Playin' Hookie

With my best girl, and my hubby for the first half of the first day of Jazzfest 2010, we discover:

• Big fancy camera in the hands of a careful child are all that you need to listen to a few good hours of music under the tent.  Not one, "I'm bored, mama!"
• Scatting on stage is not just for grown-ups.  Ana was throwin' down with Kat!
• Rain and permission to splash in it are all that a 6 year-old adventurer need for a successful day.
• Chill out food for kids: fried chicken, Isabel's recommendation.  Counter acts the gelato, mango freeze, snowballs.
• An amazing new kids area.  Kid-friendly foods, great entertainment, wonderful crafts, beautiful artwork from kids...Happy there for an hour or two.
• Soft shell crab and Cochon de lait have a new accompaniment: quail, pheasant and andoille gumbo...how have I missed you this long?
• One-on-one time with my any of my kids always feels special.

Lassez Les Bon Temps Roulez!

Krewe du Vieux last night was the best "grown-up" time I've had in a long time, and a great way to kick off the carnival season...which will from this point on, consist of packing multiple snacks, hauling a ladder, to and from the cars, calculating best vantage points x bathroom locations, etc. So last night it was all about titillating floats, cold drinks, comical costumes, and banter with good friends. Here are the highlights (lowlights would be a picture of me, this morning, nursing an iced coffee with black mascara under my eyes, but hey- there's no one around to snap me!).

We started at the R Bar on Royal, and I couldn't pass up the chance to

photograph the barber chair that I associate with lots of fun (and trouble) in my

pre-married days...

A couple of brass bands...there were great costumes and rowdy floats too, but typical me...I got the back of everything; I'm never ready.

This was the coolest thing ever: A mobile drum circle with a cross-dressing cheerleader atop. And they were rollin'! This would've been one to follow, but we were off to Mimi's!

At Mimi's...we'd gone there to eat, and were a little disappointed at first because it's more club with tapas than sit-down meal. We put our forks in our pocket (note forks in pockets blaring speaker in the heat and tried to have the fun we really wanted to have. All we had to do was be patient (and drink more!)

Hey! That's my fork!

Ready? Set! Go!

Well, the tapas came out of the kitchen--little plates of manchego cheese with sauteed mushrooms on toast, calamari in cream sauce, cooked down stews in rich sauces, and we passed them around, along with more beers, forks out of pockets, and shared delicious morsels with friends and strangers to the pulse of loud music, through a smoky haze of liquor and dissipating inhibition... a uniquely New Orleans moment that I was happy to have.

And how could I not resist a pic of Denice and Dave getting a ride to their car in the back of Paulette's mini-van. At least last night I would've dubbed it The Party Wagon.

I am all about some more grown-up time with my friends, and more of these kinds of Mardi Gras moments...It's great to be in good company.

Highs and Lows of Gustav

The Low-lights

• Nutty family member who refused to evacuate kept calling every 20 minutes to describe his struggle sans air. My parents never turned off the phone.
• Watching my feet swell to the size of footballs on our late-night evac to Navarre Beach
• Pregnant-Palin-Palooza on CNN
• Clogged milk ducts *&$#(@ on the day of our departure. Who needs this shit when you're pregnant??? Who know it could happen with colostrum?
• Oh, maybe wondering if I'll have a home in the morning, if we'll have a new baby on a single income, if our baby layette will be a murky mess, if my hometown will be washed away. That might be a low-light.

The High-lights

• The kindness of strangers. Mr. Georgiou's generosity was a physical presence during the whole event
• Jacuzzi tubs!
• Time at the beach with my family always feels like a blessing
• Watching Ana truly swim for the first time--the width of the pool, underwater, with googles within one day
• Diving 4 feet for dive toys the next! She's got her daddy's swim genes.
• Us-90 as an evacuation route (no traffic! yay!). It still took us 7 hours for a 4 hour drive.
• Elliot spending time with his grandparents. He's got some deep love for those folks, and they really need it.
• Clams--our favorite find at the seashore
• Tita's baleadas at the beach in the morning
• Assistant Director handling all the post-storm staffing stuff!

