Outdoor living at home: The creation of “Happy Place” Monday, Jun 17 2013

The Happy Place is shrouded in green shade, surrounded by blooming flowers and shrubs.

The happy place is steps away from the patio.

Other times at this blog, I’ve shared memoirs and photos of the backyard outdoor dwelling that so gloriously takes place in our back yard. Oddly prompted by the imposition of hurricanes–Lili in 2002 which blew the 10′ X 10′ storage shed off its concrete foundation and Gustav in 2007 which took half of the corrugated fiberglass sheets off the patio cover–we modified those spaces for different adaptations over the years.

This year’s significant expansion of that outdoor living area incorporated the formerly fenced-off corner of the back yard known once upon a time as a dog pen but more recently as the wood yard. This was the space with the bare 10 X 10 slab set aside, post-Lili, for cutting, splitting, and stacking firewood. We obscured its unsightliness with a five foot hedge that also hid about 200 square feet of the southeast corner of the backyard.

With the recent decision to abandon use of the fireplace, and ergo the need for a wood splitting/stacking area, we decided to open the area and capitalize on the concrete slab to make what Sarah calls our “Happy Place.” The Happy Place is o’ershaded from the east (the rear) by sprawling Live Oak branches growing from across the alley and from the north by a burgeoning Wisteria vine that we’ve given the liberty over the years to crawl and expand along 60 or 70 feet of backyard fence combined. The Happy Place is linked to the covered patio by a 15 foot brick walkway.

We’re still planting and landscaping, but the result to date has been not just gratifying, but downright enchanting. The openness of the improvement to that space, abetted by removing the boring hedge that cut off all view past six feet from the patio, created an aesthetic. In fact, the allure of the Happy Place from the patio draws the observer to move from the patio into the verdant shade in that corner of the yard.

The site remains a work in progress. As the plants and shrubs mature, we envision an increasingly peaceful retreat just feet from the back door, framed and enshrouded by nature.

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Just For the “Well” of It! Thursday, Jun 13 2013

All’s well that ends well, especially in the doctor’s office.

I completed my annual wellness procedure yesterday afternoon when I dropped off the hemoccult kit at the family doctor’s office. Just a few hours later, I noticed I had missed a call on my phone–I recognized the doctor’s office number.

In such moments, human nature cringes. Why are they calling so soon? When I call back, what dire announcement will I hear? Will I be summoned for further testing to clarify some irregularity in the result? that I’m being referred to a specialist because of some troublesome indication? that the test result dictates some grim diagnosis?

Oh, well. Come what may, gotta take this in stride! Gulp hard, take a deep breath, redial:

“Dr. Ware’s office.”

“Hello, this is David Pulling, returning a missed call from earlier this afternoon.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Pulling. Just one moment.”

Put on hold. Silence intensifies drama. Shortly another voice picks up:

“Mr. Pulling, we just wanted to let you know that your hemoccult test came out clear.”

“Ah, that’s all? Oh, that’s great. Thanks a lot.” I cheerfully replied, suppressing the impulse to cry out a loud “Whodat” victory cheer.

Alas, the joy of wellness. Sooner or later, according to the hard and inalterable course of nature, it will end. Till then, I count wellness as one of those unaccountable commodities of grace that calls for thanksgiving: just for the well of it!

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“The Love Bridge Waltz”: A Rare Moment, Surrounded by Legends! Monday, Jun 10 2013

From last Friday morning: A rare moment for me, the amateur Cajun musician: playing here with the legendary Harry Lafleur (violin to my right) and Jane Balfa Cormier, daughter of the legendary Will Balfa (violin to the farthest right). My other friends are mortals like me–Matt Fruge playing the accordion to my right and Joy Cleveland playing fiddle to my left. I’ll remember this gig for a long time!

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Farewell, My Friend Carolyn Ward Friday, Jun 7 2013

Farewell, Carolyn. Should we be pitied more than you? After all, you left well in so many ways.

Carolyn Ward, too soon departed (for us, but not for her!)

