Family – Page 4 – Sittin' Ugly Sistahs

No Sad Souls Here

Posted on March 23, 2020 by gingerkellergannaway

Sad soul sign written by Ginger Keller Gannaway

As we wash our hands to the lyrics of 20-second songs at least 32 times a day, make our own hand sanitizer, and contemplate buying a bidet, we must consider our spiritual and emotional needs as well as our physical ones.

According to John Steinbeck, “A sad soul can kill you quicker, far quicker, than a germ.”

Ever since Friday, March 13 when Dad’s skilled nursing facility personnel met family and friends in the parking lot to tell us that we could not visit our loved ones through at least March, I have worried about my father’s mental health as much as his physical health. That day, as I held a milkshake for Dad in my hand, I thought, “OMG! I have not explained the Coronavirus pandemic to him! He’ll think we’ve forgotten him!” I have been visiting him at least every other day since September of 2019, and when I ask what he’d like me to bring him next time I come, he answers, “Just bring Pooskie.” (That’s his nickname for me that made me cringe when I was in high school).

During most visits, I’d wash his face, comb his bed-hair, and encourage him to eat more of that day’s breakfast or lunch. Also, I’d refill his blue Wonder Woman water bottle with fresh ice water. Our talk would begin with me saying, “Tell me something good.” He’d give me a predictions for the Kentucky Derby winner; details about life in Ville Platte or Eunice, or a random bit of Louisiana history, “Governor Jimmie Davis got elected because of a song.” We did not fill all our time with talking. We’d look out the window or watch black and white movies on TCM. I’d hold his huge hand and he’d give me a tight squeeze.

Even though he’s 92 years old, bed-ridden, and has lost at least 40 pounds this past year, when I ask him how’s he’s doing, he somehow answers, “Things couldn’t be better.” He never fails to smile and say,“Hey, Pooskie,” when I arrive and “Thanks for coming,” as I leave.

So this last Friday I feared the “no visiting” precautions would send him into a depression. However, I totally underestimated the power of Brookdale Hospice. My dad’s team led by Ali, his smiling and very attentive nurse, have been miracle workers! Ali answers my texts quickly, and on Friday the 13th she was able to visit Dad. She explained the health crisis, checked his vitals, chatted, and gave him fresh ice water. A few days later Armistead, his music therapist, FaceTimed me and he and Dad sang to me! From Dad’s favorite “You Are My Sunshine” to a song I didn’t realize Dad knew (“San Antonio Rose”), they serenaded me for thirty minutes while I fought to hold back my tears. Then the next day Whitney, who gives him bed baths, texted and sent me a picture of a clean shaven Dad wearing his favorite purple shirt (“Geaux, Tigers!”) Also, Ali will tell the Hospice social worker Courtney to FaceTime me during her visits.

Dad calls the young, beautiful, and cheerful Hospice caretakers, “Doll” “Sugar Foot” and “Love Bug,” terms of endearment that let him off the hook for not remembering names. Also, he remembers to tell Armistead that his guitar playing and singalongs are the highlight of his week!

I cannot keep the guilt about Dad being “in a home” from clouding my mind at times, yet I believe he is in a safe place where the staff cares about him and keeps him comfortable. And in addition to meeting his physical needs, the facility and his Hospice miracle workers take care of his emotional/spiritual needs. They stay connected with our family and make sure all our souls can smile.

Family

Don’t You Worry about that Mule

Posted on February 26, 2020 by gingerkellergannaway

Don’t You Worry about that Mule Mule 2

by Ginger Keller Gannaway

One of Dad’s favorite sayings makes me both nod and scratch my head: “Don’t you worry about that mule. That mule ain’t going blind.”

I totally get the essence of his advice, even if I don’t fully understand the specific imagery. A mule is a hybrid of a male donkey (jack) and a female horse (mare). A mule has more strength, patience, intelligence, and longevity than either of its parents. Darwin has said that with the hybrid mule’s superior characteristics, “art has outdone nature.”

