April 6, 2015 · 3:29 am

The Ostrich Takes Flight

Lane USAFThe Ostrich, who will remain nameless, and I were in basic training together at Lackland AFB way back in December 1968 through January 1969, and sixteen weeks of weather observing school at Chanute AFB following basic.

Ostrich was given that moniker by our TI (Training Instructor – a non-commissioned officer wearing a Smokey-the-Bear hat and has god-like status if you are a new airman going through Air Force basic training). Ostrich was tall and gangly and marched with his head kind of crained out away from his body. I guess the TI thought he looked like an ostrich.

For those unfamiliar with the institution, basic training involved getting up real early with a lot of whistle blowing, yelling and name calling, mostly on the part of the TIs, and of course, a lot of running, jumping, push-ups, and sweating, mostly on the part of the trainees. The objective was to turn raw civilians averse to authority (remember, the late ‘60s were the Age of Aquarius) into obedient, well-trained Airmen. Sometimes they got the desired results, sometimes not so much.

Ostrich was a rather strange fellow. Every military unit, especially basic training units, has at least one klutz. That was Ostrich for us. He was actually very smart, because he did get through weather observing school, a career field reserved for men and women who scored high on their AFQT (Air Force Qualification Test).

He may have been smart, but he struggled with the fundamental concept of the difference between his right foot and his left foot. The TIs had a saying for folks like that, which is not repeatable on this blog. Let’s just say it involved monkeys and footballs and leave the rest to your imagination. (Don’t dwell on it. It never made much sense to me, either.)

When marching, Ostrich was almost always out of step with the rest of the formation. The TI called the cadence, “Lef’, rait, lef’, rait!” But Ostrich be going rait, lef’, rait, lef’! This was a problem for me, because I marched in first squad directly behind Ostrich. My rait would be stepping on his rait heel, and my lef’ be stepping on his lef’ heel. We were supposed to have this all down by the first week of basic, but four weeks in, and Ostrich was still frequently out of step.

To get back in step, they taught us to simply skip a step, like skipping down the street, second nature for most of us. One day we were marching to a training class, and the flight be going lef’, rait, lef’, rait, but Ostrich be going rait, lef’, rait, lef’ again, and I be stepping on his heels, and Ostrich be skipping to get in step and still ends up out of step. The formation is looking all sharp and military except for the second guy in first squad (Ostrich) who is bobbing and skipping along like a seven-year old girl on the way to a birthday party.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the TI coming up from behind the formation and homing right in on Ostrich, and he wasn’t looking very happy! I’m thinking someone is gonna die!

Ostrich never saw it coming. The TI snuck up behind him and got about an inch from his left ear, and yelled loud enough to wake the dead, “OSTRICH! GET IN STEP!”

The Ostrich went airborne!

He launched straight up about three feet in the air with his feet pumping like he was peddling a bicycle in low gear going up a steep incline. I’m talking blurry feet! WAY blurry feet! He must have skipped about a dozen steps while airborne, but he did come down in step with the formation. I don’t recall him ever being out of step again.

I have one picture of Ostrich but can’t find it. He was holding a mop in front of his face, anyway. Camera shy. So, you got a pic of me instead.

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April 1, 2015 · 6:47 pm

The Last Day of Forever – Another Update and Excerpt

This is way more difficult that I ever thought. Proof #1 had issues that needed fixing, thus we had proof #2, and it had different issues, all my fault. Now we are on proof #3. I am making no predictions, but I think we are close—but then I have said that before.

Meanwhile, for those patiently waiting for me to get my act together, here is another excerpt from early in the book.

*****

Cover B1I looked at Rachel, her face not more than three inches from mine as she held my hands to the floor beside my head. Her chest was heaving from the exertion, and there was a look of confusion on her face. “Very well, you have me pinned. What do you intend to do now?”

