Just in Case It's Beyond Superstition . . .

I need friends and family members to be especially careful for awhile.

The mockingbird and blue jay are back.  Remember them from around Halloween a few years back?

The mockingbird isn't tapping at the window -- yet -- but he's scouting something.  His blue jay sidekick is building a nest in the ligustrum beside the front porch.  It's bound to attract the neighborhood feral cats who just love to gnosh on baby birds and leave a bloody mess beneath.

Anyway, since I was raised by a somewhat superstitious southern mother, I'm not letting a bird come into this house, so there's not going to be a death.  But, if you would all just use extra caution until I get this behind me, I'd be ever so appreciative.

Oops! Correction!! Where Have You Gone, Emily Post? Our Nation Turns Its Lonely Eyes To You. . .

Buck advises me that the article referenced below came from the New York Times rather than the WSJ.  Oops -- my bad!!

Blog Buddy, Buck, emailed me a link today to an article in the Wall Street Journal entitled, "A Last Bastion of Civility, the South, Sees Manners Decline."  In addition to me, apparently several scholars of southern tradition and culture have documented a definite erosion in what was once the headquarters of politeness, deference, and making one's guests feel at home.

I believe that erosion has reached a critical stage, where, if we don't build a retaining wall pretty soon, etiquette, common courtesy, and table manners may just crash right onto the highway to hell. 

We are living through the Jerry Springer-ization of America.  There is not much evidence around these days suggesting that people of different opinions can engage in a reasonable debate without yelling over one another, and/or slinging furniture.

The article explores many possible causes for the death of Manners: parents too busy to teach their children; hyper-sensitive political correctness; feminism.  Damn Yankees.  I'd like to add the absence of military service as a common practice -- there's a culture of respectful behavior if ever there was one in which one must adhere to The Code to survive, not even mentioning to thrive. 

Back in the '90s, when I was teaching in the College of Business Administration at UALR, a male colleague and I wrote a Grant Proposal to fund a team-taught class in Business Etiquette to be presented from both a man's and a woman's perspective.  We included not only such obvious things as Interview Protocol, Phone Etiquette, and Correspondence Do's and Don'ts, we also included Table Manners, Cocktail Party Etiquette, and Varieties of Attire.  We didn't get the grant, and the idea pretty soon faded.  It's a shame that we were ahead of our time (and that the Dean at the time did not have Southern roots!).

At least the article ends on a hopeful note -- it seems that 70-year old Mrs. Dorothy McLeod, who teaches ballroom dance and etiquette to children, has no room in her classes; they're filled to the brim.  Let's just hope someone comes along to keep her mission alive.

As an aside -- contemplating a time when good manners were de rigeur -- I'd like to share a little piece of the tour I took last week of the Houmas House Plantation on River Road.  The house and grounds have been meticulously and lovingly restored to a period when gentlemen retired to the Drawing Room after dinner for cigars and bourbon while the ladies made do with brandied fruit and embroidery -- and the servants did the dishes.  (I think I could get into that "servants doing the dishes" thing!)  The Docent, Judy, was among the best I've ever seen -- she was spirited away from another plantation when the current owner of Houmas House (who actually lives there!) saw her perform.  She's been with him since 2003 and is raising three children on what she earns there.  She's funny and very knowledgeable, being a student of history, the Arts, and human nature. And talk about talented!  She not only described the 1813 Steinway grand piano in the front parlor, she played it!



She chose to do "Desperado" instead of a period piece because she really likes The Eagles.  And, she thought our group was fun.  And, of course, we were.

So, let's all just slow down a little bit and try to engage in a little bit more Golden Rule action.  Remember, as I pointed out yesterday, Karma can be a bitch.O

A Tuesday in The South

Seen in August's Southern Living article about the horrid spring storm season:

As Southerners, we know that a man with a chain saw is worth 10 with a clipboard, that there is no hurt in this world, even in the storm of the century, that cannot be comforted with a casserole, and that faith, in the hereafter or in neighbors who help you through the here and now, cannot be knocked down.

                                                                                          -- Rick Bragg

I kinda like that.

This is the most recent of the various stinging caterpillars with whom I've crossed paths in the front yard.  I don't know what variety he is, but he was very colorful, and chubbier than the Ios and Buckmoths and Tussocks I've seen.