Back to work Monday. Two weeks to Weino (I think).

Back home

The scene today at home:
Me, in the kitchen. Barefoot. Pregnant. Hair a frizzy corona around my face.

On the menu:
hot dogs & chili on white bread (NOT hot dog buns) served on styrofoam plates.

You get the picture.

Dragging

We're really dragging our feet coming home. I have no desire to get back, actually.
I know that we have power. Our neighbor called to say that he picked up a couple of branches in our yard, and they have already been picked up. But the thought of having a shell of the city slightly operational, the trek in that I am perceiving to be a nightmare, impending baby and these other two storms swirling around the atlantic just make me sick.

I don't really know how this experience will affect our family. The anxiety of losing it all is not something I want to experience seasonally. Even every three years.

I'm curious- have others out there reignited their discussions about leaving?

We'll be home by tomorrow evening, I'm imagining. We'll be there for a while. But I'm wondering if I'll be able to shake my doubts this time around.

Good Morning, Gustav

Here we are again, sleeping with CNN on, and waking up to the sounds of a tornado warning. In Santa Rosa County, Florida, we are outside of the "cone" but that doesn't mean that the impact of this enormous storm aren't felt from here.

The sun is rising over the gulf, and the blue-green waters have been transformed into nothing but frothy foam for at least a mile out. Last night, our attempt to walk the beach was met with light rain, and stinging sand spraying on screaming kids. We are currently on alert, as the news has been interrupted twice with emergency signals warning of tornadoes, and directions on how to escape them. Kevin had to convince me not to move the sleeping children between us into the jacuzzi tub.

It is not until today that I've allowed myself to think about how our home might be affected, if we might have a home to return to, how my friends will be affected, and when our lives might return to normal. The reality that I'm "unhireable" in my current state is obvious. If this storm plays up to the hype, our lives could be dramatically different afterwards. I don't fully know what that means.

Switching Gears

A complete melt-down on the couch was the only way through my pity party at being 37 weeks pregnant, 3 years post-K, and evacuating from the next storm. I've tried too hard to keep my emotions in check, and of course, Mama tears means Ana fears: she peppered me with stuffed animals on every part and several blankets. Two Oreos for good measure.

Until my sob-fest, I was generally p-od about evacuating, and seethed with every mention Kevin made of going to the beach, and making the most of it. The very thing that I love about this man was completely maddening. I usually need his ying to my yang, but this time, just once, I wanted him to say, "It's not safe for us to venture too far away. Let's do X, and so-and-so will take care of the kids if you go into labor, and this will be our plan if X happens." Of course, this has never been and never will be, my husband.

I wish I could say that finances hasn't been playing a secret role in our struggle to decide, but it has. With maternity leave beckoning, and an invisible savings, the thought of an impromptu vacation seemed irresposible and reckless. So given some tips from our saavy friend, Holly, who negotiated our Ft Walton Beach accomodations for a song, I got online to negotiate directly with condo owners in the hopes that someone could give us a reduced rate at a relaxing locale.

vrbo.com was the site we hit. Lists of room descriptions, availability, and photos, and links directly to the owners for your negotiating needs. Holly shared that she had told them about her family, pointed them to her blog, etc. Given my recent online rants, I didn't point anyone to the blog, but told them about mine and Kevin's work, our kids, and my pregnancy. Within the hour, we'd received 4 phone calls. One with an offer we could neither refuse or believe. A condo owner on Navarre Beach was willing to have us stay at his condo for 3 nights for the cleanup fee. That's $90 people. George Georgiou is his name, and he's the chair of the Make A Wish Foundation, to which we'll be making a donation in his name.

