Category Archives: Friends

Stupid Stuff

As I look back on my life (I am 73 as of 24 July 2017), I sometimes wonder how I survived some of the stupid things I did. Many of those I don’t even wish to recall much less speak of. Yes, they were that dumb. I assumed, with advancing age and its associated experience, I would get better at avoiding that. Maybe not. And maybe it is advanced aging that is reversing some of my “learning”.

I recently had one of those “stupid stuff” experiences, and it was a real first for me. We were traveling by car to Florida with some friends. There were enough of us that we took two vehicles. I was driving my Ford F-150 crew cab with Janis and one passenger. It was lunch time, and we stopped at a gas station outside of Mobile, Alabama, for something to eat. The station had an attached Wendy’s hamburger joint. Unfortunately, parking was unusually limited for a station and restaurant combo as large as this one and finding a parking space was difficult. I finally found one at the end of a row and the ensuing conversation concerning whether or not the other car of friends also found one distracted me.

We got out and went inside, ordered lunch and had a relaxing meal. I informed Janis that I needed to go to the restroom before getting back on the road and sauntered off to attend to same. On the way, I happened to stick my hand in my pocket and discovered my truck key was not there, and I always lock my truck! Rats! No problem. I always give Janis the extra key when we travel—only this time I forgot to do so.

After attending to business I rejoined our group and asked—hopefully—if Janis had, by chance, grabbed the extra key out of the drawer when we left home. Nope. Still no problem. I have that key pad entry system on the truck, which I never use. I knew (hoped) the card with the code on it that Ford gave me when I bought the truck was still in my wallet. Half expecting my truck to be stolen, I immediately decamped for the parking lot with the rest of the crew in hot pursuit.

Upon arriving at the truck, I discovered the doors were not locked thus no need to search for the code card. I also discovered my wallet was in the console next to my pistol, the key was still in the ignition, and — AND — the engine was running!

That is the first time I have ever done something like that.

When I related that story to my friend Mike, he told me a story of a similar event he experienced. Mike does graphic installations both inside and outside of buildings. For outside installs, he often uses a lift trailer which will extend up to 30 feet. He drags that long trailer behind his Suburban when he has an outside installation to do a job that day. One day he needed to swing into Walmart to get something. She slipped the Suburban into a slot and went inside. About a half hour later he came out to discover he had forgotten he had the trailer that day. His suburban was in its parking space with that long lift trailer sticking out in the drive between the rows of parked cars. Whoops!

Inside installs often require the use of a ladder, and Mike sometimes pushes the envelope a bit too far. One night he was doing an install in a grocery store over the dairy section. He leaned out a bit too far and tipped the ladder over. He landed in the yogurt.

“Clean up in aisle seven!”

Sometimes I wonder if we will survive old age. Probably not…

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SCUBA — Part 3

Didn’t expect a P3, but I was cleaning out a storage building in preparation for tearing it down and found a treasure trove of “Memory Lane” stuff, everything from my old Air Force papers, to art I did as a kid, and some old mags and photos. Among the photos was my “missing” picture of the Porpoise returning to Grand Isle on the last day of the NOGI Spearfishing Tournament mentioned here.

Sadly, many in the picture are gone now.

Porpoise NOGI R

 

I am the second from the left, handling the rope. Moving right, Dee White is next, partially hidden behind the ladder. Buck Roy is standing on top of the cabin with Mickey Rodosti (SIC?), who is sitting and gazing into the harbor. Dee, Buck, and Mickey are gone now. Al Easterling is standing in the cabin door, and I think he is also deceased. I can’t remember the names of the other two “rope handlers.”

Long time ago and so many good memories….

And what do we learn from that? Life is short—I didn’t think I would grow old so fast! And we need to spend more time with friends, because there comes the day when they may not be around any more—or you may not be around any more. Get together, crack open a brewski, and swap “lies” and laugh while you still can.

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Filed under Friends, Growing Up, Kenner

Joey Giammalva

Last night Janis and I ran into Beverly Giammalva at a function. She is the widow of a very dear old friend, Joey Giammalva. Joey and I grew up together in Kenner, and we go back as far as I can remember, like when I was around six. I lived on Sixth Street near the corner with Williams Street. Joey lived on the same block as me but facing Minor Street, and just so happens right across the street from my future bride, Janis Cristina.

Me, Manard, Joey 1953Joey, Manard Lagasse, and I were the closest of friends in those days and remained so through high school, even though I went to East Jefferson, and Joey went to De La Salle. We kind of drifted apart after that, simply because we were separated by schools. Both Manard and Joey were two years younger than I was. Joey and I reconnected a bit, when I transferred to the University of Southwest Louisiana, and he was attending there.

