tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90239879796084424552024-03-13T08:34:49.508-07:00Viola RussellViola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-75072018068801775012021-07-30T14:33:00.001-07:002021-07-30T14:33:21.680-07:00COVIDIOTS and Anti-Vaccination Idiots: <p> <span style="font-family: Cambria;">COVIDIOTS and Anti-Vaccination Idiots:</span><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I’ve had enough. I’m sick of hearing idiots on social media call this virus a hoax and asserting that this plague doesn’t exist. These certified morons should talk to nurses on the fifth floor of East Jefferson Hospital in Metairie, a suburb outside New Orleans. This ward is where many COVID patients recover or die. The idiots need to talk to me and many of my friends about people we know who died from COVID or who have had long-term illnesses because of this virus. Please don’t say this is a hoax to so many of my friends who have lost someone. Don’t insult any of us who know better and don’t spill your dirt on blogs and posts that illustrate your stupidity. Please don’t publish information from ignorant sources that convince other gullible people to avoid getting the vaccine. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">This last sentence brings me to another topic: anti-vaccination idiots. I’ve heard complaints from followers of a certain political figure that NOT getting vaccinated is their right. Word to the wise, Bubbas and Bubbesses: You don’t have the right to endanger me, my husband, or my other fellow humans with your “right.” I, too, have rights, but I’m careful to exercise those rights with care. I have the right of free speech, but I don’t scream “fire” in crowded buildings. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">When I was a kid, my parents made sure I was vaccinated against various illnesses. They didn’t want me to catch horrible illnesses like polio. In fact, they rejoiced when they themselves could be inoculated against illnesses that had threatened them in an earlier era. Additionally, the school required students to be vaccinated against illnesses. My parents did not argue with this or assert their “right” NOT to vaccinate me. They knew vaccination was for my safety and that of my fellow students. What now gives these people the right NOT to vaccinate themselves, and now that the vaccine is open to teens, NOT to vaccinate their children? Too many parents don’t vaccinate their children for many illnesses; they are endangering their children and their children’s friends. Too many people in this society have made COVID-19 a political issue. This should not be a political issue; it is a public health issue. Too many educated people—teachers, health care professionals, and government workers—are buying into this political game and NOT getting the vaccine. This idiocy is staggering, yet many of these same people argue that they want the economy on track and long schools, stores, and other events to continue as normal. Get with it, people! Things will get back to normal when people are vaccinated! BE RESPONSIBLE!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-23043252226490062022021-02-18T21:32:00.004-08:002021-02-18T21:32:55.501-08:00Overthrow of a Utopia:<p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Millions of years ago--in a distant galaxy--a planet existed that boasted an advanced technology fueled by intellectual curiosity. The citizens of Utopie had undergone many changes since the founding of their government. At the founding of Utopie, a small group had dominated others. The Dominante came in many physical types; some were small of stature while others were tall. They possessed blue skin that glowed like coal on fire, and their golden eyes penetrated the darkness. The Nascente were once the natives of the land, but when the Dominante arrived in flying ships powered by the wind, the Dominante usurped the Nascente's land with their superior weapons and glowing eyes. The Nascente were a people of superior hunting skill; however, they lacked the Dominante's deadly weapons and soon succumbed to the cannons, poisoned gas, and expanding bullets of their enemies. The Nascente soon inhabited only a small part of the prosperous planet, living in squalid conditions; however, many of the Dominante envied their raven tresses and glowing bronze skin, making concubines of their women.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">As the Dominante progressed, their leaders searched for other ways to enhance their expanding economic power. They invaded other planets, particularly that of Lebensmittel, and enslaved the people there. These people were tall and majestic, marked by their burgundy skin, taut bodies, and green eyes. They were relegated to rural areas and worked on elaborate tenant farms, enabling the ruling Dominante to build an exclusive and elitist socialization system. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Eventually, leaders emerged from the ranks of both the Lebensmittel and Nascente people who fought for the rights of their people. One man in particular, Reverend Fromm, preached reconciliation among the people while he demanded their rights and paid respect to the country's gods. Even when a deranged Dominante assassinated him, he achieved equality for those who faced discrimination. Soon, many leaders of the Dominante heard the pleas of the oppressed. Injustices were rectified, and the various peoples progressed towards unity. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Some Dominante, however, were unwilling to relinquish a stranglehold on their power. A leader emerged from the Dominante who would stroke their unease. This being was one of the Dominante, but he possessed glazed eyes that no longer shone brightly, and his blue skin had turned to gray ash. He was of the most elite class that controlled every major infrastructure n the planet. During state festivals, he donned elaborate robes and appeared with his chosen concubine at the balcony to wave at the masses. His supreme concubine was not of any race on Utopie. Hass, the Agitator who would be Ruler, selected his concubines from a planet populated by females of porcelain skin, gray eyes, and tails like that of wild horses. These females walked upright , but their tails railed behind them. Hass seized power and worked to eliminate the rights guaranteed to the many classes. </p><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">Soon, another leader emerged who sought to reconcile a divided Utopie; Heilige, a Dominante, rose from the ranks of the people to demand a legal election. At his side was a female from the Nascente, named Apostel. Together, they would restore justice to Utopie, but Hass would not concede defeat. He gathered his forces at the foot of the Capitol housing the planet's leaders and bellowed to a small number of enraged Dominante that he had been dethroned unjustly and that their rights, culture, and way of life would vanish under Heilige and Apostel. Carrying weapons and chanting "Death to Nascente and Lebensmittel," they stormed into what was once a seat of justice and attempted insurrection until a combined force of enlightened Dominante, Nascente, and Lebensmittl warriors subdued them. Alas, the steps made toward justice and equality would be forever s</span>Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-31600529960572588722020-07-12T21:51:00.002-07:002020-07-12T21:51:10.657-07:00The Land of No Dissent<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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Many years ago, a planet existed that boasted great diversity among its creatures. Creatures of every type existed, and the planet was divided into units. One unit, Tiarnai, gained supremacy over all others because of its diversity and existed as a planet leader. Though it was diverse, the wealth of this unit was unequally shared among its creatures. For many years, the Geal held the best positions, obtained the best education, and controlled the most resources. These creatures were orange with green veins running through their skin and believed that their beauty was unequaled. The other creatures in this diverse population were the Ruaim and boasted many rainbow-like colors, but they all shared the same green veins as the Geals. All of the creatures walked upright, and their hair was like the mane of unicorns. Ruaim creatures often worked more than Geal creatures but did not share equally in the wealth of the unit. This unit prized itself on a document that protected all its citizens, and this sacred document guaranteed all creatures the right to free speech and peaceful protest. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Because of these guarantees, Ruaim achieved a measure of equality with the Geals, but some Geals resented sharing the wealth with the Ruaims and passed repressive laws to keep the Ruaim in their place. Both sides argued their position with passion within courts and within documents that would become law, and the Ruaim eventually stood equal to the Geals within the unit. Sadly, distrust still remained within some individuals and groups. However, as technological advances grew and as each group blossomed through education, the walls of injustice crumbled. Some ignorant Geals held onto their regressive views and committed violent acts against Ruaims—who were now neighbors and equals under the law. Many Geals and Ruaims socialized, married, and held the same jobs in the highly skilled Tiarnai work force. <o:p></o:p></div>
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However, at times, some ignorant creature abused this peaceful co-existence and committed an act of brutality seen by masses of people all over the planet and in other units. Such an act disturbed the peace of Tiarnai one day when the unit was already in a state of turmoil because of a plague that had swept the land. A few years earlier Geal leader rose to the seat of leadership and wanted to advance his political power by inciting disaffected Geals resentful of the gains of the Ruaim. This leader, Leathcheann, convinced his followers that the plague that killed millions of the creatures all over the planet was merely a plot to discredit him. He stamped his feet and cried like an infant of the tribe when crossed or contradicted. He told his followers not to worry as the plague took its toll on millions of creatures in the unit. Any creature of intelligence and science that contradicted the Supreme Dictator’s view received a sentence of banishment. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Tensions were high when a confrontation erupted between a Geal in authority and a regular Ruaim. In the dramatic conflict between the two, the Ruaim died. Millions of Ruaims and many fair-minded Geals took to the streets. They demanded justice and even more reform. Many of their demands were met, but a faction of disaffected creatures from both the Geal and the Ruaim clan decided that they wanted to end Tiarnai society and the damage brought by Leathcheann. The dictatorial leader justifiably repulsed these reformers, but in protesting against the dictator, they wanted to erase the history of the planet and the past that had brought both pain and enlightenment. In doing so, they denied their youngsters the education brought by past mistakes and triumphs. They labeled anyone with an unpopular opinion as unjust or unfair and called for boycotts of their work. Factions developed within the Ruaims and within the Geals. Factions within each group burned books and films that could educate but instead were lost for all time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Tiarnai split into factions that drifted to other units within the planet. The great ideal of diversity within the unit collapsed as creatures labeled each other as traitors when anyone said anything against a popular movement. Any creature uttering an unpopular opinion was cast out from the group after being rolled in smoldering ash and pelted with rocks. The outcasts joined the ranks of those who had offended the Supreme Ruler. The Supreme Ruler eventually fumed at dissenters and supporters alike, stamped his feet, and wailed like an infant. During one tirade, steam erupted from the top of his head, sending the false violet hair he wore to the ceiling and revealing the pointed horns jutting from his skull. His skin took on the color of cigarette smoke as he dissolved into the mist; however, his narcissistic, divisive reign had inflicted lasting harm on the unit. <o:p></o:p></div>
Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-15508963041695717442020-06-30T12:59:00.002-07:002020-06-30T12:59:35.101-07:00A Very Grim Fairy Tale<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
A Very Grim Fairy Tale:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Once upon a time in a faraway planet named Orwell lived creatures who were similar to humans in many ways. They were male and female but each being boasted multi-colored hair and high cheekbones that added to their aesthetic beauty. A tall, regal male creature with orange hair wearing a black robe dominated over the beings and governed with what he termed justice; however, his justice was unequal. He administered stringent rules and harsh justice to female beings while sparing males from suffering few or any consequences. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Male and female children received separate and different educations. They attended separate schools and had separate roles. Even though the females were expected to work for the communal good, their standard of living was inferior to that of the males. They also were expected to reproduce with approved partners, appointed by ministers to the Robed One. Females were sent to the School of Reproductive Certainty while males attended the School of Arts, Language and Science. Fraternization among beings other than those approved by the Robed One and his associates was forbidden. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Though the school could not teach the females what the males learned, the School for Reproductive Certainty attempted to nurture the spirit and intellect of its females charges. Many of the female teachers included some instruction limited to males and lobbied for the students to have more advantages. The Robed One did not appreciate any challenge to his authority. He bribed several of the compliant female teachers to spy on others, informing him that some of the adult females had grown to love each other too much. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The Robed One then sent or outsiders from the planet Ifreann to preside over the School for Reproductive Certainty. These beings hailed from the planet Luzifer. The creature appointed as head master was named Schikarieren. He wore a long tail which he rolled into baggy trousers so as conceal his true identity from the female beings. Before taking the position, he sawed the antlers on his head to make himself look like an Orwellian male. Unlike the hair of the Orwell residents, his was a dull white streaked with gray. With him came a female from Luzifer named Hundin. She also had a tail, which she concealed in a knot within a loosely fitting skirt. She’d dyed her hair a pale blue, similar to many of the females in the school, and she’d styled it in waves that concealed the small horns jutting from her head. <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Schikarieren boasted a booming voice even though he was small of stature, unlike the Orwellians. He demanded adoration of himself, Hundin, and the Robed One, holding long diatribes on video about how the Robed One did not receive the proper respect from a planet that showed no gratitude. Hundin, who was very skinny, brought giggles to the females when she appeared in the video. Her voice squeaked, and the students often pointed at the bulge in her backside, so unlike them. Sometimes, her hair fell, revealing her horns. The two Luziferians then began to harass the female Orwellian teachers who loved too much. They found fault with their teaching methods, their ideology, and the way they worshipped the god supported by the Robed One. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The two outsiders banished the females who loved too much to isolated planets, but then, the empire they hoped to construct fell apart. Schikarieren and Hundin fought for control of the school, and too many beings had complained to the Robed One of the pair’s cruelty. The Robed One sent a spy to work in the school, his sister, Faisneiseoir. Schikarieren disliked her and thought she was one who loved too much. He complained about her role as head of religious studies and verbally assaulted her when he didn’t think the students showed proper piety. She reported her treatment to her brother, and both Luziferians were banished. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The school soon withered, destroyed by oppression and hypocrisy. Some females vanished to neighboring planets. Others simply drifted around Orwell without any focus, refusing to reproduce with those approved by the Robed One or reproducing with those who were unsuitable. Of the banished women, some died while others raised an insurrection, toppling the Robed One and his oppressive regime. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-16292278766392859642020-05-16T09:41:00.003-07:002020-05-16T09:41:23.801-07:00COVID-19 and Our Way of Life<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
