Twigs, Twine and Chunky French Bread

And He said, “Come, follow me and I will make you fishers of men.” (Matthew 4:19)

Then Jesus declared, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry.” (John 6: 35)

“But whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life." (John 4:14)
We paused for a moment on the stone bridge overlooking the creek that runs through City Park. Unbeknownst to me, the Bug had brought along a knapsack with essentials: twine, pipe cleaners, chunks of bread and scissors. She and the Pea scouted for sticks and constructed two twig fishing rods. On the end of the twine, the Bug fashioned a pipe cleaner hook of sorts and plunged the wire into a piece of bread. The Pea followed suit and then hurled her line into the creek.
The bread promptly fell off the hook and the fish delighted in a free meal. The kids repeated the process, attaching more bread, casting the line over the bridge into the water. Again, the soaked bread released itself from the hook, and the fish nibbled freely on the food. The third time, the children cut off the pipe cleaner hook completely. They tied the twine around the piece of bread itself and dropped the bait into the water. The fish, now contentedly full from their earlier meal, scattered to parts unknown.
The children were not dismayed. They abandoned the rods, and then abandoned their shoes. They sprinkled some bread into the water, attracting a new crowd of minnows. The Bug slid up to the water’s edge, cupped her hands, and dipped them into the creek. No dice. She stepped a bit further onto the muddy bank, cupped her hands, and this time scooped up some tiny fish. “MOM! Look! I caught some fish! I caught some fish!” (Not to be outdone, the Pea squelched through the mud, squatted to her knees, and scooped up a handful of sludge complete with snails and algae). They tossed their treasures back into the creek, grabbed their rods and knapsack, and we headed inside for a cool drink of water.
Perhaps there’s a parallel in our little fishing story. As followers of Christ, we are to be “fishers of men,” and share “the bread of life” or, in other words, share our personal Jesus-story with others so they may receive God’s grace and follow Christ, too. It’s not always going to be pretty. Sometimes we need to roll up our sleeves, take off our sandals, and get a little muddy sharing the bread with our neighbors. We need to put our whole selves into the process, let our hands be God’s hands, share Jesus and then release the new Christians back out into the world, in turn, as witnesses with their Jesus-stories. And, not to be forgotten, refresh with drinks of water. Of “living water” provided by our Lord and Savior.

The Good-As-New Car's Cover

I’m not used to having trees in the yard. Our home in Kentucky was in a fairly new neighborhood, and the trees were little saplings compared to New Orleans trees. The trees in this yard are beyond beautiful. From what I’m told, they are among the first on this street. Their branches tower overhead and make an archway from the driveway, over the walkway, over the porch, to the roof. It is always shady in our front yard. In the back yard where we live, there is a lovely tree that overhangs from the neighbor’s yard providing shade and endless “secret-fort” playtime for the Bug and the Pea. The roots burst up from the ground forming a labyrinth of canals. I love to sit on the covered patio during a rainstorm and watch the showers of water cascade down the branches onto the roots below, creating muddy puddles. (Also a favorite moment for the kiddos, dancing in the rain under the tree branches. Spinning circles with their arms outstretched until they collapse into the wet grass, dizzy and giggling.)
We’re also fond of watching the wildlife. Mourning doves, and other birds perch on boughs overhead. Lizards scurry along the picket fence beneath the trees. Squirrels jet up and down the tree trunks, using branches as bridges from one tree to the next.
I park my car under the shade of the tree arch, in the driveway. The creatures of the air are especially fond of my automobile. They show their appreciation by pooping on the windshield, the car’s “sky light,” and the hood. Sometimes, an especially clever bird will figure out how to deliver droppings down the passenger and driver side windows. I realize they can’t help it. (Or can they?) Nevertheless, my white car is splattered with bird poopy on a fairly regular basis. The kids take great joy in this fact. They know it means we’ll visit the gas station often to use the windshield cleaner scraper tool. You would not believe the zeal shown by the girls as they wield the squeegee, dip it in water, splash it on the windshield and scrape away the birdie doo-doo.
Nevertheless, it was time to hit the car wash for some heavy duty scrubbing. I was running some errands and I happened to see a fellow holding a sign that said: Car Wash $20. I usually run the car through the automatic car wash, so $20 was a bit steeper than usual. But, what the hey? My poor car was in dire straights. The gentleman took one look at my car and tried not to faint from pure mortification. “What I’d suggest,” he began as he walked around the car, “is The Works.” Now THAT sounded like a plan. Unfortunately, I was informed that said “Works” cost $400. I tried not to laugh in the poor gentleman’s face. How was he to know I just spent well over a thousand dollars repairing my poor 1998 vehicle?
I put on a straight face and asked for something more in the “Let’s just get off the baked-on bird poop” category. He talked me up to a carpet shampoo and a car wash, and we both felt satisfied with the arrangement. I handed him the keys and stepped inside to await the finished product. The husband called and I told him he was going to see a Good As New Car when he came home. He suggested I purchase an inexpensive cover to keep said Good As New Car, well, good as new. A little preventative measure to preserve the cleanliness.
The fellows worked like dogs in the hot sun scrubbing and vacuuming and wiping down the windows on my car. It felt wonderful to drive off in a car that was actually white and not splattered with dirt, dust, and do-do. In fact, I felt so confident I drove straight to pick up a car cover and then back home in time to meet the kids at the bus stop.
The Bug and the Pea immediately noticed the Good As New Car. I imagine this was because their feet didn’t actually stick to the floor mats and their hineys weren’t surrounded by crumbs and wadded up pieces of paper in the back seat. We ran some errands together, and grabbed some Chik-fil-a nuggets on the ride home. The Bug was “starving” after her school day, and couldn’t wait until we got home to tear open the box of nuggets. (Breaded processed chicken products dipped in a sugary and/or mustard sauce = heaven in the Bug’s world.) She opened her favorite bright red Polynesian dipping sauce and began her meal. As we were pulling into the driveway, she squeals, “Mama! I spilt the whole package of sauce down the seat and on the floor! I don’t have enough napkins to clean it all up!”
Needless to say, I spent the next few minutes re-cleaning my Good As New Car. Scrubbing floor mats as the Bug sprayed cleaner on the seats and wiped with paper towels. As we concluded our job, and headed under the archway toward the front door we both heard the SPLAT. I turned around in time to see bird poopy cascading down the windshield. A christening of sorts. And I continued to head inside in search of the newly purchased car cover…

The Yellow Bus O' Mercy...

