Here it is late November, and Elaine's flower beds are in full bloom at her home on Lake Pontchartrain. I was lucky enough to be left at Elaine and Bub's when Rachel, Rebecca, Scott, Buffy, and Bub went grocery shopping for Thanksgiving fixings. This gave me a full afternoon in one of my favorite places on earth with three of my grandchildren, Nicholas, Sarah and Miya.
Nick and Sarah began by serenading me with saxaphone music, as they're currently both studying the same instrument. Sarah then played tunes on Elaine's piano and began tutoring Miya in music reading. This was before Sarah and Miya decided to go peddle boating, leaving me and Nick to enjoy the cool salt air breezes from the swing on the dock.
While I stayed to watch the girls, Nicholas went in and made himself a grilled cheese sandwich. While he was gone, Sarah and Miya managed to foul the propellor so badly I needed to affect a rescue. Watching me attempt to throw the rescue ring got lots of laughs from my granddaughters.
Upon Nick's return to the boat dock, he discovered that I was in the process of rescuing Sarah and Miya, and decided to offer his assistance. The next thing I knew, Nick was chasing Bub's white German Shepherd puppy around the yard, throwing shoes and yelling at the puppy for eating his sandwich off the plate that Nick had left on the table. I managed to get the girls, but had to abandon the boat until help arrived. I made Nick another grilled cheese sandwich. He ate, watched a bit of TV and fell asleep.
While Nick slept, his cousin Sarah decided to enlist her cousin Miya in a project of squeezing all of Bub's oranges into fresh-squeezed orange juice. Since we could find no juice squeezer, we improvised with an overturned ribbed cocktail glass in a glass bowl. The girls had great fun with this, but it must have tired Miya, as she curled up in my lap for me to rock her and sing to her. She promptly fell asleep in my arms, at which time Sarah continued her piano serenade. I felt like I'd died and gone to heaven.
Upon her return, Rebecca went with me to retreive the peddle boat. She detangled the line from the prop while I held the boat up. I enjoyed sharing with Rebecca wonderful memories of our years at Richard's and my house on the lake as we peddled together back to Bub's dock.
At the end of the day, I was able to begin the Thanksgiving Feast food preparations with Rachel and Buffy. My days don't get more delightful than this.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Scott's Spa
Food, glorious food. We got to Scott and Buffy's house, and the first thing Buffy did is show me the leftovers that they saved for me: smoked redfish dip, grilled redfish, sushi-grade tuna, and kickin' chicken salad. She had also cooked a huge pot of her Buffy's Best Butterbeans and put them in the freezer. Yum! What an orgy of fabulous flavors.
We went shopping for Thanksgiving table cloths and turkeys while Richard prepared Scott's hallway for painting. We purchased three twenty-plus pound birds. On the way back to Scott's, I checked in with my niece Melanie, who lives down the street from Scott with her husband and two baby boys. She asked me if I wanted her to bring her turkey to Thanksgiving dinner. Four turkeys, one ham, chicken gumbo, potaoto salad, and two pans of dressing are only the beginning of what we'll feast on come Thursday.
Rachel's family is heading down from Atlanta for the festivities. We're expecting over thirty people, so we're busy relaxing in Scott's hot tub to work up the energy for more food and house preparation.
We went shopping for Thanksgiving table cloths and turkeys while Richard prepared Scott's hallway for painting. We purchased three twenty-plus pound birds. On the way back to Scott's, I checked in with my niece Melanie, who lives down the street from Scott with her husband and two baby boys. She asked me if I wanted her to bring her turkey to Thanksgiving dinner. Four turkeys, one ham, chicken gumbo, potaoto salad, and two pans of dressing are only the beginning of what we'll feast on come Thursday.
Rachel's family is heading down from Atlanta for the festivities. We're expecting over thirty people, so we're busy relaxing in Scott's hot tub to work up the energy for more food and house preparation.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Rockin' and Rollin'
Adam emailed me that he hopes Richard and I are rockin'. We're rockin' and rollin', but mostly rollin' -- from one friend and place to another. Of course, the van is rockin' more than we'd like on the extremely uneven streets of New Orleans and vicinity. Movin' on to Mississippi.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Home Is Where the Happy Is
Some days happy is just bursting all around us, waiting to be scooped up and carried around. Some places exude that kind of happiness. Pat and Will’s house is a happy house. They live by the philosophy of “Peace to all who enter here.” Now, that doesn’t mean that we don’t have some spirited conversations, seeing as I lean toward the libertarian in my politics and they lean far far away from the left. I also adhere to no specific religious practices, where they are very devout Roman Catholics. We’re such good friends that we’re actually interested in each other’s views.
