|
|
|
| Bookbulb Library |
|
 |
Beignet and Grandpa Au Lait
BY: TEMPEST MC TIERNEY
Dedicated to my mom, Cousin Sue, and Auntie
BEIGNET
1. The first day of the storm, August, 2005
Dear reader, I am going to tell you a few secrets. The first one is coming right away, right off the bat. Did you know there is not a special doggie heaven? There is just one heaven. You see we share heaven. Bugs, snakes, people, animals — we all share. There is just one heaven; and we have to be very kind to get there. Also, here is the next little secret. Dogs have three lives. But that secret gets a little confusing, so I am going to explain that part later. All I know for sure is we love our “people” more than our barking can tell you. We love you so much it hurts, just like the love parents have for their children. And, when you love us back, we know.
This is a story about how I got lost in late August, 2005, during the worst hurricane in New Orleans history. I lost my “people: Auntie and Darlene May.” It happened the way it did because of my love for them. They are my “people.” Auntie is the one who first found my grandpa so many years before, and Darlene May is her niece.
It started when I realized I was alone in the house. Auntie had left the news on while she went to the market on the corner. I love CNN, so I was curled up watching it. It was all about where we live, the city of New Orleans. New Orleans, in case you don’t know, is famous. It is a city famous for music and food. But today it was most famous for its location, right in the eye of the impending hurricane named Hurricane Katrina. So while I was watching people leaving the city, and long lines at gas stations, the rain and the wind kept getting worse. I started to remember my Grandpa Au lait and I missed him something awful. He had lived in the same house a long time before I did, and he lived here with Auntie, too. You see, dog lives don’t last as long as human lives. Even though his stories about New Orleans are from the 60s, I can picture the places, taste the recipes, and sometimes I wish I had been here in those days. So, I was watching the news, worrying about Auntie, and thinking about my grandpa and all the stories he used to tell me when all of a sudden, the electricity went out.
I got off the couch and ran to the front door with that pretty smoky leaded glass in the middle. Through the blurred crystal, I looked up at the rain, and I strained to see out to the sidewalk, but no Auntie. The thunder roared. Lightening darted across the sky. I decided to check all the rooms, even the basement. Maybe Auntie had changed her mind and was in the house somewhere. I sprung to action sliding all over those freshly waxed floors, from room to room, then into the sun porch and on to my final hope, the kitchen. As I searched, the wind’s whispers outside got breathier until it kicked up a brazen attack; a window blew open and glass splattered all over the kitchen. I darted for cover and hid under the sink wishing Auntie would just get on home.
That was when it hit me. Auntie was out there in this storm CNN was talking about. And, not to be offensive, but I thought about how Auntie was getting old. After all, she had been around when Grandpa lived in our big house, and Auntie is still here! Here’s a little secret. It isn’t one of my 4 secrets, but it’s pretty important. When I wrote this, Auntie was already sick.
The electricity popped back on so I ran into the den for one last look at the news. What I saw was ghastly. People were climbing up on their roofs. A newscaster’ was wearing a raincoat and his hair was blowing all over the place; he was saying how some streets were 10 feet under water, other folks, he exclaimed, were in boats in their driveways! I cocked my head and scrambled up clost to search the screen—no Auntie. The power went off again. I have always hated the dark. Bad things happen in the dark.
I stuck my nose out of the doggy door that Auntie and Horace had installed back when my grandpa lived here. I inched my head further out and looked up. Oh My. I knew I had to do this, but I was scared. I made the sign of the cross like I had seen Auntie doing so many times in church or when we passed a church, and I leaped through that black rubber doggy door. Immediately, I landed in a mud puddle so deep that I turned from an attractive aulait colored pup to a dark chocolate mess; and I was cold, muddy, and wet to the bone. But, “love is an active verb,” that’s what Auntie always said; so, I didn’t turn back. The wetter and colder I felt I began to understand what she meant. If you love someone, you cannot be passive about it. I knew I had to keep going.
I started down the driveway trying to keep my footing, but I was half swimming as the wind half carried me straight down to the street. My head was bobbing above the current. I must have looked right funny.
Before I knew it I was paddling like a crazy dog to stay above the water down St. Charles Avenue when the force started carrying me forward with no effort on my part. It was that strong! My head bobbed up and down as like a jack in the box. What had I done now? How would I be able to save Auntie if I drowned? Two little kids looking out their window pointed at me with their eyes and mouths wide open.
I knew I had to occupy my mind and that’s when my deceased Grandpa Aulait came to my mind. You see, my grandpa was like one of those folks who would be described this way: “still waters run deep.” He was loyal through and through. So, for some reason that I do not understand, when I was out there fighting against that hurricane being carried along my street, the only thing I could think about was Grandpa Au Lait. I kept asking myself what he would do if Auntie went missin’, and in my heart I knew he would be out here in this storm doing the same thing. Then, it was like divine intervention, maybe even by Grandpa watching me from heaven; at that instant the wind lifted me up and threw me around and around. I flew up high toward a big magnolia tree in front of the Thompsons’ house, and I bumped my head something awful. It reminded me of The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy gets whipped around and ends up with the Munchkins wearing ruby slippers. I thought I heard some sirens far away—but now looking back, maybe they were sirens in my head because not too many sirens were heard that day. I landed on a big, thick branch of the magnolia. I grabbed hold hard and held on for dear life, upside down for a spell! I spun around so I was on top of the branch. There were some big leaves overhead; I knew I should stay put. The leaves kept the rain from hitting on me so hard, and they even sheltered me a bit from the wind as well. I looked around. No one was anywhere on the street that was now a river. A few folks were on upstairs balconies and an old man was sittng on his roof. I felt so helpless.
