Girl

San Francisco

23 September, 2014

It was almost 2 in the afternoon in San Francisco. I had just finished a  heavy meal. I had had an "elegant sufficiency," as my Aunt Anna would have said. 

It was a beautiful day! The skies were clear, it was 70°, and a light breeze was blowing from off the bay. 

 The sun was high in the sky, bathing the Victorian buildings in a yellow-white glow.

I was tired, but I needed to walk a bit, and it being so fine outside, I decided to go up and down the streets of the neighborhood. Here and there I'd see a building that particularly struck my fancy, and I took several pictures. 

Fatigue and a lack of sleep was catching up with me, so I headed back to my hotel. I was very happy. 

I was not prepared for what I saw next: in an alcove just off the sidewalk, I caught sight of a homeless person. 

Now, in San Francisco this is unfortunately an all too common sight. If you can walk three blocks in certain areas if this city without being panhandled at LEAST once, I'd say you won.

It was different this time. This was

not some old junkie or wino sleeping it off or trying to bum a cigarette or a dollar for more wine. 

My eyes beheld a young woman - in her twenties. A girl. 

She was ragged as any homeless person out there. She was sitting and not begging. Perhaps she was beyond that. 

She had a young face, yet the face of someone who was more than defeated. She held her head in her hands, and I could not tell if she was sleeping, resting, thinking, or, God forbid, she was dead!!

She sat there on a blanket, surrounded by junk and filth. Next to her was a large dog, who, quite obviously was her only friend. 

A feeling of anguish overcame me. She could have been my daughter!! She certainly was SOMEONE's daughter…

What was her story? Why was she there, in that condition? What horrible set of circumstances led her to sit in rags on the sidewalk - covering her eyes on a beautiful day like today??

I wanted to do something to help her, but there were so very many reasons why that wasn't such a good idea. So I walked on, and she remained sitting there, alone - except for one final faithful companion who would be true to her until the end. Dogs are not quick to judge.

Seeing the flotsam and jetsam of our society as often as I do, it is easy to take them for part of the scenery. It is hard to help someone when you don't what each one needs. 

Maybe they are beyond help. Maybe they just don't want hope. Maybe they don't know how to help themselves. 

Maybe they just want to be left alone. 

I feel so powerless. What would I do if this were MY daughter? 

She's SOMEBODY's daughter!

Yet there she languishes, alone with her pain, while countless people pass her by and don't even see her, and while I go back to my warm bed to sleep. 

A Silly Argument

21 September, 2014

Houston, TX

"...when I'm out with my Honey on a moonlit night, in my brand-new AUTOMOBILE!!" - Barbershop Quartet song

One day I was looking out the front door just in time to see the mailman make his rounds and deposit a number of items into our nondescript metal box or can. I walked down the walk, returned with a copious amount of what my grandfather would have facetiously called "valuable mail." It was anything but!

I spread all of this mass of cellulose out onto the dining room table until only about ¼ of the original usable space remained. That area I left clear for sorting out this newly-arrived batch of correspondence. 

I remarked to myself that it has been many years since I last got a real, honest-to-goodness letter from anybody. That is mainly because people who used to write letters are all deceased. I did, however, have several items in the pile worth mentioning.

There was a mis-delivered water bill for someone living in the next block, several bills, as well as one or two miscellaneous items.

I got the seventeenth bill for that hospital stay I had six months ago. Not only did I get a bill for the hospital itself, and for the attending physician, but also I have gotten bills for radiology, a pharmacy bill, lab work, a vet bill for the head-nurse's dog, and bills for two physicians that the AMA has no record of. I think one other doctor sent me a bill for just driving by the hospital. 

The remaining 85% was - you guessed it - advertising. One was stamped "OFFICIAL URGENT CORRESPONDENCE! OPEN IMMEDIATELY!" I knew it was junk mail the minute I saw "URGENT" stamped all over it. So I put it aside to be opened last. That'll show 'em!

I brought a waste-paper basket close to the table, and gave each piece of paper a cursory glance before consigning it to the round filing cabinet on the floor.

There were a few envelopes full of coupons, but they never seemed to be for anything I wanted to buy!! Besides, every time I did see a coupon I thought I could use, I'd duly put it aside with numerous others, tucked safely away until three or four days after it expires, when I'd take it down to whatever department store sent it to me, in vain hopes of getting a bargain on vacuum-cleaner bags or socks. 

Once again the minimum-wage clerk who can't even make change without an intergalactic computerized register to direct her quickly locates the microdots onto which the expiration date has been printed, and takes great delight in informing me that none of the SIXTEEN coupons I brought with me today are valid.

So much for that. I am just not a coupon kinda guy.

 

Back to the mail-opening. 

I finally got down to the very last piece of mail - the one marked Urgent! Open Immediately!

It was, just as I unsuspected, advertising. It was from a nationally-known company announcing a SWEEPSTAKES!!

(I wonder if there is anybody in the world who has ever won one of those things?!)