I suppose my persistent and powerful worries can be compared to the superior pack animal – the mule. As I age, I have too much time to obsess over my endless list of fears:

Will my son get the new and improved job he seeks?

Will the ceiling slash in our living room turn out to need major roof repair costing thousands?

Will my car’s weird electrical issue where the doors automatically lock and unlock when I make a sharp turn or go over a train track one day keep me trapped when my car gets forced off a highway that crosses a deep river?

Will my dad’s nurses ignore his buzzer calls for help?

Will the latest global virus turn into scenes from the movie Contagion?

I’m not sure why Dad’s saying is about the mule’s eyesight, but maxims do not have to be logical, e.g. “Happy as a clam” or “Hunger is the best pickle.” They just need to suggest the essence of a piece of wisdom. Momma’s explanation to me of the Cajun phrase, “Tonnerre ma chien! (“Thunder the dog!”) was , “Well, it just means, ya know, ‘Thunder the dog,’ like you say, ‘Tonnerre ma chien!’ ya know.” There’s a feeling of an unexplained exclamation there, like a “Oh my God!” I guess.

So sayings can hold an abstract wisdom using concrete imagery, whether we’re talking about a dog in a storm or a mule with sight problems. Worry Head 1

My worries sometimes tangle me in knots of fear. I lose sleep or overeat or snap at my pets and my husband. Then my senseless concerns never come close to reality. My son did not start holding up a cardboard sign on the corner of First Street and Ben White Blvd. when he was between jobs. My car has not trapped and drowned me at the bottom of Lake Pontrachain on my way to New Orleans.

Dad’s saying involves a mule because worries have strength and a sturdiness that stays with a person. However, mules also are known for being more affectionate than their parents. Therefore, I accept the fears of my nonsensical brain and remember that my head makes unlikely predictions.

Mules may get stuck in mud-filled ditches but they do not despair because they believe what Dad knows, “Don’t you worry about that mule. That mule ain’t going blind.” mule 1

Family, Food

The Last Perfect Bite

Posted on February 12, 2020 by gingerkellergannaway

The Last Perfect Bite by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Momma bite — Momma Gerry taught me to savor every bite.

Near the end of an elaborate Thanksgiving dinner, my husband once casually took a small bite of fried turkey, cornbread dressing, and smothered green beans off my plate.

I glared at him in shock. “Are you crazy?”

“I thought you were finished,” he explained.

My first instinct had been to stab his thieving fingers with my fork because that little amount of food was my carefully planned, highly anticipated last perfect bite.

As a Cajun who does not trust a person who does not LOVE food, meals mean a lot to me. I believe they are best savored and unrushed. How can some people scarf down food like dogs and finish in a few minutes a dinner that required 27 ingredients and three hours to prepare? Also, a person’s need to keep various foods separated on a plate confounds me. What would mashed potatoes be without their gravy? Why should we deny the black eyed peas a chance to get up close and personal to the slow-roasted beef? I love to change a plate of purposefully divided food into a mash-up of new flavors.

I actually plan my last perfect bite as soon as I get my first taste of the meal. How would stewed sweet potatoes complement tender and savory pork tenderloin? Wouldn’t the asparagus sautéed in garlic enjoy mixing things up with the curry shrimp? I relish how the flavor from one region twirls and smiles when it sidles up to a spice from a different culture. No wonder fusion restaurants are all the rage now. Belly Shack (Korean/Puerto Rican), Revolutionario (North African/Mexican), Valentina’s(TexMex/BBQ), & Bayona’s(Spanish/Italian/French/Indian/Mediterranean) offer international ways to thrill and delight their diners. bite3

You might think that casseroles and soups have done all the mixing of tastes for the average diner. No way. Gumbo, a favorite of mine, emerged from incorporating diverse ingredients from a hodgepodge of places; however, that does not keep this Eunice, Louisiana girl from adding a dollop of potato salad into a hot bowl of chicken and sausage gumbo. Mix it up, cha.

