Filling Up Your Page

When you're dealing with a multitude of unwelcome challenges in a particular year, there's nothing like a little holiday cheer from a bevy of innocents, like my Wisconsin friend Annie's brood.  These are the children that Mary Poppins and Nanny McPhee long for.  Unspoiled, charming, funny, and highly entertaining.  It was during a frigid late December day that they warmed me with their antics and loving nature.  They sang, they danced, they played music, they drew, and they hula-hooped, all with great enthusiasm.  Well into our day together, we did our inevitable art project, around the massive kitchen counter.  The second in line of the troupe, Kate, 5, went full out, with great confidence, dashing off one creation after another, while simultaneously belting out "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." 

Lauren, 8, was more cautious and self-critical.  She glanced over at my work, accordingly tossed her pages aside and kept attempting new creations, not satisfied with any.  I suggested to her that she should let any mistakes go, and just keep working on the same page, or at least turn the same sheet of paper over, and use the other side.  She initially did not welcome this suggestion.  She even questioned my recommendation, with the astute observation, "But you're not my mother."  And I responded, gently but matter-of-factly, "But I am a teacher, and I might have some good ideas."

You see, I am more like Lauren than Kate. I know what it is to be the oldest girl of a large bunch -- to not always be free to just let go, fill the page, and let it all settle out as it will, all the while singing with abandon to anyone within earshot.  I so wanted Lauren to avoid the self doubts and, at times, disproportionate sense of responsibility that is typically inherent to the oldest of the family.  I was coming from a place of empathy, rather than didacticism.  I thought that my "words of wisdom" were likely soon forgotten.  Not so.  Shortly after returning, via The City of New Orleans, to my Mandeville home, I received a touching missive from Lauren.  In reiterating my own admonishment back to me, I realized that it was once again, out of the mouths of babes, from which true wisdom flows. 

Because, life is MESSY and even though we are all inclined to try to throw away our pages and start over, again and again -- before ever finishing the first ones -- all we can REALLY do is keep on doing our best, but accept that THAT will never be perfect.  Rather than letting those imperfections paralyze us in self doubt and sometimes even despondency, we all have to keep on making every effort to fill up our pages, every single day.  Some of those days will seem like there is overwhelming illness, loss, pain, confusion,and sadness.  I know I am in that spot right now.  But there is always some space on that page for even a smidgeon of hope, joy, gratitude.  So, from Lauren to me to you, here's to a life of pages, full and messy and beautiful.   

Giving it up for Lent ...

Truth be told, there is plenty I would not mind going without in the coming weeks. Offhand, the list goes something like this, in no particular order:

1. $4.00 a gallon gasoline

2. Tornadoes and flash floods

3. Thesis stress

4. Tendinitis in both feet

5. Scott Walker

6. Income tax preparation

7. Migraines

8. Cell phone conversations

9. Insomnia

10. Difficult people

11. The ongoing construction outside my window

12. Cleaning up spontaneous emissions from pre-schoolers

See, that was pretty easy.

Valentine's Day

If someone had ever told me that, at this point, in my life, I would be living in a city called Mandeville, Louisiana, I would have been speechless with incredulity. Me, a forever urban girl, and a Yankee at that, living in a southern city whose name translates as "big farm."

But, it is Valentine's Day, and here I am. Now, a few facts about Mandeville.

It's post-Katrina population totals 12, 421. A strange number -- 12, 420 would be so much symmetrical. I guess I'm that extra "one." The odd man out. In so many ways.

I don't have soccer-mom blonde hair. I don't play tennis. My political views are that of an independent and I generally keep them to myself. The phrase "family values" typically gives me indigestion.

Once upon a time, doctors sent their New Orleans patients with respiratory difficulties to Mandeville to take in the clear air. That was when Mandeville was a haven for towering pines. Six months ago, I was able to look out my living room window and see nothing by greenery. I now keep my blinds closed at night so that I don't get a seizure from the flashing neon sign advertising "Kim's Nails." Even with the blinds closed, that damned purple light manages to poke its ugly self through the window.


In 2009, I threw my hat in the ring as a candidate for interim mayor. When asked, the other candidates immediately affirmed that they were proponents of business expansion in the city. Me, not so much. Not without consideration of some kind of master plan. A plan that would not include being able to feast my eyes on a Dollar General store when I awaken each morning, or listen to the perpetual drone of bulldozers making way for the next similar attraction.

It also would have been nice if our forefathers had considered the benefits of sidewalks which are few and far between here. Yes, we have two state parks within walking distance, but you can't actually walk to them.

Long ago, things were much different. At the beginning of the 20th century, bands played music on steamboats traveling from New Orleans across Lake Pontchartrain, and at at local pavilions and dance halls. Mandeville was the first place where jazz music was heard outside of the Big Easy, and many early jazz artists played here.

Many people don't know this, but there used to be numerous lighthouses in the Mandeville area, too. The ultimate romantic edifice.

Mandeville still has its merits. Two libraries. Good schools. Low crime. But it could be so much more.

Maybe I'm especially feeling this way today because Mandeville, as livable as it remains in contrast to many other communities, can sometimes be a lonely place for the "plus one" to the 12, 420 other residents. Particularly when that person just lost a close friend. Someone she could have seen herself kicking back with on one of those musical, magical steamboats so long ago ...

A Cheesehead Gloats in Mandeville -- Lambeaulicious!

Just a temporary -- but justified -- name change for my blog today, in celebration of the Green Bay Packers' win over the Philly Eagles/Michael Vick.

