a farm outside of Atlanta in east Texas. My mom’s mother, Lela and her husband Jim lived about a mile from us in Vivian, Louisiana. As random thoughts raced through my brain like water through an empty pipe, I gradually became aware of an apparent truth that had somehow escaped me my entire life.
The houses of both my grandparents were identical. They were exactly the same size and all the specific rooms – bathroom, kitchen, bedrooms, dining room, and living room – occupied exactly the same place. They even had the same directional orientation.
Strange, I grant you, but not beyond the realm of simple coincidence considering they were all built about the same time, and not more than fifty miles from one another. Then it dawned on me. The house were I grew up was the same as my grandparents, right down to each individual room. The only difference was the directional orientation. My house was situated perpendicular to that of my grandparent’s.
Wide-awake at four in the morning, I began trying to remember my neighbor’s houses and those of my friends. My friend Clay’s house, I realized, was exactly like mine except it was oriented differently. I could not quite remember the interior of Rod, Wiley, Elwin and Tim’s houses although I think they were different.
What in the hell does all this mean? I admit the thought worried me at four in the morning. After ruminating on the matter all day long, I can conclude only one of three things. 1) Some builder knocked out copies of the same house, and managed to market his product over many miles. 2) We are random although somehow ordered creations in the mind of some stellar being, or 3) there is some sort of chaotic yet orderly recipe for the world, as we know it.
My logic tells me that the first explanation is correct, but I wonder – do we have the vaguest clue as to who we really are, or even loosely realize what motivations or earth-shattering processes control our destinies?
Eric'sWeb
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Afternoon at the Lake
The recent weather in central Oklahoma has been gorgeous and unseasonably cool. Dad and I enjoyed the wonderful weather this past Sunday on the inside patio of the Lakeside Restaurant that abuts scenic Lake Hefner. I was happy we went there, for more than one reason.
My Dad is ninety. Two Mondays ago, my brother Jack and I had to take him to the emergency room because he had fallen during the night. He had a big knot on his forehead and a cut on his nose that required three stitches.
Visiting him later, I noticed he was wearing a pair of shoes with the laces removed. He couldn’t get on his size eight shoes on to his swollen feet so I bought him a new pair, size eleven and a half.
“I’ll have the nurse look at his feet,” the friendly attendant told me.
Brother Jack called the next day. He’d had a lengthy phone conversation with Dad’s geriatric doctor and the prognosis sounded dire.
“He thinks he has congestive heart failure. We may have to hospitalize him. They can keep him alive with drugs but his quality of life will be almost nothing. We’ll have to decide if we want to keep giving him the drugs. We have an appointment at eleven thirty tomorrow.”
Following my conversation with Jack, I felt a horse had kicked me in the head. The doctor’s visit turned out well. Dad’s heart is strong, as are all his vital signs. Doctor K prescribed compression hose for his swelling and told us to check back in six months.
At the Lakeside Sunday, I was happy that my Dad is a healthy ninety-year old. I was also happy because the mild weather had brought out more pretty females than I could shake a stick at. I don’t know if Dad noticed, but I did.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
My Dad is ninety. Two Mondays ago, my brother Jack and I had to take him to the emergency room because he had fallen during the night. He had a big knot on his forehead and a cut on his nose that required three stitches.
Visiting him later, I noticed he was wearing a pair of shoes with the laces removed. He couldn’t get on his size eight shoes on to his swollen feet so I bought him a new pair, size eleven and a half.
“I’ll have the nurse look at his feet,” the friendly attendant told me.
Brother Jack called the next day. He’d had a lengthy phone conversation with Dad’s geriatric doctor and the prognosis sounded dire.
“He thinks he has congestive heart failure. We may have to hospitalize him. They can keep him alive with drugs but his quality of life will be almost nothing. We’ll have to decide if we want to keep giving him the drugs. We have an appointment at eleven thirty tomorrow.”
Following my conversation with Jack, I felt a horse had kicked me in the head. The doctor’s visit turned out well. Dad’s heart is strong, as are all his vital signs. Doctor K prescribed compression hose for his swelling and told us to check back in six months.
At the Lakeside Sunday, I was happy that my Dad is a healthy ninety-year old. I was also happy because the mild weather had brought out more pretty females than I could shake a stick at. I don’t know if Dad noticed, but I did.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Souvenir Tee Shirts
Decades of clutter populates my house and office. An organizational message appeared in my mail yesterday. If you have not used something in two years, it said, chances are you never will. Toss it was the impending message. Clutter slows you down, impedes your life and makes you unhappy.