COVID-19 and Our Way of Life: <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve heard too many people say, “I want this quarantine over because I’m sick of being in this house.” I’ve also heard that “they” are making “too much of a big deal about this. People die of other things.” Well, yes, people die of other things, but arguing that people die of other things is ignoring the fact that COVID-19 is highly contagious and people who may be carriers are often asymptomatic. Too many people in this country see this as a “Leftist conspiracy” designed to “persecute” the saint in the White House. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When will COVID-19 be eradicated from our midst? We don’t know, and a vaccine seems to be somewhere in the distant future. This disease has taken its toll on our way of life. This spring in Louisiana brought none of the festivals we so love. St. Patrick’s Day festivities were non-existent. French Quarter Fest, Jazz Fest, and Greek Fest all were cancelled in the wake of this pandemic. I totally understand the frustration many people feel. Our anger and frustration does not alone derive from our love of partying and frivolity and our role as the nation’s hedonists (our more judgmental countrymen sometimes label us residents of Louisiana as decadent hedonists). These events and all of our private parties (crawfish boils, church fairs, etc.) reflect our love of life and our communal spirit. We see friends at these events. We shake hands, hug, and kiss. We lock hands and sing together. When Springsteen sang “We Shall Overcome” at Jazz Fest in 2006, we wept together, shared tissues, and hugged. We share communal meals at church celebrations, and we celebrate events like Mother’s Day with a crawfish boil. We mourn out community; we miss the family and friends we cannot see. Even when we see each other, we do so from safe distances. We mourn those hugs and lost caresses. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We mourn for those who have lost their jobs and revenue. Too many of our friends and neighbors no longer have income. Many of the people who could ill afford to lose jobs have done so. Economies across the globe are reeling, and we don’t know if even a loosening of restrictions will help in the long run. The corona cases could spike again. The hospitals could fill in record time. We again could face lockdown. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We also mourn those lost to this virus. Many of our loved ones have succumbed to this illness. Many of our loved ones are healthcare professionals who risk their lives daily. Friends and neighbors work in hospitals, grocery stores, and essential businesses. They deliver groceries and other goods. The mail carrier wears gloves and a mask; the nurses and other healthcare professionals have daily temperature checks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Will there be a vaccine or a cure? Maybe a vaccine, but no one knows when. What will happen is that this virus will weave itself into our lives, into our psyches. We will accept its insidious presence as we did polio, measles, and other debilitating diseases. We will watch as people sicken and sometimes die. Living with COVID-19 will become part of our daily lives, as polio was part of our culture in another generation. We will mourn those who die and celebrate those who recover. We will learn to adjust—no more hand shakes at church, no more casual kiss when greeting friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What will we learn? We have learned the value of people and of all we took for granted. We have explored our neighborhoods while we exercised, talk to our friends from a safe distance, and taken pleasure in simple things. A shared movie in the den is a treat. Eventually, we will have gatherings even with the threat of COVID-19. Our gatherings will be on our outdoor patios. Each guest will pour wine with sanitary wipes. We will adapt to handshakes being a thing of the past. Hopefully, we will see the wisdom in the masks as a means of keeping each other safe and look beyond our own convenience. We may pour into the Superdome to see our Saints while we wear masks. I will start the school year wearing a mask and making sure kids are seated far apart. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This is life in the era of COVID-19. Other eras have lived through plague, polio, and other devastating illnesses. Eventually, life settled into a rhythm for our ancestors. It will do so again. We will adapt to the rhythm. Hopefully, we can adjust with grace and courtesy for others. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-61622629882548070112020-04-07T13:29:00.003-07:002020-05-16T09:43:07.030-07:00The Modern Plague: COVID19<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
A Modern Plague:</div>
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In previous years, I'd only thought of a disease that could shut down a global economy and take millions of lives as a phenomenon occurring in far distant times, not one afflicting us in a more modern age. After all, the Great Influenza was my grandmother's generation; tuberculosis also afflicted family members of another generation. Images of priests dying over their congregation's prostrate bodies as they performed last rites were relegated to the medieval era of Chaucer. As a United States citizen, I'd heard of swine flu, Ebola, etc.; however, I'd known of few people actually afflicted with those illnesses. As a resident of Louisiana, I'd heard of yellow fever killing many people, but I'd witnessed nothing that took so many lives or disrupted the global economy in such a destructive manner, as has COVID19. </div>
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News headlines blare out the number of dead around the globe. The U. S. president and his staff deflect, evade, and sometimes answer questions on the health of the economy as well as the dire shape of our health care system. Foreign leaders field similar questions from their press. None of them know when we will awaken from a nightmare that has left the most vulnerable at risk and helpless to fight a sinister killer. Some will survive; some will die. Ironically, your chances of conquering this killer depend upon the resiliency of your immune system and the strength of your DNA. Scientists and health care workers do not know just what keeps some people healthy or asymptomatic; they don't know why some people are afflicted but recover while others die. It's the proverbial luck of the draw. Yes, we have statistics. Most who die are older or have pre-existing health problems. Some people, however, are young and die. Some were healthy and die. There is still so much we don't know. Will we ever?</div>
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My husband and I went to our local grocery last night, wearing masks. I thought of so many of the doctors and nurses I personally know who are fighting this killer on the front lines. They are running out of supplies; they are watching helplessly as people die. Governors plead with the government for more ventilators. My young cousin faces this daily in his job as a nurse. Another young friend is pregnant, nursing ill people while she carries the new life inside her. Then, there are the many people who are silent and often not acknowledged in this battle. My mail carrier comes to our front door wearing a mask and gloves. God bless him as he goes about his job! The garbage collectors pick up the trash placed at the edge of our lawns wearing gloves and masks. The young woman who checked us out last night at the grocery did so behind Plexiglas. She wore a mask and gloves, and I wondered at her resolve. With her long braids and smile behind the mask, she looked no older than the kids I teach. I'm sure she works for minimum wage. I sincerely hope no one ever puts down these people who work minimum wage jobs. These are the people dying and fighting the good fight (along with the health care professionals) so that we still have essential services. </div>
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When will our lives be "normal"? I live in New Orleans, in south Louisiana. We are a people who love to hug. We have festivals, many of which have been cancelled until the fall. We host crawfish boils and wine parties; our friends and family gather for New Orleans Saints games. We bury our dead in ceremony and then gather to celebrate those lives. Several friends and relatives of friends have passed since this pandemic invaded our existence; all burials were private--only immediate family could attend. More than anything, we in Louisiana (and I'm sure the rest of the country and the world) want the fabric of our lives to return to what we call normal. I'm sure all of us want to enjoy our lives again, but the fragile fabric of our lives will have been altered; the people who comprised part of its pattern may no longer be within the intricate needlework of our lives. Some of us will no longer have jobs and may miss the people we once knew so intimately. Many of us will mourn those swallowed by this tidal wave of death. COVID19, you are an assassin. Conquer you we will. </div>
Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-43607211476658675852019-08-01T21:58:00.001-07:002019-08-01T21:58:59.517-07:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Sweet Trudy: <o:p></o:p></div>
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August would have been my cousin Trudy's birthday. She was two years older than I and possessed a smile that won hearts and spread love. This description may sound corny, but it's accurate. Trudy was the type of person who was always thinking of other people, displaying her love for her family and friends on a daily basis. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Trudy was a nurse, a very fitting profession for her. She genuinely cared for other people, especially the family she cherished and the friends she'd known her whole life. When my mother was very ill, she would visit often, advising me how to handle a very ill woman. She sometimes sat with Mama so I could have a break from the sometimes-grueling task of nursing my poor mother or when my work duties took me away for an evening. She and Mama would watch television together as she clipped Mama's toenails, trading gossip and chocolate candy. When my mother lay on her deathbed, Trudy and my aunt sat with me. Trudy took her pulse and monitored her breathing until she drew her last. She also comforted me when I mourned my mother's passing, assuring me I couldn't have done more for her. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Her generous spirit knew no bounds. She hosted her friend Peggy's bridal shower. She nursed her patients with care. She was a loving aunt to her siblings' children, a loyal wife to John, and a devoted mother to her only daughter Jennifer. Trudy's husband, a native of Guyana, recounted her visit to his homeland. A young relative was hesitant to greet this lady with long blond hair and hid behind his mother's skirts. Trudy spread her arms wide and said, "Come give me a big kiss!" At her funeral, John read an email from that young man, now a successful adult, who remembered Trudy's kindness. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When she developed a horrible blood cancer, Trudy approached it with the optimism so typical of her. Determined to enjoy life, she dove into treatment and looked beautiful at her daughter's wedding; however, within a year, the cancer was back. Her brother David donated blood cells, but the cancer had spread. She died before the birth of her first grandchild Mason.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Recently, we celebrated the first birthday of Trudy's second grandchild, little Madelyn Trudy. Her daughter and grandchildren have thrived, but I wish our sweet Trudy had lived to see her gorgeous grandchildren. I truly hate cancer. It robbed Trudy of life and tortured her in her last months. <o:p></o:p></div>
Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-81992997713062974572016-06-27T19:22:00.002-07:002016-06-27T19:22:48.294-07:00Deirdre on the Bayou--Short story<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Deirdre on the Bayou<o:p></o:p></div>
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Deirdre cast a cynical glance at
her friend Kayley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why should I do
something so silly?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
not silly. You need some cheering up. I can tell how down you are.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kayley looked at her over a sugar-coated
beignet and smiled encouragingly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
nothing I can’t handle.” Deirdre wondered if she believed her own words. Would
she be able to handle this? Losing Lance? Losing the baby?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
come with me tonight to the bayou.” Kayley smiled broadly and took a sip of
coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s
happening at the bayou?” Deirdre clutched her own coffee, somehow hoping that
she could hold onto her sanity through the cup. Her knuckles were growing
white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
two young women sat at a coffee house in the Lower Garden District of New
Orleans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had met while studying at
Loyola in New Orleans, and despite their different backgrounds, had become fast
friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kayley came from a local Creole
family who had readily embraced Deirdre with all the welcome the city could
offer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was from Kayley’s family that
Deirdre learned about red beans and rice, Creole gumbo, and boiled crawfish.