Be it known that once a Cheesehead, always a Cheesehead, no matter how long I live in Louisiana and embrace my current state. Especially now that there's no chance of the Saints progressing any further this season.

Seems to be a good time to let folks know a little about the origination of the term. Whenever I've heard it uttered (or should I say "uddered" -- ouch!) in these parts, there's a negative connotation. Indeed, it started out that way, reportedly first coined by Illinois (flatlanders) football and baseball fans in reference to opposing Wisconsin sports supporters.

Wisconsinites, being of gracious, self-deprecatory humor, embraced the term and now -- especially since our victorious Sunday -- wear it as a badge(as in Badgers!)of pride.

The actual cheesehead hat was first crafted by "milliner" Ralph Bruno out of foam and flaunted at a Milwaukee Brewers/Chicago White Sox game in 1987. The headgear was popularized by center-fielder Rick Manning, who noticed the hat while playing ball.

Bruno got in the biz of selling the hat as a novelty. See? A good idea flies itself. The "Cheesehead" trademark is owned by Foamation, Inc. of St. Francis, Wisconsin, which began manufacture of the wearable, foam cheesehead in 1987.

Of note, unlike the neverending conflict arising out of merchandise sporting the "Who Dat!" phrase, no such problems have arisen regarding the Cheesehead phenomenon.

And that, my friends, is "the rest of the story."

Who dat? Green Bay dat!

It's 2011 and I'm still here ...

It began with my still being engaged to marry. It ended with a newfound strength in singlehood and a magnificent male friend.

It started with being the oldest ballet major in state history, which required transcendence over cancer and injury. It ended with production of my first original children's ballet and being asked to teach at the school of a Bolshoi-trained artist.

In its embryonic stages, there were dreams of life in a less urban and more idyllic setting. At its conclusion, I am living that dream.

It commenced with a body of writing work that was directed at my peers. It evolved into works appreciated by far younger audiences.

At its origins, I did not know how to extricate myself from putting the lion's share of my labors into others' interests. Now I know better.

It initiated with undue concern about how my life looked on paper. It has culminated with my pulling my head out of my proverbial rear end and embracing what really matters.

At the onset, I had lost touch with far too many from my past. At its closure, I am magically surrounded by so many of them once again.

9/11, Katrina, Hirings and layoffs, sickness and recovery, loves lost and gained ... I remain ... most grateful, and looking forward to the next 10.

The Most Powerful Christmas Song Ever Written

The year was 1962. The United States was in the midst of the Cuban Missile Crisis -- the great standoff between John F. Kennedy and Nikita ("We will bury you!") Khrushchev.

A French songwriter, living in New York, had been commissioned to write a Christmas-themed song, but he could not put pen to paper. He certainly had the talent. He had studied at the Strasbourg Conservatory and at the Conservatoire National de Paris.

However, the man was troubled. How could he write a joyful tune when the world was on the brink of potential annihilation? He had already been through enough war in his lifetime.

Duing World War II, the aspiring composer, previously destined for a brilliant career, was drafted into the German army after Hitler's Nazi forces overcame France.

While still in the German army and wearing the hated uniform, he became a member of the French underground. He collected information and warned French resistance fighters of attacks being planned by the Germans on his homeland.

That activity culminated in an episode that haunted him for the rest of his life. Intrepidly, he led a group of German soldiers into a trap where they were ambushed by French fighters in crossfire. The young man was also shot -- most likely on purpose -- to protect him from being found out.

The young man survived, but never forgot the image of all of those enemy soldiers collapsing and dying around him. He never talked about it publicly. He subsequently deserted the German army and lived with the French underground until the war was over.

In 1952, he moved to Manhattan, and it was on that memorable night, 10 years later, that he was having so much difficulty with his composition. He decided to clear his head by going out for a walk that evening through the streets of New York.

He saw something that made him pause. Two mothers had stopped by a storefront to chat with one another. They each were holding onto a baby stroller. The two infants in those strollers were smiling and wordlessly gesturing to one another
in a language wholly of their own.

What the songwriter witnessed was complete openness and love shared by two innocent beings. He raced home, inspired as never before, and in one sitting wrote the following as a plea for peace:

Said the night wind to the little lamb
Do you see what I see?
'Way up in the sky, little lamb
Do you see what I see?


A star, a star
Dancing in the night
With a tail as big as a kite
With a tail as big as a kite


Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing thru the sky, shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?


A song, a song
High above the tree
With a voice as big as the sea
With a voice as big as the sea


Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king
Do you know what I know?
In your palace warm, mighty king
Do you know what I know?


A Child, a Child
Shivers in the cold
Let us bring Him silver and gold
Let us bring Him silver and gold


Said the king to the people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!
Pray for peace, people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!


The Child, the Child
Sleeping in the night
He will bring us goodness and light
He will bring us goodness and light

Postscript: Although Bing Crosby's version of the carol brought it to national attention and sold more copies that that of anyone else, the composer -- the late Noel Regney -- most appreciated the version recorded by Robert Goulet, with that artist's impassioned delivery of the line, "Pray for peace, people ev'rywhere!"

Nothing says summer like ...

Baseball and state fairs!

Enjoyed the first on Sunday and the latter this evening in Wisconsin. This year, the trend is food on a stick. Unless it's an olive in a Bloody Mary, or shish kabobs on the grill, I'm of the mind, "Let's not and say we did." Just not that into skewered food and, particularly, food that's been skewered and fried.