It’s truly the most wonderful time of the year. Back to school. Sending two cute, but ornery, little cherubs back to the hallowed halls of learning. The time in which my sanity begins to return and some semblance of peace and quiet settles upon me. Ah...silence…deep cleansing breath. OK, that wasn’t much of a dramatic re-enactment because the children are actually home as I write this. They have constructed elephant trunks out of pipe-cleaners and are tromping through the house in search of peanuts. I must say, for two relatively small children, they do sound a lot like elephants. Now the youngest announces, “Look! I’m training her for the circus!” I watch as the Bug rolls a rather awkward somersault and is rewarded by the Pea with a bowl of pretzels. All righty then. But I digress….
The girls are especially excited about the school bus this year. They are on, and I quote, “The Party Bus!” Complete with speakers in the back, star stickers on the ceiling, tinted windows and, gasp, air conditioning. (I know! Here in New Orleans in August. We weren’t used to air conditioned buses in Kentucky, it’s certainly worthy of writing home about.) Unfortunately, I am informed that the “disco ball” was removed from the bus last year. Oh well, easy come easy go.
The husband was listening to this exchange when he proclaimed in true “grumpy old man” tone: “Well! In my day, the only thing the bus driver carried was a 2 x 4!” This commentary induced immediate questions from the children. Why Daddy? They wanted to know. Why did your bus driver carry a wooden board and not a disco ball? (Which, considering we’re talking about the Stayin’ Alive era of the 1970’s is actually a valid question. HA)
Anyhoooo, my new favorite part of the day is bus arrival time. I deposit two uniform-clad youngsters, laden with lunch boxes and back-packs at our designated neighborhood intersection, i.e. bus stop. (I am reminded of walking with my little brother one block up and one block over to our bus stop when I was in 3rd grade. Too bad I can’t send my babies toting along on their own these days. It was quite a feeling of independence walking to the bus with our classmates/neighbor kiddos.) They squeal when they see a yellow image in the distance. This first week of school bus routes are still being perfected. In other words, the bus has been running uncharacteristically behind. The children are not quite certain that the bus WILL actually be picking them up regularly, and it’s always a surprise when the bus does actually show. On this particular morning, the first squeal revealed only a rather broken down pick-up truck filled with building materials. I was tempted to load the girls up anyway, but decided to wait until the actual school bus arrived.
Once I send the kids packing, I head back to the house and get busy unpacking. I know, I’m like a broken record. But THIS week, THIS WEEK, I tell you, I am going to completely finish the inside of the house and visitors will be able to walk from one end to the other without tripping over moving boxes and piles of junk. Good Will has become my new best friend. I know the drill. Pull up, unload, put beside the counter, take a pre-printed receipt, mark my zip code, head back to the house for a second load.
In the afternoon, at the allotted time, I head to the bus stop to pick up the returning cherubs. I watch as they bounce off the bus, wave to their friends, figure out that the bus driver is signaling them to MOVE out of the middle of the street and find me. “You’re not going to recognize the office!” I say excitedly. I’m all about affirmation, and there’s nothing like hearing a compliment to reaffirm my hard work. We walk into the house, the kids head to the office, and announce, “Gosh Mom. It looks exactly the same as when we left this morning.” WOW. I got nothing. I have sweated, toiled, lifted, sorted, unpacked, organized for 7 consecutive hours. I mean, this morning human beings could not physically fit into the office, and now it is organized such that my OCD self does not immediately begin to hyperventilate at the mere sight. Oh well. Perhaps the husband will notice.
If he can get past the little elephant being trained for the circus with the bowl o’ pretzels. And I’ll begin to count the moments until that bright yellow Bus of Mercy comes to pick up my two legged animals tomorrow morning...

Top 10 Reasons My Life Is Still In Boxes

Top Ten Reasons Why My Life Is Still In Boxes
On The One Month Anniversary Of Our Move-In DateWhen one moves into a house half the size of one’s previous home, it becomes necessary to do some massive purging in order to, well, fit. And thankfully, the old adage, “out of sight, out of mind” is true. Aside from 2 car loads of clothing we brought to New Orleans, we haven’t seen, or really thought much about our earthly possessions for 7 months. The bottom line is: we just don’t NEED so much stuff. Furthermore, over my dead body are we going to PAY to store said stuff “off location.” Which leads to my executive decision: Most Must Go. I keep repeating this to myself as scissors slice through the packing tape.
However, when one is a bit of a pack-rat herself, and when one lives with 3 additional pack-rats, it becomes essential to sort and dispose/donate/organize alone. Otherwise, hearts are broken.
“MOM! I can’t believe you threw away the Easter basket made out of a plastic milk jug that I created when I was a Green Frog in Pre-School! I know it was torn up, and most of the plastic Easter grass was gone and a juice box leaked in it and a piece of chewing gum was stuck to the bottom, but I was looking through the trash and I FOUND it! I am going to put this on my dresser and never speak to you again!”
So, forging ahead, my plan has been to find three containers and place them in front of me as I sort. KEEP, TRASH, and DONATE. For example, framed college diploma – KEEP. Torn magazine from 2008 – TRASH. Two Piece Swimsuit circa college years – DONATE.
Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to accomplish nearly as much as I had hoped to accomplish by this point. In fact, today is the one month anniversary of our Move-In-Date, and the house looks even more cluttered than when we arrived. (A fact that overwhelms my OCD brain and threatens to throw me into shut-down mode.)
Anyhooooooo, I am full of excuses. But here are the Top Ten Reasons My Life Is Still In Boxes:

10. When flushing the potty in the master bathroom, water seeped out from the bottom of the toilet flooding the tiles while gross gunk simultaneously shot up from the drain in the kids’ bath tub. Apparently, sewer lines “busting” under the cement slab is not uncommon in the area.
9. It’s particularly challenging to pack up bits of what you’ve recently unpacked to stay at a hotel in order to have access to a working shower and toilet. (And hard to unpack boxes when you are not actually in your home at the time.)
8. Even more difficult to find an unbooked hotel room at the last minute the Friday evening before a holiday weekend when said sewer line busted. Upon which it becomes necessary to switch places a time or two and become familiar with pull-out cots throughout our “Fourth of July Stay-cation”.
7. Challenging to watch the diggers place a pile of dirt as tall as the single-car garage entrance in front of said garage entrance (and thereby kissing goodbye any hope of opening the garage in the near future) where I had been sorting through ceiling high stacks of boxes and “hiding” a large Good Will stash from the kiddos.
6. It’s difficult to balance fun activities (hitting the zoo, aquarium, insectariums, park, movies) with the time needed to organize at home and still maintain semi-sane children (and Mom) during Summer Break.
5. It’s also difficult to unpack when children are on said Summer Break and decide to reside underfoot and make commentary while I attempt to sort (and subsequently trip over them).
4. It’s a challenge to leave the house and drive to Mickey D’s every time one of us needs a Potty Break.
3. While attempting to save some money after a lot of “eating out” during our hotel “stay-cation,” I decide to pop a frozen pizza in the oven at the house. Turns out the oven is broken. It’s difficult to phone your new landlady and make her aware of this most recent situation. Especially when said oven is a special size circa 1950 that will need to be special ordered.
2. It’s a challenge to unpack when I must prevent two little girls from clawing each other’s eyes out while in a confined space. Especially when one introverted child prefers reading alone while one extraverted child wants to play together at all times.
And the number one reason why my life is still in boxes on this one month anniversary of our move-in date is:
1. The Bug and The Pea don’t believe me when I say “unpacking” is our great Summer Adventure of 2011, especially when 2010’s adventure included traveling to Europe.