Maybe so, I thought as I folded my laundry. Maybe I should throw away some of my old tee shirts, especially those with tears and stains. I began sorting the tee shirts on my bed with that thought in mind.
The first tee I held up for inspection was from the Redbud 10K race of 2000. I had to think a moment before its relevance came to mind. When it did, it poured over me with a poignant flood of memories, still painful after almost eight years.
Barely managing to cope with the death of my wife in 1998, I had gained an enormous amount of weight, and I continued to seethe with an inner anger that would not quit saying, “why me?” Jogging had helped me maintain my sanity during Anne’s illness and I needed to know that I still had the physical, and the mental strength to go the distance.
I parked my car a mile from the starting line and walked the rest of the way to loosen my muscles I knew would be screaming uncle long before the finish of the six-point-two mile course. Halfway there, a young man jogged up and began walking with me.
“Are you doing the Freedom Walk,” he asked.
“Nope,” I said. “The 10K.”
“You sure you can make it, big fellow?”
“Don’t know, but that’s what I’m here to find out,” I told him.
“You can do it,” he said. “But you need to go out slow. Don’t get caught up in the crowd. Just run your own race. If you get tired, then walk for awhile.”
With that, the man I am positive was an angel tapped me on the shoulder and jogged away without another word. Before I reached the starting line, it began to rain. It continued to rain until I completed the 6.2 miles that I did without stopping, not even once. The torrent ended as I crossed the line.
“I can’t throw this baby away,” I said, folding the tee shirt and putting it aside.
The next tee was from the Downtown Oklahoma City Art’s Festival of 1995. There was no Oklahoma City Art’s Festival in 1995. City Fathers canceled the event because of the Oklahoma City bombing attack on the Murrah Building in April of 1995. I bought the tee a year later, as the festival had an unsold stock of them. The tee had a torn sleeve where my Labrador Lucky had taken a bite from it when he was a puppy. Lucky, my best friend in the world, had helped me survive my grief. Folding the tee, I put it aside.
“Can’t throw this one away either,” I said.
Ten raggedy tees later, I had failed to throw even one of them away.
Sitting here now, punching these random thoughts out for all you anonymous people in the blogosphere, I cannot help but think of the clutter in my life. Yes, I need to throw some things away. I know existence would be simpler and better if I could control the chaos in my house, my office and yes, in my brain.
Maybe, but perhaps the clutter in our lives is really the essence of our being, the essential glue that binds our very souls. I do not know. What I do know is that without memories we would be little more than pulsating blobs of protoplasm.
Stuffing the tees in my chest of drawers, I forced shut the drawer and decided to worry about the chaos later.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Maybe so, I thought as I folded my laundry. Maybe I should throw away some of my old tee shirts, especially those with tears and stains. I began sorting the tee shirts on my bed with that thought in mind.
The first tee I held up for inspection was from the Redbud 10K race of 2000. I had to think a moment before its relevance came to mind. When it did, it poured over me with a poignant flood of memories, still painful after almost eight years.
Barely managing to cope with the death of my wife in 1998, I had gained an enormous amount of weight, and I continued to seethe with an inner anger that would not quit saying, “why me?” Jogging had helped me maintain my sanity during Anne’s illness and I needed to know that I still had the physical, and the mental strength to go the distance.
I parked my car a mile from the starting line and walked the rest of the way to loosen my muscles I knew would be screaming uncle long before the finish of the six-point-two mile course. Halfway there, a young man jogged up and began walking with me.
“Are you doing the Freedom Walk,” he asked.
“Nope,” I said. “The 10K.”
“You sure you can make it, big fellow?”
“Don’t know, but that’s what I’m here to find out,” I told him.
“You can do it,” he said. “But you need to go out slow. Don’t get caught up in the crowd. Just run your own race. If you get tired, then walk for awhile.”
With that, the man I am positive was an angel tapped me on the shoulder and jogged away without another word. Before I reached the starting line, it began to rain. It continued to rain until I completed the 6.2 miles that I did without stopping, not even once. The torrent ended as I crossed the line.
“I can’t throw this baby away,” I said, folding the tee shirt and putting it aside.
The next tee was from the Downtown Oklahoma City Art’s Festival of 1995. There was no Oklahoma City Art’s Festival in 1995. City Fathers canceled the event because of the Oklahoma City bombing attack on the Murrah Building in April of 1995. I bought the tee a year later, as the festival had an unsold stock of them. The tee had a torn sleeve where my Labrador Lucky had taken a bite from it when he was a puppy. Lucky, my best friend in the world, had helped me survive my grief. Folding the tee, I put it aside.