Just give me the basics, the classics: fresh cream puffs with cold, real cream. And anything that Rupena's makes -- to die for! It's a West Allis caterer that provided the eats for more weddings, funerals and picnics than I can remember growing up here. The chicken I had tonight was marinated in butter, seasoned with garlic, roasted, and served -- plump, thick and tender -- in a fresh bun with lettuce and tomato. No condiments necessary. Accompanied by a cold beer and a cool breeze, and you have my idea of heaven. Especially when there's a group of scruffy young'ins churning up some Irish folk music nearby.

A state fair appeals to all of the senses, but perhaps most salient are the smells. The convergence of strong odors from prized livestock with the aromas of their "kin" being grilled for the pleasure of attendees. Such is the cycle of life. Just ask E.B. White's infamous pig, "Wilbur," saved from such a fate by his supremely generous friend, "Charlotte."

And even when you're no longer of younger and crazier mind to partake of rides designed to do nothing less than play havoc with your central nervous system, there's the ubiquitous ferris wheel, tame enough for just about any age, and offering spectacular views of the lights of the city beyond.

There are larger fairs than the one in Wisconsin. I should know. My family lived right across the street from it, in Falcon Heights, Minnesota. Now, I know dem's fightin' words with Texans. Their fair lasts longer and ultimately has a greater overall attendance. But Minnesota's has a larger daily attendance, and it's also got Garrison Keillor and gang as perennial performers.

No matter where you live, you really oughtta go to your fair this year. Most things American -- including my beloved baseball -- seem almost unrecognizable these days, with the actual event taking a back seat to the techno-happy, ear-blasting sideshows. But not a fair. It's still pretty much what it's always been. And that's a good thing.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide ...

I have the dubious distinction of being a Louisianian who came up to Wisconsin for a reunion and a brief respite from what had become unrelenting heat and humidity in what has been predicted to be an active hurricane season ... only to have her car submerged in the Great Shorewood Flood. A once in a century event in an otherwise idyllic village. Oh, the irony!

I have also overheard in recent days comments from locals complaining about the heat and humidity index here. But it's all relative, really.

For while thousands stood and sang "God Bless America" during the seventh inning stretch of the Milwaukee Brewers versus Houston Astros game last Sunday afternoon, scores of people in Russia were dying, literally, from the heat.

Folks seem surprised -- and it's not their fault, really, with the inundation of far more "important" news, such as the latest celebrity scandal -- when I mention that people in Russia are succumbing in record numbers to the heat right now, whether by direct affect or by drowning in an effort to escape it.

Yes, these are the hottest days in history for Russia, as well as for its neighbors, Ukraine and Belarus. We are talking in terms of 1,000 years. This unrelenting blast of heat, smog and smoke, which began on June 27, has been estimated to kill at least 7,000 people in Moscow alone, with the death toll in all of Russia well more than double that figure. It's been predicted that when nature's brutal assault -- compounded by untenable pollution and carbon monoxide levels -- finally ends this year, we will be looking at the deadliest heat wave in history.

Elsewhere, as Haiti struggles to recover from its devastating earthquake, thousands have perished or are missing due to monsoon flooding and landslides in China, India, Pakistan and Afghanistan.

Meanwhile, all seems quiet for now in the oil-soaked Gulf, with some scoffing (perhaps as a means of denying the inevitable) about early predictions of an active hurricane season. But sea surface temperatures in the tropical Atlantic have reached record highs. And as I've taught in my children's science show, "When temperatures are high and wind sheers are low, hurricanes form and threaten to blow!"

The only lesson I think I personally can take away from all of this is to recognize that there truly is, as the song goes, "nowhere to run, nowhere to hide." We're all in this together on Mother Earth.

A Closetful of Friends ... and no one to care

I'e always loved Georgia O'Keefe's quote, "Nobody sees a flower, really, it is so small. We haven't time -- and to see takes time like to have a friend takes time."

In this age of racing to accumulate as many friends as possible on various social networks, I can't help but compare that to people hoarding closets full of clothes, and still having nothing to wear. With all of those "friends," how many are really on hand to hear you out -- fully and completely -- on that occasion that you need to cry until every last tear is purged, or to bring you the proverbial chicken soup when you are too weak to get up from your bed?

I recently read about an Oxford anthropologist determining that the human brain's cognitive power limits the size of the social networks we can sustain. Therefore, our outside limit for human friendship is about 150 people.

I recognize that some people -- particularly in the arts -- use their social networks as a means of getting the word out about their latest gallery events, concert performances or book launches. They understand that they are not necessarily forming relationships with people they expect to have heart-to-hearts with anytime soon.

But what about the rest who "friend" others with a zeal that might be put to far better use in the world?

For some people, it's all about the very collecting of friends, as many as possible. Their wall-to-wall posts resemble frantic ping pong matches:

"How long you gonna be in town?"

"Not sure. Can't wait to see you, too!"

"Hey, maybe we can get up a posse of Tom and Dick and Harry while you're here!"

"Yeah, that'd be great!"

Only, the gathering will likely never occur, and a year down the road, there'll be an encore of similar dialogue and the same result. And even if by some miracle, the gathering materializes, how much meaningful exchange ensues?

But, oh heck, at least you tried, didn't you?!?

Oh, no judgment here from me. Not really. Just a reality check. And it is this:

If reaching out to as many people as possible is your preference, so be it. But bear in mind that when you do catch up, you cannot expect those whom you keep on the eternal periphery of your life to share confidences because you finally happen to be there at that moment. Prepare for nothing else than a brief exchange of good cheer.

Because to have anything more means that you have to be a friend -- a REAL friend. And as Ms. O'Keefe said, that takes time.

