Knee Replacement.....The Struggle is Real
By Patricia White

I knew about six years ago that my knees were going south on me, faster than new meds were being developed to treat them. A total knee replacement was not an option for me at that time as far as I was concerned. For several years I had regular steroid injections as well as Synvisc injections. I would ask my Doc each visit if he thought my really bad knee was ready for the next step. He always shook his head and said, "not just yet." I'd ask if it was really a big deal. He always said, "Yes, it's a big deal." At least he was honest.

We were just coming off a good year of being back on the tennis courts, Zydeco dancing every Friday night at Swampy's, our favorite watering hole/restaurant, water aerobics, gym workouts and even a little Pickle Ball at the Y with the old gummers. I think the Pickle Ball was what did me in. The final curtain came down on my knees. 

After two scopes and a micro-fracture, there was still not much improvement in my worst knee. I became sedentary way ahead of my time.  I worked with a trainer twice a week for a year. My goals were to keep my knees moving and to avoid replacement at all cost. The extra exercise was giving me back, hip and ankle problems so I quit everything. After a year of hobbling around with a cane, being dropped off at the door of every place we went, I just kind of quit doing most things. I became an arm-chair shopper and saved all my energy for cooking and doing simple things around the house. I felt like life was passing me by. It was decision time.

I went back to my ortho only to learn that he was no longer doing knees.  But, he said that his associate was a highly trained and skilled surgeon, recruited from California, and was doing the latest and greatest new MAKOPLASTY, robotic assisted surgery. That info gave me a real sense of assurance somewhere between, OK, let's do this and run like hell!!! With much urging from all my peeps, I scheduled an appointment and went for a consultation. In a fog of information and anxiety, I heard someone setting up a surgery date and suddenly realized it was me. I was on auto-pilot. Surgery was set for one month out and it would take that long to complete all the assigned tasks, x-rays, meetings, etc. Well, one month was way too long to have to think about the things I knew they would do to me. And if I heard correctly from well-meaning friends, with tools from the woodshed. Besides all those crazy thoughts, a new problem developed. My ankle on my good leg gave out completely, necessitating a steroid injection which moved surgery out another month. I prayed daily for a sign from God whether I should do this thing. The ankle issue looked like a sign to me, but I waited a bit longer for a bigger bonk on the head. Then, one morning, my gut just told me I should not and could not go through with surgery and I cancelled. Yep, all the tests, meetings, etc. Erased from my calendar and my mind.  We southern girls know we must go with our gut feelings. I breathed a sigh of relief. No more worries about surgery. But the problem was still there, big-time. I'd figure something out after the holidays.

Thanksgiving was tough as I always prepared a large portion of the meal, but Christmas put my behind in a sling. We had 35 for Christmas Eve and nothing was too good for my family.  I slaved for days making the house and preparations perfect, all with the help of my precious husband. A lot of meltdowns, hugs, Tylenol, icing of my knee, etc. My family could see the strain and after Christmas, told me I just had to get my knee fixed.

January 2, 2018,  I called and rescheduled surgery for February 6.  I was scared again. Shitless. There were dietary changes to make which demanded an increase in protein, old meds to be stopped and new ones started, three-times-a day exercises, x-rays, scans, labs....OMG, meetings and my regular life still needed to go on.

Surgery day arrived and so did we at 5:30 am, ready for this piece of cake everyone touted. Surgery took about 45 minutes and I suppose all went well. With the nerve block in my leg, I was up and walking four hours later. I thought, wow, this is going to be easy. Only because I begged and had a meltdown at my final Dr. visit before surgery, I was able to stay the night in the hospital. New Medicare guidelines now deem knee replacement for Seniors, Day Surgery! You heard me.  I made it through the first night post-op, then it was time to head home.

One thing we failed to plan out was how I would get up into the truck for the trip home. I was so high on drugs and residuals from surgery, I have no idea how I got up on that seat. I think they may have used a back hoe. When we arrived home, I just kind of slid out of the truck onto a thick cushion on the garage floor and trudged inside collapsing on the first soft surface I came to.

Shortly thereafter, I moved into the bed which became my pillow-lined nest for two weeks. The bathroom was 14 steps too many away.  I cried during every round trip. I was taking pain meds every four hours, day and night.  My hubby was cooking grits in the middle of the night for me as I had to have food on my tummy to tolerate the meds. Or, he was fetching pudding, milk, ice, cookies or something 24 hours a day. The struggle was real, for both of us.  I was unable to take anti-inflammatory meds because of previous heart issues and it was making recovery and healing slower than I could accept. I was not prepared in advance for the situation I found myself in. Are we ever? Poor pitiful me. I put on a good face but most saw through it.

The weeks dragged by with what I thought was more than my share of pain and nausea. I started some aggressive outpatient physical therapy about week three. My range of motion improved rapidly but the pain lingered. Everyone encouraged me to just take the pain meds. Don't let the pain get ahead of you, was their mantra. After six weeks of aggressive therapy, I began to fear that I would become addicted to the meds and against all recommendations, I started to taper off. The pain wasn't gone just the medicine and I was in meltdown mode most of the time. Each therapy session seemed to make matters worse. I prayed constantly for relief. I lived each day by faith, not by sight, as I saw no signs my knee was getting well. Jesus take the wheel!