…I did not rightly know what I was going to do then. I looked at him, and he was smiling at me, so I did the first thing that came to mind. I kissed him right on the lips…

I was more than a little surprised when she kissed me. It was only a peck on the lips, but I was not expecting it. With speed and strength I am sure surprised her, I flipped her off my chest and rolled her onto her back. Before she knew what was happening, I sat astride her with her hands pinned to the floor.

Surprise showed plainly on her face. “So,” I said, “It’s a kiss you want from me. Perhaps you should have a real one.” She looked shocked then.

As I said that, I heard my mother’s footsteps on the stairs. Our roughhousing had brought her to investigate. “Ethan! Brandy!”

“Perhaps some other time,” I said as I stood and pulled Rachel to her feet. I turned to take my medicine just as my mother stepped up to the parlor door. Not knowing what to expect from an angry Analee, Rachel tried to hide behind my back.

“What is going on down here? It sounded like you and Brandy were tussling.”

“You called?” Brandy showed up then, her hair looking a mess. My mother noticed that right off. She gave Brandy a once over, then me, and drew her own conclusions.

“Rachel, you can come from behind Ethan. I know you’re there.” She peeked around me at Analee. Her expression was one of near terror as she stared big-eyed and gape-mouthed at my mother. She looked a mess; her hair was down and hanging in her face, and her blouse was pulled from her skirt. “You too?” said Analee with disgust in her voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” she stuttered. “But we didn’t break anything.”

“Ethan!” exclaimed my mother, and Brandy mimicked her behind her back. Analee spun. “I saw that, Brandy!” That did it! I was absolutely convinced right then she had eyes in the back of her head. Brandy looked contrite and more than a little surprised.

Analee turned her attention back to me. “Ethan, these are two young ladies…”

She paused and looked at them, first Brandy and then Rachel. “Rachel!” Poor Rachel jumped. “Pull your blouse down! Your bosoms are showing!”

That caused me to turn and look. Her blouse was pulled up, but I didn’t see any bosoms, just camisole. Rachel tugged her blouse down as she looked sheepishly at my mother.

Once more my mother turned her attention back to me. Her eyebrow went up and her hands were on her hips. That was a guaranteed, sure sign I was in trouble. “As I started to say, these are two young ladies, and you are a gentleman—or I thought you were. It is not proper for you to be tussling on the floor with them as if they were children. The three of you are a little old for that. And you know I never allow that in the house.”

By then Mammy had shown up with a stern expression on her face. She stood behind Analee and nodded her agreement to every word the mistress of the house said and punctuated the important points with a slap on Brandy’s backside. Brandy squealed, but I’m sure she didn’t feel a thing through all those petticoats.

Analee turned to Brandy. “Now, you get out to the kitchen and help your mother with supper.

“Ethan, you find yourself something to do—outside.”

“Rachel, if you want that gown fitted in time for the party, you best get yourself upstairs and let me help you with it now.”

The queen bee had spoken, and with a flourish, she spun and left the room.

*****

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March 29, 2015 · 5:25 pm

Dave-e-e-e, Davy Crockett…

…King of the Wild Frontier!

Cooh HatThat is the title of a Walt Disney TV miniseries about the exploits of Davy Crockett that starting in December of 1954 and became a full-length movie in 1955. The song associated with the series and movie, The Ballad of Davy Crockett, hit #1 on the Billboard Chart in 1955. The lyrics were on every kid’s lips (well at least boy’s lips) in 1955 and for a few years after.

The Disney film starred Fess Parker as Davy and Buddy Ebsen as his sidekick, “Georgie” Russel. It was perfect for the times and just the kind of hero/adventure story we kids loved. It was so successful that Disney produced all manner of Davy Crockett licensed items to be snatched up by toy-hungry kids all over America. It was one of the first and most successful licensed marketing efforts of the times. Probably the most ubiquitous items for sale were the coonskin hats like the one Davy wore in the series and movie. Of course, I had one, and so did Manard Lagasse as well as a few others I spoke to at church this morning. We wore our coonskin hats everywhere we went, even in summer. And they were hot in summer, but we were playing Davy Crockett and needed the proper attire for the part.