Why They Call It Comfort Food

My friend and colleague, the inimitable children's writer, Candice Farris Ransom, just sang the praises of mom and pop diners, which she wisely prefers over "fern bars," all the better to do "constructive eavesdropping." However, it's more than just fodder for an author's mill that she speaks of.

She writes of the comfort she's found in her own neighborhood eatery, following a summer marked by sadness and the kind of fatigue that penetrates the body and spirit. We are on the "same page" on this one. We both shared the loss of a former professor (somehow, that description is so inadequate) who impacted us forever in our professional lives and as human beings. And then, while we most needed a bit of a respite, we remained thrust in the midst of "the world" and all that that entails. She writes beautifully of her own experience in her blog, "Under the Honeysuckle Vine," and there is no need for me to comment further on her end.

As to my own travails, they included the flood of the century occurring during a sojourn to my Wisconsin hometown, which decimated my car, and an incomprehensible assault, which I will need some time to process and heal from.

And I, like my literary friend, have felt a pull towards what heals best -- a return to a simpler time in an America not easy to find these days. For me, it's a 20-minute drive to Ponchatoula, which bills itself as not only "The Strawberry Capital of the World," but "America's Antiques City."

Speaking of, I don't know how many of you have watched James Lipton's Q&A to the evening's guest actor at the close of every segment of "Inside the Actor's Studio" on BRAVO, but I'm rather surprised that no one has yet uttered what I would say when asked, "What is your favorite word?" For me, there's nothing like a sign advertising "Antiques" to make me feel like all's right with the world ...

When I get back home, that's where I'm heading. First stop is going to be Paul's Cafe, for if ever there was the antithesis of the "fern bar," there it is. http://www.paulscafe.net/full-menu.html.

I'm gonna have me some fried catfish and a Barq's rootbeer, and bask in an ambience like no other, doing some of that "constructive eavesdropping" in the "Mayberry of the Deep South" (yet another of its monikers) until my soul has been restored. Yes, it's getting time to click my heels ...

Who Needs Blockbusters?

In light of the oil spill in the Gulf, and its aftermath, I can't help but think that real life is beginning to surpass any fictitious tale of the apocalypse. This is not a movie that we can just walk away from, and simply assuage our fears with popcorn in the lobby. It was nearly three years ago that I was preparing to debut my one-woman musical science show for elementary schools in Tangipahoa and St. Tammany Parishes. The show was to focus on astronomy. But I, ever the aspiring environmentalist, felt compelled to include a song about the travesty committed upon Lake Apopka in Florida, decades ago, on Mother Earth. It was a harbinger of more to come. Have a listen to the beginning:

There was a beautiful Floridian lake
When people had a vacation to take
They upped and shouted, "Hey, for goodness sake,
Let's go to Lake Apopka!"

They caught the biggest fish you've ever seen
They splashed and played in water fresh and clean
The whole environment was rich and green
There in Lake Apopka

But now the birds are dropping to the ground
The graceful cougar there no longer abound
And healthy fish are rarely found
Now in Lake Apopka

That's why I'm singing:

Don't let the birds fall from the sky
Don't let the birds fall from the sky
We've got to help them fly high
Fly, fly, fly

Pelicans, egrets and gulls
They don't need our man made troubles
C'mon and show the planet some pride
Think twice before dumping that pesticide!

A Sad Day in the Treehouse

Having just completed an environmental fairy tale to be staged by the Early Childhood Division of the New Orleans Dance Academy next month, I am nearly numb by the magnitude of the oil spill in the Gulf that has taken lives and livelihoods, and threatened our existence as we know it. In recent months, I was delighted, in researching flora and fauna indigenous to the Louisiana forests, to find a wealth of poetry in terminology. Butterflies such as "Great Purple Hairstreak" and "Cassius Blue." Amphibians like "Dusky Gophers" and "Tiger Salamanders." Birds that included the "Yellow-breasted Chat" and "Chuck Will's Widow." The story nearly wrote itself. And even prompted me to pen, "Could heaven be much greater, or any more divine?"

Time was when people actually received prescriptions from their doctors to come to Mandeville to partake of the clean, invigorating air. I cannot describe the horror I felt when I walked outside to my front porch today and took in the miasma of the spill, now being burned in a day late/dollar short attempt to mitigate the damages.

Yes, we have a bit of heaven on earth in these parts. But if you want to see what hell is like, look no further:
http://photos.nola.com/tpphotos/2010/04/oil_rig_explosion_21.html

Be gone, Satan!

Some software support hawker/hacker actually responded to yesterday's post of mine by trying to tell me in a bastardized version of English about the virtues of their product.

I don't know if that took stones, stupidity, or a combination of both. Did you not understand the gist of my post? It was not a request for infiltration from more drones such as yourself!

Thoreau was right ...

A friend with whom I'd performed many years ago, and with whom I'd recently reconnected decades later via Facebook, emailed me earlier this week about some of life's travails that were getting at her recently -- both personal and global, such as the recent horrific oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. She then felt she was sounding like "Debbie Downer." And I, in turn, shared the following with her, which I think may be applicable to many of us:

Friday, I downloaded a "free" upgrade to my anti-virus program, and it wiped out all virus protection and blocked my email access. No phone number on any of its literature and, of course, I couldn't find one online because I couldn't get online, so I had to rush over to the library to use their computers (thank God, we have a fabulous business resource branch which is a boon to small business owners). Murphy's Law in full force, I still couldn't find a viable phone number on line(!) Finally went to my email site and located an old email from them with a phone number and got through to someone for whom English was a second language. Picture me gritting my teeth as I'm conversing with her, or trying to, anyway.