With one physical therapy session left, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I called my cardiologist and insisted that I be allowed to take something to reduce the inflammation. My ortho wanted me off the pain meds and to go to pain management. Against my better judgment, I called to make the appointment and the nurse started talking long needles and injections on the phone . Game off. I called in my prayer warriors and I devised a plan to get better in a hurry. You don't really need to know my plan because it probably changed each day and it encompassed a lot of things, mostly God driven. I'm finally getting where I need to be. For me, it has taken almost three months after surgery. It's different for everyone. There is no norm, which I was looking for. The nights are still a little shaky because I'm unconsciously protecting my knee all night long, thus waking up a lot. But if I wake up and my knee is throbbing, I put a soft pillow on top of it and tell it to go back to sleep. Alas, I am so much better! No tears for several days or waking up with unexplained, free-floating anxiety. I think I've got this. I still have a few more months to go before I get my stamina back and to feel like I truly have a new knee. We signed up at the gym today and paid for a year in advance. I am committed.

The Struggle Has Been Real!!! My family has been the REALEST thing of all, present every step of the way with love, meals, encouragement or whatever we needed. No surprises there because that is how we roll, 365. My goal this morning was to make it through today as some days over the past few months it was to make it through the next hour. Baby steps from February to May and I took every one of then, not alone, but with God’s help.

  

I AM A SURVIVOR.

What a Difference a Year Makes

By Patricia White

I used to feel as though the days flew by, then it was the weeks, and now it’s the YEARS!! Every time I turn around it is Christmas again. The day after Labor Day, I now see  Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas Decor go on sale at Hobby Lobby. As soon as the merchants warn us we have 119 days until Christmas, the year is almost over again. Run, run Rudolf ‘cause I’m reeling like a merry-go-round.

First on my agenda this year was Cataract Surgery that went very well. I’m going to tell you I was crazy-kind of scared, no matter how many people told me it was a piece of cake. I did my usual praying for days beforehand that all would go well with no complications. When the day of surgery arrived, being very anxious, I began to pray to Archangel Raphael, whose specialty is healing (i.e. fixing broken things). When I checked into the surgical center and got all gowned up, I was told my nurse, Raphael, would soon be in to take over my care. My heart skipped a beat when I realized my own personal archangel had come to be with me. I teared up. Need I say more? I had one eye done on Monday and one on Wednesday and came down with the flu on Friday of the same week.  Although my eye-surgery outcome was perfect, 20/20 vision gave me no consolation as I trotted like a goose back and forth to the bathroom …. a reaction to Tamiflu. I know, let’s get this New Year started, right??? 

Fast forward a few weeks, with a glimpse of spring and slightly warmer temps, we moved our motor home to our favorite spot on the lake for three months. Being only an hour from home, we had the luxury of motoring back and forth when the neighborhood natives got restless or the sandbox got too crowded. Or when we just yearned for the pleasure of drinking our morning coffee on the lake’s edge as the ducks swam by, nodding, “Good morning, Humans.”  We loved being out there, hanging out in our little gazebo, grilling, dancing in the moonlight and drowning worms, until Spring sprung and the heat drove us home. As we wound our way out of the park on our last day, we heard a loud crash. With a bedeviling feeling in my gut, I opened the door and I saw that we had wrapped our still-extended awning around a telephone pole. By means of a little help and a few bucks later, we secured the mangled awning to the side of the motor home and thanked God that was the worst thing that happened during our stay. The Glampets were on the road again….headed home. A good time was had by all who visited. Fo sure!

Between the heat, the rains and Hurricane Harvey, it was an eventful summer. If you didn’t have water in your house, you were blessed. We were blessed. Neighbors were helping neighbors with many paying it forward. We saw much sadness but a lot of gladness too.  We lost our precious kitty, Tiger, but as soon as the airlines were flying after the storm, we got another precious kitty, a two-year-old female, Doll-Face Persian from Troy, Missouri. Cakes is the happiest and sweetest kitty in the world. Dogs have masters, but cats have staff. Indeed! Cakes came from a household with four young children and many cats who kept her entertained. We try to run, roll on the floor and play with her, but the challenge is real. LOL. Albeit, this is her forever home and we love her to the Moon.

We endured football season, ignored Halloween, thoroughly enjoyed Thanksgiving and here it is Christmas time again. The purple and gold LSU tree is up, the Nativity is in place and years of decor is scattered around the house. Outside lights are blinking and Santa Baby is playing on a small but melodious speaker in the kitchen window. I can still remember Eartha Kitt singing that song, do you? CYO Center, circa 1953. We are prepared to host our beautiful family for Christmas and anxiously await the arrival of Baby Jesus.  