“Can’t throw this one away either,” I said.
Ten raggedy tees later, I had failed to throw even one of them away.
Sitting here now, punching these random thoughts out for all you anonymous people in the blogosphere, I cannot help but think of the clutter in my life. Yes, I need to throw some things away. I know existence would be simpler and better if I could control the chaos in my house, my office and yes, in my brain.
Maybe, but perhaps the clutter in our lives is really the essence of our being, the essential glue that binds our very souls. I do not know. What I do know is that without memories we would be little more than pulsating blobs of protoplasm.
Stuffing the tees in my chest of drawers, I forced shut the drawer and decided to worry about the chaos later.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Naked and Possessed
Many people believe voodoo is the practice of black magic, but this is only partially true. Voodoo is a contraction of the word Vodoun, a religion brought to the New World from Africa, primarily by slaves.
Vodoun is a complicated religion that has morphed many times since reaching the New World, adding elements of both Christianity and Native American beliefs. Priests and priestesses of the religion are houngans and mambos, respectively, and they often practice both magic - black and white - and the healing arts.
In my novel Big Easy, Mama Mulate is a conundrum within the religion. She is a practicing voodoo mambo, and has a doctorate in English literature, teaching at Tulane University. Unlike most practitioners of Vodoun Mama uses her talents only for good. In the novel, she comes up against a vicious serial killer that is the embodiment of voodoo deity Baron Samedi.
A turning point in the novel occurs during a ceremony on the banks of Bayou Rigolettes. An influential mambo assumes the persona of Lasyrenn, loa of fishes and Queen of the Sea, to instruct a naked initiate. Homicide detective accompanies Mama Mulate to observe the ceremony, and becomes a possessed and unwitting participant.
I personally think the ceremony scene is one of the hottest, most sexually charged chapters ever to appear in modern mystery fiction. I invite you to read Big Easy and decide for yourself.
Vodoun is a complicated religion that has morphed many times since reaching the New World, adding elements of both Christianity and Native American beliefs. Priests and priestesses of the religion are houngans and mambos, respectively, and they often practice both magic - black and white - and the healing arts.
In my novel Big Easy, Mama Mulate is a conundrum within the religion. She is a practicing voodoo mambo, and has a doctorate in English literature, teaching at Tulane University. Unlike most practitioners of Vodoun Mama uses her talents only for good. In the novel, she comes up against a vicious serial killer that is the embodiment of voodoo deity Baron Samedi.
A turning point in the novel occurs during a ceremony on the banks of Bayou Rigolettes. An influential mambo assumes the persona of Lasyrenn, loa of fishes and Queen of the Sea, to instruct a naked initiate. Homicide detective accompanies Mama Mulate to observe the ceremony, and becomes a possessed and unwitting participant.
I personally think the ceremony scene is one of the hottest, most sexually charged chapters ever to appear in modern mystery fiction. I invite you to read Big Easy and decide for yourself.
Monday, September 07, 2009
Oyster Omelet - a recipe
When I first moved to Oklahoma City, there was only one seafood restaurant. Herman’s, the lone venue, served mostly fried catfish and shrimp because there were no shipments of fresh seafood from the coasts at that time. Thank goodness, things have changed!
It is now possible to enjoy fresh seafood at many restaurants in the area. Marilyn and I like Pearl’s for its Cajun and Creole fare. Every Saturday and Sunday, they have a brunch featuring several variations of New Orleans-style breakfasts. While they do not serve this dish at Pearl’s, here is one of my personal breakfast favorites.
Oyster Omelet
2 doz. Oysters
1 tbsp butter
4 shallots
1 clove garlic
2 tbsp minced bell pepper
2 tbsp minced celery
2 bay leaves
4 eggs
2 tbsp chopped parsley
Salt and pepper to taste
Melt butter in saucepan and add minced garlic, bay leaves, pepper and celery. Drain the liquid from the oysters and put them into the butter with the seasoning. Lower heat and cook about three minutes. Beat the eggs, add salt and pepper and turn them into saucepan with oyster mixture. Do not stir. When lightly browned, turn onto hot platter and garnish with chopped parsley.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
It is now possible to enjoy fresh seafood at many restaurants in the area. Marilyn and I like Pearl’s for its Cajun and Creole fare. Every Saturday and Sunday, they have a brunch featuring several variations of New Orleans-style breakfasts. While they do not serve this dish at Pearl’s, here is one of my personal breakfast favorites.