After several hours of that nonsense, I thought everything was intact, but yesterday afternoon, the updated virus protection was blocking my access to Facebook, so I called tech support again, and this time attempted a rapport with someone who only spoke Klingon (computer nomenclature). I kept saying, "I don't understand what you're telling me," and he would repeat himself, thinking somehow I'd get it the 2nd or 3rd time. Another example of semantic aphasia. Outside of computer language, the guy had a sum total of several dozen words in his vocabulary, and simply could not say, in English, what I needed to know. When did our country have this incredible breakdown in communication?

So Klingon is doing everything he can to "help" fix whatever Dingleberry screwed up the day before, and each time the problem remained, and I kept hearing, "Hmmmm, wow, well let's try this instead." In the midst of this, with him ON LINE WITH ME, a viral attack is made by a site called (and I am not making this up) "Fucking Threesomes." (I hesitated to write that, but even the eloquent Father Andrew Greeley has been known to use the word in his writings, when no other will suffice). So I, of course, panic a little, and ask the guy what the hell just happened, because when I had the old version of my anti-virus protection, nothing like that ever happened, and with the new and improved version, I'm an immediate target?

Then I read this morning in a recent Time magazine (3/39/10 edition) that Elmore Leonard writes every single word of his work longhand, and then transfers it to his 20-year-old typewriter. The man has no computer, does not email, etc. And in the same magazine, I read that Twyla Tharp does not own a TV. And I'm starting to think that perhaps all of this CRAP is sucking the life out of us. At the same time, it's what allowed me to reconnect with people like my long lost performing friend. But see how paralyzed we become when something we rely on this heavily goes wrong?

I'm thinking back now when 23 years ago -- feeling this incredible calling, especially after my enchantment with Steinbeck's "Travels With Charley," and all of the successive books of that genre -- I stored, tossed or donated everything I had, and took off in my Honda Civic, which I also eventually ditched, for a several-year odyssey of working my way through the U.S. Took a variety of jobs, from being a grunt on a log cabin crew, to working on air with John Walsh on "America's Most Wanted," to fitting women with "foundations," as intimate apparel was once called. And I kept a MANUAL record of the people I'd met, and periodically mailed out newsletters to them and got letters back. Most of them handwritten. Wonderful stuff. All before email, and it meant so much, that exchange of real paper. I did not have a cell phone or a computer. I typed my newsletters on a borrowed word processor, and cut and pasted with photos, and photocopied it all and handwrote the envelopes. And it was fun! Barely a generation ago.

What have we wrought with our technical advances? We've made zippity do dah progress with the space program. We still don't have those cars "run by the sun" as depicted in films presented to us in elementary school. Cancer hasn't been cured -- sure, we can detect the little bugger in a woman's breast more easily, but we can't agree on what put it there. Despite all the fitness equipment with a million bells and whistles, hawked on QVC, HSN, and every other darned shopping network acronym, we are the fattest people in the world, for whom bariatric surgery is becoming as common as removal of an ingrown toenail. We can put books on Kindle and the like, but we can't light a match under most people's butts to get them to read and comprehend. (Don't believe me? Just look at the crap substituting for the English language in comments posted by the common people underneath any print news story). And it's becoming increasingly evident, even to skeptics, that cell phones are frying the brains and destroying the hearing of their youngest users.

But hey, with the advance of email and Facebook, at least we can commiserate about all of this stuff. Some progress ...

Silence is Golden

Yes, it's been a while. Feeling rather private of late, spending a good deal of time in the treehouse, writing, writing, writing.



Last night, while writing with the TV news on in the background, I laughed out loud without looking up when the anchor quipped, "Gee, I haven't heard that in 20 minutes ...." He was referring, of course, to "Stand Up and Get Crunk," which was accompanying the umpteenth story about "Who Dat Nation." As the strains of that 'lovely' composition begin to fade at long last, we are settling into what is my favorite time of year. Between Mardi Gras and Jazz Fest, the New Orleans area exhales and you can actually see the city for who she is when not putting on her face for visitors.



That seems only fitting for Lent -- clear out the company and get your house back in order. I've been doing that this week by attending a Lenten Mission at Mary Queen of Peace each evening, led by visiting Redemptorist priest, Father Daniel Francis, who's been 'playing to packed houses.' With his funny, touching, insightful and prayerful leadership, these nights are a spiritual respite from the rest of the world that is paying far too much attention to the latest scandals surrounding "The Bachelor" or "American Idol."

Meanwhile, the weather has taken a turn back to cold and gray -- perfect for long walks amidst the pines when the air is so brisk and fulfilling, you can almost gulp it. All is as it should be.

MOVE OVER OPRAH! Time for Mandeville's Favorite Things

In past years, as satirized on Saturday Night Live, Oprah went full out -- often causing a case of 'the vapors' for many women -- during her annual "Favorite Things" show. This was the day that so many viewers wished they could have had the luck of the draw to be in the audience for -- to be able to leave the studio with a truckload of coveted loot. But -- due to the recession, Oprah has announced over the last couple of years that it would be in poor taste to do a show that focused on such pricier items and instead concentrated on free things that could bring as much joy (oh, the crestfallen looks on the poor audience members' faces when they heard this!).

Well, this writer asks, "Why can't we do a favorite things edition, with just a little restraint, instead? In other words, why throw the baby out with the bath water?" To that end, Christabelle presents the top ten items to present your favorite lady in Mandeville this year -- and each is under $50!!!!!!!

