Sissy

She had more names than most members of the royal family, starting with two first names and accumulating the rest from a Catholic baptism, two dads, and five husbands. Born in the last year of the 40s, she grew up in the 50s, was a teenager in the 60s (who got to see the Beatles live in New Orleans), a mom in the 70s, a divorcee in the 80s (a couple of times) and finally settled down in the 90s and 2000s as a hot shot real estate agent. 

Nothing came easy for her and certainly nothing stayed easy. She had chips on her shoulders a lot of times and not much of a filter. A Scorpio through and through, she sometimes had a harsh sting. She wasn't cuddly. She wasn't always easy to love. But she was my big sister until I lost her in early December. It was way too soon for us but put an end to a long time of pain and suffering for her. 

She got a brief little obituary on a funeral home website, but no funeral -- yet. One day this summer her husband Nick and I and whatever family chooses to gather will send her off the same way we said goodbye to Mama, on the banks of the Mississippi River. But since I have this little space and a knack for words, I figure I owe it to her to remind the world that she was here for 73 years and 44 days.

Officially, she was Jo Lee Ann Delanuville Lyons Saunier Miller Catton Bonura LeBlanc. But, to me, she was just Sissy -- my much older, wiser, grumpier, hell-hath-no-fury sister.  She was born to a teenage mother who didn't have a clue what she was doing, but, thankfully, there was a set of grandparents there to pick up the slack and make sure she survived. Mama named her after her own grandmother, Lena Josephine, but reversed -- Jo Lee. Back then, you had to have a saint's name to be baptized, so Mama added the Ann.

Her father, a Navy man, came and went in a flash. Then my dad came along and she started using his name because no one could spell the other one (Still can't. It's even wrong in her obituary.) Then she got married. And again. And again. And again. And again. But she kept the name of her third husband because it was the one she used to establish herself as a hot shot real estate agent in Baton Rouge. She also refused to be called Jo Lee LeBlanc. It was too much like the Cajun song Jolie Blanc.

She became a big sister to our brother, Rhett, when she was 7 years old and spent the next several years trying to keep him alive. You see, Rhett was a bit of a daredevil who lived his life on the edge, even as a toddler. It was Sissy who interrupted mom's card game to inform her that Rhett was on the roof. "Tell him to get down," mom replied calmly, knowing if she went out there she would scream, scare the bejeezus out of him and probably make him fall. He got down safely on his own.

She had six more years before I came along and I'm certain she was not thrilled when mom and my dad announced my impending arrival. I was kind of an oops baby, conceived shortly after my mother recovered from a serious bout of rheumatic fever that nearly killed her and left her with a profound heart murmur. 

Two weeks after I was born, Mom and Dad packed the family up in the station wagon and moved us all to Houston for Dad's new job. I, of course, have no memory of this time. I have heard stories of bike rides to Blueberry Hill and the daily adventures of my brother. There are a few photos of Sissy and me, in which she is acting like the Mother Hen, fussing over me or dressing me up in some silly costume. All I know is, when we moved back to Houma two years later, my parents were no longer married.

We moved in with Grannie and Grandpa for a time until my Gramps bought us a nice new trailer to put on the lot next door. Mom, Rhett and I moved in, but Sissy stayed in the added on back room at Grannie's. I have so many memories of that room, all filled with 1960s nostalgia. She had the little white record case filled with 45s of the Beatles, Elvis, The Monkees and other hit makers. She also had a stack of albums. She had cat-eyeglasses for the longest time and big, poofy hair. She had a best friend named Twig, who sort of looked like and was nicknamed for the super skinny model, Twiggy.

One of the main things everyone remembers about my sister was that she was double-jointed in her knees. When she stood up a certain way they would bend backwards unnaturally. She also could Hula Hoop like a mad woman. 

When she got a boyfriend in high school, they used to sit in our tete-a-tete swing and I would go bother them in little sister ways. I remember being heart-broken when she left for college, not knowing it was just a short ways away in Hammond. I remember her calling to tell us that it was snowing there and I wished it was snowing on me too. She lasted only a semester or two as a Home Economics major -- back when there still was such a thing. Like a good 60s girl, she was a master at cooking.  

I was only 6 years old when she married her first husband, in a hurry-up post-Christmas event after he joined the Marines but before he was stationed in San Clemente, California. They married at our local Catholic church, which we attended very infrequently, and they had always told me there was no bathroom there so it really wasn't my fault that I peed on my mom's new boyfriend's lap. I was the flower girl, and Sissy and I were dressed in identical white crepe miniskirt dresses. She really did look lovely. I was cute. (I can't find the photos though.)

Rhett, Grannie and I went to visit her and Lou the next summer, even though I was terrified of getting hijacked. (Y'all don't believe me when I say I watched the news my whole life!) My brother, in his wisdom, told me not to worry because, if we got hijacked, it would be on the trip home. So I refused to fly home. I spent the whole summer with Sissy and Louie, going to the beach and eating Jack-in-the-Box burgers. They made me stay up to watch the Lunar landing. But they also took me to see The Blob and I was afraid to turn on any faucets for days. 

When it was time to come home, we drove -- from California to Louisiana in a Chevy Nova with no air conditioning. I didn't know she was pregnant at the time. 

