"I love the smell of manure in the morning."

"I love the smell of manure in the morning!" Crazy, I know, and a poor paraphrase of Duvall in Apocalypse Now.  However, I have a reason for loving the smell of manure.

My father trained thoroughbred race horses, and when I was young, my father owned a horse stable at the Lakefront.  My childhood was filled with the wonder of horses. I loved them, feared them, and respected them.  Daddy was practically a horse whisperer.  Stallions who reared and bucked when others placed a bridle on them were like lambs with my father. I loved stroking a horse's nose and offering him or her carrots and sugar.  I also was my father's little helper.  I watched him brush a horse down and soon learned how.  I cleaned hooves and mucked out stalls. My father, sam,  let me haul shavings in a small wheelbarrow.  I mucked out stalls with a rake then spread the shavings.  Sam was with me at those times, and we bonded over horses.

Sam loved the racetrack.  Even after he'd had a stroke, my father reapplied for his trainer's license and worked again. It was at the racetrack he died, tending his horses. Therefore--when I smell manure at the track, I'm home again, watching Sam train his horses. 

Teaching and Writing

I'm reluctant to say that I went into teaching as a fall back position.  You see, I was going to do GREAT things--none of which involved teaching.  As a young person, I wanted to be a great writer, but I listened to too many people who said, "You'll starve" or "You can't do anything with that."  As a result, I didn't follow my heart.  I majored in communications and worked on an on-air shopping channel. (I still don't say that too loudly.)  Realizing that I hated working in television, I went back to graduate school, quickly realized that teaching could work, but that academia wasn't for me.  Well, teaching HIGH SCHOOL came with lots of holidays. .  . So. . .

I began teaching high school, and after a few bumps and starts, came to love it.  Even when I was challenged and stressed, I learned to look beyond the sometimes resentful faces of my students and read their stories.  You see, when I first studied to be a  teacher, I hadn't realized I'd be teaching PEOPLE.  I was going to pontificate, and they would listen like my enthralled subjects. I'm sure all teachers reading this are laughing.  The change came within me.  I saw that not only were my students people--they all had a story to tell and needing to be heard. They became not only people, but interesting people.  Every person has his or her own personal pain, triumph, and hopes.  Listening to their cares and concerns also made me hear the words of others.  My pen (or my laptop) was set free. I wasn't telling any one person's story.  Stories would intertwine and provide a tale.

In recent years, I see more and more the impact teaching has on lives.  I'm now living my dream as a writer, but I still teach. My former and current students still hold special places in my heart. Through Facebook, I've reconnected with many of my former students and colleagues. My memories from my early teaching days sometimes flood my consciousness.  In those early days, I finished my dissertation and honed my skills as a teacher and writer.  Who could forget those times?  When my principal announced to the kids I'd finished my doctoral program, they drew hearts on my board. When I hit forty, a banner saying "Weaver is forty" appeared on my door.  When a rumor started that I had six toes, I wore a fake one and threw it at them.  For years, I was "Six Toe Weaver."

And now--many of them still send me message and even make an effort to see me.  Some say, "I still read Shakespeare because of you." Or, "I took four other Shakespeare classes because of you." I hear their voices, and because I see every person as an actor in his or her own story, I understand them, their hopes, and their struggles.

I wrote BURIED TRUTHS (www.redrosepublishing.com), my first published novel, after Katrina--when I was ending one job and starting another. I've often wondered how Heather Kerry, my protagonist, entered my imagination, and recently, I've come to understand her genesis.  In the novel, Heather Kerry is fighting for the kids of the archdiocese while facing her own personal turmoil.  Like me, Heather hears their stories and fights to keep their dreams alive.

And telling stories has become more and more important to me. Writing doesn't conflict with my teaching.  It enhances it.  When I wrote LOVE AT WAR, I was telling the story of my mother's generation. When I wrote PIRATE WOMAN, I was telling the story of a brave woman and a proud country.  My DOCTOR AND THE WAR WIDOW prove that love is powerful and transcendent.  Teaching has taught me all of these things.

Fiona Louis' "The Reluctant Duke"

Regency England is the setting for my pal Fiona Louis' latest book, "The Reluctant Duke."  The novel opens with Colin Lyre, the second son of the Duke of Lincoln, having a nigh on the town with his friends. Colin is quite happy as a second son, but within a year, his father and brother will be dead.  Colin will be the reluctant heir to a vast fortune and property, but he is uncomfortable with his new position. This situation is further complicated when he saves the lovely Annabelle Collins from the too amorous advances of a young man.  Colin is immediately smitten, but Annabelle, though well-born, is below his station. She is the daughter of an aristocratic clergyman but is not trained to be a duchess--nor does she want someone of such a high station.  However, Colin and the lovely lady are thrown together   throughout the debut season, and Colin presses his suit when he realizes he may lose his love to another man.  Colin and Annabelle marry after they are caught in a compromising position, and their passion sets them aflame.  However, their social differences threaten to mar their happiness, especially when Colin's dragon mother and evil widowed sister-in-law intrude on the newlyweds.

