A Mardi Gras Memory

The setting was Mardi Gras day on St. Charles Avenue, sometime over 46 years ago.  I do not remember my exact age.  But I remember the incident, and I remember it well.  I was sitting on the family blanket, in the family area my family staked out, probably eating fried chicken.  I was people watching.  The neutral ground was quite crowded with revelers.  I saw a man with a concerned look on his face approaching people and asking a question.  I saw the people all shake their heads no.  He wondered off and I continued whatever I was doing at the time.  Eventually, I saw the man again with his hand holding on tightly to a woman’s arm, pretty much dragging her behind him.  In my little child mind, I am thinking these people were old, but looking back, they were probably in their very early 20s.  The girl was beautiful and I liked her wavy hair.  (As I got older and remembered this incident, I compared her hair to Scarlet O’Hara hair.)  The man shoved her against a utility and pole and pushed her hard against it several times while he was telling her something in her ear.  I will always remember the look on her face.  No one in their group said anything to the man for doing this.  The girl sat on a blanket with other women and was quiet for the longest, while the man circled close by behind her.  Eventually, she was drawn into their conversation and started looking normal, so I quit watching.

In my active imagination, over the years I wondered about this woman. Did she stay with him, endure years of violence, bringing children into the fold and crippling their little minds?  I always hoped she escaped from him and moved on to a normal relationship.  Why didn’t anyone from their group stop the man from doing this?  Why did they sit by watching this woman be abused?  What happened to the man?  Did he grow out of this abusive phase and become a loving husband to someone?  I doubt it.  In my meanest thoughts, I hope someone dished out to him what he had probably dished out to that woman.

I never forgot this, and I was not even a part of this incident.  I only saw this one time.  To think, little children who are in a family of abuse have to witness this repeatedly.  My heart breaks.

I am thankful to have partnered with a company in which speaking out against domestic violence is part of the corporate responsibility.  In 2004, the Avon Foundation for Women launched the Avon Speak Out Against Domestic Violence program.  Speak Out builds awareness, educates, and develops and implements prevention and direct service programs. Some of these projects are global, focused on ending gender-based violence and strengthening domestic violence laws.  Nearly $60 million has been raised globally by this foundation to support its goals.

Did you know 1 in 4 women will be affected by domestic violence in her lifetime?  This staggering number shocked me. Does this number shock you into action?  You, too, can join corporations that are socially responsible.  I urge you to do your research and join the fight.  Your efforts are multiplied exponentially when you combine efforts with a socially responsible corporation.

Should you decide to partner with Avon,  you can do so in two ways.   You can shop Avon Empowerment products, in which a portion of the proceeds are donated to the foundation.  You can check this out at http://www.YourAvon.com/ghegwood.  (Search ’empowerment’.)

Or, you can join me as an Avon representative and spread the word.  Go to http://www.StartAvon.com and type in ghegwood as the reference code to join my team.  Our mission is to improve the lives of women globally. In our core cause areas of Breast Cancer and Domestic Violence, we aim to accelerate progress, accountability and discovery, while also reducing the social stigma that sometimes keeps these issues in the shadows.

I am sure when I titled this blog “A Mardi Gras Memory”, you certainly did not think this would be about domestic violence.  I do have many wonderful Mardi Gras memories, but this one really sticks.  I want to help decrease incidents such as this so that children can fill their heads with better memories, such as doubloons, beads and marching bands.

 

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Funeral for a Strong Woman

This day has come.  And it has come too soon and suddenly.  I should not be surprised, after all, since you are 95 years old, Mom.  The day has come too soon because you told me you were going to live to be 100.  The day came too suddenly because you have never had a terrible sickness in your life, Mom.  Your strong will finally had to succumb to death.

But this has truly turned into a celebration of life – your life Mom.  You would not believe the people who’s lives you have touched.  You would not believe the support your daughters had because you raised us to be the people we are, and our friends care deeply about us.