You cheated old age out of creaky joints and bedpans.
You will never again endure sleepless nights or tiring days.
You slipped the snare of dread of disease: no Alzheimer’s, no terminal cancer, no debilitating illness to waste away your days in anguish or burden your loved ones.
You will never again be vexed by cocoa grass in your garden (your blessed mother’s bane, as well!).
You will never again have to clean house or pick up after Jerry.
You will never awaken to depressing headlines on the morning news, reminding us that we below tarry in a fallen world.
You will never again stress out over trivial mortal matters that always seemed so important but now really don’t matter.

Yes, we should be pitied more than you.

But not so much because we’re left below to worry about these earthly woes. No, like you, we with your faith will endure those carnal travails in the same good spirit and with the same steadfast hope that you endured. The reason we should be pitied, rather, is that our days now are deprived of your presence and walk among us. Forgive us if we seem selfish, but we so miss your place and presence.

Of course, we know that your return is impossible. We must remember that the intervening days or years or decades of our transient lives (who knows how long we have, as your sudden passing reminds us) are but innumerable grains of sand in the hour glass of eternity. Let us then live our remaining days or years or decades well, as you gave us example with your full and rich life, hoping and trusting and longing for one day when we dance with you on the other side where charming roses bloom forever.

God bless your family and your memory, and God bless all of us left here below, till we meet again!

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From February to May, disgrace to glory: Baseball is a funny game Monday, Jun 3 2013

Did Murray State have more to play for?

On a Saturday in mid-February from the press box at Bengal Stadium, I watched the most embarrassing on-the-field performance I’ve ever seen by a college team when Murray State University got pummeled by the Bengals, 26-3. I looked up the box score from that game this morning: the starting pitcher only lasted 2.2 innings after giving up 9 runs on nine hits. Judging from the final score, obviously, the parade of pitchers that followed only perpetuated the ineptitude. In fact, I remember wincing during that game as the score and the embarrassment rose against the Oklahomans. Sure, I always want my team to win, but I also have a streak of humanity: carnage on the field of play, whether literal or figurative, isn’t good for the game.

And that game wasn’t the entire February weekend story for Murray State. Not only did they lose that Saturday debacle, but we swept them in the three game series, winning the other two games by not-so-close scores of 7-3 and 5-1.

Really, had someone predicted to me at the end of that weekend that LSU Eunice would play this team for the national championship at the end of May, I would have laughed at a foolish joke.

But what a difference two and a half months makes! Last Saturday night, the same losing starter from the February fiasco, Brian Horn, pitched a complete game against LSU Eunice in the national championship final, giving up a modest 3 runs on seven hits. Final score: National champion Murray State 4, runners-up LSU Eunice 3.

Gollee. Baseball is a funny game, especially around end-of-season tournament time. Who knows how the fickle finger of fate will wiggle? In this instance, I strongly suspect that the 26-3 humiliation dwelled in those Murray State players’ memories as a searing nightmare since mid-February. Given the chance to avenge that embarrassment on a stage as grandiose as the national championship final, I suspect the sense of honor they felt and defended was superior to the Bengals’ motivation. In gamesmanship, who can account for such intangibles?

My mental anguish was such that I couldn’t post this reflection on the tournament until this morning. Accepting loss is always hard, especially when I believed going into that game that LSU Eunice was clearly superior. And I still believe that in a best-of-seven against Murray State, LSU Eunice would win. But a few days later now at the point where time is beginning to heal all wounds, the disappointment of losing wanes. Bitterness is eased by confessing the rightful consolation that finishing second in the national championship still looks pretty good on the team’s resume. And remembering how embarrassed I felt for Murray State and Brian Horn on their Saturday of disgrace in February, I’m even a little happy for them, too, because there’s an impulse in the human spirit that admires comeback and prompts the sportsman’s gesture, the congratulatory handshake of concession after getting beat fair and square.

So ends 2013 LSU Eunice baseball, a funny game that will no doubt entertain us well in years to come. To that end, we hoist the rally cry for 2014: Geaux, Bengals!

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LSU Eunice Bengals Baseball: Making it from “LOB” Squad to “JOB” Squad? Tuesday, May 28 2013

Bengal bats started to get the JOB done in game 2.

Shakespeare’s King Richard III lost his mount in the peak of battle, prompting the desperate cry, “My kingdom for a horse!” On foot with the dangerous battle swirling on swift and powerful steeds all around him, King Rich knew that he, horseless, was a sitting duck for disaster and loss.

