231 - Home again

Twelve hours is a long damn time to be in a car.

The funeral was Tuesday. It was a military funeral with airforce cadets carrying the coffin (young skinny little cadets who were really struggling... I felt bad for them... but honored that they were there), folding the flag, doing the 21 gun salute (or in actuality, seven people firing three times directly at us with blanks), and playing Taps. Last time I saw a Mason's funeral, now I've seen a military funeral. For some reason it's the rituals of a funeral that get to me and make me cry... seeing the cops stopped on the corner to let the procession pass through a light... the cadets saluting the coffin... handing the flag to the widow... At my grandpa's funeral it was passing over the railroad tracks and seeing the railmen with their hats over their hearts and the lights flashing that did it (he worked for the railroad).

The whole time I kept thinking, 'I'm the only one with a dad that's still living.' My first uncle was only 55. This uncle was only 62. My dad is almost 65... he's older than both of them. It just hit me that my mom is almost 70. It wasn't just the death of my uncle, it was my parent's mortality staring me in the face. I hope they live another 20-30 years... but even though as I grow older, 50 and 60 don't sound as old as they used to... 70 still sounds old... Grandma is 84 now. I think she's only two years younger than my great-grandmother was when she passed on. It was all staring me in the face.

There were good moments though. Grandpa, when he knew he was dying, put together a photo album that chronicled his life and detailed some of our family tree. I decided to take pictures of the pictures because I want to know about my past. You want irony? The hero of the novel I wrote was named Hagan. My great-great-great grandmother's last name was Hagan. I didn't know it at the time... I picked that name out about seven years ago when I used it in a screenplay I still haven't finished. Spooky, huh? Anyway, I videotaped mom and grandma flipping through the album and talking about it... it's good stuff. Now I know something about our past. I'm more Cherokee than I thought. Let's see... if my great-grandfather's father was half Cherokee, then I'm... carry the one... hmmm... not much of a Cherokee.

I also got to see my little cousin Eli. He is such a cute kid. He drug a huge photo album over and sat next to me on the couch, then for about an hour we looked at the album and he told me what he did and didn't like (Likes: little slides, trampolines, being called 'little Eli', toys... Dislikes: swings, water, long hair (on him), being big, big slides, merry-go-rounds, being in his momma's belly, and my nose piercing). He's three'ish, and hyper, so mom was astounded that he focused on something for that long. I was just astounded that I haven't seem him since he was two, and he likes me!

Random thought: If someone (I'm thinking Native American Indian way back when) kills a wolf, skins it, and wears the hide... and then he encounters a pack of wolves... would he be better off or worse off because he's wearing the hide?

And here are some random pics I snapped:

This is the loooooooooooooooooooooong bridge over the Atchafalaya swamp (pronounced chuf-uh-lie-uh... it doesn't have to make sense). That water just goes on and on and on... I wonder how long (and how much money) it took them to build the bridge, and why they didn't just find an easier spot.

I should also remark that in Lousiana there is a decided lack of roadkill... every other road in America has roadkill. Hmmm.

Tupelo, Mississippi is where Elvis was born. Tiny little shotgun shack. Didn't go there this time, we were on our way to the mall (Barnes & Noble!), but here's a sign for you... ooh... aah...:

My grandma has always washed plastic dishes and cutlery. We blame it on the fact that she lived through The Great Depression. It irritates the peeyoodle out of mom (yes, peeyoodle) because it misses the whole point of using disposable dinnerware. But now, it seems she's going one step further and now she's starting to wash styrofoam cups, tops, and straws as well. I offer you photographic evidence that I don't make this shit up.

Sigh.

This is boudin (boo-dan). I know it looks like a turd, but it's boudin. Trust me. I ate it. It's boudin. I'm not exactly sure what's in it, but I think it's where Louisiana roadkill goes to die. It reminds me of haggis, actually, but spicy, and mushy. I think it's chicken, rice, spices, and... um... secret ingredients... Not sure it's the best travel food, but it's what mom wanted, so we stopped in Breau Bridge, where (incidentally) one of my best friends grew up, and bought some at Rees Market... Maybe that's what's upsetting my stomach today...

A dirigible.

Or a giant bomb.

Pretty.

Storm clouds a brewin'. (stop looking at the sun... you'll burn your retinas!)

Sometimes... when you're in a car for an extended period of time... 'you' meaning 'me'... you find things amusing that ordinarily would not amuse you... This is one such thing...

This is a small sampling of the view from the Atchafalaya bridge, but you won't get the full effect unless you loop it for about 45 minutes... then you'll start to see what I mean when I say the bridge seems like the complicated way to do it...