Blue-Gray Blues

Submitted by: Lillium
http://approachingglory.typepad.com/

No – I am not talking about the color of my hair. The title is a reference to the precarious condition I find myself in life. I am no longer a true Yankee, nor am I (nor I fear will I ever be) considered a Southerner. I fall into an abyss somewhere between.

I was born in Western New York. I lived there until I was fourteen and my father, tired of shoveling snow and working in a steel plant, decided to move the family to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. I spent my high school years totally offended that the state offered me only one season. Therefore, when it was time for me to select a college, I chose one in Tennessee. I figured it was a good halfway mark between what my young heart considered home and what my driver’s license said was my legal place of residence.

It was on that beautiful southern campus, on a leaf changing day, many years ago, that I met my soon to be husband. He married me and moved me up to his family’s nesting grounds – Lafayette, New Jersey. We spent our first six months of marriage there before Hubby accepted a job opening in Raleigh, North Carolina. It was there that my true indoctrination with southern living began.

Here I fell in love with the culture, the architecture, the fashion, the decorating, the language, and the foods of the South. It was like being a child who had found the candy shop of your dreams and then discovered I was denied admittance. Never was this clearer to me than when we moved to Georgia. Here the roots of heritage grow deep and wide.

Oh – please do not misunderstand me – no one has ever been ugly about it. Nevertheless, it is understood that I am “not from around these parts”. It does not matter that I have lived here now for over twenty-five years. People just instinctively know that I am not a native. It could be my dark skin tones that make me look better suited to an Italian kitchen. It may be that, while my friends from up north get a chuckle at my soft “i” and “a” sounds, that the rest of my speech pegs me as “from up there somewhere.” Even the children in my fifth grade class could tell on the first day that they were sitting in the classroom of someone who was different.

Being an only child with no relatives left to speak of, I must admit jealousy of those around here who have their annual reunions with throngs of generations. I never cease to be impressed when I discover that a grandparent attended the same elementary school as their grandchild. I learned quickly that I needed to keep a bridle on my tongue because everyone at my church was “kin” to someone else.

With so many people moving into the surrounding areas of Atlanta, it is not too difficult today to run into other foreigners. I listen to them ramble on about the culture shock. They moan and groan about the pace of life, the odd cooking, etc. etc. I cannot commiserate with them. It is not that I do not remember what it was like adapting – it is that I wanted to adapt and belong. When I see the effect that this great influx of Yankees is having on the culture I have come to love, I want to tell them all to go home. I keep my mouth shut because I figure I stand a good chance of being bussed out along with the other transplants.

A little while ago, I was having a meal of fried green maters with my pastor. He cocked his head and asked me how long I had lived in the south. I told him and he smiled. He patted me on the hand and said one of the nicest things I have had said to me, “Well then, you’re one of us now!”

How sweet of him. How I wish.

Miss Teensy

The residents of Blue Falls, Alabama knew all about Teensy Kilbraken or "Miss Teensy" as everyone called her. She was the town eccentric, to say it nicely. No one ever knew what Teensy would say or do.

It all started when Teensy was ten years old. Her dog, Dewey, was run over by Mayor Wolford in his new Cadillac. That the Honorable Mayor was found drunk behind the wheel was never brought up, but when Teensy buried her pet, the whole town muttered. It was the way she buried her pet that set tongues to waggin’.

First, she buried him in the town cemetery under a willow tree, right next to Major John Jay Jacobs of the 39th Regiment of the Northern Alabama Confederate troops. The ladies at Pat’s Set and Curl had spied her at her task.

"What is that child up to this time, Rita May?" asked Pat the proprietress.

"I have no earthly idea, Patsy. Just no idea ‘tall," she said craning her head around to look out the window. Curious, she got up, dripping purple hair color, and stood on the front step of the beauty parlor. Seeing Teensy dance around that grave made her call out excitedly, "Louise! Mabel Sue! Y’all get your heinies out here. That child is gone plain crazy."

What they saw was this. Teensy had stood over her beloved dog’s grave for five minutes, then started dancing and chanting.

"Dewey, Dewey,
Deader’n a brick,
Crawl in your killer’s hair,
Be a tick."

Over and over and over.

