A Camel Named Clyde

           While in Egypt, I rode a camel around the pyramids, a big deal for tourists. The camel smelled, the saddle creaked, my Arab-robed leader held onto the reins and shuffled along. He knew right where he was going: to the waiting photographer, who snapped my picture between these two big empty humps and I’m about to cry because I don’t want to spend 15 guineehs for a photo, although I don’t mind tipping the fellow who led me around a few piasters. Everybody expects bakshees (identified in tourist brochures as tip or bribe, take your pick).

            I read an interview with Omar Sharif about him and Peter O’Toole filming Lawrence of Arabia. They had to race across the desert riding camels. To fortify themselves for the ordeal (they weren’t using stunt men) they braced their courage with plenty to drink the night before. Tied onto the camels, the pair clippity-clopped across the desert in a fair way, until the camels spotted a small pond or lake and then the animals took off as if shot from a rocket. Both Sharif and O’Toole were tied onto the animals, so they couldn’t get off. The saddles slipped and the actors toppled sideways, their heads nearly raking the sand. They were shook up. The director was delighted. He had a perfect shot.

            Inspired by the camel, the desert, the date palms, when I returned I wrote, A Camel Named Clyde, a story brilliantly illustrated by my niece, Catalina Booth Wilkinson, and recently put together for publication by my friend, par excellence, Pattie Steib. It’s very short, ten pages at most about a little girl riding a camel that runs out of water. She sits all slumped and in the dumps, about to cry, cause Clyde ran dry. The story has a happy ending. She hangs on and is rescued. I wanted my kids to learn that lesson. Don’t give up, keep the faith, something or somebody will save you.

            One Christmas Lee Collins gave me a carved camel that I treasure. She embroidered his name, “Clyde” on the saddle blanket.

If you’d like to see camels up close and personal ride to Global Wildlife in Folsom. Check them out at http://globalwildlife.com/. There’s a gang of them roaming around in the preserve. Worth the trip. 

AND HERE IS THE TRUTH ABOUT CAMELS

• Arabian camels only have one hump, not two.
• They don’t store water in their humps. The humps are reservoirs of fatty tissue that insulates the rest of their body and allows them to survive in extremely hot regions.
• They have two rows of thick eyelashes to protect their eyes from desert dust.
• They are able to close their nostrils and lips to keep out the dust.

            

Clyde from Lee Collins.

A Camel Named Clyde!

Dressed for Success!

The Annie Awards are given by the Chamber of Commerce to women who have contributed to the city. The award is named in honor of Ann Ferguson, an outstanding SLU professor greatly loved by her students and friends.  

I can give a book review, teach a class, or lead a discussion on just about anything, but don’t make me the honoree of any event. It makes me nervous, gives me the jitters, keeps me awake at night.

I’m getting ready to go and I don’t have anything fit to wear.  Dress or pants suit? Nobody wears dresses anymore, so I go for the pants suit I bought a month ago to have a picture taken for LifeStyle Magazine. I think there’s some female cardinal rule you shouldn’t wear the same outfit twice, but I hate to shop and the thought of wandering through Dillards, Pennys, Target, looking for another outfit defeats me. Besides, men wear the same suits all the time. In my prime when I dressed up women wore slips (and heaven forbid it hung out past the skirt hem) hose, and your bra strap better not show! Today bra straps are considered integral part of fashion, even better if the wearer shows off a tattoo on the shoulder.

The only pair of shoes that I can balance in is this old pair of tennis shoes. I’ve given away all the high-heeled, pointed-toe shoes that ruined one’s feet for life. I settled for an old pair of black patents I found in the back of the closet. They have wedge heels that help balance.

            Megan, my sweet helper, says I must wear makeup, so we go to the store and she picks out some foundation stuff to hide every blemish on my face. That set me back $40. Let me assure you, this face isn’t worth $40! Then there was lipstick and eye shadow and black mascara, etc. etc. totaling over $100, I’m catatonic. A charming sales woman applied all this gook to my face and assured me that like Helen of Troy, I could launch 1,000 ships.

            The other honorees, Chris Bentley, Terri Chaucer, Judy Couvillion, Lila Hogan, Cynthia Shelton, all looking like movie stars, beautiful and self-assured, receive their engraved silver platter from the hosts and then it’s my turn. Wainwright starting with a W, I’m used to being last. I’m not sure if I can get up from my chair. Suzanne Wainwright helps me to my feet and holds onto my arm until she knows I’m steady. I truly don’t want to dodder up to the front. That would be adding insult to injury. 

            I had no idea who nominated me for an Annie award. The emcee announces Pattie Giannoble was the one. All the Giannobles are very dear to my heart. The very first people I met when I moved to Hammond and they were so nice that I fell in love with the town. There’s no better place to live. We ate lunch at Grampa Giannobile’s every Sunday, at the farm where North Oaks Hospital is now.

            I’m standing, a little shaky, facing the attendees and suddenly realize that everyone is on their feet, applauding, a standing ovation. The accolade brought tears to my eyes and for a moment I though I might swoon, but then I thought, “I’m a tough broad. I can take this.”

           So from the bottom of my heart thank y’all very much.

All dressed!

It's just clothes!

What lasts forever? Real Estate!