And likewise or at least by analogy, if Coach Willis were otherwise King Jeff III during game 1 and the opening at-bats of game 2 in the current NJCAA Division II world series, his plea of desperation would likely have been “My kingdom for a two-out hit!” I don’t have the stat sheet before me, but I believe the Bengals LOB (left on base) total for game 1 was 12; then for the first two at-bats in game 2, clutchless hitters left goose-eggs on the scoreboard after leaving 5 base runners standing on bags around the infield.

I was starting to wonder if a fitting nickname for this team was the “LOB Squad.” The propensity to fail delivery of timely hits with runners in scoring position, often contributing to missed opportunities for burying and putting away opponents, had been a smudge mark on this gang’s otherwise sparkling record of achievement during the season. And, like so many other contests during the season when clutch hits were scarce, the game 1 offensive performance made the team appear wobbly and uncertain, sitting ducks indeed, for similar disaster and loss to that King Richard faced in his helpless estate.

But salute the Bengals. They did what they had to do in game 1 to leave the field with a walk-off, one-run squeaky win in the bottom of the ninth. Better yet, more potent bats sprang to life after the wobbly start in game two as they put a few crooked numbers on the line score that added up to a more dominant-looking 9-1 tally (against the impressive #4 ranked team in the nation).

Early surprises in the first two games, to me, are the home runs. This team’s average for the season was less than .5 homers per game, but in the Series where the windy ball park and the better-than-average pitching opposition would seemlingly work against the demonstration of power, three batters (Powell, Thibodeaux, and Trosclair) have mashed ‘taters. Furthermore, all three homers came at critical times in the games–they were dramatic, “get the job done” hits, back-breaking, crushing blows that mightily demoralized the opposition.

So offensively, have we made it from LOB to JOB (as in “get the JOB done)? Hopefully, that’s the indication that will play out as we move on to game 3 tomorrow night. If the quality pitching in the first two games holds up, and this JOB squad starts to show up in the batter’s box, I’m convinced that this team will roll and that they WILL prevail.

Let’s not say we smell a national championship just yet. But the Bengals and their fans know exactly what national championship smells like, and no one will be surprised if we don’t start sensing the fragrance in the spring breeze before the week’s over.

But to make that happen, JOB squad, “Do your JOB!”

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Java-Script: Caffeine doth intoxicate the muse! Thursday, May 23 2013

Ah, caffeine: Awake, my soul, and sing!

On the back of a flier promoting the Lafayette High School Russian Educ/Cultural Exchange, March/April 1993, I found the following sets of scribbles, no doubt the brainchildren of a pre-writing exercise I practiced with a writing class. Context, I recall not, but somehow, the subject was coffee. I share them as artifacts of imagination, not sure today as I was not sure then which (if any) are/were suitable for publication.

Scribble 1

Caffeine kick
Opens my eyes
Frees the senses
For an
English teacher’s
Every morning

Scribble 2

Inky
black
sepia
java juice
aromatic nuggets, ground and brewed
Hand-picked by Juan Valdez
Good to the last drop
Ca c’est du bon cafe, ouai!

Scribble 3

Inky black
sepiatic fluid
java juice
brewed
from ground aromatic
kernels
hand-picked by Juan Valdez
the best part of waking up
Good to the last drop
Ca c’est du bon cafe, ouai!

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A NOLA Memoir: Cajun Rendezvous at the Roosevelt Hotel Blue Room Monday, May 20 2013

I’ve known about the Blue Room at the Roosevelt Hotel in New Orleans all my life. I grew up in the Greater NO area, of course. I recall, probably in the mid-60′s, often listening to WWL Radio on Friday nights when, at 8:00, the announcer introduced the weekly radio broadcast, exclaiming “Live, from the world famous Blue Room at the Roosevelt Hotel in New Orleans!” The live entertainment featured big band music (the Leon Kelner orchestra was the standy-by) as well as weekly guest celebrities from the local and national scene.

