Happy to me!

OK. I admit it. I am a big baby when it comes to my birthday. Always have been, always will be.

Blame it on my mom.

She and my Grannie always went all out for my birthdays. I had HUGE parties when I was little -- cake, ice cream, Grannie's big white punch bowl. One year they rented a little kiddie carnival down the street. 

Even once I got to be a "tween" my birthdays were EVENTS.  I remember fourth or fifth grade. Mom said I could invite "a couple" of classmates. I invited them all. Lynn LeBouef gave a report the following Monday on, "Everything I ate at Lori's birthday party."  We had petit fours and cake and little cups of ice cream. All these years later, people remember those parties.

(And you know Lora Leigh is going to be just like me!)

In sixth grade, it was the Donny Osmond party. Me and Belle Smith atop the stairs to the breezeway (that was our stage, like on Laugh In), dancing to the Osmonds. Rhett did the music. We wore the new fad that year -- Maxi skirts (Granny dresses).

My 16th birthday at Shakey's Pizza Parlour -- half of  Terrebonne High was there.

My 17th birthday at The Lion's Share -- we put 18 candles on my cake so I could drink.

Then my first birthday at Loyola -- alone, in the dorm.

So, my birthday has always been the day of the year I look foward to.

So sue me. And I expect great things. I guess I expect too much. It hasn't always lived up to my great expectations.

Frankly, I just don't get all these people who claim to HATE their birthdays. OK. You're a year older. So what? You would prefer the alternative? I mean, you only get so many birthdays in this lifetime, and you don't know what that number is.

 Then, it is the one day that all the people in your life think of you. Some call you. I know Janine will. Lou will. Jo will.  Some send cards. But even those you haven't seen or heard from in years might remember you on your birthday.  Hell, it was the ONE day of the year that my dad remembered to call me. And my brother. And I miss that ...

I know I remember the birthdays of people I haven't seen since grammar school. Sure, it's useless information now. But, I do think of them on that day.

Hopefully, some people think of me on March 8th.

And quite frankly, I don't mind getting older. I am 45 years old and proud of it.

For so long, I was "the Kid" or "The Girl in the Office." It's hard to be The Kid or The Girl when you're a 45-year-old broad.

So, happy birthday to me. Even though my boss did his best to screw it up. I have to drive two hours to Lafayette, spend hours in a boring all-state meeting, cover a basketball game, then drive home... Maybe I'll get a kiss from Lora Leigh before midnight.

Then it becomes March the 9th.

And that's another story completely!

 

Go Saints Go! Please

So the New Orleans Saints are the talk of the nation.

Who'd have thunk it?

It's the feel good story of the year, the cinderella story of the year, one of the most improbable rags-to-riches sports stories ever played out. It's Rudy, Invincible and the Bad News Bears all rolled into one.

And the nation's press is all over it.  Every paper in the country -- even ones in places like Iowa -- are writing about the Saints. All these sports guys (and yes, they are mostly guys) are writing about how the Saints have hitched the entire city -- heck, the entire region -- onto their backs and taken us all on this incredible ride. The Saints are playing for the battered city, they say.

That's only part of the story.

These Saints -- these GOOD Saints -- also are playing for guys like Rhett Lyons.

Rhett and I grew up watching the Saints on Sundays (rarely Mondays). And we both learned our first curse words on those Holy Days, watching those exasperating Saints, the ones who couldn't hold the ball and who couldn't recover a fumble, at the knee of our Grandpa, Martin Berhman French.  (If you're from New Orleans, I don't even have to explain his name and tell you who he was named for.)

As he grew up, Rhett lived and breathed for the Saints. Every Sunday he would wake up, pull his No. 3 Bobby Hebert jersey out of the closet, stock his refrigerator with Budweiser and try to unplug the phone. But football parties at his house were legendary. And, more often than not, Rhett got to use his own curse words as he suffered along with the Saints.

But oh how he would be rejoicing now.

Oh how he SHOULD be rejoicing now.

But for an unused seat belt on a dark and rainy night on La. 1 in Fourchon, he might be. But he's not.

Since that horrific July of 2001 night, our family has adopted the Saints' Fleur de Lis as our own little emblem. Louella, my sister-in-law, decorated an entire room in black and gold and Fleurs de Lis. She calls it her memory room.

On the day Louelle finally decided to inter my brother's ashes in a tomb in Thibodaux, many of us brought simple mementos to place in the darkness with him. My husband brought a baseball from his inaugural season as head baseball coach at Destrehan. We all firmly believe that Rhett was our Angel in the Outfield that season, which ended with his team finishing as state runner-up. We saw the dragonflies.

Me?  I brought a brand spanking new black hat adorned with only a single Fleur de Lis so that my brother could be a Saints fan forever.

So now the Saints are one victory away from their first ever trip to a Super Bowl, two victories away from the most incredible sports story in the world. But all I can think about is how my beloved brother is missing it. And so is Grandpa.

Or are they?

If there is such a thing as an afterlife, there is no doubt in my mind that Rhett Lyons and Martin French will be hovering around Chicago on Sunday. And, if they get a chance to re-enact a scene from one of the Angels in the Outfield movies and blow a ball or trip a Bear, I'm sure they will.

But they won't be too far away. You see, Rhett's first grandchild, a baby girl to be named Madison Elise Brunet, is going to be born any second now. And wouldn't it be fitting if that little girl enters this world on the same day that the Saints secure their first Super Bowl berth?

That sure would be some serious kharma.

Go Saints!

(And you can visit Rhett's page here --- Remember Rhett)

 

 

 

A Star is born

How often is a mom humbled by a 5-year-old child?

My answer is, often. And tonight was one of those nights.