Oyster Omelet
2 doz. Oysters
1 tbsp butter
4 shallots
1 clove garlic
2 tbsp minced bell pepper
2 tbsp minced celery
2 bay leaves
4 eggs
2 tbsp chopped parsley
Salt and pepper to taste
Melt butter in saucepan and add minced garlic, bay leaves, pepper and celery. Drain the liquid from the oysters and put them into the butter with the seasoning. Lower heat and cook about three minutes. Beat the eggs, add salt and pepper and turn them into saucepan with oyster mixture. Do not stir. When lightly browned, turn onto hot platter and garnish with chopped parsley.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, September 05, 2009
King of Vivian
My mother had three sisters, Wardie, Marguerite and Dot, and a brother, Grady, and they would all usually congregate at my grandparent’s house for Thanksgiving. I loved it, playing outside with all my cousins and inhaling the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen.
No one loved it more than my grandfather did - the head of the family we all knew as Grandpa Pitt. On Thanksgiving Day, he held court, his arms folded and a smile on his face as all his children and grandchildren paid homage to him. On Thanksgiving Day, he was truly “King of Vivian.”
It was never very cold in northwest Louisiana. Still, by Thanksgiving Day tree leaves had all turned red and gold and there was usually a nip in the air that went well with the nip of excitement the holiday brought with it.
What I remember most are the post-dinner conversations that always took place outside on the back porch if the weather was warm, or in my grandparent’s bedroom if it was too cold outside. What I remember is the decibel level caused by four sisters and a brother, talking at once and not one of them seeming to notice, or care.
My Grandma Pitt would be lying on the bed, contentment showing on her otherwise stoic face. My Grandpa Pitt would sit on the edge of his old cane rocker, occasionally interjecting a comment into the raucous conversation. Whenever he raised his hand, the room would go ghostly quiet, waiting for his latest regal pronouncement.
My Aunt Artie, Uncle Grady’s wife, would usually join in the melee but not my Dad Jack and Uncles Frank, Henry and Bert. They would be standing together in the tiny kitchen, their arms folded and knowing expressions on their faces. They had all been there before.
Those days are long gone, as are my grandparents, all my uncles, my mother and one of my aunts. Dot, Marguerite and my Dad are still alive, all with their own grandchildren and great-grandchildren now. When I see a turkey emerging from the oven and smell the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen, I think of Grandpa Pitt, the first and the last “King of Vivian.”
Gondwana
No one loved it more than my grandfather did - the head of the family we all knew as Grandpa Pitt. On Thanksgiving Day, he held court, his arms folded and a smile on his face as all his children and grandchildren paid homage to him. On Thanksgiving Day, he was truly “King of Vivian.”
It was never very cold in northwest Louisiana. Still, by Thanksgiving Day tree leaves had all turned red and gold and there was usually a nip in the air that went well with the nip of excitement the holiday brought with it.
What I remember most are the post-dinner conversations that always took place outside on the back porch if the weather was warm, or in my grandparent’s bedroom if it was too cold outside. What I remember is the decibel level caused by four sisters and a brother, talking at once and not one of them seeming to notice, or care.
My Grandma Pitt would be lying on the bed, contentment showing on her otherwise stoic face. My Grandpa Pitt would sit on the edge of his old cane rocker, occasionally interjecting a comment into the raucous conversation. Whenever he raised his hand, the room would go ghostly quiet, waiting for his latest regal pronouncement.
My Aunt Artie, Uncle Grady’s wife, would usually join in the melee but not my Dad Jack and Uncles Frank, Henry and Bert. They would be standing together in the tiny kitchen, their arms folded and knowing expressions on their faces. They had all been there before.
Those days are long gone, as are my grandparents, all my uncles, my mother and one of my aunts. Dot, Marguerite and my Dad are still alive, all with their own grandchildren and great-grandchildren now. When I see a turkey emerging from the oven and smell the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen, I think of Grandpa Pitt, the first and the last “King of Vivian.”
Gondwana
Friday, September 04, 2009
Bowlers and Other Radicals
Bowlers are a strange bunch. I do not know another group of athletes – if you can call bowlers athletes – as dedicated to their sport as bowlers. Most would bowl 24-7, if they could., and their average is the most important single number in their lives, even more so than their IQs, and the number of times they have sex a week.
I know all about bowling because I had two roommates in college that were avid bowlers, and I worked for about a year in a bowling alley. I witnessed many strange events during that year, but the most traumatic occurred when I accidentally switched off the power to all the lanes.
League competition is the bread and butter of every bowling alley and most avid bowlers are members of at least two leagues. Bowlers establish an average in each league, the better bowlers handicapped so that all the teams are more-or-less equal. This is never the case, as the better bowlers always have the advantage.
