March the 9th

For centuries, the month of March has come in like a lion with a familiar warning: "Beware the Ides of March."

For most people, that's the 15th of March, or the middle of the month. It's most famous for being the day that Roman Emperor Julius Caesar was assassinated millenniums ago and marked a millennia later by William Shakespeare.

But in my family, for as long as I can remember, we've all been warned to "Beware March the 9th."

For some reason, it's just a baaaaaaaaad luck day in our clan. Over the years we've all learned to beware and don't travel or schedule elective procedures.

Still, there have been accidents. There have been miscarriages. Two of my great-grandmothers died on March the 9th. 

Coming the day after my birthday, many of my March the 9ths have been spent in bed anyway because I drank too much the day before -- my birthday. 

Of course, most people are skeptical about this day of misfortune, no matter how we try to explain it. When I was in college and dating a lovely boy named Shawn, we spent a whole day with his best friend and mine, just goofing around New Orleans. Every time I moved, they teased me. "Watch out! It's March the 9th."

We laughed and laughed.

When I got home, there was a message on my answering machine (it was the 80s, y'all). My stepfather had had a heart attack and was in the hospital.

Years later, my best friend since eighth grade, Janine, lost her father on March the 9th.

So, my nephew Lee was a little taken aback when I scheduled a memorial service for my late sister, Jo Lee Ann Delanuville Lyons Saunier Miller Catton LeBlanc, on Sunday, March the 9th, 2025. The day after my 63rd birthday.  But, I figured, why the hell not?

My sister never got a funeral. She died on Dec. 11, 2022 in a nursing facility north of Baton Rouge after a year-long fight with an infection following hip surgery. Her husband, already in ill health, took her loss hard. We kept saying we were going to get together to disperse her ashes into the Mississippi River the same way we did my Mama's, but Nick never was well enough. When he died in late 2024, his family had a graveside funeral for him and put his ashes in a military cemetery. They just kind of stuck Jo Lee's in there too. None of our family went. They barely mentioned her name.

But a few months ago when I went to claim a few family treasures from their house, Nick's daughter gave me a small vial of my sister's remains. At least we had something to say goodbye our own way.

So I put together a table of vittles and an ice chest of drinks, made a photo collage of some of her most dweeby pictures over the years, and invited family and friends to join us. We shared finger sandwiches, veggies, cheese and crackers, and our memories for a while before moseying on down to the Bonnet Carre Spillway where there is a boat launch.

Just as the sun began to set, my husband Marty read a lovely prayer he had put together. We shared a few words, some tears, and put her and a dozen roses into the murky Mississippi. Meanwhile, a boat full of fishermen circled a few yards offshore, waiting for us to finish. We didn't take long.

 Maybe she's with Mama and our brother, Rhett. Hopefully she's with Grannnie and Grandpa, Nick, and every pet she ever loved. I hope she is finally at rest and at peace.

Down to the river

"We're going down to the river,
Down to the river, down to the river to pray.
Let's get washed by the water
Washed by the water and rise up in amazing grace."

The best laid plans don't always come together.

Just ask any bride. Any mom. Any coach.

But when they do, it really is magic.

When my Mama left this earth after 84 years of living her life to the fullest, my sister and I were left to face a challenge. Mom didn't want a funeral. No wake, no service and certainly no viewing.

I understand that she didn't want a bunch of mourners passing by her casket saying, "Oh, she looks good!" She wasn't religious so she didn't want a bunch of prayers over her body. She didn't want a bunch of ballyhooing. As loud and as boistrous as she was, she wanted to just slip out of this world peacefully and quietly. She really didn't want to be a bother, so she wanted nothing. She wanted to go just as she went -- quietly and peacefully and without any kind of fuss.

We used to argue over this a lot. I'm one of those people who believe you have to have some kind of closure. My father's funeral and its aftermath is one of the enduring memories of my life. And it's actually a good memory.

"We have to have something, Ma," I'd say. "The way you'd have it, we wouldn't even get a day off of work! And you'd deny me flowers and pretty plants? Really?"

"Yes," she'd say.

Occasionally she would concede.

