Cheers to 30 Years

 

1994 - 2024

When I first brought my boyfriend home to my parent's house in Houma, circa 1992, they were not thrilled.

It wasn't that I brought home some weird rando I had just picked up off the street. He was a nice guy I met through a co-worker. His name was Marty. He was well-known in the New Orleans area as a baseball coach. He had a job. A car. An apartment. 

But he also had an ex-wife and two young children, and my mama was not happy about it.

"She'll be in your life forever," Mama warned.

"You'll be raising someone else's children."

As Marty and I continued to date, fall in love, and start to plan a future, my mama's angst only continued to grow.

Finally, as the wedding date drew near, Mama accepted the inevitable.

"Go ahead and marry him. You'll be divorced in a year."

True story.

Although my Mama was a very successful and popular Tarot Card reader in the French Quarter of New Orleans in her later life, she was not much of a psychic.

We were married on a cold, rainy December 17, 1994 at Laura Plantation in Vacherie, Louisiana -- back when plantation weddings were still in vogue. And on Tuesday, December 17, 2024, Marty and I celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary.

 He came to me with an ex-wife who is indeed still in my life, as a friend. He also came with two children, Daniel, 8, and Courtney, 6. We received our daughter Lora Leigh in 2001. Now we have a daughter-in-law, two grandchildren, Robi and Laken, an angel, Parker, in heaven; and a soon-to-be son-in-law. Plus a few in-law/out-laws.

We've been through infertility, adoption failures, the adoption process, job changes, career changes, wins and losses, a pandemic, three high school and college graduations, a Hall of Fame induction, a wedding, a lost grandchild, lost parents and siblings, hurricanes, parents moving in, parents moving out, live-in nephews, live-in mamas, an empty nest, working together, and retirement. We are lucky that only in the last year have we faced any kind of medical issues -- his back and my eyes.

And we have handled it all together, with love and with grace for one another. We are a team. 

My mama knew she had blown this prediction pretty early on, after we made 10 then 20 years, and especially after she had to spend several of her last months living in our spare room. 

Every morning, Marty would make coffee and deliver it to her in bed -- just as he has done for me for the last 30 years. He also sat patiently and listened to her stories, some of which she had never even told me!

And towards the end, she started paying him small compliments.

"Marty's a good man."

And my favorite: "If you died, I would have a hard time believing Marty killed you." Because, you know, they always suspect the husband first.

Honestly, over the last 30 years of marriage and the two years leading up to it, Marty and I have gotten into exactly two of what anyone would call "fights." We just don't do it. For one thing, my husband is extremely non-confrontational. He doesn't like to fight so he won't. And the only person I ever really fought with was my mother, so that has made for a pretty perfect union if you ask me.

Also, my husband is a wonderful man. 

Yes, he brings me coffee every single morning.

He also does most of the grocery shopping.

He does the laundry because he found me one day nearly upside down in the washing machine trying to get the clothes out.  I put it all away, though, because I'm pretty persnickety about the closet we share. It's organized by color.

Dish soap used to really mess with my hands so he did most of the dishes. (We do not have a dishwasher!)

He can cook! He is in charge of the turkey on Thanksgiving. He makes a better roast than I do and we both love a good medium-rare steak.

He got us a pool and a walk-in shower, both of which I love.

Plus, every year since we've gotten married, he has taken me somewhere on our anniversary. 

For many years, it was The Grand Hotel in Point Clear, Alabama. That's where we went for our honeymoon because I read in one of my bridal magazines that you should choose a spot that you can return to often, and The Grand was listed as one of America's most romantic hotels. So, we went back again and again and again -- except the years it was closed by hurricanes or a pandemic.... And until they priced themselves right out of our budget. We just can't swing $300 a night plus food and gas.

But we loved all the lights and decorations, the Christmas trees in the lobby, the burning fireplaces and the tea and cookies in the afternoon. We loved staying in the main building because it was so rustic -- then they went and remodeled it. In 2022, we went to Fairhope, just up the road. We stayed in a normally priced hotel and drove to The Grand for a visit. 

We found a nice replacement for a while, though -- Margaritaville in Pensacola Beach. It was just  a little cheaper, especially in the middle of the week in December. We went there several times. It sold a few years ago and became the Pensacola Beach Resort. We haven't been back yet.