Anyhoooooo, for the moment the children are playing peacefully together. On our patio, a large box undergoes a metamorphosis in which it becomes a fleur-de-lis/striped rocket ship. And while the Bug and the Pea use their imagination to journey on a great Summer Adventure of 2011 in outer space, I shall head back to work. Unpacking, sorting, piling up donations so that we will once again have some space in which to live.

In Which I Become A More Than Middle Aged Mom

So the school year is wrapping up, and I find myself a middle aged woman. Well, OLDER than middle aged, according to the Pea during a recent car ride, “Mom, you’re not middle aged. Middle aged is 30, you’re way older than that.” Fortunately for the child, I was behind the wheel of an automobile at the time. As such, I was forced to remain responsible and keep driving forward with my eyes on the road and not, say, boring a hole into her head with “THE LOOK.” But I digress.
When the children relay their activities, I find myself saying, “Really? Well, in MY day…” (I’m serious, I truly catch myself saying that, and feeling as if I’m a grumpy old man complaining about having to walk uphill both ways, to school.) This week, my 9 year old dissected a frog. “Really? Well, in MY day we were sophomores in high school before we ever dissected a frog!” The Bug rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s not like we weren’t prepared Mom. I mean, we did a virtual frog dissection last Monday on our IPad. “Really? Well, in MY day we didn’t even imagine there would be such a thing as a personal computer!”
Anyhooo, in the interest of parental involvement, I volunteered to help supervise the whole “Frog Dissection” event. For anyone who knows me, this is a BIG deal. I don’t do blood. (See any of my previous blog posts, preferably August 2009’s “I Vant Yore Blood.”) However, I remembered from my sophomore year, oh so long ago, there isn’t any blood in a frog dissection. Lots of stinky formaldehyde, but no oozing blood. I felt sure I’d be a fine example for my child, who worried she’d feel too queasy to participate. “Oh, you’ll love it!” I gushed, “It’s so fascinating!” (In the interest of full disclosure, dear reader, you should be aware I uttered this encouragement in the dark while kissing the Bug goodnight, and she could not actually see my expression of terror).
I strolled into the classroom full of confidence. I put on protective gloves, I assisted the kids with their protective goggles, I even donned a lab coat. (Oh yeah, just how I roll.) I was fine handing out trays, I was fine handing out scalpels, and scissors. I was fine viewing the bag o’ frogs. (Literally, a ginormous zip-lock-ish bag full of dead frogs in a pool of chemical preservatives.) I developed a series of strategies, back up plans, as it were, should nausea enter the scene. First, I would look directly into my daughter’s eyes, and only into her eyes, when encouraging. Second, I would record the event with snapshots. Snapshots taken by holding the camera above my kid’s head and pointing only the lens down toward the frog. If all else failed, I would look across the room and pretend to be receiving further instructions from the teacher.
The little Bug sliced the frog’s skin down the middle of the torso, and pulled apart the sections. “LOOK MOM! There’s the heart! And the intestines!”
I look my daughter in the eyes, “Excellent! What’s next?”
“Mom, come closer, you’re standing too far away. Touch the frog!”
I excuse myself to the hallway and “help” some children get a drink of water. I chat with the passing teachers, parents, students, maintenance workers, basically any and all unlucky souls wandering by me on the third floor.
My gloved, goggled Bug peeks out the doorway, “MOM! You’re missing EVERYTHING!”
I slunk back inside the room, “How about some photographs of my little surgeon in training?”
“Take pictures of this heart,” tweezers with said heart shoved toward camera lens, “and the liver, and the stomach, and the intestines!” It would have been a miracle if anything was captured on film as my eyes were fixed on the ceiling. I figured it was about time to wrap things up. I went ahead and removed my gloves, my lab coat, tried to find my car keys.
“MOM! I did it! I got the brain out!” shouts my enraptured daughter. Tweezers in air, grasping tight to the frog’s membrane. Oh joy. I excused myself once again to the hall to “help” children get a drink of water.
Sure, the teachers saw right through me, as did the other parents present. But that’s OK. My little Bug knew I was there to support new endeavors. Baby steps in an honest effort to help my baby. To cheer as she explores where she will fit in when she grows up. Her role, contributing to human kind. Perhaps in a profession so very distant from what I would have ever attempted to accomplish. My little one, who is rapidly becoming more of a brain surgeon than a baby girl.
And maybe one afternoon, when my grown daughter instructs a class regarding the genetic intricacies of chromosomes, she’ll catch herself saying, “Really? Well, in my day, we performed lab work on frogs! And look how far we’ve come….”