I can remember my dad talking about those hats. He used to say, “Now we know what happened to all those coonskin coats that were so popular before the war.” For the unenlightened, long coonskin coats were popular on college campuses in the twenties.

Oh, and the picture if of me wearing a coonskin hat? No, it isn’t the one I had when I was eleven; this one is newer. Remember me mentioning I caught that dirty, chicken-murdering raccoon? I said I relocated him. Well, I was being truthful!

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March 25, 2015 · 2:26 am

That Sinking Feeling

Lane & Buck ca 1963We were in our camping phase. Roughly translated that means we used camping to get out from under the supervision of our parents to do stupid things—mostly at night. To our parents, it seemed innocent and wholesome enough. “They went camping. Isn’t that nice?”

Camping meant: Fire! Meat! Um! Good! Sleeping under the stars! You know, that whole primeval thing boys are so into?

It began innocent enough as “camping” in the Manard’s key lot, then came the Boy Scouts, but our Scout leaders weren’t all that much into “roughing it.” The fact that they had been “roughing it” in WWII only a few years before may have had something to do with their lack of interest in pup tents and sleeping bags. They much preferred the cabins at Camp Salmon or the Small Group Camp at Fontainebleau, which had real beds and mattresses.

We liked to cook over open fires, too. My favorite meal as a kid was foil stew. Who knows what that is? Chunks of meat (insert simian-like grunt here), potatoes, and carrots in a pocket made from tin foil (OK, aluminum foil!). Add some seasoning and a dash of water (beer when we got older) and throw that puppy on a bed of glowing coals, toss some more coals on top, and wait 20 minutes or so. Just slice it open and dig in. GOOD!

Back to camping.

As we grew older and could drive and even had automobiles, we pushed the camping envelope. Once we pushed it all the way to Cat Island, but we needed the assistance of a boat to complete the trip.

Cat Island is a small island about seven miles off the coast of Gulfport. It seemed like a great place to camp, and it was. But you needed a boat to get there. My dad had one, so we borrowed it. I still can’t believe he actually let us use it. It was a small speed skiff with the brand name of “Yellow Jacket,” and it was fast with a 35hp Evenrude on the back. By then MB had graduated to his 20-foot custom built fishing boat. The little 14 foot Yellow Jacket was left mostly unused.

We were about to finish it off.

There were four of us: Dee White, Bob Hansen, Buck Roy, and moi. Problem was we couldn’t carry all four of us with our camping gear out to Cat Island in one trip. So, we did two trips. I dropped off Dee and Bob and returned to Gulfport to pick up Buck and most of the gear.

Things went well, until we discovered Cat Island was heavily populated with horse flies—the kind that hurt when they bite. Big fires and mosquito nets kept them under control most of the time. We swam and fished and cooked over open fires and had boy-type camping fun on our own little deserted island. We went to sleep that first night to the sound of a crackling fire and campfire tales. It was heaven!

We woke up the next morning to discover the Yellow Jacket was gone. We were marooned!

We found it later that morning way down at the other end of the island. The winds and tide had carried it down there dragging the anchor the whole way. Whew!

Unfortunately, it had suffered some damage on some concrete something-or-the-other along the beach, but we did not realize this at the time. We pulled it up on the beach well above the high tide mark to make sure it remained safe.

My dad showed up the next day in his new boat to check on us, having come all the way from Waveland. That was convenient, because we were about to leave. So, he took Dee and Bob and most of our gear in his bigger boat and left Buck and me to take the Yellow Jacket back to Gulfport where my car waited.

MB left, and Buck and I finished packing the Yellow Jacket, getting a late start near sunset. We are cruising full speed for Gulfport and were about half a mile from Cat Island when Buck taps me on the shoulder. Over the roar of the Evenrude, he yells, “We have a problem!”

“What kind of problem?”

“The worst kind. We’re sinking!”

“WHAT?”

He points at the back of the boat, and I see lots of water where it should not be—inside the boat!

“BAIL!”