Ms. Louis does a wonderful job of capturing the Regency Era.  She also captures the passion between Colin and Annabelle. The scenes can only be described as hot! Her characters also come alive.  Annabelle gains the reader's sympathy as the sweet but inexperienced girl who wants only her husband's love but who is bullied by his family.  Colin is gallant as Annabelle's champion.  The reader wants to cheer when he punches her aggressor, but readers will waver in their empathy when he caves in to his Dowager Mother.

This book is an enjoyable read.  You'll revel in the passion and period! Check it out at www.redrosepublishing.com.

Red beans, Rice and My Mama

Red Beans recipe:

1. Sort beans

2. Wash in colander.

3. Slice onions, shallots, celery and garlic.  

4. Saute ingredients in butter or margarine.

5. Saute in sausage (or soy if you're like me)

6.  Toss in beans.

7.  Add approximately two quarts of water.

8. Stir as water boils. 

9. Periodically take a spoonful, mash beans, and toss back into pot.  This gives substance to the dish. 

10. Season with parsley, thyme, salt, and  pepper. 

11.  Add water as needed to soften beans.

12.  This takes approximately 2 hours. 

13.  Boil as much rice as needed for your family.  

For those of you unfamiliar with New Orleans customs, Monday is red beans and rice day in New Orleans.  Traditionally, New Orleans women prepared their washing on Monday; the beans cooked slowly, allowing the ladies to concentrate on other household tasks.  

For me, "Monday, Red Beans Day" meant much more.  The process actually begins the  day before, on Sunday afternoon.  I'd sit in the kitchen in our old house with my mother, watching as she sorted the beans.  My mother's hands were strong with wide knuckles.  She hadn't lived a swank life.  Like her mother before her, she performed her own household tasks.  No maid visited our household.  Those hands were precious to me.  They had soothed my earliest fears and held me tight after my nightmares.  I hated school as a kid.  With buck teeth and a chubby body, I was the subject of taunts from the brats from my Catholic grade school.  My mother would comfort me, explaining that I should ignore the taunts of idiots. They were low little snobs who would get theirs one day.  She told me to hold myself above the fray--always to be kind and a good sport. I'd listen to her voice, watching as her hands grasped the "good beans," tossing them into the  colander.  The "bad beans" went into her ashtray.  She'd then rinse the beans at he sink before slicing her seasoning.  

I can still see her as she spread the waxed paper and assembled the shallots, onions, and celery.  Her hair was roller-filled, and she concealed them beneath a colorful scarf. She'd send one of her penetrating glances my way, asking what had happened.  I'd recount the latest insult or slight.  Everyone was invited to a party but I. She'd move to me and hold me tight.  I'd cry because I wasn't skinny like the other kids my age, and the little bastards reminded me of it every day.  She'd tell me not to worry.  My mother thought I was beautiful, an other people were blind or jealous.  I'd feel safe again.  Someone loved me.  Then, I'd help her gather the other ingredients--to be put aside for the next day.  

On Monday, I'd watch my mother in the kitchen after school.  This was when she'd complete the meal. She'd ask how my day had gone.  of course, the day had been filled with the usual bullying and ugliness, but I'd remember my mother's words.  Someone loved me. More and more, I began to stand up to bullies, and I love seeing some of these people again. I'm now thin and lithe.  Most of them aren't.  I still see my mother's hands and hear her voice.  Red beans and rice Monday.  

It's Mardi Gras!

New Orleans has begun the wild festival called Mardi Gras.  To strangers, this bizarre party is merely a hedonistic feast in which we indulge.  It is a time when locals and tourists simply act like fools.  Well, it is and it isn't. . . .

New Orleans is not the only city to hold carnival.  Rio's is reputedly even wilder than ours, but the celebration itself has its roots in ancient ritual and faith.  To the observant, Mardi Gras is the celebration that precedes the holy season of Lent.  I'm not saying we don't indulge--or overindulge--during Mardi Gras.  It is an indulgent time, but it is much more. A whole industry now revolves around Mardi Gras.  Tourists come to celebrate.  Locals party with family and friends.  Some local actually leave town to avoid the madness, but many of us don't hesitate to join in the fun.

We belong to krewes based on our various allegiances or affiliations.  Some of the old line families belong to exclusive clubs that exclude others.  This practice was very controversial a few years back when various groups accused the krewes of discrimination and racism.  Some of these krewes chose to leave the party and no longer parade.  They chose to hold their private balls but not share in the public fun.  Of course, this did not stop the fun.  Other krewes formed in response to the controversy.  Harry Connick Jr. started one that includes locals as well as prominent musicians and artists.  Still other krewes satirize local politics.  What links these people to each other and to New Orleans is the desire to share in the culture and convivial company that  marks Mardi Gras.