Charter Members of The NONO Club

A week ago today, a group of Kentucky friends descended upon the great city of New Orleans. For the following four days, the eleven of us were Total Tourists. (Particularly my children, who could not be persuaded to remove their Minnie Mouse hats, tie-dyed T-shirts, tube socks and tennis shoes.) I’m talking cameras, backpacks, the works. We rode in a wagon behind Sugar Daddy the Horse touring the French Quarter. (“Mama, what’s a Sugar Daddy?”) We swallowed chargrilled oysters at Acme, muffelatas at Central Grocery, crab cheesecake at Palace Cafe. We climbed Oaks at City Park, fed alligators on a Swamp Tour, danced on Royal to Smoking Time Jazz Club. We strolled Audobon Park, rode the Street Car, ate King Cake at Mardi Gras World. We devoured in excess of 40 powdered sugar covered beignets at Café DuMonde. We even let the kids buy balloon animals from Checkers the Clown on Jackson Square. (A treat we’d previously refused the Bug and the Pea so many times, they dared not ask with company in town.)
“Where are you from?” asked Checkers.
“KENTUCKY!” the audience answered, in unison.
“Well, she’s from here,” added my friend, M.H.R., pointing toward me. Checkers raised an eyebrow.
“But I just moved here! I’m practically a tourist too.” I spoke in my defense. (Checkers answered, “Geez, well I’m from Nancy, that’s my Mom.”)
In retrospect, my reply must have appeared I was denying ties with New Orleans. Quite the opposite! I merely desired to be respectful. Being “from” New Orleans is nothing short of a badge of honor. A badge proudly worn by natives. Although I’ve established residency here, I cannot accurately claim I am “from” here. This local/native conundrum is a fascinating thought to ponder.
Before the move, I conferred with another NOLA transplant, L.G. on the phone. A sweet gal who grew up within an hour’s drive of where I lived in Kentucky. She told me how she’d been living in New Orleans over half her life, and how she hoped she would never leave. Her genuine love for the city was, and is, contagious. In fact, I’m quite sure the story of her son upon the shoulders of her husband during a Mardi Gras parade “sealed the deal” as far as my vote to go ahead with our family’s move. Yet, she wasn’t pulling any punches, she vividly described two hurricane evacuations. The first, during Katrina, with her infant daughter in tow. The second, during Gustav, nine months pregnant with her son, scheduled to deliver any moment. She made it safely to Baton Rouge, where her son was born.
“So,” she concluded, “Our daughter is the only one of us who is a native New Orleanean.”
“But, your son has lived here all his life, and you guys have lived here most of your life,” I said.
“True, but he was born in Baton Rouge.”
“But then you came right back to New Orleans,” I stated. (I mean SERIOUSLY, we’re just talking a matter of days or weeks, right?)
“True, but he was born in Baton Rouge.” Sweet, sweet L.G. persisted.
I had to smile, and still do when I remember our seemingly nonsensical circular debate. I smile now, because I UNDERSTAND. I see exactly what she means. Around here, if you were born in New Orleans… specifically the Orleans Parish… only then may you claim “native” status. Otherwise, you are welcome to love and adore the city, but you ain’t native, that’s for darn sure. (“Who’s your Mom? Where did you go to school? No, not college, high school?”)
This afternoon I strolled along the Mississippi, listening to live jazz musicians and enjoying my first Spinach & Crawfish Boat. I was speaking with a new friend, whom I had just been introduced to. He pointed out all of the “must see” events within The French Quarter Festival. (Or perhaps I should say, the “must eat” stations, as he was quite the Sensei when it came to selecting culinary extravaganzas, but I digress.) He had been to the festival each year since it’s conception, and multitudes of different festivals before that, dating back to when he was a child.
“Oh, you must be a native!” I exclaimed.
“No, no, I was born about 45 minutes away from New Orleans. But I always wanted to live here. So after college, I went to graduate school here, and then moved. But, I’m not from here,” he corrected.
I mentioned I found the conundrum fascinating. He replied we ought to start a support group. For folks like us, transplanted to the Crescent City at some point after birth (and often after high school…gasp). For folks who fell head over heels in love with everything that is New Orleans…the food, the music, the people, the spirit…and desire to claim the city as their own. A kind of club, for those Not Of New Orleans.
The NONO Club. And we could be the charter members.
So the next time I find myself in the French Quarter, (dusting off excess powdered sugar from the Mardi Gras beads dangling around my neck as I stow away my camera in a fanny-pack so I can flag down Sugar Daddy for a tour) I’ll look up ol’ Checkers the Clown.
And when he asks where I’m from, I will proudly reply: “I’m from Cindy, she’s my Mom.”

Duct Tape, Name Tags & Restroom Stalls...

There is no doubt in my mind a mere fraction of this story is credible, however it made for interesting conversation during this morning’s drive to elementary school:

Me: Where’s your ID badge?
Pea: In the basket at school.
Me: That’s a good idea, then the badges can stay fresh for the next day.
Pea: But they DON'T! Because there’s this boy who takes scissors and cuts them all in half.
Bug: (a.k.a. my innocent and gullible child) No! How does he do that?
Pea: In the restroom. In the second stall, the one without the lock.
Bug: The stall with all the…bad words... written in pencil?
Pea: Yes, he writes the bad words on the wall everyday and then cuts up name tags!
Bug: Do you have to glue your badge back together?
Pea: (And my little Kentucky girl shines through…) We just use duck tape.
Bug: What color duck tape, the black color or the gray color.
Pea: Gray. Everyone’s ID badge is taped together with gray duck tape and put in a basket.
Bug: I saw D word and the S word in the bathroom!
Me: (Slight panic, but remaining silent to encourage conversation, as the two have forgotten I am in the car at all, let alone driving.)
Pea: Did you see the F word? (shrinks to a whisper) F-U-N-K-Y.
Bug: Funky? Why is that a bad word?
Pea: BECAUSE.
Bug: Well, it’s not as bad as the D word (shrinks to a whisper) You know, D-U-M-B. Or the S word (whisper) S-T-U…I’m not even going to say the rest!
Pea: At least the kid who wrote it gets detention every single day. He has to sit in the classroom. But the bad thing is, he sits near the BASKET.
Bug: The basket of name badges!
Pea: Yes. And it will only be a matter of time before he finds more scissors and starts cutting them in half again!
Bug: (gasp) Maybe this time you can use a different color of duck tape to fix them.