She was invited to most family functions, and Mama Anita had taken Deirdre
under her wing upon learning that Deirdre’s mother had died when she was a
young child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To Deirdre, a product of
the very quaint area of Boston known as Beacon Hill, the family held all the
fascination of exotic birds. Her father was a self-made man, the product of
Irish immigrants, but after her mother’s death, he’d buried his grief in what
Deirdre had long believed was an import/export business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, even her father was out of reach, in
jail for his business activities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
wasn’t simply importing but smuggling, and smuggling guns for the local Irish
mob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could she have been so blind?
Still, the money had paid for her college education.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d met Kayley’s family and then Lance,
handsome Lance. .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
about you and Lance, isn’t it? You can tell me.” Kayley gazed at her with wide,
dark eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Did the jerk break up with
you?” Her voice rose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Does he hit you?”
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shush,
Kay!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deirdre looked around at the other
patrons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some customers had glanced
their way and quickly turned when noticed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“No, of course not, but he’s just—just distant since I lost the baby.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
kind of a man is he? That’s not your fault, and who is he to neglect you? He
could sure as hell lose a few pounds, and his complexion could use some
work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There you are with that red hair
and those green eyes.” Kayley shook her head, obviously mystified at the ways
of men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
time Deirdre almost laughed and choked on her coffee. Kayley with her café au
lait colored skin and Barbie figure epitomized perfection. Yes, Lance was a big
guy but muscular, not fat, and a dark beard hid any skin problems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How inferior most people must seem to Kayley!
“You still haven’t said what’s happening at the Bayou.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Summer
solstice, girl. St. John’s Day, cher!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Kayley almost squealed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The
voodoo priestess is going to baptize.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Deirdre
felt a shiver snake up her spine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m
Catholic, Kayley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This seems too weird.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hell,
I’m Catholic, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not
anti-Catholic, my Northern friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marie
Laveau was a very good Catholic.” She took the last bite of beignet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And a hairdresser by night. You can even bring
doughboy Lance with you.” Kayley gave an evil smile.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He’s
in Houston visiting his family.” Deirdre suddenly felt lonely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she’d met Lance her junior year, the
attraction had been instant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By senior
year, he had proposed, and with graduation, they saw no reason to avoid
pregnancy—even if it happened before the wedding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, they both had jobs—she working in
a marketing firm and he positioned at a law firm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would be wed before the child came, and
what a blissful way to begin their lives together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After her mother’s death, Deirdre had loved
acting as surrogate mother to her younger brother; she’d wished God had granted
her more siblings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Perfect
that he’s gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You come tonight with
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t even live far from Bayou
St. John.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll get you at seven. Bring
some offering for the altar.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Deirdre
took a bite of the last beignet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until
now, she’s resisted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Staring at Kayley,
she asked, “Like what?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Something
to represent Our Lady of Prompt Succor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She’s important since Katrina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
picture of Marie. If you want to hex Lance, a bear image.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kayley shrugged. “Wine, too, of course, any
food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a celebration.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
mean a bear as in the animal?” Deirdre couldn’t help but laugh.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s the one.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t believe in such stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why am I
going?” Deirdre muttered under her breath as she and Kayley made their way from
the double shotgun she shared with Lance to the bayou.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wore a flowing white dress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kayley had insisted upon white for the
occasion—and a white head scarf in case Deirdre chose baptism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was after seven when they first saw the
celebrating voodoo practitioners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
sun had begun to set, and the drumming grew louder as they approached.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A picnic bench had been erected on the grass
surrounding the bayou. Candles held by the gathered congregants flickered in
the dying light. Nearly all were in white—the women in white dresses, the men
in white jeans. Some of the women wore scarves around their hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The young man drumming was shirtless—his
brown skin and wavy black hair glistening with perspiration as he pounded conga
drums strapped around his shoulders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
second bench rested under the shade of a live oak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Participants had spread treats onto it:
pastry cakes, fried chicken, bread, onion rings, and rice covered in red beans.
Apparently, there would be a communal feast after the ceremony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deirdre and Kayley placed their offerings of
wine and block cheese on the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wow!
This is wild.” Deirdre squeezed Kayley’s arm and giggled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had to admit that the atmosphere was
exciting and the people not what she had anticipated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She chided herself:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Did you
think they would all look as if they came from Haiti</i>? This crowd was a
mélange of college students, professionals, bohemians, and older people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some merely seemed curious; they laughed
among themselves as the candles shook in their hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Others seemed very serious—intently looking
at the far end of the bayou.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were a
multi-ethnic assortment of old, middle-aged, and young. Deirdre looked in the direction
indicated by the serious practitioners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Suddenly, she gasped, “What the hell?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kayley
gave her a wry smile, lit her own candle, and then used it to light
Deirdre’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That raft is for the
priestess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s coming for the
ceremony.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She cast a sideways glance at
Deirdre and let out a laugh more like a cough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“What did you think? That everyone here would be wearing bone earrings?”
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Deirdre
put her tongue out at her friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Honestly, I didn’t know what this would be like.” She scanned the crowd.
“Do these same people come all the time?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Some,
I guess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hell, I don’t come all the
time, but you get your just curious people.” She indicated a tall woman with
ebony skin who swayed to the drumming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“She’s always here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some say
she’s praying for the soul of the baby she lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Others say she’s praying for the destruction
of the baby’s daddy, the man who raped her.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She pointed to a young man in a white shirt and slacks. “He’s an
anthropology professor. He’s just curious. Pisses me off, looks at us like a
bunch of animals to study.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
priestess was the biggest surprise of all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Deirdre stared, wondering if her eyes had literally protruded from her
skull when she gazed at the woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
raft floated up the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One muscular,
formidable Asian man who couldn’t have been more than twenty guided it to the
banks of the bayou. From there descended the priestess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unlike her congregation, she was in purple
with elaborate gold jewelry and gold silk head scarf; however, this was no
practitioner from Haiti. Rather, this woman had skin as white as parchment and
eyes that contained gold specks in the midst of deep blue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In contrast, the few strands of hair visible
under her scarf were jet black, too black to be natural, Deirdre thought. She
was ethereal, seemingly not of this earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The oarsman helped her from the raft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The crowd clapped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
experienced practitioners began chanting in French, Kayley among them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
are you saying to her?” Deirdre spoke to Kayley but observed the crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They’re
telling her to turn up the heat and feel the power.” Kayley’s gaze was fastened
on the priestess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deirdre could tell she
was a true believer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her eyes never left
the pale woman who descended from the raft with the help of her oarsman.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was then that Deirdre saw him, a young man bare to the waist wearing a skull
mask. He and some other men pushed a large cauldron beside the bench that would
serve as an altar for the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
helped the other men secure the cauldron and then turned his attention to the woman.