When I glance over a plate lunch’s assortment of possibilities, I let my fork pick up a piece of baked chicken and add a little rice and gravy before I balance some maque choux (a Creole corn dish) on top and end by using the fork tines to jab a cherry tomato from my salad. Then after lively dinner talk, some sips of wine or iced tea, and my compliments to the cook, I decide on my last perfect bite. I balance my favorite flavors and anticipate that bite that may include two, three, or up to to six different dishes; it is always a groovy way for life’s diverse tastes to surprise and delight me. Trust the mix, baby, trust the mix!

Family, Food

Momma’s Food for Thought by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on May 13, 2018May 13, 2018 by gingerkellergannaway

Momma’s Food for Thought Mama gumbo

Momma cooked rice and gravy every day for us. She made dinner at noon and supper at night. We had fish on Fridays (shrimp or crawfish for special occasions). Gumbo was in the fall and winter and boiled crawfish on Good Friday.

Momma’s rice and gravy, whether served with smothered steak, baked chicken, or pork sausage, was lick-the-plate-if-I-could delicious. I would hum my “Yum-yums” at times, and she’d laugh and warn me, “No singing at the table.” She loved all fresh vegetables and liked her toast almost burnt. Her dessert preferences were sweet dough pie, a moist bundt cake, or anything with fresh figs.

Momma taught me to appreciate and enjoy good food. She never weighed much over 100 pounds, yet she loved to cook and share meals with loved ones like a true Ville Platte Cajun. For her, the perfect breakfast was hot boudin and dark roast Community coffee. If you added a small greasy paper bag of fresh cracklins, the morning got even better.

I remember our summer dinners of ground beef and onions over a bed of Watermaid rice with field peas and cold sliced homegrown tomatoes on the side. Late August afternoons often meant cold sliced watermelon topped with salt at our backyard picnic table after we had been swimming or playing tennis.

Mama & watermelon — Me, Momma, Ryan, and Emile 1987

Momma taught me to follow a few of her important food rules:

*Brown your meat well to make the “gradeau” you need for a gravy.

*Do not put seafood in your chicken gumbo or vice-versa.

*Never make an étouffée with “those Chinese crawfish.”

*If you give up sweets for Lent, you can have yogurt-covered raisins because Miss Jen said “those don’t count as sweets.”

Most importantly, my lil momma taught me that good food mattered and you gotta enjoy every bite. I may not have hot boudin in Austin, but Community coffee is everywhere now, and I can pretend my doughnut is a slice of blackberry sweet dough pie.

Merci beaucoup, Geraldine Latour aka Poulette aka Momma aka MaMa for teaching me that the best things in life have a bite of spice and taste so good you wanna Slap Ya Mama!

Family

East Texas Livin’

Posted on March 28, 2018 by Nancy Malcolm

I’m forever turned around when we travel to East Texas. Every twist and zigzag, every highway or county road seems to melt into another. I never really know where I am, until we round a corner leading to the lake, Lake Tyler.

Being an Amarillo girl, I still marvel at the number of trees lining these roads and properties. The tall east Texas pines are standing proud, guarding the secret beauty of the land. DSC_0347 (1)

As we make our way to my brother-in-law’s home, we see glimpses of the lake around each bend. In between the beautiful homes is a peek at the water, with a promise of more. Everyone has a boat it seems. Lake life is The Life!

Ahhhhh, finally I begin to know where we are and as we swing into the long straight driveway, tranquility takes hold. Everything slows down. The family dog and the neighbors’ dog race out to greet us. No leash law here, only welcoming barks and wagging tails. “Pet me first!” they say. DSC_0342 (1)

The family home is facing the road but as you enter the house you see the true focal point with windows all along the back, showcasing a lush backyard leading to the water. Gorgeous, large trees make a statement as even the woodland creatures check out the new arrivals. The covered back porch is probably my favorite spot, as it is the length of the house with large fans and comfy rocking chairs. The porch is your morning coffee shop and your afternoon happy hour, encouraging you to sit, sip and stare…no other requirements needed

I admit I was once skeptical of the East Texas lifestyle. But, I’m a believer now, as I breathe in these Piney Woods and hear the friendly clerk at the gas station say, “Thank Y’all, come again and have a blessed day!”