And wouldn’t you know it? Two days later, Mayor Wolford was afflicted with the country’s biggest, fattest, ugliest-lookin’ tick his wife had ever seen. And it resisted all efforts to remove it by the local doctor.

When Teensy’s mother had mentioned it at the table that night, Teensy just smiled. The ladies at the Set and Curl gossiped about it for months and Mayor Wolford wore a new hat to cover the new bald spot made by the doctor as he surgically removed the head-eating tick.

******

I’d love to tell y’all all about the time when Teensy was thirteen and her pet turtle was accidentally crushed by the next-door neighbor boy, Randy Joe, but that will have to wait for a more opportune time. I have to go to the Set and Curl for my monthly perm.

….to be continued

My Trip to Cameron

Cameron, Louisiana, now under water, was an interesting coastal town. My first real visit to the community was in 1985, as the oil drilling industry was slowing beginning to recover from the devastion it experienced in the early 1980's.

I married my husband in 1983 and we were living in Indiana, in his hometown. For several years, my husband had been employed in the oil drilling industry working both off the coast of Louisiana in the Gulf of Mexico and in waters overseas. We were living in Indiana so that he could find a decent job and we were dreaming of returning to the Gulf coast one day.

In the autumn of 1985, a friend of my husband's still living in New Orleans sent him an advertisement from the Times-Picayune for drilling rig personnel for a company drilling in the Gulf of Mexico. My husband sent off his resume in short order and was pleased to be called for an interview. His appointment of the interview was set and we were off to Lafayette, Louisiana with our fingers crossed. The interview went well and he accepted the offer of employment.

This position was of immediate need of being filled, as is often the case in the oil drilling industry, everything is needed yesterday. So we drove to Cameron, about one and a half hours to the west of Lafayette where my husband was meet the helicopter the next morning at daybreak.

Cameron, Louisiana is a small, rural community right on the water's edge at the coast of western Louisiana. The area relies on hunters, fishermen, and the oil drilling industry. Agriculture is also important there as many head of cattle are raised in the area. Lots of signs lined the road into town advertising for local people willing to take care of whatever it was you caught there - whether you wanted to clean it and eat it, or stuff it and hang it!

A few small motels offering vacancies were available to travelers moving through the area. We spent the night at a small, rather rundown motel. The room was clean but bare bones simple. Nothing fancy here. We went to dinner at a wonderful restaurant on a pier taking us right over the Gulf of Mexico. Even in this modest community, we experienced an incredible, intimate, candlelit dinner feasting on fresh seafood and taking in a breathtaking sunset so vivid it looked like the sun was setting right next to our table. After all these years, the memory of that night is still as if it were yesterday.

Bright and early the next morning, my husband left to begin a renewed career in the oil drilling industry. I drove back to Indiana to begin putting our affairs in order to move back to our beloved Gulf coast. We decided to move to Lafayette instead of New Orleans as Lafayette seemed to be a more family-friendly kind of city to begin our family.

With the devastation of Hurricane Rita wrecking havoc on the coast of southwestern Louisiana, I pray for the community of Cameron and wish them a speedy recovery.

Muy Caliente!

Finally appears we will get a slight break from the great September heatwave, so this weekend looks great for grilling out on the patio. Crank up the old turntable with a little foot-tapping music from the Black Hat Saloon album by Rusty Weir and add some frosty mugs of Corona Beer with salt and lime. Or maybe, some homemade Sangria with a little Jerry Jeff Walker music. Anyway, I shall also be cooking some of these tasty jewels:

8 Large jalepenos (Cut the top off and carefully seed, leaving the pepper whole instead of halved. Word to the wise, it pays to wear some disposable plastic gloves while completing this task.)
Hickory bacon slices
Pkg Cream cheese - softened
Green Onions
Fresh Garlic
1 Pound Chorizo ( Mexican sausage)
Seasonings to taste, I use a little fresh chopped cilantro, chile and cumin powder.

In a skillet, mix together chopped green onions and garlic in a small amount of olive oil - cook until transparent. (However, DO NOT overcook the green onions as they can get tough and bitter - might add them last.) Add chorizo and crumble while cooking with the onions and garlic. Remove from heat and add the softened cream cheese, mix well. Stuff each cleaned pepper with mixture. Wrap the bacon around each pepper, securing with a toothpick. Place peppers on a medium grill and cook slowly until peppers are tender (usually about 30 minutes). You can pare boil the peppers first for a couple of minutes if you want them really tender and less fiery. The pare boil will take some of the "heat" out, if you prefer.