As I was talking to Beverly, my emotions were flooded with memories of Joey and me as kids. What came to mind?

For one, his home on Minor (in which Beverly still resides). I can still picture every room. I would show up there on Saturday morning and find Joey watching TV in their den, a smallish room at the back of the house. He had a back porch that was initially only screened, and then Mr. Giammalva added jalousie window glass. We were not allowed in the living room. The sofa was even covered with plastic. No, I’m not making that up. I think they used that room only once a year, Christmas.

And, of course the kitchen.

Mrs. Giammalva (Miss Mary) was a fantastic Italian cook and somewhat tradition bound, because they had the same meal every Sunday at noon: spaghetti and meatballs and fried chicken. I’m not sure, but I don’t think fried chicken is very Italian? Whatever, it was great fried chicken! I must confess that I sometimes managed to be around the Giammalva house about lunch time on Sunday a bit more often that perhaps I should have been, and naturally, they invited me to eat with them.

Mr. Giammalva was an ice peddler for my future wife’s family business, Cristina Ice in Kenner. He delivered ice (some of us still had “ice boxes” then) to homes and businesses in his red, stake-bed, Studebaker truck. I will never forget that truck.

And get this! His helper was none other than Lloyd Price, before he became a famous recording artist. Some of his hits: Lawdy Miss Clawdy, Staggerlee, Personality, and I’m Gonna Get Married. A resident of Kenner who made good.

Mr. Giammalva also was a part-time trapper. He ran a trap line somewhere west of Kenner and brought in muskrat and little animals I think were mink. He treated the skins and hung them to dry in his two-car garage.

I spoke elsewhere of Joey and me having Red Ryder BB guns. Did you know robins were good table fare? I didn’t either, but the enterprising Mr. Giammalva did. Robins migrate and in the fall stopped on the way south in his hackberry tree to feast on the little hackberries, often filling that tree with robins by the hundreds. Mr. G and Joey’s Red Ryder BB gun were waiting for them. Many robins went into his freezer after getting their fill of hackberries. And no, that wasn’t legal. But, hey, it was Kenner in the 1950s.

Joey was a bit chunky when we were young but slimmed down as an adult. He suffered from flat feet, and I mean flat as pancake. We often played with the hose on the summer and Joey’s feet would make flatulence sounds on the wet concrete. Funny what you remember. And that one brought on the tears.

We also had go-carts, and we were often chased by the Kenner Police for running them on the streets of Kenner. I wrote about some of those adventures here and here.

The photo above of (from left to right) me, Manard Lagasse, and Joey was taken by Mrs. Giammalva in Joey’s back yard. He carried that old photo around in his wallet for decades. Finally about twenty years ago, he made 8×10 copies for Manard and me and presented them to us. It hangs in my home office. I am sorry to say that both Manard and Joey are gone now.

I miss them both, and unfortunately, we often don’t realize how much we miss someone until they are gone. If you have friends you love, spend time with them, because they won’t be here forever, and neither will you.

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He be deid!

By all rights, my friend Buck should have been dead in 1969 when he was involved in a bad accident on his motorcycle. He was working in Morgan City and commuting to NOLA on his days off, spending those with friends Al Bartlett and Sam Hopkins, who were living the bohemian lifestyle in the French Quarter.

It was winter and cold, and Buck’s sole means of transportation was a Harley Sportster. He bundled up in his shepherd’s coat, the kind made out of sheep’s skin with the rough leather on the outside and the wool side facing inward. For added insulation he lined the inside his coat with newspaper, which makes excellent insulation, by the way. Thus bundled up, he headed for NOLA.

As he topped the overpass over I-10 where Airline Highway becomes Tulane Avenue on the New Orleans side, he saw the South Carrollton Avenue light was green for him and laid on the gas to be sure he made the light.

But, someone ran the light, and Buck t-boned them. The Harley came to a complete stop, but Buck didn’t. He flipped over the car, landed on his back, and slid down Tulane Avenue thusly, his fists still firmly grasping the Harley’s handgrips, which he had pulled off when he “disconnected” from the bike. He came to a stop abreast of an elderly black man who had been making his way towards Carrollton on the sidewalk along Tulane.

And Buck lay there motionless.

The old man hobbled over to Buck and bent over him for a closer look. Satisfied with his examination, he looked up towards the gathering crowd near the motorcycle and car crash scene and yelled, “He be deid!”

Buck opened his eyes and said, “No he’s not.”

And he wasn’t. Surprisingly unscathed, he had only a few scratches and a ruined coat, which, with the newspapers, had contributed to his lack of significant injuries. He got up, called his dad, who showed up with his pickup, into which they loaded the mangled bike, and went home.

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