And so, where am I now? I'm remembering the good that Katrina brought me. How it was an opportunity to be vulnerable and needy, and truly experience the kindness and beauty of people. And thanks to Mr. Georgiou, I feel my heart opening again, right when I'm tempted to be cynical, and angry and give up. I'm grateful at his reminder of how these situations bring us closer to each other, and that, is worth fighting for. I know I can go away, and I think, after this random act of love, I think I can come back too.

Gratefully yours,

Emmy

I'm pissed

We don't know if/when we're going anywhere.
We're not in the hospital's power grid (that's the next block over).

Our laughable "plan..." we have no timetable and have made no preparations and my husband has work this evening (don't even get me started). We may go to Prarieville, LA which sounds like the kind of place where lots of trees fall down in a hurricane. It's right outside Gonzales. A friend has offered us their other hotel room in Laurel, MS. Some people actually book multiple rooms in advance of the storm. Imagine that. Didn't we do this once before? Why do I feel caught unaware?

My doctor sent me from my Thursday visit with a copy of my chart. I guess that's a green flag to go somewhere else and have a baby.

Is it not hard enough just to bring a new little person into the world, and our lives?
Sometimes I wonder why things have to be so extra hard around here, and it just has me pissed.

I'm off to hear the latest...like I haven't listened to the news all day yesterday.

Decisions

For the last few days, I've been feeling contractions, the baby's head grinding down, and pain when I stand or walk around. I know it's all typical, but coupled with the recent accounts of pre-40wk births and my mountain of pre-leave responsibilities at work, I'm generally a bit anxious.

Which makes reports of a hurricane looming even more threatening. From this graphic, you can see that we're not only in the cone, but at the end of the projected path, like a fuse being lit to it's inevitable watery bomb. The Roadrunner and Coyote come to mind, with their ongoing feud with ACME products as the weapon of choice. But I know too well...it's no joke. No matter where this sucker makes landfall.

In my head, I'm thinking of Katrina, 3 years ago Friday, when we evacuated with Ana and Elliot, only 3 weeks old. And here I am now, 3 years later, with a baby shortly on the way...and faced with evacuation. Grid-lock labor, and the thought of it, is enough to make me want to move forever.

One friend and fellow blogger evacuated 2 days before her daughter was born, driving home and going into labor (forgive any inaccuracies, CR). I may not have the timeline or details completely right, but her stressful feelings surrounding the context around the baby's arrival have stuck with me. Less than ideal is an understatement. She advises that we stay.

Almost everyone else advises the opposite, with tips on reducing our travel time, secret places to stay, the danger of not having medical care (what IF the hospital 2 blks away shuts it's doors? what if there's no potable water, or the river levees are toppled, or x, y, z).

We have never prepared for a hurricane, beyond packing our bags.

I don't know if I have it in me. The staying or the going.

I have an OB appt. tomorrow, and will talk with her about where I am in this pregnancy, and what options I should consider as viable. Until then, I remain harried and cranky as all hell.

Friend leaving NOLA, citing healthier, safer city and good schools

Sigh.

Wishing her all the best.

Trying to sweep away those seasonal doubts about life here.

Signs of Spring

What comes to mind when spring comes to NOLA?


I know the usual answers, but for me, the night before last, it was those monstrous flying cockroaches.


I was sitting on the coach, locked into an episode of The Wire, my current tele-obsession. Kevin was sleeping peacefully with Ana and her hacking cough. Elliot had finally gone down after his own coughing fit. I was cuddled peacefully under a blanket with some ice water.


Fans of The Wire know that the details of the case and revelations of character make each moment relevant, so I was poised and attentive when it happened. A cockroach big enough to charter a flight on came careening toward me, and landed on the wall opposite me!


Out came the shrieks! Out came the expletives! I'm still reeling just thinking of how close he came to me, and how absolutely gynormous this thing was!


Without even hitting pause (now you know this is serious), I run into the kitchen for the 409, my favorite roach eliminator. Usually their down in two squirts. Quick. Painful, maybe?