I like to serve ranch dressing with mine, but you can also serve them with queso or sour cream.

Ya'll come, just bring some extra beer and an appetite!

Country Haiku

Cold metal dipper
icy-wet well water flows
sweetly down my throat

*****


Southern pine trees sway
so tall in the southern breeze
And smell of citrus

*****


Sagging, old buildings
tasting of our history
rotting, forgotten

*****


I smell the mountains
the rain, the damp moss and leaves
The scent takes me home

*****

The forest is still
I lean back against my tree
and sleep for awhile

*****

Decoration Day
at the town's cemetary
everyone is here

Daybreak in Alabama

Daybreak in Alabama
by Langston Hughes

When I get to be a composer
I'm gonna write me some music about
Daybreak in Alabama
And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it
Rising out of the ground like a swamp mist
And falling out of heaven like soft dew.
I'm gonna put some tall tall trees in it
And the scent of pine needles
And the smell of red clay after rain
And long red necks
And poppy colored faces
And big brown arms
And the field daisy eyes
Of black and white black white black people
And I'm gonna put white hands
And black hands and brown and yellow hands
And red clay earth hands in it
Touching everybody with kind fingers
And touching each other natural as dew
In that dawn of music when I
Get to be a composer
And write about daybreak
In Alabama.

author - Langston Hughes 1902 - 1967
Biography courtesy of Americanpoems.com

Sausage Grits Casserole

Here is a yummy, favorite recipe my grandma always made on Sunday's
before church to get us up an runnin'!

Ingredients
1 lb. pork sausage, hot
12 oz. grated cheddar cheese,
3 eggs, beaten 1-1/2 cups milk
3 TBS margarine
3 cups cooked grits
1 small onion, chopped

Preparation

Preheat oven to 350°. Cook the sausage & onion in a skillet until
sausage is done. Drain well. Spread sausage evenly in a lightly
greased casserole dish. Cook grits according to pkg. directions. Add
cheese & margarine. Stir until cheese and butter is melted. With a
fork, beat eggs and milk together & stir into grits. Pour over
sausage. Bake for one hour. Can be refrigerated overnight and baked
the next day.

Truly delicious hon!

Astrid
http://msbuggaboo.blogspot.com

Mississippi Green T-shirts

Ya'll go visit Jasmine over at www.mississippigreen.com.

She's selling t-shirts with photos on them from Mississippi, including the Windsor Ruins that were written about in the Dew last month.

During the month of September, 50% of the proceeds of her t-shirts will go to the Mississippi Red Cross for Katrina relief.

Her t-shirts are really cool and this month they're for a good cause.

Fried Green 'Maters recipe

Gulfport, Mississippi

Gulfport, Mississippi.... I have such fond memories of the place.

It's the spot where I started to feel like an "adult".

When I was in high school I lived about an hour North of Gulfport. To date myself a little, at this time there was not a casino in the area.

In fact, years later when my husband and I drove there on the way to somewhere else, I thought I had lost my mind. I couldn't find the beach where I knew it was. My husband started giving me "The look" and finally I realized that these giant floating casinos were all pulled up to what used to be the spot I'd turn into a crispy critter every summer.

When I used to visit, it was all beach, and tacky strip centers and one big mall. This mall was 4 times as big as the one I had to drive to Hattiesburg for so I loved going to it. Gulfport did have some beautiful antibellum homes quite close to the beach, most turned into hotels and a few as tourist walk-thrus. In the 80s it still had a bit of old world charm to it. It was a small town that happened to be near a navel base and the beach.

The beach was not the best in the world, in fact it tended to have cinder blocks underneath the water and that made it a little tricky. The water was always just a bit murky so you couldn't see what you were banging into - or what was banging into you.

But it was there I felt so terribly independant and grown-up. The reason was that it was the one place that was "away" from home, but that I could drive to without my parents. I could go there and spend the day as my own person, not a teen-ager asking to go places with Mom and Dad. You'll remember from my memory of Dauphin Island, Mom and Dad hated sand.