"Enter today and you could be the winner of a brand-new Porsche automobile!!" the ad began. 

About this time, my wife came into the dining room, and saw I had manage to make chaos out if confusion once again. She saw the ad, and chuckled, asking:"So tell me - what would you do if you entered this contest and won that Porsche?"

I answered, quick as thought: "I'd KEEP it, of course!" Hey, a guy can DREAM, can't he?

"What?" She asked, in shock and disbelief. "Do you have any idea how much insurance would be on that thing?? And besides," she continued,"a Porsche costs more brand-new than this house is worth. If I had my way, I'd SELL it the day we got it."

"Aww, that's a TERRIBLE thing to do. It's a PORSCHE, for goodness sake. We could drive it for six months or so, and then sell it," I answered in typical guy fashion.

"What? Are you crazy?" She kept up, but by now she had stopped smiling. "Money doesn't grow on trees. We have more use for that money than for an expensive toy you can use to impress your buddies!"

I have to admit, I was getting just the slightest bit peeved at the way she reacted to the mere possibility of winning an automobile most people can't afford to dream of owning. I was adamant. I would stick to my guns, by golly!

"I say we're KEEPING it!" I insisted.

"And I say we SELL it!!" my

wife retorted. 

During this last bit of conversation, out teenage daughter, Eileen, walks in. "What are you guys arguing about?" she queried innocently.

"I want to KEEP the Porsche, and your mother wants to SELL it!!" I said, just slightly miffed.

"WE WON A PORCHE!!!!????" She squealed with glee, jumping up and down as she asked that perfectly understandable question.

"No, of COURSE not," came my reply. "There's this sweepstakes, and the main prize is a Porsche. I hadn't planned on entering it, though. I'll only get more junk mail." 

"WHAT?? You guys are arguing about keeping or selling a car that you don't even HAVE??!! I swear I have a CRAZY FAMILY!" She said, throwing her arms up in the air and leaving the den for the kitchen.

My wife and I looked at each other for a second, then we broke out in gales of laughter. 

"I swear I have one crazy family!" came our daughter's voice from the kitchen.

"I guess she's right!" I told my wife, as I watched the last piece of junk mail tumble into the waste paper basket.

Oreo Mouse

September 20, 2014

Houston, TX

"Mejor solo que mal acompañado." - Spanish proverb 

There's a difference between being alone, and being lonely. 

Some people feel alone in a crowd, while feeling perfectly content all by themselves.

We humans are by nature gregarious beings, by and large. 

We seek out the company of our mate, family members, friends, or often complete strangers. 

When we lack human interaction, we often turn to substitutes, such as the TV or radio. 

When we are alone, as night spreads over the land, sometimes our minds wander, play tricks on us, or even deceive us into thinking we are not really alone. 

Sometimes we think we are alone, when in fact we are not. 

I like Oreo cookies. I like them, I believe, much more than the average Joe. I was out of town - my usual status, considering I've spent much of my time with a packed suitcase and the open road. 

Sitting alone in my motel room, I had returned from a light dinner, and was "improving my

mind", as my grandfather would have said, watching a few silly, inane programs on TV. 

Unnoticed by me, the sun had gone down, and the lights of the small town I was in had come on. The neon sign above the motel office flickered intermittently. 

There were no cars in the parking lot except mine and a big rig. The traffic on the street had greatly subsided, and outdoors all was quiet.

It was about 8:30, and I was at a break in my viewing, when I got a hankering for some Oreo cookies. I was never one for self-indulgence, but tonight I decided by-golly I'd go out and buy a pack! 

And so I did.

I returned shortly with my prize, devoured probably ½ dozen of the little black cookies when I decided enough was enough - it is time to go to bed. 

I slept soundly that night - I say soundly, but all of a sudden I awoke with a start! It must have been the wee hours of the morning .

I had no explanation as to just why

I awoke so abruptly. I strained to listen for any sounds, but all was quiet. The room was quite dark. I stared out into the gloom, which for all I knew that night, it stretched out to infinity.

Obviously there was

nothing amiss. I settled down to my peaceful slumber, and had just drifted off when I sat up again. 

Something WAS wrong. Sleep had left my eyes and I was now quite awake. I got this funny notion that I was not alone in my room!

I turned on the lamp at my bedside and gazed intently all around the room, in search of - well, I really had no idea. I felt like little boy fearing a boogeyman under his bed.

Nothing seemed out if place, and I began to chuckle to myself for being so silly. I turned out the light, and turned over. 

Then it happened. 

"TICK!" It was the ever so slight yet distinct sound of cellophane crinkling. There was no doubt about it.

Again I sat up. My heart pounded. It was now clear I was not alone --- and the sound I heard was not human. I turned on the light, but saw nothing, as before. 

So I turned out the light again, but this time I kept my hand on the light switch, ready to instantly turn the lamp back on in the event that I heard another sound. 

I didn't have long to wait.