"Have everybody over to your house, in your yard, then go throw me in the River," she'd say. A lot.

So that's what we did.

Six days after Mama went wherever she went peacefully and quietly in the middle of the night, The Coach and I hosted a party.

Y'all know I'm no stranger to parties, now. I host a parade every year. I've had a good dozen or so toddler, kid and teenage birthday parties. I turned my house into Hogwarts and a refrigerator box into a Tardis. Yes indeed.

But I'm not so adept at hosting a funeral.

OK. It was a memorial service. And I had a vision from the start. I wanted simple, elegant, but Mama. So I took down some of the Christmas decorations, made a little memorial table with pictures and mementos and ordered myself a big bouquet of flowers.




I didn't want a sign-in book, so I ordered memory cards for guests to write their favorite memory. And as a keepsake, I ordered Forget Me Not seeds and envelopes. (And spent hours filling them!)

Throughout the day a steady stream of family, friends and complete strangers made their way to and through our little cottage, grabbing a chicken tender or a piece of catfish along the way. A big gang gathered in my tiny kitchen to drink and talk about those who were and weren't there. (You know who you are.)

Meanwhile, the kids ran around the backyard, testing the strength of my hammock and miraculously avoiding the dog droppings.

Then about 4 p.m., my husband got everyone's attention and explained what would happen next. We were going to the Mississippi River, where there would be a nice (we hoped) sunset.

And we took Mama and her dog, LulaMae, with us.

A caravan of about 20 or so cars followed us to the Bonnet Carre Spillway, which is about a mile from our house. Most people know it as the big Army Corps of Engineers project that has to save the City of New Orleans from flooding every once in a while. We also know it as a huge, wonderful recreational area where local folks fish, camp and play in the mud. It also offers a spectacular view of the Mississippi River and some gorgeous sunsets.

This day was no exception.

First, we gathered in a circle, each offering a memory of my Mama. How funny she was. How strange she was. How unforgettable. How stubborn. How bigger than life. How she often told people that she wanted to go into the river.

And even though she wasn't very religious, we all held hands and said one for her anyway.

Just at that moment, a lone Bald Eagle decided to fly over us. I had never seen one in my life.

Then we made our way to the water's edge, small waves rippling toward the shore, and let her and LulaMae go, riding on the little waves and taking their sweet time about it.  A dozen red roses followed her -- the color of her ubiquitous lipstick -- and one beautiful flower garland handmade by one of her dear French Quarter friends.

And behind it all was a perfect sunset. Some even saw a cross in the clouds in the sky.



There were tears. But there also was laughter.

And peace.

Lettie Lee French

Obituary Lettie Lee French, a mother, grandmother, great-grandmother and eccentric character passed away Monday, December 4, 2017 after a brief illness. She was 84. Fiercely independent and a mistress of reinvention, she had careers as a comptometer operator, restaurant hostess, hotel night auditor, office manager and hobby shop owner in Houma and New Orleans. She was a talented painter who studied with well-known American artist Henry Hensche. After moving from Bay St. Louis, Miss., to Norco, La., she spent 10 of her final years as a Tarot Card Reader at The Bottom of the Cup Tea Room in New Orleans. She loved her family, her poodle, Lulamae, and the casinos. She is survived by her daughters, Jo Lee Catton (Abby "Nick" LeBlanc) of Baton Rouge; and Lori Lyons (Marty Luquet) of Norco; daughter-in-law Louella Pitre Lyons; Grand children Lee Saunier (Regina) of Prairieville, Beau Saunier of Baton Rouge, Casey Catton of Baton Rouge, Lena Lyons Brunet (Clayton) of Houma, Marti Lyons of Houma, Kevin Lyons (Samantha) of Houma, Daniel Luquet (Cori) of Luling, Courtney Luquet of Destrehan and Lora Leigh Luquet of Norco; and 10 great-grandchildren. She is preceded in death by her parents, Martin Behrman French and Evelyn Himel Cross French; her son, Rhett Martin Lyons. Friends and family are invited to a casual gathering to be held on Sunday, December 10, 2017 from 1 p.m. to 4 p.m. at the home of her daughter in Norco. In lieu of flowers, donations to are preferred. The family wishes to thank the staffs at Oschner Hospital in Kenner and Ormond Nursing and Care Center in Destrehan for its thoughtful care in recent weeks. Arrangements made by Samart Funeral Home of Houma.