Of course, with work and life and live-in mamas and children, a trip wasn't always in the cards. Sometimes we just went to dinner -- Copeland's, Outback, Saltgrass. If money was tight, we occasionally just cooked our own damn steaks.

We spent one anniversary at a lovely hotel in New Orleans. Went to The Carousel Bar and Port-O-Call for dinner.

For our 25th Marty asked me: Do you want a party or a trip? Now, I love a good party! But I knew damn good and well that if we were to have a 25th anniversary party, I would be the one doing all the planning and all the work. We went to Disney World, just the two of us. It was wonderful.

We always try to do something special to mark the occasion and it almost always involves food. Sometimes drinking. Sometimes shopping. A lot of hand-holding and kissing.

This year, we were going to go to Pensacola to The Paradise Inn, which is very much within our budget! But, it's still Christmas. Then we decided to just drive to Biloxi. But then we just said screw it. 

This year for our 30th, we went to the mall. I got a Chik Fil A peppermint shake, Marty got an ice cream cone, and we sat and watched people walk -- something Marty is having a little trouble doing these days. I have eye troubles, but on this day, I could see pretty clearly. Then we drove to LaPlace for dinner at a local restaurant we often overlook but will no longer! It was fabulous! 

I had a cocktail, a steak, the most delicious potatoes, and they gave us a delectable chocolate cake. Soooo worth the drive and the climb up the stairs. Then we came home and watched "White Christmas" for at least the 30th time. 

We believe staying married for 30 years is an accomplishment worth celebrating -- especially since we both retired this year and are spending a lot more time together. It's not always a smooth ride, but we each have our hobbies and interests to give us our own space. We launched a little podcast to talk about sports -- which is one thing we do have in common. I'm still doing a little bit of writing and he loves to Uber drive. 

As a lifelong journalist, the 30 is a meaningful number.  We use it, along with what used to be called the pound sign  or the number sign but is now known as a hastag -- # -- to signify the end of copy. It was used to let editors know that there was no more to the story. 

So in this case, instead of #30 I am going to use <30 because this is not the end of our story! 

<30

Click to watch us grow old together.... December 17 slideshow

One year later

The year leading up to the date of her surgery seemed to take forever.

The year since has passed by in a flash. Or so it seems.

On Friday, July 3, we marked the one-year anniversary of my daughter's 7 1/2 hour spinal fusion surgery to correct her scoliosis. Her curve was 48 degrees on that day. Today it's, maybe, 10. Maybe less.

I know when I look at her, I see her tall and straight and beautiful. We kind of tease her about not being able to pick up her socks from the floor. It's a thing she never did, even as a small child. Her socks are always everywhere. She can't paint her toenails. Or do Yoga.

I know when I look at her, I no longer see the crooked hips or shoulders. I no longer see the imagined images of her back being sliced open. I no longer imagine her face as she wakes up from that surgery in excruciating pain, demanding, "What did you do to me?"

 I do see a scar -- one that is really nice and straight thanks to her rockin' surgeon. She refuses to let me treat it with anything, though, because she "wants" her scar. She's proud of it.

All of my nightmares were so much worse than the reality. That's what I tell the other moms I meet or talk to whose child still faces this journey. "Your nightmares are worse than the reality."

That's not to say it was a piece of cake. It wasn't. It was hard. She was miserable for a while. She made me miserable for a while.

But now, it's all over.

Already

 My friend Daniell is counting days.

In just a few short weeks, she and her family and wealth of friends will mark the one year anniversary of the death of her husband, Brandon. He was one of two St. John the Baptist Parish Sheriff's deputies killed in the line of duty last August, murdered by madmen with machine guns for no apparent reason.

Although she needed no reminder of the date, the last time I saw my friend I tried -- gently -- to get her to prepare herself for the inevitable onslaught-to-come of anniversary stories on the news and in the newspapers. And, because I know how we work, the slew of media interview requests sure to come as the date approaches.

"I can't believe it's been a year already," she said.

Me neither.

But a year has indeed gone by. A year of birthdays, holidays, and just plain old Mondays. And they have flown by, seemingly in an instant. But not the grief. The grief goes slowly.


I have been amazed by her grace every day of the last year, including that one. I imagine myself in that situation. On the floor. Screaming. Never wanting to get up. I feel that way sometimes now and all I lost was my job.

But she got up that day and every day since. She goes to work. She smiles at strangers. She holds their hands and makes their nails look pretty. She rubs my feet (when I let her). She runs (a lot). And she helps the world remember her husband. 