Like I said, what a difference a year makes. Family members were reunited, a new baby was born, two more on the way, new friends came into our lives and old friends crossed over. We are survivors, warriors, wild ones at heart. I’m getting a new knee in 2018. Wonder Woman goes Bionic! I hear that Zydeco Music playing, waiting for me. I shall dance again. Stay tuned…💕

Miss Cakes

Two Old People and Their Cat

By Patricia White

I started this blog a year ago this month. I was pretty regular for several months and then it was Christmas and I was knee-deep in inserting gift cards into envelopes and straw-bossing some amazing Christmas house decorators. I am the Queen of Excuses these days. For someone who used cloth diapers and has always made everything from scratch, including Valentines, I now use a service for anything we can afford. It no longer floats my boat to do it all myself.  I get joy from just getting out of bed and making it to the coffee pot with or without a cane. When we are not running the streets, hunting and gathering, I have no problem being lazy a large part of the day.  My seventy-six-year old body is not cooperating with my forty-six-year-old mind so I have to settle for entertainment wherever I can get it. I have become an arm-chair shopper rather than a mall rocker. My hubby asks what I want for breakfast and he then fixes it for me. (Bad knees) In return, I ask where he’d like to go for lunch……and so it goes. We needed more and after a lot of thought and consideration we decided it was time for Pet Therapy. 

I got my mind set on a beautiful doll-face Persian around Christmas and had to wait patiently until the end of April to get him. He jetted in from St. Louis all by himself at ten-weeks old and we collected him at a remote cargo location at the airport. The agent first shoved a handmade wood crate at me that housed a big green bird. Nope, not mine. I hate birds. Look again, cargo man! Then the agent found a tiny crate with our little kitten crouched in the back. I peeped inside, our eyes met and I wept!  Come to Mama, I purred. It was like having a baby all over again but without the duck walk and labor. We named him Tiger because he looks like a Tiger. He is an apricot ball of fluff now, quickly losing his stripes, save for his raccoon tail and some facial markings. 

`

We bought a fancy bed/house and I made a beautiful little purple crocheted afghan for him but he chooses to sleep under our bed on top of the spare dining room table leaf, naked and cold. He’s not even interested in tearing the afghan apart.  We have purchased one of every fun cat toy there is but he prefers to play with a fat rubber band that says WWJD, a wine cork, a paper bag or small cardboard box. He decides when he will sit in our lap, when he goes to bed and when he goes potty. Just keep his toilet flushed and his dish full of kibbles du 

jour  and he is happy. At four-months old, it is easy to see he is an Alpha Cat. They say cats aren't trainable, but everything is negotiable with Tiger at the sound of the crinkle of a bag of kitty treats. Crinkle, crinkle. 

I'm coming, mommie, I can change!

At six-thirty a.m. T-man jumps up on the bed and pounces in the middle of my chest. He purrs, licks and kisses my face.  He snuggles my neck and meows for me to get up. I adore this kitten so I slowly crawl out of bed and carry him into the den to start the day. Once I open the bedroom door he jumps from my arms to explore the awesome wonders of the parts of our house that have been shut off to him all night.  First stop, the breakfront to check out the ceramic rabbit. Tiger: And, who the hail are you? Me: You crazy cat.  Seeing me settled in my chair, sipping coffee and waking up, he heads back to the bedroom and begins working on my hubby, who in a very short whil­­e comes walking into the den, carrying the cat. Tiger has done his get-your-ass out of bed routine on Mr. Leblanc He wants everyone up and at his disposal. He is funnier than a circus clown.  Well, we think he is funny but you know old people will laugh at anything. He gets away with murder because he can outrun us. I know, right!

And, Tiger is hypo-allergenic too! No Shinola!! No sneezing or itching or runny noses here.  I comb him everyday and tell him how gorgeous he is and that sweet kittens don't bite and that he can change. When he’s not playing hide-n-seek, or trying to lick us with his pointed little teeth, he loves watching TV. He thoroughly enjoyed Wimbledon, moving his head from side to side watching the ball. He turned to look at us periodically with an expression that said, “nice shot, huh?” 

Kitty Poo just about tore our Venetian blinds down so we had to spring for new wood shutters. That's what  pet owners do for their forever-kitty. Right?  It all worked out for the best, because I've been wanting wood shutters for three years anyway. And, Tiger can't climb or swing from these here ones  and get hurt. We open the lower louvers and he crawls through and onto the window sill for sun bathing or frog watching. No telling what he thinks about what's beyond the window pane. Maybe he thinks it's Cat Heaven or Chicago. 

We  feed him warm, pureed chicken breast for dinner every night and supplement it with expensive varieties of dry food for his noshing pleasure during the day. Tiger doesn't go outside because he doesn't know there is an outside. He is definitely a lounge lizard and easier to raise and care for than any other animal we’ve ever owned, or child for that matter. So, we’re really in love with this adorable kitten. In the two and a half months we have had Tiger, I’ve accumulated 157 pictures and 16 videos on my phone. Don’t judge! You have not seen how really fluffy and beautiful he is, like pale orange cotton-candy. But, I’m fixing to throw one last magazine-worthy picture out here  before I sign off.

If you’re not a cat person, read no more………..LOL........He probably doesn't like you either.

                          

*

The Bless*ed Dressing

By Patricia White

     
     With the patio door cracked open, I could feel the cool evening breeze as I waited anxiously for my hubby to get home from work. Sitting in my favorite spot, in the corner of our brown leather sofa, I was sipping a glass of Cab and working a crossword when my husband walked in. He had a big smile on his face and gave me his usual, sweet, hello kiss.

     “How was work?” I asked. 
     “Fine. The Thanksgiving Feast is coming up the end of next week and Tammy asked me if Pat would make the cornbread dressing.”
     I looked up from my crossword puzzle and said, “Pat who?”