Lora has been taking singing lessons for a few months. She expressed an interest because a classmate of hers took singing last year. She also has a sweet little voice. She's been going once a week to a local girl, Deborah Mayeaux, who also has a beautiful voice. (and her dad fixes air conditioners).

Our local church fair was this weekend, and Deborah (an alum of the church school) got time for her students to perform. 

Frankly, we didn't think Lora would. At first she said she wouldn't. Then she changed her mind. We all expected her to freeze up, mumble a few notes and be a cute little 5-year-old curiosity.

Nope.

This child, all decked out in a pink leather skirt and vest and pink cowboy boots, marched onto the stage and belted out "Behind these Hazel Eyes." And she simply wowed the crowd (and it was a pretty healthy one, too, at 6 p.m. on a Saturday night.) 

I bawled my eyes out the whole time.....

Afterwards, many many people came up to her and told her how great she was. One little girl asked her for an autograph!!! (OH MY GOD). 

And Marty and I are simply amazed......

Another cute Lora story

Took her to buy shoes (because she is a mermaid and has fins for feet!).  The guy at PayLess forgot to remove one of the security tags from a previous shopper's items. As she departed the store, the store's alarm went off.

Lora ran to the front and demanded to know:

"Who's stealing?"

And a cute story

Monday was the first day of school for the high schoolers, so the first day Marty would have students in his class. Sunday night I said something like that to Lora.

"Tomorrow is Dad's first day of school!"

Lora: "Then where has he been going all week?:

Me: "He's been going to school, but the kids weren't going yet."

Lora: "Aw. Was he lonesome?:

Me: "No! The other teachers were there. But now the students will be there."

Lora: "I bet he'll be glad. I bet he misses his team."

Me: "Yeah. But he's going to get a whole new team this year."

Lora: "Why? did the other ones mess up?"

Just what am I doing?

Some people think I'm nuts.

(Some people will continue to think so no matter what.)

But some people think I'm nuts for mortgaging myself up to my eyeballs to put a hole in my backyard that will only cost me more money year-round. 

Marty's best friend thinks we're nuts to be staying in this house at all. 

Sell! he says. Buy a bigger house somewhere else! he says. Get away from the plants! he says.

First of all, I love my house. Marty and I fell in love with this house the first time we saw it, even with the mothball smell and the the heavy drapes in the living room. Dotty Dottie (the previous owner) had very little interior decorating skills, but all we could see was potential. It reminded me of my Grannie's house. And that's why I loved it. It was different. It wasn't prefab. It  wasn't perfect (I mean, who puts their stairs in the bedroom???) And that's why I loved it.

But the backyard has always given me fits. Oh, I tried to keep it up. I had a nice garden and roses for a while. Then Lora Leigh came along and I never had the time anymore. Things got away from me. The garage started to fall apart. things got ugly.  I never liked to go back there anymore. Every time I tried to sit back there and relax, I couldn't. All I could see was all the work that needed to be done. I had no time. I had no help. I went inside.

And suddenly inside is so crowded.

So many people lost their homes to Hurricane Katrina's flood waters. I lost mine to a different invader. My house was perfect for me and Marty, and then for Lora Leigh. But add in two more grown-ups and it gets a little crowded. It gets VERY crowded. There's a line at the bathroom. There are passing lanes in the kitchen and the hall. And way, way too many voices.

Oh how I long to walk in MY house, in MY living room and hear nothing but MY breath. Pet MY dog. Sit on MY sofa. Turn on MY TV (OK they bought it) and flip channels with MY remote.

Better yet. Oh how I long to turn the damned thing off and sit down at my oh-so-lonely piano and fill the house with a joyful noise. I used to do that every so often when the house was empty, pretend I was a grand pianist giving a grand concert. I used to do it as a child at Grannie's too when her house was empty and I had the silence all to myself.  But the house is never empty or silent. It's soap operas Monday through Friday and spaghetti westerns all day Saturday. I go to work to find peace, or to my room.

All around us people are wrestling with their Katrina demons. Some are losing. Some deal, some don't. Some are doing the best they can.

I'm doing the best I can.

And I'm building myself a new room. It just won't have a ceiling or walls. I so want it to be perfect and beautiful and aesthetically pleasing when all is said and done so that when I go to it I can find my peace. I want to see what is done and not what needs to be done.

But even if it isn't, I know that I can close my eyes and find a moment's peace. It is silent underwater. No phones. No voices. No TVs. Hopefully, no demons. Just peace and quiet....

No matter how much it costs me.

 

 

 

 

Timing is everything!

So it's nearly one year since Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans and disrupted our lives.  One year since we all scattered to the winds, some never to return. One year since we all turned our keys in our locks, took one last look and and headed for safer ground.

It's been nearly one year since my in-laws lost a lifetime worth of possessions and memories in one giant tidal wave that Allstate Insurance refuses to pay them for. It was a flood, they said. Not a hurricane.....and nearly one year since they arrived on my doorstep with what they had left in a few plastic grocery bags. I think one year ago this weekend we were at that house -- Marty and me, Lora Leigh, Courtney and Katie, Casey and his friend, even Lollee,  enjoying the beach one last time. If we had only known ...

So, we move on.

Nearly one year later, we finally have plans for a cottage for them to live in. Folks are coming and going through my backyard to measure and eyeball and configure. We still don't have a price, however.

Nearly one year later, they are coming to dig a big hole in my backyard for a swimming pool I probably don't need but desperately need. I'm adding a room -- an outdoor room. They are due to arrive at 7 a.m. tomorrow to start digging the hole. They promise we'll be swimming by Labor Day....

And nearly one year later, there is yet another hurricane barrelling its way through the Gulf of Mexico....

 

Why couldn't the storm come AFTER the pool is built? Then it could help fill that sucker up?

Timing is everything!