And what do I see when I run into the kitchen screaming, "Uggggghhhhh, Jeezuz!"???? Two enormous fuckers on the wall! No, I mean it. They were literally FUCKING on the wall. Trying to make more god-damn roach babies beneath my stretched textiles, dammit! Does it get much worse????


I hope it was more than just fleeting roach love, cause those two creepers died doin' it.


So that was the end of TV night for me, and even under the covers in the comfort of my own bedroom, I thought I saw the silhoutte of miniature war planes circling overhead. How I love New Orleans, and how I hate those g-d roaches.


When I got over the shame of these creatures dwelling with us, I actually enjoyed trading creature stories quite a bit with Marci over gelato, and she shared this story with me. I also found this one, which was clearly not filmed in New Orleans. We have doodlebugs bigger than that "flying killer roach." I can appreciate her feelings on it, though.

And just for posterity in a post so-titled, I should say that

• I'm enjoying my front garden, and our continous work to make the backyard functional;
• I can't wait for some Rosewater Tea at Jazzfest to accompany my softshell crab. Yes, I know I can get those mostly year round anywhere, but something about having one in the gospel tent with a sweaty baby on my lap can't be replicated. Anywhere.
• Ana got to see doves "fighting" quite amorously today. Is everybody humping? Are you?Feel free to comment.
• Georgia's tree is home to a nest of mockingbird's with their characteristic aggressive guarding (understandable Mama bird) from curious eyes.
• The neighbor has a new puppy.
• Our friends are hosting their annual Jazzfest Crawfish Boil next week. It's a blast, and the food is DELICIOUS. But Ana's most excited about seeing another chrysallis...
• Elliot got a new trike yesterday (full story soon).
• A caterpillar stung the hell out of my husband.

I'm feeling quite alive. Thank you God for the gift of another day, roaches and all.

Recovery

I can feel myself coming back. Last week was undoubtedly up there with one of the most challenging. Lance's murder was extremely jarring. I didn't anticipate how much the services would affect me. Typically, these things make me cry, but I leave with a sense of peace and acceptance. This service, full of Lance's family, friends, and teachers, left us all sobbing in heaps on each other. With the death of one so young, with an event so untimely and preventable, only questions remained.

I did learn more about who Lance was today, and it was of great comfort. He was preparing for confirmation, and going to these classes at church each and every Sunday. He'd asked one of his teachers to sponsor him. She spoke with great pride of Lance's faith and commitment. I learned that Lance was walking home after playing video games when he was shot. And I learned that another friend, an employee with the Juvenile Justice Project, will be representing his murderer. His murderer was 15. How much more tragic can this get?

At the service, there were many former students. The bonds between us still so strong. As we cried together, the beauty and importance of teaching was reinforced from the pulpit. Oh yes, we have our work cut out for us. And these kids, no matter how much time passes or where they go, will always be "our kids." I suddenly felt scared for them all. Scared for the baby I'm carrying. Suddenly, the fear of being pregnant became the fear of letting the baby go. Out into this crazy world. I threw everything up for the next two days.

I've found great comfort this week in spending more time with children. My own, and other people's. Just hearing the things they say, or having them ask me for a hug (when I so need one) has been healing. How can one not laugh in the presence of a child?

Ana and El and I have been planting in the garden, and removing old leaves. The days have been so lovely with spring here. I've felt the simple pleasure in the breeze and sunshine, and the longer days spent outside.

Other gifts have been in the form of, well, gifts. My friend Georgia surprised me with a meditation book in the mailbox. About 20 of the pages were dog-eared. Her favorites. The thoughtfulness of this gift is extraordinary to me. Words of comfort, hand-chosen, for me to read when I'm in need of a lift. This is definitely one gift I'll have to pass on.

I'm moving on. But I'm scared to forget. I want to remember that anger, and do something with it. I want people to learn about Lance, and about the countless others who we lump into the heaps of non-news generating murders. I want the courage to keep living in the city I love. A city where there is so much pain, and endless hope.