I felt, at the ripe old age of 16, so dern "mature" as I piled my friends in my car and proceeded to drive for an hour South. Then we'd get to the beach, pile out onto the sand, slather with tanning oil and watch the Navy Men (!) on leave as we crisped up on the beach.

Afterword we'd all pile back into the car, head for pizza hut and onward to the mall to spend whatever pittance we had leftover from gas and lunch.

Finally, we'd pile one last time into my un-airconditioned car and head onward - home to the woods. Until the next weekend.

I hear that Gulfport is nearly destroyed now by the hurricane and I mourn this as it was a place with such great memories of the transition from being a child to becoming adult.

Bourbon Street, Beignets and Almost Being Run Over by a Trolley

I have many memories of New Orleans. Even though I never called it home, I spent many hours there during my college years.

I came of age in New Orleans, saw my first voodoo shop in New Orleans, saw a new year/new decade come in in New Orleans and hit my college football coach (by accident, I swear) in the Super Dome during the 1989-1990 Sugar Bowl.

Those are but a few examples. Let me explain.

I was a member of the Million Dollar Band in the late 80's and early 90's and one of the many benefits of being a band geek was traveling to the away games and performing at half-time. Every other year, we would head down to Baton Rouge, LA, and invariably, New Orleans for one night of partying. If my mamma had only knew...

Now Pat O'Briens was a frequent stop. The Hurricanes were tasty, loaded and very popular. No one could resist Paddy O's. If you are reading this, Andy, you remember that trip.

The Cafe du Monde, near Jackson Square had the best beignets, the only beignets, that I had ever tasted. I remember their powdery-sugariness melting in my mouth and the ambiance was unlike anything I had experienced. It tasted of jazz and the slow moving Mississippi. It tasted of Cajun and French. And it tasted like life.

Speaking of hitting my football coach at the Jan. 1st, 1990 Sugar Bowl game...it was an accident, I swear! We were doing the pre-game routine (I was in the colorguard and "spun a flag") when out of the blue, I hit something hard and solid that made my flag fly away from me. As I looked up I noticed Coach Bill Curry and his police guards running past. Now, technically, it could have been on of the police I hit....but...it could have been Coach Curry as well. I will never know for sure, of course, unless I find some video footage focused on...me?

Back to New Orleans...

Jackson Square is situated above the banks of the Mississippi River. It "lies at the heart of the French Quarter or Vieux Carré (pronounced "v-yer ka-ray"). This rectangular section of the city marks the site of the original settlement of New Orleans in 1721." (courtesy of UNC School of Information and Library Sciences) I remember the cathedral, the swollen Mississippi, the artists set up all around the square.

The Square has many civil war cannons decorating it's lawns and sidewalks. I perched myself on one and watched the New Year ball go down on the Jax Brewery building, ringing in a new year and a new decade. It was a special time for me. Needless to say, I didn't realize then that it would be the last time I visited New Orleans.

I remember paying $20 to use the bathroom in the French Quarter. You have to understand, at the time there were no public restrooms, and probably still aren't any. So, if you need to use the facilities, you either go back to your hotel, or you park yourself in a bar or restaurant. And there is a cover charge. No one allows people just off the streets to use their restrooms.

I was no exception. I held it as long as I could that New Years Eve, but after drinking so much bourbon and Coke, going to the bathroom becomes a quest. During New Years, the crowd almost equals that of Mardi Gras, so I basically swam against the current of people to reach a door leading into, God-Knows-Where, paid a $20 cover charge just so I could go to the lady's room.

Oh the things we do for bladder relief!

I have to admit, I drank a little too much, so I was feeling happy at the end of the evening. On the way back to the hotel, I remember tripping over something in the road and falling down. I looked up and saw a large light coming right at me. (imagine a rabbit in the road staring down a car) My friend, Lee, pulled me up just in time to avoid being run over by a trolley.

My earliest memory of New Orleans, and purest, is of a locket. My father went to New Orleans on business one year when I was young. He brought back two lockets; one for me and one for my sister. They were made of ivory and were hand painted. Mine had an owl on it. I wonder what ever happened to that locket.