And he did. I had the throttle wide open, and Buck was bailing as fast as he can. The outflow was just barely keeping up with the inflow. It is dark by then, and don’t you know we come upon a big shrimp boat pulling his trawls. I can’t run in front of him for fear he will run us over, and going behind risks getting fouled in the lines or his nets—and sinking for sure—and maybe getting shot! Behind is the only option, so I swing wide, and Buck bails faster still.

We got it around it without fouling the prop, but there was lots of vigorous hand waving and yelling issuing forth from the shrimp boat’s crew during the maneuver. We did make it to Gulfport and got the boat on the trailer before it sank. My ’57 Chevy struggled to pull that water filled skiff up the ramp. It probably did not stop draining until we were nearly to our house in Waveland.

The cement whatever had punched a hole in the bottom right at the transom. Turns out that was a place that held water even with the drains open, and the wood was rotten there. We gave up on camping on islands after that.

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March 23, 2015 · 5:32 pm

Slavery

It is such an ugly word, but one I was forced to deal with while writing The Last Day of Forever and the second half of the story in An Eternity of Four Years.

Cover B1I began this project over 20 years ago, and when I wrote the first draft of The Last Day of Forever, never for a moment did I really give much thought to the issue of slavery. But the writing process forced me to think about it.

The story concept began simply as one about the exploits of the Louisiana Tigers during the Civil War. Everything else was written around that and ultimately pointing to it in some way. That isn’t how it ended up. First, it morphed into a love story, and while I tried to keep the focus on Rachel and Ethan, dealing with the character’s relationships with the slaves gradually emerged as an important underlying theme that had to be developed better.

I grew up in the South during a very uncomfortable period in our history. Racism was common, acceptable, and never given much thought. My father’s doctor’s office waiting room was initially separated “white” and “colored” by a wall and an aquarium. My family on my mother’s side owned slaves prior to and during the Civil War. I am not proud of all that, rather I state it simply as a fact I must live with and to give the reader a frame of reference for where I am coming from.

My first draft of the story presented the subject of slavery in a way that, in retrospect, was not honest. It was the Old South, white man’s view of the subject, and the slaves at Catahoula Plantation weren’t really mistreated but lived happy and productive lives leisurely picking cotton all day. But as I wrote the story, it became obvious that was not only dishonest, but it was wrong. As the attitudes of the main character, Ethan, and his issues with slavery began to more strongly emerge in the numerous rewrites, I was forced to face the uncomfortable truth that the issue of slavery had to be dealt with in a more honest manner.

Gradually, the story was changed to more accurately reflect the truth of the times, but I did not want it to become a story about slavery. It is really about Rachel and Ethan and how people and the world around them so profoundly affect their lives and their relationship to each other. The question became how to balance that.

Book 2 1It needed some stronger black characters dealing with the issues they faced during this time. That became Mammy, Old Zeke, his son Little Zeke, and Brandy in The Last Day of Forever, and Blue in An Eternity of Four Years. Brandy was the most interesting because of her plight, being mostly of white lineage yet still a slave. Her story brought the absurdity of the institution into sharp focus for me.

I felt Ethan’s issues with the peculiar institution needed a root source, so I added the opening scene in The Last Day of Forever of the killing of Cornelius the slave. Some of my beta readers found it disturbing. That was my intention, although it was not included just for shock value. It plays an important part in Ethan’s developing attitudes towards slavery, and it comes back into the story later with an explanation of what and why it happened to flesh out the story arcs of other characters. Not only did the event profoundly affect Ethan and Brandy, but it also helped to define Morgan’s character.

I also wanted the reader to understand how conflicted Ethan must have felt to hold views not commonly held by those around him. The story was written as if the events were being viewed through the eyes of Ethan and Rachel and told by them, thus one would naturally expect that perspective to be somewhat biased towards the prevailing attitudes of the times, and it is; intentionally so. In the beginning, slavery is simply a fact of life Ethan must live with and does so perhaps a bit too comfortably at first. But as the story progresses, he is compelled to face how he really feels, and he is forced by circumstances to act on his beliefs.