Where's Lance?

"Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee" John Donne

Far too often lately, I've been witness to discussions among community activists and neighborhood advocates decrying their boredom, or lack of interest with the crime problem in "other areas." First off, it's quite clearly coded racist talk, it's not our problem, it's "theirs." The presupposition that these issues are isolated to one community is faulty, as any mid-upper class victim of violent crime can attest. And the silent assent to the killing off of a whole generation of young black men is disturbing, and has caused me to question my participation in these civic groups who view the success of an area through such a gentrified lens, or at least fail to recognize how each segment of our population makes this great city the place we relish.

Hearing this talk just hours after learning of Lance's murder made me dangerous company on Friday afternoon. I feel unable to hold my tongue, and my emotions are bubbling close to the surface. I know I'm not alone in struggling with this. During my daily blog reads, I learned that this has affected a friend whom I didn't work with professionally. She knew Lance too. I wonder how many others were crying in their offices on Friday, like Shokufeh and I? Did Lance know how many of us were in his corner?

Quite honestly, I'm feeling devastated. I heard the news of the murder on Frenchman on Wednesday night, and shrugged it off, like all us New Orleanians have become adept at doing. Shamefully, it is the knowledge of this same variety of "street justice" that gave me comfort after Kevin was held up at gunpoint by a man who went on to murder another. I slept better months later, thinking that "the guy who held up Kevin was probably killed. That's just the way things work around here."

Knowing one of the young black men who was killed has made it all harder to bear. The lack of media attention around this is painful. The intimate knowledge of the amazing potential of this individual calls me to question all the systems that might have failed him. On a personal level, I feel a sense of failure. We were often reminded in our daily work that our job was not to "save" these children, but make them less vulnerable. Yet every news report, and wanted ad, and obit that didn't feature one of my former students somehow left me feeling vindicated. "No, those aren't our kids. Our kids are trying to get through high school, succeeding in college, holding down a job." That was my inner dialogue...now I wonder if we could have done something more. But the truth is we certainly did our best. Lance graduated with a toothy smile, after three challenging years. I know any other school would have kicked him out long ago. But Doc's psychology degree and infinite patience helped us look at Lance as a person, and because of that, we learned to appreciate all of him, and were invested in helping him through his personal struggles. And he worked so hard to get there. It was all a leap of faith. Lance believed in his future, and so did we. What a loss for us all.

My friend Laura and I processed this together Friday night. She wrote a piece for the Times Picayune op-ed the next day. She doubts it will be published because of the length, but I find it thought provoking and worth sharing.

Thanks, Laura, for your poignent words, and for letting me share them:

"I didn’t really take notice when the news reportedyet another unnamed black young man gunned down in the7th ward. The narrative is so familiar that I havebegun to tune it out. It was Frenchman Street, butwith a sigh of relief and recognition, I noted thatthe 1600 block is on the “other” side of St. Claude. But then an email came from a former colleague. Lance Zarders, one of our former students, had been fatally shot. How could that be? If a young high school student had been murdered, surely I would have seen iton the news. Wouldn’t such a crime have made the front page?

Only a few months ago the death ofMadeleine Prevost had garnered such attention. A student at Lusher; she had a promising future. What ashock that her young life was cut short so tragically because she took drugs and overdosed. Ever sincethen, the public has received regular updates in thenews related to the arrest of the criminals that“forced” Maddie to make the tragic choice that tookher life. So what of Lance, a student at Math & Science HighSchool, just down the road from Lusher, tragically gunned down on the street, murdered in cold blood? What does Lance merit? Not much apparently, just a small piece inside the Metro section (page 4) by an unnamed staff reporter. Nothing about his life, his hopes and dreams, his troubles, all his promise cutshort. Just “victim identified… 17 year old shot to death.” No outrage, no march to city hall. Just silence, maybe even boredom.

