Winner, Winner Chicken Dinner!

A glossy flyer fell out of an envelope stamped AOpen Immediately Dated Material.@  It proclaimed:  AYou have won a Lincoln Continental. Call 1-800 something to redeem your prize.@

I could not dial fast enough. A shrill, computerized voice answered: AIf you have won a Lincoln, please press one.@ 

I did and the voice resumed: AWelcome to ABC Advertising. Would you hold, please?@  Several more holding steps followed, taking up a considerable slice of my valuable time and terminating in the ultimate affront: AThis call may be monitored for quality assurance.@

I was about to give up the Lincoln when a real person came on and asked, Awhat is your winning number?@

I checked my winning card.  A122338878.@

AMrs. Kay Wain?@       

AWainwright.@ Certainly, I wanted them to put the correct name on the car title.

AWayne Right?@

ANo. Wainwright W A I N –@ I sounded computerized, too. The woman finally got the name straight and proceeded to the important business at hand.

AYou=ve been selected to win one of our grand prizes.@

AWrong. I have won a grand prize, a Lincoln Continental.@

AThe income tax you have to pay on a gift automobile of that worth is huge.@

ALet me worry about the tax.@

AWe have an alternate plan. If you purchase 3,000 pencils with your logo imprinted on them for only $300, then the Lincoln becomes an advertising expense and you don=t have to pay any tax on it.@

AI don=t want pencils. Send the car.@

AI can=t do that @ she said. AYou=ll have to speak with the manager.@

After a wait, the manager got on line. AI understand you don=t want the pencils. You prefer to pay the tax.@

AThat‘s correct.@

AAs long as I=ve been here, nobody has ever made such a strange request.@

AHow long have you been there?@

After a short pause, AFour hours, give or take.@

AWell, brace yourself. I don=t want the pencils. I want the car.@

AWe=re not allowed to impose that kind of financial burden on a prospective customer. You=ll have to talk to the president of the company.@

ABring him on.@

AHe isn’t available right now, but he will get in touch with you.@

The president never called, but I=m not much worried about it since I=m busy pursuing another option that came in yesterday=s mail.  I=ve been declared the winner of a sailing trip to the Caribbean.

"Winner, winner chicken dinner!"

Burning Memories

Fall is here. Cool air. Every where goldenrods giving everybody allergies. It’s time for fall cleanup! Throwing away other people’s stuff is easy, but getting rid of your own junk?! That’s a completely different story!

            Helping Gramma eighty-six her stuff was hopeless. Within minutes of digging into her lifetime accumulation,  I realized that not one memento, faded picture, old brown paper bag, or 1938 style dress was going to be placed in a trash pile, thrown away, or given to Goodwill. .

            “You can never tell when you may need these things. It’s wasteful to give them away to people who won’t appreciate them.” Gramma stood firm by her convictions. Nothing left the house as long as she could breathe.

            Periodically, my husband, Carl, emptied our country barn where we’d stashed things away for 20 years.

            “That’s my old rocker!” I grabbed the arms and we tugged the rocker back and forth between us.

            “It has no rockers, can’t you see that?”

            “You promised you’d fix it.”

            “That was 14 years ago. I reckon I’m not going to get around to it.”

            The bonfire got bigger and bigger. “Get those wrought-iron chair frames out of there. I’m making new canvas covers for them.”

            “Yeah and burn myself to death.”

            I headed to the shed behind the garage where Carl shoved everything he owned: 20 years of paint cans, faded colors dripping down the sides; pieces of boards; broken down lawnmowers. I was pulling out and piling up when he appeared.

            “What are you doing with my stuff?”

            “Putting it on your bonfire.”

            “No way! Do you realize those door locks cost $18 each?”

            “Who would’ve known? They’re in pieces.”

            “And that box of roofing nails. Don’t throw those away.”

            “They’re all rusted.”

            “They just look rusty, but they’re good and get that axe out of there. It cost $12.”

            “It has no handle.”

            “I’ll get a handle for it.”

            “You haven’t gotten a handle for it in the last 10 years.”

            “Put it back. These are my things. You can’t pitch them!”

            “You threw my stuff away.”

            “That was junk.”

            “And this isn’t?”

            So once again, we crammed our useless possessions into new cubbyholes.

            Hope you guys have better luck.

Lots of junk!

Burning memories!

Pain and Politics

Pohainake Parish, my latest book about a parish that declared bankruptcy and started an unstoppable chain of events, is dedicated to “all those elected to public office who aspire to make a difference and soon discover they can’t.”

            I ran for public office, not knowing the system at all, and got elected! All I wanted to do was get the potholes filled and the school system straightened out so that all my real state customers wouldn’t ditch Tangipahoa and go to St. Tammany. Wiley Sharp, God rest his good soul, provided me an office in the old Columbia Theater which he owned at that time. My 70-plus mother was my phone answerer.

            I remember the day an African American came in and told her, “I’m haulin’ for Miss Katie and I needs gas money.” “Gas money” has a lot of different meanings, but not for my Mama. “That’s wonderful,” she replied. “Where’s your car?” He pointed over to the Shell service station. “Okay. Let’s go. I’ll get the tank filled up for you.”  The expression on his face was priceless.

            On another occasion a developer came into my office and offered me $500 if I promised to get the roads in a new subdivision dedicated and paved. I politely refused, but, I said, “I’m on the way to the Chamber of Commerce meeting. Why don’t you come with me and donate that money to one of their worthy projects? I bet that would get you right to the top of their list.” Believe it or not, he went and he became a good member.

            Campaigning was a new experience. When knocking on doors for votes, I rode in my husband’s pickup. He said a Cadillac just wouldn’t sit well with the country people. Carl’s family had been here since before the Confederate War so he knew everybody. Also, he offered a word of caution, “Everybody from the airport east was related, all kin to one another in some way.” We’d be invited in for a cup of coffee. Carl and the home owners would talk about the weather, the milk cows, where the quails were roosting, and Aunt Minnie’s hip replacement. After a while, he’d ask them to vote for me, as if I were a little side project. Once a homeowners showed off the new litter of black Labrador puppies. The little pups were running all around the porch, the yard, and the driveway. Carl backed the pickup truck over one, said $#!%, and lurched forward and got another one. He went inside and bought them both. I sighed, “They’ll never vote for me now!”

            A dear friend of mine had a drinking problem and on the eve of election, she called and begged me to go to Alcoholics Anonymous at a local church with her. All other candidates were out hustling last-minute votes and I’m sitting in a circle of people listening to them say, “My name is Joe and I’m an alcoholic” —I sat there thinking that they’ll probably never be sober enough to vote for me or anyone else for that matter.  

            But in the end, though I tried as diligently as I could to make a difference, it was hard. I was only one vote in a panel of 10 people.  I learned to horse-trade, to make deals, and to swap my vote for what I thought was the best interest of my constituents. I learned to drink beer in bars, play bingo at the fire stations, eat barbecues anywhere at any time, never to joke because politicians have absolutely no sense of humor and smile...smile…smile.

            None of us really knew what we were doing, but we managed to build the jail, a sanitary landfill, pave the roads and change the governing system from Police Jury to Parish Council. Lord knows what we could’ve accomplished if we had known what we were doing! 

Want to know all about it?! Read Pohainake Parish!

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!