The Writing On The Wall

“If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to save us from it, and he will RESCUE us from your hand, O King. But EVEN IF HE DOES NOT, we want you to know, O King, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.”
Daniel 3:17From what I’ve been told, one cannot possibly be rescued until one completely gives up. Not give up hope, but rather give up self-effort to save one’s self. My brother spent several summers as a youth camp counselor. He was trained as a lifeguard, among other supervisor and survival skills. I was fascinated to learn a struggling swimmer cannot be rescued. If a lifeguard approaches a drowning victim, and that victim is thrashing her arms and legs about in an attempt to save herself, she cannot be rescued. Only at the point when the sinking swimmer stops her own efforts can she be saved. Once she completely surrenders control of herself to the lifeguard, she can be saved from herself, rescued from the abyss.
Parts of Isaiah overlap chronologically with the book of Daniel. As you know, I’ve been into the books of prophecy lately. And Daniel is a particularly mesmerizing character. He interprets dreams, and supernatural writing on the wall of the palace. So I was reading Daniel the other night, it’s a short book, only a few chapters. I was trying to absorb the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, three Jewish men who were chosen to enter King Nebuchadnezzar’s service after the king captured Jerusalem. When the three refused to worship an idol of gold, they were thrown into a fiery furnace. I’ve heard this story a million times, maybe more. But the reply of the three men never really struck me until now. Their trust in the LORD is so powerful, they proclaim: “Our God CAN save us, but even if He chooses NOT TO rescue us, we will worship Him alone, we refuse to worship any false god”. It’s that last part that hit me. The “even if God does not” rescue us part.
I want to have that kind of trust in the LORD. A faith so powerful I recognize the sovereignty of God’s plans over my plans, and worship Him even when He chooses NOT to rescue me according to my request. I want to stop thrashing about, trying to save myself, and surrender to His rescue, even when that rescue appears nothing like a rescue at all. Even when that rescue involves the world crashing down around me and those I love most.
And so I was pondering these things this past week. Where I found myself sobbing uncontrollably in a dark corner of The Happiest Place On Earth while my husband, the Bug and The Pea were waiting in line for a roller coaster. But that is another essay for another time. And I began to feel, (to know?) that God was not going to deliver me according to my wishes, my pleas. He is able to, but this time, He will choose not to. The rescue will come in the form of a peace, a peace regardless of circumstances. And I so desperately desire to trust my sovereign Lord.
We had a late flight home yesterday, so the four of us spent the morning doing some last minute souvenir shopping. All of a sudden the Pea grabbed my hand and shouted, “LOOK MOMMY!” as she pointed toward the sky. I glanced up to see a small jet writing letters with white condensation cast against the blue heavens. We took a seat on a nearby bench and watched as the pilot finished his thoughts, one puffy letter at a time. JESUS LOVES, he wrote. We continued on to lunch, and headed toward the shuttle for our return trip to the airport. As I climbed on the bus, I took one last look back toward what we were leaving, as we returned to our reality. And in the sky I saw my own writing on the wall, quite literally, as the pilot traced another thought: TRUST JESUS.

Paranoid Parade Preparation & Permanent Pens...

“Even these may forget. Yet, I will not forget you.
See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands”.
(Isaiah 49:16) Rookie as I am, I was more than a bit concerned that my curious young ‘uns would wander off. After all, this was our first Mardi Gras parade, and there would be LOTS of people there. What if my kids reached out to catch a strand of beads, turned back around, and couldn’t find us?
As such, I prepared a bit differently than I would for our usual outings. Step 1 of Paranoid Parade Preparation: we ALL wore the same thing. All of us donned purple, gold and green tie-dyed T-shirts. (“Yes Officer! She was right here! I just turned away for a second! Her shirt looks like this!” I screech as he eyes the rest of my family in identical apparel.)
Those who know me well realize I’m fond of buying pairs of clothes for trips. Two of everything. Then I dress the kids alike each day of our journey, especially when large crowds are involved. Of course, the Bug & the Pea are so accustomed to the routine, they realize complaining will do no good.
“Yes dear, I know you’d rather wear your leotard and flip-flops, but it’s easier for me to keep track of you if you’re both wearing this purple shirt and skort.”
The kids are well rehearsed, they usually smile and shake their head when folks comment. Sometimes my ploy backfires substantially. For instance, we’re standing in the eternally long line for the public women’s restroom in a rest area.
“Oh look Ethel! Twins!” says the lady bent over the cane, pointing to the Bug & the Pea with a crooked finger.
Ethel smiles and joins in, “Oh, look at the oldest, with that curly hair!”
The Bug replies with her standard, “Oh we’re not twins. Mom just likes to keep track of us.”
The Pea is quick to add, “I am taller, but I am NOT the oldest, I’m the youngest!”
The Bug furls her eyebrows, clinches her fist and punches her sister. Before you know it, we have a knock-down drag out in the rest area restroom in front of shocked, well-meaning strangers. But I digress…
Ornery as the girls are, they are my own. They belong to me, I love them, and I’m in charge of taking care of them. Step 2 as far as Paranoid Parade Preparation involved a permanent Sharpie marker. I gently held the Bug’s squirmy hand in mine and wrote my name and my cell phone number. I figured if they got lost, and panicked, they wouldn’t have to remember who to call and how, because all they needed would already be written on their hand. (The Pea wasn’t satisfied with having my name and number only on her hand. She grabbed the marker and proceeded to scrawl ginormous numbers down both legs and arms until she was an inky mess. “Look Mom! It’s even on my knees!” Oy.)
A few weeks ago, I saw Toy Story I & II for the first time. (I know, I’m really on top of the whole current movie situation, huh?) Toward the end of the sequel, Woody is faced with two astronaut toys that look identical. He tries to figure out which one is the REAL Buzz, his best friend. Buzz thinks fast, and lifts up his plastic boot for Woody to see the inscription: ANDY. Woody and Buzz both belonged to a little boy named Andy, and Andy had marked each toy to identify ownership.
There’s a verse in Isaiah where the LORD is assuring the people of Israel that they are His chosen ones, they belong to Him. They have been disobedient and downright ornery, and they will face the consequences. But the LORD will bless them, comfort them, and renew them. Isaiah, the prophet, predicts the response in chapter 44:5:
“One will say, ‘I belong to the LORD;
…still another will write on his hand, ‘The LORD’s,’
And will take the name Israel.” I love the idea of my name being inscribed in the Lord’s palm, and of me writing the name of the Lord on my own hand. It speaks to love, and belonging, and comfort, and hope in the midst of crisis. How much more powerful than the inked cell phone number of a parent is the engraving of our Sovereign Heavenly Father?
Long story…well, long: we had a lovely time at our first Mardi Gras parade, especially now that we call New Orleans our home. Perfectly safe and sound, separated only as the kids joined forces with newly met friends for jump-roping and a game of tag. And we caught hundreds of strands of beads, candy, and toys tossed from the beautiful floats as they glided down the streets. Amidst the throng of spectators, cheering and laughing and sipping Snow Balls.
And if you, too, were a parade-goer, and were paying extra special attention, you may have noticed two ornery little girls, in purple/green/gold tie-dyed t-shirts, lips bright blue from snow balls, carrying make-shift jump ropes of broken bead strands, covered from head to toe grass and sand from a game of tag, , so many beads around their neck that they could barely hold their head up as they leaped into the air, arms up, begging for more toys.
Those little ones, with permanent marker ink scribbled on their hands?
Well, those were my girls, they belong to me…