When I first walked into the parlor, Kris was sobbing uncontrollably.  I was oddly calm.  I knew this strength came straight from God because of all the people praying on my behalf.  I hugged Kris and reminded her you told her to take care of me, because I am the baby.  We had a little giggle about that.  Kris and I walked hand in hand to your casket.  Oh Kris helped pick out the most beautiful coffin.  You so loved roses and Paw always flooded you with the most beautiful rose bouquets throughout your marriage.  Your coffin was rose colored, with roses engraved in it, and roses embroidered in the lining.  You look beautiful wearing the wedding dress you wore almost 32 years ago to marry Paw.  Your fingers are beautifully manicured in that red nail polish you always liked.  You are holding your treasured rosary, and Eric’s cross is lying beside you.  You look beautiful, Momma. More beautiful than anyone else I have ever seen in a coffin.  In my opinion, most people look terrible in death, while mourners look down and say, “Oh doesn’t she look pretty?”  I always want to yell, “No she does not – she is dead!”  That is why I made my husband and kids promise to cremate me.  But you are different, Mom.  You are truly beautiful and look at peace.

Mom, the parlor started filling up with your friends, Paw’s friends and our friends.  Mom please do not worry.  Kris and I work with some fabulous people and they were there to support us (and mine had to drive quite a ways to get there).  We also have fabulous friends, old and new, that were there.  I even had an Avon sister that we have only talked online, but she came to your funeral because she felt like she knew you through my stories.  Kodi’s in-laws came all the way from Purvis to New Orleans, at the height of Mardi Gras season, to see you one more time.  Your Theta group was there to honor you and gave a wonderful little ceremony on your behalf.  Two ladies from the group said I sounded like you.  They said they heard my voice and laugh from the hallway (meaning I am loud like you) and both were astonished at how much we sound alike.  I was truly honored by this.  Kris and I have had hundreds of messages from well wishers that could not attend your funeral, but they were thinking of us.  This was beautiful, Momma.

Of course, Kris had to tell my co-workers about the time I came home drunk at 15 and you were horrified.  Oh big sisters!  What am I going to do with her, Momma?

And I want to thank you, Mom, for marrying Paw.  You knew what you were doing marrying into that wonderful family.  Kris and I gained a sister, brother, nieces, nephews-in-law and great nephews.  These are truly wonderful, loving people.  They honored you so wonderfully.  They mourned as if they were actually born to you.  They knew your love for them and you have touched their lives tremendously.  And you might get a priest out of one them, Mom.  Little Sammy is definitely touched by God.  He is so pious and grounded in God’s word.  Even though he is not blood related to my brother, I think he just might join the Seminary, just like Eric.

I was calm until the closing of the casket.  Wait, you are taking my Mommy away.  That was rough, very rough.  I cried until I thought I was going to throw up.  We got into the vehicle to follow your hearse to church.  I was almost to the point of hyperventilating.  Guess what was on the radio?  Vince Gill’s Go Rest High on the Mountain.  That supernatural calm returned.  This was another gift from God.  Then Collin Raye’s In this Life.  Yes, in this life, I was loved by you.  Being loved by you is the most precious gift God has given me.

As we walked into church, behind your casket, I had to concentrate on the man (from Mothe’s Funeral Home) walking at the head of your casket.  He was walking backwards, holding onto you.  I had to concentrate on this for two reasons, (1) That he could walk so well backwards, and (2) concentrating on him walking backwards kept me from thinking that your little, lifeless body was laying in that casket.

Mom, your Mass at St. Cletus was beautiful.  Your favorite song, Ave Maria, was sung.  Father Tuan Pham gave a phenomenal sermon all about your goodness.  He made us laugh.  He said after every Sunday Mass, you would kiss him on the cheek and call him Junior (because that is what he was called in Seminary).  That sounds just like you.  Dana, your granddaughter, gave wonderful readings.  Her voice was clear, steady and paced perfectly.  But what I was most impressed about was that Dana could walk up and down those steps in high heels without tripping or falling.  You know I could never do that, Momma.

But I must admit, me, Scooter and Jay kind of misbehaved in church.  It has been quite a long time since I sat through a Catholic mass and some of the wording was changed.  I said Amen at the end of everything, but some of the replies were words such as “Thanks be to God.”  Scooter told me to stop.  So every time I said Amen I turned to him to make my point – gosh darn it!  He said if I keep it up he knows where I am going.  Then he spiraled his hand downward.  We giggled.  Father Pham came down from the alter to shake our hands and I almost missed it because I was goofing off with the family behind me.  I turned around in time to give him a kiss on the cheek and call him Junior.  When Father Pham began the Eucharist, and retrieved the host from the sacred place, Jay said “Well that’s the man who had the Holy Grail all this time.”  Mom, that kid is so funny and it was all Scooter and I could do to not burst out laughing.