When I was two days shy of my eighth birthday, my sister gave me the best birthday gift ever -- a real live baby doll in my nephew, Lee. I was in love at first sight and he and I grew up much like a brother and a sister. My nephew Beau came along a few years later, but he attached to my Grannie. Lee and I were almost inseparable for most of our lives.

Life got hard after that as her first marriage broke up. She went up and down in weight, causing a myriad of issues for her. Then she went up and down in love, through husbands and stepchildren that came and went through our lives like butterflies.

She ran an apartment complex for a while and hired me to be the pool sitter to make sure only residents were there. I got a great tan out of it.

Eventually she moved to Baton Rouge and started talking with a "southern" accent.

We were not really close like some sisters are. Our relationship with each other, and with our mother, was very complicated. There were some jealousy issues when I was young and single and she was not. There were issues over the care and feeding of our grandparents, her children, and then our mother. But the death of our brother rocked us both to our core. That night, after we both got the horrifying phone calls, we sat on the phone together for an hour, not talking, just sobbing. Together. There were flashbacks to that night after I had to call her at 2 a.m. to tell her that Mama was gone.

 She was a tough, don't-take-no-shit kind of woman, and that may have cost her dearly in some areas. But she also was smart as a whip, the only person who could challenge me in Scrabble without cheating. She loved to cook and was really good at it. Her task every Thanksgiving and Christmas was to bring the pies -- pecan for Grandpa, mincemeat for Mama and Grannie, cherry for Rhett and me. When we started to fight over them, she made two.

She also was a damn good bowler. I can't give any stats for her, but her name was on the walls at the Houma Bowl and one in Baton Rouge for high scores. She ran the Saturday morning and Monday night bowling leagues I used to belong to in my teen years. I never was as good as her. When she couldn't bowl any more, she played pool and darts and was good at both of those.

She also loved LSU sports with a passion. I was the sports writer, but her knowledge of LSU players and personnel rivaled that of the best beat writers I know. Many of our weekly phone calls were spent listening to her question the coaching decisions and lineup changes. I called it "Jo-splaining."

The only thing my sister wasn't really good at is cleaning. She was a bona fide slob. One time I went to her apartment and I asked if it had been ransacked. I was ready to call the police! Housework was not her thing. 

She also was early for everything -- sometimes too early. If our party started at 2, she was there by noon. And she had to leave early because she never liked to drive at night. 

But she was the first to insist that our family had to get together for some type of Christmas. She saw herself as our matriarch and did her best to try to keep us together. We did good for a while, getting together annually a few days after Christmas for a Pot Luck/White Elephant party with our clan. But then came Covid... then her health went. The last time we all got together was 2019. 

We spoke infrequently, usually only to commiserate over the latest quirk of our quirky mother. Both of us had difficult, complicated relationships with our mom, who was as head-strong as they come. She would fight with one of us then call the other to complain, then we would call each other. Both of us would begin those conversations with, "Your mother is nuts!"

After Mama died, we made a pact to call each other once a week. We would exchange mundane details of our lives as well as the exciting ones. The last year was hard. She couldn't walk, couldn't get out of the bed, fought with doctors and insurance. She had EMS on speed dial. Mostly I tried to cheer her up and give her a reason to get up and fight, to get moving again. 

She would call more often if there was a hurricane headed our way to remind me that I was going to drown in my attic if I didn't evacuate to her house in Baton Rouge. In 2021, we finally had to take her up on that offer after Hurricane Ida hit our town and knocked out power for a month. We spent a week in her guest bedroom, listening to her and Nick "fight" just like my grandparents used to. I'm so thankful for that week now.

We were shocked to find her pretty much confined to a hospital bed in her living room, surrounded by my grandparents' antique furniture and dishes. She had never fully recovered from a hip replacement and, largely thanks to Covid, services she normally would have received were not available to her. Both she and her husband, Nick, had been in and out of the ER and hospitals over the past two years. She spent all of November and December of 2021 in the hospital with no visitors allowed. 

Ultimately, an infection set into her incision in November and she couldn't fight it this time. She died on Dec. 11, 2022. She was the daughter of the late Lettie Lee French and the late Louis Delanuville Jr. She had two half-sisters -- me, Lori Lyons and, oddly enough, Lori Delanuville Graff of Texas; three sons -- Lee Saunier, Beau Saunier and Casey Catton; three grandchildren, Mallory, Aubrey and Ava; seven step grandchildren and three step great-grandchildren. (I do not know all of their names); nieces Lena Lyons Brunet (Clayton), Marti Lyons and Lora Leigh Luquet; step niece Courtney Luquet; a nephew Kevin Lyons (Samantha); step nephew Daniel Luquet (Cori); grand niece Madison Brunet; grand nephews Job and Isaac Lyons, Carson and Lincoln Brunet and Sage Hebert; step grand nieces Robi and Laken Luquet. She was preceded in death by her parents, her brother Rhett, and her grand parents Evelyn Himel Cross French and Martin Behrman French.

On her Facebook page, many friends expressed their sadness and sorrow over her death. They talked about how nice and caring she was, how much fun she was to be around. She definitely loved to give advice. I am rather lost without our weekly phone calls. Sometimes I go to push the button, forgetting she isn't there. I'll probably miss her the most the next time there is a hurricane in the Gulf headed our way or the next time LSU wins a National Championship in baseball or football. She won't be their angel in the outfield, though. She'll be the little devil on the coach's shoulder, telling him to bunt.

Fly high, Sissy. I miss you. 

