Skewed Observations of Your Normal Christmas Parade

I don't normally care for parades and such. It is too much trouble getting a place to park and staking out a spot to stand where you can see (I am a fuddy-duddy at heart). But my daughter was marching yesterday and I went to see her march. It was not a big parade and the crowd was thin where we were so I enjoyed myself in spite of myself.

This guy has it made. He is in his front yard, relaxed and ready for the festivities to begin.



Parades (and the National Anthem being sung at a sports event) sometimes make me teary. I don't know why. For the parade, I believe it was the combination of the military guys (knowing so many young lives have been lost and so many families have been touched by the grief that war brings) and the first marching group was a young group of ROTC kids, which reminded me of where my son was last year about this time (in a military type program and slowly adapting, until after Christmas break when he decided not to return), and a "Relay for Life" float (my brother died several years ago this month from cancer), all within the first ten minutes of the parade. I felt like sobbing, but I didn't. How does one explain the presence of such grief in the light of an event that is supposed to be cheerful and festive?



This is why I came to the parade in the first place, to see my daughter march. After they passed, my mood began to lighten and I started taking pictures. I tend to feel self-conscious with a camera hanging from my neck, but I am getting better at tuning out the outside world and just taking photos without thinking about what other people might think (There is an old post from December 13th of last year ("My Camera is a Jack-Ass") that sort of explains my problem with cameras).

I seem to have a preponderance of accidental boody shots in this round of photos.



We had the standard reportoire of dance teams. I think this one came over from Houston, TX to march in our parade.



These guys were talking and laughing and never missed a beat.



Here we have a serious fashion faux paus. Boys and girls, never ever wear this type panty hose with a shimmy-tail dance costume. Also, make sure there are no runs or tears in your hosiery. I would have gotten a picture of that too but my digital camera was a little slow on the uptake, so I missed the shot.



Here we have the cheesy football helmet on a Bronco vehicle. The guy driving this vehicle actually wants me to vote for him for District Attorney.



Hmm, I wonder if she is a Marine?



When I was taking this photo, I was wondering, "what in Sam Hill is that green pile of mess suposed to be?" After I saw the photo, I realized it was a Christmas tree, complete with MRI packages. I was more intereted in the Marine Corp and Navy (?) Gators. I'm not sure where they reside when they are not riding on the back of a flat bed trailor in a Christmas parade. Notice the Marine Corps gator has his snout full of beads for the girl to toss. (Which reminds me of a question -- Do other parts of the country toss these cheap beads in their parades, or is that a Louisiana thing? I've seen it done mostly in the Mardi Gras parades.)



Serious booty shaking.



Do you think the girl in dead center knew I was taking this picture and posed for it? That is the problem with taking pictures of people, you know. They see a camera and they get all stiff and start posing. I had to fuss at my father on Thanksgiving for stiffening up just because I was taking a picture of him. I do the same thing, I put on my picture face and then I hate photographs of me because I look like a stiff old battle axe (my daughter says, "well mom, that's what you are", which reminds me that I need to loosen up a little).



Parades are always a guarantee that there will be sweet little children perched in the back of pick-up trucks



or plopped down on the hood of a car, waiting for candy to be tossed their way. This little guy is actually looking the wrong direction. (Wonder how many times we ourselves miss the good stuff in life because we are looking in the wrong direction?)



My daughter dubbed this little guy "Mullet Boy". He knew which direction to look, and with the help of his mom, he gathered a sack full of candy.



But when the last float passed by and Mama gathered him up to go home, he had himself a little hissy fit. (Wonder how many hissy fits I have thrown when I realized I had to let go of something and I was not ready to do so?)



And how many times have I complained when the gig was over, and it was time to start the clean-up duties?





Imagine my surprise when I pulled my eye away from the lens of the camera and I noticed this float was sponsored by the local community college I attended last year. I was searching for familiar faces when I saw my speech teacher tossing what turned out to be a DumDum sucker with a tag on it that read "We're back. Better than before.", which is a bald-faced lie. They got hit pretty hard by Rita. The fall semester had to be cancelled. They are back, but they are limping.