Some day I am going to go back to New Orleans. One day when it is rebuilt, when it is in it's glory again, and I am just going to soak in it's joy and it's uniqueness.

Dana Sieben
Southern Gal Goes North

Dauphin Island, Alabama

When I was a young girl, I lived in Mobile, near Dauphin Island. This was back when they still had the draw bridge to the island, not that new, fancy bridge.


I used to adore going to the island for the day, but I always had to beg for hours to do so. My parents, you see, didn't seem to enjoy sun and fun and sand. I also didn't discover until years later that Daddy didn't really like to drive that much and the long bridge with the break in the middle for ships was quite daunting to him.

I loved driving on that long bridge. Watching dolphins, sharks, stingrays and whatnot swimming around. Watching the barges and ships pass by. Just watching the water lap gently at the rather low in the water bridge. A lot of the "bridge" was actually causeway and so at times, I was pretty sure if high tide came in we'd be stuck on the island. Not that I would have minded.

When we used to go it wasn't really populated. I hear tell that before this last hurricane it had 1,200 residents, which boggles my mind. I've been down to Mobile several times in the last few years, but never went over to the island. I now regret this bitterly.

On those sunny days, way back when, Daddy and Mom and I would pile into the car, generally dragging along whatever dogs we had at that time. I believe we once took a guinie pig for the day. My memory of this is somewhat fuzzy, but I'm assuming the guinie pig didn't enjoy the sand all that much!

We would drive for what seemed like hours to me over that causeway and bridge. It would be a big treat to me if the bridge had to raise up for a ship. Mother would flutter her hands about and talk about us sliding backwards or the ship crashing into us until it finally passed by safely. Dad would sit there, lighting handrolled cigarettes and telling her to stifle.

Finally we would get to the actual beach. I don't remember any homes being anywhere near where Dad would park the car. I think he would always look for the most isolated spot. Then we would pile out of the car. Rather, Daddy and I would pile out and mom would open the door, take off her socks and shoes and place her feet gingerly outside the car. She opinioned that she could receive enough Vitamen D just through her feet for good health.

Dad would charge into the ocean and swim for all of 5 or 10 minutes, making so much noise and movement that I'm sure he scared anything hungry out there away for the rest of the day. He would then head back to the car to continue smoking.

And being great parents, they would then proceed to sit in the car and do nothing for 2 to 3 hours, watching me play. Finally they would call me over to eat a picnic lunch, still in the car, and we would drive home.



I look at this picture here at the island after the hurricane. Oh how I wish I had taken the time to show my family this great island the last time we were in Mobile. I don't know how long until it's back to it's beauty, or if it will be at all.

My Cajun Roots Run Deep

Parlange Plantation near New Roads, Louisiana


The family history says Sarah was a Civil War widow by 1862, her late husband a true son of Louisiana and Dixie. He left her with two small children, a milk cow, and a leaky roof over her head.

One day a raggedy and hungry bunch of Confederate soldiers showed up on her doorstep needing a meal and a place to bunk for the night. There was talk among them that evening about stealing the lone cow and whatever else they could find in the dark and slipping away. The soldier in charge was furious at their intended mistreatment of a poor Southern widow's hospitality, and threatened to shoot any looters. The next morning, Willis thanked Sarah and told her he would be back.

He kept his word. Sarah and Willis were married in 1864. These were my great great grandparents. The full geneological history does not reveal if Willis had been an occasional AWOL soldier, but I suspect it was entirely possible. Many otherwise honorable men felt the pull of hearth and home especially when it was obvious the South was not going to win the war.

Of grandfather Willis' family I know very little. More than a few hints abound of Indian blood from the Georgia Cherokee, but I have never discovered anything more than the random passed down story, certainly no paper trail to validate such beliefs.

My research on grandmother Sarah, on the other hand, has turned up a rich old Creole history with long long French bloodlines. Her great great grandparents were immigrants from Hainaut - now southern Belgium. These Hainaut families have been likened to the Mayflower of Louisiana. Lovely old names such as DeCuir, Mayeaux, Montpelier, Nezat, and Dupuy. Some settled in New Orleans, some near the towns of present day New Roads and Cane River. My notes reveal these now very familiar parish names: St. Landry, Opelousas, Catahoula, and St. Tammany.