"TICK!" came again. THE INSTANT I heard the crinkle, I turned the switch, illuminating the entire room, the pack of Oreos, …and the CULPRIT!!!

It was a tiny mouse. It had been caught in the act pilfering my Oreos. 

Strange as it may seem, I was actually relieved that there wasn't something more sinister wandering my room. Nevertheless, I needed my sleep, and I had no desire to share my precious Oreos with anyone - or any thing.

I picked up my phone and called the front desk:

C: Front Desk!

M: Hi! This is Ken Hall in room #225. Say, do you have me down as a single-occupancy room?

C: Yes, Sir.

M: Well, I'm not by myself.

C: That's fine, sir, I'll just make a note on your folio.

M: There's only one problem: I don't know the other guest.

SILENCE on the line.

C: Uh, sir, I'm afraid I don't understand…

M: Well, it seems as though I have a mouse staying with me, but he didn't come with me.

C: I see…

M: And he's eating my Oreos!

C: Would you like another room?

M: Yes, but can you arrange for it to be one without a mouse?

C: I believe we can accommodate you, sir.

So I went to the desk and picked up my room key, and vacated the room without leaving a forwarding address. 

I finally and eventually dozed back to sleep. This time I stayed asleep until I hear a knocking at my door. It's the maid. I forgot to put the "DO NOT DISTURB" sign onto my doorknob! 

Really? I thought I'd sleep in and begin the day a bit later…

I waved her off, and began to get ready. I put the TV on, but it didn't work. Probably depressing news, anyway, I thought. 

I took a shower, then afterwards I began to shave, etc. When I turned on the water, "GUSH!!!" A pipe burst beneath the lavatory, and when I investigated the noise, I was drenched with a deluge that would rival old faithful, thoroughly soaking me. 

I called the front desk.

C: FRONT DESK!

M: Good morning! I'm Ken Hall in Room #230 - formerly of Room #228. Uh, I have a little problem…

C: Aren't you the guy with the mouse?

M: That would be me! Uh, yeah, I have another issue. I just had a pipe explode under my lavatory, and it's really gushing out. In fact, it's beginning to flood the room.

C: I'll get someone there right away.

M: Have him come in a rowboat, OK!

So I dry myself off for the second time, got dressed, threw my soggy belongings into my suitcase,  and put the stuff into the trunk of my car.

I got into my car, inserted the key into the ignition, and turned the key. 

Nothing

I had a dead battery. Am I on Candid Camera? This stuff just can't be happening!

I had the car towed down to a nearby dealership and found out, to my utter delight, that the battery's guarantee expired LAST WEEK! Really??

So I had to pay quite a bit for another battery, and wait my turn until, about an hour later, my car was ready. 

At the counter was an older man. He had that worn, haggard look - the look of a person who has been there and done that. He was a man who, at one time or another in his long life, has sold just about everything there was to sell in just about every market. 

He wore an old, weatherbeaten suit and a hat. One shoulder was slightly lower than the other from carrying a sales bag full of samples and catalogues for forty long years.

He could see I was having a bad week. I was. My sales were down, my quota was raised, I got gypped out of some commission by a salesman from another territory, and my kids were sick, again.

"Rough week, eh, kid?" He asked sympathetically.

"Yeah," I told him. I related the story of the mouse, the burst pipe, and the bad battery. "Every time I work this town, something crazy happens!"

"Yeah, I know what you mean," he said. His eyes were tired, and his face was sad. "I got one o'them, too."

"One what?" I asked.

"Nemesis city. Every salesman has one. It's a place that you go where things always go wrong."

"Yeah, that's what this is, all right!" I replied. We talked for the better part of an hour. He shared with me his triumphs and his tragedies. 

He told me:"You won't win 'em all, no matter how good you are."

Then the man's car was ready. We shook hands, and he gave me a reassuring touch on the shoulder.  I watched him walk out to an older car - a car that was as worn out and as tired as its owner.

I felt sad. He was a tired old man in a tired old car, doing his best to keep his customers satisfied, and the bills paid. 

He waved to me as he drove off. I gave him the thumbs up, and away his car chugged - smoke billowing from the exhaust. 

I thought of the play "Death of a Salesman." I recalled his face, and prayed to God this would not be me in thirty years. There must be more to life than this…

My car was ready, now. I jumped in, and it started right up. I pulled out onto the Interstate, and drove home without stopping.

I turned on the radio as I sped away. A Johnny Rodriguez song was playing on a faraway country music station: 

"This old highway seems so lonesome when you're going where you've been,

And a lonesome song can make you cry time and time again…"

Songs of traveling and the open road - yeah - guess I know 'em all by heart. 

But I pulled into my driveway just as my kids were coming home from school. 

"DADDY!!" They all shouted, and rushed up to hug me. My wife, surprised at my early arrival, came out to greet me, too. 

I was home with the ones I love. And that is the point of it all, isn't it?