That is when I started to remember the stories: stories Auntie told me, stories my papa told me, but most of all, stories my grandpa told me.
Oh, dear reader. Have I even told you my name yet? My name is Beignet. I am a boxer—that is a kind of a dog. My name comes from the title of the little special, fried donut with white powdered sugar that originated in the French Quarter. I was awfully close to one house where some folks were now in an upstairs roomlooking out. What in God’s world was I thinking coming out here?
I could hear a news program drifting out one of those windows. The electricity was off, so whomever it was had to have had a battery operated radio. This is what the man on the radio was saying:
“Eighty percent of New Orleans is flooded, with some parts under 15 feet of water. Most of the city's levees have been breached. These breaches are responsible for at least two-thirds of the flooding. Fifty percent of our residents have been evacuated. The Superdome is going to be used as a designated "refuge of last resort" for those who remain in the city. Many who have remained in their homes are swimming for their lives, or they remain trapped in their attics or on their rooftops.”
A lady was waving a handkerchiefout their windows of other houses. There appeared one lone helicopter overhead, and a boat actually traveled along the boulevard. I shook my head hard to see if I was dreaming; but I was sporting a horrible headache so I knew it was all real. I jumped down from that big old branch to another and out of that tree smack into the water that used to be our street. I tried turning around to head back home. I could see I wasn’t making much progress plus I was so confused. Again the wind pushed at me. I think I looked right funny like I was in a lady’s water exercise class or something. I was all turned around and wasn’t even sure which way I was headed.
I had traveled almost to another main boulevard. I still didn’t see many rescue folks. Some Black families were trying to walk through the water, and a few White ones wading through, too. They were holding things above their heads and trying to hang onto their kids. People were crying. I saw another old man who looked about 80 climbing up onto his roof with his cat. He kept slipping and trying to hang onto that cat. A couple floated past me on their front door they were using as a raft and they were talking about how the authorities had been saying this might happen in New Orleans for a long, long time. I kept wondering about what the man on TV talked about, “If they knew about these things called levees and how they would break in the event of a strong hurricane, why didn’t they fix ‘em sooner than now?” But I knew the answer; after all, the city has a nickname: “The Big Easy.” My hometown has a reputation for letting things slide, for paying off people in government to let things go under the radar, and I’ll bet you now they wish they hadn’t been so “big and easy” about letting those levees go unfixed for so long.
My city was drowning right before my eyes; I swam frantically towards home. I passed a rattled, wiry looking Dalmatian and a cute little spaniel that reminded me of Lady in that Disney movie Audrey watched sometimes. (Audrey is Darlene May’s little girl) A policeman tried to reach for me from his patrol boat coming down the river that had a nice bright light in front, but I slipped out of his hand again and again, so I kept swimming. And do you know I was so tired I think I might have been delusional because I thought I saw Harry Connick Jr. in that boat with that policeman?
I started thinking about my owners; how I loved them to pieces. That feeling propelled me to keep looking for Auntie, and to keep going even though I was getting darn discouraged. That was when I missed my grandpa something awful. He started speaking to me, as if he were right there beside me. Telling me his stories and so on… there with me so I would keep going. You see, I needed to keep going. I couldn’t turn back now.
I hope I don’t confuse you but I am going to tell you some of Grandpa Au Lait’s stories about being in New Orleans from a long time ago. Whenever I tell those stories, it will be in normal print likeit is in the next chapter. That way, you nor I will get confused. When I talk it will look like this-- this “italicized” writing. But Grandpa’s will be straight up and down. I wonder if our writing style says something about who we are. I am a little slanted and he is straight up and down. Hmmmm.
GRANDPA AULAIT
2. My first days with Auntie and Darlene May, 1972
I was born lucky, as a Boxer puppy of a “light coffee” color, like the color of “coffee au lait,” with big, white paws for how little I was when Auntie first found me. I had the kind of paws that if I were human and ever wanted to go bowling, there would never have been shoes big enough for me. I am four years old now, and am just beginning to think about my life. Auntie discovered me under a table at Cafe du Monde down in the French Quarter in 1968 when I was a real little guy. She decided right then that my name should be “AuLait.” I liked it then and I still like it. The French part has let me have a close relationship to New Orleans, a city that has a lot of French heritage. I am so happy with my identity as French, not to mention my name of “Au Lait”; I even sport a beret once in a while.
New Orleans in ‘72 is, believe it or not, still recovering from the Depression. That is how New Orleans is, it takes its time. The rest of the country knows how to rebound, but not New Orleans. Instead, it thrives under a delicious facade of Southern, slow mythology. In some of the homes, residents still discuss the number of suicides in the more prominent families from the late 20s and early 30s. It is as if like their deep-felt loyalty means they can never get over the tragedy. I think our hurricanes are sort of like that; we don’t get over them very fast or very easily. That is why we need a little help down here.