    “Pat, you. You’ve spoiled them, they love your dressing," he said

     Because I was working last year, Tammy had to order dressing from the building deli and no one liked it. It was dry and had too much sage. He said that he told Tammy he was sure I’d be happy to make it. I bit my tongue, I was not happy, or flattered or thankful.

“Well, I was hoping to send the rolls and butter this year, but I’ll do that for you.  By the way, is everyone    preparing a dish?”

“No,” he said. “Those who don’t cook gave Tammy ten dollars to buy stuff.” I headed for my purse and offered him a twenty.  He looked hurt. 

     “It was a joke,” I said.  “Of course I will make the dressing.” 

 He volunteered to shop for all the ingredients and to chop up all the veggies for me in advance.

That little piggy went to market.

     A few days after he volunteered my services for this culinary undertaking, I woke up one morning and my right leg wasn’t working.  The bottom half of my leg went one way and my knee went the other. There was no explaining the bum knee, just untimely bad luck; maybe it was good luck with the dressing thing.  I thought for a second I was off the hook. But I’m not one for making excuses and I did have my CVS animal-print cane, and at worst, Mama’s walker was in the storage closet.

     After trying to walk with a cane unsuccessfully for several days, I saw the Doctor and sadly accepted the news that I had bad joint strain and had to stay off the knee….if I could.  Rest and ice. That was two days before the gargantuan task of making my better than store bought dressing for thirty something of the dearest people in my husband’s office.  I was also to be the delivery girl and my timing had to be perfect.  Somehow I had to get that twenty-pound pan of hot dressing to the truck if I had to tie a rope around the handle and pull it out there.

”I’ll huff and I’ll puff……………

 

     The day before the feast, I made the cornbread, sautéed all the veggies, mixed it all up with my special secret ingredients and dumped it into the big pan with the handles and shoved it into the fridge. Next day I had only to bake and transport it. Just as I got the kitchen all cleaned up, standing on my good leg, the bad leg propped on a footstool, the phone rang. It was hubby. Now, they wanted a big bowl of my delicious gravy to go with the dressing.  I guessed that next they would want me to dress up in a uniform and serve. I was injured, my leg was getting no better and I was not warming up to this kitchen frolic. I was having un-Christian-like thoughts.

     As I rolled over in bed the next morning, the day of the feast, I had a burning pain up under my left wing (Yes, I have wings). I was sure it was a pulled muscle from pulling myself up and down with my old flabby arms.  This was becoming a nightmare. I had dressing to bake, gravy to make and somehow load it all into the truck with only half of my mojo working and now, a busted wing.  I just wanted to cry, but I pretended to be better as I walked my hubby to his car, like I did every day. I blew him a kiss as he drove off into the blue-sky morning. He offered to stay but I insisted it was no biggie.

     “See you at 11:00.”  I mouthed, with a tear in my eye, as he backed out of the carport.

    The fridge was opposite the oven so transferring the dressing was not too taxing.  The Angels were hovering over me. Mama must have sent them down. I could feel a warm presence. After a short while, a wonderful aroma was wafting from the oven and I was just about done with the gravy when the phone rang. It was hubby.  He said he would need our electric knife and asked me to throw it into the box.

     “What box?” I asked.

     “Well, the hot gravy should be in a box so it doesn’t spill in the truck.”

     “Of course, why didn’t I think of that?” I said sarcastically. Where in the hail was I going to get a friggin box?

     “Hold on,” I said, as I switched the phone to speaker and laid it on the counter.

     I squatted on one leg to dig the electric knife handle from out of the back of the kitchen cabinet. I finally reached it just as I dropped my cane. I fell to the floor and screamed. I shouted toward the phone.

     “I’m OK. Baby got back, just not enough to soften that fall.”

      I silently cursed everyone on the tenth floor of One Riverway as I pulled myself up off the kitchen floor, fished the knife blades out of the drawer and threw everything on the countertop. I remembered there was an empty wine box in the dining room from last night’s wine run.  The mail lady was peering into the dining room window. What the hail was she looking at? I guess she’s heard me scream.  I was breathing heavily when I finally picked up the phone.  

     “OK, it’s all in the box.” I said.

     “Are you OK?”

     “Yes, I’m fine.”

     “Try to be here by 11:15.” He said sweetly.

     “OK, I’ll do my best.”

     “If you need me, I can come home and get all that stuff.” 

     “No problem, I’m good,” I said. (I’ve had four children, two with no anesthetic, I got this).

 

     As I reached over the counter to hang up the phone, I knocked half a box of Swanson’s chicken broth off the counter and all over the floor and my jammies.“Sorry, Angels, I know I need my mouth washed out with soap.” I wiggled out of my jammie bottoms and dropped them on top of the mess on the floor, hoping to sop some of the broth.  Last thing I needed was to slip and fall. Now that my pants were off, I could see that my knee was swelling more. I would foot-mop the floor when I got home.

This little piggy was mad at all the little piggies in her husband’s office.

      I crawled up the stairs to take a hot bath and dress for the epic delivery of what was becoming the Bless*ed dressing. I put on fresh jeans, a really cute top, silver turkey earrings, make up, extra mascara and teased up my hair just in case Eye Witness News was there or someone from the office insisted that I come up and share this pre-Thanksgiving bounty. No pitiful looking Patty here. 
Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.