My guy loves Mardi Gras, and last weekend, we celebrated like the true followers of Bacchus we are.  We drank beer at the Avenue Pub.  He wore a foolscap while I danced like a teenager.  We'll party this weekend, too, and kick back with the Super Bowl, that great display of American athleticism.  We'll join the party on Mardi Gras Day, but on Wednesday, I'll be at Mass, receiving my ashes.

After Hurricane Katrina, some criticized our celebration.  How could we party after such a terrible time?  Weren't we showing disrespect to those lost in the flood waters?  Well, aside from the economic benefits Mardi Gras brings to the city, the festival was important to our own spirit.  We had to show the nation that we weren't quitters.  We weren't going to walk around in sackcloth, reveling in self-pity.  We were a devastated city, but we rose from the floodwaters triumphant.  The best way to remember the dead is to carry on.  We may have drowned in the water of burst levees, but we did not drown in tears.

My Dad and the Dachshund

Whenever I think of my first dog, a little dachshund named Shy (because she was such a shy girl), I think of my father.  My parents had picked her from a litter and given her to me.  I was three and very innocent. (You'll see how gullible in a minute.) They placed the small ball of fur in my arms, and she licked me mercilessly.  I loved her instantly. We slept in the same bed and shared many wet nose kisses.  

My father trained race horses, and my curious little critter loved to visit the stables, walking in and out of the horse stalls.  No one was sure what happened. Maybe she sniffed around a horse's hooves too much and incurred its wrath.  To him, she was probably no more than a pesky mosquito.  At any rate, the horse kicked her.  She was severely injured.  My father raced her to the veterinarian, but she died along the way.  My parents never told me this. My mother didn't know how she'd tell me.  My father said he wouldn't break my heart.

. . . Instead, they devised an elaborate tale.  She was recuperating at the veterinarian's office.  Please remember that I was three, not simply stupid.  She'd eventually come home, my parents assured me.  What I didn't know was that my father was searching for a dog that looked like mine.  He journeyed from one end of New Orleans to another, disappointed with each visit and telling my mother, "They're not like our Shy."  He eventually drove to Baton Rouge and found a dog, somewhat younger, that looked like my lost pup.  My mother told me that my dog would be smaller because she'd lost weight. Like most three year olds, I believed my parents.

I slept with the new pup that night, never thinking she was a different dog.  (She licked me just as much as my first  precious angel.)  Only years later did I realize the ruse my parents had devised, but by then, my daddy was gone.  I never had the opportunity to thank him for his love and his sacrifice.

I can't look at pictures of me with my dachshund without thinking of him.  Lately, my father's image has flashed before me.  Was I patient enough after he'd suffered a stroke and heart attack?  He'd given so much to protect me.

I love you, Daddy.  I miss you.

Grade school

Grade school was the bane of my existence.  All of my life, I have been a quiet person who minded my own business and hated bullies.  Bullies, however, found me.

When my dad was living, we lived in a very exclusive area, and I was enrolled in an "excellent" Catholic school with a bunch of students whose parents were considered upwardly mobile and progressive.  All they were in reality were bigoted white flighters who were raising a bunch of spoiled, privileged brats.  My parents had grown up poor but proud; my father was what they called in the old days "a self-made man."  My mother, God bless her, was anxious for me to have everything she hadn't.  When my mother was a girl, she'd attended Catholic school at St. Joseph's with her siblings for the $1 reduced tuition, not the $3 paid by her more affluent counterparts.  Her dad, a house painter, repaired the church and school's paint job so his children could go to Catholic school, making their sacraments in a timely fashion.  None of my mother's siblings attended the more expensive Catholic high schools.  Such tuition would have been too extravagant.  While my father trained his horses and rented stables, we could pay, and my mother had high hopes for me.  I was to make friends among the New Orleans area affluent and meet all the "right people." Please understand: my mother was no snob, and I loved her more than anything in the world.  However, she'd been fed an untruth by the learned establishment, deluded into thinking that rich people were "classy."  We all found out the ragged truth in a very short time.

Many of the students of this bastion of the established order were witches, bullies, and privileged brats who deserve a place beside Osama bin Laden in hell.  They believed that their proverbial "shit didn't stink" and loved picking on someone whose father trained racehorses.  I hated most of them with a passion, and I soon learned to look upon their misguided superiority with scorn.  To this day, I hate bullies and all they stand for.

Recently, some of these same people friended me on Facebook. They now want to kiss up to me because I've published some books--name droppers to the end.  I was polite with these women.  Unlike them, I'm not a bully or a rude person, but I reminded them of their behavior towards me and other less boisterous and less "affluent" people.  I let them know I didn't want to be reminded of the "good old days." To me, they weren't good. To the new year and erasing bad memories.