Women still wear roaring twenties dresses retrieved from the backs of deep cedar closets, and lemonade and ice tea are served in the same tall, cut crystal glass from our grandmothers’ cabinets made of leaded glass. The crawfish catch is more important than who is President; and Mardi gras, summer rain, and the accompanying wet heat are now and always will be the biggest topics of conversation. When you don’t have much else to say, you can always start a conversation with “Sure is hot today,” or, “I am sweating’ buck shots again,” or, “Do you eat boiled crawfish?” I learned all of this by being a keen observer and listener. You learn more by listening than by talking.
Those earliest years of our lives are the times impressions are irrevocably carved, etched deep inside our hearts, like a wound that hurts good. That must be what they mean when they say you can love so much it hurts. I love New Orleans, Auntie and Darlene May so much it hurts. The honeysuckle and gardenia aromas from Auntie’s garden, together with the sounds of foghorns on the Mississippi—- mixed in with scents of Auntie’s cooking, has been my daily splendor. My senses dance all over the place living with Auntie and Darlene May. For a dog that means heaven.
What is it about the “big easy?” Besides the down- home, hospitable folks who live here? Well, those who do live here know what it means to have our stomachs gurgle with contentment and our ears laced with the finest jazz in the country. And once entertained and fed, we rest our eyes. Fat shrimp smothered in drawn butter and garlic with Creole spices served alongside super fresh (as is soft oh so soft on the inside and crusty but not too hard to chew on the outside) French bread with real butter is my personal favorite. Life can never get any better than this, especially if Auntie decides to make bread pudding for dessert...
Then there are the trees. These big old trees outside our house have probably witnessed slaves being sold, Confederate soldiers marching by, colorful floats making their way through another Mardi Gras, and jazz dancing funerals. I swear I can hear those sax players meshing with the clarinets; and I can see the trees’ wise smiles grinning through their own leafy shadows as the sigh with relief when the weather finally cools off come late September. Yes— the “big easy” trees around our home are as content as we are... satisfied with shading all three of our lives.
You are probably thinking I am an awfully smart boxer pup for being only 4. But don’t forget the whole doggie year thing- I am actually 28. That is why I sound so smart and mature—I am!
Under lighter hurricanes, distant Dixieland music forges on. But in the worst storms even the music stops. But neither rain, nor the accompanying wind has ever been enough to move Auntie one smidgen from her spot by the kitchen window. I can see her now, cocking her head back and studying that uneasy Louisiana sky. As soon as a storm is brewing, the birds gather around Auntie’s birdbath like there’s some important social gathering going on. Chirping away, they discuss the pending storm. Auntie and those birds always sense when a storm’s on its way. Auntie says soon I’ll start being able to sense it, too. She says I have to rely on my intuition more is all. See, she is one of those people who believe everyone is a little bit psychic.
Here’s something else—and it is the truth. I like pecans and the pecans falling off the neighbor’s tree fetch us a bundle because they’re sold by the bushel. So, I think my preoccupation with those pecans made me less interested in other things. My stomach has always been more important than any old intuition. And the garden, Auntie’s garden full of color and sumptuous smells, the birds drinking and bathing, and any left overs Auntie gives me has kept my mind pretty occupied.
But if you’re wondering where I was before I met Auntie and Darlene May, I can explain. My first owner was Charles Loutifaf and one night he had drunk too much bourbon on Bourbon Street and he keeled over from alcohol poisoning. Of course, he had been drinking that way for years. I probably heard him say a hundred times, “Hell, if they can name a street after a drink, it has got to be good enough for me.” That is why at his wake when his second cousin, who was a mortuary owner, went up in front of the small number of French Quarter barflies and made Charles out to be some sort of upstanding citizen, I began to choke through my collar. The next thing I knew I was breaking free from my noose and running like a crazy dog across Pirate’s Alley heading toward the river. I could hear the cruel laughter echoing behind me as I bound down the stairs. I ran for as long as I could until finally I couldn’t go anymore and I stopped to lick from a filthy puddle in the Quarter. I was right outside the Cafe du Monde; but in the distance was the city dogcatcher.
Next, Clare Wilmington, my “Auntie”… came my way and has been in my way ever since. Originally of Houma, Louisiana and then New Orleans, her eyes were so blue it was as though they’d been painted with a silky, sky-blue acrylic paint. Her puffy lips were adorned with a melon lip color. That is why, when I saw that dogcatcher, I chose her table to take refuge under. I snuggled and hid, taking in all the smells of an outdoor Po’boy snack bar just next door. Those aromas were driving me wild with hunger. But there in the café Clare was snacking on the café’s famous toasty to-die-for beignets with powdered sugar. They looked appealing, but it was still the scent of the po’boys, which drove me nuts. And then, there was the undeniable beauty of Auntie, of course. Here is the recipe Auntie later taught me for making po’boys. I am going to be teaching y’all some of Auntie’s recipes—I hope you don’t mind! I just want to pass them down through the generations.
PO’BOYS
Po’ boys can be shrimp, oyster, meats or other contents: 1/2 cup prepared mayonnaise A teaspoon grated lemon 1 tablespoon resh lemon juice 1 cup cornmeal 1/2 teaspoon cayenne 1/2 teaspoon pepper 1/2 teaspoon salt Two dozen to four dozen cooked large shrimp, oysters, or two pounds roast beef, all patted dry Vegetable oil, for frying
5 French bread oils
4 cups shredded lettuce Two large tomatoes, sliced.
