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Letter To Clifford, 3
Dear Mom,
J's wife, L, brought out here last summer two birdhouses. They had to be put together. One of them was octagonal, you know, eight-sided, and me and her and her oldest son (10) spent the better part of an afternoon screwing together the metal sides of the two tier birdhouse. So, each tier had eight sides, which meant 16 total sides for this birdhouse. There were 400 nuts and 400 bolts, so small that a person would be better served to have tweezers instead of fingers to handle them.
There used to be little rubber pads covering the bridge of my reading glasses but they are now lost so when I bend over they fall off. While I was helping to construct the birdhouse I had to keep pushing up on my glasses. When I started sighing L said I didn't have to do this if I didn't want to but you and I know she didn't exactly mean that. And anyway, I have a lot more than one or two sighs in me for any given job.
In addition to the difficulty presented by the large number of parts there was the danger of slicing off one or two fingers because the metal was thin, and sharp, like a steak knife. Telling her son, J, to be careful, was about as useful as yelling at a deaf person.
The F's, J and L and their three sons, J, A, and W, don't usually stay out here for the whole day, and so when they left that day last summer I still had a few mystery parts to add to the birdhouse. It was a mystery I was able to solve but then I had to consider the construction of a second birdhouse. The second birdhouse turned out to be much simpler, and studier, so I decided to erect it first, out in the back pasture. The problem with this studier birdhouse is that it only comes with four bird apartments as opposed to the other less sturdy birdhouse, which has sixteen. These are supposed to purple martin houses and you need more than four apartments if you expect to attract even a small flock the first year. And you start trying to attract them in March or April, depending on which part of the country you live in. This being February I thought I should start looking.
I looked on the Internet recently and found several suppliers for the sturdy birdhouse that is known as the American Heritage Quad Pod Purple Martin Birdhouse system. As the name (Quad) implies, each unit, sold separately, had four bird apartments. I had set up just one Quad (four apartments) and the pole can hold up to three more, for a total of sixteen purple martin apartments. I was thinking two more, for a total of twelve apartments, would be adequate. But on sale they cost $125 a piece (regular price--$175). I have the ability and permission to spend J and L's money for property related expenses but I'm not going to spend that much money on a birdhouse, without talking to them first.
I have some tree trimming to do today. Perhaps that will take my mind off of $700 birdhouses.
Take care, from your youngest 45 year old son, Jim.
Letter To Clifford, 2
Due to apparent fatigue or March Madness I am, instead of my usual drivel, posting letters I wrote to my mother last year. My mom died recently, just two weeks after me and my siblings took her from her home and put her in an assisted living facility.
Dear Mom, 3-24-05
I hope everything is going well for you, but as I have heard you say, even if everything is not going well, there's not a heck of a lot you can do about it.
After visiting with you in January and seeing the ease with which you make and carry out doctors appointments*, I decided to make one for myself today because I haven't had a check-up in 10 years and they say you should get checkups more often than that. It took me most of the day to get up the courage to make the call. There are only two doctors in this town and only one of them was recommended to me and predictably that one is booked clear into the next century. But his receptionist allowed me to go onto a waiting list, from which maybe they would call me, she said as long as two months from now. I told her if I had waited ten years I could wait another two months, but I'll probably look into making another appointment in one of the larger nearby towns, like Front Royal, or Culpeper, or Warrenton.
This property I live on is a weekend property and is owned by my old childhood buddy from down the street, JF, and he and his wife and three boys (ages 5, 8, and 10) come out when they can, or not at all in the winter, and maybe every other weekend during the summer.
The property is forty acres on the edge of the quaint Virginia town of Washington (population 300) and is named for the 17 year old surveyor, George Washington, before he became a revolutionary, and first president of the US. It is the first town to use the name Washington in the United States. And there aren't many or any facts about this town much more interesting than that, which is to say the town itself is not that interesting. But it is a nice, quiet, scenic place to live. Manassas, the place where the Civil War began, is about 35 miles away so in the area there is some interesting history.
There are deer and fox and wild geese out here. And black bears, but I have only seen one of those, once.
There is a local guy who makes hats from road kill, like foxes and squirrels and such. If this guy sees a dead animal on the road, he is thinking--hat. While this seems like a peculiar avocation, the hats, the few I have seen, are actually pretty nice looking. Not that you will ever see me wearing one.
I heard that Sar*h came to visit you in February so I hope you two had some fun.
I am writing this letter on a computer. I now have to print it out, put it in an envelope with a stamp, address it, and take it a block away to my Post Office. If you receive this letter it will be proof that minor miracles do occur.
Take care,
from your youngest 45 year old son, Jim Louis
*denotes sarcasm
Letter To Clifford, 1
Phillis say no, Erica didn't have a baby so the baby thing can be a little more speciousness in a day that probably already had plenty.