Anyway, the speech teacher was quite entertaining and full of extra information that is usually not appreciated by younger students. He used to travel around the country giving motivational speeches. I have often wondered if hearing one of his speeches would motivate me to action. I always thought he'd be an interesting person to converse with. He also has a list of things he wanted to do before he dies, things like visiting the grave of Marilyn Monroe. I have wasted so much of my life flying by the seat of my pants. People who live with specific goals and timetables in mind tend to fascinate me.

Anomalies also fascinate me, and he is one. He makes these speeches all the time and makes it look so easy. You would think he was a social and outgoing person, be he confessed one time that he is actually shy and quiet when in a group of people he does not know well.

I asked him once if he thought there was any chance for a person to get their act together if they had not done so by a certain age and he said he thought it was unlikely. Again, I have wasted so much of my life flying by the seat of my pants. "Unlikely" was not the answer I wanted to hear.

Now, a word about photography. Apparently, sometimes you get caught up in the moment and you are concentrating so intensely on what you were trying to catch with the camera (the float) that you completely miss the elephant in the frame until you have uploaded the photo. (I wonder how long I have been walking around the elephants in my life?).


Honestly, another boody shot was not my intention. But then again, if you check the archives in February 15th ("Ice Carving, Louisiana Style"), you will find evidence that I seem to enjoy boody shots. As I said back then, what can I say, I mean, other than...

the end.

Not Your Normal Blogaversary Post

Or: It's My Blogavesary and I'll Cry If I Want To...

WARNING: This is not my usual "look on the bright side" post.

I saw this on the back cover of a notebook my son brought home from rehab (I added the Bible verse). I was clearing things out and I threw the notebook away, but I decided to keep this example of marking time.

When I first took my son in to see a substance abuse counselor, the man painted a very dim picture of my son's future. And I listened politely (stubbornly), thinking "no, our story will be different". After a few more years had passed, I was forced to admit the guy's assessment was fairly accurate. I spent a little time being angry at the messenger, and wondering why he did not insist right then that I pack my son up and get him into a rehabilitation program that very day. But the messenger knew what I did not yet know. It has been one of the most bitter realizations I have come to in this past year, that I cannot force change on anyone, no matter how much I love them, no matter how badly I wish things were different.

(What I truly resent is the fact that the treatment center will never mention how important the client's willingness to participate is to the process. They will take your money that you have sold your soul to the devil to get to pay for their sevices while they are talking their smooth talk of strengthening families and turning lives around. But that is a whole "nother subject.)

And I'm not bashing my son. No one can force change on me either. I am in my own little tangle, and there are things I need to do, can do, to help myself. Some of them are simple things. I don't sit and make hash (no pun intended) marks on a notebook marking the days till I can get out. I sit around counting the days till I can be rescued from my tangle. It all comes down to the same thing, doesn't it? An unwillingness to expend the energy that is necessary to change the things that could be changed to help ourselves.

It hurts to run into the mother of one of my son's friends and hear how well that young man is doing, that he has completed the very same program my son began last year and then quit. It hurts to know that several of my young friends from school are all set to graduate this semester, and I quit two semesters away from finishing. It hurts to know that last year looked like it was going to be the year of healing for my family and it wasn't. I hurt.

(He's doing all right, BTW, my son. He is in town, but not living with us. I believe he is progressing, but it is painstakingly slow. I miss him, but at the same time, we have to have a little distance, for the sake of both of us. Otherwise, I will give him far too much and that is not what he needs from me. I feel a great sadness about that, but I also have come to accept that I am part of the problem.)


I don’t know “how many days I been in this place” but I made my first post about a year ago. Last year things looked so hopeful. This year, the whole idea of naming this blog “New Life Rising” seems a bit of a stretch. Things looked so ripe with promise then. Things look so bleak now. Seems like I should have named the place "Observations From the Dung Heap".