Embracing NOLA a.k.a Get Me To Kwee Must Wee Lodge

My newest mantra has been: Embrace New Orleans. Sure, it’s different from what this Kentucky girl is used to, but that’s OK, I tell myself. Embrace it! I chant this when my pesky “creature of habit” excuses begin to surface. In most cases, my embrace-ometer already boasts a 10 in terms of how well I’m adjusting to my new digs.
For example, jogging along Lake Ponchartrain, in shorts, in February as opposed to facing the brutal wintry-mix elements for a run (and I use that term loosely) around the neighborhood. Easily embraced difference.
French doors, shutters, balcony and palm trees…easy 10.
One way streets, U-turns, round-about expressway intersections, 4 way stops mixed with 2 way stops, traveling to the neutral ground between opposite one way streets and waiting for a green light to continue…I’d say 6-ish. I’m learning, slowly but surely. (“Moooooom! How come so many other cars honk at us?”)
I’m desperately trying to embrace seafood. For a gal whose sole fish intake, until now, has been tuna salad sandwiches…this is a challenge. The whole “not a fan of fish” thing is also a big “no no” in N.O., where shrimp, lobster, craw fish and oysters are specialties. However, I adore spicy food. And the spicy-seafood combo does much to woo this Kentucky girl. In fact, I’d like the records to show I enjoyed a shrimp etouffee on Monday. Yet, as far as embracing seafood, I’d say I’m about a 3 on the ol’ embrace-ometer.
Carnival season is in full swing and this family plans to embrace all that is Mardi Gras. The Pea, to her eternal delight, has been chosen to participate in her Academy’s Royal Court. (I must confess, I had to check out a library book to garner details on this tradition. I’m a rookie, it’s obvious.) Apparently each of the krewes (which is kind of like a group of folks who put together different parades) selects a King and Queen and Royal Court. Said royalty dons crowns, tiaras, sashes, scepters and even gets to ride on a special float in that krewe’s parade. There is also a Royal Ball, attended only by the Court and a few honored guests.
The Sweet Pea (basically needing a chauffeur) has invited me, the husband and the Bug to join her highness at the Ball. As such, we are encouraged to dress accordingly. The Husband, as I’ve mentioned before, is quite a “keeper.” He single-handedly chose and purchased lovely dresses for the girls to wear. A fact that is impressive on two accounts: 1.) the girls and I were not with him at the time and 2.) seriously, this is my husband we’re talking about, who’d have thought a few episodes of What Not To Wear could have prepared him to pick out perfectly appropriate formal attire for the children? But I digress. So, the kids are all set, the Husband has a dark suit, that just leaves me.
In a stroke of genius, Mom threw in a purple dress from my closet in KY when she came to visit this past weekend. (As I’ve mentioned before, I brought one suitcase of winter clothes, and I’m thinking my torn blue jeans and sweatshirt circa 1980 ain’t gonna cut it.) So my problem now. Well, my challenge, is to be able to zip up said dress come next Wednesday. Thus my recent desire to resume running and coexist solely on lettuce wedges. Namely because, aside from shell fish, I’ve been embracing New Orleans cuisine with much gusto. (Seriously, cheese fries topped with gravy, these are my PEOPLE!)
When the folks arrived last week, Mom took it upon herself to find “throws” for the girls. Throws are not to be confused with small blankets or pillows, “throws” during carnival season refer to objects jettisoned to onlookers from atop floats during parades. She’d read up on all things Mardi Gras, and was prepared to stockpile beads and moon pies.
While browsing through the French Quarter, we noticed the prices of bead strands. Generally a few dollars each, some strands close to $10. I quickly did the math in my head: we could afford one strand of beads, the kids would have to share, perhaps they could toss individual beads to the onlookers? Wait, no, that’s not gonna work.
Later that evening, Mom and I happened upon a native New Orleanian. Or perhaps a gentleman who had lived in town for some time, and was familiar with the area. At the time I was showing Mom our double-decker Target. (Because, seriously, for this KY girl, paying homage to a two story Target – with it’s own escalator for shopping carts – and it’s own parking garage – is just slightly below the French Quarter in terms of tourist attractions.) Anyhooooo, we were looking through the seasonal items and frowning at the price of individual bead strands. Mom wondered aloud, “Where do you go to get throws? Does everyone just buy them individually?” The Asian gentleman beside us looked both ways. Once the coast was clear, he leaned closer.
He whispered, “Across street.”
Mom and I exchanged glances. “We can buy throws in bulk across the street?”
Our new BFF nodded. “They specialty. You go to Kwee Must Wee Lodge.” And then, like a spy in the night, he sped quietly away.
With this new found information, we headed toward the parking lot. (OK, technically we checked out a huge cart of things we just HAD to have…and then we got in the car.) We were determined to load up on throws at this magical Little Lodge and bulk bead store. I drove across the street…U-turn, stop light, drive to middle, stop light, one way street, two way stop…only a single honk. And lo and behold, the neon marquee we’d been searching for: Christmas Village. (Who’d have thunk it?)
Sufficed to say, I have a trunk full of multi-colored strands of shiny beads for the girls to toss during their school’s parade. (Heaven forbid I alert the kids to the presence of said beads until the very last minute, or else I’ll subject myself to the individual counting and dividing of hundreds of strands. “Wait! That’s mine! That will make my 103rd purple necklace!” “No! That’s mine! I only have 206 green necklaces!”)
Anyhoooooo, carnival celebration will be in full force this coming weekend. And we plan to be on the parade sidelines, arms in the air, gathering beads and moon pies and gadgets galore. Events which are sure to top out at 10 on the ol’ embrace-ometer. The four of us will embrace this wonderful season of carnival: Royal Court, tiaras, throws, gowns, parades, floats, crowds, and maybe even a double order of gravy topped cheese fries at R&O’s up the street.
(Well, AFTER I zip up my dress for the ball…)