It takes Ethan almost nine years to come to a full realization of where he stands on the issue, but we are yet to see a full manifestation of that. That will come in Book 3 (working title: The Avenging Angel), which takes Rachel and Ethan into the period after the war known as Reconstruction. There, the two of them really come face-to-face with the racism of the times.

Where am I going with all this? I guess I want the reader to understand that although the story sometimes seems to treat slavery in a somewhat stereotypical manner, that is because Ethan is the main author, and he is telling the story in the context of the times and his own personal growth as a person.

It was also a journey for me to have to explore my own feelings on the subject and in considerably more detail than I had ever done before. I can no longer look at a cotton boll in quite the same way I did before I started this.

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March 20, 2015 · 6:19 pm

Party Time!

Martial & May CroppedMartial and Maguerite May Casteix, my grandparents, were party animals, at least in the context of partying in the twenties and thirties. Their partying ways were hampered with the passage of the Volstead Act in 1920 which became the 18th Amendment to the Constitution and rendered the sale of alcohol illegal; Prohibition as we know it.

There were few exceptions to the production and sale of alcohol, medicinal uses being one of them. A few distilleries stayed open making medicinal alcohol. The Buffalo Trace Distillery was one of them, although it wasn’t called Buffalo Trace back then.

Martial was a pharmacist and owned a number of drug stores in New Orleans as mentioned elsewhere on this blog. That meant he had access to medicinal alcohol as long as he could get enough of his doctor friends to write scripts for a bottle or two. Evidently, he was successful in those efforts. The doctors were probably all invited to the party, too.

From what I can gather from my dad’s tales of their parties, they didn’t just throw cocktail parties where you showed up, munched a few hors de vers, or durves—snacks—sipped a few cocktails and engaged in conversations with old friends. That was too dull for them. Their parties often had themes and even surprises.

Scavenger hunts seemed to be a favorite theme. The guests got an invitation but no location for the party. Instead, the invitation included a clue to a location. The invitees had to figure out the clue then go to that location. Upon arrival, they would be met by an employee of one of the pharmacies who would give them the next clue to find the next location. That went on and on until the invitee ultimately ended up at the party. I imagine this made for some interesting conversations once everyone arrived at the party

Charlie ChaplinOne clue I remember MB mentioning was “Charlie Chaplin’s Pants.” That was supposed to tell the invitee an exact location in New Orleans. For the younger readers, Charlie Chaplin (on the right) was a famous comedian/actor in the silent movies of the time. Everyone back then knew who Charlie was and what his pants were like. (Can any of you figure out the location from the clue? The answer is at the end of this post.*)

With alcohol being illegal for personal consumption, their parties ran something of a risk, although it was minimal (this was New Orleans after all). The cops mostly looked the other way unless the Feds were somehow involved. In that case, the cops pretended they were actually serious about this prohibition silliness.

With this in mind, Martial and May cooked up a prank for one of their parties. They planned to have the cops raid the party. Of course, the cops were friends and agreed to simulate a raid. This definitely qualified as one of those “it seemed like a good idea at the time” notions that didn’t go quite as planned.

Part way through the party after everyone has had a few adult beverages, the cops show up with loud whistle blowing and lots of yelling, “THIS IS A RAID! You are all under arrest! No one move!”

Despite the warning, EVERYONE MOVED!

Pandemonium ensued, and the party guests, fearful a picture of them being hauled off to jail might show up in the Picayune, abandoned ship! Post haste! As in very fast! The cops got run over in the confusion, and one poor guest literally jumped out a window.

And the party was on the second floor!

The window-jumping guest sustained a broken arm, and the festivities ended for that evening. But I imagine that only barely slowed Martial and May down.

But it seemed like a good idea at the time…

 

* Clue Answer: Toulouse and Broad. For those not from NOLA, that is the well-known intersection of Toulouse Street and Broad Street.