I didn’t listen much to the music, and I always got the impression that the Blue Room was a fancy joint, not the kind of place my social cast would frequent. Indeed, the clientele my imagination conjured wore tuxedos and formal ball room gowns. I could almost smell blue sinews of tobacco smoke that I imagined drifting lazily among the low lights of chandeliers as the Friday night romantics sipped martinis at tables in dimly-lit corners or swayed gracefully across the dance floor of the crowded room.

Several years ago on a New Orleans date trip not long after the Roosevelt had been refurbished, I finally got to see the Blue Room for real. My wife and I were looking for a brief air-conditioned retreat from the sultry sidewalks, so we ducked into the exotic Roosevelt Hotel lobby to gulp at the high class opulence and cool off at the same time. I decided to look for the Blue Room, that place I had heard of so many years earlier. At the far end of the lobby, there it was: Not as big as I imagined, but just as elegant and just as “blue” in terms of the color scheme. As I stood in the door to see what was going on, a hotel staffer came up to shoo me away since some private party was going on inside, but I got to stand there long enough to satisfy my curiosity.

Fast forward to this past Saturday. The wedding reception for my coozan-in-law’s daughter just married in an uptown church on St. Charles Avenue was at the Roosevelt. That sounded pretty cool. When my family arrived at the hotel after the wedding, I looked for the concierge to ask where the Fontenot-Brown reception was taking place, but luckily I ran into Coo-zan father-of-the-bride in the middle of the lobby and asked him where we were headed. He told me, “The last room on the left” as he pointed down the hall.

‘Gardes-y donc, all these home town Cajuns in the Blue Room of the Roosevelt Hotel!

Whoa! Really?

I knew that the last room down the hall was the Blue Room! Stunned, I asked him, for clarity, “You mean the Blue Room?”

“Yep,” he replied.

So on we ambled to the end of the lobby to join the festivity in this celebrated meeting room, really unique because the wedding celebrants were country Prairie Cajun folks. These were South Louisiana family and neighbors we live and work among, ordinary people who hardly resemble the New Orleans Garden District aristocrats that my mind always imagined frequenting this establishment. We had a blast hanging out with so many familiar family and friends in this exotic venue 165 miles east of more familiar, homey places.

As memorable as New Orleans is to me and my family, holding a life time of treasured memories and experiences from my earliest childhood to the wedding reception, this weekend past adds another highlight to my rich gallery of Crescent City remembrance.

“Hey, yi-yaille, mes amis, allons au Blue Room!”

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PooPoo Haiku on the joys of poopey-diaper-free grandparenting Wednesday, May 15 2013

And that sweet little baby hands you a wad of what?

Years ago before I was an adult, much less a parent, I remember my late Uncle Jack’s discourse on the subject of poopey diapers. “You’re aggravated because the kid just handed you a wad of sh___,” he began, “but when look down into that crib to change the diaper and you see that little smiling face, what do you do? You pick her up and hug her!”

I appreciated fully the folk wisdom in Uncle Jack’s tale when I grew up and raised my own poopey-diaper-makers. Diaper change was a bonding experience!

But along comes grandparenthood. To quote the celebrated poet of latter year, “Nevermore, quoth [I]!” Meaning, nevermore would I change a poopey diaper if I could in any way avoid it. That seems to be a deserved fringe benefit of grandparenthood, in consideration of all the poopey diapers I joyfully changed in my day. And I have been ever true to that resolution as a grandparent: Not once did I change a poopey diaper! I even composed a haiku verse that expresses the spirit of this season of life:

When rank fragrance blooms
From di’per-swaddled bottom,
Hand her to her mom!

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A sparkling assertion Monday, May 13 2013

Here ye, here ye: A sparkling assertion!

What follows is an experiment in pedantry.

If an assertion sparkles, it is true? Or does it evoke questions? And if questions the assertion does evoke, are the answers mightier than the questions? Let’s experiment with the following assertion, followed by a set of logical questions that could (or could not)ensue:

Assertion:
“I have lived so long that I will not die young.”

Questions
At what point does that assertion become a victorious proclamation?

Or rather does it sting like an angry wasp?
Or stink like an old lady’s moth balled cedar chest?
Or sink like an encumbered heart beset by life’s travail?
Or shrink like guilt before the chastening fire of justice?

Or simply slink quietly away once the one who proclaims this assertion realizes he proclaims his mortality?

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