At the Monroe, Louisiana bowling alley that I worked at, the biggest league bowled on Wednesday nights. The bowlers were not all as good as those that bowled on the Friday night scratch league, but many were. Unlike the Friday night scratch league, the Wednesday league included both men and women.
The bowlers on the Wednesday night league were all serious bowlers. Most came into the bowling alley and bowled a game or two every day. One of the couples that bowled on Wednesday night was particularly avid. Maybe I should say rabid. I will call them Sam and Bertha because I can’t remember their names. Sam was an older person, short and with bowed legs. Bertha was at least twice Sam’s size and everyone called her Big Bertha – at least behind her back.
Big Bertha maintained a one-eighty average and was proud of it. She and Sam were partners on a team, and they led the Wednesday night league by a small margin. The particular Wednesday I am thinking of was the last night of the league and she and Sam were playing Lou and Dave for the championship. The two teams were neck and neck going into the tenth frame. That is when I made my mistake.
Big Bertha had rolled nine pins. If she picked up the easy spare, she and Sam would be the league champions. Someone asked me to reset the pins on a nearby lane, just as she prepared her release. Hitting the wrong switch, my heart almost stopped when all the lights on the bowling alley lanes went dark. I flipped it back on immediately but this only had the effect of causing all the lanes to reset the pins. Bertha’s ball struck the ball block with a resounding thud.
I was stuck behind the alley’s circular control desk, or I would have run for my live. Instead, I awaiting my impending fate as Big Bertha locked her angry stare on me and charged in my direction.
“You stupid SOB!” she yelled, leaning over the cabinet top. “You ruined my game, you stupid SOB!”
My inadvertent mistake caused all activity in the noisy bowling alley to come to an abrupt halt. Joe, the manager of the bowling alley, came out of his office and rushed to the control desk. Bertha was big but Joe was bigger. An ex-college tackle, gone only slightly to pot, he stood six-foot-four. Bertha backed off when Joe got between her and me.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“I’m sorry,” I said in my contrite voice. “I hit the wrong switch.”
“The stupid SOB did it on purpose!” Bertha said, still shouting.
Joe raised a placating palm. “I’ll fix it. We will put everyone back as it was before the outage.”
Joe and my two roommates Trellis and Chuck – the alley engineers – begin restoring the lanes to where they were before my mistake. I waited, under orders, in Joe’s office. Once they restored order, Joe joined me in his office.
Joe was big and imposing, but he was also a pussycat. “Eric, I’m firing you,” he said. “At least for a couple of weeks. Big Bertha will have calmed down by then.”
Joe ushered me out the back door. Chuck and Trellis laughed their proverbial rear ends off when their shifts finally ended and they arrived back at our apartment.
“You dumb SOB!” Chuck said. “You’re lucky that old bitch didn’t kill you.”
Trellis went to the refrigerator and returned with three cold cans of Schlitz. “Here’s to you,” he said. “Seeing the look on that old bitch’s face was worth every bit of the extra work you put us through.”
Fiction South
I know all about bowling because I had two roommates in college that were avid bowlers, and I worked for about a year in a bowling alley. I witnessed many strange events during that year, but the most traumatic occurred when I accidentally switched off the power to all the lanes.
League competition is the bread and butter of every bowling alley and most avid bowlers are members of at least two leagues. Bowlers establish an average in each league, the better bowlers handicapped so that all the teams are more-or-less equal. This is never the case, as the better bowlers always have the advantage.
At the Monroe, Louisiana bowling alley that I worked at, the biggest league bowled on Wednesday nights. The bowlers were not all as good as those that bowled on the Friday night scratch league, but many were. Unlike the Friday night scratch league, the Wednesday league included both men and women.
The bowlers on the Wednesday night league were all serious bowlers. Most came into the bowling alley and bowled a game or two every day. One of the couples that bowled on Wednesday night was particularly avid. Maybe I should say rabid. I will call them Sam and Bertha because I can’t remember their names. Sam was an older person, short and with bowed legs. Bertha was at least twice Sam’s size and everyone called her Big Bertha – at least behind her back.
Big Bertha maintained a one-eighty average and was proud of it. She and Sam were partners on a team, and they led the Wednesday night league by a small margin. The particular Wednesday I am thinking of was the last night of the league and she and Sam were playing Lou and Dave for the championship. The two teams were neck and neck going into the tenth frame. That is when I made my mistake.