Deirdre noted how his muscles vibrated when he folded his arms and how his
jeans appeared painted on his thighs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The vestiges of a light beard or goatee graced what little she could see
of his face. The eyes staring at her from behind the mask were blue with flecks
of brown, just like the woman. A relative? Her brother? Her son? The woman
seemed ageless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man could be either
relative. Deirdre momentarily felt his gaze on her, but when she glanced in his
direction, his stare was on the woman in purple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s
her name?” Deirdre thought her whisper in Kayley’s ear sounded unnaturally
low.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dominique,
but who knows?” Kayley shrugged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She
may want her privacy.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Upon alighting
from the raft, the conjure woman concentrated on the bench, spreading a white
cloth over it handed to her by the handsome Asian man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Members of the assembly handed the voodoo
woman objects to be placed on the altar: tapered candles, a statue of Our Lady
of Prompt Succor, a statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, a crucifix, and then
an image of St. John.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was then that
the woman said, “Here was a man who always did right.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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The drumming had
subsided to a light tapping but rose as members of the congregation brought
offerings to the altar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kayley removed
another bottle of wine from the satchel she carried and brought it forth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Others brought vases filled with roses or
carnations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still others brought bread. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The voodooeine
commanded as she clapped her hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Build a fire.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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The men assigned
to the task immediately lit sticks around the cauldron and then stepped
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again Deirdre felt the man stare
at her from behind his mask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He, with
other congregants, filled the cauldron with water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, with cries sounding like a combination
of keening and primal possession, others produced their more base
offerings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone tossed a snake into the
fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The creature writhed as it
somersaulted through the air and into the pot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Still another offered what looked like a dead possum. It, too, went into
the pot. The drumming intensified as participants added salt, peppers, and
other ingredients Deirdre knew from her grandmother’s kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The voodooeine began dancing, an undulating
motion as her skirts circled around her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Deirdre felt the drum beat move through her senses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She, too, began to dance with Kayley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly, the man in the skull mask was at
her side, offering her wine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She took
it—something she would never do in any other social situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kayley drew her into the circle of people
surrounding the cauldron.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stars now
present in the sky lit her friend’s face, making her even more beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The masked man was beside her suddenly,
holding his own wine as he circled Deirdre and Kayley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With one quick motion, he drew Deirdre to
him, his muscular arms encircling her as his hardening member caressed her
womanhood through the folds of her flowing dress. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The voodoo woman
returned to the raft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She cried out, “It’s
time for the water.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Women removed
their scarves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Men let out war whoops
before diving in. The conjure woman slipped an arm around the first baptismal
candidate and removed the scarf covering the woman’s hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She pushed the girl to her knees and pressed
her hair into the water. The girl then joined the voodoo woman in a dance, the
priestess moving as if in a rapture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Deirdre
was in a rapture of her own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Death Mask
swirled around her; had she wanted to rid herself of his attention, she could
not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The transfixing eyes that stared at
her from behind the mask held her as if by magic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was something familiar about him,
something she couldn’t quite verbalize, but he was mesmerizing. No way could
she fight his advances or the surreal feeling overwhelming her as he lifted her
off her feet and made his way to the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He moved slowly into the water and then released her until she was at
his side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man with the conga drums
moved closer, circling around them as he beat a rhythm that invaded Deirdre’s
soul and every quivering fiber of her body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His member burned near her skin as her skirts fanned over the water’s
surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Removing the mask, he quickly
buried his face in the crescendo of her rising and falling breast before
letting his lips move to her neck, her arms, and then her lips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She barely saw his face, but somehow, her
dress was floating away, apart from her, and she could see his rising member
near her womanhood in the dark water. His tongue in her mouth was sweet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His body invading hers quickened her
pulse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She took deep breaths as waves of
pleasure cascaded through her body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Suddenly, the scene swam—the practitioners, the rising moon, and the
swaying bodies of the dancers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then,
only blackness.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“If you loved me
so much, you wouldn’t have been such a dick about leaving me.” Deirdre met
Lance in the same coffee shop where she and Kayley had discussed going to the
voodoo ceremony. She took a sip of coffee, trying to resist the urge to hurl it
at him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I only wanted to
clear my head, see my parents.” Lance stared at her over his cup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So you told your
little Texas mama about the baby.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Deirdre knew her mockery irritated him and experienced a sadistic jolt
of pleasure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Did she think I was a
disgrace and should be flogged for my sins? I’m sure, though, she’d spare
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Men are always spared.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, she didn’t
lock me out of the house or put my clothes outside!” Lance had raised his
voice, and several other customers as well as the barista turned to stare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He lowered his voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What the fuck was that about? We didn’t
talk, Deirdre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You just threw me over.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What was I
supposed to think or do when you just left town, whimpering about needing to
think things over?” Deirdre put her cup down and crossed her arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re a piece of work, Lance.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Lance reached
over, clutching her hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Look, I was
upset after the baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I worried we were
rushing it, but a few days away helped me see that all I wanted was you.” He
turned an ingratiating smile on her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Let’s do it soon, get married, I mean.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Deirdre looked
away, studying the bustling Uptown street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A group of college students waited for a streetcar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An elderly man walked his dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A young woman jogged on the neutral ground,
an IPod to her ear. The gorgeous oaks shaded the coffee shop where they
sat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, a chill ran through her
body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Swallowing, she said, “Are you
sure your mother wants to be tied to such a scarlet woman?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“My mother likes
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, she’d love
grandchildren.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He drew her clenched
hand to his lips and kissed her palm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
looked suddenly sad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I hope one day we
can give our parents that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
What should she
say? Deirdre had missed her monthly course, and such a phenomena had never
happened before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked down and
then met his gaze. She saw love there. “Your mother might have a chance at
grandchildren. You know I’m never late.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Lance let out a
whoop that again made people stare, but this time, he sprang from his chair, clasped
her to him, and smothered her with a burning kiss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We always wanted this. We were talking to
Fr. McGraw about marrying us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’ll do
it fast now.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Deirdre wanted to
tell him the whole truth, about the bayou, about the mysterious woman, and
about her indiscretion with the unknown man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But why? She remembered little of that night—only waking in Kayley’s
house the next day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had she really drunk
so much? She didn’t think so, only a glass of wine, but she did remember the
intoxicating effect of the man’s kisses on her lips. No one had ever made love
to her as he had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That she remembered
and then shedding her clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d
appreciated his advances. Lance’s rejection had stung; she needed soothing that
night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Besides, this
will prove them wrong.” Lance’s voice echoed from what sounded like a
tunnel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Deirdre looked at
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What do you mean?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Lance indicated
the other customers, who all seemed interested in their conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two little gray-haired ladies watched with
undisguised interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One adjusted her hearing aide. Slipping an arm
around her waist, he guided her into the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“When I was back home, I was tested. The
doctors said the baby possibly didn’t survive because my sperm count is weak,
but here we are, having another baby.” The shade of an oak cast a shadow over
his face. “See, my sperm can’t be too weak.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Deirdre
said nothing but kissed him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
couldn’t tell him, no, not ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All her
hurt vanished, and her love was ignited anew. She returned his smoldering
kisses.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
One week later, Deirdre
followed the nurse into the doctor’s office. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She now was experiencing definite signs of
pregnancy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her previous doctor had
retired, and Kayley had recommended a new doctor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deirdre stripped of her clothing and covered
herself with a white sheet. As she sat on the examining table of the pristine
office not far from Oschner Baptist, Deirdre noted a small painting on the
wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It showed a scene very much like
the one on the bayou—a woman on a raft, floating up the bayou. Stepping down
from the table and drawing closer, she studied the face of the woman. Surely
she looked just like the conjure woman who had so fascinated Deirdre, but this
scene evoked images of a long-ago New Orleans, one similar to the time of Marie
Laveau.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The door swung open; a tall
woman with jet-black hair and porcelain skin advanced toward her, holding out a
hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m Dr. Baptiste. You must be
Deirdre.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Deirdre could do
nothing but stare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do I know you?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The doctor looked
at her chart, at Deirdre, and then smiled slightly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t think so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are a new patient, right?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Ye--yes, that’s
right.” Deirdre stammered slightly and looked around, confused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The woman’s eyes were the same cornflower
blue with wisps of grain that defined the as the conjure woman, but if she recognized
Deirdre, she didn’t let on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deirdre
found her voice, forcing herself to keep her emotions in check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, she didn’t know what her feelings were,
anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Should she be afraid? Feel used?
Violated? She indicated the painting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“That’s a really lovely painting.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Was it lovely, she wondered? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Some say that’s
Marie.” The doctor shrugged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I just
liked the way it looked in the neighborhood flea market.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Deirdre looked at
her quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> think it’s Marie?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Some say she
lives on in descendents.” Then, the doctor became very business-like, ordering
her onto the table and beginning the examination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Deirdre
emerged less than a half hour later with a prescription for neo-natal
vitamins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she opened the door, she
almost ran into a man in a white doctor’s coat, obviously one of the doctor’s
partners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She hurriedly excused herself
and brushed past him, but something told her to look back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She briefly caught his stare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The eyes were the same blue/golden of her
lover at the bayou. No, it’s my imagination, she thought as she headed to her
car. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Eight months
later, Deirdre’s daughter was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr.
Baptiste, smiling benevolently, waited for Lance to cut the cord before placing
the baby, bloody and wailing, on Deirdre’s chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The child was tiny but perfect, and when the
child opened her eyes, they were blue with golden flecks. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-4284397343186999762015-08-16T19:54:00.001-07:002015-08-16T19:54:47.730-07:00What Would Grainne do today?
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What Would Graínne (Grace O’Malley) do Today?:</div>
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<br /></div>
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My novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Buccaneer
Beauty</i> is the story of Graínne O’Malley, a real female pirate living in
1500’s Ireland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Graínne lived life
on her own terms, manipulating fortune so that she and her clan prospered in
the midst of a time of turmoil, bloodshed, and change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The daughter of a chieftain, Graínne
would not have had to take to the sea. She was a chieftain’s daughter, and her
future as an aristocratic woman and a chieftain’s wife was guaranteed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unlike other female pirates, such as
Mary Read, Graínne had no financial need to engage in so dangerous a
profession, but she chose to follow in her father’s footsteps, supporting two
of her husbands in their marauding quest for greatness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Graínne knew how to work the game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knew when to play by the rules and when to manipulate
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her reputed spying for the
British Crown was to win favors for her family, and her role as spy didn’t
exempt her from danger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was at
times imprisoned and came very close to the noose on more than one occasion,
but she knew when to fight (as she often did with the queen’s governors who
didn’t know of her role and with neighboring clans who threatened her family)
and when to play the aristocratic and refined lady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she met with Queen Elizabeth, Graínne knew how to play
the subdued and educated woman, conversing with the queen in the Latin they
both knew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unlike some people
today, she knew when to show respect (even if she didn’t feel it).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never would Graínne text during
business meetings or giggle like a child as some people with short attention
spans do now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Graínne took what life dealt her and rose above any
adversity. She was a woman in a time when women were sold into marriage for an
alliance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her first marriage to
Donal O’Flaherty united two clans, but when her husband proved rash and stupid,
Graínne saved their family and her children’s future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After his death, Graínne formed her own marriage to Richard
Bourke, an advantageous match for them both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Richard was the one man very much her equal, but even when
she had a less than perfect marriage to Donal, she carried on and didn’t berate
him or cry about her unhappy lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Too many people today live their existences for prime time television,
letting their colleagues know that they were thrown onto the street as teens or
even that they may or may not have had disturbed parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They talk endlessly, hoping for
sympathy as the rest of us are subject to their complaints.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hear of everything from their
premature graying, to their erectile dysfunction, to their problematic
flatulence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Graínne knew how to
keep her peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her spying for Her
Majesty sometimes bought her and her family freedom from British oppression,
and very few—not even some of the Queen’s advisors—knew of her service to the
Crown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She certainly didn’t
confide in every churl working in her kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Though tough, Graínne did not hold grudges against her
family or her workers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were
treated fairly, and even when she had to deal with her son Murrough’s madness,
she easily forgave him after very dramatic discipline. She did not humiliate
him unnecessarily or destroy him, unlike some people today who berate others in
an unprofessional manner, send group emails to humiliate, or harass others
simply because they are angry at the world and feel unloved by their
parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, I realize that
holding a grudge is not limited to any time period; however, today, many people
have found new ways to bully, degrade or harass others through technology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frankly, Graínne wouldn’t have played
such a game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wouldn’t have put
that much into writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No,
Graínne would have ambushed them but not avoided danger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would have shown mercy in some
cases, but she wouldn’t have gloried in the bloodshed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too many people today revel in
metaphoric bloodshed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They love
committing small murders when they are at their computers or in positions of
power. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Read about Graínne O’Malley in Buccaneer Beauty available
now! </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
http://www.amazon.com/Buccaneer-Beauty-Viola-Russell-ebook/dp/B010MOFENQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1439779557&sr=8-1&keywords=buccaneer+beauty+viola+russell<span style="display: none; mso-hide: all;">er fir<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-54290240674095460112015-03-22T18:49:00.002-07:002015-03-22T18:49:19.982-07:00St. Patrick and St. Joseph
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The Feasts of St. Patrick and St. Joseph:</div>
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<br /></div>
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March 17<sup>th</sup> and March 19<sup>th</sup>
are the respective feast days of two very powerful saints:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>St. Patrick and St. Joseph.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What has always impressed me about the
feast days of those saints is what they show about the tenacity of the people
who celebrate those dates with abandon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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The tale of St. Patrick is widely
known to Irish Christians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Patrick, a Roman Brit, became a slave at the hands of Irish pirates.