The recent tragedy in New Orleans and the Gulf coast has reawakened my love of my French ancestral connection. An email today from a distant DeCuir cousin* assured me that the area around Marksville did not sustain great damage. I am grateful.

(*The cousin also told me that Lt. General Russell Honore, the "Ragin' Cajun", is a distant DeCuir relative as well. Good thing ole Cuzzin' Russell is kickin' butt and takin' names!).

The picture above of Parlange Plantation was taken about 4 years ago. It, too, has a link to my past. I have not heard any news about its survival, but I am hoping the old Spanish moss and the lovely ancient trees escaped the kind of destruction I see on the nightly evening news.

That old mantra of "the South Shall Rise Again" keeps whispering through my thoughts this evening, and I certainly hope its true. My great great grandparents would have wanted it no other way.

Do You Know What it Means to Miss New Orleans?

Written by: Kenju
http://justaskjudy.blogspot.com

I visited New Orleans in the 90's, attending a convention of people involved in the party industry. We had five wonderful days in the city, enjoying all that it had to offer: good food, great scenery, partying heartily, a ride on the Delta Queen Paddleboat, fabulous antique stores, Hurricanes (the drink), beignets dripping powdered sugar, and coffee with chickory!These are various postcards and pics from that trip. One of the most interesting places we saw was the warehouse where they keep most of the Mardi Gras floats. In fact, they had a party for us in that warehouse, and it was an excellent experience. If you have never attended Mardi Gras, you can have no idea of the size of the floats, most of which are huge. Imagine how fun it was to stroll, drinks and hors d'oeuvres in hand, between the floats and large puppets, imagining what it would be like to participate in the Mardi Gras parades. I could picture myself standing on a float, throwing beads and candy to the by-standers, or being a by-stander and yelling "Throw me something, Mister!" to the guys on the floats. (I would not, however, be showing them anything!).

Speaking of the foods, we ate alligator sausage that night (andouille, I think) and crayfish (crawdads) were found in abundance, as were shrimp and other seafood. The buffet tables were replete with delicacies of nearly every description and the floral decor was to die for; such as tall palm trees whose trunks were made from the hulls of pineapples. It was very creative. Of course, when you are putting on a party for people who put on parties nearly every day of the year - you have to be creative and over the top with your decor!

New Orleans bent over backwards to welcome us - as well as all the other tourists who came there each year. I mourn the loss of this very special city with its distinctive architecture, no less than I mourn the loss of its people, who practiced a brand of hospitality not found everywhere. I cannot imagine how it feels to be one of the displaced, and I hope they can find peace and understanding at some point. Vaya con Dios.

From the Editor ~ Personal Memories Wanted

During this dark time in the South, with the horror of Hurricane Katrina still surrounding us, I would like to invite people to submit stories of their fond memories of the towns that were affected by this storm. I would like stories of Gulfport, Biloxi, Mobile, Dauphin Island, New Orleans, and all the little towns in between that are destroyed or deeply affected by the storm.

Many of these towns will never again be the way they were just two weeks ago.

If you have some memories of living in these places, vacationing, or just driving thru..... please share with us! Share pictures too!

The City Time Forgot

New Orleans is a state of mind. Anyone entering the city feels the spirit of the city almost immediately. No, I am not talking about the stifling heat and dripping humidity! I am talking about the attitude of the locals. In good times, there was no better place to be. Everyday burdens are lifted from shoulders, frowns are replaced with smiles. And common courtesy is extended to everyone.

I have a lifelong history with this fine old style Southern city. My earliest childhood memories go back to trips as a toddler to City Park and riding on the old world style carousel. Now that was some kind of fun.

At the age of nine years I went to New Orleans with my parents for a medical procedure at Teuro Hospital. Charity Hospital was a world class emergency facility. That hospital treated the city's poorest as well as police injured in the line of duty. Some of its expertise came from dealing with the frequent gun battles by thugs and others who prey on the weaker among us. It was a well know fact that if you were in an auto accident, you should ask the ambulance to take you to Charity. I was at Teuro as they had saved the life of my father several years before from injuries caused by an auto accident on the bridge into the city from the Mississippi border. Fog, you know. For many years the local medical schools would use his case as part of the final exams. To read the case you would swear the patient died.