Footsteps

 There have been many times that I have been proud as a parent.

I was proud of all the Student of the Week certificates, the Honor Roll listings, her Young Authors award, her ONE goal in basketball.

I was proud of the way she walked into the hospital that awful day for her spinal fusion, seeming to have no fear. And I was proud of the way she handled the pain after. She was pretty damn brave through all of it.

I was incredibly proud the day she and her high school choir performed at Carnegie Hall in New York City and nearly burst at the seams when she was chosen for a small ensemble. 

I was proud of every college envelope and packet that was pushed through our mail slot -- and there were dozens of them. But I was really proud of the ones that said she had been accepted and that they were giving her scholarships to attend -- especially the one from Loyola University in New Orleans (my alma mater). 

But I was still proud the day she made up her mind and put the sign in the front yard letting the world know that she would be a Northwestern State Demon to study music.

Since that day in 2019 there have been more moments for me as a proud parent and stepparent..-- Dean's List, President's List. More choir performances. 

Then there was the day she called to let me know that she was changing her major -- to Journalism.

Never in her nearly 20 years had she ever even hinted that she might be interested in a career as a journalist. We thought she'd be a singer for a while. Then she wanted to produce music. But she never wanted to be a reporter. Certainly not a sports reporter.

Oh, she had been to more "Take Your Daughter to Work" days that she could ever count thanks to my 30-plus years as a sportswriter. Mostly she would play on the computer in my old office, or ask to borrow my laptop while I finished up a story. She went to her first baseball game at two weeks old, but she couldn't tell you what an infielder is, nor an outfielder. And she has no idea what 6-4-3 means.

There was that one time we went to the local Biz Town, a simulated town at a local college where elementary students get to experience working and get "paid" for a day's work. Of course she chose to be a reporter for the town's newspaper -- like her mom. 

But I'll tell you this: The girl can write.

One of the first stories she wrote won a Young Author's prize. I read it after the fact. It was a gripping tale about a young girl hiding from monsters or aliens or something under a bed while she begged for help into a telephone.

"Where did you get this?" I asked her, incredulous.

"I wrote it," she replied.

"But where did you get the idea?" I demanded. "How did you come up with this?

"It was in my head," she said.

Yes. Yes, I was pretty much accusing my child of plagiarism. But no. She wrote it. And she won an award for it.

Over the years she would occasionally ask me to read a paper or an essay for school. Rarely, if ever, did I have to edit a thing. 

The girl could write.

When I was working for our local paper my then-editor asked if she would like to write an op-ed about scoliosis awareness. She did and it was wonderful. I was proud (there's that word again) to see her first byline in the newspaper I worked for. That article led to an email from a magazine publisher who asked her if she would like to run a longer piece about scoliosis. She did that one too.

And the girl could write.

Her college essay brought me to tears -- and not just because it was about her dad and me and about how she had been adopted at birth and how that affected her life. It was moving, but it also was just beautifully written.

So I'm guessing you can imagine what I felt the day she called me and said she was joining her college newspaper as a reporter.

Then she became a section editor.

Then a copy editor.

And, this spring, she was named the Editor in Chief for next school year.

There aren't enough synonyms for "proud" in the entire world.

And then today, she headed off to my old paper (in my borrowed blazer) for her first day as a summer intern. 

I also have two AMAZING stepchildren who make me proud. My stepson was a stellar high school athlete and now is a high school football coach (following in his dad's footsteps as a coach) and a great dad to two little girls. My stepdaughter is a strong, vibrant, smart, independent woman who worked at Disney, kicked ass in sales at a couple of local hotels, and now is the director of on-campus recruiting at Tulane. 

But there's nothing quite like your child following in your footsteps, walking your path, dreaming your dreams. 

It makes me very proud. 

And amazed.

And also a little worried.

The world is a tough place for journalists today. People don't respect us the way they used to. Some people outright hate us for just doing our jobs. I got my fair share of harassment back in the day, but not like it is now. And while women have made great strides, especially in sports journalism, jobs are difficult to find. And difficult to keep. Just look at her mom.

But I know this: The girl is a fighter. And the girl can write.

And whatever she does, I'm proud to be her mom. 

 

Dear Teaching,

 Note: I was going to do this as a lesson with my sixth graders the last full week of school. Let them read Kobe's "Dear Basketball" poem, let them write their own version.

 But they're done. Their little brains have pretty much shut down for the school year. Mine isn't that far behind.  As I was prepping for this lesson, I figured I needed to write one of my own so they could have a model. It's a bit personal, maybe too personal for them. But I think I needed to write it. 

Dear Teaching:

You were not my first choice.

Writing was, then reporting.

But that doesn't mean I haven't thought about you,

flirted with you,

dreamed about you.

I guess you were always my backup plan,

my "someday"

maybe.

My infatuation began with I was just a little girl,

rushing home from school to relive my day's lessons

on Grannie's kitchen blackboard

and giving Grandpa and Rhett homework.

We got a little closer in college,

when I changed my major from Communications to English

and decided I wanted a book-filled office and a big desk,

a classroom full of eager students. Flexible hours.

But then my childhood dreams came true.

A newspaper job! I was a reporter. A journalist. A sports writer. 

Spending Friday nights and many other days chasing high school kids for quotes and waiting futilely on coaches to return phone calls.

I was happy. And well paid.