Big Bertha had rolled nine pins. If she picked up the easy spare, she and Sam would be the league champions. Someone asked me to reset the pins on a nearby lane, just as she prepared her release. Hitting the wrong switch, my heart almost stopped when all the lights on the bowling alley lanes went dark. I flipped it back on immediately but this only had the effect of causing all the lanes to reset the pins. Bertha’s ball struck the ball block with a resounding thud.
I was stuck behind the alley’s circular control desk, or I would have run for my live. Instead, I awaiting my impending fate as Big Bertha locked her angry stare on me and charged in my direction.
“You stupid SOB!” she yelled, leaning over the cabinet top. “You ruined my game, you stupid SOB!”
My inadvertent mistake caused all activity in the noisy bowling alley to come to an abrupt halt. Joe, the manager of the bowling alley, came out of his office and rushed to the control desk. Bertha was big but Joe was bigger. An ex-college tackle, gone only slightly to pot, he stood six-foot-four. Bertha backed off when Joe got between her and me.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“I’m sorry,” I said in my contrite voice. “I hit the wrong switch.”
“The stupid SOB did it on purpose!” Bertha said, still shouting.
Joe raised a placating palm. “I’ll fix it. We will put everyone back as it was before the outage.”
Joe and my two roommates Trellis and Chuck – the alley engineers – begin restoring the lanes to where they were before my mistake. I waited, under orders, in Joe’s office. Once they restored order, Joe joined me in his office.
Joe was big and imposing, but he was also a pussycat. “Eric, I’m firing you,” he said. “At least for a couple of weeks. Big Bertha will have calmed down by then.”
Joe ushered me out the back door. Chuck and Trellis laughed their proverbial rear ends off when their shifts finally ended and they arrived back at our apartment.
“You dumb SOB!” Chuck said. “You’re lucky that old bitch didn’t kill you.”
Trellis went to the refrigerator and returned with three cold cans of Schlitz. “Here’s to you,” he said. “Seeing the look on that old bitch’s face was worth every bit of the extra work you put us through.”
Fiction South
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Dancing the Wild Bamboula
There is a park in New Orleans not far from Bourbon Street. Officially, it is Beauregard Square, also known at various times during New Orleans’ past as Place Du Cirque or Place des Negres. Most locals still call it Congo Square.
Before the Civil War, wealthy New Orleans slave owners would let their slaves congregate on Sundays at a place that became known as Congo Square. There, they would sing their songs, dance their dances and practice their religion. When the West African Vodoun religion reached Jamaica, it rapidly integrated with Catholicism and many of the prevailing pagan practices of the Caribs, the native population of the Caribbean. This amalgam of beliefs known as voodoo, had offshoots from often called hoodoo.
Not knowing the true meaning of the various ceremonies that took place at Congo Square, many benevolent white slave owners often participated in the drumming, and the dancing of the wild bamboula, a frenzied and sensual dance. The songs created at Congo Square were the musical seeds that sprouted, matured and grew into what we now know as jazz.
There is a cultural center located in a part of Beauregard Square, known as Louis Armstrong Memorial Park after the man that brought jazz to the world. Everyone has heard of Louis Armstrong, but few realize that his musical roots began with the rhythmic beat of West African drums and the dancing of the wild bamboula.
The Louis Armstrong Park is a must-visit. The entrance to the park, a large white arch that proclaims the name Armstrong, lies at the intersection of St. Ann and N. Rampart. The park is also close to Basin Street, made famous by both song and myth. It is also near the St. Louis Cemetery # 1 and the Iberville Project.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
A Knight at the Ball
Mardi Gras season ended much too soon because I have more stories to tell. This one could probably last until next year but I may as well tell it while I am thinking about it. This story happened more than thirty years ago and my memories are not getting any clearer as time goes on.
I was still married to my first wife Gail at the time. Gail and her family were from Chalmette, the town down St. Bernard Highway from New Orleans that was all but devastated by Hurricanes Rita and Katrina. Gail had two brothers and five sisters. Her sister Mertie was married to a wealthy drilling contractor named Bobby.
There are many Krewes, or clubs, that celebrate Mardi Gras. They range in size from very large to very small, and they come and go based on many different socio-economic reasons. They all have one thing in common: a king and a queen that serve for only one Mardi Gras season.
Rex is one of the oldest and largest Krewes and rumor has it that the king only becomes so after donating a million dollars to the organization. I don’t know if this is true, but I did know one of the former kings of Rex and he was a very rich man.
My brother-in-law Bobby was also wealthy, although not nearly wealthy enough to reign over Rex. Lucky for him, there was a Krewe, not quite as famous or large, of which he did become king. Thirty some years ago, Bobby and Mertie were crowned king and queen of the Krewe of Arabi. Bobby lauded the position over everyone in the family and to hear him tell it, he may as well have been King of Saudi Arabia instead of the Krewe of Arabi.