Between the demands of the day job--painting high end new residential the last few weeks--and the side projects, I'm too tired or time constrained to do much writing so for my few NOLA junkies I'm posting separately the fifteen letters I wrote to my mom last year. Now the only thing holding me back will be do I have the energy to drive over to a St. Charles Ave. curb (my most recent reliable wifi corridor) in the evening, or do I get up a few minutes early of my usual 5:30 a.m. and do it before work.
My mom had progressing Alzheimer's the last couple of years of her 88-year-old life and so I repeat myself a lot over the course of the fifteen letters and any other brief explanation will be done inside of brackets. The girlfriend mentioned was pseudonym-ed Lorina in posts from that era and is referred to in the letters by her real initial, T. Right before I left for New Orleans we reached a point of irreconcilability.
For real-time posts out of New Orleans the best thing going is Editor B at Brox.com, I think, Google it. He lives a few blocks north of my Rocheblave residence, so check it out, and be sure (if you have some high speed) to watch his movie #93, righteous.
I got me now some Krispy Krunchy from the 24 hour Ideal/Spur, corner Galvez/Canal, and a mixture of bottled beers in the cooler behind me in the bed of the truck and last night I had some pretty average grocery store sushi from the first Mid-City area reopened super Supermarket, Save A Center at Bienville/Carrollton. We are at about the 7 month mark post-Katrina.
The rats are gone from the Dumaine house, now just a few mice. Talk to you later.
Feb. 7, 2005
Dear Mom, (did not send)
After I left your house on Bencrest, where I had been visiting you for more of January than you care to remember, I went to spend the night at brother Al*x's, and leaving at 4:30 that next morning I drove straight from Dallas to the town in which I live, Washington, VA., which is about 70 miles west of Washington DC and is situated up against the Shenandoah mountain range. It took me 22 hours driving straight with only a 30 minute nap somewhere after the halfway point, near Nashville, TN. If you count all the money I spent on strong coffee and various energy drinks, which cost over two dollars a can, you couldn't say I saved that much money from not staying in a motel for one night. But I was eager to sleep in my own bed so it seemed like a good idea at the time.
I arrived here at 2:30 in the morning of the next day and after taking a hot shower and a snort of whiskey I went to sleep for eight hours. I woke up feeling like I had just driven 22 hours followed by an eight hour nap. It had snowed here the day before so there was still some snow on the ground. I went hiking up in the Shenandoah mountains because I wanted to try out my new waterproof hiking boots that T got me for Christmas. The boots worked pretty well and so perhaps overconfident I went hiking the next day with T, to a mountain called Old Rag, which is considered one of the more difficult local hikes. A number of times I came to a place where I would say--well, I just can't do this, but T would show me a simple rock climbing maneuver and I would be good to go. We made it to the top and then back down just before it got really dark. There was still snow and ice on the trail and a few groups of people behind us who were leaving themselves some of the more difficult parts of the descending, to do in the dark. I was glad not to be one of them. I hope they all made it down, or slept up there. I have been sore for the last two days, and that is without ever falling down on the rocky trail.
I am starting back to work on JF's weekend property, which is where I live, maintaining the grounds and working on the two houses on forty acres.
Hope you are doing well,
from your youngest 45 year old son, Jim Louis.
Shootings, More Work, And Babies
Last week at the corner of Dumaine and Dorgenois a man was shot and then that man walked a mile to the First District police station at N. Rampart and St. Louis. The man was described as being reticent about the location and circumstances surrounding the incident. He said he had been shot somewhere near Orleans Ave. Police later interviewed the few neighbors existing in the area and found four or five shell casings on the ground at the Dumaine/Dorgenois corner, two blocks from Orleans. Perhaps only one of the bullets entered the man's side.
About ten days ago I reacquainted with Fermin after he came sauntering out of the Dumaine backyard with two of his little buddies. I have known Fermin since he was nine-years-old. He is now a few months shy of his twentieth birthday. A graduate of Clark High School where he played baseball and football, Fermin in his senior year in front of several thousand fans at Tad Gormley Stadium returned a kickoff for a hundred yards.
Did anybody touch you?
Nobody touched me, Mr. Jim.
Fermin was also in marching bands, playing the closest thing to a french horn most marching bands will permit, the mellifone? and also plays trumpet, if he had one, and is self taught on the keyboards, and would play that too if the six D batteries we purchased at the beerless Spur on N. Broad had been enough to make the the portable keyboard in M's Dumaine foyer work. But they weren't.
Fermin also likes to drink dacqueries (which I can't spell) at the lake with his girlfriends.
I don't drink 'em myself, Mr. Jim, I just get them for the ladies and then...
That's more than I need to know, Fermin.