The Louisiana Agricultural Center offers these words of wisdom about stinging caterpillars:

Stinging caterpillars are a nuisance to adults, but can be serious hazards to small children, because the youngsters are attracted to the pests’ bright, unusual colorations. Sprays are not normally applied except for the buck moth, since it occurs in large numbers. Control of the other species is seldom needed except for knocking an occasional specimen to the ground and mashing it.

Not being one to ignore sage advice, and having been on the receiving end of those spines, I can report that this particular caterpillar is no longer among the living.

I spent much of the afternoon spraying mold and trying to avoid the spores that jumped out at me after being doused with bleach.  Living in a hundred year old house located in humidity-central has taught me a whole new, and unexpected, skill set.  It has also instilled in me a deep and abiding appreciation for duct tape.

And thus it goes on a mid-August Tuesday in the south.  Life at Moogie's Mansion, trying to stay one step ahead of the lizards.

Another of Those Posts that My Mother Would Disapprove

Wouldn't you just love to be a fly on the wall of the hospital room where this picture was taken!  Hugo and those Krazy Kastro Boyz!  Ol' Hugo was even sporting his favorite track suit!

Being southern, my Mama always admonished me to hold my tongue if I couldn't say something nice about someone. Ordinarily, being southern myself, I heed that admonition.  But, there are just some folks that set my tongue to wagging, and Hugo Chavez is one of them.

Pepper forwarded me this link in an email this afternoon:

"From all available reports, Hugo Chavez is in critical condition in a hospital in Cuba. The Venezuelan communist dictator was taken to Cuba several weeks ago for an emergency surgery regarding pelvic swelling, which has led many to speculate that he is dealing with prostate cancer.

In the irony of ironies, Hugo Chavez was faced with the decision to have to leave his own nation, and the health care system that was supposed to be an example for other nations, to receive care from another questionable health care system in Cuba."

In the "Subject" line, he titled the email, "Apparently God Has a Sense of Humor."

It would appear so, indeed.

In my reply I suggested that he get together a group of retired Blackwater guys, invade Venezuela, and storm the golf courses to take them back from "the people" before Chavez comes home.  I haven't heard from him in awhile.  Hmmm, I wonder.  I'd better go check whether any of the jungle camo uniforms are missing . . . .

Moogie's Interesting Day

After last night's rather forceful hail storm, today has been one of "interesting times," as in the old Chinese proverb and curse.

Let's recap, shall we?

I stepped in dog poop on the way to a doctor's appointment.  With both shoes.

Younger Daughter picked up the "Plan B" bridesmaids' dresses today (chosen after it came to pass that "Plan A" didn't come in navy blue after all) and says they're hideous and noisy.  Plus, the shoes agreed upon after quite a lengthy debate and much discussion have been discontinued.

Pepper is sick with a chest cold on the day before I leave town for bridal frivolity.

The grocery was out of rotisserie chicken, with which I was going to pamper myself after an "interesting" day.  I deserve pampering, so we're going with by-golly fried chicken!  (Suffer with the image of fried chicken, Michelle Obama.  Suffer.)

And, it seems that, at five feet in height, and not-obese-poundage in weight, and at 56 genteel years of age, Moogie can still change a flat tire.  In drizzling rain.  With freshly washed and styled hair.  In under an hour.

I despise so very much the interminable wait for automotive assistance in the Crescent City that, after checking twice that the tire was in fact too flat to make it to Firestone (because I was in denial after the first time), I decided to walk the two blocks home to change clothes, and to change the sucker myself.

First I re-scheduled the doctor's appointment.  Those people charge you anyway if you decide just not to show up! 

Then, I pulled out the owner's manual to brush up on where all the tire-changing equipment is located (and to figure out how to use that fancy twist-instead-of-pump-to-operate jack -- this alone should give you an idea of how long it's been since Moogie changed a flat)  (and where, exactly, to place the fancy jack) (and how to lower the spare from its snug perch beneath the MoogieMobile).  Those fine folks at Toyota wrote a driver's manual that is actually helpful! 

