Bigger than Picasso?

Blessed be the month of August. On one hand, it is deplorably hot and humid in Louisiana. On the other, it is the month in which I get a reprieve of sorts. Ballet camps are over. Children's ballet lessons are on hiatus until the fall. And I have met my latest magazine deadine in good stead.

So, there is much I could be catching up with. But instead, I have chosen to do summertime things. Yesterday, I rose fairly late, then browsed briefly through Barnes & Noble (which, in Mandeville, is in a tasteful, laid back shopping center -- no malls in this neck of the woods -- with an assemblage of pines offering nice curb appeal).

Then on to a hair salon for a "serious" haircut. The salon is named after the owner who is named after a goddess. A good omen, I'd hoped. Over the years, I have resorted to taking a scissors to my own mane, due to traumatic experiences with "professionals" who are either hearing impaired or simply don't really care about the customer's stated specifications.

The end result was okay. I'd asked for layers -- lots of 'em -- as I have a great deal of natural wave that I'd rather not have to keep fighting into submission. I got some nice layers, although I would have preferred hanging onto more length. However, hair, unlike many other aspects of the human body, can grow quickly back. Anyway, it is a fait accompli for now, a great haircut for the dog days of summer.

Today, after 9:30 Mass where we were once again graced by our wonderful storytelling priest, I found myself driving past the intersection where I'd normally turn onto my street and kept heading straight towards Ponchatoula. From Mandeville over the bridge to the quaint town of Madisonville on the Tchefuncte River, and then nothing but miles of country road flanked by unwieldy shrubbery, wildflowers and all manner of tree life taking shapes and forms as if in some kind of strange competition.

The area prior to Ponchatoula is Bedico. It's hard to explain. You can't see much of any type of community. Most of the homes are (apparently) well off the main roadway. The homes that lie alongside the road are in no apparent pattern. Everything from shanties to one sort of Gone With The Wind inspired mini plantation. Besides that, there are a few Baptist churches, one or two independently owned gas stations, and a storage facility that boasts temperature control.

Along the way, I also saw for sale a vintage orange pickup with cream colored roof and a red sports car. A stuffed armchair in faded plaid was there for the taking. And signs affixed to telephone poles offered phone numbers for vinyl siding, tree grinding and such.

I arrived in the "antiques capital of America" shortly before noon. Since no shops were yet open, I went to Paul's Cafe, which is straight out of Lake Woebegon. Right before I entered the eatery, I noted that in front of the shop next door, which sells religious articles, was a display -- a resin version of the 10 Commandments tablets set upon an easel. Immediately behind them in the window was a sign advertising how to get certified to carry a concealed weapon. Interesting juxtaposition there.

I stood for a moment allowing a man in a Stetson and his missus to leave before I entered and proceeded to the sink in the back hallway to wash my hands. About half of the tables were full --it was not yet peak time at the cafe, but I opted to sit at the counter where I bravely ordered onion rings and an Abita beer. I don't think I've had onion rings in 15-20 years, but it seemed like the thing to have at the moment.

As I munched away, I thought of what a far cry this was from the fare I'd seen whipped up in the movie "Julie and Julia" last night. I'd gone with a friend and even though I'd had the foresight to pick up the tickets that afternoon to avoid standing in long lines in the muggy weather, I hadn't counted on most other people having the same idea. The theater was almost completely full when we entered leaving us no recourse but to sit in the 3rd row from the front, which I couldn't recall doing since childhood. My friend swore that when Julia Child was served this beautiful plate of fish in a Paris restaurant early in the film, she could actually smell the butter. It was that kind of movie -- just had you aching for some splendid fare, preferably al fresco in some cool night air with great companionship.

And yet, here I was the next day, making onion rings and a frosty beer my choice of 'delicacy.' Well, in Rome -- or, in this case, Ponchatoula ...

After leaving the cafe, I wandered in and out of a few shops. The last was one of those antique stores that is chock-a-block with vintage items that must have taken years to find their way to this destination. The owner was sitting comfortably behind his makeshift counter, chatting away with an old friend.

"Do you need some help?" he asked good-naturedly.

"Doesn't everyone?" I responded. We laughed together like old friends. I swear there is something about these communities and their Americana appeal that brings out a relaxed side of me -- as if there is nothing more pressing to do that day than muse about everyday things. And so we did. We spoke of the double-edged swordedness of the internet, the escalation of crime even in smalltown America, and eventually, of the recent passing of an artist in the town.

Bill Hemmerling was a window dresser for a Sears store. He didn't even know he was an artist until the last few years of his life. He was an innocent man who one day approached a furniture store and asked if he could have a go at decorating its front window display. He put his paintings in that window, and within no time, his Louisiana themed works, laced with pathos and history, were embraced by art collectors throughout America.

The antique shop owner (who sold me a vintage bookcase and hauled it into my vehicle for me, for the total price of $131) said that "Bill" had been a close friend of his. "I do some painting myself," he told me. "You know, Bill made a new painting every single day. He never was at a lost for subject matter. Me, I was always trying to find something new. But not Bill."

He became emotional when describing the funeral of Hemmerling, who succumbed to cancer after his glorious but all too brief artistic career. "You know Rodrigue, the blue dog artist?" he asked me. I nodded. "Rodrigue told me, in all seriousness, that in years to come, Bill's fame will surpass Picasso's."

The shopkeeper still keeps a couple stack of postcards of Hemmerling's work on the counter. I took a couple of them as lagniappe to my purchase. It's funny -- I actually touched, with my bare fingers, a Picasso sculpture at the Milwaukee Art Museum, last spring (it only lasted a split second and I couldn't help myself right before the security guard gave me a cautionary glance). But these postcards, they're the closest I've gotten so far to the work of this small town Louisiana folk artist.