In a small bowl, combine mayonnaise and lemon until well blended, cover with wrap. In a shallow dish, combine cornmeal, cayenne, black pepper, and salt. Roll the oysters, crawfish or shrimp in the cornmeal and coat them completely. Set aside. In a very heavy skillet heat 1/2 inch of oil over medium heat or until hot but not smoking. Add half the oysters or shrimp and cook, until golden, not quite too crispy and light brown. Next, turn over carefully and remove and put to drain on a paper towel. Repeat the same thing with remaining shrimps or oysters. Next cut the rolls in half, length-wise, and pull out a bit of the inside bread to have a concave type area to hold the ingredients. It is a pocket for the fish; spread it with the mayonnaise mixture. Next place fried oysters or shrimps in the bread and top with shredded lettuce and tomatoes. Put the top half of the roll on top and dig in!
HELLS BELLS, DID I WANT TO DIG IN!
The next thing I remember is the bulldog that walked past us looking like he might have had rabies. Later, I figured out it was just powdered sugar on his nose from the beignets. Um-um-um. All I could think of were those po’ boys next door and those beignets on the table and now, finally, Auntie was noticing me and smiling down at me under the table as she munched on one of those beignets herself. She put another one in her hand and offered it to me under the table. I forgot my manners and I gobbled that little puffy, sugary thing up. Then, because I could not resist, I licked the powder off her pretty hands and I noticed that her nails were the exact same melon color as her pretty, plump lips. That’s the moment I fell in love with Auntie.
DID YOU KNOW THAT NEW ORLEANS IS FAMOUS ITS FOR BEIGNETS?
BEIGNETS Beignets are little puffy clouds of heaven. Made of deep fried dough and covered with powdered sugar, they are the specialty of Cafe du Monde, in the French Market, and are usually accompanied by a steaming “cafe au lait:” CHICKOREE LACED NEW ORLEANS COFFEE WITH STEAMED MILK.
For 24 beignets:
In a medium size bowl, whisk flour (11/4 cups all purpose flour) with baking powder (11/2 teaspoons baking powder), 1/2 teaspoon salt and ¼ teas, granulated sugar, 1/2 cup milk, and 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract. Add this bowl with the other bowl’s ingredients; stir until very soft dough forms. If it seems too sticky, add another tablespoon of flour. Then using a floured work surface, knead the dough into smoothness. Roll into 1/2 inch thickness, cutting into 24 2-inch squares. Next, taking a large skillet, heat 1/2 inch of oil over medium heat to 350F until very hot. Drop half the SQUARES of dough into the oil. Cook by turning each over once or twice until puffed up like a little light brown pillow. Remove and drain the oil on a paper towel. While still hot, sprinkle the beignets with powdered sugar. Do the same exact thing with the other dough. Be sure to eat more than one, preferably four with a coffee au lait especially while it is raining outside of the Café du Monde, or a balmy, tropical down the road a piece, and artists doing portraits on Jackson Square.
THE ATMOSPHERE HAS TO BE JUST SO WITH A BALMY RIVER BREEZE ON THE SQUARE WITH MUSIC PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND.
Auntie glanced down at me casually as she fished inside her purse for a coin. I put on the saddest face ever. At that time my ears were still drooping down somewhat, an attribute that changes with age, so I knew I had to use that to my advantage while I still had my youth. Next, I fluttered my big, fat black eyes, extended my lower lip, and hung my long-hanging tongue off to the side. I also played around with one droopy ear twitching as if there was a fly inside. This was a little trick I had picked up. She cocked her head back, and peered at me from beneath her old frayed-at the-edges straw hat that she habitually wore. It was tied underneath with a melon colored ribbon matching her pretty mouth and those attractive nails of hers. I also noticed the glistening white strand of pearls around her neck. At first, she glanced around, wondering where my owners were. Soon, though, our eyes were meeting each other’s and I was certain now: I had met my soul mate. I was going to have to commit now, but there was no turning back. You see, I had no problem with commitment. I have heard some males do, especially at the marrying age, but not me. I am a little young for marriage, but not too young for love. You are never too young for love.
Immediately following that, we were leaving the Quarter together. Did I mention how Auntie dresses? I remember so well that first day that Auntie was in a cotton red rose floral dress that was pulled in so pleasing and tight around her waist. She had ironed it that morning and starched the pleats real nice. Her shiny, red belt matched her red gloves that had petite red lace around the wrists. And me, “nekkid” as can be and wishing’ I’d had a bath sooner than the one ugly old Charles had given me two weeks before he died. The streetcar was chock-full, and Auntie wasn’t sure if dogs were allowed on trolley cars, especially dirty dogs. I sensed her worry because she kept looking back and forth from me to the streetcar appearing’ so darned confused when, finally, a big black and white Checker cab pulled over. The little leathery-faced Frenchman’s eyes jumped up and down flirtatiously at Auntie until he saw me. Then he sighed as she and me; we climbed into the back seat. I smiled up at the new devotion of my life and just hoped so badly that she would scratch my coffee-au lait colored tummy. “2323 St. Charles Avenue and do hurry, please. I’ve got me a splitting headache and this puppy needs a bath!” I heard a hint of pride in Auntie’s Southern sprinkled voice. She sat back, removed one glove, and do you know she scratched me tenderly with that lovely, warm, smooth hand. It was as if she had read my mind! I believed at that moment that with how intimately she touched me she might just never stop. Her manicured, colored nails could have been in a commercial. I could not stop thinking about how pretty she was as stretched out enjoying my tummy rub. From that moment on I have loved Auntie more than Mr. Robert Wilmington (her husband who I will tell you all about later) or Mr. Alan Harden (her boss at the bank) ever did. Even when I found out much later that Auntie’s “missing in action” husband; Mr. Robert Wilmington, was still missing in action from one of those sad world wars that killed millions of people. Only then did I imagine he probably did adore Auntie as much as I did. I felt sorry he went missing’.