The picture is of Martial and May about 1920ish taken down at La Terre Promise (The Promised Land) Plantation downriver from New Orleans. I love this picture, because I feel it captures May’s mischievous spirit. Martial wears a serious business-like expression in every pic I have seen of him. Both died before I was born.

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March 17, 2015 · 12:43 am

Casteix Pharmacy

Casteix Pharm CroppedMy grandfather, Martial Casteix, owned eight drug stores in New Orleans. He was in competition with a pair of gents by the name of Katz and Bestoff, although they were friends. Martial got a bit over extended and lost most of his stores during the Great Depression. K&B managed to hang on for another fifty years before Rite Aid bought them out.

I know the locations of several of the Casteix stores and have pictures of some of the interiors I made from originals my cousin, Melanie, has. At least two of the stores were in the Vieux Carré. One was on Bourbon Street and the other on Dauphine. Years ago I found a picture of the Dauphine Street store online and played with it in Photoshop to give the low-resolution image an old and distressed look, which is what you see here. I visited the location recently and shot a Casteix Pharm Todayphoto of how it looks today. Not surprisingly, it is the French Quarter, after all, the building hasn’t changed much. It appears to be a residence today. Someday, I will go knock and on the door to see what happens.

The Bourbon Street store is a bit more famous in more ways than one. Today it is the home of the Famous Door Bar. Ninety years ago, it was a pharmacy and my grandparents lived there above the store.

They moved out rather suddenly in the twenties after Martial decided the French Quarter might not be a good place to raise a family. He came to this conclusion after my aunt, Margie, came home from school one day with a tale about how a “nice lady with lots of red lipstick” suggested a career in prostitution might be a consideration for someone as pretty as she was. Martial promptly moved the family to Orleans Avenue near City Park.

MB loved to tell the story of how he made cherry bounce in the attic of the Bourbon Street location. Since he started college when he was sixteen, he must have been quite young when he was making cherry bounce. That, and his expressed concern for disposing of the strained pits and pulp in a way his father would not discover what he was doing in the attic also suggested he was well under drinking age, even for New Orleans.

What to do with the pits and pulp? He was stuck with this cheesecloth pouch full of mush after he separated the solids from the drinkable liquid. MB was very smart, so was his sister, but his solution for getting the unwanted pits and pulp past his dad in the drug store downstairs was, shall we say, less than brilliant. But like most less than brilliant notions, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

He decided he would simply heave it from the attic window onto the roof of the building across Bourbon Street. The building there now must not have been there then, because there is no way he could have made that shot.

No matter, he forgot to tie the sack of cherry bounce leavings closed, anyway. And guess what happened in its trip across Bourbon Street? It came open, of course, and spread that pulpy red slush all over the people below!

Martial immediately became aware his son was up to no good in the attic, when irate people covered with cherry bounce remains came into the store demanding 341 Bourbon Famous DoorRedan explanation—and to have their clothing cleaned. MB said it cost his dad a small fortune in cleaning bills.

That’s Martial behind the counter of the Bourbon Street location before it became a bar.

You would think MB would have learned his lesson? He continued to experiment with his cherry bounce recipe for decades after. When I was a kid, there was usually a bottle of cherry bounce fermenting in a recycled whiskey bottle somewhere in the kitchen. He must have consumed it all himself, because I never even got a taste.

He corked one a bit too tight once. (I don’t think you are supposed to cork something fermenting?) It was sitting on the kitchen counter right next to the sink. It eventually built up enough pressure it blew the cork out, rather violently, I might add. Our maid, Adel, was washing dishes when it “went off.” The cork missile zoomed past her nose and ricocheted off the cabinet, went up to the ceiling, and bounced back down into the dishwater, splashing poor Adel.

In the bedroom, my mother said she heard a loud pop from the kitchen, followed by Adel exclaiming, “Oh Lordy, I’ve been shot!”