Every room in Pat’s home is ringed with large windows letting in views of God’s creation. In front there are flower beds lovingly tended by Will. On one side is a rose garden, on the other fences full of flowering vines like in the secret courtyards of the French Quarter. Both the living room and the dining room open onto a patio through French doors that can be thrown open to the natural environment of a contemplation garden on the banks of a lagoon where egrets frequently are sighted catching their dinner and the rays of the sun.
Inside is a sanctuary. As we entered after a day of travel, we were greeted by the beautiful melodies, played by Pat, emanating from the grand piano. When Pat is not at the keyboard, she and Will quite often have classical music wafting through the speaker system. There are inspirational reading materials all through the house, and both Pat and Will are happy to interrupt anything they are doing to sit and chat for a bit.
I’ve never known how Pat achieves this, but her house is always in order. For me, order is necessary to my sense of serenity. It never mattered whether I showed up unannounced or with several weeks notice, the feeling of open arms welcome was always the same. I have always loved coming to Pat’s house, and I secretly grieve every time Pat and Will talk about moving. Moving has been especially tempting to them since Hurricane Katrina, as they’ve had to see so many of their family and friends relocate.
I feel like I’ve been in the world’s best bed and breakfast sipping wine, looking at the natural beauty, and discussing our philosophical views. I could stay here forever, but we have many places to go, people to see and things to do before going to Mississippi. I do love life in New Orleans.
Every room in Pat’s home is ringed with large windows letting in views of God’s creation. In front there are flower beds lovingly tended by Will. On one side is a rose garden, on the other fences full of flowering vines like in the secret courtyards of the French Quarter. Both the living room and the dining room open onto a patio through French doors that can be thrown open to the natural environment of a contemplation garden on the banks of a lagoon where egrets frequently are sighted catching their dinner and the rays of the sun.
Inside is a sanctuary. As we entered after a day of travel, we were greeted by the beautiful melodies, played by Pat, emanating from the grand piano. When Pat is not at the keyboard, she and Will quite often have classical music wafting through the speaker system. There are inspirational reading materials all through the house, and both Pat and Will are happy to interrupt anything they are doing to sit and chat for a bit.
I’ve never known how Pat achieves this, but her house is always in order. For me, order is necessary to my sense of serenity. It never mattered whether I showed up unannounced or with several weeks notice, the feeling of open arms welcome was always the same. I have always loved coming to Pat’s house, and I secretly grieve every time Pat and Will talk about moving. Moving has been especially tempting to them since Hurricane Katrina, as they’ve had to see so many of their family and friends relocate.
I feel like I’ve been in the world’s best bed and breakfast sipping wine, looking at the natural beauty, and discussing our philosophical views. I could stay here forever, but we have many places to go, people to see and things to do before going to Mississippi. I do love life in New Orleans.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Slugs in a Sleigh
No matter how you slice it, twelve hours enroute to anywhere is a long ride. We prefer the drive from our house to New Orleans to the drive from our house to the Gulf Coast of Mississippi. The topography of eastern Tennessee is much more interesting than the flatlands of Georgia and Alabama, and the hills surrounding Chattanooga are full of hardwoods, now in their last throes of fall.
We typically start this journey with a ride along the Ocoee, but this has been precluded by a rockslide from the hillside to the highway. This decreased the scenic factor and increased the time factor for an already long one-day trip of six hundred miles. Not surprisingly, Richard does have a protocol for our long drives, trading off driving every hundred miles. This keeps us from falling asleep, except for our butts and lower extremities.
Now, my brain is another problem; the slower my body moves the more hyper my brain becomes. After a while of running free, my brain sets up a pinball machine in my head, bouncing random ideas from one synapse to another. In my usual perpetual motion mode, I can guide the brain balls by bumping the body machine every so often. It’s hard to focus when the nearest goal is hundreds of miles and thousands of minutes away. I come up with some of my most exiting adventures this way. By the time we reached our destination, I needed a nap to recuperate from being a slug.