I miscalculated how very heavy a full-size spare for an SUV crossover is, but somehow, and with much perspiring and colorful language and laughing aloud all by myself at the absurdity of the whole situation, I managed to wrestle the flat tire off, and the spare onto, that wretched rear passenger-side wheel.

Of course, all along I was hoping against hope that some kind gentleman would happen upon me and come to my rescue.  My Mama didn't raise no foolish children, after all.  And, about 35 minutes into the process, just as I had gotten that "interesting" jack to lift the car to an adequate height, and was preparing to pull the contemptible flat off, from the corner of my eye I spied a white pick-up truck slowing, and coming to a stop across the street!  I heard the door shut, and sensed the motion of someone heading in my direction!

Not wanting to appear too eager, I didn't immediately turn on the damsel-in-distress charm for my Good Samaritan.  And, it's a good thing I didn't bother wasting any of that charm because the man who headed in my direction was not a Good Samaritan -- he was the Samaritan's evil twin.  Or Satan incarnate.

First, he asked me in passing, "How ya doin'?"  As I replied, "I've been better," he continued to stroll right into the nicely manicured yard beside which the hobbled MoogieMobile was parked. Then he sashayed past me again to open the gate.  All in all, that scrawny landscape guy passed me, as I strained and sweated, FIVE times.  Then he crossed the street, got in his truck, and took off, without so much as a fare thee well.

After more colorful language, and considerably more perspiring (I was well beyond "glowing" by this time), I succeeded in getting the spare situated, and stood on the lug wrench to tighten each nut.  And, just as I was preparing to crank the despicable flat up into position to take it to be repaired, good neighbor Wayne pulled up.  He asked if I needed any help, and when I said no thanks -- I was just putting stuff away now -- he remarked that he had apparently gotten there at just the right time. 

Ha.  Ha. 

When I told him about the landscape guy, he asked if the guy was blonde.  I told him, no, he was more grayish and really slim.  He said, "Yeah that'd be Joel.  Doesn't surprise me that he'd take off without helping."  So, apparently Joel's reputation precedes him, and follows him.

I rinsed my hands with water from a thermos and toweled off with stowed-away Wendy's napkins,  (I apparently failed to see the filth on my calves, acquired while trying to coax the spare onto the frickin' wheel.  At least I didn't notice it until I was sitting and soaking in the pedicure chair -- which, by the way, I absolutely deserved today!  The nice pedicure lady made an "interesting" face when I apologized for having filth on my calves because I had just changed a flat tire.  She should count her blessings that at least I took a quick spit bath of the important parts and changed clothes before going there.) and headed for Firestone.  The nice clerk checked and aired up all my tires, apologizing because my tire can't be ready until tomorrow.  When I'm leaving town.  In my car.  And then they were out of soap in the ladies room.

*Sigh*

So, I'm going to indulge in a cocktail this evening before our fried chicken dinner.  And it's good to know that I can still change a tire when the necessity presents itself.  I suppose.

I'm gonna be sooooo sore tomorrow.

Southern Roots Run Deep

The photo is from the National Cemetery in Vicksburg, but it calls to mind my weekend sojourn into family.

I just got back from a quick turn-around trip (7 hours behind the wheel on both Friday and Saturday -- one forgets how very long Mississippi is!) to northern Mississippi for a family funeral. There are so few left from my father's split-age generation that I daren't miss any opportunity to see my cousins who live in far-off places.

Rush, the younger son of my grandmother's twin sister, passed away in March, and since his immediate family is scattered all across the globe -- literally -- they decided to wait until mid-summer to hold the commitment and memorial service in a quaint Episcopalian country church founded by Rush's grandfather in the 1800s. Each of his three daughters did a reading of scripture during the service, one son-in-law played hauntingly beautiful Irish pipes that echoed around the nave, and Rush's foster son from Togo served as pallbearer for the cherrywood box of ashes that Rush's wife had carried with her aboard the plane from their home in D.C., fearing all the time that TSA would give her enough trouble that she would be forced to cause a scene.

(Having lived with Rush in countless countries during his career in the Diplomatic Corps -- on at least three continents, in both hemispheres -- Joanna is gracious, but also very world-wise, and I wouldn't want to get crossways with her about something that touches her heart. Fortunately for them, the TSA chose this occasion to act with restraint and respect.)

