A Louisiana Summer in the Middle of New Mexico

We walked by JT on this morning’s stroll through the gardens.  He surprised me by his insistence I remember his name and the dates on his plaque.  By the time the dogs got to the wilderness to chase the dirt-rats, I had forgotten most of his name and one of the years, so I had to make a special trip back in order to pass JT’s grave again.  Using a chant, I repeated the information in a rhythm I continued to say in my head after writing it on a notepad. 

I’ve got to remember to bring a pen and paper on these walks.

After calculating the years, I comprehended that JT was 23 when he died.  He would have been 53 today, if he had lived—three years older than I. 

Bragging some, I have to say, I’m getting pretty good at navigating the Net for information on newly-found-friends, because I gleaned a decent amount of data about this young man in two hours.  (In comparison, it took six to discover Little Davie had divorced Aurelia, and she hadn’t come close to actually killing him.) 

Here’s some of what I found:  JT was born in August, a very hot month, especially in Louisiana.  I went on a vacation in February to New Orleans about eight years ago, a few months after Hurricane Katrina.  I know I couldn’t have taken a Louisiana August. 

JT died on July 1, in Arboles, Colorado, which is close to Durango.  He worked for a Farmington oil company that no longer does business.  It makes sense, though; that this young man would go into such work, living most of his life in Shreveport, which is the off-shore hub for the oil drilling industry.

In 1983 some type of misfortune occurred in a desert job site, and JT was killed.  I speculate his little family was too poor to ship his body to Louisiana, too poor for much of a funeral, too poor to spend money on a head plate with all the engraved information—since it had merely his name, the year of his birth and the year he died. 

His wife, Laura likely had to save every penny the company had given her as compensation.  She most likely took her two boys, JT junior and Little Jason, back to where the summers are hot and the air is as heavy and sweaty as a New Orleanian long-shore man while the sea blows mocking breezes with disparaging regularity. 

Not like in New Mexico where the summers swelter with drought-dry heat while dusty tannish-red sand makes the eyes crusty and painful as it flows across the highway during storms--just like Nebraska winter snow does—snake-like, hugging the ground as if it had never come from a cloud let alone seen one.

Who could blame her for leaving?—wanting to return to what she knew, to a culture she understood—to be with family—JT’s momma promising to help raise the boys, knowing what this young widow went through since she had buried JT’s daddy years ago—he had died in the middle of the Gulf, however; with a mile of water under his boots, and his hard hat smudged with grease from the chugging machinery—a popular melody which meant work and wealth.

Yes, I liked JT right off. 

He was friendly, politely bending to pat the pups one at a time before tipping his hat and calling me “Ma’am,” even though I’ll never consider myself old enough for that appellation. 

The voice I heard in a whisper was full of soft Louisiana lilting lyrics, similar to those my Grandma Jean sang on quiet summer evenings in the 1960’s.  My father annually made these northern pilgrimages, driving our vintage grey-green station wagon from Pocatello to Washington State to visit his father and step-mother.  I remember Grandma Jean’s rhythmical Southern alto during late-night conversations, my father adding a deep-bass as he leaned thick elbows on a linoleum-covered kitchen table standing in the center of a Walla Walla clapboard, two-storey house. 

In my mind’s eye, I saw JT and Grandma Jean with the same Cajun-inspired grins, accompanied by good-natured laughter which originated from the heart, not the heat.  They had the same brilliant summer sky blue eyes which beamed with tiny white-stars—you know the kind—when nearly blinding light twinkles off ripples of moving water. 

Their richly intoned voices seemed as cool as tall red glasses of iced-lemonade about to bead perspiration in the shade of a screened-in porch, like those in the front of shotgun-styled houses down where granite graves sit on top of thick Delta clay, where gators are jus’ iddy-biddy nuisances, and lacy grey-green moss drips from crooked magnolia limbs like melting ice cream running down chocolate dipped waffle cones.

I bet JT used his boys’ entire names—first, middle and last—like Grandma Jean did when I got into trouble.

“Beth Elmajean Boldman, if yer not insi’ this house in t’next ten-secon’s, Imagoin’ ta shave t’top layah ov skin frum yer backsi’so nice ‘n’ neat yew won’t be-a-siddin’dow-n fa’ a-week-ov-Sunday dinnahs!” 

I can tell you with a hand on the Bible she was a woman of her word—I felt every smack with accurate acuity.  Oh, yes, ma’am, I did!  And to this day, when someone says my middle name, on purpose or by accident, I cringe instinctively.

JT might have used such singing imagery, a similar poetic metaphor to get his kids a-running—a memorable turn of phrase which would make Jeff Foxworthy proud to be a red-neck.

My backside aches just to think about it.

 

Grandma Jean, Me (age 2.5), my brother Cameron

I look like Grandma Jean's mini-me, don't I?