While not as expensive to attain as King of Rex, being King of Arabi did not come without a price. Bobby, according to family rumor, had paid fifty thousand dollars for the privilege of serving as king. His costume cost twelve thousand dollars, his wife Mertie’s twenty five thousand. They had a son and daughter and each of their costumes cost more than five thousand dollars.
Bobby and his immediate family rode on the King’s float during the Arabi parade and threw thousands of dollars worth of beads, doubloons and various premium throws to the adoring masses gathered along the parade route. Bobby also bought thousands of dollars worth of alcoholic beverages served at the Arabi Ball. Being sister and brother-in-law, Gail and I had the privilege of sitting at the King’s table and drinking his whiskey.
While nowhere as regal or elegant as the Rex Ball, the Arabi Ball was still quite an affair. Bobby was drunk as a skunk, dressed in full costume and mask, and waving his kingly scepter like a royal fool. As the night progressed, he began knighting the male members of his entourage. When my turn arrived, I came close to losing an ear in the process.
Bobby did not like me very much, but in deference to Gail’s father, he was civil to me when he was sober. The problem was, his sobriety was an unusual occurrence and the night of the Arabi Ball, he was anything but. He didn’t even acknowledge my presence as I knelt before him, awaiting knighthood.
The large ballroom was dark, music of a live orchestra loud, along with the noise of restless revelers. No one except Bobby and I realized that instead of the normal knighting, he had struck me with the sword hard enough to knock off my mask and put a bloody gash in my scalp.
Okay, I was also drunk having consumed a goodly amount of Bobby’s bourbon. Acting as if nothing outside the ordinary had happened, he simply wheeled around on his throne and continued reveling.
Yes, Bobby was drunk, the large ballroom dark and noisy. My own mind, and my body, was impaired. I really do not know if he struck me in malice or simply let fly a misjudged blow because of his drunken stupor. Quickly forgetting the incident, I cleaned the blood off my head in the bathroom and returned to the raucous party.
That was more than thirty years ago. I am no longer a member of the family, nor, do I believe, is Bobby. There was no permanent damage done from Bobby’s blow - intentional or not. Every knight must face a little adversity, and hey, I am Sir Eric, Knight of Arabi.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
I was still married to my first wife Gail at the time. Gail and her family were from Chalmette, the town down St. Bernard Highway from New Orleans that was all but devastated by Hurricanes Rita and Katrina. Gail had two brothers and five sisters. Her sister Mertie was married to a wealthy drilling contractor named Bobby.
There are many Krewes, or clubs, that celebrate Mardi Gras. They range in size from very large to very small, and they come and go based on many different socio-economic reasons. They all have one thing in common: a king and a queen that serve for only one Mardi Gras season.
Rex is one of the oldest and largest Krewes and rumor has it that the king only becomes so after donating a million dollars to the organization. I don’t know if this is true, but I did know one of the former kings of Rex and he was a very rich man.
My brother-in-law Bobby was also wealthy, although not nearly wealthy enough to reign over Rex. Lucky for him, there was a Krewe, not quite as famous or large, of which he did become king. Thirty some years ago, Bobby and Mertie were crowned king and queen of the Krewe of Arabi. Bobby lauded the position over everyone in the family and to hear him tell it, he may as well have been King of Saudi Arabia instead of the Krewe of Arabi.
While not as expensive to attain as King of Rex, being King of Arabi did not come without a price. Bobby, according to family rumor, had paid fifty thousand dollars for the privilege of serving as king. His costume cost twelve thousand dollars, his wife Mertie’s twenty five thousand. They had a son and daughter and each of their costumes cost more than five thousand dollars.
Bobby and his immediate family rode on the King’s float during the Arabi parade and threw thousands of dollars worth of beads, doubloons and various premium throws to the adoring masses gathered along the parade route. Bobby also bought thousands of dollars worth of alcoholic beverages served at the Arabi Ball. Being sister and brother-in-law, Gail and I had the privilege of sitting at the King’s table and drinking his whiskey.
While nowhere as regal or elegant as the Rex Ball, the Arabi Ball was still quite an affair. Bobby was drunk as a skunk, dressed in full costume and mask, and waving his kingly scepter like a royal fool. As the night progressed, he began knighting the male members of his entourage. When my turn arrived, I came close to losing an ear in the process.