This reminded me of another time in church, probably about 45 years ago.  You, Kris and I were sitting in our usual area.  There was a tiny ant crawling on the back of the pew in front of us.  You did not see it because you were intently listening to what Father Poche’ was preaching.  Kris and I, on the other hand, were quite entertained by the ant.  The ant crawled onto the back of the lady in front of us.  Kris and I looked at each other, giggled and watched the ant crawl circles on her back.  Then we had to stand.  The ant crawled downwards and starting crawling circles on her rather large backside.  As it is in the Catholic Mass, sit, kneel, stand, sit kneel, stand.  She sat.  Uh oh!  Kris and I waited with bated breath to see if the ant survived.  We were elated to see the ant crawling up her back again.  This tiny entertaining creature got back onto the back of the pew.  It crawled past Kris and she moved her hands so the ant could march on.  It crawled past me as I moved my hands away.  And then – you spotted the ant and squashed it with your thumb.  The end.  Kris and I looked at each other horrified.  We had quite some time invested in that ant!  What a memory to pop into my head during your Mass.  But this reminded me of good times, such as leaving church to head to McKenzie’s Bakery for a ‘sweety’, then heading home to eat the wonderful Sunday meal you cooked for us.  Such fun, innocent, carefree times for me and Kris.

Back into the car to follow you in your final ride to the cemetery.  You are riding in style, Mom, like the Queen of Mardi Gras.  We arrive to your final resting place.   You are being reunited with my Dad.  Kris, Cindy and I are sitting holding each other.  I start rubbing their necks because I can feel how tense they are.  Father Pham is saying beautiful words – I think – because Cindy and I were busy battling gnats.  Good grief, can we have a moment, please?

We now head to the house you and Paw have shared all these years.  Cindy’s church bereavement group have been busy setting up food.  We had a wonderful time celebrating you with family and friends.  We were missing your presence terribly.  You would have loved being a part of this.  All the great grandchildren were outside playing, running, laughing, having such fun.  It was good to see children in the old neighborhood again.  Mrs. S. had been at the funeral and she came to the house after.  I know this was so hard for her, so soon after losing her son.  But she loved you so much she was able to push past this pain.  The chocolate brownies didn’t hurt either.  You know Mrs. S. and her love for chocolate.  She taught me how to make a chocolate sandwich – remember that?  Well I poured her a tall glass of chocolate milk to go with that chocolate brownie and we shared stories.

Life goes on and things already start happening.  Your microwave broke, my washing machine breaks – all of this to remind us that we cannot melt into a puddle and stop living.  Life goes on and we will carry your memory with us.  We will draw on the strength you have exhibited your entire life.

Night time comes.  I do not give in to tears and self-pity.  Instead I thank God for all the wonderful years I have had with you.  I am thankful that you now get to spend time with Eric and Donna.  It is their turn to have you.  I will see you again one day, due to God’s promise of eternal life.  And I thank God so much that in this life, I was loved by you.

 

Love Letter to my Momma

I am beginning to not like the phone.  The phone is not my friend anymore.  As I was leaving work, my sister calls to say, “Hurry Gretchen.”  Is today the day you are leaving us Mom?  “Lord,” I pray, “please Lord, let me make it to the hospital on time.”

After consulting with the family, the doctors are removing tubes and medicines from you Momma.  They fully expected you to fade away quickly.  Your BP immediately dropped by half.  But those doctors don’t know you, Mom, like we do.  You stabilized yourself and kept whispering, “I love you, I love you all.”  Then you started saying your prayers.  I really think you were saying the rosary.  And, of course, you were talking to your deceased children, Donna and Eric.  You will be seeing them soon, Mom.  I know you miss them so much, and we had you far longer than we could have ever imagined.  We are at peace with letting you go.  But it still hurts, DAMMIT!  (That brings a laugh.  DAMMIT was your favored curse word.  I think that was the first word all of us kids muttered.)

We are all in your hospital cubicle, Momma, up here in SCU at West Jefferson Hospital.  The staff is the most wonderful staff in the world.  They had all been celebrating your fighting spirit and your will to live.  They are all as heartbroken as us.  We are watching every breath you take.  We are watching the monitors.  Surprise, surprise, your BP climbs a bit and your oxygen is at 100%.  Every little sound you utter we jump up and surround you.  Please Momma, please, open your eyes one more time.  I have got to see your eyes open one more time.  Nothing.  The priest visited earlier to give you your Last Rites, and that seemed to be the end for you.