The music in the city is legendary. Preservation Jazz Hall, all the clubs throughout the French Quarter with live music could set your foot tapping. Tipitina's was a club uptown that showcased folks like Irma Thomas and the Neville Brothers before and after they hit it big. Pete Fountain and Al Hirt, from my parents generation, and Fats Domino from my generation all were known for giving back to the city as they became wealthy with success.

The food is the best in the world. Who can forget Breakfast at Brennans's, fat, juicy oysters at Tyler's Beer Garden, muffolottos at Central Grocery, Cafe au Lait and beignets at Cafe du Monde, blackened redfish at K-Pauls. Any of those memories is enough to make my mouth water. The smells of the huge open air farmers market alone were worth the trip. Shrimp and oyster po'boys could cure about anything ailing you.

Where else do the grieving give the departed a jazz funeral complete with a parade? The spirit of New Orleans will remain in me until new memories can be made.

Blue Ribbon Good Times

Today marks the beginning of the week long tradition known as the Dyer County Fair . Now in its' 58th year, the county fair offers something for everyone who passes through the gates into another world. As a child, fair week was a tradition with my family. My Dad was president one year and on the board of directors forever and my Mom would work in the office where she took care of everything from emergency calls for carnival workers to cutting checks for prizes in the various lots, classes and divisions of competition. The money was just gravy for competitors though, for the real prize was a blue, red or white ribbon awarded to their entries.

I sold admission tickets at one of the two gates which was a good way to see everybody who came pouring in and my brother directed traffic, a job reserved for good old boys decked out in neon with flashlights waving.

Food is a highlight of the event with some of the best cooks in the county manning booths sponsored by civic organizations such as 4-H, band boosters and the usual Civitan, Rotary and Jaycee organizations. Following a good old greasy burger or white beans one can pass on the homemade cake or pie and take a stroll down the midway in search of other treats such as funnel cake, cotton candy or fiddlesticks. Careful not to eat too much though! You sure don't want to get queasy while riding those gut clenching adventures like "Tilt-a-Whirl" or "The Zipper". Many a southern romance has begun with a young man winning his girl a big stuffed animal playing a game of chance. The spook house always scared me to death with its' dark mazes and distorting mirrors!

No visit to the fair is complete without a tour of the commercial building where employees construct and man booths advertising various local businesses. These are judged as well and a place ribbon is a coveted award for any business owner. Many of them hold drawings for visitors during the course of the week giving away nice door prizes at the end. There is a nightly drawing for cash from the admission ticket stubs and on Saturday night the big prize is drawn for....a new vehicle!!

Currently housed in a spacious area near the youth league baseball fields, the former fairgrounds was located adjacent to the city cemetary. I will never forget how odd it felt to attend my uncle's funeral with a ferris wheel as the backdrop to the somber occasion. Fundraising efforts for a new building there included proceeds from the sale of my mother's cookbook "From the Back Burner" which was dedicated to one of the fair's most notable fixtures, Vernon "Red" Henson. What a character he was! His gruff exterior quickly vanished when approached by a lost child or someone in need. Getting that cookbook back into print is a goal for my daughter and myself because people STILL clamor for it. Mom was a newspaper columnist for the local paper for years and shared recipes from everyone she knew and the sensible ending to that career was a compilation of recipes from the best of Dyer County.

As the midway barker would sing " Step right up and try your luck!" There's something for everybody at the Dyer County Fair. See y'all in the hog barn.

This is How I Choose to Remember New Orleans

I am a Louisiana Girl and proud of it. I lived three hours north of New Orleans, but was able to visit enough for it to become a place I loved to go.

It's funny how memories come flooding back (no pun intended) while watching the Katrina coverage. I sit here and think of the time when Joel and I visited while in college. We were visiting his parents who lived in Slidell at the time and went over for the 4th of July fireworks that took place on the Mississippi off of the French Quarter. It rained that day while we were visiting the Riverwalk Mall and we strolled back to our viewing area in a fine mist.

For the three years his parents lived in Slidell, we tried to go into New Orleans every chance we visited. We explored the French Quarter, went to the Aquarium, ate messy benigets at Cafe Du Monde, shopped in the French Market, and ate some of the best food you've ever tasted.