1. Bare Escentuals Bare & Healthy Lip Polish. Ohmygosh, I'm not even a girly girl and I'm crazy for this one. If you have lips that are feeling dry and chapped from the onset of winter weather, and are tired of the sameoldsameoldsameold gloss or -- worse -- lipsticks that seem to never be the color on YOU that they are in the tube, then get yourself over to "About Face" in Mandeville http://www.aboutfaceco.com/AF_Home.html and spend the best $18 that your lips have ever seen on one of these. And it's just about impossible to go wrong with any shade.

2. bareMinerals Maximum Coverage Concealer Brush. The most important brush you will ever own. I had mine for years, then lost it several days ago and rushed over to About Face to get another. Would have eaten peanut butter sandwiches for a week to fit this $20 essential into my weekly budget!

3. About a year ago I bought -- for under $30 -- a pair of CZ stud earrings in a truly one-of-a-kind crown setting. They go with jeans, a little black dress, and even with my dance leotards when I want to feel great in ballet class. I bought them during a fun-filled neighborhood show presented by Premier Designs. Click here to find local info: https://gem.premierdesigns.com/public/contactform_pdi25.asp

4. Head over to Fresh Market http://www.thefreshmarket.com/and pick up Republic of Tea's Acerola Cherry Green Tea for your favorite tea drinker. This is one of the 'prettiest' tasting teas, with a high Vitamin C content, and it will set you back a slim $10! While you're there, pick up a fragrant bouquet of roses for your sweetheart. Their flowers last FAR longer than any I have purchased anywhere else and the price couldn't be be better -- under $10 for a dozen!

5. You can't go wrong with a PJ's http://www.pjscoffee.com/ gift card for your favorite giftee -- they start at just $10, which will provide a few fragrant lattes (I prefer chai, myself) inside an Acadian-style cottage on Highway 22.

6. Kmart -- yes, Kmart -- on U.S. 190 in Mandeville, sells a package of 15 environmentally friendly natural wood hangers,http://www.kmart.com/shc/s/search_10151_10104?keyword=wood+hangers&vName=&x=20&y=5 for $14.99. I have bought several packages of these, and they are fantastic for everything from slacks to knits, with no rough spots to snag your clothing.

7. I've got to promote my friend Abby Sands Miller's latest collaborative project -- with OR nurse by day/cougar by night, Rosemary Donnelly: a one-of-a kind cookbook that's fraught with cougar-isms! Being released this month! http://www.cougarinstincts.com/

8. That piano in your living room shouldn't be a still life during the holidays -- it's meant to make music. Why not start making THAT, instead of the television over the mantel (ugh -- whoever came up with that decorating faux pas?!?!?!?!) the focal point of the room? Just a $40 registration fee at the Louisiana Academy of Performing Arts, with its several locations, including one on Girod Street in Old Mandeville, will get the love of your life started or re-started as a musician.

9. While you're out and about, why not take a lunchtime breather at La Madeleine in the Premier Centre, on Highway 190 in Mandeville, with its consistently good fare. My favorite is the grilled chicken Caesar salad with an accompanying cup of hot potato soup, topped with cheddar http://www.lamadeleine.com/menu/lunch#fresh%20salades. If fate shines upon you, you'll be able to snag a table by the fireplace. Cost, including a glass of wine -- under $20 apiece. Yum!

10. Although dessert is tempting at La Madeleine, you might want to take a walk over to T.J. Maxx, also in the Premier Centre, and pick up a few boxes of Harry & David high quality chocolate truffles, discounted at just $5.99 for a dozen! Right now, for the holidays, you can find the special edition of Peppermint Truffles. Double yum!

See, it really doesn't take a whole lot to make a Mandeville lady's holidays a bit brighter. Enjoy!

Fleur de Fall ... From My Diet

Last night was Mary Queen of Peace's 3rd annual Fleur de Fall, a fundraiser of food, music and auctioning. I have never, and I mean NEVER, seen that array of food anywhere else in my life. And I partook of most of it. From station to station, I noshed on pecan crusted fish; vegie spring rolls and mini chicken tenders with hot mustard sauce; an incredible (worth 2 servings) roasted sweet pepper and smoked chicken bisque with cilantro cream; fried catfish and garlic fries (decadent!); turtle soup, salad remoulade (3 servings worth -- amazing!); chicken and andouille gumbo; jambalaya; a variety of cheeses; some wonderful chocolate truffles; and several tastings of dry red wines. For a church function, this felt rather gluttonous, but all for a good cause, and I intend to work off those calories and concomitant sluggishness in a few minutes.

Despite a little gastronomic over-indulging, I can at least congratulate myself for not being tempted by all those odd-colored drinks I saw making their way about. Bright blue liquor -- especially with food -- just doesn't hold much appeal. I understand they fit in with the "sailing the high seas" theme, but those kinds of beverages would likely find their way into the high seas of my bathroom commode at some point in the wee hours of the morning. "Let's not and say we did," is my motto for such whimsical drinks.

The silent auction was every bit as impressive as the food in terms of quality and quantity. I was particularly impressed by some of the art that the school children turned out. In fact, my sole bid was on a wonderful seafood platter that depicted a large red crab in the shape of a fleur de lis with lots of tiny little crabs created by thumb prints (it was accompanied by a gift certificate for seafood), but I did not let the spirit of the evening let me lose all control of my senses and bank account.