A gathering of family

My mother lost one of her cousins recently.

She didn't have that many to begin with. My grandmother was an only child. My grandfather had siblings, but they only had a few children among them. So while I had 13 first cousins, my mom had five.

Janet was one of my mom's favorites. A few years older than my mom, she was tall and regal and elegant. Very proper.  She lived in "The City" of New Orleans, while my mom lived down the bayou. She also taught my mom how to shave her legs and, I believe, to smoke.

Editor's Note: A few minutes after this was posted, my mom messaged me to let me know that she was, actually, five years YOUNGER than Janet. That she shaved Janet's legs AND gave her her first cigarette. Duly noted, Mom. 

I mostly remember her for her "fancy" house in the Uptown area of New Orleans. It was brick. It was two-story. It had a pool. To this country gal who lived in a trailer made of tin and had a bayou and no pool, it was a mansion.

There were occasional visits to "Aunt Janet's" house to swim, and occasional school breaks where I would spend a few days there with my cousin Jule or she would spend a few days with us. I much preferred to go to their house -- what with the pool and all. I was the country cousin come to town.


Jule had an older brother named Hugh. He was roughly my older brother's age. But he didn't talk very much. Not that he had much to say to a couple of giggling little girls acting stupid in his pool.

Aunt Janet lived a wonderful, rich life. She loved, she married, she divorced. She worked. She sang. She danced. She raised her children. She volunteered. She cared for her elderly mother in her old age. She moved to Florida where she knew barely a soul, then to Texas when she could no longer live alone.

She died on March 7 in Texas.

On March 24, she was brought home. Cousin Hugh brought her ashes back to New Orleans, where they were interred in a lovely spot in one of the city's biggest cemeteries. I didn't get to go, but I heard there was an egret there as well.

Afterwards, our little family gathered back at my cousin Jule's house for sandwiches and such. Hugh and his wife, Jule and her husband, my mom, my daughter, me and an old gentleman friend of Aunt Janet's. We're all grown up now.

Jule's young son joined us too. But, being a teenager, he spent most of his time in his room. And Lora Leigh quickly retreated to the room with the TV with her iPod.

But for a while, we all sat at the small table in Jule's small kitchen, eating and telling stories, sharing memories and catching up. We hadn't seen each other in quite some time. They all wanted to know what I was doing now, what I was going to do next, and why the powers that be didn't just let Tom Benson buy the damn paper.  I didn't know Jule's husband had retired from the NOPD. I had never met Hugh's wife. The last time they had seen Lora Leigh she was a tiny tot.  And little Robbie was so grown-up and handsome I couldn't believe it!

It was a lovely afternoon, in spite of the circumstances.  We had been brought together by a death.

And also by birth.

My cousins Jule and Hugh both had been adopted at birth.

So had my daughter Lora Leigh.

So had Jule's son, Robbie.

It was Hugh who acknowledged it, for one brief moment. Pointed it out. Acknowledged it. We marveled at it -- the youngsters especially. Then we let it go.

It didn't matter. It didn't make one bit of difference.

We were all still a family, mourning the loss of one of our own.

No matter how we got there.

Funeral for my friend

The story no journalist wants to tell.

The horrific death of a police officer.

Who was married to a friend I love dearly. And she trusted me to tell it.

Deputy Brandon J. Nielsen remembered

She says I did it well. That's all that matters to me.

 

Only in New Orleans?

 There is a cemetery in my home town where one tomb rises tall above the rest. My grandfather used to tell me it's because the deceased man demanded to be buried standing up so that on Judgement Day he could walk right up to Jesus.

Who am I to argue with that?

This is a little different.

There are some who will say this is fitting for this jazz legend.

And some who will say it's just a little creepy. 
And some who will say it's just a New Orleans thing.

Read the whole story here at Nola.com... "Uncle" Lionel Batiste gets sendoff as unique as the man himself