Auntie named me “Au Lait” straight away there in the cab ride home. Young and inexperienced with the ironies of living, I mistakenly thought I was headed into a life only of po’boys, beignets, tranquility and tummy rubs. You know, in some ways it was even better, but, it took me a long time to figure that out. And at least on that very first day... life held other surprises that neither of us could ever have imagined. By nightfall both of our lives had changed forever.
For on that very day, not only did I come into Clare’s life, but so did Darlene May, her niece. That always said something to me—-the fact we came to Auntie on the same exact day. Miracles come few and far between and here our miracle was one in the same, and therefore; I told myself, it absolutely had to be double in its power. That there is one reason I took such good care of Darlene May; in my mind she was my twin—in a non-conventional way, of course.
When we got home, Auntie paid the taxi driver and showed me around the big old family home on St.Charles Avenue that sat up on a nice green hill with azalea bushes surrounding it. I was so excited that I ran out the kitchen door, from the huge old magnolia in the front yard, to Auntie’s birdbath and fountain in the back yard, then back to the smells of her kitchen. I was running like a cheetah dog. Auntie set up a spot for me in the corner of the kitchen with an old woolen blanket (a bit itchy) and began doing the dishes, scrubbing hard. First, though, she retrieved a big blue ceramic bowl from the cupboard and turned in my direction. “This, Au Lait, will be your bowl. You are never, I repeat, never, to eat from any other dish, do you hear?” I tried a little nod but I got a little mixed up with the bug in the ear trick so I sort of shook and nodded at the same time. I was just too excited. She understood and smiled at me before taking some smothered chicken without any bones from the icebox and pouring it into my bowl. “Here, enjoy.” She placed it smack in front of me and, as my tiny stump tail wagged, I took just a moment to give her my very contrived, pouty look. I pouted because I was already feeling spoiled and I was a little taken aback that she didn’t heat up the smothered chicken. Plus, she had forgotten that I needed a bath!
Her blue eyes were her most ravishing feature. They were the color of the Louisiana sky, but around the edge they were royal blue, with huge black, inspiring pupils in the center and long, thick eye lashes framing them. Even the aroma of the chicken attacked my starving senses, I was riveted by her stunning face and I couldn’t pull away. She had blonde, soft hair she wore in a blunt cut, to her ears. Her lips were full and plump. She loved that. Her full lips brought out the rebel in her. Her mother used to say, “Pull in that lip, gal.” The lips were what she knew was a little wild in her, what her mother was afraid of, and what spoke to men at the same time. Her father had had that same mouth. He had that rebel spirit, too. Being somewhat of a rebel was one of the characteristics she and her father shared.
As I watched her and listened to those feelings she was having there in the kitchen, the old magnolia outside began to sway heartily. Oh, I almost forgot. That is secret number 3. We hear your thoughts and feelings. We do. I can’t really say more than that to you about it. It is a special doggie pact we have that we don’t explain ourselves about this. We take with this a lot of responsibility; we have to protect you, be loyal, and be true to ourselves.
Heavy as its branches were, they were swinging around like they were feathers. This was a too-familiar clue to Auntie. She craned her neck, leaned in to the window, and looked way up. The sky, only visible in patches up through the tree was a dark purple, like streaks of varicose veins; they didn’t belong; they symbolized imperfection. Auntie’s pronounced lips jutted out in worry and her lashes fluttered on her cheeks in angst. Her mom’s sweet voice sounded in her head, “Pull in that lip, gal.” The winds blistered now, opening up into a loud, roaring thunder, which crackled as lightning flashed, illuminating the purple heaven into lovely lavender that reminded Auntie of Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes. Secretly she had always compared her own blue eyes to Liz’s violet ones, wishing she had been discovered for this attribute. She was thinking that as I gobbled up my chicken. But then, she told herself, she never would have wanted all that attention, always in the newspaper and all.
AUNTIE WAS SO SMART.
BEIGNET
3. I kept trying to get back home
The most amazing this is that as I thought about my grandpa’s first years in New Orleans back in the late 60s and early 70s; it seems like in some ways things have changed so much, but in other ways, not at all. I can teach you a little bit about what I already know. For example, New Orleans was settled on a natural high ground along the Mississippi. 49% of New Orleans is below sea level, with some areas on higher ground. The average elevation of the city is currently between 1 and 2 feet below sea level, with some portions of the city as high as 16 feet above sea level with others as low as -10 feet.