Speaking of bank accounts, I feel like the poor relation of this entire city after sitting in awe, watching numerous high rollers bid thouands and thousands of dollars, with apparent abandon, at the live auction. Trips to sporting events, travel packages for Vegas, the French Quarter and so forth, all manner of items signed by the Saints coach or players ... even a meal for four prepared by Monsignor Bill and served at his home went for something like $5,500! The one thing I especially would have loved to have been sufficiently flush to buy ($4,000 was the winning bid) was a very large, antique icon Father Ronnie brought back from Greece. Having studied Russian architecture and icons while at Tulane, and possessing one small icon from my former ballet instructor (now retired in his homeland of Yugoslavia), I really felt the pull for this item, but it was not to be at this time.

I'll bet a lot of parishioners are sleeping in this morning ...

When a Treehouse Turns on You ...

Quel weekend! And it's not even over yet. Friday afternoon, I had just finished a stint at the keyboard, doing some legal writing, when I started experiencing what I not-so-nicely (but accurately) refer to as "butt death." Time to stretch, get out of the PJs, get cleaned up, go over to Franco's for a workout, and then resume some writing in the evening. After washing up, I gave my vanity mirror a typical quick wipedown when I heard and felt its mammoth weight descend upon me.

This is no ordinary vanity mirror. It's bigger than a door -- covers the entire wall. So when it started coming down, I knew, at once, one really good reason to be married. So I could shout, "Honey, the vanity mirror is falling on me!" But since there was no such person to shout that to, I mustered up all the brute force I could, one bicep supporting the mirror, while the other tended to clearing the counter below. Then, using both arms and not just a little bit of lumbar spine, I eased the mirror down to the cabinet to rest for the time being.

Since the mirror now was taking up the entire dressing room, which leads to the commode and shower, I needed to create an alternate path, through my home office. My office was all a'clutter, so this took well into the evening. A task I'd wanted to get to eventually, but was now necessitated. Meanwhile, I checked on line and in the yellow pages under headings like "rent a husband" or "save writer from losing her mind with one more way her house is betraying her" and left voice mail messages on a couple of home repair numbers.

I received one call back eventually from a guy who said he could be there no earlier than Monday. Meanwhile, my real estate agent/friend called me back -- I'd also left her a message asking if she knew of resources. She said that maybe her very capable husband could find some time over the weekend.

On the bright side, the mirror was not broken. On the not so bright side, I was envisioning another unexpected hit to my bank account, just after, earlier in the week, I'd forked over nearly $700 for new eyeglasses -- and that's with a vision plan discount! On the even dimmer side, was the backache starting to manifest itself, after the initial adrenaline had enabled me to hoist that mirror while emptying the counter -- an awkward and cumbersome task.

My lower back is a cautionary area to begin with, by virtue of my having a hypermobile SI joint. Added to that, I'm not anywhere in the kind of shape I was when I retired from the dance company some 14 years ago. And, I took a brutal trip and fall in August. But -- having decided to give it a go this year for their 30 year anniversary, I was elated last Wednesday night at having a really great rehearsal. I hated to think that my behemoth vanity mirror could be my ultimate downfall.

The next day, I went into the city to teach my round of Saturday morning classes to preschool ballerinas who were in some kind of collective mood. Due to a major function going on in Audubon Park, traffic was crazy and I arrived with no time to catch my breath, cue all of my music, greet the children individually, and proceed calmly. Instead, I felt as out of sorts as they apparently were. It's true, I think, that children do mirror (no pun intended) our own moods. On this particular day, I was all too happy to get out of there, skip afternoon company rehearsal, and get back to Mandeville to see about home repairs. It was small consolation, as I left the studio, to have my arm grabbed by one of the mothers who told me, "Sophie just LOVES you! She thinks you're SO funny!" I mustered up some response about how desperation makes me a real riot by the third class of the day.

As it turned out, my friend's husband had a small window of opportunity, before an LSU game/party, to fix my mirror. He assessed the situation, made a 20-minute run to the hardware store to get what he needed, and then -- following some justifiable cursing about not finding the studs where they should be in the wall -- got the mirror back up there to stay with 35 minutes to spare before his. Turns out that the mirror had never been properly anchored in the first place and was an accident waiting to happen -- much like, I am sorry to say, other aspects of this often traitorous treehouse.

While Mark was re-affixing the errant mirror, I noticed something familiar happening outside my window. Once a year, in late autumn, dads and sons pitch tent out on the Cedarwood School lawn that abuts my back yard. It's a time for a little cross-generational male bonding under the stars. I watched as more and more multi-colored geodesic domes dotted the landscape, resembling a convention of hot air balloons that have made a happy landing. At this point, the boys were dashing about in happy delirium.

What I needed after all of that was some time at Franco's. Nothing like a workout, a long shower, and a sauna to set me right. I stopped home to change, noting that as nightfall loomed, the boys on the school yard were now bursting with excitement, shrieking and running barefoot about the lush green grounds. Minutes later, I headed over to the grand opening of Jose Balli's new gallery/store in Covington featuring his Louisiana-inspired art and jewelry http://www.joseballi.com/?show=Home. N'tini's http://www.ntinis.com/ was on hand with some crab meat dressing, turkey gumbo, jambalaya and bread pudding.

By the time I arrived home, the evening was well settled in. The din from the school yard had abated to just a few young voices in the moonlight calling out "hello,"to anyone within earshot. They couldn't see my responsive smile. I was not without memories of my own about such nights. I recognized their invitation to note, "hey, look at us, we're still up and we're sleeping outside, isn't it great?" Yes, it was. All was right with the world again.

Dear People of Mandeville

For all who were not at City Hall yesterday, I'd like to share the gist of my initial address in my quest to become interim mayor.