There has been a lot of water under the bridge since last year. Some of it I have written about. Some of it I have kept to myself. I can’t point to any one thing that has me whipped down. I think it is just the accumulation of a bunch of things, and the constant, ongoing stress in my life.

Speaking metaphorically, I think one of the things that hurts the worst is the realization that my pretty yellow dress does not hide any of my flaws. For so long, I have secretly wanted to qualify for “Saint of the Year” (and I thought I had a chance) but I know now that I will never even make the runner-up list. Sure, it looks bright from a distance. If you do not get too close, things look great. I have a husband and three children who are physically healthy. I have a home to live in. I have a job that is okay. I am able to work. But if you dig much deeper, there are major cracks and flaws in my life. Something has to be done. Something has needed to be done for some time now. And I have been in a fog.

I have given up on a lot of the ideals I used to long for (can't reach them anyway). I'm not sure what to put in place of the idealistic visions I once held. Right now, I’m just enduring life. And I guess the honest truth (even when it is ugly, even when it is painful) is just as good a thing as any to put in the place of idealism.

I know that I sound bleak today. I know that I will see brighter days. Sometimes I struggle with how honest I want to be in this place. I don't really like being this honest, but on some days, I just can't continue churning out the cheese.

It's been a tough year, a disappointing year. I don't expect the next one to be any easier.

But, on the bright side, I really like being in this place, and it's good to air out bad feelings every once in a while. My mood has lifted somewhat, thanks to a Christmas parade, a haircut and a visit to church Sunday morning. I am posting the Christmas parade photos and commentary right after this in hopes that my darkness will not dominate this place.

One Good Word

I like this poem. For one thing, it reminds me of how powerful something like a simple "thank you" can be, say, to an overworked waitress on any given Sunday after church. Many of our restaurants and businesses are still not up to speed on their services because they do not have enough people to work, and the ones who are working are often stretched pretty thin. My daughter has worked as a waitress, and we have often discussed how rude and arrogant "church people" can be when they do not get served as quickly as they think they ought to be.

This past Sunday's sermon title was "Jehovah-Fema?". The preacher reminded us that our support, our sustenance does not really come from the government and can't always be depended on to save us from our various troubles. In his own preacherly way, he reminded us that we as believers have something to share with those around us who are hurting. He challenged us to share our "one good word" with those around us who might be despairing from the mistaken belief that the only god they can depend on is "Jehovah-Fema".

We have so many people around us who are hurting, people who have strong faces that hide their pain. I bet you come across people like that every day as well. They are everywhere, and they are starving for one good word. In all the hustle and bustle of the season, and the joy, it is easy to forget that one good word can be so very powerful.

One good word can mean so much. Who could you offer one good word to?

(For more of David Whyte's poetry, click here. I am not real sure what the exact rules are for posting someone else's work on a blog like I have done. I think I am okay using it as a one-time post. I think for anything other than that, I'd have to have permission to use this poem.)

Uncommon Images of a Common Thanksgiving Gathering

Thanksgiving at my sister's house, near Houston.

The dog, meditating in the pond.

My parents, snuggling on the couch, even after fifty-something years.
A good time was had by all, both man and beast.

Thanksgiving Blessings

I am grateful

for beauty that is found in broken places.

Wisdom Lurks In My Shadow

Cameron Parish

This past Saturday, we met my father-in-law and his "significant other" for the first time after the hurricane. Her house was flooded in the storm and she has decided to sell the property. She will buy a trailer and put it on her daughter's land a mile away from where she previously lived. The house was her family home. I questioned her about making the decision so soon to walk away from it all. Her mind is made up. The job of restoring the house to liveable condition would be too much for her to take on at this stage in her life in her opinion. So she is moving on, getting land elevation reports, preparing to raise the land to the new required level, to have electricity and sewerage connected, to have a well dug-- starting over at the ripe old age of seventy something.