Until dividends became more important than me. More important than quality. More important than people. And the men in ties decided I was expendable.

I lost more than a job, 

I lost my identity,

My purpose,

My soul.

So I floundered for a while,

Working three or four jobs to pay the bills,

Getting mother-in-law Jane dressed and fed and to and from,

Until I couldn't do it anymore.

I got another chance to write and report,

Be a big fish in a little pond,

An old dog learning new tricks.

But the young guy wanted it his way or no way.

And it was my mama's turn to need my help.

Then I found you again

Quite by accident.

Or maybe it was Fate.

It is the family business after all.

Either way, I found my purpose again,

A place to use what I knew and learn new things too.

To meet a whole new generation of children,

Some of them are the children of the children I knew,

In a place where everybody is family.

I'm happy here. But not so well-paid.

That's OK. There are other rewards.

Not just the cups, cookies, lotions and potions, gift cards and notes.

The smiles,

The thank yous.

The success stories.

The laughter and the tears.

The hugs.

The lessons I've taught and the lessons I've learned.

Knowing I may have made a difference now and then. 

Some think you were my Plan B.

You were, but not really.

It turns out, I loved you all along.

I just didn't know it yet.

Sixty

“Life is mighty precious when there’s less of it to waste.” — Bonnie Rait

When I was a little girl, my birthdays weren't just special, they were a big deal. I mean, between my mama and my grannie, my birthdays became events. 

There was always cake from the Spic 'n Span bakery, always ice cream (Brown's Velvet Neapolitan), always Hawaiian Punch in Grannie's milk glass punchbowl, always lots of family and school friends, and always lots of presents. 

Some of these events got a little crazy. For one, my mom rented an entire set of kids' carnival rides a few blocks down the street. For my 10th, one of my classmates delivered a report on the following Monday detailing everything he ate at my birthday party.  At my 11th, several of my friends debuted our brand new "Granny dresses," which had just replaced mini-dresses as the hottest fashion trend. And Ricky Farmer kissed me while we were slow dancing at my 12th. I celebrated getting my driver's license at my 15th and got to drive my two besties to dinner.

Surprisingly, I didn't get a big Sweet 16 party, even though I really wanted one. I brought a cake to the local Shakey's Pizza Parlor, though, and invited a bunch of my friends. My 17th birthday was actually celebrated in one of my favorite bar/restaurants at the mall. The Louisiana drinking age was 18 then, so my friends put 18 candles on my cake. I was such a regular that no one even questioned it. 

My real 18th birthday was celebrated at another hometown restaurant with my mom and my boyfriend at the time. My 19th birthday was my first away from home. I cried in my college dorm room. I think several of the next birthdays were celebrated at various bars in New Orleans, including the venerable Pat O'Brien's. 

Then things got lowkey for a while -- until I turned 30 and gave myself a pretty big bash where everyone wore black to celebrate the "end of my youth." 

30 Hurt

Since then, there have been few truly memorable birthdays. I expected my husband would acknowledge my 40th and 50th in some ways, but, you know -- baseball season. But Mardi Gras landed on my 51st, then I took my two favorite friends to the beach for my 52nd, 

and threw myself an epic big 70s disco party for my 54th.

And just a few hours from now I will mark another BIG one. Sixty. 

Wow.

When I was young, I used to think 60 was so old. I remember when my Grannie and Grandpa were 60 for goodness sakes! They both retired from their jobs at 65. They were old people. Then my grannie lived to be 88. My grandpa lived to be 90. My mom died at 84.

I'm not a math whiz by any means, but if the law of averages holds up, that means I have about 20 years left to live on this earth. Just 20 years. 

That's not a lot of time...

to write that next book...

to get my others published...

to read that stack in the corner...

to move to the beach...

to visit Scotland and Hawaii...

to go to a college World Series...

to see my daughters get married and have a child...

to see my husband and my stepson win state championships...

to eat crabs and steak and cake with whipped icing...

and to celebrate birthdays....

I've been pretty sad thinking about this the past few weeks, realizing that I'm on the downslope of time and everything else. When I was 30, I wished I had the body I'd had at 25. When I was 40 I would have killed for the body I had at 30. At 50, I wished I could go back and slap my 40-year-old self. Now I'm 60 and wonder why I can't still dance down the street to the local park like I used to. Or pull weeds. Or sweep. 

And what the hell happened to my damn eyebrows?! 

I'm lucky, so far (knock wood), to have good health with only some aches and pains and a still-working brain. Maybe it's good genes. My mama, even though she had a heart murmur for most of her life, worked until she was 82, commuting every day to the French Quarter and partying at the casino every chance she got. She got a little dementia at the end, but I swear I believe it was the meds they had her on. My Grannie had a rougher time with diabetes and her arthritis, but she and Grandpa were entertaining the old folks at the old folks' homes in Houma well into their 70s. 