When I started in real estate in 1960, before Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, cell phones, and apps, were in existence, probably before most of the users were born, all you needed to get a license was a letter from the police department that you’d never been arrested, a bond, and a $25 fee. Life was simple back then. Then you bought a Louisiana Real Estate Textbook written by H. D. Ruffin who was also the state real estate commissioner. Mr. Ruffin was an LSU fan so the book had a purple cover and gold engraving. This book was the only essential instruction available at the time. Sometime later, if you care to know, I’ll tell you what happened to poor Mr. Ruffin. When I retired after 50 years in the business, all sales people had computers, gave virtual tours sitting in their offices, and instead of a simple page or two, the paper work was up to 18 or 20 pages of gobbly-gook.

The first houses for G.I.’s in Hammond were built in Rosewood Subdivision by Charlie Rosenblum and if I recall correctly Bob Maurin, partner. They were 2 bedroom frame, living, kitchen (no built-ins) and 1 bath, with or without a carport, 750 to 900 sq. ft. They sold for $3500 to $5000. Same house now, if it’s still standing sells in the range of $60,000, so I’m told.

Now people build these enormous houses, MacMansions, they’re called. Kitchen has every gadget available to mankind. Each kid has his/her own room and bath, every family member needs a walk-in closet, and there are enough electrical plugs and outlets to run a factory, etc. etc. 

I decided with my first-hand experience and my penchant for writing, I would pen (such an antiquated word! Who pens?) a real estate book. The premise was the selling of a plantation in St. Francisville, The Azaleas, and all the problems associated with the transaction.

When I got to the stumbling point (every writer reaches that point somewhere along the way) I realized that the problem wasn’t the real estate. In selling, the problem is the people, those who own the premise and those trekking through the place. Once I got that notion in my head, the writing flowed again.

In my working years, I sold real estate to the grandparents, the parents and when the kids started coming into my shop and saying, “my mama said to come see you,” I thought, the time has come. Three generations is enough enjoyment. I’d better retire and take up a hobby. Except, having worked all my life, I had a problem. I had no hobbies!

Mr. Ruffin's real estate bible. 

What I learned about real estate.

If killing plants were a crime, I'd be in jail!

It died! I killed it! Applied my purple thumb to my bougainvillea and watched the big, flowering plant go down the drain. How could I do this to my favorite plant, a mother’s day gift from my son, William?  It was so beautiful I put a picture on Facebook, so all my friends could see it. May, June, July, August and its dead, gone forever. Bougainvilleas are hard to spell and supposedly easy to grow, but I failed again. What did I do wrong?

One day I noticed the plant was missing. I surmised somebody had come around to the little patio behind my house and pitched it in the garbage. It was to that point.

I had a little memorial service for it, recalling the thick, flaming red bougainvillea hedges that surrounded our house in Cuba, a spiny fence no one could get through. I remembered the poinsettia trees (first time I every saw a miniature one in a pot was when I came to the States), the mango trees and the avocado trees right outside the kitchen, where the cook reached out, grabbed a couple of avocados and made fresh guacamole. Banana trees wild everywhere. Cut a green stalk and hang it in the pantry to turn yellow. Nobody ever did anything to those plants. They just grew on their own, no watering, no fertilizing, no nothing. 

Yesterday morning I went for coffee on my patio and almost fainted. There was my bougainvillea plant restored, full of green leaves and red flowers! A miracle, like Lazarus revived from the dead.

Donna Wiginton Howes rescued my bougainvillea. She has the proverbial green thumb. She kidnapped it, pruned it down to nothing, re-potted it, and didn’t drown it. She gave me instructions. Water twice a week, half a day in the sun and half a day in the shade, fertilize it (I already forgot how often!) but I’m sure it was every once in a while. I’m looking at the size of that pot and wondering how can I move it from shade to sun back and forth? So I had a brilliant solution. I put the pot where the front side got sun and the back side shade. That should do it. Now, if it doesn’t rain every day, maybe my bougainvillea will survive.

Donna called with one last bit of advice. If the weather dips into the 50’s be sure to put the plant under the carport for protection. That bougainvillea is proving to be more trouble than my kids. I always left them outside in the rain and the cold. I thought learning to cope with the elements would toughen them up. 

Katie Wainwright Author

Katiewainwright.com

Cuba on My Mind

Secuestro

The Azaleas

Pohainake Parish

Mother's Day gift!

Dead Mother's Day gift!!

Revived Mother's Day gift!

Bronze Boots

A jewelry store advertised in the local paper: Bronze boots 2 for the price of 1. First thing in the morning Carl's big boots clumped out of the house, and at sunset, after a hard day at whatever construction job, they clumped back into the house, a solid, reassuring sound that all was right with the world. When a loved one dies, one is inclined to cling to something, and after the clothes, the truck, the guns, the dogs, all were disposed of, I kept the boots, for no good reason, except they reminded me of the person that was dearest to my heart. So when I saw the ad, I thought, great, I'll get these boots bronzed. I plunked them on the counter. Eldie was the sales clerk. "Katie," she said, "We bronze baby booties." I replied, "That's not what the ad said" and she went off the call the manager. After a little back and forth, he said, "Okay, we'll go ahead and bronze the boots, 2 for the price of 1" and so they became a touchstone. The boots are present at weddings, baptisms, memorials, graduations, a happy reminder of a wonderful husband and father. 

Sometime later I ran into the manager and I was surprised when he thanked me for bringing in the boots. 

Seems like Margie Monteleone had Carl's golf shoes bronzed, and several other people had come in and also had their special memories immortalized.