Bobby did not like me very much, but in deference to Gail’s father, he was civil to me when he was sober. The problem was, his sobriety was an unusual occurrence and the night of the Arabi Ball, he was anything but. He didn’t even acknowledge my presence as I knelt before him, awaiting knighthood.
The large ballroom was dark, music of a live orchestra loud, along with the noise of restless revelers. No one except Bobby and I realized that instead of the normal knighting, he had struck me with the sword hard enough to knock off my mask and put a bloody gash in my scalp.
Okay, I was also drunk having consumed a goodly amount of Bobby’s bourbon. Acting as if nothing outside the ordinary had happened, he simply wheeled around on his throne and continued reveling.
Yes, Bobby was drunk, the large ballroom dark and noisy. My own mind, and my body, was impaired. I really do not know if he struck me in malice or simply let fly a misjudged blow because of his drunken stupor. Quickly forgetting the incident, I cleaned the blood off my head in the bathroom and returned to the raucous party.
That was more than thirty years ago. I am no longer a member of the family, nor, do I believe, is Bobby. There was no permanent damage done from Bobby’s blow - intentional or not. Every knight must face a little adversity, and hey, I am Sir Eric, Knight of Arabi.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Prince of Arabi
I worked in New Orleans during the summer of 1968 and had many adventures, and misadventures, during that time. I lived in Arabi, a community between Chalmette and the Lower 9th Ward. Known for its rampant organized gambling that continued until the 1950s, Arabi barely survived Hurricanes Rita and Katrina.
I resided in the bottom story of a two-storied wood-frame house, just across the street from a Catholic convent. Nuns that went into the convent never came out again, cloistered for life. My little apartment had no air conditioning and reeked of decades of mold and mildew. Oh, and did I mention the cockroaches?
I had a car, my green ’67 Ford Mustang, but usually took the bus to work. Gas was not expensive then, or the issue. New Orleans drivers were simply the worst I had ever encountered, at least on this side of the border from Mexico, that is. I usually walked the quarter-mile from my apartment to the bus stop where I would catch the bus to Canal.
I spent a lot of time that summer taking in the nightlife of one of the wildest cities in the world and often catnapped on my way to work, and on my way home. I awoke once at the bus terminal in Arabi to the sight of a young black man pointing a pistol directly at me, and the woman sitting beside me. Everyone else had already escaped through the side door. I grabbed the woman and pulled her down behind the seat, knowing that a ricochet would still get us if he fired the pistol.
He did not get the chance, two men tackling him from behind and wrestling the weapon from his grasp. I walked home that night never learning the reason for the pistol brandishing and too young to realize that I had likely narrowly escaped death.
My brother, also a geology student, got a job with the same company as me before the summer ended. He kept the shabby apartment after I left to return to college. He married a girl that worked with us. They are still married, have four kids and a few grandkids now.
No life remained in the little town when Marilyn and I visited shortly after Katrina’s devastation, only signs posted by construction companies offering to raze abandoned houses. The convent across the street where I once lived remained, and I have always wondered if the cloistered nuns had abandoned their posts, or stayed to face the wrath of an angry god.
I resided in the bottom story of a two-storied wood-frame house, just across the street from a Catholic convent. Nuns that went into the convent never came out again, cloistered for life. My little apartment had no air conditioning and reeked of decades of mold and mildew. Oh, and did I mention the cockroaches?
I had a car, my green ’67 Ford Mustang, but usually took the bus to work. Gas was not expensive then, or the issue. New Orleans drivers were simply the worst I had ever encountered, at least on this side of the border from Mexico, that is. I usually walked the quarter-mile from my apartment to the bus stop where I would catch the bus to Canal.
I spent a lot of time that summer taking in the nightlife of one of the wildest cities in the world and often catnapped on my way to work, and on my way home. I awoke once at the bus terminal in Arabi to the sight of a young black man pointing a pistol directly at me, and the woman sitting beside me. Everyone else had already escaped through the side door. I grabbed the woman and pulled her down behind the seat, knowing that a ricochet would still get us if he fired the pistol.
He did not get the chance, two men tackling him from behind and wrestling the weapon from his grasp. I walked home that night never learning the reason for the pistol brandishing and too young to realize that I had likely narrowly escaped death.
My brother, also a geology student, got a job with the same company as me before the summer ended. He kept the shabby apartment after I left to return to college. He married a girl that worked with us. They are still married, have four kids and a few grandkids now.
No life remained in the little town when Marilyn and I visited shortly after Katrina’s devastation, only signs posted by construction companies offering to raze abandoned houses. The convent across the street where I once lived remained, and I have always wondered if the cloistered nuns had abandoned their posts, or stayed to face the wrath of an angry god.
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