So, as I begin my 721st month on earth, I will try to be grateful for every moment I get and for every item I get to cross off that bucket list and for every moment of joy I find. I will try to fight time and keep my body and my brain in good working order. I will live, laugh, love, eat, drink and be merry. I will eat crabs and steak and cake as often as I can. I will try to get my family together as often as I can. I will listen to 60s, 70s, 80s and 90s music and sing the lyrics because I remember them and I will drag my husband to all the old bands' casino reunion concerts. I will dance in my car and while I'm doing the dishes. I will float in my pool until my solar lights come on. I will read trashy romance novels -- and some good ones too. I will binge watch Netflix. I will go to the beach. I will continue to try to teach young people how to write a sentence, a lead, and a headline. I will watch baseball and football games and every Olympics opening ceremony. I will drive with the windows down. I will plant more roses (even though Marty hates them). I will keep my plants alive. I will go out to dinner. I will cherish every moment with my kids and my grandkids, my grand nieces and nephews. I will love my dogs (even when they hog the bed). I will write when I need to and continue to tell stories, including those two next books. I will waste some of my time on Facebook. OK. I will waste a lot of my time on Facebook. 

I will remember that this is time that so many did not get -- my daddy, my brother, Parker, several of my classmates, kids I wrote about, my friend Connie and so many other Covid victims, the two Wandas, Pete, Mark, Ed, Brandon...

And I'm going to celebrate every birthday as though it might be my last because I always do -- starting with Saturday's 60s themed party for old hippies.

Peace.

 

Twenty-one

When Gail Lodrigue handed me that tiny shrimp-colored baby on that cold January day 21 years ago, I thought all my dreams had been answered.

I could not have been more wrong. 

Besides all the years I had thought about the day I would become a mom someday, I had been actively dreaming of having a child for the previous six years. No, I had been actively working on it. So when a nearly complete stranger handed me hers just a few moments after giving birth, it was the culmination of years of work. I thought it also would be the end of years of pain and angst.

But as any other mother will tell you, nothing hurts more than being a mom. And it begins almost immediately.

When Nurse Danielle came in to our little makeshift corner of the NICU and asked if we had held our new baby girl yet, she was our hero. But a few minutes later when she made my baby cry, scream and squirm while she held the little shrimp under the faucet and began scrubbing away the remnants of her birth, I was ready to punch Nurse Danielle in the face.

And later that night when we decided not to force the hospital staff to give us a room because they were scarce that weekend and we decided to just go spend the night at my brother’s house nearby, I spent the whole night regretting it. I tossed and turned and, when I did sleep, had nightmares about something happening to my new baby girl while I wasn’t there. It’s 21 years later and I still have guilt over leaving her that night.

But, that’s what being a mom is — a lifetime of worry, guilt and pain for your child. I’m now 21 years in to that life and, fortunately, it hasn’t been too bad. There have been no major disappointments or broken dreams. She went through school as an Honor Roll student, had friends, sang in the choir, won the Young Authors contest a few times, didn’t have a bully. She didn’t fall in love so there was no broken heart to contend with. The only drama we had was when she failed to get into the district’s Talented Art program — twice, which is utterly and completely absurd if you ask me. Don't get me started. 

Then she got into the college of her choice with a full ride, earned a spot in its choir, became an editor at the school newspaper, had her bestie for a roommate and scored more achievements and honors. And now she does have a boyfriend, one who doesn’t make her cry. 

And now that she is entering her final year of college, she is full of big dreams. She wants to be a journalist, but not like her mama. She wants to write about music and bands, maybe work for one as a publicist. She wants to get married and have children, and she wants to move away from our tiny town and spread her wings. 

And as much as that thought hurts my heart, I have to accept that her dreams are now my dreams. You see, once we become moms, our dreams don’t really matter that much anymore. Oh, I still dream about living in a beach house one day, but more than that, I dream for my kids. I dream that my stepson will win a state championship in football and be lauded as the Coach of the Year. I dream that every football player who goes to Tulane will meet and remember my stepdaughter and thank her for all that she does. I also hope that she finds her prince. And I hope that my daughter becomes a wonderfully successful writer in a big city with a handsome significant other who treats her right (the way her dad treats me), that she as as many children as she wants with ease. And pets. And that she lives a long, healthy happy life.

And that she comes to visit me at the beach sometime. 

To Whom It May Concern -- Re: Ida

 

To: Loan Management Company in Texas

From: Me in Norco, Louisiana

Re: Hurricane Ida repairs

 

To Whom It May Concern:

I recently received a letter from your department asking for an update on the repairs to your/my property in Norco, Louisiana following our direct hit from Hurricane Ida on August 29, 2021. Your letter stated that it had been more than 90 days since the Category 4 storm devastated our tiny town and you were requesting an update on our repairs. I kind of got the impression that you think enough time has passed and that we should be done with all repairs that needed to be done. 

Well, here is the update you requested:  

The teal tarp roof that was put on our roof a week after the storm is mostly still in place. A few passing thunderstorms and cold fronts have torn a few spots, but as far as I can tell we have not lost any more shingles. One storm did reveal one roof leak above the stairs, but no further damage to the interior was sustained. Contrary to popular belief, the reason our roof is still teal is not that it is my favorite color and matches nearly all of our backyard pool décor. It is because estimates are harder to get than Saints wins right now. So are shingles and people who know how to put them on properly for less than the price of a 2017 Honda Civic. It’s rude to keep calling, texting and emailing. We just have to wait our turn. Besides, with the Christmas lights on, you barely even notice the tarp.

 After being stood up twice by a guy who promised to come tackle our tree stumps, we finally had to hire a company from Florida. Although they promised to be here before dark, the two Floridians did not arrive until about 7:30 p.m. on a Friday night. Fortunately, they brought very bright lights with them and were able to use their remote controlled stump grinders to disintegrate two of the four large stumps left behind from the toppled trees. The other two could not be removed because they are now irrevocably tangled up with the metal hurricane fence (ironic, huh?), which must be cut before the stumps can be removed. We must put our heads together to come up with a solution for those.