But a nap was not in the cards. Our first stop was to load Elaine’s freezer with food from Mamie’s garden to share at Thanksgiving. Then, it was across Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River to Pat and Will’s house on the far side of New Orleans, where they were taking us to English Turn Golf and Country Club for Friday’s fish feast. I felt strange entering the club at night without a bunch of boxes.
For over ten years, we lived in a neighborhood near English Turn. Pat and I were very involved in volunteer work with an agency that worked to stabilize homeless families, and our major fundraiser was an annual evening auction and dinner held at English Turn. Our long-suffering husbands toted boxes, collected tickets, and listened to endless hours of grief and gossip while we proceeded to spend months of madness and much money to make our auctions a success.
Unbeknown to me, Richard had become enamored of a particular part of the club’s hardwood flooring, and immediately insisted on visiting the exact spot he had so loved. This was the first time we were all together at the club since Katrina. The agency that we had worked so hard for lost its mission in Hurricane Katrina; Richard and I lost our home; and all of New Orleans lost family and friends.
After dinner, we stayed up until midnight talking, but we stayed away from the topic of our losses of home and community. I guess it still hurts too bad.
We typically start this journey with a ride along the Ocoee, but this has been precluded by a rockslide from the hillside to the highway. This decreased the scenic factor and increased the time factor for an already long one-day trip of six hundred miles. Not surprisingly, Richard does have a protocol for our long drives, trading off driving every hundred miles. This keeps us from falling asleep, except for our butts and lower extremities.
Now, my brain is another problem; the slower my body moves the more hyper my brain becomes. After a while of running free, my brain sets up a pinball machine in my head, bouncing random ideas from one synapse to another. In my usual perpetual motion mode, I can guide the brain balls by bumping the body machine every so often. It’s hard to focus when the nearest goal is hundreds of miles and thousands of minutes away. I come up with some of my most exiting adventures this way. By the time we reached our destination, I needed a nap to recuperate from being a slug.
But a nap was not in the cards. Our first stop was to load Elaine’s freezer with food from Mamie’s garden to share at Thanksgiving. Then, it was across Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River to Pat and Will’s house on the far side of New Orleans, where they were taking us to English Turn Golf and Country Club for Friday’s fish feast. I felt strange entering the club at night without a bunch of boxes.
For over ten years, we lived in a neighborhood near English Turn. Pat and I were very involved in volunteer work with an agency that worked to stabilize homeless families, and our major fundraiser was an annual evening auction and dinner held at English Turn. Our long-suffering husbands toted boxes, collected tickets, and listened to endless hours of grief and gossip while we proceeded to spend months of madness and much money to make our auctions a success.
Unbeknown to me, Richard had become enamored of a particular part of the club’s hardwood flooring, and immediately insisted on visiting the exact spot he had so loved. This was the first time we were all together at the club since Katrina. The agency that we had worked so hard for lost its mission in Hurricane Katrina; Richard and I lost our home; and all of New Orleans lost family and friends.
After dinner, we stayed up until midnight talking, but we stayed away from the topic of our losses of home and community. I guess it still hurts too bad.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Even Santa Gets Grumpy
Okay I’ll admit it; I lied. Richard actually wrapped thirty-two picture perfect packages to load onto Santa’s sleigh. And you may not know this, but even Santa gets grumpy – especially when every time he thinks he’s on the last gift I remember someone that I almost forgot. I could use a few elves right about now; they could begin by sweeping the floor.
We’re taking Mamie, Charlie, Deborah, Mountaintop Mary and Don to dinner at Coker Creek Village the night before we head south. Since our trip is a ten-hour ordeal, we plan to leave before dawn; so everything had to be stuffed into the van before dark. With careful balance and placement, we got all the gifts in with room to spare for Mamie to ride over to the village with us. Between the seats, I found room for some of our Irish potatoes and a couple of butternut squash. The ice chest still has to be loaded and put in the van, as do our toiletry bags. If I grease them up really well, they should slide right on in.