     When all the food was at the perfect temperature I started to work my plan for getting it all into the truck.  I rolled the dressing to the truck on the desk chair, then the box with my delicious daayum gravy and serving tools and slammed the door shut. Then I called hubby.

     “I’m rolling and will call you when I get close to the office.”

     “Thank you, baby,” he said. “You’re the best.”

      I10 was like a log jam. A long funeral procession was in the right lane and someone was moving a house down the other two open lanes.  I would not make it by 11:15. As I pedaled my SUV down I10, more than frustration was setting in. I had full blown road rage and a temporary case of Tourette’s.  I was starting to hope lunch would be over by the time I got there with the best part. Some twisted part of me said they didn’t deserve my dressing.  When I was finally able to merge onto 610, it looked for a minute like the Woodway Exit was blocked off. 

“Oh look, a makeshift exit,” I shouted to no one. “Yee Haw for the office, I will make it with the Bless*ed dressing.” I called Hubby to let him know the eagle would land in five minutes.

     Hubby met me at the car and said I wasn’t late; everyone was upstairs sipping wine, eating hors d’oeuvres and having fun.  He removed the dressing from the back of the vehicle and the box with the gravy and electric knife parts and placed it all on a small dolly.  He thanked me and gave me a quick kiss.

     “No problem, Sweetheart, just be sure to tell Santa Clause I was a good girl this year.”

      He laughed as he hurried off with my epicurean delight. He was so proud I’d made the dressing. I didn’t really want to go to the party.  Eye Witness News wasn’t there either. All my fluffing was for nothing. I started the truck and headed straight for Chico’s to shop for a beautiful new outfit I so deserved.

This little piggy did not cry wee wee wee all the way home.

     Back home, mid-afternoon, the phone rang.  It was Hubby.

     “The dressing was a hit,” he said. “They ate every morsel of it.”

     “Good,” I said. “I am here to serve.”

     He said he just had to call to tell me how delicious it was and that it was a good thing he didn’t need the electric knife.

     “Why,” I asked?

     “When I reached into the box for the electric knife, ­­­­ I found the top of the hand mixer and two electric knife blades. But, it’s OK, someone brought a knife,” He said. How thoughtful, I thought.

     “So what’s the problem?” I asked. “Can’t an engineer work those electric knife blades with the mixer top?”  He laughed. How could I have been so discombobulated?  What knee, what wing pain? Only another Super Woman would understand.  We laughed and said the usual I love yous and hung up.

 

     The following year, the office Thanksgiving feast was catered and this wicked witch spent the holidays packing her pots and pans for a move to a new retirement community where no one outside of my beloved family has ever tasted my “better than store bought” dressing…….and probably never will.
 

Happy Thanksgiving, Y’all!!!

The Gator Got Your Granny

By Patricia White

By some divine intervention, I think that I danced right into this world following in the footsteps of my ridiculously unique and zany father. He loved his friends, a good time and he loved to dance. So do I.

I grew up in my hometown of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. When I was in the sixth grade, my mama loaded us up in our Army surplus jeep and drove us to the Recreation Center every Saturday afternoon for Mr. Phillip’s ballroom dancing class. We learned the Fox Trot, Jitterbug, Waltz, Rumba and even the Tango. Dancing was in my feet and bones. Over the next 40 years, I would dance myself all the way to Houston, Texas.

Some years ago, my husband and I were out with a group of close friends for a night of dancing at a local watering hole. As we walked into the joint and heard the old familiar songs; my feet began to twitch and tingle with excitement. It didn’t take long to get into the action with one great song following another. Then there was silence for a moment, and the familiar guitar sounds of the Bayou suddenly filled the room.

"It’s gator time,” our rowdy friends yelled. They stomped their feet in demand to the music. I slipped out of my sandals. The smooth wooden boards shook beneath my now bare feet. The joint reverberated with the sounds of John Lee Hooker's,  BOOGIE CHILLUNS, as they blasted from the six foot speakers that stood like soldiers at attention in all four corners of the dance floor. My bare feet would not be still. That Texas watering hole would never be the same again.

We were not on the Bayou in Louisiana, this was not Gator country but the land of Aggies and Longhorns. The demand for a floor show came from the mouths of our Texas friends. They knew about the wild and crazy things we did growing up in Louisiana. They knew about the Gator, heard tales, and their insistent chant told me that there would be no peace until we were on the floor on all fours.

I grabbed my partner's hand in a fit of excitement and tugged him toward the center of the dance floor. He tried to shake lose from me as he cast brown eyes at me that said, "Don't ask me to do this.”

The glance I shot back said, "We're doin' it, Baby." I shuffled to the center of the floor with my partner in tow. The crowd closed in and began clapping. I forgot for a moment that there would be a tomorrow as I was about to let it all hang out. John Lee Hooker shouted BOOGIE CHILLUNS from the mammoth speakers and my partner and I dropped to the floor on all fours, face to face like two alligators squaring off for a bayou land-battle or the dance of love.