But, at least the removal of the two stumps allowed us to move forward with repairing our backyard privacy fence, although, I must say, it doesn’t afford much privacy. One of the stumps was the last remnant of a 20-year-old holly tree that provided not only nice shade from the western sun, but also a healthy screen between us and our backdoor neighbor’s bathroom window. Just this week he and I were able to see “eye-to-eye” as both he and our dogs took care of their morning business at the same time. 

We also were able to repair our front picket fence, although our little dog, Lola, has informed us a few times that there is still a Lola-sized hole that needs repairing. She has not yet informed us of its location, however, so she and Pepper can't play in their yard alone right now. I also ordered a replacement for the garden arch that went over the front gate. I must say, the newer model is much nicer than the one I ordered from the J.C. Penney catalogue in 1995 and was much easier to put together. Maybe this one will allow a lovely, thriving, flowering vine to grow on its boughs – unlike the last one, which never did.

 And, much to my great joy, our beautiful swimming pool, which was left looking more like a Louisiana bayou by Hurricane Ida, is now back to its original Caribbean Blue color. Well, it was. We hired a pool company from neighboring Kenner to come clean it out. And I do mean, clean it out. They had to drain it, shovel it out, scrape it out, brush it out, then acid wash it out to get the plaster back to white. That cost a pretty penny or two. We are having a tough time keeping it blue, however, because, along with a shingles shortage, there also is a nationwide chlorine shortage.

And I still have not been able to find a replacement for our round top front door. OK. That's not entirely true. I did find a round top screen door on Facebook marketplace. It was being offered as a lovely wedding background accent piece. But the closest wooden front door I have found was someplace in upstate New York and cost more than my daughter's annual college tuition.

I think that’s about it for now, but please keep in mind that Ida is the gift that keeps on giving. We are at present compiling a list of supplemental expenses to send to our insurance company, including the mold that we found growing inside the kitchen cabinet and behind the portrait of me that my late mother commissioned when I was in high school. We also will send the receipts for the stump removal if we ever find someone to come remove them from the hurricane fences. Fortunately, our debris pile is still out front so we at least have a place to put them.

Of course, once the insurance company mails us the check made out to you, we will overnight it to you so you can send it back to us two weeks later. 

Hey! Thanks for asking about us!

The Luquets

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ida Done Anything but This

This one is long.... it's been quite a month. 

One month ago, Hurricane Ida struck southeast Louisiana, making a direct hit on my little town of Norco. The Category 4 (or maybe 5) storm battered my community in the River Parishes of Louisiana for hours on August 29, destroying homes, businesses, and lives. Many worlds were turned upside down. Some people lost all or part of their roofs, some lost all or parts of their homes and businesses.

I'm extremely grateful to report that our 90-year old brick house, ordered in the early 1930s from a catalogue by Dr. Almerico, the local dentist, and shipped by rail to Norco as a kit, stood strong. Oh it needs a new roof because approximately 4,286 shingles are now spread across Norco and a good 1,000  of them were in the pool. The rest are scattered across the yard, the driveway, the neighbors' yards and up and down Apple Street. Fortunately, we were one of the two blocks of Apple Street that did not flood from either rain or the backup of Clayton's Pond. The water stopped at the railroad tracks about 300 yards away.

While my white picket fence in the front yard survived, the storybook garden arch over the front gate did not. Not even The Coach's makeshift anchor -- an old belt of his -- could save it. The pink and white Mandevilla was still attached, though, until the guys who cleared our yard uprooted it and everything else in the front garden.

The back fence was taken down by a mature holly tree that produced holly exactly one time in the 20 or so years it has been there -- last year. Maybe it had a premonition or something.

Frankly, I kind of expected the pecan tree to go but it stood tall and strong and held up the white oak tree that uprooted and leaned on it for support. Another of our oak trees fell on the garage, leaving a sizeable hole in the roof. The banana trees were whipped into submission, but the Chinese Tallow stayed up, even after dropping its top branches into the pool. 

The one tree that did survive, thankfully, is Lora's tree. It's the Japanese Magnolia we planted on April 15, 2002 -- the day her adoption was finalized. Like many of the trees in Louisiana, it had its leaves ripped off. Now, a month later, it's growing new ones like it does in the springtime and is so confused, it even bloomed a few pink flowers. 

Most of our "damage" occurred in the backyard. The brand new patio pavilion we got from Lowe's in June, was left in a crumpled heap of metal and shattered string lights. Only the bolts meant to keep it from flying away survived. The big plastic storage trunk where we tucked all the pool toys and my few tools, was cracked open under the rubble. Miraculously, all the rafts and tools stayed right where they were. The worst for wear was the pool, turned into a putrid, smelly cocktail by Ms. Ida. By the time we got home nearly a week after the storm, it more resembled the bayou I grew up on than a swimming pool. We had to pull trees out of it. 

Oh. And we did gain a port-o-potty. Ida blew it clear across the street from its original location, a work site where some men have been building Norco's new veterans memorial. 