After a daring escape, he became a priest and missionary to the very people who
had enslaved him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He baptized the
King of Munster, and the conversion of the Irish people began. In modern times,
Patrick’s feast—reputedly the day of his death—is a religious and cultural event.
The riotous feasting says much about the people Patrick came to save as it does
about the saint himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like the
Irish, Patrick was obviously a hardy soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He survived slavery and then returned to the people who had
enslaved him, offering them mercy and salvation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like Patrick, the Irish have overcome much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They survived a devastating famine,
still persevere in the midst of occupation, and fight for their rights even in
the midst of oppression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
descendents of those older Celts stayed to fight the good fight or else set
sail for other shores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
survived and prospered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, the
modern Celts hold parades in honor of the man who symbolizes the importance of
their heritage and faith. </div>
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On St. Patrick’s Day, the now
prosperous descendents of the Celts catch cabbage, carrots, and onions at parades
while wearing green beads and drinking Guinness beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We women receive kisses and flowers from men wearing green
bowler hats. Now, my father and mother lived during the Depression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If we did attend a St. Patrick’s Day
Parade, we cooked the cabbage. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waste was sinful, according to my mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even more so to my father—and they were
right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cabbage and carrots rotting
in the street is sinful and an insult to those poor Irish souls who died with
lips died the color of grass--so starved because they only had grass to
eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, many do cook the
cabbage and carrots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many also
still attend Mass in honor of St. Patrick as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why? Well, he stands for the best of us—proud, tenacious,
and faith-filled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, we like
fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frivolity kept us from
waddling in self-pity and misery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We showed our oppressors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We refused defeat even as we ate humble fare like cabbage and
carrots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That food fills the soul
as well as the stomach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The patron saint of my church is
St. Joseph.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother loved no
saint more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like the Irish, the
Italian people turned to St. Joseph in their desperation when famine struck their
land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After interceding to St.
Joseph, they received relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Today, in memory and thanksgiving, churches and individuals host altars
in the saint’s name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The food on
the altar is then distributed to the poor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The faithful still write petitions seeking the saint’s
favor, and young women take lemons from the altar, praying for marriage or
pregnancy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>St. Joseph, after all, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is the patron of the family. Nevertheless,
frivolity exists here as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Italians and other celebrants also hold parades in the saint’s memory,
throwing food and beads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like the
Irish, the Italians suffered through heartache, and phoenix-like, rose from the
ashes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Maybe such is the human
spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are a bizarre mixture
of frivolity and mystical faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those qualities sustain us through the worst of times, renewing our
spirits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-69955242642774681222015-01-11T15:18:00.002-08:002015-01-11T15:18:50.210-08:00Why I Want to Kill Cancer:
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Why I Want to Kill Cancer:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In Geoffrey Chaucer’s “The Pardoner’s Tale,” three arrogant
young men set out to kill Death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They have lost too many friends to Death and want to seek revenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The young men, however, become
sidetracked by greed and deceit. They turn on each other, abandoning their
search for Death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish I could
kill cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would not be
distracted by greed or deceit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
fiend would writhe as I strangled it. I would show no mercy to an evil killer
who has taken people I love, murdering them in a slow and prolonged
torture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sweet mother was never officially diagnosed with cancer.
By the time the growths developed, she was elderly and suffered from multiple
health problems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the doctors
agreed that any radical treatment would be futile for her; however, they saw
the growing tumors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cancer had no
mercy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The demon invaded her body,
searing and scarring her very being. My beautiful mother withered away to
almost nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had been
elderly but hale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once the demon
overtook her, she became too fragile, destroyed from within by an enemy she
couldn’t fight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the
end neared, I lay on the sofa by her bed, listening to her call for Jesus,
Mary, and Joseph to take her, to have mercy. On the anniversary of my father’s
death, my beloved mother told me that I had to let her go. She died only a few
days later, and I wondered for months if I could have saved her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alas, I couldn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing could. She was fighting an
enemy more powerful than either of us and ten times more vicious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe some people survive this vicious
illness but not many. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, I hate cancer anew because of what it did to my sweet
cousin Trudy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trudy died this
Christmas. She was so like my mother, a really sweet angel. As a nurse, she
played an important role in helping me with my mother. She always looked out
for others, caring about their feelings and well-being. No one was more
beautiful or more vibrant. Less than two years ago, she was diagnosed with Multiple
Mylenoma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After undergoing
chemotherapy, she was healthy for several months, but her aggressive cancer
soon returned. This time, chemotherapy took her hair, her healthy weight, and
exhausted her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The treatments were
almost as deadly as the illness, but they couldn’t stem the cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The demon had invaded her body, filling
her with deadly fluid and wrapping around her organs like a coiling snake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like my mother, she cried out in pain.
Like my mother, she sought solace in faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one was sweeter, kinder, or more loved. When she died,
people came from around the world to tell her goodbye. Many traversed states
and continents. Few people were so loved, and once again, I find myself hating
cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thief has robbed my
loved ones and me of one so dear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hate cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wish it dead. It has taken too many. Let us raise an army against
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In Geoffrey Chaucer’s “The Pardoner’s Tale,” three arrogant
young men set out to kill Death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They have lost too many friends to Death and want to seek revenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The young men, however, become
sidetracked by greed and deceit. They turn on each other, abandoning their
search for Death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish I could
kill cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would not be
distracted by greed or deceit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
fiend would writhe as I strangled it. I would show no mercy to an evil killer
who has taken people I love, murdering them in a slow and prolonged
torture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sweet mother was never officially diagnosed with cancer.
By the time the growths developed, she was elderly and suffered from multiple
health problems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the doctors
agreed that any radical treatment would be futile for her; however, they saw
the growing tumors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cancer had no
mercy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The demon invaded her body,
searing and scarring her very being. My beautiful mother withered away to
almost nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had been
elderly but hale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once the demon
overtook her, she became too fragile, destroyed from within by an enemy she
couldn’t fight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the
end neared, I lay on the sofa by her bed, listening to her call for Jesus,
Mary, and Joseph to take her, to have mercy. On the anniversary of my father’s
death, my beloved mother told me that I had to let her go. She died only a few
days later, and I wondered for months if I could have saved her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alas, I couldn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing could. She was fighting an
enemy more powerful than either of us and ten times more vicious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe some people survive this vicious
illness but not many. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, I hate cancer anew because of what it did to my sweet
cousin Trudy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trudy died this
Christmas. She was so like my mother, a really sweet angel. As a nurse, she
played an important role in helping me with my mother. She always looked out
for others, caring about their feelings and well-being. No one was more
beautiful or more vibrant. Less than two years ago, she was diagnosed with Multiple
Mylenoma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After undergoing
chemotherapy, she was healthy for several months, but her aggressive cancer
soon returned. This time, chemotherapy took her hair, her healthy weight, and
exhausted her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The treatments were
almost as deadly as the illness, but they couldn’t stem the cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The demon had invaded her body, filling
her with deadly fluid and wrapping around her organs like a coiling snake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like my mother, she cried out in pain.
Like my mother, she sought solace in faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one was sweeter, kinder, or more loved. When she died,
people came from around the world to tell her goodbye. Many traversed states
and continents. Few people were so loved, and once again, I find myself hating
cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thief has robbed my
loved ones and me of one so dear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hate cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wish it dead. It has taken too many. Let us raise an army against
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-10446872892593029942014-11-27T11:26:00.000-08:002014-11-27T11:26:18.757-08:00Rites of Passage, Rituals, and the Communal spirit. <div class="MsoNormal">
Wedding Plans:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will be married soon, the first time around for me and for
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither of us is the proverbial
spring chicken, and I used to think that any kind of formal wedding was for the
young and inexperienced—kids too naïve and/or stupid to be jaded by the real
world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my moments of true radical
analysis, I’ve even condemned myself for engaging in a bourgeois ceremony that
is anathema to my personal philosophy: why are spending a small fortune on
ourselves when people in this world are starving or tortured, victims of war,
famine or crippling poverty? Why are we celebrating an institution that
seemingly has lost its importance in this century? Half of all marriages end in
divorce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Children become the pawns in
the divorce game; one or both partners are destitute even before the papers
have ben served.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two people who once
loved each other sometimes leave a marriage bitter, angry, or
disillusioned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, he and I are
true bohemians and free thinkers, unencumbered by much of the conventional thinking
of our society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those thoughts spun
around in my mind as we began planning the ceremony and reception. Why cave
into societal norms?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, I wanted to
marry the man whose existence had become entwined in mine like a vine, but I
truly wanted to run off to some isolated place and share our love in
private.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until. . .<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until I experienced a revelation! The ceremony shows our
unity and our willingness to display that unity among our family and
friends—even though we are no child bride and groom. As one of my relatives
stated, “It’s good to get together for a wedding and not a a tragedy or a brawl.”