At the cemetery, all of Rush's grandchildren bade him farewell with a single rosebud, barely opened, to symbolize his new journey taken without them.

After the ceremony, as is typical, everyone had to search out the headstones of departed loved ones and share memories of good times long ago. One of the daughters -- the one who lives in the Netherlands, I believe -- seemed a bit uncomfortable, and wondered aloud whether it would seem inappropriate for her to take a few photographs of the gravesite and headstones. I overheard her and assured her that, not only was it appropriate, it was practically expected, seeing as how she was in the south, and that's simply what we do.

And that opened a floodgate.

Several family members, in multi-national and geographically diverse accents, expressed astonishment about some of our southern traditions, such as "bootlegging" into "dry counties," like the one in which the gathering took place. (In which our family, being ever prepared, had engaged to take care of that small impediment!) The cousin who grew up in Arkansas but settled in Minneapolis chuckled every time he went outdoors from the air conditioning and got a first-hand reminder of the humidity when his sunglasses fogged up. Listening to them recount their observations, I just had to smile.

My favorite of those observations had to do with deeply-ingrained southern "manners;" the practice of treating mourners, even those we don't know, with respect and dignity.

For all their sophistication and exposure to many cultures, they were genuinely amazed that, as the funeral procession slowly made its way from the church to the cemetery, cars going the opposite direction not only slowed, but pulled over and stopped in respect until the last car passed. Another cousin, who grew up in Arkansas but made his home in Boston, just laughed and noted that, "back east," the other cars would pass the funeral procession and maybe honk a few times just for good measure.

It made me proud for them to acknowledge and appreciate this very important facet of just who "the southerner" is.

Perhaps that's why Rush and Joanna chose to return to his southern roots to join those of southern dust. Southern roots and a southern send-off make for a dignified first step into the next adventure.

And a pleasant memory for those left behind.

Random Friday Thoughts

It's hot. I mean, it's hot and humid and I feel the crankiness factor ratcheting up.

I've got to find a long-term project that I can work on indoors in the pleasant splendor of un-green, southern, air-conditioned, de-humidified comfort. And my activity can't involve oil spills or fouled waterfowl.

I read about a race for some minor state-wide office in Arkansas in which an old head is being faced down by a young upstart. The youngster, in trying to paint the old incumbent as past-his-prime, described him as being on the "trailing edge of technology." While I usually stand up for the geezer, that's a pretty good slam.

It's Hurricane Season 2010 + 4 days. So far, so good.

I fear the "good hair days" are past us for this summer.

Successful Hunt = Happy Dog

For you non-hunters out there -- sorry about this! Skip to the next post on your blogroll.

But this is what our precious Bouie lives for -- to flush and retrieve and swim and retrieve and . . . retrieve and retrieve and retrieve. He carried one of the quail around the house forever that evening, showing it off to anyone who would look. That's a remarkable, innate characteristic of labs and other retrievers -- they love to carry things around gently in their mouths and show them off. Sometimes it can get a little annoying because they can get quite pushy in encouraging you to check it out, but they take such joy in their feat that you just have to look, smile, and praise.

These pics were taken a week ago, on a cold and rainy night in New Orleans. The intrepid hunters include Pepper, The Son, and our friend who was also Pepper's first aide de camp. They had just returned from a successful bird hunt and were cleaning the spoils on the front porch, assisted by their valiant retriever and a number of beerish substances.

While he's an experienced duck and goose hunter, Bouie had not been on a bird hunt before. The Son got a great video of him flushing (and nearly catching!) the pheasant, so it's understandable that Bouie would carefully supervise the cleaning operation in case the quarry tried to make good an escape.

We've already enjoyed a mess of quail (translation: a "mess" is a variable southern quantity, applicable to game birds, fish, and products of the garden alike), but it was Bouie who earned the pheasant egg. I fried it just until the yolk was runny and placed it atop his breakfast chow. There was no hesitating to eat on Bouie's part that morning!

Now I'm thinking pheasant for Easter dinner. Ah -- the bounty of this old Earth!

And the joy of a young black lab who has pleased his people -- nothing like it.