Words can't describe the dance or the body mechanics involved in this Southern ritual. What happened on the floor was never the same twice in a row. First, I was doing what looked like push-ups with both arms and legs, and then somewhere, somehow, I was doing one arm, two-leg push-ups, then one leg, one-arm push-ups. My partner didn’t miss a beat. He executed each flip and gyration with the grace of a true Cajun. To catch my breath, I flipped to my back like an Alligator preparing to sun on some bayou bank. and at the same time I shook my body as if to dry away the last of the swamp water then I flipped back over. Those back to front flips were risky for human gators as I needed to land with my belly on the ground, arms and legs outstretched, posed for an afternoon of sunning or a quick pounce on something for dinner. I rested a moment. The music wound down, "BOOGIE CHILLUNS, BOOGIE CHILLUNS, boogie chilluns." In one swift movement, I leap from all fours to a kneeling position with outstretched arms, shimming one last time. My partner leapt up and landed on his feet like a Circus performer. With all my strength, I attempted to spring from kneeling to standing. The crowd went wild. I was suddenly having an out of body experience. As I attempted to jump up, I lost my footing and in slow motion fell backwards for what seemed an eternity before I hit the floor. A jolt of electricity up my left arm told me I had connected once again with the smooth, worn boards of the dance floor. I heard a crack, just as the lightning struck my left arm. I was back in my body again, on the floor, sitting on my rump, crying as I lifted a limp hand into the hot humid air.

"It hurts," I whimpered, to no one in particular. The music stopped. The crowd shushed. Everyone knew that the lady Gator had broken her wrist. My partner ran to me and lifted me into his arms. His brown eyes met my tear filled blues. One moment his eyes said he was so sorry that this had happened, then they blinked uncontrollably as if to say, "you're a fifty-five year old alligator, you are a grandmother, what did you expect?”

The emergency room staff was very attentive and sympathetic to the events leading up to my arm injury. I told them I tripped on the green ottoman in our family room. I didn't have to tell them I had been snacking on grapes. I was barefoot and disheveled. Somehow they knew. I had to repeat my fabricated story over and over to each new person who entered the room. They thought my story would change. It never did. Even though my hand was dangling up on top of my wrist, the crew in green still insisted on an x-ray to confirm that my wrist was broken. And it was. As I floated in and out of pain-induced hallucinations, the words from my dancing song floated into my head, "Let that girl boogie woogie, it's in her and it's got to come out, BOOGIE CHILLUNS."

“John Lee Hooker, where are you now? I need something for pain. I'll have what you have that always makes you seem so happy.”

My arm was eventually immobilized and I was sent home to suffer and pay for my sin. Surgery to place pins in my wrist followed three days later. After surgery, the Doctor announced that I had fine strong bones for a woman my age and no pins were necessary. He said my wrist would be as good as new and stronger than ever once it healed. He grinned and said that he hoped I had rearranged the furniture so that no one else would fall over the green ottoman.

I learned over the next three months that there were many things that were impossible to do with one arm in a cast. It takes two hands to eat a sandwich, cut up your meat, dry and style your hair, chop onions, pick up a baby, change a diaper, open a medicine bottle, floss your teeth, put on panty hose and get your britches down in a hurry. I was home alone one day, trying to get ready for a Christmas luncheon. I had planned to wear a wrap skirt with a holiday motif. When all attempts to put the skirt on with one hand failed, I spread the skirt out on the carpet, positioned myself at the edge of the skirt and rolled myself up in it. As I lay on the floor, I began to laugh. Now that the pain was gone, the truth about how it happened was pretty funny. The time had come to be  truthful  about how I had broken my arm with everyone who had not witnessed the Bayou fever that overcame me that night on the dance floor. To all those kind neighbors and unsuspecting friends who called, brought casseroles, sent cards and flowers, I owed the truth.

As I shared the true story over the next few months with family and friends, I often got the same question. "Will you ever do the Gator again?"

“No way, Jose,” I said. "But after the spectacular show my partner put on that night I'm sure he will jump in the dance circle first chance he gets with the twenty-somethings and put them all to shame.”

Hopefully, my Cajun man's bones are stronger than mine. But, I am retired these days and I will be here to help him with those two-handed tasks if he ever trips over the green ottoman and breaks something.

PS. By special request, I did the Gator at our oldest granddaughter’s wedding in 2010 but I had appointees standing by to help me up off the floor as I crouched in my little black dress. My final appearance was at a big Fais Do Do we co-chaired in 2012. We had a live Zydeco band, who could resist? I’ve hung up my dancing shoes, but they are still in my closet. My feet still start twitching when I hear that music. It seems to call my name. “Let that girl boogie woogie; it’s in her and it’s got to come out.” Boogie Chilluns………………….

Those Aren't My Egg Rolls

By Patricia White

     After a grueling late afternoon Doctor’s appointment I dove into the five-o’clock traffic and headed north for home. Dinner was the last thing I wanted to think about but I knew it would soon be six bells and someone would be hungry. I decided Chinese take-out would be a welcome change to my head-of-household. The search was underway. My head swung from left to right as I scanned each shopping center for a restaurant where I could quickly pick up something for dinner. A place called Blue Iris caught my eye. The neon sign flashing, CHINESE beckoned.  I cautiously negotiated my way across three lanes of slow-and-go traffic and exited the freeway onto the service road into the almost empty parking lot and into a spot right in front of Blue Iris' door. This should be easy breezy, I thought.  No crowd, no wait, and my mouth began to water.