As I swam God knows where, I caught a glimpse of the headlines of a very soggy newspaper and this is what it said, “Today, on August 29, 2005, flood walls and levees catastrophically failed throughout the metro area. Many collapsed well below design thresholds (17th Street and London Canals). Others collapsed after a brief period of overtopping (Industrial Canal) caused by “scouring” or erosion of the earthen levee walls– an egregious design flaw. This was New Orleans’ worst engineering disaster in US history. Auntie was here somewhere!
GRANDPA AULAIT
4. My first day at Auntie’s house, August, 1972
Rain had started falling down like nails with no heads on them: strong determined drops that are common at this time of year. I managed to get up onto the kitchen counter that is set apart from the cooking counter. I might be head strong, but I am a polite headstrong. After all, I am from the south. Besides, that old blanket just wouldn’t do. This was an odd little windowsill built of large pink tiles. Odd, it never had much of a purpose, until now, as if made just for me. Auntie appeared next to me and gave me a surprised look. I stared out at the yard and glanced up at that sky for the first of millions of times there sitting right next to my girl. The two of us were taking in that hurricane panorama. We looked out her part of the window and over in the direction of the old garage; we both saw rainwater pooling up already by the garage door. That cement somehow held up under the rain, no matter what, every year. It reminded me of Charles, how he, with his bourbon, held up every Mardi gras; that is, until this year. Auntie intuitively knew the storm would be a bad one. She searched the sky again as the kitchen and parlor lights flickered on and off. The room sprung into blackness and Auntie opened her junk drawer searching for candles, forgetting me completely. My head ping ponged as I looked over at her, back outside, and then back at her. Confusion clouded my head; where was I most needed? Should I go with her in the dark? Confound it. I got my answer when I leapt off the counter and tried to follow her. She accidentally shut the heavy, swinging white door that she had painted a zillion times hard, right on my muzzle. I retreated to my itchy blanket and put my head down, still listening and watching, in pain. I barked. Auntie ran back into the kitchen and glared in my direction with a powerful command for silence. Then, whether it was the on and off voltages of light, the conversing, discordant winds, the deep purple to lavender tones of the sky, or just the fate of how it all was combined, there came to be a dark and eerie echoing in the old house. So, I got a little scared and I stayed put for what seemed like hours.
That is right when there was a loud rapping at the front door and when Auntie answered it, Darlene May came into our lives. Her mother, Beatrice, Auntie’s younger sister stood there intoxicated, and wet. I could see tears on her cheeks even though it was raining. Her baby girl arrived into this world in utter chaos in the middle of a hurricane. I never forgot that. Later, when Darlene May went through changes, I had to remember the day she was came to us. It was not easy for her and maybe that had something to do with her having a hard time finding love and all.
By now I had decided to be pro-active so Auntie wouldn’t yell at me, so I went back into the kitchen and quietly stuck my head through the swinging door and was holding it ajar just enough so I had a clear view of the girls. Auntie was holding this brand new little baby girl and seemed not to know what to do. Beatrice had already left in a taxi cab.
Auntie called her dear friend, Doctor Landry. By the time the good doctor arrived sopping wet and slipping onto the newly waxed wood floor, Auntie was sitting in the large, claw-footed, deep cranberry colored chair in the corner of the parlor feeding the child. Darlene May was clean, wrapped in white sheets and blankets looking like the little angel she was, and eating peacefully in her aunt’s arms. I would have a permanent indentation on the tip of my nose from the number of minutes I held that heavy door open. I was a little emotional, watching over my girls during that first eventful night.
When Auntie was much younger her eyebrows were slightly wider apart, like she seemed to be doing pondering about everyone and everything, and she was irresistible. I may have already mentioned: she had been the least favorite of her father and she knew it early on. He was a complicated man. Unfortunately, it took her a long time to figure out that the way he felt about her was more about his own pain, but for some reason that only the heavens would ever understand; he made his pain hers. Furthermore, the dairy farm was hard work, and she was small and not much use to him. He took that out on her sometimes.
Her mother died when Clare was only eight, and the pain of losing her was so severe that Clare never said the word “mama” again until she herself became a surrogate ‘mama’ to Darlene May. Still, despite her loneliness, Clare stayed living at home, first on the dairy farm in Houma and later here at her grandmother’s house in New Orleans until she had saved enough money to move into the Quarter to rent her own apartment. She was in her twenties then and for those few years full of resolve to be a survivor, she had little contact with her father who had become very sick. His drinking had gotten a bitter hold of him and between the toxins from that disease and his own depression, he was sinking fast. Auntie was in an exciting time of her own life and she had no way of knowing how severe was his disease until it was too late. After all, he had pushed her away. He would die of sclerosis of the liver one night when Auntie was only 23. Later she wished she had spent more time with him during those last days. Now she was left with questions that would forever go unanswered and a guilt that she should have been less headstrong and more forgiving.
There was little turnover of employees at Whitney Bank and being one of the original banks of New Orleans, it was also one of the few to survive the Depression due to the conservative traits Mr. Harden’s father had employed. Clare still in her mid twenties was quickly promoted to teller, moved up to new accounts and soon was spotted by Harden for her fast shorthand, good people skills, quick decision making, and accurate editing. She wasted little time mingling with the other female employees at the bank and spent lunch hours reviewing reports for Mr. Harden.