Late at night, everyone has gone home except me & Paw (my most wonderful step-dad of 31 years).  I feel a sneeze coming on.  I always said I had a sneeze that could wake the dead. Time to test that hypothesis.  Achoo!  Sure enough, you open your eyes wide and stare at me surprised.  Then you look a little angry.  I say, “Sorry Momma.”  You grumbled something and shut your eyes, possibly never to open them again.  But that is okay.  I got to see your eyes open one more time.  God granted me that wish.  And a little lagniappe, your BP rose even higher.

Paw and I call it a night about 1:00 in the morning.  Paw starts to cry on the way home talking about you.  It hurts to hear Paw cry.  He goes home to his empty, over-sized Paul Bunyan bed.  You have shrunk so much in recent years, Momma, and Paw always had those little, short legs.  The little set of steps on each side of the bed are so adorable.  It was always cute to watch you two, tiny elderly people climb in that big, old bed.  Now Paw doesn’t even sleep in the bedroom.  He sleeps in his recliner, missing you, Momma.  Your laundry basket with the rope tied to it sits empty by the dryer.  You were always so cute dragging that laundry basket behind you all around the house, dragging clothes to and from the wash room.  Your presence will live on forever in that house.  Please, Momma, please wake up and come home.

I open my eyes to a new day, Momma.  Our new life without your lively self.  Before I head back to the hospital, I have to go see your friend, Mrs. S.  You don’t know this yet, Momma, we haven’t been able to tell you that Dennis passed away.  Like you, Mrs. S is burying a 2nd child.  As I am walking across the street to her house with tears in my eyes, my mind wonders back almost 37 years.  I was 19, home alone, after visiting Donna in the hospital.  I had to come home.  I couldn’t take watching my sister die.  Everyone else stayed at the hospital.  I was home alone and the phone rang.  My phone was not my friend that day either.  It was your aunt, Momma, calling to say how sorry she was Donna had died.  But I had not known that yet.  I was home alone, after just burying my daddy a year before, and I hear my sister died.  I panicked.  I ran out of the house to Mrs. S’s house, crying the entire way.  I ran into her house and into her arms, and she hugged me and took care of me until you got home.  Today, once again, I have tears in my eyes.  Donald, Dennis’s older brother, opens the door for me before I even knock.  We look into each other’s tear filled eyes and don’t have to say a word.  I rush into Mrs. S’s arms and we cried and cried.  We cried over Dennis and we cried over you.  We remember good times and finally part, but we each have a little lift in our step.  Please, Momma, please wake up, your friend needs you.  Mrs. S needs her friend.

Kris and I are headed to see you again, Mom, wondering if today is the day.  We stop to buy a muffaletta for Paw and Cindy (our beloved step-sister of 31 years).  Today is the day you are being moved to a private, hospice room.  I do not like that word – hospice – so final.  I do not want final when it comes to you, Momma.  Your BP was down to 60/33 when Cindy first got there in the morning.  But her hugging you and rubbing your hand raised it back to 70/33.  The family is ushered up to your room to wait for you while you are being prepped for the move.  I hand Paw a root beer and he says the root beer is really big and will last him well into the night (he’s used to sharing his root beer with you).  Then he knocks it over and spills most all over the floor.  Well now it won’t last you all night, Old Man.  Then Cindy drops her muffaletta on the floor.  Well I tell you, Momma, that was the best fed floor.  We were having a good laugh when your bed is rolled into the room.  You look so tiny.  I had to tell you about Paw and Cindy how they were misbehaving and you should get up out of that bed and fuss.  Please, Momma, please wake up and fuss at Paw and Cindy.  But you chose not to comment on that.

Paw’s legs are swelling, Momma.  He’s not taking care of himself like he should.  We convince him to rest with his legs up in the recliner.  He is struggling with those little short legs and Cindy is trying to help him.  Well, lo and behold, the recliner is on wheels and Cindy inadvertently sends Paw rolling across your hospital room.  I tell you Mom, we can’t take these two anywhere!  We are belly roll laughing as the social worker walks in the room.  He must be wondering what kind of nuts we are.  We diligently listen to him speak about hospice and we become somber.  But, it doesn’t take long before we are belly roll laughing, again, and the social worker walks in, again.  We are filling your room with laughter, Momma.  Please, Momma, please wake up and laugh with us.