That hairstyle I referred to the other day as long braids is not actually braids. The individual braid-like locks are called twists (which I know thanks to the diligent efforts of my research assistant; I can only ask Fermin so many direct questions about fashion).
The same day I reacquainted with Fermin I saw Snow. He was sitting on the steps of Esnard Villa crouched in the same way I showed him pictured up in the top left corner of this page where the cat sits, when I briefly ran revolving pictures up there. He has always a fathomless expression marked by black unblinking eyes. Jailhouse tattooed teardrops spot his black skin just below his left eye. I paused in the truck that day and called out to him.
Hey Snow.
(Nothing.)
You don't remember me, do you?
The faintest nod.
How you doing?
(Nothing.)
You doing all right?
(Was that a nod?)
All right man, I'll see you around.
The first Saturday I put Fermin to work on the Dumaine house I took him and my friend Laureen to Mother's for breakfast.
Sitting at one of the two tables by the kitchen and knowing that Fermin spent most evenings with his buddies somewhere on St. Ann, I said, Hey Fermin, did you hear about that shooting at Dumaine and Dorgenois?
He said, Oh yeah, that was Snow got shot.
Holy cow, who shot him?
Don't know.
Everybody that ends up on Dumaine wants to know when Mandy coming back. Yes, it's nice to see you, too. Mario (who, by the way, minding his own business, was also shot near the Dumaine/Dorgenois corner a year or two ago) and a few other well behaved boys I recognize but don't know that well, were gathered around Fermin as we finished up work the other day and they all want to know when Mandy coming back. I don't tell them not to lose hope, I'm sure she'll be back soon enough, and when she gets her house fixed up I'm sure she'll welcome you all back so you can have a safe house that people don't shoot at, yet, and you can all go about tearing the house up, again.
Somebody called out to me from over by Phillis's house on Sunday and I turned around to see a woman I did not truly recognize, walking across the street towards me. I went out to meet her in the middle of the street as she said, you don't recognize me, do you? I said, not really, and she said, it's Myrna (Shelton's mom). I kissed her on the cheek and told her she looked good and she said, when Mandy coming back? (nice to see you, too). I really been hoping to see Mandy to thank her for everything she done for me while I was in jail. I said, I'm sure she'll appreciate that, I'll tell her you were asking about her. She looked like someone who could really accomplish what she stated as her goal--not going back to jail.
Phillis's baby boy, D, is walking now, and is the king of Dumaine, next generation.
Oh, and Fermin told me this too--Erica had a baby. I haven't seen Erica since she was nine-years-old. I just loved that girl, but her aunt adopted her and took her off Dumaine because she felt the influences over there were not conducive to uprightness. Wow, what? she must be...? Thirteen or fourteen, Fermin said. Even as a one-year-old she had a remarkably mature bearing, and just amazing eyes, very worldly, as if she'd been here before, and seen the world turned asunder. I bet she'll be a good mom, probably very strict.
AfterLife
Well, it's March here in New Orleans, and I expect elsewhere too, it is March.
There are still dead bodies being found here, ten or so in the last month, decomposed, in attics, out behind sheds, in debris piles, so in answer to how are things going here, I'm starting with that. There are still dead bodies being found here.
That's not in anyway keeping you from eating at Emeril's or Galatoires or Antoines or Bayonna or Dick and Jenny's or Le Crepe Nanou or anywhere you like to eat. MacDonald's is finally open on St. Charles.
I stopped for groceries at Terranova's on Esplanade after work today because I've been forgetting to eat and then when it gets late and I get hungry I get really depressed if I go out looking for food in this part of town. There is no food at night in this part of town. For the quick fix I used to hit one of two MacDonald's or a Rally's or a Church's Chicken or a Popeyes or the Taco Bell/Pizza Hut or if I were punishing myself, the Burger King. Shut shut shut, all of them, not even gutted, not even an inkling that they are coming back. But they need to because people are coming back, a whole bunch in the last month.
There is here now a semblance of normalcy in a town that was never normal, so it's all about comparisons and it just gets tiring after awhile trying to figure out what's good and what's bad about what's happening here.
Like I should complain. A Mr. George Miller, master plumber, came and put in a new water heater for me yesterday and I took my first hot shower on Rocheblave, last night. It felt good.
The 85 year old couple around the corner still don't have electricity. That the city has accomplished as much as it has and has come as far as it has is really, on one level, amazing. All FEMA fuckups, Corps of Engineer fuckups, Insurance company fuckups, Government fuckups, and just all fuckups in general aside, this city has really come a long way in 6 months. But somebody, please, get the Smith's their electricity turned on, or if they need work done on the wiring, somebody step up and help the Smith's, all the Smith's in the city, first.
I got some french bread pizza sitting out un-refrigerated. Guess I better pop it in the oven, take a hot shower, finishing watching that Japanese flick, Afterlife.