An Intoxicating Experience

20 September, 2014

Houston, TX 

One afternoon I began to feel ill, and before too long, I was having trouble breathing. I went to our bed to lie down, and a minute later my wife came in and found me struggling to breathe.

"What's wrong? What's the matter!?" She asked, with a very worried look on her face.

"Don't know…" I replied, gasping for air. "Gotta go to the hospital!" I said. Far from a hypochondriac, my usual response to any sickness was to put some Dr. Tichenor's antiseptic on it, and wait and see if I get better by tomorrow. So my wanting to go immediately to a HOSPITAL was an indication that something was indeed amiss. 

We drove to the Emergency Room of the small, local hospital that was just a step or two up from a large clinic. It was, however, despite its size, a very good facility.

We walked in to the Emergency Room, and my wife, nervously told the attending nurse that I was "intoxicated." 

Intoxicado, in Spanish, means poisoned, and the adjective has nothing to do with being inebriated.

Miriam Webster's dictionary states:

"1 :  an abnormal state that is essentially a poisoning (carbon monoxide intoxication)

 2 a :  the condition of being drunk"

However, the male nurse picked up on the second definition, rather than on the first, and promptly asked her how much I'd had to drink.

My wife answered: "He doesn't drink; he's intoxicated!"

The nurse smiled and walked away for a few minutes. I asked my wife why she used the word "intoxicated." She told me that she had used the right medical term for my condition, and why trained medical personnel don't understand correct terminology was beyond her.

The nurse's name was another matter. It was Coulon - a name found mostly in Louisiana's Cajun country, and is of Canadian-French origin. But it's meaning in Spanish is "big-butt," and is really not a nice-sounding word in that language. 

I languished on this gurney for several minutes, my wife musing over the nurse's surname, and me still struggling for each breath. 

The nurse returned with a lady in a white coat, a stethoscope around her neck. She spoke to an ER assistant nearby, who had a clipboard in her hand: "Put down for doctor Payment," she requested.

"Hey, man!" I spoke up, "You haven't even SEEN me, and you want your MONEY already??"

"Oh, you don't understand," said the nurse, chuckling a bit: "The doctor's name is 'Payment'."

"So exactly how much have you had to drink?" Dr. Payment asked.

"Nothing!" I replied, annoyed. "I ate something I'm allergic to; that's all!"

Unbelievably, several others asked how much alcohol I had consumed! It took a few minutes of rigorous explanation before they came to the conclusion that in fact I had drank no alcohol. Thank goodness that was finally out of the way!

I could have died of anaphylaxis trying to explain to these folks that I was intoxicated, but not drunk. 

Lesson learned here is that, although the MEANING of a word might be one thing, the connotation might be something totally different!

I wonder had I gone to the hospital while drunk, and said I was intoxicated, would they have thought I was poisoned?

A FAIR GUESS?

     THE NEW ORLEANS FAIR GROUNDS - EST. 1972 - GENTILLY RD. 
                                                            NEW ORLEANS, LA.
                                                       POST CARD DATED 1917.


It was a pretty Spring day in New Orleans. The year was 1917. Winter was at last over. Being a Saturday, there ws no school, so Charlie had the day for himself - and there was "big doings" today! It was 8:00 in the morning, and already he had dressed himself and was in the process of oiling and slicking back his hair - looking at himself in the mirror to make sure he looked just right. He was a sturdy lad of just 11 summers, if you didn't count the one that was soon to come.

                                          MY GRANDFATHER, HIS MOTHER ROSA, AND BROTHER EUGENE

"Bonjour! Et qu'est-ce que tu fais debout si tôt?" asked his mother, Rosa. "What are you doing up so early?"
Rosa Meilleur was a New Orleans Créole lady of French ancestry who still spoke French. Charlie's father was fourth generation German and spoke no French. In fact, few people in the neighborhood spoke the language nowadays. The overwhelming majority of the city's population was no longer French-speaking, and the language by this time was dying out, even among the  staunchest of  French families. Charlie, however, loved to converse in it with his mother, who spoke "proper" French, and not the "Cajun" patois they used in the country.
"Je vais aller à la foire!" he answered, meaning " I'm going to go to the fair!"

"Scrosh-PRIE, huh, Mamma?" Charlie's little brother Babe chimed in. Now little Eugene did not speak or understand a single word of French, but whenever he would hear his big brother speak it, he'd make up a word or two. It was gibberish, but it was his way of including himself in on the conversation.

There was a race track nearby on Gentilly Boulevard. It was called the "Fair Grounds" and it was appropriately named today. Racing season ran for several months during the late Fall and wintertime, but come Spring, the races had been run, and the huge grounds were deserted - except
for the occasional special event.

He was ready at last! Before leaving, Rosa gave her son a dollar bill so he could have a good time there. Then she kissed him good bye. Charlie bid au revoir to his Mamma and little brother, and happily joined a few other neighborhood boys who were walking briskly down North Gayoso street toward Gentilly Boulevard and the main entrance of the race track.