The complete genuineness and country easiness lure me in and ask nothing of me but to appreciate the beauty of the land and the people. I can’t believe I was once so chichi that I eeked at the bugs and was fearful of gophers and anything else too woodsy. I thought my city ways were safer and much preferred. I was wrong.

This East Texas life has grown on me and each time I visit, I feel more at home and peaceful. I see more beauty and gain more respect for the honest family values and sincere friendliness. I am truly grateful for my tie to these Piney Woods. And to borrow a phrase from the Stop and Go,

“Thank Y’all for reading, come again and have a blessed day.”

Family, Holidays

Big Santa by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on December 15, 2017December 12, 2020 by gingerkellergannaway

Big Santa

In 1961 my dad created a 16-foot-tall Santa Claus. At the time, he owned Keller Advertising and painted huge roadside billboards and local storefront windows. When I was 5, he designed, drew, and painted four wooden pieces that when connected made a smiling Santa that he would raise and attach to our 18-foot chimney. Our 1950’s ranch style home was at the end of a winding gravel road off of Highway 190 on the outskirts of town. Dad set a spot light on Big Santa so cars could see him waving as they drove by. Also, Dad made the back view of a 7-year-old boy and a 5-year-old girl waving at Santa. My red tricycle was set next to the pigtailed girl to create a Rockwell Christmas moment.

Over the years, my feelings about Big Santa have changed.

In the 1960’s Big Santa added magical excitement to my kid dreams of Mr. Claus’s superpowers. Santa’s smiling presence also gave my family a touch of local fame as folks drove past our place each Christmas, and we even made the Eunice News once.

Fast forward to the 1980’s after my grandma died, and my parents bought her 100 year-old home and we moved to town. Now Big Santa needed an 18-foot pole to support him as he waved to sidewalk visitors and Second Street motorists. Those days Santa was a novelty for me each December when I swooped into town for my mandatory college semester break.

In the beginning of the 21st century Big Santa loomed large in a different way. After my three sons were past their “I believe in Santa” phase, they helped their Papa put up the Santa the day after Thanksgiving and take him down right after the Christmas day chaos.

Putting up Big Santa became a complicated family tradition. In 2007 my

dad was 80, so he mostly directed his grandsons (my boys and their 2 cousins) in the raising of the Santa. First, they hauled the four sections from the back of the garage and cleaned up Mr. Claus before laying him facedown on the front lawn. Then several wooded 2X4’s were arranged and screwed to the Santa sections to pull him all together. Next, 4 or 5 guys lifted and walked Santa towards his standing pole and secured him with screws and wire. Papa sat in a folding chair and barked orders to his grandsons. By 2012 he had his walker beside him, and the boys did their best to keep Papa from grunting and struggling to stand to correct their construction mistakes. Of course, mistakes were as inevitable as Papa’s complaining and cussing. Once my middle son Casey wisely suggested they buy new tools since my dad’s hammer head had a tendency to fall off its wooden handle, and the screws were more rust than metal. “This would be a lot easier if we weren’t using tools from the Stone Age!”

Papa scoffed at such nonsense: “Give me that damn hammer! I’ll do it.”

So the grandsons worked with worn-out tools and rotting wood as they maneuvered around a short-tempered, crooked-backed, bossy-coach of a grandpa. Big Santa became a dreaded sort of family tradition. “If we get up early enough tomorrow, we can get Santa up before Papa wakes up,” said Evan, my youngest, on the fortunate Black Friday of 2014.

Despite the frustration and anger that accompanied Big Santa’s arrival, family and friends still loved to pose in front of him each holiday. He made a dramatic backdrop, and passers-by often stopped to snap their own Big Santa moment.

At age 90 Dad moved to live with us in Texas, leaving Big Santa’s fate in cousin Chiquita’s hands since she had bought Grandma’s home. Last year she had him out on Second Street greeting the passers-by. I’m not sure if he will be out during the pandemic, but I believe his appearance would be welcomed.

