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August 2006
Hurricane Katrina
One year has passed since Hurricane Katrina. For those of us in the south, especially in New Orleans and the gulf coast, everything is now referred to as “pre-Katrina� or “post Katrina�. That storm was the biggest natural disaster to ever hit the United States. I certainly hope the only one of it’s devastation to hit like that in my lifetime. The storm rolled in on my birthday last year so this year I decided I wanted to go to New Orleans to see it for myself.
We headed out Friday afternoon, Randy and Carol Lucky, my husband Jay and I. As we drove to New Orleans we talked about the Hurricane. As we drove from Baton Rouge into the city it was hard to see really anything. Randy pointed out the FEMA trailers and then there it was, the Superdome. I held unconsciously my breath as we drove by the massive structure that held all those people. The people who fled to it for safety from the storm who did not realize that had just entered a hell on earth. To this day I will never, ever understand why we could not get those people trapped there their basic necessities of food, water, and shelter, which to me means safety, as well as, a roof over are heads. Aren’t we a country who put a man on the moon? I would think we could have gotten our people water. People died from lack of water for God’s sake.
Randy brought us to our destination and pulled up on the sidewalk down in the quarter for us to unload our bags. Then he drove off to find parking which is quite a big deal in the quarter. As we entered the gate that took us down a long brick walled walkway to our apartment, we entered this lush tropical courtyard complete with a three tiered black flowing fountain. Fans had been positioned below the overhanging balconies that blew a warm, sultry breeze as we inhaled the scent and aroma of the quarter.
Nothing on the earth to me smells like the quarter in New Orleans. A combination of damp old buildings, sweat, incense, urine, and spicy cooking aromas fill the air. It takes me two washings to get that smell out of my clothes and hair when I get home. As much as I would like to say it stinks, I have to say, I love that smell. It is the smell of decades of lives and history. A story unfolds as you turn every corner of the streets, like page in a book to every visitor. This is truly a unique city that unfortunately rests below sea level, now that is a problem.
As I entered the frigid cold apartment with suitcases in tow, I marveled at how we were in a building that was who knows how old and perfectly restored. Rest would come easy in the Big Easy.
The next morning I awoke at 4:30 a.m. I shuffled out to the living room that faced St. Anne Street and thought I would read until everybody else awoke. I had brought “The Hearse You Came In On� by Tim Cockney, one of his Hitchcock Sewell mysteries. It seemed appropriate. I read. I loft my concentration soon as I noticed that somebody was walking by the front street windows every few seconds. I had never seen so much traffic at this time in the morning. Two young men had sat down to share a beer on the curb of the sidewalk in front of the apartment. My eyes were instantly drawn to the drama playing out on the street.
7:30 a.m. Jay awoke and we climbed the black wrought iron stairs to go to Randy’s brother’s, Robbie’s apartment directly above ours. Randy and Carol were staying in their apartment that was in the back corner of the compound. It’s brick walls backed Cokie Robert’s New Orleans courtyard and address. Robbie and his mother, Rose who was also visiting from Natchitoches,Louisiana greeted us with hot coffee is these sunny Clementine Hunter coffee mugs. Biscuits, sausage, and orange juice followed. We walked out the open window, floor to my chin height to sit out on the balcony. Polo, Robbie’s fluffy and precious Persian cat awaited standing on a wrought iron rolling cart, cat brush at its feet, waiting to be brushed. I brushed Polo as I took in my first look at New Orleans in the morning light.
One roof was obviously being re-roofed, gutters bent, and you could see hints and remnants of the storm. Overall, the quarter looked in fair shape. I watched a young man carry a mixed drink and three cups of beer down the street to his home. I could see Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo and a place that was fairly hopping on the corner down the street complete with gigantic disco ball hanging under its balcony. I would learn later that this was one of the largest gay bars in the quarter with another, the most famous, across the street. A big green garbage truck slowly pulled by with two men hanging off the back. They hollered up something that I took for ‘Good Morning�. We all waved. Yes, I was in New Orleans.