There was a carnival, or county fair going on. There were bands, typical carnival games of skill and chance, and there was even a circus balloon tethered to the ground, giving fair-goers a chance to see the world from aloft. There were eats aplenty, and special shows were in the offing.

A FAIR GUESS
KENNETH E. HALL               18 September, 2014                 Houston TX
                                                                                                                                                              Once inside the grounds themselves, there was lots to do - like throwing baseballs at stacks of lead bottles to try to knock them down. One can imagine that, taking place in New Orleans, the birthplace of JAZZ, music was playing everywhere.

There was a large tent - the kind used in the South for religious revivals. But there was nothing religious taking place inside this canopy today. The boys went in, and stood in the aisle toward the back, jostling each other while straining to hear what was being said.

On stage was a huckster - the "Great Whodatunkit" (not his real name!) - knower of one - knower of all - seer of all things large and small - or so the sign outside the tent probably said. As the boys listened, they heard the man call out to various people in the audience, apparently at random, and telling them specific details about each one. The boys giggled and guffawed every time the crowd gasped in awe, for the man seemed to be correct on EVERY guess.

The lads were not buying this: Lucky guesses? No, it just couldn't be. There's trickery afoot! The man up on stage just had to be in cohoots with a few planted members of the audience, and that's how the trick is played, they thought.

The old adage goes: "A fool and his money are quickly parted." Circus mogul P.T. Barnum is quoted as saying: "There's a SUCKER born every minute." Clearly, these neighborhood urchins were not that gullible. After awhile of this tomfoolery, and goaded on by his pals, Charlie hollered out from the crowd: " Hey, Mista! You're just a huckster and a fraud and a phoney! It's nuttin' but BUNK, I tell ya!" Kids of New Orleans spoke with an accent closely resembling that of Brooklyn, NY!

The crowd glared at the boys - especially at little Charlie, who towered over his companions by at least a foot, and also spoke the loudest. They didn't like the show being interrupted by a few neighborhood punk kids. In fact, a few ushers moved toward the raucous boys, with the intent to throw them out on their ears, but the Great Whodatunkit was a good sport about the whole thing. Unphased by the heckling from the excited youths, he continued with his act.

Just before the ushers got to Charlie and the gang, another challenge to the authenticity of his performance was hurled from - who else!? Charlie, whereupon the man stopped where he was and bade the ushers to leave the lad alone.

"The young fellow whose voice we all have heard - almost as much as MINE - has raised a valid point." He paused for effect.

The crowd simmered down to listen.

"Ah, young man," said the Great Whodatunkit - his speech now being directed at Charlie.
He then addressed the crowd thusly: "The seeds of doubt have been sown; the young lad has so loudly called me a 'fraud' and a 'huckster.' HOWEVER..." he continued, in a oration that would have impressed the comedian W. C. Fields in its grandiose and bombastic tone: "If the young lad who stands before you there would kindly check his right pocket, he would find the dollar bill his mother gave him this morning - just before he left for this very fair!"

There was a hush in the crowd, and all eyes were once again fixed on Charlie, as he produced the greenback. But Charlie was no quitter, and would not let himself be shown up so easily, so he shouts back: "Well, what of it?! Lots o'kids got money..."

"Ahh, yes, my lad, so they do - so they do." but he continued: "but if the young lad would examine his dollar bill - take a look at it, my dear boy, take a good look and tell me - is the serial number on the note T65475953A ?"

All eyes now were on Charlie; he removed the bill from his pocket and  stared wide-eyed at the dollar bill in utter disbelief: the numbers that the man shouted out corresponded EXACTLY with the serial numbers of the note! Outside of the tent, there was quite a bit of carnival noise, but inside the tent, you could hear a pin drop. The boy for once in his life, was totally speechless - his facial expressions betrayed his total amazement and shock at what had just happened.

For once in his life, the lad was beaten by a huckster. He just kept staring at that bill in wonder. His buddies, a minute ago so raucous and talkative, suddenly now fell silent, and just stood there, staring at the number on the note in their friend's hand.

They went outside and continued with the carnival - playing games and taking in the sights, and then they went home. However, Charlie never did spend that dollar, and he kept it among his souvenirs and personal belongings until the day he died.


------------
And this was the story that Charlie later told to his beloved 25-year-old grandson, nearly SIXTY YEARS later. Every detail came back clearly, as if it had been only yesterday.

"You know, " Charlie commented, after telling this strange story, "I never believed in fortune tellers or psychics. It's all the bunk! But to this day I never could explain how that man told me those numbers!"

"Before you were born," he continued, "just as a joke, one day I went in to see a fortune-teller. She told me quite a bit that was true about my life and so forth, but she also told me that I had three children - two girls and a little boy. I told her that she was sadly mistaken, that I had but two girls."

"All the same," she said as I was leaving, "All the same... I see a little boy." His eyes misted up as he told me this. "Now I understand," he finished: "the little boy she saw... was YOU!"

NOTE: The above story is true; I relate it just as my grandfather told it to me so many years ago.