     The restaurant was empty at the almost dinner hour and the owner immediately came forward to assist me.  I placed an order for Sesame Chicken, Shrimp-Fried Rice and two egg rolls, to go.  The soft spoken  gentleman asked me to have a seat on the blue vinyl sofa.    He took my order to the kitchen and scurried right back to the sofa with a glass of complimentary iced tea; he assured me my food would not take long.  As I sat sipping the tea, my stomach began to make a noise.  I wondered if I had made a mistake ordering Chinese food.  Thinking back, my tummy had been talking to me all afternoon.  It was too late, the food was ordered.  In five short minutes, my food was presented to me in two  brown paper sacks.  I stood from the couch,  accepted the warm packages, rendered my Visa card and was on my way.  I walked out of the door onto the sidewalk and my tummy began to roll again. I felt the sudden urge to relieve this rumbling in my lower contutriments I looked around the store front.  Not a soul in sight or earshot, but I still opted for the privacy of my car where I would be alone.  I did not want to share this with the world. My little white Honda was my refuge in the storm. I jumped in, closed the door and the thunder rolled.
      I was digging frantically for my keys as I caught a glimpse, out the corner of my eye, of someone walking out of the restaurant carrying a small brown sack in his hand heading for the parking lot. God, please, no, not my car, I prayed.  I looked at the empty parking space on my left and my right and knew, the bag tolls for thee.   As I inserted my keys into the ignition, there was a tap on my window.  The brown-bag bearer’s small face seem to magnify as he pressed up against my window, holding up the small brown bag. “You egg rolls,” he said.   

     I was not ready to open the window. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I changed my mind, I don’t want them.”

     “You must take, you pay for them,” he pleaded with a smile.

     “I-don’t-like-egg-rolls,” I said, slowly forming each word with my lips.

     “Bery, bery good egg rolls,” he chanted in a high-pitched tone.

     “Put them on top, I’ll get them later,” I shouted through the still closed window. 

     “What?” he said, as he put a hand to his ear.

     At that instant, I contemplated crawling over the shift stick on the floor, exiting on the passenger side and walking around the car to get the egg rolls. This man with the bald head and beady eyes was not taking no for an answer. My stomach growled.  I was about to burn another hole in the front seat of my new car.  My long straight skirt would not allow me to crawl over the console so I just sat for a second pondering the situation. There was another tap on my window…….. Confucius left me no choice. I reached for the electric window switch.  As the window lowered, he leaned forward.  His face melted, his eyes became small slits and began to water. He barely forced out the words, “You egg rolls.”  

     I snatched the bag and  told him to step back and take a deep breath. I threw some Mardi-Gras beads from my mirror out of the window to distract him. He grabbed the beads, placed them around his neck then sat on the curb with his head in his hands and wept. 

     Happy to leave that  place, I pulled out of the shopping center and eased up to the corner where an old man with long hair sat on a box with a bucket of Roses in front of him. I rolled down the window and asked if he’d had dinner. He shook his head, no. I tossed the bags out to him.

     “It’s Chinese, take-out, you’ll love it. Especially the egg rolls.” He smiled.

     I eased back into the traffic and  headed home. I called Mr. Leblanc to let him know I was on my way and to ask if he wanted anything special for dinner. He suggested I stop and pick up Chinese at a new place he’d heard about called, Blue Iris. There was a long pause on my end…..Then he cracked up laughing and said they’d just called the house and said I’d forgotten my credit card there. How could I go back? Ever!!!! I had to get my card. I’d explain about the other issues when I got home. At the next turnaround, I put on my sunglasses, tied a scarf around my head and headed back to the scene of the crime.

     As I entered Blue Iris, Confucius said, “You back. My eyes still burning.”

     I said, “Yes, to get my credit card. Sorry. And, you forgot my Fortune Cookies.”

     He said, “You don’t need no cookies. You fortune very clear, white lady. Stay away from Blue Iris.”

     I said, "Remember, behind every cloud is another cloud.” (*Judy Garland)

     He handed me my credit card and tossed a handful of Fortune Cookies at me as he waved me out. He threw his head back laughing as the Mardi Gras beads jangled around his neck.

Chickens on the Run

By Patricia White

    Chicken and Sausage Gumbo is lagniappe for the soul in my family. Just last week I got my Le Creuset 9.5 quart pot out and assembled my ingredients on the counter for this Cajun delight. I know it sounds lazy, but I always use a couple of rotisserie chickens because it makes life in the kitchen easier. I like easy. Mr. Leblanc usually takes over with the deboning of the chicken, but he was not home. I attempted to dismember the rotisserie chicken. First, I pulled off the legs, then the wings which gave me pause for a shiver. I stepped back, took a deep breath and in what seemed like ten seconds I recalled a disturbing sequence of events from my somewhat redneck childhood deep in the heart of Louisiana.