In Which I'm Rescued From Embarrassment

My youngest daughter’s looks of pity are hardly disguised. She sighs as if the weight of the world rests upon her shoulders.
“Really, Mom? Is THAT what you’re wearing? It's so EMBARRASSING!”
Her eyebrows furrow and she scampers upstairs to the wooden wardrobe in my bedroom. The lovely closet serves two very distinct purposes: 1.) It holds the extent of my wardrobe – one suitcase full of clothes from Kentucky, and 2.) It provides the perfect Narnian storybook hiding place for the Pea.
On this particular evening, the child flings open the double doors in mock despair. She sorts through the blouses (3), the pants (3) the skirt (1) and the dresses (2). She pulls out the black dress with the green and blue polka-dots. She tosses the newly chosen outfit upon the bed and scurries away.
With slight pause, I change out of my uniform – my favorite chocolate colored cargo pants and my prized bohemian-esque tunic TJ Maxx clearance item circa 1999. (I only hope my friends will recognize me in something else, I skulk.)
I hear activity in the bathroom across the hall. I peak in to say “goodbye.” The Pea continues to organize an impromptu work area. Toothpaste, comb, floss, deodorant (Teen Spirit), hair de-tangler (strawberry scented), mascara, hand soap, baby powder, box o’ makeup, mirror, tissues. Glancing my way, she preempts the objection with an appropriate rebuttal: “I KNOW you need to leave, this will only take a moment.” She ushers me to the salon make-over chair (a.k.a. toilet seat). “Seriously, Mom. You don’t have ANY make-up on. I mean NONE.” (Not entirely correct, I still had the remains of chap stick applied earlier in the afternoon.)
My child, with the dexterity of a magician, proceeds to open the various secret compartments of the (brilliant) Christmas gift from Aunt S.E.M. A make-up box of which you have never seen the likes….rows and rows of eye shadows, blushes, lip-glosses. She rubs my face with a cloth drenched in liquid hand soap. (A wet washcloth would have been lovely, but the soap did maintain a type of adhesive quality on my skin…especially when the powder was applied.) I close my eyes as layer upon layer of shadows are brushed on my lids. I feel eyeshadow rubbed on my forehead, followed by a sticky matter I later identify as toothpaste. A copious amount of blush is applied beside my lips, and I'm asked to open my mouth as a pick containing dental floss is thrust inside. (After gagging profusely, I'm allowed, albeit briefly, to brush my own teeth, floss, and then take my seat once more.) A powder puff flamboyantly distributes baby powder to my cheeks, my neck, and my dress. (I question the latter and am told I need to “sparkle.”) The Little One hands me a mirror to admire her work. I smile gratefully, then shriek as a shower of icy spray hits my back.
“This final touch will make you smell pretty.” Says the Pea as she replaces the strawberry-scented hair detangler back on the vanity.
I make a move to leave, escape the bathroom, sneak down the stairs, grab my purse and my car keys. My youngest beats me to the lower level. “MOM! Don’t forget to Air Kiss!”
Eyebrows raised, I await an explanation. “Seriously, Mom, have you forgotten your basic manners? Were you raised in a barn?”
“When you see Ms. J and Ms. B, you must immediately stop and air kiss both cheeks while holding your keys in one hand.” The Pea demonstrates and then evaluates my feeble effort. “I suppose you’ve forgotten the Pinky Rule too.” (Obviously, it’s been AWHILE since I’ve had dinner out with the Grown-Up Girls.) “Pinky out, Mom. Pinky out like this when you take a drink.”
I consider pointing out the difference between tea party and tapas restaurant, then think better of it. (The Husband: “WHAT? You’re going to a topless restaurant? Me: No Sweetheart, Tapas…tapas…you know, little plates of food. The Silent Husband: No response, zoned out at the mention of tiny servings of food.)
“And remember,” wraps up the Pea, “ALWAYS cross your legs at the ankles and sit waaaay far back in your chair.”
“Are you sure I’m not supposed to sit up straight with good posture?”
“Uh, Mom. HELLO. I think I’m the one with the most manners around here.”
I give the Little One an air kiss – on both cheeks – dangle my keys, pinky out, and reach for the doorknob. I slide my newly made-over strawberry scented, powdered down, tooth-pasted, sticky self out the door. All the while praying fervently for a dark restaurant.
“Don’t stay out too late, Mom. Remember, it’s a school night.”

Lizard Innards & Misplaced Weather Vanes

Coming from a city where you count cows and sheep, horses and goats on your drive to school, it’s a bit of a change moving to a city where the homeowners themselves describe their yards/lots as “postage stamp” size. I’ll admit I felt a tad claustrophobic at first, not being able to issue my standard “Get Your Wiggles Out” command: OK kids, run three times around the yard and then finish your homework! But after a few days, I eased into our current state of affairs with a sense of peace. We are doubly blessed in our rental to have both a courtyard and a balcony overlooking said courtyard. Two architectural distinctions that virtually scream “New Orleans!” and delight me to no end. (At this point you are envisioning the balcony of a southern plantation and you can most certainly keep that image in your mind, but know that OUR balcony is such that you must hold your breath if two people are to fit while you pray that the French doors’ detached shutter does not tilt forward and push you to your death on the brick pavement below.) That being said, it is our very special little corner of this new world and we are quite fond of it.
The courtyard is brick, has bamboo shoots extending heavenward which block our view of the bordering apartment complexes and occasional police visits. (Don’t panic Mom, it was like, one time…two tops…) The palmettos are surrounded by Birds of Paradise as well as actual birds. A patio table and charcoal grill and baker’s rack (?) and horse adorned weather vane (?) fill out the ensemble. One enters the courtyard through two sets of French doors lined with two sets of wrought iron gates. (Our key chain has four separate keys for all the doors and gates, which I find amusing and comforting at the same time.)
Our carport has a brick pillar on which there is yet another locked door. The pillar doubles as an outdoor storage closet, as garages are few and far between. The Bug and the Pea have found gardening equipment within the “secret” pillar closet. (I’ve told the girls a garden gnome named Nola lives among the shovels and rakes. One way to quiet the kids on the car ride to school is to entertain them with stories of my most recent encounter with Nola Gnome. They laugh and roll their eyes, but always open the pillar door slowly and quietly so as not to disturb the red pointy-hatted resident…)
Anyhooooooo, they cart the garden tools to the courtyard and weed and rake as if they are Annie Lennox and Dickins with a Secret Garden of their own. I’m quite sure will have our own wild menagerie in the near future. When I called the Bug and the Pea in for dinner, I noticed the two had assembled a virtual smorgasbord of fresh produce for the passing wildlife. (I’m serious, magnolia leaf plates of raspberries, blueberries, strawberries and a flower pot bowl of bottled water! “Do you think I’m made of money?” I was tempted to shout, but calmed myself and showed them where the special “bird food” bread was stored for future use. But I digress…)
A few days ago, I undid the lock at the top of the French doors and a lizard fell into my hair. While I don’t DO snakes, I am rather fond of lizards and pulled him easily from my hair to show the girls. At which point an argument ensued about how The Pea held the lizard for 10 seconds and The Bug only “got” 8 seconds and so the world was going to come to a screeching halt etc. at which point (mercifully) the lizard leaped to his freedom and scurried over the bricks and into the leaves. Each day the kids look for Mr. Lizard as they weed and dig and set out a buffet for the birds. One day they stumbled upon a tiny reptilian skeleton- which they promptly presented to our first Kentucky visitor, “Look Mr. David! Lizard innards!” Oh to be seven, again.
When the Bug and the Pea need to “get their wiggles out” we simply head to a park. They climb trees with low lying branches and dangling Spanish moss while pelicans and sea gulls fly by. The Pea likes to collect piles of moss which she proudly calls “the funk” and construct ginormous nests for humans pretending to be birds. Sometimes she’ll organize a group of unsuspecting children to help gather acorns to store away for hibernation.
The other day I popped open the trunk to put in bags of groceries and I discovered a pile of Spanish moss, undoubtedly stashed there by my youngest. (“Uh, Sweet Pea…you wanna explain the pile of Funk in my Trunk?)
Today promises a high in the 70’s. We plan to explore several new (to us) parks and historical sites. On the way we won’t be able to count cows, pigs, sheep, goats or barns. But we’ll make up for it with balconies, courtyards, palm trees and pelicans. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll be lucky and another lizard will drop out of the sky into my hair for an afternoon of rollicking rib tickling fun here in the Big Easy. In the words of Little Orphan Annie (as the Pea sings over and over and over and over again to me….) “I think I’m gonna like it here!”