OF SPOONS

5 September, 2014

Houston

"He was a most peculiar man…"- Simon & Garfunkel song

No matter who you are or where you live, no doubt you know someone who is a "collector" of something. Maybe that person collects more than one kind of thing. More than likely you know more than one collector. 

A "collector" is not a hoarder, not by any means - at least not in the regular sense. There is a specific reason why a person will collect dolls, old records, or vintage wine. Often items of a kind are amassed for purely monetary value. Others because certain items remind that person of a time gone by. Sometimes it is to show off to others that they have whatever object. Sometimes it is possession for the sake of possession.

Perhaps the urge to collect is an primeval instinct - leftover from the prehistoric days when our ancestors were supposedly rat-like mammals, literally squirreling away nuts for the winter. Their very survival indeed depended upon how much food was collected and stored.

Nowadays, collecting is not only prevalent, it is actually encouraged. There are stamp, coin, banknote, bottle, beer can, shot glass, and hundreds of other collections - the list is endless. 

1963

When I lived in Parkchester apartments in New Orleans, we had a downstairs neighbor who collected spoons. I could relate: I used to buy a little souvenir spoon from most of the many different places I went, until I just tired of it.

Mr M. was a representative of a meat company, and quite reminded me of a comics character named Jiggs - a short, bald, meek little man who shrunk whenever his wife spoke, and said: "Yes, Dear…" whenever he was ordered to do something. Other than that, I thought him a most peculiar man.

Mr. & Mrs. M lived in the apartment just beneath ours. When they moved in, I took great delight in the fact that they had a little Dachund. After Mrs. M. invited me, I sometimes would go downstairs to play, and did so only when the dog wasn't under the bed. When she was there, I learned quickly, not to mess with her. If I did, she would show her teeth and growl at me. This was her way of saying: "Go away! Don't bother me!" Later in life I had all too many of those moments, as well.

On one visit, Mrs. M was sorting a few dozen antique spoons, which she kept in a wooden chest. It was her spoon collection, and she took great delight when I asked her about it. 

She patiently showed them to me with great pride, as if introducing me one-by-one to members of her family, saving the most precious ones for the end. She told me that she indeed was saving the best for last, and built up for a big surprise.

When all but one of the spoons had been taken from the chest, there remained just one final utensil. 

She picked it up carefully, and examined it with great awe and reverence. 

It was an antique silver soup spoon that was well-worn. It was neither beautiful nor ornate as all of the others previously shown me had been, yet it was plain to see Mrs. M held this particular spoon as her most prized of possessions. 

She then held the spoon aloft, almost as a priest would hold a chalice up before worshipers at a Catholic Mass. Then she told me, an an almost melodramatic manner:

"This is the spoon…"

(She paused for effect.)

"This is the spoon..." She repeated, building up suspense.

I replied: "That's the spoon?"

(I was mocking her, without her knowing it. I was 11 years old at the time.)

"This is the spoon..." She said for the third time, paused again, and continued in a most Southern of Southern drawls: " that was owned... by Jeffasan ...Davis's  ... SISTA!"

Now, Jefferson Davis was the only president of the Confederate States of America - that much I knew, and two years later I toured his mansion in Biloxi, Mississippi. I never heard that he had a sister, nor did I see any spoons similar to the one shown me. But I most assuredly remembered that spoon as I admired the antique items on display in Beauvoir. 

Later in in life, when troubles got to me, I would try to get out of the general flow of things and just abide in peace - even if it was for a few minutes, only to have somebody come out of the blue and mess with me - just because. I thought about that solace-seeking dachshund and wish I could just bare my teeth and growl, and people would leave me be for awhile. After all, it works for dogs.

Whenever I'd read the comic strip Jiggs in the Sunday newspaper, I thought about poor, meek Mr. M and how he'd give his battleaxe wife a wide berth. I've seen others like him here and there, and always felt sorry for them. 

In future years, every once in awhile in my travels, I'd come across some special spoon - one that was different in some way from all the others. When I would, I'd recall that most peculiar woman who singled out a worn, nondescript, piece of silverwear belonging to a long-deceased sister of an ex-Confederate president, and dramatically made it special.

When Mrs. M passed away, as by now most surely she has, as all this happened over fifty years ago, no doubt her belongings will have been donated to charity, and the worn silver spoon will no longer have its story. It will no longer be special. Devoid of the claim to fame it once had, it will just be a worn-out old silver spoon, and perhaps will be melted down to be used for some other, more modern and no-doubt less celebrated purpose.

Yet for a brief moment in time, it gave a peculiar lady an immense amount of pleasure by merely being in her possession, and nothing more, except, perhaps to show it off to an occasional guest - even to an 11-year-old boy.

One man's trash is another man's treasure. 

_______________________________

After publishing this to my blog, I did a Google search and found the following comment, made by someone who identifies himself only as "Old Redneck."