My father-in-law lost his boat and his truck was damaged by the water. He has since bought another boat and will soon get his repaired truck back. He is crabbing again and says the crabbing is better than he has ever seen before. The down side to that is that the price he can get for crabs has gone down because the market is flooded.

On Sunday afternoon my youngest daughter and I drove to the camp where my son was staying before the hurricane. We thought we would see if we could get some of his clothes that he had left behind. He had come home for what was planned to be a two day visit before the storm and then Rita decided to drop by and so he never got to go back to the camp to bring all his clothing home.

The camp was nothing like it was before. The salt water from the storm surge left the pond full of stagnant water and mud. The camp itself had gotten water in it from the storm surge and when the surge flowed back to the marsh it left behind a stiff coating of dark marsh mud. We were able to go in and retrieve most of his clothing and I think the smell will come out with the wash (or perhaps two or three washes).

When we got to the small community where my son had been staying there were people milling about and working to clean things up. One of the most heart-wrenching scenes as we passed on the highway was a family sitting together watching a fire burn away the remants of what had been their home.

Driving in Cameron parish is still limited to daytime hours. The man at the checkpoint going in told me the speed limit was 45 miles per hour and warned me "about a cop named Butch who will give you a ticket for going 46 miles an hour". I set my cruise control and took no chances.

We took a few pictures where we could, mostly stopping in the road and snapping photos from the car since there was hardly any traffic on the road. I did not want to get off the main road for fear of "catching a flat" (as the Cajuns would say) from a loose nail and I did not want to linger anywhere and take a chance on looking like I might be looting. I also wanted to be respectful of the tremendous losses of these people so if there were people around I took no pictures.

Anyway, here they are, if you can stand more hurricane devastation images. I keep saying I am going to quit writing about this, it's all old news, but for many of these people, these hurricanes will forever be a dividing line in their lives -- life before the storm and a completely different life after the storm. It isn't over for them. It takes a while to rebuild a life.

Here are a couple of the before and after photos. I posted this one of the old house with a new roof not long ago. Now the roof is swaying, the windows are all out and the green shutters were blown off. Also note in the after photo the water in the background. I am not sure if it is water that is still standing from the storm surge or if their is a body of water back there that has surpassed its banks. Whatever it is, the water is not supposed to be there.

There were graves that were lifted up in at least one of the cemeteries. You can see the brown rubble the surge left behind. The salt water burned the vegetation. In a few other spots I could see the grass growing back already. I don't know how this statue withstoood the force of the water.
I have no idea what this is nor do I have any idea how it managed to get so neatly dropped over this tree.



There was a house here before the storm. Now all that is left are the beautiful old oak trees. The chimney remains and a bird sings from its perch, oblivious to the pain.
Steps leading nowhere.The Catholic Church and the Baptist Church.
These were the two things I looked for and did not find: This quaint little post office building and the cows that were in this pasture. We could not get our bearings straight to even see where the building had originally been located, could not even find the slab the it stood on.

You can see the cracked and dried up marsh mud in the foreground of the pasture picture. The salt water has killed all the vegetation. They may have been able to evacuate their cattle to higher ground but many of the cattle farmers lost all their cattle.

Word has it that the hunters are marveling over the number of ducks and gearing up for a good duck hunting season. I don't know how true it is, but someone said that the salt water has blinded the snakes and the turtles. Blind turtles may not cause too many problems, but the snakes are plentiful and unable to see. They will be a hazard to hunters who are out in the marsh preparing their duck blinds for hunting season.

Ya know, Dorothy, I just don't think we are in Kansas anymore. Obviously this house does not belong this close to the highway. I did not stop to examine whether the wicked witch's shoes were sticking out from underneath the house.

And here is the shadow of our car on the marsh grass as we are leaving Cameron parish. Such destruction. Such strong and determined people. So much work to do.