We called my sister, Karen and her husband, Richard as they were already in the city. They had been working in New Orleans since the Hurricane doing inventory on businesses for an insurance company. They had become a part of the quarter and I had heard the stories. They were still finding bodies and each day revealed another layer of the devastation. They joined us and we went out into the quarter.
Randy and Carol wanted to know my opinion of the quarter since the Hurricane. My first impression (I have been to New Orleans many times on previous occasions, usually for our Mid-South Bookseller’s Association conventions). I told them I was impressed, I thought it looked fine. In fact, it seemed cleaner to me and appeared very safe. I was very comfortable walking the brick lined streets and shopping the boutiques and art galleries, which I love.
We went first to Randy’s sister and brother in-law’s place to check out their apartment. As we climbed the old wooden staircase to their upstairs apartment, I could feel the many, many layers of black paint on the banister. We entered heaven as red is my favorite color. The walls were drenched with deep cherry red. A gilded mirror with gold and silver Mardi Gras beads dripping from the top with gilded cherubs hung over the fireplace. A crystal chandelier hung from the medallion at the ceiling. Robbie had decorated this apartment too. Divine. Yet another second floor balcony view that overlooked my absolute favorite shop in the quarter, the Fleur de Lis on Royal Street. This shop has exquisite gowns and a real French milliner in residence. I have always said if I “ever arrive�; I am having a hat made for me at the Fleur de Lis. There was Jackson Square with it mule drawn carriages, tarot and palm readers, street artists and performers, and the beautiful St. Louis Cathedral. Everything seemed in intact.
Next stop was where Randy’s brother, Robert Lucky, Jr. worked at M. S. Rau Antiques. As we entered, a uniformed and white gloved guard let us in as we buzzed to enter. All I can say is this a museum of a store that has galleries after galleries of museum quality jewelry, heirlooms, artifacts, furniture, and art for view and sale. They do a catalog four times a year and full time photographers year round to photograph their continuous turning of treasures. I viewed nothing that was less than a couple thousand dollars and most was in the $40,000 to one million dollar range. Robbie unlocked a glass case through a series of punched numbers to take out a small box that had an oval hand painted view of a London river scene. When opened the mechanism popped out a little bird covered with real hummingbird feathers that sang to us a real birdcall. The piece was only $178,000 dollars.
I viewed a blue diamond. Price tag was something like $399,000. My favorite piece was a Handel lamp, an apprentice of Tiffany, that’s lamp shade looked as if touched it would reveal to your fingertips cut velvet entitled “Jungle Bird�, a mere $38,000. Then the next couple of rooms ahead we gasped at the crystal Baccarat and gold chandelier that they had to have cut a special door to get the lighting fixture in the building at the cost of $3,000. Its cost was $350,000 then the ship made entirely of jade bought on a purchase to San Francisco. The jade chains leading up to the mast where carved each link out of the same stone. I had never been this up close and personal on any museum visit. This was the ultimate art lover’s tour.
The Monet that Robbie had just told me about they had purchased was missing from its display. They had packed it for a show in Baltimore. Robbie was headed to Paris, London, and possibly Prague soon on a buying trip.
We talked of how they had faired during the Hurricane. The shop had done fine. They had armed guards with dogs to protect against looters but the warehouse; they had lost millions as each room swirled in the swollen waters. I thought of all the lost treasures each with a story to tell. Robbie took us also to the behind the scenes library of books where they researched each piece. I had no idea how much money was spent on those books but I saw one that I knew cost $1,000 dollars. The walls were floor to ceiling on books everything from silver, porcelain, 15th century furniture to world famous artists and artisans.
Last, was the packing room that overwhelmed us on “how in the world would you ship that thing”? They had a Portugeuse man that was in his seventies that had been meticulously packing and sending items for decades. He had no replacement. The bigger items were personally packed, trucked to location, and unpacked and placed. This was one of the highlights of my trip toNew Orleans, being an art major and a treat for anyone who appreciates amazing art. I personally had no idea you could actually buy such things except from maybe a private collector. I was enlightened.