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March 13, 2015 · 1:36 am

The Great Escape

My mother was a bird person. So are my two sisters, Jeanne and Martia. I’m not, unless you count dove hunting. The first bird in our family was a parakeet. Don’t remember what happened to it, but I don’t recall him being around very long. Then my mother got a dwarf parrot. It was green and only slightly larger than the parakeet. Don’t remember its name, so we will call it DP1 (Dwarf Parrot 1). It was followed by DP2, then a Myna Bird, then two large parrots, and eventually DP3. She had the big parrots when they were living in River Ridge, and these two birds did their level best to disassemble the house piece-by-piece biting off a chunk of wood at a time. Eventually, she got rid of them. It was either that or become homeless.

Dwarf ParrotDP1 is the subject of the first story.

MB usually left early to make hospital visits, while my mother slept in a bit longer, a trait I inherited from her. She awoke one morning to find DP1, as the Monty Python Norwegian Blue Parrot skit said, “Decidedly deceased!”

There was no question he was dead. He was on his perch, in a manner of speaking. His little dwarf parrot feet were solidly clamped to the wooden dowel, but he wasn’t exactly standing on it. He was hanging upside down from it. He looked completely natural, except he was on the wrong side of the dowel.

Our resident coroner, my dad, pronounced the cause of death as a heart attack. This diagnosis came about after questioning my two sisters, who at the time, were about four and two. It seems they liked to see the little green parrot jump around when they poked a stick into his cage. That must have been “entertaining” until he went Tango Uniform (Google it).

DP2 replaced the deceased DP1 and soon became famous in Kenner, well, at least for a day, and he was probably talked about for a few weeks after. My mother often walked around the house with DP2 perched on her shoulder along with the attendant dwarf parrot poop dribbling down her back. She even went outside with the bird on her shoulder. She assured the rest of us, “Oh, he won’t fly away.”

He flew away.

I was summoned along with my friends to find and capture the wayward DP2. Do you have any idea how hard it is to see a green bird way up in a tree among green foliage? We did, however, find the bird, and what followed was the great dwarf parrot chase.

He flew from tree to tree, and we followed calling to it. Needless to say, the stupid bird completely ignored the stupid kids calling to it and flew to another tree.

Free at last!

Finally it settled in a tall pine tree on Williams Street. My mother decided she needed re-enforcements and called the Kenner Fire Department. Must have been a slow day for them, because they actually showed up.

With the introduction of the KFD’s really tall ladders, the great dwarf parrot chase grew more “high-tech” and even more interesting. KFD set up the ladder, a fireman climbed said ladder, said fireman reached for bird, and said bird promptly decamped to another tree. It was wash, rinse, and repeat as they worked their way down Williams Street. All this was very amusing to us kids, and we followed along watching the show—along with the rest of the neighborhood and more than a few driving by on Williams who pulled over to enjoy the proceedings. Soon the KFD had quite an audience, and for them, failure was not an option.

The bird eventually tired of the game and allowed himself to be captured by a fireman. I always wondered how the bird made it down that ladder alive after leading them on such a merry chase.

Too many witnesses?

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March 9, 2015 · 11:09 pm

Proof Copies Have Arrived!

 

Last Day BooksI just received two proof copies of The Last Day of Forever. I want to tell you, it is an awesome feeling to hold a real live book in your hands with your name on it as the author!

These will be gone over carefully one last time before publishing. I already see some things I need to fix in the cover image and internal formatting, and I haven’t even begun reading it for errors.

I am thinking (hoping) this last step won’t take more than two weeks to get to hitting the “publish” button.

We are getting closer!

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March 5, 2015 · 3:45 am

Catahoula Curs Meet Mr. Fence

Way back in the eighties and nineties I raised Catahoula Curs. Started out with one female named Pawho. Bred her and got fifteen* puppies! I ended up keeping two puppies, one I intended to keep, because she was pick of the litter, a beautiful glass-eyed patched leopard I called Fanci. I got stuck with the other one, a brindle and spotted-up leopard male we named Caddo. Both turned out to be great dogs and very intelligent. I am convinced if I had spent more time with them, and knew what I was doing, I could have run Fanci in obedience trials. Caddo, on the other hand, was trainable, but he sometimes acted like a big duffus.