You have a visitor, Momma.  It’s Bradley.  Well, of course, I had to tell the nurses all about Bradley.  Remember, this is one of our favorite stories, Momma.  I remember coming home from first grade at St. Anthony.  I said, “Momma, there is this bad little boy named Bradley at school.  He’s really, really bad.”  Remember you told me to stay away from him?  Then one day I am looking out of the window from our house and I yelled, “Momma, Momma, that bad little boy Bradley is across the street!  Momma, Momma, come see.”  You told me to just stay inside.  Little did we know that 24 years later that bad little boy Bradley would become my step-brother.  Poor Bradley (my beloved step-brother of 31 years).  We never let him forget that.  But he is a good sport and let us laugh, at his expense, to make you happy.  Please, Momma, please wake up to hear the Bradley story one more time.

Kris decided to share a Katrina story.  You remember this one.  This was when you, Paw and Kris were hurricane refugees in Beaumont, TX.  Paw wanted to fill up Kris’ car and get it cleaned so he took her to a quarter machine car wash.  Well Kris is handy with a sewing machine, but don’t give her anything else mechanical.  She has never held a car wash wand in her hand.  She put the quarters in, and had no idea of the water pressure that was about to come out of that wand.  Paw happened to be standing in the wrong spot at the wrong time.  Paw was now covered in pink, blue and white suds from head to toe.  Kris is still trying to control the wand and continues to squirt suds all over him.  He said Kris wouldn’t point the wand the other way.  Cindy asked Paw why didn’t he just move.  He said he was in shock.  After the spraying quits, Paw and Kris are laughing and he removes his eyeglasses.  Kris said all she could see were two big eyes staring at her from a mound of pink, blue and white suds.  They said you were so shocked when they returned to the apartment and Paw was soaking wet.  Oh Momma, please wake up and laugh with us.

Look Momma, you have more visitors, your nephew Rusty, his wife Gladys, and one of their daughters, Ingrid.  Now Erica is here, or as you lovingly call her, your first bad-egg grandchild.  And then Shawn (our beloved niece of 31 years) stops by.  Your room is full, Momma.  We are all reminiscing, laughing and filling your room with lots of love.  Please wake up, Momma, and join us.

Well Mom, it is time for me to return home.  I have to go to work tomorrow.  I leave the hospital crying crocodile tears.  I want to call my daughter, Kodi, but I cannot get that lump out of my throat to speak.  I finally get my act together and call her, but she doesn’t answer.  So I continue with my cry-fest, Momma.  I am already missing you.  I am in full blown hysteria mode and my phone rings.  It’s Kodi.  I summoned your strength, Momma, and got my act together to talk to my baby.  Well I could have kept crying for the blubbering mess me and Kodi were.  She doesn’t want to lose her grandmother.  Please, Momma, please come back and live with us a little while longer.  Eventually, our phone conversation turns to fun times, but she has to go to tend to her young family.  Rowen, your youngest great grandson, has taken off his diaper with poop in it.  Shane and Kodi must go search the house for poop.  I am once again left alone to my memories of you.

Life is still rolling along whether I want it to or not.  I stop to see my Avon sister and we discuss our Avon booth at the upcoming Picayune Street Fair.  I called Kris to let her know I made it home.  Home – to Spooky Hollow – and the tears start flowing because you will never be able to visit here again.  Your son-in-law, grandson and great-grandchildren are all waiting to greet me in my fragile state.  Please, Momma, please wake up and come visit me at my crazy Faux Farm.

But I know that will not happen.  The phone, which is not my friend, will soon bring the dreaded news.  When that does happen, please, Momma, please come and see me in my dreams.

Oooh Oooh dat Smell! Can’t you smell dat (CrabBoil) smell?

Dang you Winn Dixie.  I walked into the grocery store with my carefully made out list and coupons to stay on budget.   I planned on sticking to the list only.  I was mentally prepared.  And bang – the automatic door opens and that smell hits me.  The smell of Zatarain’s crab boil.  All of us southern Louisiana people know that smell.  It grabs you by the nostrils and won’t let go!  I must resist.  I must resist.

I proceed directly to the meat counter.  So far so good.  But then……..in the seafood department, the Winn Dixie clerk is bagging up Zatarain’s boiled potatoes and corn.  I lost all resolve.  I grab some of this southern gold, attempt to finish some shopping on budget, and make my way to the check out counter.