Harden wasn’t the only one to notice this young star; other young men attempted to court Clare due to her her darling looks, but somehow she befriended them in a way so that, although they were being dismissed as potential love interests from the get-go, they remained smitten with the short belle and never showed signs of resentment at her constant brush-offs.
You see, Clare had a secret. She was married to a fighter pilot who was overseas fighting in the World War. She felt this was her private business and this secret world of hers, the love of her life she kept to herself, was now her whole reason for living, her reason for working, her reason for being. Clare Heller Wilmington was ecstatically happy knowing that her beloved, kind and brave Mr. Robert Wilmington would be returning to her someday. Meanwhile, she worked at the bank and saved three out of her four paychecks every single month. They both wanted a big family and since she had her mother’s family home, they had decided that is exactly what they would do once he got out of the army.
But something horrible happened one misty Saturday in April of 1945. The weather was greyer than usual. It had been a beautiful spring so far but today was dark. The knock came first thing in the morning.
She answered the door and when the handsome, uniformed man handed her a telegram from the United States Army, it changed her life, forever.
ROBERT WAS MISSING IN ACTION.
Auntie pulled the shades down and cried buckets.
That Monday she called in sick to work and did the same again every single day that week. She folded and unfolded that American flag a million times and polished that pretty medal the same amount. When she returned to Whitney Bank the following Monday, a light was gone from the sky-blue of her eyes. The smile that came easily to her lips was stretched thin, and down. She was quieter, more private that day and for many days to follow. She couldn’t know what others saw; she now had some of the cynicism she used to criticize in her father. She was losing hope. She imagined all sorts of horrible things happening to Robert and that was all she could think about. Auntie was depressed.
Her boss, Mr. Alan Harden was a decade of years her senior and had been married since he graduated in business, many years before, from Tulane University, a good Southern institution where his father and grandfather had gone. He had a perpetually sun-tanned face, straight, white teeth and a natural athletic grace about him. This is about the time that Clare’s life got a little lopsided. At least she straightened it out eventually. You see, she was only comfortable around him. Something about being at work helped her hide from her grief.
“Clare, bring those stock quotes in, please.” “Clare, take a memo, please.” The other tellers could hear engaging, curious conversation seeping from under the heavy, cherry wood door into the outer office. It would rise and fall with the temperature of the Crescent city. When Clare would politely exit, all eyes would be on her for any slight sign of evidence for idle tongues to gain new information to wag over. Never did Clare let on anything of consequence. Nor had she shared her bad news about Robert with anyone there.
She would come out, head held high, lips as full as ever, eyelashes coated in a natural film of black mascara dipping below those gorgeous eyes. She’d head directly to her desk and begin to type steadfastly as if Mr. Alan Harden never even existed or had anything to do with her job whatsoever. She would stare out a window onto the lawn that had sprinklers, which came on everyday at exactly 2:00 in the afternoon.
I began to understand why Clare watched the water. It was the prism of spectacular colors that sprinkled through the drops fanning over the lawn that Clare liked. It reminded her of her backyard and the stone birdbath just after a spring rainfall. Her mind would wander to times long ago when she and her sister Beatrice were younger, full of innocence, excited about every little thing life was handing to them. It brought back a sense of those comforting feelings. During these years at the bank, however, Clare seldom had any communication with Beatrice. Once her father passed on and she and Bea had inherited the old St. Charles home, Bea took off to try out living in Texas.
She was one of those people who keep moving places to try to run away from something. But what they are really running from is themselves.
Just as well. Clare loved the house and the memories of her mother’s family and preferred not sharing it with anyone. It was during those years that Horace moved into the cottage-turned one-bedroom duplex next door. Horace had formidable eyebrows and an almost completely baldhead. His cheeks reddened when he was telling a good fable, which was his talent. Animated and dramatic, he and Clare became fast friends in one of those friendships that happen rarely, a real one. Clare called him her very own rooster because he would get all puffed up in the chest when he got excited. When Clare had moved back to the family house from the Quarter, even after the tragic news about her husband, life began anew and Clare was slowly became accustomed to being a widow. She loved the worn crown moldings around the tops of the walls, the shiny hardwood floors from years of lemon waxing, and the Blue Jays and even a humming bird who lived out back. She adored Horace. She liked Miss Sophie Thompson who would later have two adorable twin boys, and she settled in for a life, seeing it as the hand she had been dealt.
Horace came from a large group of males in an old Southern family. He was one of six boys, but Horace was a homosexual. He was sensitive and vocal-- often without thinking his words through before blurting them out. However, most of his rhetoric was harmless, just venting. One of his brothers, Max, detested him. Max thought his brother Horace with was a wimp, and that he was gay made it all the worse. Truth be told, Max was jealous of Horace. Horace has a huge heart and Max was born with a small one.
One night, Max hit him. Horace simply went to his room, packed an old suitcase, and left. He was all of 15 years old. He has been on his own ever since.
Horace understood this would hurt his mother deeply, so he wrote a letter to her one month later letting her know he was all right; but at the same time he told her that he would no longer visit her in the house he grew up in, however irrational she might view this. He invited her to visit him, however, and he confided in her where he was staying. He hoped she would understand and visit him. But deep down he knew she might not. Amazing that Horace, not even a man yet, could see inside of his mother. Too, that he had the strength of character to strike out on his own at such a young age. Still, this was an unfortunate time for Horace, for his mother never did come to visit. She was so dominated by the men in her home that she couldn’t muster up what it took to defy them. So Horace never did make peace with his family, and to top it off, he lost his mother at the same time.