I'm happy to say I did not witness any of this destruction first-hand. Having lived in south Louisiana all of my life, I am certainly no stranger to hurricanes. I know the drill. When the weathermen start pointing their “Cone of Uncertainty” my way, I dutifully head to the store to buy bleach, batteries and bottled water, a stock of non-perishable food items and whatever Lil Debbies are left on the shelves. The Coach and I start picking up all the pool stuff and patio furniture. He puts what he can into the garage but often forgets to go get it out later. There are years of dead plants in there. We fill up our cars with gas and, once my older sister makes her obligatory “Do you have an axe in the attic? You're going to die!” doom and gloom phone call, we start the debate: Do we stay or do we go? Despite what people in Idaho think, it’s not an easy decision. 

First of all, it’s no fun to ride out a hurricane of any category. The sounds of the wind, the rain and the mysterious stuff flying down the street are terrifying and unforgettable. No one I know who has done it wants to do it ever again. Every single person I know who stayed for Ida is swearing they never will.

But, it’s not any easier to walk away from everything you own. Yeah, it may be just "stuff," but it’s MY stuff. It's OUR stuff. It's my husband’s stuff, my daughter’s stuff, my mother’s stuff, my grandmother’s stuff, my great grandparents’ stuff, and because I am the family historian and genealogist, some of my great great grandparents’ stuff as well.

So, you watch the news and the computer models and you hope that the Cone of Uncertainty shifts just a little to the east or west, not because you wish ill on anyone else, but to make you feel just a little better. But when it doesn’t turn, you have a choice — stay and be terrified or go and be terrified. 

Then the question becomes, where do you go -- because everyone I am related to is also in the Cone of Uncertainty and, by now, there’s not a hotel to be found south of Little Rock that will welcome my two little poodles.

When August 29 dawned and Hurricane Ida was still growing and still headed straight for us, The Coach answered all those questions. You see, I did not marry one of those Cajun boys who sees the storm coming and stands in his yard proclaiming, "This ain't my first rodeo!" or "We've got a generator. We're staying!" We don't and we didn't. We actually left the morning of the storm, packing up our hurricane snacks and the two poodles into his Town and Country van. We also took a bunch of pillows and blankets in case we had to sleep in it because, when we left, we actually had no place to go. We just headed north to where our daughter is in college -- and I think we really scared her because she thought we were coming to stay in her dorm.

Shortly before we left I was freshly showered and standing in my little home office room, staring at all my treasures, trying to decide what to take. The wedding album? Lora’s baby book? My mom's baby book? My scrapbook? The box of photos? My genealogy books? Ultimately I decided, I couldn’t save all of it so I didn’t take any of it. It was like choosing a favorite child. You can't. 

 Your mind does strange things under this kind of stress. I panic packed. I took all of my underwear but only one pair of shorts. I didn’t pack anything to fix my hair but I brought eye shadow. I left all my jewelry except my two rings and my pearls. My husband, who had finished the week’s laundry the night before, had the sense to put the entire laundry basket of folded clothes in the car, giving me extra shirts and, should I need them, clothes to teach in.  

I'm not kidding when I say we chose the perfect time to go. Many people I know spent hours and hours in massive traffic jams on Friday and Saturday. But while there were ominous clouds behind us, there was no traffic on Sunday morning. We zipped through Baton Rouge like it the day after the zombie apocalypse.

 

As we drove, I continually checked hotel sites for openings in or near Natchitoches. Finally, just after noon — the normal check out time, right? — I lucked onto a room at the Motel 6 in Natchitoches at $55 a night! We were much relieved, as was our daughter. Just a few hours later we all were happily tucked in the Motel 6, watching Jim Cantore pretend to be knocked around by Ida’s winds in New Orleans. If he wanted to be knocked around, he should have gone to Norco, or Houma, or LaPlace, or Dulac, or Grand Isle. For real.

We spent four days at the luxurious Motel 6 with its empty turquoise pool and a menagerie of dogs trying to find spots to poop in the overgrown grass. But it wasn't bad. We had electricity, air conditioning, cable, and a nice firm mattress that cured my backache. Of course, our stay included several trips to the local Walmart because I needed more shorts and the Motel 6 does not provide those little niceties like shampoo, conditioner, or soap. It also did not have a blow dryer, but I came to like my "natural," air dried look.

But as soon as my sister got power restored in her Baton Rouge home, we headed her way on Thursday, introducing the two poodles to their dog Brynn -- who was none too happy. My sister is still recovering from hip replacement surgery after a year, so she isn't too mobile, but she was happy to share her home, which was flooded in 2016 by a freak storm, as long as I made her a lasagna before we left. 

On Friday we made our first trip to our school in Reserve, then to our home. The pictures our friends sent us really did not prepare us for the massive extent of damage our area suffered. There were so many light poles down, cables and wires hanging everywhere across roads. I was stunned by the loss of trees, huge beautiful oaks that had stood for centuries. And I was amazed by the randomness, how one house could be perfectly fine with the grass neatly cut and cars in the driveway while, right next door, a house could be completely destroyed. 

We spent a week going back and forth from Baton Rouge to school and home, fighting traffic without traffic lights, dodging electric trucks from across the country, and searching for gas stations that actually had some. We found some guys to put a tarp on our roof so we wouldn't suffer any more leaks, and another group to clear out some of the trees in the backyard. They did a great job, but even now, a month later, we could host a rousing game of pickup sticks. The winner gets a shingle.