Yes, the fact that I had Catahoulas had something to do with the name of my books. That and the fact that my maternal grandmother was from that part of Catahoula Parish that became LaSalle Parish when it was split off in 1910.

Back to the dogs.

Caddo and Fanci 2Fanci was a tattletale. Whenever Caddo or the little mixed breed mutt, Spuds, that Heath brought home as a worm infested puppy did something Fanci didn’t agree with, like a five year old, she would come running to me and “tell on them.” She used barks and whimpers while trying to lead me to the offender. This usually involved escapes by one of the others, especially the smaller Spuds. “Bark, whine, bark!” (Translated, “Come quick, Spuds is out again!”)

I used that as an excuse to do my “what is it Lassie, Timmy fell down the well?” impression. Fanci would looked at me strangely, then start tattling again.

Spuds was a notorious escape artist, mostly by digging under the fence. He never went far, and after he had his romp, I would find him waiting at the gate to be let back in. Guess he forgot about the hole he dug under the fence? Since he weighed less than half that of the Catahoulas, his holes were too small for them. So, Fanci would come and tell on him, while the big duffus Caddo kind of danced around excitedly and agreed with Fanci. And I had to go find Spuds and fill the hole—again.

The Catahoulas eventually figured out they could join the Spuds Escape Parties by making his hole a lot bigger. They would range further. After a few of these round-ups, I got serious about this and bought an electric fence. I spent one whole Saturday stringing bailing wire suspended on PVC pipe insulators along the top and the bottom of the fence.

Since I was going to be shocking my dogs with it, I decided I should test it. DANG! That got my attention! Once the dogs “met” Mr. Fence, they got no closer than three feet from it after that. Me too, except when I was in a hurry and ran into the wire at head level by the gate. I would catch the wire right across my wire rim glasses and sparks would fly before my eyes! The dogs were probably thinking hope it hurt! A lot!

The problem with electric fencing is anything that touches it grounds it, effectively turning it off as long as the ground stays attached. At that time, we were fighting a troublesome vine that kept popping up all over the yard and attaching itself to the wire along the ground. The stuff was like Kudzoo, growing about a hundred feet a night. Maybe the electricity was stimulating growth? Somehow the dogs figured out that Mr. Fence wasn’t working any longer and tunneled under the fence and the wire. You should have seen that hole!

So, I had to go around the yard and remove that vine and anything else green that had grounded the fence. The three dogs stood around and watched with amused expressions. When finished, I figured the dogs needed to relearn that Mr. Fence bites, so I grabbed the nearest one, which happened to be Fanci, and dragged her over to the fence and touched it with her paw. She let out a yip, and everyone got the message.

That lasted until the vine came back. I swear those dogs knew that wire was grounded in less than 24 hours of the event and were under the fence immediately thereafter. So we lather, rinse, and repeat, but this time when I grabbed Fanci for a demonstration, she threw herself out and went completely limp like a child throwing a temper tantrum and bellowed like I was torturing her. Spuds and Caddo tucked tails and got scarce then. When I let go of Fanci, because I was laughing so hard, she decamped and watched me suspiciously from about 20 feet away. But they all got the message.

That lasted until the vine attached itself to the wire again, and we started the process all over. With Mr. Fence hot once more, I looked at Fanci, and with tail tucked, she started backing up, so I figured to use my dog whisperer psychology. With all three dogs intently watching, I went over to the fence and pretended to touch it. I jumped back and yelled shaking my hand like it hurt. It worked! All three dogs tucked tails and disappeared.

This became a ritual around the Casteix homestead. About every two weeks during the summer, the dogs escaped and I cleaned the fence and pretended to be shocked. Sometimes when I didn’t have time to clear the vine, I just did my shocked act, and they stayed away from Mr. Fence. Eventually, they must have figured out I was faking it. And under the fence and wire they went.

Lather, rinse, and repeat.

*UPDATE: Ryan (in the picture above) reminded me she had fifteen puppies. Now where did I get nine?

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