I too was ready to let this most recent death just wash over me, like so many others. But this time I can’t. Lance was my student. He was a part of my life for three years. When I watched him walk across the stage at his 8th grade promotional exercise I thought,okay, he’s had some rough patches, but he’s going to make it. He wouldn’t just end up another statistic. What if every single death in this city was treatedwith the same attention and energy as that of HelenHill and Maddie Prevost? Maybe then we couldn’t allow ourselves to be lulled into the complacent “not in myback yard” mentality that allows us to keep trudging our daily rounds without breaking into tears. To rationalize away the violence. But Lance Zarders was a real person. He was my student and his life wasworth more than a 4 inch square box in the Metro."

17-year-old shooting victim identified
by The Times-Picayune
Friday March 14, 2008, 6:54 PM
The 17-year-old shot to death Wednesdsay night in the 1600 block of Frenchmen Street has been identified by the Orleans Parish Coroner's office as Lance Zarders of New Orleans.

Police officers sent to that location after getting a 9 p.m. call about a man shot there found Zarders lying in the street with multiple gunshot wounds. Zarders was pronounced dead at the scene by emergency medical technicians, according to John Gagliano of the Orleans Parish Coroner's office..

A dark-colored van was seen leaving the area after the shooting, police said.
Homicide detective Anthony Pardo is investigating.

Police asked anyone with information about the incident to call Crimestoopes at 822-1111 or toll-free at 1-977-903-7867. A caller could receive a cash reward of up to $2,500 for information leading to an arrest and indictment in the case.
*************************************************************************************
Lance was clever, and mischievous. His writing was full of humor and insight into human character. As my friend Kiersten (another teacher of his) quipped, "I always thought he'd grow up with funny stories of what a pain-in-the-ass he was in school." We all expected Lance to grow out of the trouble he made, especially since most of it was typical adolescent behavior.

In the time Lance was at Charter, he learned to fight us less, and work with us more. And when we shook hands at graduation, I remember the feeling that he'd transcended so many hurdles, and had learned to be a part of our community, and he had learned from each of us, just as we'd learned from him.

I loved you Lance. You are gone much too soon. And I'm left with questions and anger. What happened? Why did you make these choices? What could've been done to help you?

Off center

It doesn't take much to knock me off balance these days. I don't know if it's hormones, daily challenges, or just my own changes happening to me...but lately, minor occurances have the makings of an emotional moment:

-getting dressed. What the hell to wear?

-well-intentioned Mother of Four scoffing at my avoidance of soft cheese and beer while pregnant. Spoken like a women whose only had typical pregnancies.

-constant nausea. Can't even enjoy my favorite pastime anymore! I lost 5 lbs. this last month. But this is typical first trimester for me.

-Random work mishaps, like a new employee failing to show up for work.

-the absence of fresh corn and white onion in the fridge for tortilla soup. It came out fine with frozen corn and green onions.

Today, I was really trying to dig myself out of this sad place, and just tried to take my lead from the kids, who are so good at modeling unbridled joy, open-ness, and without expectation, relish the surprises of the day. Something I'm working hard to do. So after a morning of cooking, we headed to the front garden. Inspired by my green-thumb friend who posts pics of her haven nearly daily, I knew we had some work to do in the long-neglected garden rife with sycamore leaves, and random weeds. I did find it quite therapeutic to work in the soil, however short-lived with El heading down the sidewalk at 10 minute intervals. I felt like myself for a minute, out in the sunshine, uncovering doodle bugs.

Then El opted for car play. One of his favorites...we open the car and he pretends to drive (sans keys). When I opened the car door, there it all was. The evidence of another random car pilfering. Someone had looted our car. Papers. Pennies. Tampons. Everywhere. Every hidden compartment door hanging open. WTF.

And for what? I don't think there was anything of value in the car. If there was, it went without our noticing. The police came, quickly. The crime scene guy came, quickly. Ana learned about fingerprints and was fascinated...more fascinated than scared of random people invading our space, yet again.