Our school, Riverside Academy, took a beating as well. Roofs were peeled off, sending rainwater into some classrooms and offices, and much of the electrical wiring between the buildings was knocked down. The athletic facilities took the biggest hit. The Coach's brand new metal outfield fence was torn apart, his brand new 9-inning scoreboard was knocked down, his home dugout lost its roof and some of the bleachers ended up in the nets. Over on the football field, the press box that I spent so many Friday nights in covering football games was knocked off the top of the stands and left in a heap of rubble. I had just spent a whole Saturday morning cleaning it, too, removing years of nacho trays, the ends of hotdog buns, and spit cups. 

On Sept. 9, 11 days after the storm, our house still had no power but The Coach's daughter, Courtney, did. So we loaded up the poodles and everything we had bought at the Natchitoches Walmart and headed to Kenner. Courtney wasn't there because she now works for the Tulane football team and the entire athletic staff was evacuated to Birmingham, Alabama. But she had a spare bedroom, a working stove, a big back yard and Hulu live! I finally got to watch Cinderella on Amazon (loved it!). 

We made more trips to school and to home, growing more depressed as the piles of debris and home furnishings grew larger and larger. Mold and mildew grow fast in Louisiana after floods and in houses with no air conditioning. Mildew often can be cleaned up with a little elbow grease. Mold is a different story. Oftentimes, you have no choice but to throw everything away, no matter how cherished the item is. One friend of mine lost her baby's brand new nursery just days before her daughter was born. You drive down the street and see baby toys, cribs, mattresses, sofas, whole dining sets, clothes, and huge piles of trees. And there's so much, they can't pick it up fast enough. Our pile is still out front a month later. So is the port-o-potty.

On Thursday, September 16, The Coach and I decided to splurge a little and go to the Saltgrass Steakhouse. I had been wanting to try it (since our Roadhouse closed), and after a day at school, we kind of needed a treat. So I had two lemon martinis. I admit, I was a little tipsy by the time we left the restaurant. I told a group of electric linemen sitting near us that I would buy them all dinner if I was rich. "Don't worry," one of them replied. "You're paying for our dinner one way or another." Word.

In the car on the way back to Courtney's house, I continued my daily (OK,hourly) ritual of checking the Entergy map which showed who had The Power and who didn't. It was depressing too because it seemed to never change. New Orleans had turned mostly green. Some of LaPlace was green. But Norco was red and stayed red. Until then.

"Marty! Norco is green!" I shouted. I had been on enough Facebook pages to know that sometimes that didn't mean your power was on but that it would be shortly. So we called our friend Donnie, who lives a few blocks from us to see if he was turned on. He said he was not.

Then I posted on the Norco News Facebook page, where a different resident a day asked the question, "Does anyone know when the power will be back on?"

"Norco is green y'all!"

It was full of skeptics.

"The power isn't coming on until next week. Stop dreaming."

"Go to bed."

"Not happening."

But then...

"It's on!"

"It's on Oak!"

"It's on Pine!"
"I see streetlights!"

Still not sure, we called my daughter's boyfriend, who didn't answer, so we called her boyfriend's friend and asked if he would pleeeaassssseeeee drive by our house to check. A few minutes later he called.

"Your lights are on." Then Donnie called to tell us his lights were on.

I made The Coach drive me home to see for myself (and to check to make sure there were no sparks or surges). We took a good look around then went back to Courtney's to start packing. One more night and we would be home.

There is no way to explain what a joyous moment this was. We went 20 days without electricity in our home, so we went 20 days without our home. We aren't generator people. We did try for a day, but our house it so old it's really not designed for modern machinery and, frankly, it was a little scary to try. We were fortunate that we had places to stay and people who took us in. Not everyone was so fortunate. Some people are still waiting. Some will be waiting a long time because their homes are gutted or unlivable. But for those of us who had a home we just couldn't go back to until the power was restored, it was huge. It's a step towards normalcy. It was like the turning point in the story, the game-tying run in the big game, the momentum swinging touchdown. Because, as Dorothy said, “There’s no place like home.” I missed my mushy mattress. And my shower. 

Oh we still have a long, long, long way to go. We got the pool back to blue but the yard is still a mess. We spent two days this week without power again because a transformer blew somewhere. Traffic is still horrendous. Our grocery stores are half-stocked. We have to wait in line to get IN Walmart. Some of our favorite stores and restaurants have closed forever. A Popeye's box of chicken costs $40! And it will be another week or so until internet and cable are restored. And no one knows when the storm debris will be gone. If it's not gone by Christmas I'm throwing tinsel on it.

But we're home. All our stuff is fine. I didn't lose any treasures, nothing that can't be replaced. We were safe and got to spend a few days with our daughter. Also, I got to buy a few new pairs of shorts because I only packed one. Hey. Silver linings.

People ask us why we live here when there are hurricanes every summer. The same reason people live in California where there are earthquakes, or Hawaii where there are volcanos and hurricanes and tsunamis, or Nebraska where there are tornadoes. This is our home. We were born in Louisiana. And the price we pay for good food, good music, cool festivals, boiled seafood, Mardi Gras, drive-thru daiquiris, and go cups is the occasional hurricane. And alligators.

If you would like to help our school, Riverside Academy, rebuild after Hurricane Ida, please click one of the links below. We are hoping to reopen the week of October 4. 

GoFundMe 

VerticalRaise

Donations also may be dropped off or mailed to:

Riverside Academy

332 Railroad Avenue

Reserve, LA 70084