  

  One cold rainy evening back in February 1952, my daddy got a call from the Baton Rouge Post Master just at closing time. A mail order of five hundred little biddies had not been claimed and the Post Master wanted to know if Daddy would take the chicks. It was going to be a cold night and the Post Master wanted assurance those little biddies were safe and warm for the night and the rest of their lives. Have you ever seen one of those Farmer’s Almanac ads that read: 500 biddies for $19.95?  Daddy had a contract with the Post Office to transport the mail four times a day in one of the Army surplus trucks that he bought after the War and the crew at the Post Office knew that he was always looking for a money-making opportunity.

  Mr. Mac. as Daddy was affectionately called, quickly seized the opportunity. With childlike excitement, he told mama and my sisters and me that taking on the biddies would be a family project. Supplies were needed for the new fledglings, like coops, feeding trays and warmers. The five o’clock whistle had already blown for the day and Baton Rouge’s streets were rolled up tight as jelly rolls. Neither of the town’s two feed stores were open. Not easily discouraged, Daddy said we would have to make do for the night. He had a plan. “If Daddy can’t do it, nobody can,” was his mantra.

  Our garage became the neo-natal nursery for five hundred of these screeching little biddies who wanted their mamas. We divided the little yellow balls of fluff into four large cardboard boxes that we scavenged from a couple of grocery store alleys on our way home. Each box was lined with newspaper and held one pie tin filled with cornmeal and another filled with water. We strung a spider web of extension cords across the boxes with one lone light bulb dangling down into each box to provide some warmth in our below freezing garage. By the time the biddies were bedded down for the night, the garage was beginning to smell. Some of the biddies were screeching loudly. Daddy plugged in an old radio and turned it on hoping to quiet them. He could not quell the smell, so he softly closed the door.

  As Daddy kissed each of our foreheads good night, I could see a smile on his lips. He knew he had hit pay dirt with those little biddies. Five hundred fresh country eggs a day would almost make us rich. I could see Mama’s eyes rolling back in her head like she had doubts about this latest venture. Mr. Mac was a force to be reckoned with, a legend in his own time.

  At first light, Daddy entered the cold and smelly garage. His smile turned upside down as he found half of the biddies frozen to death, legs in the air or face down in the pie pans of water. Dead either way. Equipped with shovels and little wooden crosses, we three children buried the still-frozen biddies in a mass grave. After a short prayer, the family moved on with plans for the two hundred fifty remaining future layers. Daddy built a chicken yard, outfitted with all the needed chicken equipment and fed them laying mash religiously for the next three months.

  This would probably be a good time to disclose that several hundred pounds of laying mash later, we discovered that all two hundred fifty of our future laying hens were roosters. Those little fluffy yellow baby chicks had turned into the meanest white roosters on earth.  After we all left home each morning for school and work, I guess those cold-hearted roosters got bored because they commenced pecking each other until their white feathers were splotched with blood. It was a scene right out of Deliverance. Someone told my Daddy that if he daubed black Shinola shoe polish on the bloody feathers each day that the chickens would stop trying to peck each other to death. Sweet Jesus, I thought, come get me now. I wanted no part of that operation.

  Daddy was eager to get the Shinola show on the road. Rushing home each afternoon, he would coral us all into the chicken yard and designate who would catch the chickens-on-the-run by their legs and who would be the polish dauber. Two of us were instructed to catch three sets of feet in each hand. I cried and pleaded that I didn’t want to touch them. I was not cut out to be a farm girl. Daddy said I was being foolish and I should quit acting like a baby. (I was the oldest) I don’t know how I didn’t die from holding my breath during the whole Operation- Shinola when it was my turn to wrap my short fat fingers around those crusty, yellow chicken legs. Every third day I was the dauber which was no easy task with their wings flapping every which-a-way as they tried to peck me with their beaks. After a few weeks of these farm yard tactics, the chickens began to heal. Life almost returned to normal. Homework never looked so good.

  The chickens were fat and clucking when slaughter day approached. We watched in horror as a crusty old whip-of-a-woman with a blue rag tied around her head and matching apron showed up at our house and made no apologies as she rang each and every chicken’s neck. “Come here, you little “SOB,” she’d yell. Then grabbing each chicken by the neck she’d start cranking. Chicken heads flew into one pile and their still-flopping bodies were tossed into another. The last chicken to go gave her a run for her money. No part of the process was orderly. Laissez-fair of the 50’s.  I had to go lie down inside by the fan. Upset as I was, I was still ecstatic to be free from the chickens. Maybe the Circus would be in town tomorrow.

  However evil on my part as it sounds, I realized the chickens were not leaving our neck of the woods. They were cleaned and cut in half, then fourths. The back section consisting of a leg and second joint (thigh) was neatly wrapped in white paper and marked and stacked in our freezer in the same garage where the travesty had begun. Those daayum chickens had come full circle. The two hundred fifty that didn’t freeze that first night were frozen now. The breasts were sold to a local grocer, so the whole disgusting undertaking was not a total loss. And, we did have lots of Bar B Qs. None for me, thank you. Mercy, I hated those chickens dead or alive and felt a sense of deliverance about a year later when the last leg was eaten.

  Do I like chicken today? Do I eat chicken today? Yes, for some sick reason, but breasts only. Let me just say that I do not allow anything in my freezer that has legs or wings. That rule puts my husband in a bind, being the game hunter he is. But, I am the only Chick in this house and I rule the roost.