Wanted at the White House: Southern Mothers

The accounts of the Obama-Netanyahu Close Encounter are downright embarrassing.

I can just hear my mother's voice, scolding the Young President for his wretchedly poor display of how NOT to host a world leader at the White House. Leaving a guest unattended while the host goes to have a meal with the family?!?! I think not. I would've been grounded for weeks had I treated a guest in that fashion.

Maybe that's the solution to the Obama bad-manners department -- we need a corps of strong Southern Mothers to move into the White House to "shake a knot" onto the Young President's head and to teach him some rudimentary etiquette. I envision many hours of chores assigned as punishment along with the admonition, "Now, you just go and think about what you did!"

And I can just hear the motherly counter-arguments: "I don't care if you thought that making him stew for awhile would 'soften him up' for negotiations. You will not treat a guest that way under this roof!"

I hope Mr. Netanyahu was at least offered some cheese straws and iced tea.

Nah -- I don't think Michelle has that recipe.

Of Racism and Waterfowl

I just read an entertaining and thoughtful post at Stephen Kruiser's that concludes the media -- MSNBC shows , in particular -- are responsible for contriving the ever-more-pronounced role that race plays in the expanding debate on healthcare (and countless other topics).

Interesting point.

Of course, the troll-ish commenters don't even pretend to address the premise of the piece -- they just want to hone in on a few fringe folks at the Tea Party gatherings and point to their signs as evidence of a massive racist current running through the heart of the conservative movement and its like.

Yawn.

There really will not be an end to the racist diatribe, will there?

Okay, I give up — a sign portraying Obama as a witch doctor suggests that its creator may have prejudiced leanings. So what? It’s A sign, carried by someone who has no authority or power to act upon his less-than-P.C. leanings. His Mama obviously didn't rear him properly (Note for those north of the Mason-Dixon Line: "rear" is a southern colloquialism for the raising and nurturing of offspring, not a reference to some odd "teabagging" endeavor).

That sign is also kind of clever in the respect that witch doctors, stereotypically, induce their “cures” through “magic;” through nothing of any real substance, or through mesmerization at best — which is precisely how Obamacare appears to be funded at this point.

Would it be preferable to see the Young President caricatured on a sign as the AFLAC duck? You know — a “quack?” Or would that, more insidiously, be evidence that: (A) Obama = duck; (B) duck = game waterfowl to be shot and consumed by the hunter; therefore, (C) Obama = target of gun-crazed cannibals and/or (D) Tea Party protesters are cannibals?!? (I can't figure out how to extrapolate them out so they become racist cannibals, but I'll keep working on it. Any suggestions?)

I suppose an ObamA-FLAC duck sign would bring the "no-guns-near-the-Prez-ers" out in full force, though, which could be problematic in a whole different vein.

Oops. Sorry, Second Amendment and TEA Partiers — I just gave MSNBC its next story line. My bad.

*UPDATE* -- the Greater New Orleans Tea Party group had a successful picnic yesterday at West End Park! We arrived a little late, so we missed the bulk of the crowd, but a book vendor reported running out of his 500-copy stash of The 5000 Year Leap, and the "Conservative Cone" Snowball vendor seemed pleased (there's no stopping those conservative entrepreneurs, is there!)! Not too shabby attendance for an LSU football day, especially with the game being played up the road in Baton Rouge. In one pic above, taken at the picnic, the diagram seems particularly apropos of the commenters I noted above; in the other, Bouie demonstrates his boredom with the whole racism thing. (click on the pic for a larger view)

R.I.P., Mary Jo; Ta-ta Teddy.

Look at the dates on the Kopechne family headstone -- no one should have to bury a child. Certainly, no one should have to bury a child lost through the unclean hands of a "trusted statesman" and elected official.

This morning's IMAO post examines Random Thoughts about the career and passing of Ted Kennedy. In particular, Frank J. notes that justice would have been served if someone had hit Teddy with a plane, a la 9/11.

My thought: hitting him with the prop of a Coast Guard Rescue Cutter would be much more suitable.

That having been expressed, however, I'm now guilty of disobeying my Sainted Mama's admonition: "If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all."

So, yes Ma'am. *crickets.* *cicadas.*