Balconies & Blow Torches a.k.a. Temporary Permanency

So my Nanny asked my Mom how I’m spending my newly found free time in New Orleans? My token reply, of course, is eating bon-bons, because that is a worthy way of spending an afternoon. (Let’s face it, that’s a worthy way of spending a morning, afternoon or evening…) Nevertheless, I followed my answer with a laugh, namely because I have yet to experience this “free time” she speaks of.
Picking up and moving a family of four to a new state is, to put it mildly, a bit of a challenge. (I’d like to send a ‘shout out’ to my military friends who organize graceful family moves at the drop of a hat, with finesse and poise. You are my heroes, on many levels.) But me? I’m a novice. Sure, I’ve changed residences multiple times, in 5 different cities, once with a wicked case of “morning sickness” in my ninth month of pregnancy with a toddler in tow. But I’ve never moved to a new state, 12 hours away from family, with 2 elementary school kids and a husband already working in said new state.
In my urgency to provide my kids with some sense of permanency (which, for now, is more aptly stated “temporary permanency” as my daughters are sleeping on an air mattress in a –mostly- furnished condo) I set out to obtain a Louisiana Drivers License. For the record, the DMV operates like a well-oiled machine if you’ve brought the right identification. (I am not kidding when I say I produced my KY drivers license, my birth certificate, my marriage license, my social security card, my passport, my car title and the rental contract establishing residence before I was given a number and told to take a seat.)
The kind lady who assisted me was glad to speak with a Kentuckian. She said her friends didn’t believe her story, and she wanted me to verify a “sighting” from her past. Which, I’ll be honest, as the question came from a born and bred New Orlean-ian, I was exceedingly curious what she considered so bizarre. She wanted to know if our farm animals wore clothes? At first I was picturing those stone geese some folks put on their porch and dress up for the holidays. I was debating how to tell her the geese weren’t “real animals” when she added details. Apparently her family was driving through Kentucky one winter and she saw what looked like cows and horses draped in blanket/coats. She was delighted when I confirmed her “sighting” and added how The Bug, The Pea and I counted all the horses wearing coats on the drive to school each morning.
Once I got the OK, I moved to the “Drivers License Photo” area. The man told me to take a seat in front of the camera. And I did. Then he asked me to take a seat in the waiting area. Which I thought was odd, since it would have seemed more productive just to go ahead and take my picture while I was sitting in the chair. Next thing I knew, he handed me the already laminated copy of my new drivers license. Sufficed to say, he HAD taken a picture after all, and the snapshot is HORRIBLE. (“Mommy, you should REALLY go back and ask the man to try again. This picture is embarrassing,” says The Pea.)
Nevertheless, I took my license and my new license plate and headed for the door. Next stop, car inspection. (Apparently an annual necessity in LA, who knew?) Driving a mile down the road I spotted what looked like an abandoned warehouse with a cardboard sign out front marked: Brake Tag. I swerved in. You will not believe me, but Santa Claus “mans” the Brake Tag Car Inspection Garage. He asked me to turn on the headlights, put the car in reverse, test the blinkers and the brakes. Then he promptly handed back my paperwork through the window and advised me to visit a mechanic (“Darlin’ none of your lights work. None of them.”) I was not discouraged, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I’ve changed car bulbs before. I headed to an auto-parts store. I bought bulbs for the brake lights, I bought bulbs for the reverse light, I bought enough bulbs to illuminate a Christmas tree. A fellow from the store shook his head as I turned on the ignition and “tried” out the new bulbs. (“I’m afraid you’ve got bigger problems than light bulbs, it could be the electrical system. Darlin’ none of the lights work.”)
 
Long story short, a trip to the mechanic, some electrical maintenance and several dollars later, I was back at the Brake Tag Place. (The mechanic asked, “Dat guy at the shop, he look like Santa Claus to you?”) This time St. Nick was pleased to give me my Brake Tag sticker and send me on my way.
Back at “home” I searched for anything resembling a flat head screwdriver to remove my KY plate and replace it with my brand spankin’ new LA license plate. A trip to Wal-Mart later, I was on my knees in the carport trying desperately to undo completely stripped screws. I had purchased pliers, and I tried to wrench off the screws. I grabbed a gardening trowel and tried to pry up the plate. I found some rose clippers and tried to tear off the plate. It was while I was wielding the ginormous hedge trimmers that my next door neighbor appeared. We had not met yet, and I’m sure I made a grand impression sitting on my hiney, stretched under the car, with hedge clippers firmly gripped, cutting a license plate into shreds. She introduced herself¸ and interestingly enough, told me that her mother grew up about 20 minutes from our Kentucky home. Small world.
At this point, the husband appears. He looks at me, the hedge clippers, the trowel, the pliers, the screwdriver, and then the neighbor. He introduces himself to poor E, who clearly thinks I was recently released from the looney bin, and then offers some sage advice, “Why don’t you try some WD-40?”
At this point, the Bug and the Pea emerge from the condo, ready to hit the Zoo. (“Wow. How many of you are there?” asks our stunned 23 year old neighbor. And who can blame her, smaller doses are best when it comes to spending time with my family.)
This morning, I admitted defeat. I stopped by the mechanic’s garage once more and begged them to help me switch the plate out. (“Darlin’ all ya need is a screwdriver…”) Right. I just want the records to show: it took 2 mechanics, one trip to the hardware store, 30 minutes and a tool resembling a blow torch to remove my KY plate. (“Gee, those clips are made to last, huh?” I conversed.)
But the good news is: I am now official. Louisiana Drivers License, Louisiana License Plate, Louisiana Residence, even a Louisiana Library Card. I’m starting to feel a little bit more like I belong. And as I sit here and type, peering out our balcony, into our courtyard, I’m starting to feel a little bit more like I could fall in love with New Orleans. That, and I could use some bon-bons…