Dad passed away this June, and I can’t think of Christmas without remembering his creation and the way Santa waved hopefully to the folks of Eunice, Louisiana.

Merry Christmas, y’all!

Family, Relationships

Mirror Images by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on February 14, 2016August 15, 2021 by gingerkellergannaway

Pride filled me with warmth on a cold early morn when I viewed the selfie that my 22-year-old “baby” sent me before he left for his student teaching gig in 2016. My laid back lad who wore faded t-shirts and tattered sneakers was not hung up on details like good clothes. In the selfie, however, he wore new brown slacks with a matching belt and a wrinkle-free, cream-colored button down shirt. His girlfriend had given him a slick haircut, and only she and I knew his glasses were held together with Super Glue. He also had the echo of a smile, and my usually laid-back, monk-like Art Major child appeared eager and excited to go to school.

And so the teacher tradition in our family lived on. I retired after 36 years in public school classrooms. On that chilly morning I looked at Evan’s handsome, hopeful face and remembered owning the latter adjective long ago and far away…

In 1962 I got a blond-haired Susie Smart Doll from Santa. She stood two feet tall, wore a plaid skirt with suspenders, and a white collared shirt. She came with a desk and a small chalk board. At 6 a.m. when I sleepily walked into the big living room and saw this dream-come-true doll under the Christmas tree, I was dumbstruck! After I found my voice and ran down the long hall to my parents’ bedroom, I jumped on their bed and in breathless spurts let them in on on the massive surprise: “Momma! Daddy! Santa. Brought. Me. Susie Smart! Can you believe it?!”

So began my fascination with teaching. That year I taught Susie so many things: how to write her ABC’s, simple addition, and the importance of paying close attention to your teacher. My two younger sisters sometimes joined our class as did the occasional stuffed bear. Susie was the model student who always sat quietly and listened attentively.

Oh, how far from reality was my Susie! Real life students rarely sit quietly at attention. I remember a day at Pearce Middle School when a seventh grader literally fell out of his desk without warning. Maybe he was reaching for a pencil on the floor or just rearranging papers on his desk. But with his arms flailing and his legs dancing in the air, he fell to the floor while his adolescent voice squawked, “Whaaa!”

Fifteen years later I told my high school students that middle school was too much for me because “Students can fall out of their desks for no apparent reason!”

The thousands I’ve taught through the years seem to meld together in my memory with a few highs and lows sticking out:

Andy, the 16-year-old seventh grader who was taller than I was and glared at me with pure hate when I took him in the hall outside my classroom to use the paddle that every new teacher was given at a school literally located on the wrong side of the tracks.

Victoria, the feisty 7th grader who helped me break-up a fight in my portable classroom by putting the boy who had hurled a desk at another student in a choke-hold and yelling, “It’s ok, Ms. G., I got him!”

Sid, the senior who pulled out his pecker when I went to his desk to answer a question about his college essay after school one day during a tutoring session.

Nicole, the award-winning actor, comedienne, and journalist who awed me with her literary insight and wrote me a thank you card I treasure more than jewelry.

Tyrone, the anchor for our Eye of the Cougar morning announcements who also painted the backdrop mural in our studio and visited me years later and gave me a flyer for the rap band he started and performed with around town.

Dare and Kyle, the crazy campus duo who once hauled a shopping cart full of “shit we found in our garage” as part of their visualization of hell assignment after we read “Paradise Lost.”

In 2016 I wished Evan all the stamina and flexibility he needed to be a teacher. He already had more creativity and compassion than most people can even dream of possessing. He went from being a substitute art teacher to being the audio/visual production instructor (and assistant tennis coach) at the Austin high school he once attended.

Now in the fall 2021 Evan decorates his classroom, sets up his video technology, and rearranges the lessons, videos, and syllabi he has created for the school year that will follow the pandemic year of chaos and Zoom lessons. His beard is longer and his smile less eager. But he has the bravery to match his creativity. More important, he knows how to connect with his students by using respect and a solid sense of humor. He’s ready for all that the educational powers-that-be will demand of him. Teaching is in his DNA!