We headed over to the Port of Call for lunch. I had a Corona while some of those in our entourage dived into a Monsoon. I took a taste and decided that I wanted to remember this trip, not have it disappear into oblivion.
As we left the building, the sky had fallen. We ran to a covered balcony to wait out the downpour. My sister, Karen made a call to her New Orleans friend, Julia and the next thing I knew we were diving into her Lincoln jumping from the curb to car as the water in the street had now formed a fast running stream. We headed over to Karen and Richard’s apartment to dry off and check out where they had been living.
The thing about the quarter is until you see behind the iron gates and shuttered doors, you have no idea of what is inside. Treasures of architectural delights lie beyond those doors. I instantly thought of the book “The Secret Garden�, where a lock and key are discovered behind all the foliage. I explored their and Julia’s apartments that lined the street. I have never seen more spiral staircases, secret alcoves, balconies, each turn revealing another surprise. I actually felt like I was inside the story of one of many books that I have read. I could not wait for the next adventure just as I did when reading the next page.
The rain had let up so we headed back out to explore the quarter. Karen brought my attention to a very large blown up newspaper story that was taped in a storefront window. “Isn’t that the author of your book club selection?�
Sure enough there, in large black and white print, was a feature written for the Times Picayune by none other than author, Mark Childress who wrote “One Mississippi� our Pulpwood Queen August Official Book Club Selection. We stood and read the story.
I thought of all the authors that had lived in New Orleans, how funny to have our book club selection author featured. New Orleans is a magical place and to me, a national treasure. The only thing that even comes close as far as a city is Venice, Italy and that is another story all unto itself. As I walked, I thought to myself, “I love New Orleans�. As I love to people watch, what could be better than a city that is living theater? You never know what you are going to see or what you are going to experience. I delight to the eye and to all the senses. As they say in Louisiana, “Laissez les bontemps roulez� or “let the good times roll�. I could not agree more.
Continued next week……..
The Power of the Hand-Written Word
Have you ever noticed that people do not write letters like they use to anymore? It is funny. There is nothing I love to receive more than a card or letter.
I got a bunch this week due to the big birthday and each one is such a treasure.
When you walk to the mailbox and you see that envelope hand addressed, a certain thrill of anticipation runs up my spine. A letter! To me, it is kind of like seeing your stocking filled for the first time on Christmas morning. You know that you are in for a treat.
You notice the stamps and sometimes postcard from far away places. As I collect postcards, I see them as another addition to my collection. I save the letters too and nothing is more thrilling that to read a letter that someone wrote you years ago. Instantly, you are taken back to that time and place. I have letters from my Grandmother Mudd that she wrote to me when I moved to California. They really did not say a whole lot except if you read between the lines you learn that she took the time to sit down and write to me personally, I treasure those cards and letters as much as the finest jewelry and diamonds.
My Daddy recently brought me a sack of old photographs of my sisters and me as children. I think they were actually photographs that my Grandmother Mudder had, as down in the bottom amongst recipes there was a write-up she did for the Eureka Herald on her up-and-coming wedding anniversary. At the very bottom, I found letters I had written to my Mudder. She had kept them all these years and they were dated 1969 and 1970. There was the loopy hearts and flowers handwriting from my junior high days. Now why in the world I would write letters to my Mudd when she lived in the same town, I have no idea. They were funny and very telling. You knew from reading those letters that I thought my Mudder was the moon and the stars. She had saved and kept them. I was so overcome with emotion, that tears rolled down my now almost fifty-year-old cheeks.
I in turn have too saved every card, letter, note, sent to me from the years. I also have saved all the newspaper clippings from my children being in the paper for honor roll, soapbox derby, or theater production. This past weekend as I sorted through the bags and boxes of my saved collections of printed and handwritten words, I thought what am I going to do with all this stuff. I made a decision. I was on a new mission, decorating.