I quote:

"The son of one of Jeff Davis's cousins married my great-grandmother's sister and I own a single sterling silver spoon that was a wedding gift to them.  Family legend says the spoon once belonged to Ol' Jeff Davis himself, though I have found several family legends to be less than accurate."

NOTES: Jefferson Davis indeed had a sister, Anna Elizabeth Smith. 

Silver spoons were highly prized in earlier times, and passed down as heirlooms to family members.

To this day, every once in awhile I will come across a strange or curious spoon, and will, just for fun, repeat the sacred pronouncement that peculiar lady made so many years ago: "This is the spoon... this is the spoon... This is the spoon... that was owned...by Jeffason...Davis's... SISTA!" 

The Fire!

"Ladybird, Ladybird,

Fly away home;

You house is on fire,

And your children will burn!" - nursery rhyme

Childhood should be a NeverLand - a time for ice cream and cake, playing games and singing nursery rhymes. It should be a time to be safe, happy, and loved. Memories from this time of life should all be happy ones, and indeed they are… I'm a perfect world.

The truth is, not all memories are happy, pleasant ones. Among the "Swelling Ranks of Things That We Look Back Upon" are some dark, sad, unpleasant times that children should not have to go through - but all to often do. 

I was but a toddler at the time. The year was 1956, and I was only 4 1/2 years old. We lived in Washington, DC at the time, in an apartment in the 1700 block of Pennsylvania Ave., NW, across the street and one block from the White House. 

I came down with the measles in the last days of May. I was still sick in the first days of June, on the day it happened.

My eyes were sensitive to the light, so my mother, in an effort to cut down on the light, put a towel over the lamp on my bedroom. 

She went out for a short while, either to the grocery or the drug store - or maybe both, leaving me alone and unattended. It was just going to be for a short while.

I was playing in the kitchen, entertaining myself with whatever toys I might have had. I heard a strange knocking sound: "rat-a-tat--tat----tat!" The sound pattern repeated itself, as if tapping out a coded message. 

(I imagined a black-haired boy hitting on the wall with a Ping-pong or Fly-Back paddle, trying to warn me.)

I walked to my room to see what it was, and I was shocked to see my room on fire!! The lamp an my bed were burning. I gasped, then immediately ran out of our third story apartment.

I fled down the seemingly endless flights of stairs in abject terror! I ran past Cullin Photo Studio on the second floor down to the first floor and up to the heavy metal and glass doors of the main entrance. 

I tried to open the door, but it would not budge! I was trapped! This was a desperate situation I was in. In anguish I watched helplessly as patrons walked past the glass of the door and filed into the Blue Ribbon restaurant downstairs. 

I cried out, banged on the thick glass, and desperately pleaded with them to open the door for me, but my plaintive and tearful cries for help went unneeded, and they just walked past.

I fumbled with the lock mechanism, nearly out of my reach, hoping it would budge.  (It seemed to me back then that it took a very long time.)

Finally, the latch opened!! I was free! I ran into the restaurant and up to the manager whom I knew from eating breakfast there in the mornings.

"Our apartment is on fire!" I shouted. 

"We know," came a matter-of-fact reply. The whole thing was surreal: There's a fire in the building upstairs, a 4-year-old toddler runs in screaming "FIRE!" and everybody in the place is just sitting around nonchalantly eating instead of evacuating, going outside to gawk at the fire, or to show any concern for the little boy. 

It was just then when my mother returns from her errand. I meet her at the entrance, and she suddenly decides to play fireman! She said something about a fire-extinguisher in the ceiling, and that she was going to go out the fire out. She wanted to save our belongings. I knew at that tender age that those things could be replaced, but she could not. 

I blocked her path and desperately begged for her to not go. I told her that the firemen were on their way, and for her to let them do their job. That they had ladders and fire hoses with lots if water.

I knew in my heart that if she did, she would never return. She finally agreed, and to this day I feel I did the right thing and am happy I was so adamant.

Soon enough the firemen arrived. I remember sitting well within the interior of the dining room. The only memory I have of the firefighting was when they pumped the firehose onto the large plate-glass windows which fronted on Pennsylvania Ave. 

The restaurant owner gave me his coat, and we left the restaurant with the clothes on our backs, and headed for the airport. We took the next plane for New Orleans and stayed with my grandparents. 

Later I saw a film of the charred remains of our apartment and our things. My mother returned was able to retrieve a few paltry items, but basically we had nothing.

It was time to start over. A new chapter in our life had begun.  

EPILOGUE:

My grandfather said it was all Kismet: what will be will be, nor can all the powers that be alter or change it. 

I started school in New Orleans, living with my grandparents, and my mother stayed in DC. 

I got my little record player back - it was not in its original condition, but rather it was all taped up. However, it still worked. 

I remember looking at a magazine article. It had different activities for different months. For the month of June, there was an illustration of a boy hitting on a wall with a paddle! It was the VERY IMAGE I had in my mind of the person who alerted me to the danger. My hair stood on edge as I beheld the boy who saved my life!