Five months. That doesn't seem like a lot of time in the great scheme of things, does it? More on that in a moment. I first want to establish that I am well acquainted with the mechanics of local government. As a young journalist, I spent many years covering both state and local news, from city hall meetings -- like the one we're having today, to elections -- such as we anticipate here in the spring, to public works projects projects -- ranging from something as enormous as deep tunnel sewers in a large city, to getting a working snow blower in a small town. But in addition to my experience in journalistic and legal matters, I also know a thing or two about children. I not only grew up the oldest girl of 10 of them, but I've also been an educator for nearly 20 years. I have taught children of all economic backgrounds, ethnicities, and capabilities -- both physical and intellectual. One of the local papers reported that "Rukavina's focus seems to be on children." Well, yes it is. Because they comprise a large segment of this community's population. And what all of these children have in common is one thing: They are going to inherit, in a few short years, the vestiges of the mess that this country is in. I want to put a positive spin on that looming challenge. As interim mayor, I intend to light a fire under them -- to get them excited and interested in local government as a living, breathing entity that not only affects them, but which they themselves can positively and profoundly affect, long before they reach voting age. This is not only an important step in their development, but will also serve the rest of us well, as we all become older and they assume more responsibilities and control. I know something else about children, too. They are a lot quicker on the uptake than you or I. They have shown me time and again just how much they can learn in a few short weeks. What I can do with them in just five months as interim mayor could be astounding. On another note, you are all aware that this is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and accordingly, I am also doing this for all the women like myself who have to fight this insidious disease -- to urge all of them to dream big. I have already demonstrated that a 48-year-old cancer survivor can become the oldest person ever accepted into a dance major program in the history of Louisiana, and achieve a 4.0. I would love to show you what I can also do with the challenge of serving as interim mayor. Thank you.

An Elevated Lifestyle

Back in the late 1970s, when I first began my newspaper career, I researched and wrote a piece about underground homes. Even in the smalltown, semi-rural area where I cut my teeth as a journalist, there were a few mavericks who opted for this type of residence. What fueled interest in such homes at that time was a combination of the energy crisis and heightened fear about the prospect of nuclear winter. But make no mistake about it -- these new age dwellers wanted you to know that their homes might be "low" in stature but high in amenities and comfort.



In fact, not long after I wrote my article, the founder of Celestial Seasonings Tea Company, John Hays, "carved out" what had to be the most opulent underground dwelling of all, in an Arkansas mountainside, complete with stalactites, in preparation for what he believed was the looming holocaust. This luxurious bomb shelter later became the subject of a layout in People magazine, when John's wife, several years later, decided that the couple was no longer in imminent danger and tried to sell the multi-million dollar property.



The property was sold to a fellow who thought it would make a fantastic nightclub; he fixed it up further and even added a heliport. The grand opening saw the likes of Michael Jackson, Liz Taylor, Tom Selleck and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Although the club was an initial hit, it closed after a year for not being sufficiently profitable. The property was sold again and again (in fact, at one point, back to the original owner) and went through various troubles until finally being converted into a lodge in 1998 which has served it well ever since.



Now I bring all of this up because the topic of underground living has been making recent headlines -- but not at all in the same way or for the same reasons as previously.



You see, in the several years that I've owned my "treehouse," I've come to love the feeling of sleeping in the trees, even though that might be a bit of a stretch -- literally. That is, if I reached my hand outside any window on the 2nd floor, I could touch one of the towering pines that surround my home, and so I feel I have made a presentable case for deeming this a "treehouse," which, by definition, connotes a physical loftiness. A sanctuary in which to transcend the travails of common life.



That is why I've lately become fascinated with the lives of underground dwellers, such as those romanticized in the former TV series, "Beauty and the Beast." TV magazine shows have focused recently on people who live in the underground drains in Las Vegas. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of people there have found a niche in these dank, cavernous places, and somehow made them "home," with beds, books, perhaps even a rigged up shower. There is no ventilation, no light except for flashlights or candles. There is the ever present danger presented by co-residing black widow spider, as well as by the prospect of rain/flooding, which has claimed some 20 lives to date.



These creatures, which call to mind the "Omega Man" mutants who can't stand daylight, periodically emerge to make their "living," scouring the slot machines for coins and credit slips, "earning" as much as $500 a day. Yet, they still cannot permanently pull themselves out from their hovels. As it turns out, many of them found their way into this lifestyle via drug and alcohol dependency which they now claim to have beaten, although a few still fear coming back up in to the general populace due to outstanding drug-related arrest warrants.



Reading between the lines, it also seems that these folks have found a strange comfort level in living immediately below the glitz and glamour and cacophony that defines the Vegas strip. And who's to say which is more aberrant?



This way of life is getting a lot of press because of the ongoing deep recession that has affected all of us.



But, it is actually nothing new. Decades back, stories abounded about the "mole people" of New York such as this one dating back to 1990: http://www.nytimes.com/1990/06/13/nyregion/in-tunnel-mole-people-fight-to-save-home.html



And now that more people than ever are out of work or underemployed, uninsured or underinsured, such tales of Hades-esque survival are resurfacing: http://www.nypost.com/p/entertainment/notes_from_the_underground_cBpY2m15R9J0ysIm58QK1M .



Not exactly the kind of New York that would ever show up in a segment of "Sex and the City," but compelling nonetheless.



Oddly, resorting to the underworld is not relegated solely to major metropolises: http://www.clickorlando.com/news/14673988/detail.html



In these times, I am more grateful than ever to be "above ground."