Adam emailed me that he thinks our trip with an overloaded sleigh will be a good test of the integrity of our new motor mounts – the ones we’ve already replaced twice. Richard is threatening to put heavy duty shocks on the van and add extra air to the tires.
Mamie’s ninetieth birthday is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, but we won’t be here to help her celebrate. When I asked her some weeks ago about her favorite cake for her birthday, she requested a pie instead of a cake. A year ago, I had given Mamie a slice of a pear and custard pie made from her son Junior’s pears. She declared it the best pie she ever ate. I happened to have one jar of pears left from last year’s harvest in Junior’s yard, so I recreated the pie to present to Mamie when we pick her up.
We’ll also take the last of our leftovers to Mamie. She says that she’s gotten to where she checks her outside egg refrigerator before cooking to see if we left her any supper. To go with her birthday pie, we hope she enjoys the pork with ginger-cran-pear chutney, whipped sweet potatoes and turnip greens as much as we enjoyed them when they were just made.
We’re hoping that all these mini celebrations of her birthday keep Mamie from guessing that we’re giving her a surprise party the Sunday after we return. As far as any of us knows, Mamie is the oldest person in Coker Creek, so we think she deserves a little recognition for simply surviving. We’re organizing the party because Junior, who would have done it, isn’t still physically with us. Mary Jane called to say that the mayor is attending the party to proclaim the day “Mamie Murphy Day.” I think Junior will be smiling about that.
And, I'm pretty sure he'd be laughing at the sight of his little mama stuffed in with all the gifts as Richard goes on about needing new shocks.
We’re taking Mamie, Charlie, Deborah, Mountaintop Mary and Don to dinner at Coker Creek Village the night before we head south. Since our trip is a ten-hour ordeal, we plan to leave before dawn; so everything had to be stuffed into the van before dark. With careful balance and placement, we got all the gifts in with room to spare for Mamie to ride over to the village with us. Between the seats, I found room for some of our Irish potatoes and a couple of butternut squash. The ice chest still has to be loaded and put in the van, as do our toiletry bags. If I grease them up really well, they should slide right on in.
Adam emailed me that he thinks our trip with an overloaded sleigh will be a good test of the integrity of our new motor mounts – the ones we’ve already replaced twice. Richard is threatening to put heavy duty shocks on the van and add extra air to the tires.
Mamie’s ninetieth birthday is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, but we won’t be here to help her celebrate. When I asked her some weeks ago about her favorite cake for her birthday, she requested a pie instead of a cake. A year ago, I had given Mamie a slice of a pear and custard pie made from her son Junior’s pears. She declared it the best pie she ever ate. I happened to have one jar of pears left from last year’s harvest in Junior’s yard, so I recreated the pie to present to Mamie when we pick her up.
We’ll also take the last of our leftovers to Mamie. She says that she’s gotten to where she checks her outside egg refrigerator before cooking to see if we left her any supper. To go with her birthday pie, we hope she enjoys the pork with ginger-cran-pear chutney, whipped sweet potatoes and turnip greens as much as we enjoyed them when they were just made.
We’re hoping that all these mini celebrations of her birthday keep Mamie from guessing that we’re giving her a surprise party the Sunday after we return. As far as any of us knows, Mamie is the oldest person in Coker Creek, so we think she deserves a little recognition for simply surviving. We’re organizing the party because Junior, who would have done it, isn’t still physically with us. Mary Jane called to say that the mayor is attending the party to proclaim the day “Mamie Murphy Day.” I think Junior will be smiling about that.
And, I'm pretty sure he'd be laughing at the sight of his little mama stuffed in with all the gifts as Richard goes on about needing new shocks.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Stuffing Santa’s Sleigh
Richard’s got the kitchen table jacked up like a redneck’s truck. He put it up on cinder blocks so we now look like true trailer trash. I know it’s to save his back from all that bending, but honestly, what will that man do next?
There’s a blizzard of Christmas paper all over the floor. What started out as forty pounds of candy in various bowls and boxes is now down to maybe twenty-five. Roughly half of what was one thousand sheets of tissue paper have been lovingly folded around individual gifts and candies, and carefully stuffed into crannies for cushioning. No box is complete without Jelly Bellies and at least one jar of jam, and everyone on our list expects some Cajun roasted pecans. Richard’s version of the stimulus package is gold-wrapped chocolate money for all.