Just why he tapped out that exact code onto the wall remains a

mystery to me. Why not just bang on the wall?

Gumbo-aux-Herbes

Lagos, Nigeria

3 July, 2014

"Jambalaya, crawfish pie, and filé gumbo...!" - a Hank Williams song

Today I ate in a restaurant in Lagos. Being adventurous I once again opted to try one of the Nigerian entrées, instead of pasta or sushi. What I had was a typical Nigerian dish called UGU. When they brought it out, it looked very familiar. Although the condiments were somewhat different, it not only looked but tasted like something I ate occasionally way back in my younger days in New Orleans. 

On the menu, the ugu was called a soup, but it was rather dry and had a somewhat grassy taste. That is because it essentially is a grass soup. Although the Nigerians refer to it as a soup, it is by no means the thin, watery, broth or thicker vélouté we are accustomed to in the West. 

As in New Orleans creole dishes and in Cuban cuisine, meat here is used as a seasoning, and tends to be a side dish, rather than the main item. Nigerians in general are very much meat-eaters, but because of spoilage, and especially because of the high cost of meat, poorer villagers often heave trouble making ends meat - so they have to make one of them vegetable! We did the same in Louisiana.

When I was a small child, I remember walking around the corner to my great-grandmother's. A very old lady who only spoke French, Granmère Victorine once had a tiny vegetable farm downriver from New Orleans. She would go out into her side and back yards, and collect a variety of what appeared to be merely weeds. She then washed them well and prepared a dish that to my young ears sounded like "gumbozaire." 

Years later, after much study of the French language, I was able to figure out what that word really was: it was "gumbo-aux-herbes," literally grass gumbo!It finally made sense to me: In Louisiana, the word gumbo means a very thick soup, more like a stew than a soup. So grass gumbo was a very thick "weed" soup, made from wild plants, such as polkweed, spinach, turnip & collard greens, etc. plus a dash of sassafras (a legacy of our Native Americans - renamed "filé" by the French) and other ingredients, such as ham or pickle pork. 

There is another interesting ingredient here: gumbo-aux-herbes, the way my great-grandmother prepared it, had NIGHTSHADE in it. Nightshade is a poison, but doesn't have to be poisonous if done correctly. 

(The very word gumbo is of west African origin, "kingombó" or "kinbombó" and originally meant okra, a prime ingredient in the original Louisiana gumbo. "Gumbo" later began to be used as a synonym for soup - usually thick and stew-like.) 

As I savored this dish, I remembered those days as a little boy, hearing my great-grandmother tell me in French that she was going to fix me gumbozaire. Who would have thought I'd relive a childhood memory in Africa?? When I was a kid growing up in New Orleans, I could clearly see many of the African influences in our culture, but back then that sort of observation was generally frowned upon by many. 

In today's multicultural New Orleans, we are very proud of, and emphasize elements of, French culture, and well we should! But we now also recognize, celebrate, and EMBRACE that rainbow of other lands, peoples, and cultures that have put ingredients into the huge pot of gumbo that is, and has always been NEW ORLEANS!

MÊME LES OISEAUX PARLENT CHEZ VOUS!

Houston

2 Septembre, 2014

Quand je suis arrivé à Montréal pour la première fois, j'étais fou de joie, car tout le monde parlait français. J'ai été très surpris de constater que même les oiseaux parlent français!

J'ai pris une promenade dans la campagne québécoise, et j'ai rencontré un hibou. Quand il m'a vu, il m'a demandé: "Où Où?" Je lui ai répondu: «là-bas, à la Place Longchamps!"

"QUI? QUI?" s'écria un tout petit oiseau qui était perché sur les branches d'un grand sapin.

 "Mais MOI, bien sûr!" Répondis-je, surpris d'entendre parler une autre oiseau. J'avais à peine fini de parler quad une oie m'a crié du ciel: "QUAND? QUAND?"

"Eh bien, maintenant, si vous devez savoir!" Répondis-je, en regardant vers le haut, un peu en colère maintenant. Quelle audace, que je pensais!

"QUOI?? QUOI??"ce que a crié un canard, qui je crois n'a pas entendu ma réponse à l'oie.

Par conséquent, je répétais: "Eh bien, maintenant, si vous devez savoir!"

A présent, j'étais très en colère à toutes ces questions impolies, donc j'ai commenté: «vous savez, j'ai vu un CHAT il ya quelques minutes! Pas loin d'ici!" J'étais sûr que ce commentaire serait de les effrayer.

C'est alors qu'un très grand aigle a volé juste au-dessus de ma tête, portant un chat dans ses serres. "La curiosité a tué le chat!" l'aigle m'a dit, et après, nous avons tous passé un bon rire.  

"Sacré betaille!!" J'ai dit.

Donc, si jamais vous marchez à travers la belle campagne de Québec, et arrive de voir des oiseaux curieux qui vous posent beaucoup de questions, allez dire à mes amis à plumes que je me souviens!