After we got married and had Amanda, we visited my sister-- in law who had moved into New Orleans. I have photos of Amanda playing at the Aquarium, and me shopping at Saks in the Westin Hotel. We took Amanda to the Children's Museum and wandered around Canal Street. It was several years after that before I went back.

Joel and I divorced and two weeks after the divorce was final, I went with my brother, and my friend Erin for a party weekend in the Big Easy. We stayed at the Marriott on the edge of the French Quarter, and danced and drank up and down Bourbon St. I celebrated my independence by getting a tattoo at a shop on North Rampart St. It was the one chance that I actually partied in the Quarter.

When Joel and I got back together, we celebrated by going on a long weekend to the city that held so many memories. We stayed at the Royal Sonesta on Bourbon. If you watched any of the Fox News Coverage, and you saw Shepard Smith on the balcony of a hotel, I'm almost positive it's the same suite we were in. It was a rainy ,cold November weekend, but we didn't care.It rained just enough to keep the drunks off of Bourbon at night.

We walked though Pirate's Alley behind the St. Louis Cathedral and took pictures in the rain that made the sidewalks shimmer. We had dinner at Galatorie's Restaurant. On Sunday, we watched a Saints game at the Super Dome and talked to some die hard local Saints fans. I wonder where they are now, if they evacuated, or if they were back in the Super Dome under much less pleasant conditions.

The next year, we had Thanksgiving Dinner at Laura's house in LaPlace and took Amanda to the Ritz Carleton for her first High Tea. The waiter was a doll, and made sure that Amanda had her own set of refreshments so that she didn't have to have the things we had. He treated her like a princess.

So many memories of New Orleans that it hurts to watch the television footage. I have no idea what it must be like there. I know what hurricane damage looks like, living so close to Punta Gorda, but what I am seeing on television makes that look like a birthday party.

If by some chance you come across this entry, or if you are reading this, and you know people in New Orleans and Gulf Coast, please be assured that my family is praying for you. I loved the city of New Orleans. I hope it comes back better than ever. It didn't survive the French, the Spanish, and the Civil War and the damned Yankees to let a storm named Katrina be the end of it.

Deep Fried Yankee

I'm sure you see it every year.
The northern tourists flocking through your town.
These Ijits not taking advantage of the temperate seasons but streaming down during the hottest part of summer.

When I was just a little tike my family packed itself together and heading for that slow journey through the south pulling a metal box on wheels behind us. The logic was that this box would afford us freedom to explore the more intimate regions of the south and to sample the flavors and people that are not propped up for the typical tourists. The joke was on us. There were thousands just like us playing a different game of tourism and slowly crawling through the south and spending time in those tourist trailer parks.

We saw the fields, we saw the Stuckey’s, we ate the pecans and we thought we saw the south. Now we could talk about the differences of what the real south is and what a Yankee's perception is, but being a New Yorker I am just in too big a hurry to get to my point so I'll avoid these details. (Plus I am too stubborn to admit that I really don't know the real south)

Imagine a fifteen-foot trailer, four kids and two stressed out parents riding hour after hour through the heat of the south. Being ages ago there was no air conditioning. There was simply hanging your head out a window and panting like a dog. Being ages ago there was no patience. A dad using this time to unwind from the stress of a job to find himself in close quarters with kids who were bored out of their minds. Amusement was found by nagging each other and testing the patience of cranky and tired adults.

Finally after years of traveling we reached the first beach where we would stay a few days. The parents were ready. The kids were ready. Being outdoors was the only solution for cooped up travelers. We hit the beach with other tourists. Southerners knew better.

I was northern bred. I was northern born. I am blue eyed, blond haired with fair skin. Sunscreen came in one strength and was not water proof. It wasn't long before I was red. Deep red. My parents hustled us off the beach and used cold cream to cool my redness. I continued to burn. I started to blister. I became delirious and experienced chills and shakes. It hurt to move.

Even with sun poisoning I had to crawl that ladder to an upper bunk that had no head room and barely let you roll over. Yep, we were tourists. We were Northerners. We had no clue that beaches during the height of the day during the hottest part of the year could be deadly.

We were deep fried Yankees.