I'm working to get back but I really think the only way through this funk is THROUGH.
I'm off to get some retail therapy. Maybe that will temper at least one daily meltdown.

Carnival Time!

I can't believe it's only 20+ days til Fat Tuesday. We had a blast last year, and I can't wait for the Greatest Free Show on Earth.

To add to the excitement of shouting for trinkets with old friends and new, there's the Krewe of Abeona, rolling down Oak Street, February 1st at 10 am.

With this year's Queen: Ana!!!

This is perfect, given that dress up is her favorite game dujour.

And who else should accompany her for this once-in-a-lifetime event but her good friend

King Will!!!!

Here are the two at the drawing of their names:

I can't wait!

One Year Ago

I'm thinking of you today, Helen, and working to learn the lessons of your life:
-joy
-exuding a peaceful spirit
-engaged and loving parenting
-one million opportunities to be creative over the course of the day
-choosing work that you enjoy, that inspires you
-sharing smiles
-and I am sure this would be among them: forgiveness.

I'm thinking of you Paul and Francis, and wishing you peace.

Elections

As they drew the curtain around me, I whispered a silent prayer:
Please, just don't embarass us. Please, just don't embarass us.



Yes, I'm to the point where I no longer care if these people do their jobs. I just need them not to bring further shame and ridicule to my homestate and town by accepting and making bribes, sleeping with hookers, extorting money, making contracts for personal gain, sobbing on national tv during an emergency, and putting their foot in their mouths.


That's all I ask at this point.


And might I just add, what sad, slim pickin' for the Dems in this gubernatorial race (I'm hoping that's the opposite for the pres. election!). I ended up voting for Foster Campbell ...a quick game of eenie-meanie-miny-mo after aforementioned prayer. I'm grateful not to live in Orleans parish, and be forced with so many non-choices for the City Council seat.


Is it just that the folks who really want to make change do so at the local level? They promote their silent agendas of social justice, building the local economy, fighting crime, and supporting families through other efforts. Why is it that so few candidates inspire? Let alone make marked changes that they can point to, that reaffirm our democratic process? I'd like to think that the whole system is broken, esp. when I think that it's exactly what got our fascist Batman and Robin Duo in office (no doubt who Batman is here), and has kept them unchecked.


I won't be watching the returns tonight. It really doesn't matter. At this point, I'll be happy not to hear their names in the news again for the length of their terms.

Helen Hill

Crimestoppers has increased the reward for information leading to the murderer behind the death of Helen Hill and the shooting of her husband, Paul Gailunas on January 4, 2007 in their Bywater home.

The flashes of the family photos on the news again, happy smiling celebratory pics as they clutch baby Francis...bringing back all of the pain. I haven't really dealt with this. I put it all away quickly, but it's still very raw, esp. with their family photo in my desk that I get a quick glimpse of every day. I write them postcards (all three of them, including Helen) that I don't send. It is the thought of young Francis that is always with me. Motherless Francis, and poor us, without Helen's light in our daily lives.

I can hardly sing it anymore:

My mommy comes back,
My mommy comes back,
She always comes back to get me.

My mommy comes back,
She always comes back,
She never will forget me.

Yes, we would sing this to Francis on those first tentative days of school. He was so brave, and they so cautious, and upon returning, so intensely curious to learn any tiny detail about his time away from them.
Who did Franny play with?
What did he do?
Did he make that picture? Look, Paul! It's so beautiful!

That fucking bastard who took her away from them...Yes, I'm a pacifist, but let that fucker burn.

Saints

Ana and I watched the game, with me hamming up "Who Dat?"
and "Who Let the Dogs Out?" which really captures her imagination (instead of the Who refrain, she says "Woof, woof, woof." I made a great show of dancing around the house pre-game singing and dancing, and then explaining why the Saints were "Our Boys," no matter what.

That's how you raise a New Orleanian.