But the grief never leaves.

It was 12 years ago today that I got that dreaded phone call in the middle of the night, telling me that my big brother had driven off a lonely highway and into a bayou down in the toes of Louisiana's boot. He had been on his way to the annual Grand Isle Tarpon Rodeo for a weekend of fun and fishing. Then he took his eyes off the road for just a second. And he wasn't wearing his seat belt.


I have spent the last 12 years trying to remind the world - or at least my blog followers and Facebook friends -- that I did, indeed, once have a big brother named Rhett, who picked on me and teased me and made me believe in the Boogie Man. That there once was a man who loved rock and roll and played mean drums on his dashboard. And fishing. And his wife and kids. I never want him to be forgotten.

Some may get tired of the annual ode to my brother and my memories of him. If so, feel free to move along. It's how I remember him. And it's how I grieve. And I still do.


He was my brother. The man who walked me down the aisle at my wedding, who stood there and said (enthusiastically) "I Do," when asked "Who gives this woman?" Who got sick later that night (heh heh). Who held my head the first time I threw up after drinking too much. Who drank vinegar and pickle juice. Who laughed when I fell in the bayou and told me the alligators were going to eat me. Who made my uncle let him jump ship the night we said farewell to our father, so he could be by my side.  Who showed me the shooting star across the sky. Who dropped everything to come to the hospital to wait with me as another woman gave birth to my child.


And he was gone much, much too soon.

So we have a date on the calendar, circled. Marked forever. And this weekend is the annual Tarpon Rodeo in Grand Isle, forever reminding us of where he was going, what he should have been doing.

But we need no reminders. It's only been 12 years. Already.

Anniversary

D-Day.

Minus one.

One year ago today, we all were summoned. Told to report to the Mother Ship. There we would be told, one way or another, if we were to be kept and brought into the digital age, or not. If we were needed, or not. If we were valuable, or not. Necessary, or not. The answer to be revealed in a large white envelope.

One by one we were led to "the slaughter." That is what it was. A slaughter.More than 200 were severed. In more ways than one.


Today we are remembering that day, what it felt like, what it looked like, what it sounded like. The sobs, the tears, the hurt. The anger.  Still mourning what we all lost, the greatness that once was. We are revealing what we did after. What we've done since.

Some have been healed, moved on, gotten over it. Some have put themselves back together again. Some have managed to walk away from closed doors and found open windows -- or closed windows and opened doors. Something like that.

Some believe it when we are told we are better off. Some are happy about that. Some are believing the promise of better things. Hoping.

Some are still floundering. Like me.
 
No. It's not the worst thing in the world, even though at times it feels like it and sometimes I want to have a pity party for myself. And I have had a few of those.

It's no fun what I do now, searching for a job, for a new career, for a new direction at 51. Seeing others do what I should be doing. Not being wanted. Losing faith. Losing confidence.  Losing a life, an identity and a career all in one fell swoop. Needing two more stupid points on the stupid math test. And catering to a stubborn, hard-headed 82-year-old mother-in-law with a beeper.

But I still got to write. I gave up my life of crime and returned to sports. I got to go on some amazing new adventures with some great new people, introduced myself to a few new readers, and a few new athletes. Did some good work.

And today, as I began yet another pity party, I got a message from a colleague. One I know mostly by name. One I now will never forget. Because he took the time to tell me this:

"As journalists we often look up to certain people along the way, and you were one of them for me. Obviously this type of message doesn't get you back doing what you'd like and are meant to do, but I felt compelled to share it with you. I always considered you a top-notch pro in your field. Because of people like you I've learned to appreciate every opportunity I'm granted to cover a sporting event or tell an athlete's story. While the circumstances surrounding your departure from the Times Pic was completely unfair, please understand you made a positive impact on some of us whether you knew it or not."

I do now. And it means more to me than anything.

Thank you, my friend, for the anniversary gift.

Wordless Wednesday - 17 on the 17th

Just Married - 17 years (12-17-11)

December 17

Make a Smilebox slideshow

Lo and Mo

Hurricane Katrina taught me one thing... Save the things that can't be replaced. The one thing everyone cried over was the loss of photos. So, since then, I have been dutifully scanning photos and uploading them to safe servers for protection.

I am just getting around to my wedding album....

Lo and Mo Wedding