The boiled crawfish were in front of the store, by the door, sitting on ice, enticing you to buy this delicacy.  I start loading my groceries on the conveyor belt and tell the check-out gal I am going to grab some boiled crawfish.  She said, “You better hurry.  Folks have been snatching them up.”  I glance towards the display, and sure enough, 3 bags remained.  I ran there as fast as my metal knees would allow me and grabbed 2 bags right under the noses of potential buyers.  I ran back to the check out line and did not feel a bit of remorse.  Not a bit!  These were mine!  All mine!  They were mine the minute I walked into the store and smelled dat crab boil smell.

Some things just stick with us southern Louisiana people for life – like Zatarain’s, seafood, king cake and Mardi Gras doubloons.

Just like when I smell seafood boiling, the same goes when I hear doubloons hitting the ground at a Mardi Gras parade, I go into a frenzy.  I will knock over young and old, step on fingers, step on toes, to grab that worthless piece of metal.  I have just got to have it.

Is this instilled in us at Christening.  Is there some bayou water in that holy water the priest dumps on our head?  Does the priest say, “You are christened in the name of The Father, The Son and the New Orleans’ ghost.”?

In the early 60s, my young brother committed his life to God.  He traveled to Ohio, joined the Catholic Seminary and became known as Brother DePaul Held.  The food just about did him in he said.  It was bland and awful.  He started cooking red beans and rice and other New Orleans delicacies for the nuns, priests and brothers.  They loved him.  And he is remembered by many that were in the seminary with him, long after his 1967 death due to cancer.  In his little 23 years here on earth, Eric made a huge impact on people sharing his culture.  New Orleans just does that to you.

In 1979, I was heading out on my first venture without my family.  My high school senior trip was a cruise to the Virgin Islands.  I kept hearing about the awesome food.  Wait?  What?  Someone lied to me.  I mean, the food was okay, but it wasn’t my food.  After you live in the New Orleans area, hardly any other food compares.  It was missing something.  What was it missing?  Oh yes, Zatarain’s crab boil, McIlhenny Tabasco and such.

Oh those crawfish.  Pinch the tail, suck the heads.  And crabs!  Fat, female blue lake crabs.  Just waiting to be thrown in that boiling pot.  That smell grabs your nostrils.  Crack that shell off and look at all that orange goodness.  Oh the fat in the female crabs.  Grosses anyone out from other parts of the good old U.S. of A., but not us southern Louisiana people.  Forget your caviar.  Give me crab fat.

In the early 80s, I met a young man that could boil better than anyone I ever met.  So I married him.  Oh the seafood boils that we threw.  People would come from miles around.

Not long after we were married, the hills were calling my husband.  He wanted to move to Tennessee.  I told him he was crazy and I just could not leave my salt water seafood.  I would call him on a Friday and say, “find me seafood, I must have seafood.”  He would reply, “I am not sure what they have now….”, but before he could finish, I would be yelling in to the phone to find me seafood.  When I get a craving for that taste, I just have to have it.  I cannot think or function properly until I have that smell of Zatarain’s grabbing me by the nostrils.  We even had our own personal soft-shelled crab man who would faithfully drive into my driveway, with a tray of still breathing soft-shelled crabs for us to pick from.  Such a spoiled person I am.

Did I mention a major reason I married the man I did is because he is the best seafood boiler around?

Alas, I finally agreed to move a little ways from N’Awlins, but not too far.  I am just over the border, the Mississippi border that is.  We are just a hop, skip and jump away from salt water fishing and crabbing.  We can still get our favored delicacy readily.  I am here to stay – for the seafood.

So I come home with the booty.  My husband knew we were on a strict budget and he was shocked I went off of script.  I fixed my platter with the goodies – crawfish, potatoes, corn on the cob, but I noticed he wasn’t getting any.  I finally asked him if he was going to fix his platter.  The goofy man said, “Oh, you bought enough for both of us?  I thought you just got enough for you.”  I was shocked and appalled.  After 35 years together, did he think I would do that to him?  No, I could never eat boiled seafood in front of my beloved and not share.

But…….if there had not been enough crawfish to share, I might have sat out in Winn Dixie’s parking lot and got my fix, disposing of the evidence, and driving home with a smile on my face………….