I have always believed that Auntie with all her warmth inside of her small frame replaced his entire family for him; but mostly, she replaced his mom. I found this sad. Therefore, tonight, just like every other night since they had met, as Horace drank a little too much Sherry and his cheeks got blusher and blusher, Auntie was more important to him than she would ever know. She was kinder to him than his own kin had been. In many ways the reverse was true, too. Plus, Horace could freely express his feelings while Auntie kept hers bottled up inside. They both had a lot of hurt from their past—just like so many humans do.
As I digested all of this about how complicated human lives are, -- for that moment I appreciated the fact that I am a dog. As their friendship thickened over time, most of all they cherished the good talk during the cocktail hour with a glass or two of Sherry wine on the front screened in porch in the warmer months and in Auntie’s parlor during the cooler months. However, during the coldest season, beginning in November, they moved inside to the living room with the antique Grandfather clock eavesdropping on their very important conversations.
The years passed that way, really. Auntie’s hair changed a bit. It went from a short bob to long and curly, to shorter again and pixie, then to very long... only this time permed with a special soft, spiral effect. The dresses remained the same, oblivious to trends. Butterflies, paisleys, flowers and solid, bright colors always with matching shoes and gloves, pearls and earrings to match. A Southern belle and smart, Clare knew her heart. Alan Harden helped ease the pain of never knowing what happened to Robert. And, he didn’t drink or smoke which Auntie hated. He was as good-looking as they come in Clare’s eyes and besides, once a year on her birthday, he would take her to Commander’s Palace for lunch where they would order the same thing every year: oysters, boiled crawfish and crab cakes. Lunch would last for three hours. You need to know that lunch in New Orleans was more than a simple meal. It was an occasion.
Every year, on that day Mr. Harden would wear his dark blue pinstriped suit with a mint green silk tie; now, don’t get me wrong; they were still “play-tonic.” After all, in the back of Auntie’s mind, Robert could still be found.
COMMANDER’S PALACE
(Later, this wonderful restaurant icon got ruined in Katrina!)
Located at 1403 Washington Avenue and begun by Emile Commander in the late 1800’s, this Victorian structure of a restaurant, now owned by the Brennan family, took its cue from traditional Creole cuisine. Under a big easy setting among the trees, one could eat there for a first New ‘Awlins experience. The rooms offered a pleasant atmosphere. The building itself was created in 1880 for Emile Commander who actually lived upstairs above the restaurant. Since 1974 Commander’s was considered one of the top five restaurants operated by the Brennan family.
It didn’t take long for Mr. Harden to miss his petite confidante at work and grew increasingly irritable. Clare’s career, now in secondary position in order of importance, was slowly dissipating from her memory. She was busier than ever with the little girl so when her 4oth birthday came and a bouquet of gardenias was delivered to her house from Whitney Bank, there was only a casual note from Mr. Harden. Auntie decided then and there that her platonic friendship with Mr. Alan Harden would have to end.
In making this decision she assumed that she would not see him again, except by accident. Therefore, she found herself surprised to be in a deep depression that night on her 40th birthday and as a result, she moped around the house all day. Around 11:00 a.m. she made scampi for lunch. She ate the buttery, seasoned shrimp all alone, but they didn’t make her feel any better. Even Darlene May, now in her sixth month charm, couldn’t shake her aunt out of the blues. That night, around ten, there was a knock at Clare’s door. Relieved it was getting close to bed time, Clare assumed it was Horace, who occasionally came back and visited for a second time around and would flamboyantly enter with Sherry already poured from his own bottle. He would walk in with the glasses already poured and held in each hand, his forefinger and middle finger upside down, palm facing up lightly holding the glass. Usually, as they talked, the wine would empty right along with his sentimental heart. Clare opened the door in her short housecoat, hair in a ponytail, with the ten o’clock news just beginning to drawl on in the background. Instead of Horace, Mr. Alan Harden stood outside her screened in porch holding a single red rose. Their eyes held the chemistry they had both denied. They came together in their first true kiss. Backing into the living room, he pushed her against the upright piano bench and they began one of the most heated kissing sessions in New Orleans history. As the fan blew overhead they kissed. I was watching so close, wondering about all that kissing. Then, do-tell, Mr. Alan Harden suddenly got up and said, “Clare, you know I am married, and I am not ever leaving my wife. But I love you. I will love you forever.” And with that, he left. She went to her sofa, sat down with her shapely legs pulled up underneath her, and stayed like that for the rest of the night just chewing on her fingernails.
That next morning, with a sip of her chicory-laden coffee, Clare’s eyes glanced down and saw the matchbook from Commander’s he had left her on the end table, and she lit a candle with one of the matches. Then she looked at me and started to cry. I was in for one big fat roller coaster ride. I felt sorry for her, and like I mentioned before, Auntie was a little lop-sided ever since she had gotten news of her husband gone missing. But she was never so lop-sided to have an affair with a married man. So, she decided that was the end of Mr. Alan Harden.
IT IS SIMPLY NOT OKAY TO KISS SOMEONE ELSE’S HUSBAND.
back to top
|
|
|
Advertisement:
|