I guess before I do that I'll drive down Canal, pick up a CityofNewOrleans wifi signal, post this while stopped at a red light, and in the unlikely event I see a parking space, I guess I could check my email too.
More Opinionated Rat-Laden Blathering
Only a dickless wonder when facing an unwinnable battle would utter the words Mission Accomplished. But at this point the only reason the trophy rats are even thinking about entering the Dumaine house is because the word on the street is-- there a little peanut butter to be had up in there, if you want it bad enough to die for.
That peanut butter is to die for said the one trophy rat to the other trophy rat.
The mission of a ratless world, while not accomplished, is, well, ongoing, but frankly, not that actively. We got 'em on the run though and if it were up to me I would spend billions, I mean billions of dollars, hunting rats in caves as far flung from here as--well, I can't see going as far as Pakistan, but I might venture out to the 7th Ward.
On Rocheblave the Sculptor has partial electricity, the Chauffeur has his trailer now fully electrified and I'm here on my porch electrified enough to type write, plugged into an actual outlet, not the converter running off the car battery (Oh man, if I could only get a wifi signal here).
I eradicated my tiny yet tenacious Rocheblave mice some time ago.
Rodents really don't get a lot of respect, and they have no religion, which makes them so much easier to kill, with impunity.
I was over at Dumaine the other day, just glancing around, and as I prepared to leave I heard voices over in the side yard, behind the wooden gate, which was closed when I came over, and, looking out, was still closed.
I read an article a while back about those crybaby Houstonians blaming all their violent crime on the bad boys from New Orleans, who had relocated there after the flood.
Houston--ya'll kick some ass when New Orleans needed you and you took in the people most in need, with a mere week or two of preparation, when New Orleans, with 300 years of preparation for catastrophic hurricanes, just fell down on the job. Fell down face in the mud while the rest of the world watched. So don't think I haven't respect for Houston (although, my dear God what a hellhole Houston is).
But Houston had an already rising crime rate that got a little bit exacerbated by some new gangsters and, in total, five or six or maybe eight murders were attributed to New Orleanians, between the flood and the time the article was written, about a month ago. Houston, I think, has ten times the population of New Orleans and they were crying about one or two extra murders a month? Two or three times a year or sometimes more, in the 10 years I lived here full time, we had 4 or 5 murders in a day, in a town with 470,000 people. You know, just for a little perspective.
I'm not saying Houston should not be upset about more murders. Murder is bad. I am against murder. Everybody I know (expect for that handful of murderers I've sort of crossed paths with) is against murder.
In the article there were descriptions by Houstonians about the New Orleans gangster, how you could tell who they were because they talked funny and because of their distinctive hair styles--the long braids as opposed to the corn row hair style of the Houston gangster. Newspapers can be so laughable in their political correctness but that's another harangue. So we're talking about black gangsters, no disrespect intended to my white gangster brethren with corn rows or long braids. Anyway, it was interesting to hear an outsider's view of what distinguished a New Orleans gangster. The long braids is definitely a trend here among black youth, gangster or choirboy. Ok, probably not choirboys.
I couldn't really see who it was out in the Dumaine side yard, I could only get a glance through the windows above the kitchen sink, but, OH MY DEAR GOD!!!, they were BLACK, and, I think I could see, BRAIDS!!!
I contemplated, briefly, suicide. I would put my skinny neck under the Gempler's rat trap kill bar and just end this pitiful existence of fear and misunderstanding. But, eventually, and I know this, crawfish will be affordable, and where there are affordable crawfish, there is hope. I then heard a faint, mocking voice--they won't be affordable anytime this year, pencil-neck, go ahead, Gemplerize yourself, before them gangbangers outside fuck you up. I will not be berated by faint, mocking voices. I went out on the front porch to meet my fate.
The gate pushed open. There were three of them, oh shit, all with braids.
I said, Hey Fermin, I thought that was you, what's up mane?
Chillin'.
That's nice.
What you been up to?
Chillin'.
I didn't want to make the two younger braided boys nervous so I just ignored them.
I said to Fermin, you working?
He said, yeh.
Where you at?
Uptown.
I may have some work for you if you're interested.
Oh yeah, Mr. Jim, for sure.
So we exchanged numbers and the next morning at 7:30 I got a call from Fermin, but I was already at work, doing the day job, and told him we would have to arrange something over the next few days, working on the Dumaine house, or my house on Rocheblave.
But I got to tell you, Fermin looked really good with his hair like that, and the two younger boys looked respectable with it too. Some people shouldn't wear it though, they should just shave their head so it looks more like their ass. That's right Treme Fatty, I'm talking about you over there disrespecting your Grandma at the laundromat on Dumaine and Rampart. Yeah I know it's been five months but I ain't forgot about you. You should go on a diet too. You getting too old for all that baby fat. All weight and hair issues aside though, you ugly.