As we age, we attend far more funerals than weddings, and often, families
argue over trivial things. Too often we only see our family and friends on
special occasions, and too often, those occasions are sad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the happy occasions are too
infrequent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In our society, we can argue
that marriage too often ends in divorce, that the money spent on most
receptions could be better spent on something more practical, and that—especially
for an older couple—such extravagance is misplaced and even an ostentatious
display; however, my relative’s comment resulted in an epiphany of sorts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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At a funeral, the community joins to mourn with the
deceased’s family and friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We cry
and sometimes smile through tears as we remember the one who has been taken
from us. A wedding is also a coming together of the community, but it is a
celebration, a coming together of the populace in joy and hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The assembled members of the community will
gather in the church and later in the hall to meet those they haven’t seen in a
long time, to toast the couple (us, in this case), and to share in the communal
spirit of hope the union of two lives inspires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Such a union takes courage as well as hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Merging two lives that have been separate
entities is scary no matter the age or experience of the parties involved, and
that blending of souls is a risk that two people are willing to take—not only
for one day—but also for the rest of their existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, the community gathers to applaud the
courage and hope we bring with our decision to stand before God at the communal altar and declare our willingness to support each other for as long as we
live.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as we need the rituals of
mourning, we need those rituals that inspire hope and joy. The ornate wedding
dress, the wedding rings, and the cutting of the cake are not empty tokens;
they are important symbols of unity and commitment often disregarded in a world
too ready to dispose of others, too ready to look for easy answers with the
click of a mouse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those symbols are
pulsing, burning representations of love, devotion, and faith. <o:p></o:p></div>
Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-87994244522093411842014-11-09T21:15:00.003-08:002014-11-09T21:15:14.443-08:00The Irish Famine and its Modern Legacy
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On November 7, 2014,
my fiancé and I attended a block party/parade at the Irish Cultural Museum in
New Orleans commemorating the Irish Famine. Clergy, Hibernians, historians,
documentarians, and general French Quarter folk attended the event. The Poor
Clares, an Irish band, reunited for this event, and partygoers paraded from St
Louis Cathedral to Conti Street, the home of the museum. Local eateries lined
the street, enticing revelers with samples of their food as the band played.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside, a minister spoke on the shame
of such a blatant form of genocide while people wearing shamrock necklaces
drank Jameson on the blocked off street. </div>
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<br /></div>
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These are my people. We come from a
fable country that many call the Emerald Isle, a land of green fields and
fierce conflict.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The British
invaded this country thousands of years ago, suppressing the native Irish and
tossing them off their land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
genocide gained momentum when England embraced Protestantism under the Tudors
and grew even more in intensity when Cromwell came to power as the Lord
Protector; however, the Brits could never completely break the spirit of
Ireland’s people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are a feisty,
stubborn, and determined bunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Still, in spite of our perseverance, one period in this sad history of
beautiful Ireland nearly brought these proud people to their knees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Irish Famine, or The Potato Famine,
as it was often called, was genocide on the Irish people, a punishment on them
for their refusal to bend under the English yoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To the Brits, this was a dirty and unwashed race—different
in religion, in language, and in customs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They sought to destroy the Irish. </div>
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<br /></div>
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When the potato crop failed in the
1840’s, the Irish poor lost a major staple of their diet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ironically, Ireland was still exporting
large quantities of food to Britain, enough to feed the whole population, and
many British officials remained deaf to the plight of the Irish people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sir Charles Trevalyan declared the
famine a “judgment from God” and a “way to decrease the surplus population.”
His words stink of genocide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Catholic population had few rights: they could not vote, hold public office, or
even own land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The education of
their children was curtailed, and though 80% of the population was Catholic,
they lived in the direst deprivation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They worked for landlords who were often absentee, and the native
population could be thrown off the land when a bad crop threatened their
mater’s profit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the “Famine Years,”
one million people died, and another million left their homeland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like many, some of my ancestors died
with lips dyed green; they had eaten grass in a vain attempt to survive. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Still, others made new lives for
themselves. My man’s ancestor was only in this country ten years when he w<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>as in the Louisiana State Legislature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My late great-grandfather eventually
was a foreman in a brewery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These
people and others like them journeyed to the United States, Australia, and
Canada, contributing to their new homes and communities; nonetheless, they
remained proudly Irish, keeping the memory of the Emerald Isle beating in their
hearts. We their ancestors feel the pull of our ancestral land, reveling in its
beauty, gracious hospitality, mythic history, and rousing ballads. We often
journey back, seeking the spirituality of Patrick, the heroism of Brian Boru,
and the courage of men like Wolfe Tone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Though we rejoice in the lands our forbearers adopted, we still feel
pride in the fight of those men and women who went before us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We remember brave souls like Robert
Emmet, Wolfe Tone, and Grace O’Malley as we dance to the Poor Clares, drink
Irish coffee, and eat potato soup in a block party in New Orleans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can only hope that we make them
proud--never fearing to fight the good fight, run the race, or defy the machine
that threatens to kill. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-88433088976814118712014-10-25T00:25:00.001-07:002014-10-25T00:25:10.486-07:00“I read the news today, Oh Boy”: Murder, Swindling, and Cheating<div class="MsoNormal">
“I read the news today, Oh Boy”: Murder, Swindling, and
Cheating<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Another school shooting. . . The
trial of a young woman who murdered her <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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two children. . . Political
kickbacks. .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>. Intrigue in the
workplace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>. Elderly people abused or manipulated. .
.The moral corruption continues throughout the news media and in our personal
lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some
people shudder when I use the term “moral.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Please understand that I am not some prude. No, I realize that moral
values often vary with a person’s background, religious upbringing, or cultural
perspective; however, most sane people probably can come to some agreement
regarding ethical conduct that encompasses shared values.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If we agree, let me ask this question: When
did we all become so damned crazy? If you don’t agree, tune me out, but I think
many of us will agree that we live in a world that has derailed or that turns
limply on its axis. Today’s news was full of crazy, often sick people. <i>The
New Orleans Advocate</i> ran a front-page story on a young woman who murdered
her children so they wouldn’t grow up as she did—struggling in the grip of
poverty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The newspaper depicted a jury
entranced by the confession she provided a New Orleans police detective,
hanging on the gory details of the case. What will happen to that young woman,
so clearly disturbed? We can all judge her. Surely we would never kill our
children and described the murder in such coherent but irrational lunacy to a
NOPD cop. The woman must be a freak or cold-blooded murderer, or—MAYBE, just
maybe she was a person without hope, living in a roach-infested home in Gert
Town with two children she could barely feed. Remember Sethe in <i>Beloved</i>?
She’d rather her kids die then live in slavery. Maybe the poverty to which this
young woman was consigned was akin to the kind of slavery facing Sethe, the
escaped slave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then,
yet another school shooting dominated the later headlines of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A disturbed young man opened fire in a school
cafeteria, killing one young girl before turning the gun on himself. Sweet
Jesus, I remember Columbine and Newtown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The faces of Newtown’s children and Columbine’s teens--of hero teachers
that look like kids themselves--still haunt me. When did we get so crazy that
we had to take a gun to people who disappointed us or hurt us? My mother used
to tell me of strict nuns who put the boxing gloves on the boys who had
conflicts and told them to settle it before coming back to class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hell, I respect those old nuns. Fight out
your problems according to the laws of boxing, settle it, and return acting
like gentlemen. Even in my days at school, students fought like dogs, but we
didn’t use guns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, in a few
hours, we soon reconciled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When did our
society so fail children that they now feel the only way to resolve a dispute
is with murder? Did we give them so much that they can’t stand failure? Did we
take away their work ethic so that the minute they no longer had what they
wanted, they reacted not only like brats but also like killing thugs? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of
course, not all types of moral corruption end in murder—at least not directly.
In Louisiana, one politician is currently under scrutiny because he allegedly
was too rough in the sack with his soon-to-be-ex-wife. Still, others say the
whips and chains were consensual and the wife only wants a big payday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who’s lying? Who knows?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frankly, who cares? This whole sordid story
is an example of mini-murder—of people so consumed with themselves that truth,
privacy, or compassion have fallen victim to greed and lust. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
are these tales of murder and mayhem any different from the stories we hear of
people who manipulate or defraud others through intimidation or fear? Are they ultimately
different from the murderers or rapists when these cheaters use or intimidate
lonely, elderly people into submission, reaping the monetary rewards of their
dishonesty? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are the murderers and
rapists motivated by a different mentality than those employers who abuse their
employees? Are they different from opportunistic, younger employees who hope to
oust older people from their jobs, starving them in the process? Yes, I know
these crimes are different in degree. Some can be classified as minor and some
as capital, but my point is that the motivation is the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too many people are motivated by selfishness
and the desire to remove anything or anyone they see as inconsequential, mere
bugs on their way to success or comfort. Too many are willing to brainwash or
manipulate others into their way of thinking, even if it means people
suffer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
read the news today, oh boy. . . <o:p></o:p></div>
Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-87334705550237352352014-06-09T09:35:00.001-07:002014-06-09T09:35:28.304-07:00Art and the NOPD
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<br />
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Art and the NOPD:</div>
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<br /></div>
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The New Orleans Police Department is again the subject of controversy
but not the kind typically associated with New Orleans’ sometimes-infamous
police force.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This latest dilemma
involves an artist-police officer who committed a serious lapse in
judgment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Det. Charlie Hoffacker
is as well-known in the art community as he is in the police department.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His artwork—often depicting the
violence of the city streets—hangs in prestigious galleries and is often
purchased by people wearing exotic finery, not crisp police uniforms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What has brought Det. Hoffacker into
the news is no gun battle with a street kingpin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, the officer’s artistic sensibilities mingled with his
frustration while at the scene of a grisly murder. Hoffacker drew in the blood
of a crime victim, and according to his superior officers, possibly compromised
the crime scene. </div>
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<br /></div>
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This publicity for the officer/artist—possibly a mixed
blessing—has resulted in a debate about artistic expression, crime, and the
manner in which an artist may take liberties with his or her subjects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hoffacker’s paintings are no simple
depictions of lovely landscapes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather,
they take a harsh gaze at the city’s underworld.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Homeless people stare out from his canvas, painted onto the
very signs they use to panhandle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The artist buys them for $5 from often very grateful homeless
people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A fuel junkie pumps
gasoline into his arm in yet another artistic creation, and amorous Klansman
are held up to ridicule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Terry
Hankton, New Orleans’ most dangerous kingpin, stares out from Hoffacker’s
canvas, his mugshot recreated from bullet casings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The young detective’s art hangs in upscale restaurants as
well as in galleries frequented by the Uptown and/or New York crowds.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
What I find most interesting is the commentary on the
artwork.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hoffacker certainly
should have done nothing to compromise a crime scene, but any artist or writer
sometimes feels compelled to express his or her artistic leanings. Some people,
however, have focused on the art in condemning Hoffacker and not his actions at
the scene, claiming that his art glorifies crime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such comments are misguided. Many authors and/or artists
depict violence in their work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Illustrating the violence of the world is the artist’s function and even
duty. The earliest poets, dramatists, and artists recreated the violence as