Santa’s sleigh will soon be pulled up to the back door for loading, beginning with the twenty-five boxes that will go with us on our trip. None of them will get their complementary ribbons until we reach our destination, so our ten rolls of ribbon also have to fit in the van. We must take an ice chest for the frozen bounty from last summer’s garden that will be served at Scott and Buffy’s Thanksgiving in Mississippi. Somewhere, I’ll make room for our clothes.
In case Richard refused to take the trip down south with me, I had an offer to ride down to Mississippi with Rachel, Larry, Rebecca, Sarah, and Cinnamon in their Ford Escape. But their provision was that I couldn’t take an ice chest. When I got to discussing loading our freezer onto Richard’s trailer and towing it behind Larry’s van, Richard reconsidered. He’s coming along for the ride, sharing the driving of Santa’s sleigh with me.
When we arrive back in Tennessee, there’s a surprise birthday party to participate in before we begin decorating our house for the Holidays in the Holler. There will also be more macaroons to bake and barrels of bourbon balls to prepare for the remaining loved ones on our list. Approximately twelve more packages will be created, and prepared for mailing to those we won’t see during the Christmas season. This is in addition to the gifts that we’ll give to relatives and friends coming to see us before the end of the year. At some point, I’ll get around to cleaning our kitchen before heading to Atlanta to assist Rachel with cooking for her Christmas open house.
I’m not sure how to end the growth of our Christmas list. What started out as surprise boxes for immediate family members and their living-in-the-same-house children has grown to include the new households of married members of our ever-increasing family. We may set a personal record this year, topping the list at fifty boxes wrapped by Richard. And then there’s the “little somethings” that we’ll want to give our neighbors and new friends. But Richard won’t have to wrap these; I’ll just stuff them into stockings for personal presentation.
And to think, I once wanted to buy a Miata. What would we do without Santa’s sleigh?
There’s a blizzard of Christmas paper all over the floor. What started out as forty pounds of candy in various bowls and boxes is now down to maybe twenty-five. Roughly half of what was one thousand sheets of tissue paper have been lovingly folded around individual gifts and candies, and carefully stuffed into crannies for cushioning. No box is complete without Jelly Bellies and at least one jar of jam, and everyone on our list expects some Cajun roasted pecans. Richard’s version of the stimulus package is gold-wrapped chocolate money for all.
Santa’s sleigh will soon be pulled up to the back door for loading, beginning with the twenty-five boxes that will go with us on our trip. None of them will get their complementary ribbons until we reach our destination, so our ten rolls of ribbon also have to fit in the van. We must take an ice chest for the frozen bounty from last summer’s garden that will be served at Scott and Buffy’s Thanksgiving in Mississippi. Somewhere, I’ll make room for our clothes.
In case Richard refused to take the trip down south with me, I had an offer to ride down to Mississippi with Rachel, Larry, Rebecca, Sarah, and Cinnamon in their Ford Escape. But their provision was that I couldn’t take an ice chest. When I got to discussing loading our freezer onto Richard’s trailer and towing it behind Larry’s van, Richard reconsidered. He’s coming along for the ride, sharing the driving of Santa’s sleigh with me.
When we arrive back in Tennessee, there’s a surprise birthday party to participate in before we begin decorating our house for the Holidays in the Holler. There will also be more macaroons to bake and barrels of bourbon balls to prepare for the remaining loved ones on our list. Approximately twelve more packages will be created, and prepared for mailing to those we won’t see during the Christmas season. This is in addition to the gifts that we’ll give to relatives and friends coming to see us before the end of the year. At some point, I’ll get around to cleaning our kitchen before heading to Atlanta to assist Rachel with cooking for her Christmas open house.
I’m not sure how to end the growth of our Christmas list. What started out as surprise boxes for immediate family members and their living-in-the-same-house children has grown to include the new households of married members of our ever-increasing family. We may set a personal record this year, topping the list at fifty boxes wrapped by Richard. And then there’s the “little somethings” that we’ll want to give our neighbors and new friends. But Richard won’t have to wrap these; I’ll just stuff them into stockings for personal presentation.
And to think, I once wanted to buy a Miata. What would we do without Santa’s sleigh?
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