well as the beauty of the culture in which they lived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shakespeare’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Macbeth</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hamlet</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Titus Andronicus</i> are
violence-filled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we cannot
forget the history plays in which Henry V vied for the throne of France or
Richard III plotted to retain power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Violence in literature predates Shakespeare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who could forget the violence but powerful beauty of
Euripides’ plays or the tragic majesty of Virgil’s epic? And in visual art—no
one could deny the power of Rubens’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Massacre
of the Innocents</i> or Goya’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Saturn
Devouring His Son</i>. Such is the purpose of artistic creation. Not all of
these artists were violent people, but as artists, they depicted what they’d experienced
in their society, their education, and/or their religious faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
When I wrote my historical novels, I found myself treating
some of the most horrific events in history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love at War</i>, set
during WWII, showed humanity at its worst; nonetheless, depicting the events
surround that conflict as anything other than brutal would have been dishonest
and insulting to those who’d experienced the traumatic events of the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I wrote <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">From Ice Wagon to Club House</i>, I illustrated the horror and
unseemliness of Storyville, the bloodbath that was WWI, as well as the poverty deriving
from the Depression and the misguided laws of Prohibition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of those events were not
glamorous, pretty, or times to be glorified; however, they illustrate important
aspects of our culture and should not be ignored. Through my novels, I show the
strength as well as the frailty of humanity and the lasting power of the
spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe Det. Charles Hoffacker’s actions were questionable at
that crime scene; however, his artistry is undeniably brilliant, powerful, and
a masterful commentary on the urban landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<!--EndFragment-->Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-49173588793941986342014-05-30T20:57:00.000-07:002014-05-30T20:57:12.458-07:00Claire Domingue and the Shape of Sounds<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The Shape of Sounds</i>, the newest release by singer-songwriter
Claire Domingue, is a revelation and treat from a talented young artist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Skillful, intricate piano interludes frame
this original album of folk-rock influenced music by the gifted pianist/guitarist
and her equally gifted band. Domingue’s lilting vocals bring the songs to life,
giving power to her strong lyrics. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Several songs stand out on this album.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chief among them is “Glass,” a song of
isolation and heartbreak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lyrics
advise the young persona to “break through the glass, and you’ll finally be
free.” In addition to the powerful lyrics and provocative vocals, the song also
is anchored by strong, innovative guitar work on the part of Coby Tate and
Lenny Austin. Domingue and her band are proficient on several instruments, and
many of the songs, especially the haunting “Quelquefois” and the pulsing “After
Everything” profit from the addition of violin or cello to the brilliantly
rendered guitar, piano and percussion work on the respective works.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Domingue’s lyrics speak to many young people—or any
persons-- experiencing doubt about the direction their lives are taking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In “Losing It,” Domingue sings that “My
biggest fear is waking up and everything is the same.” Anyone wanting a new
direction would relate to such a fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Of course, one of the best tracks on the album is the deceptively
simple, “In Her Way,” a tale of unrequited love and loss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Riveting guitar work and a haunting mandolin
drive this sweetly sad piece, accenting Domingue’s lovely vocal rendering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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This album is something any true lover of music should
experience. <o:p></o:p></div>
Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-69454544448541019582014-03-29T10:06:00.004-07:002014-03-29T10:06:48.198-07:00Change, Risk, and Hope
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Change: I find myself writing about change a great deal. Too
many people are resistant to change, electing to grow old, shiver, and die
before taking a risk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some are too
narrow to feel regret, but for those timid souls who would have loved change
but never moved on their gut feeling, regret can be a heavy chain weighing them
down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too often these people
deteriorate into grotesque caricatures of themselves, becoming stilted as well
as stifled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since Katrina and the
death of my mother, my life has undergone radical change. Losing my mother was
the most horrific loss I’ve ever experienced, but she always wanted me to move
on and be strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did so,
immersing myself in writing, sending out my books, and risking rejection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, I could decorate a Christmas tree
with the rejection slips I received, but the risk and temporary defeat led to
success. I’m now a published author.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I never would have experienced such happiness without my desire to
change my life and my willingness to take the risk. Too many people told me not
to take risk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They thought I was
too weak to handle any defeat or controversy—not that it was any of their
business, but we all know what is said about opinions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>. .</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, I met Ben, and when most women are on the road to
becoming “Red Hat Ladies,” I’m embarking on a new chapter of my life with
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No quiet lunches wearing my
red hat. We listen to music in the Maple Leaf and Carrollton Station, making
out like teens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we’re ninety,
someone will still be wheeling us in to hear Tommy and Dave Malone, Raw Oyster
Cult, The Last New Beginning, and Papa Gros Funk. No change can occur without a
willingness to take the leap into the Unknown, but for me, taking a risk on a
guy I met at a Danny O’Flaherty Concert in the Deutsches Haus has led to some
of the best times of my life. Now, I’m wearing his ring, but none of this would
have happened had I not been willing to take a risk and look to the future with
hope. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What makes some people lose hope while they stare into the
future with bright smiles and others lose even their desire to live? Who knows?
In the newspaper recently, I saw an article about a young woman who gave birth
to her first child even after suffering a devastating stroke some years
earlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though she almost
died, Sarah Abrusley decided to look to the future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She and her husband bought a house and had a baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sarah knows she will have to adapt to
certain situations not typical of her situation; however, this woman has moved
on with her gaze set firmly on the future, thumbing her nose at the skeptics
along the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why do some people lose hope? Recently, the news reported
the tragic death of designer L’Wren Scott. Unlike Sarah, L’Wren Scott lost
hope. Rumor has it her business was in severe trouble, and the talented woman
committed suicide in her apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rather than face the possibility of defeat and humiliation, Scott
wrapped a scarf around her neck and took her life. Her ending is tragic, and I understand
her desperation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until I concentrated
on my writing and moved on with my personal life, I was in danger of stagnating
within my sameness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The people
speculating on her death and dancing on her grave should be ashamed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The loss of hope can envelope us all,
but like Sarah Abrusley, I choose to hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Check out Viola Russell at www.violarussell.com. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-53334169352082179222014-01-21T21:49:00.003-08:002014-01-21T21:49:27.250-08:00Oogum Boogum Review
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“Oogum Boogum”--a delightfully Rhythmic Style:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p><i>Ain’t no Cadillac</i>, the debut CD by New Orleans-based Oogum
Boogum, is a treasure of pleasant vocals, intricate melodies, and intricately
crafted arrangements. Band members are George Felton on guitar and vocals;
Donna Schlaudecker on bass and vocals; Chris Polachek on guitar and vocals, and
Tom Woodin on djembe. These talented musicians have recreated a collection of
old favorites and original music that boasts their own original style and
yet—in the case of the covers—retains the spirit of the original piece while
simultaneously fitting into the new Oogum Boogum sound.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The CD opens with the delightfully quirky “Deuce and a
Quarter,” written by Owen and Gordon. Wonderful guitar riffs intermingle with
pleasing vocals throughout the Country/rhythm and blues influenced piece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tom Woodin’s djembe provides an
appealing percussion sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another
standout song is Chuck Berry’s “Nadine.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The band members do not try to compete with Berry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather, they make the song theirs with
a wonderful rhythm and almost country vocal feel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Who’s Been Talking’ is a musical gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The plaintive vocals and riveting
instrumental work honor the acclaimed Chester Burnett without becoming a fawning
imitation. “Bob’s Rag” by band member George Felton boasts impressive guitar
work by band members as well as guests Mick Schaferkotter and Tommy
Malone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dylan’s “Knocking on
Heaven’s Door” receives a spine-chilling rendering, an elegy of time and place
in its sad finality. The song also boasts impressive bass support form Donna
Schlaudecker, the lone female band member.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An impressive guest list adds to this amazing new musical
foray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In addition to Malone and
Schaferkotter, David Stocker lends his skillful keyboard playing to “Who’s Been
Talking” and Andy Forest adds his harmonica to “Who Do you Love” and “Who’s Got
the Katy.” This music is very worth the CD purchase or download. No one will be
disappointed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-7028411646303137452013-12-31T12:02:00.002-08:002013-12-31T12:02:18.080-08:00Review of Mayhawk Rising by Nicole Schlaudecker
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Mayhawk Rising Review</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mayhawk Rising</i> is
a glorious Arthurian tale by a talented young author, Nicole Schlaudecker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually, calling this glorious
adventure a story about Arthur is deceiving. It chronicles the early life of
Gawain, the man who would become the king’s loyal knight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Schlaudecker has recreated the
authentic Celtic world and has drawn a host of vivid characters that lend
authenticity and humanity to this lushly drawn narrative. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The story opens with Gawain’s birth. His mother Margaise,
the wife of the brave but harsh King Lot, wants nothing more than her husband’s
love, but it is the one thing she cannot win no matter what she does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even after bearing him a healthy son,
Margaise still can’t find genuine favor with her war-like husband. So desperate
is she for Lot’s love that she succumbs to the trickery of her sister Morgan, a
reputed witch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When told that her
infant son might bring about his father’s downfall, she conspires in the death
of her own child, but the baby is rescued by the mysterious Merlin, the advisor
of her late step-father, King Uther Pendragon. When Lot learns of the attempt
on the child’s life, he places the boy under the care of his kinsman and
advisor Eloil and his steadfast wife Liusaidh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Schlaudecker weaves a spell that draws in the reader. We
despise Margaise for her coldness to her son but pity her unrequited love for
Lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hate Lot’s treatment of
his wife but admire his bravery and love of his children. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it is here where the story becomes magical. When the
young Arthur unwittingly pulls the sword from the stone and <a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>is
declared king, the tale becomes one of battle and adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lot, Gawain’s father, does not support
the new king, and the story moves from Gawain’s personal tale to one depicting
the rise of a king. Schlaudecker has created characters that fascinate us, and
her depiction of the ancient Celtic world also draws us in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are in the rugged countryside as
Lot’s men face the Saxons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are
in the heat of battle when the young King Arthur’s men go against Lot and his
followers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s hope Nicole
Schlaudecker continues with her series and tells her unique rendering of the
tale of Arthur and his men.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can find this book at Amazon. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
http://www.amazon.com/Mayhawk-Rising-N-K-Schlaudecker/dp/1492320307</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-66622784487800123142013-12-23T09:20:00.002-08:002013-12-23T09:20:21.740-08:00My Writing Process and World
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<br />
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The Writing Process and World:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->What am I working on?</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
My current work in progress is a mystery and
involves the murder of a New Orleans high school principal. Tentatively
entitled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In the Bayou</i>, the manuscript
also sees the return of Lt. Etienne Baptiste and his partner Sgt. Duane Morrow,
who first appeared in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Fair Grounds
Mystery, </i>www.redrosepublishing.com.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They are called to the murder of this popular educator and learn that
her death may involve very prominent and respectable members of the community as
well as a long-ago unsolved murder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->How does my work differ from others of its
genre?</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
Like all writers, I have my own style and
approach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love to craft
intricate plots in both my historical fiction and in my mysteries, but what I
like to develop very well is character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No one will keep reading if the main characters are unappealing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That doesn’t mean they can’t have an
evil streak or be challenging, but they have to possess substance and
complexity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even in my mysteries,
my detectives are intricately drawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I incorporate their personal lives as well as their demons into the
narrative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a huge fan of James
Lee Burke, and he does that very well in his mysteries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love reading his plots, but I also
want to know what’s happening to Dave Robicheaux, his family, and his
friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Why do I write what I do?</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
Well, for me, writing is therapeutic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my mother died, I really immersed
myself in writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That said, I
don’t limit myself to one genre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
love the research involved in historical fiction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My background as an academic really helps me there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love the challenge of creating a
tight mystery, and I also love creating contemporary characters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->How does your writing process work?</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
My process varies with the genre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Historical fiction takes a great deal
of research. I love the adventure as well as exotic nature of historical
fiction. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love at War</i> involves WWII
and the hell of that conflict.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pirate Woman</i> is the story of Grainne
O’Malley and 1500’s Ireland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">From Ice Wagon to Club House</i> is the
story of Jude Mooney and his adventures in Storyville, Prohibition, and
WWI.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I always outline, but I first develop my main characters. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-1654508628929715762013-11-28T11:30:00.000-08:002013-11-28T11:30:00.497-08:00Idiots, Arsonists, and a Sad Heritage
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<br />
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Idiots, Arsonists, and a Sad Heritage:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last Friday, arsonists set fire to the abandoned LeBeau
Plantation in Arabi, Louisiana.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The building has a storied past complete with tales of ghosts and a sad
heritage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Originally built by
Francois Barthelemy LeBeau as a weekend getaway, the plantation was completed
the same year the wealthy aristocrat died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The building remained in his family as a hotel and then
casino until 1905. Joseph Mereaux purchased the property in the 1960s; however,
the once ornate structure soon fell into disrepair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like many plantations of long ago, the old building boasts a
troubled past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The LeBeau family
was rumored to be extraordinarily cruel to the slaves. Rumors abound that some
of the family members murdered slaves and then forced the other slaves to bury
their comrades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still other tales
of suicide (apparently some LeBeau members wound up hanging from the rafters by
their own hands) and mayhem persist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even in the 1970s, the then-rented house was the scene of tragedy when a
little girl seemingly was thrown from a window, and rumor circulated that a
flesh and blood person was not her murderer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lore has it that the ghosts of former slaves haunt the
premises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lights supposedly switch
on and off—even though the electricity has long been non-existent on the
property.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still others have told
of a lady in a white dress who passes by the windows. Is she one of the
mourning LeBeau ladies?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The men charged with arson allegedly were smoking weed and
ghost-hunting when they set a T-shirt on fire and threw it into a stack of
combustibles. Frankly, I think they were on stuff stronger than weed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meth, anyone? Maybe their defense could
be that a ghost told them to do it. Actually, I don’t mean to belittle
anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some may argue that the old
building came to a just end. It was the scene of suffering and torture—a
monument to the injustice once visited upon a group of people in this
country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, I only can hope
that some remnant of that property can rise from the ashes and become a monument—not
to injustice but survival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Wouldn’t it be just if some church or charitable organization could purchase
the property and make it a home for troubled youth? Then, the scene of so much
misery would become a place of hope like the old Milne Boys Home in New Orleans
or like the one-time Penny Lane in Liverpool, England; LeBeau Plantation would
rise Phoenix-like from the ashes to save disturbed young people and at least
begin to heal past wounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I
know nothing can make amends for the horrors slaves faced, maybe their ghosts
can rest knowing that the place of their misery is now a place where people try
to save young people like those who torch buildings. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-34059602095766671652013-11-27T11:31:00.000-08:002013-11-27T11:31:21.225-08:00A School Lesson in Steubenville, Ohio
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<br />
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Earlier this year, a great deal of press was given to a
shameful incident involving students at a Steubenville, Ohio school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The case involved the rape of a
teenager at a party. The girl was intoxicated, and her attackers were
well-respected members of the school football team.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One can only imagine the kind of mob mentality that took
over that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girl’s
impaired state was no excuse for the behavior of the young men who took
advantage of the girl’s diminished capacity, but what is most shocking is the
behavior of school authorities that engaged in a conspiracy to protect the
football players.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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A school superintendant, a counselor, and a coach have been
charged for their various roles in the alleged cover up—and they should rightly
be held accountable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if those
“adults” did not take part in the crime, their responsibility as school
officials and representatives was to report the incident and take the necessary
disciplinary steps, not conceal a crime. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Parents and students should feel that teachers, counselors,
and other school officials have their best interests at heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Protecting the players who attacked the
girl helped no one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those
predators needed to learn a lesson and accept the consequences of their
actions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some will argue that the
girl should have behaved more responsibly, and indeed, she should have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, cruel, insensitive people
conspired to use her foolishness to their advantage and make her a victim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Adults” who should have looked out for
her interests and not simply pandered to the local celebrities then betrayed
her by protecting those who made her a victim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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As a teacher, I have long been told what my responsibilities
were. Any time a crime against a child is suspected, adults must speak up and
see that the proper authorities investigate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the suspicions or accusations are proven untrue, the
school representative will not be charged—as long as he or she acted in good
faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If a school authority does
not act, the negligent person can be held responsible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If that official suspects physical or
sexual abuse by friends or guardians, he or she must act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If someone brings a suspicion to that person’s
attention, he or she must act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That school authority cannot protect the teacher, coach, or counselor
who may be a friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The school
official cannot protect the suspected person’s children from scandal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Students who terrorize or brutalize
each other cannot be spared as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Playing favorites on such an important issue cannot be tolerated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The endangered student must be the
priority.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those school officials
in Ohio should be removed from their positions and stripped of their
licenses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some should even face
jail time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-85032809302272045042013-11-23T15:05:00.000-08:002013-11-23T15:05:18.765-08:00Hypocritical People
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The hypocrisy of some people never ceases to amaze me,
especially by those people who are religious hypocrites. I know of many people who profess high
religious ideals, but they have little charity or compassion. They judge others, believing themselves
morally superior to their fellow beings.
They gaze with disdain on those of us who are lowly sinners and proclaim
their own superiority with booming authority.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I know several people who epitomize this hypocrisy. When a local school sponsored a diaper drive
to help women in crisis pregnancies, many responded with true charity and
generosity; however, two people responded with judgmental cruelty. One young teacher said, “No one had ever
bought me diapers.” This comment comes from a woman whose husband makes a
handsome salary as a pharmaceutical salesman.
Yet another said, “Those women bring it on themselves, and I never asked
anyone for anything.” This same person has asked her administration for many
breaks at her job as a result of ill health, and those in charge have been most
generous. Where would she be without
someone’s generosity and charity? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Maybe these uncharitable comments derive from the frequent
misconception that any poor people or “women in crisis” are derelicts who
despise hard work, but that is stereotypical thinking and not always the
case. Most of us are not
millionaires. Many of us are poor, not
because they don’t work, but because they have not achieved the education,
opportunities, or simply the breaks others have obtained. They are not all lazy welfare queens looking
for handouts from rich women who teach Catholic school. Ironically, one of these women also hails
from a family of recent immigrants. What
would have happened to her family had some bigoted Americans shut the door on
her family? Does she also not realize that some people would despise her for
her Hispanic heritage just as she despises those women who are “in crisis”? <o:p></o:p></div>
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These calloused, cruel people also profess strong Catholic
ideals and Christian spirit. I wonder if they would rather the woman in crisis
abort her baby because she can’t afford them or drown her existing children in
the bathtub. Then, these same women would condemn those women as foul murderers
and unnatural mothers. They condemn
people who rely on food banks as “lazy,” but I wonder if they would rather
those hungry, desperate people commit suicide rather than accept charity. Aren’t such acts also sin? What some of these
spoiled people don’t realize is that they one day may need help, and I’m sure they
would condemn the people who turn a deaf ear. Some people just like to condemn
others. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-21810929406503489242013-11-20T06:17:00.000-08:002013-11-20T06:17:04.037-08:00George Zimmerman and RageEarlier this year, George Zimmerman managed to divide this country. His name and that of his young victim aroused deep emotions among various segments of our society, dividing the country along racial lines. Did Martin say something to provoke Zimmerman? Why did Zimmerman continue to pursue a potentially dangerous person even after police urged him not to do so? We may never know the answers to those questions, but the rhetoric following the event was intense, inflammatory, and divisive. My guy and I were at a function where an elderly white man obviously wanted to hold onto some imaginary territory. To him, Zimmerman's innocence was clear. This young punk had broken his nose. Zimmerman acted in self-defense. Yet another white guy, ex-military, told the other elderly man they were going to "take back the country." From whom, I wonder? Why did these two older white males feel so threatened by this trial and its outcome? I see this need to hold onto territory in the pages of social media outlets, the media, and in private conversations. Many white people assume that because I'm white I hold their racist views. What I find ironic is that some of the very people who supported Zimmerman at his trial would--under normal circumstances--hate him and his Hispanic heritage because "those people" also have made inroads into a once predominantly white culture.<br />
<br />
Now, however, we are seeing a darker side to George Zimmerman. His wife left him, casting doubt on his innocence and pure motives. He has gone to jail because of violence against the girlfriend he tried to choke. In his rage against her, Zimmerman said he had "nothing to lose." We don't know if Zimmerman's rage existed before he killed young Martin, but I wonder about the people who supported him before. Do they still condone his violence against women? Is that acceptable, too? I'm not judging him. I don't know what has happened in his life, and I know that God also holds those people accountable who judge others. Still, we have to wonder now what happened on that street earlier this year. Was Zimmerman provoked and couldn't hold his temper? Why are people so easily enraged these days? Would the outcome of this whole tragic ordeal been different had Zimmerman walked away and let police handle the situation as he'd been urged to do?Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9023987979608442455.post-3947732119259818022013-11-18T21:09:00.001-08:002013-11-18T21:09:36.305-08:00Violence, Labeling, and HatredEvery day, we read about violence. For some of us, the violence is on our streets and too close to home. We also hear of the violence occurring in war-torn countries--violence against civilians in the form of rape, murder, and pillage. Since humankind's existence, we have found ways to torture our fellow human beings. In war, countries often initiate conflicts for ostensibly lofty reasons when in reality, they want no more than to snatch land from someone else. Still other wars are fought because someone decides he or she doesn't like the indigenous population of a region. They may be the "wrong" race, ethnic group, religion or political philosophy. Labeling them "The Other" is easy. We have someone to hate, and at times, finding that "other" is safer than learning about that person, finding out what makes him or her tick, and then making a friend. "Those people: are easy to hate because of their race, religion, etc. Too often, haters cloak their animosity in the language of righteousness. Hitler did this injustice in Nazi Germany. Jews were "Christ-killers," and their fellow Germans were right, even holy, in condemning them. Westerners did this to Blacks taken in the slave trade in Africa. The color of someone's skin relegated him or her to the status of a slave. Any violence could be committed against that individual because he or she was no longer a person. <br />
<br />
We can all see ourselves as superior in some way. Most of us would say we "aren't prejudiced," but even those who don't use ethnic or religious slurs often hold deep-rooted bias. Still, we think we are above people like Hitler and his Nazi goons. "This" couldn't happen in our country. Well, it did. We enslaved people. We put out signs saying, "No Irish need apply." We rounded up Japanese Americans during a time of war and placed them in camps. No country is in any way superior to another in the "hatred" department. <br />
<br />
And what of the violence in our streets? We hear young people say this or that person wasn't in their neighborhood, their church, or of their color. Again, we have turf war, and the victims of those wars have been labeled "The Other" by someone. Being "Th Other" negated that person's right to exist. Another who found him or herself superior had the right to stamp out the life of "The Other" or outcast. <br />
<br />
When will we stop seeing our fellow beings as "The Other"?<br />
<br />Viola Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05422914757313213787noreply@blogger.com0