In my bathroom at my shop, I tack up all my correspondence. Yes, that’s right. Every postcard, letter that is addressed to me at the shop I hang up on the walls. People love my bathroom. There is so much reading material and it is all so interesting. You might read a card from author, Iris Rainer Dart, a poem from Pulitzer Prize winning journalist Edward Humes, a birthday wish from my Jaybird; it is a real treasure trove of reading material all right. I thought I would take that concept one-step further.
In the bathroom of my old shop, I have begun to decoupage every saved bit of cards, letters, and newspaper clipping on the walls. My correspondence would be my new wallpaper. After working hard at it for two days, I caught my husband standing in the bathroom reading the walls. I stood and watched him. He was totally caught up in what he was reading, exactly my purpose. I figured then since everyone knows I have built a house of books that I would instead of hiding away all my little treasures of handwritten cards, notes, and letters, I would share them in this unusual way of display.
Now my shop and house are a trip, I have everything out on display. My life is an open book, literally. All my costume jewelry, hats, scarves, belts, and purses are displayed on racks. All my books are shelved in every spare space in my house. Why shouldn’t I display my cherished keepsake words?
I have a table upstairs that needs a new coat of paint. Hmmm, If I just decoupage it think how cool that would be with all my newspaper clippings. I could probably do that alone with all features in The Marshall News Messenger on my literary and literacy events. I kind of see it as black and white and read all over. I have decided to frame one of my Grandmother Mudd’s last letters to me before she died. It was a Valentine.
Think about those kinds of projects. Then I want you to consider writing a letter too. This letter could be to a friend. This letter could be to a family member. This letter could be to you. Just sit down with some pretty stationary and write. Send that letter then you too could go to the mailbox and instead of the typical bills, solicitations, and junk mail; you could find a real treasure, something written just for you.
Have you ever received a letter that changed your life? What is your best letter-writing story? I love to hear from you and hope you are enjoying my weekly blogs.
Tiara wearing, Book, and Letter writing sharing,
Kathy L. Patrick
Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, YOU�RE the fairest of them All!
August 27, 1956 was when I was born. I share my birthday with former President Lyndon Baines Johnson, actress, Marlena Dietrich, and the world’s best know saint on earth, Mother Theresa plus the African-American checker at the Pottery Tent in Marshall, Texas. This year’s birth date is a life-affirming one for me. I am turning the BIG FIVE O!
When I was a child, either my birthday hit the first day of school or around the day we had to put our shoes back on. Hard to have a birthday party on the first day of school as teachers have something other in mind than the traditional cupcake and Kool-aid that our mothers in pumps and pearls served to all the children on a napkin at our desks.
My sister, Karen, begs to differ and told my youngest daughter that my never having a birthday party was a big lie. I proceeded to question her memory and set her straight, after all, I am the oldest. Don’t worry; I have ways of getting back at my sister who turns the BIG FIVE O next year.
Okay, she was right in one sense, I had a birthday slumber party once. Yes, and note I said once. When I was in the 7th grade, my mother relented after endless begging to let me have a few of my closest friends over to spend the night as my birthday fell on a weekend. The only thing was I had to promise we would never step a foot inside her house as we might disturb the rake lines on her champagne white shag carpet. We had to stay outside the house so we slept in the old garden shed that was our clubhouse in the backyard. My mother did not allow children in the house. They were to be seen outside and not heard. I think that was pretty much the same for all my other friends’ mothers too.
We walked across the street that night to go the Lo-Mar Drive In, which was the local hangout, for hamburgers, French fries and Cokes for supper. My mother did not bake me a cake but my Aunt Teenie did later. It was lovely three-layered lavender cake with pink ribbons around each layer tied in bows. I thought it was the most beautiful cake I had ever seen and she even brought me a small aquarium with a real goldfish. I was speechless and my mother was too. She did not speak to my Aunt Teenie or me for weeks.
I had a fabulous birthday even though all eight of us girls were cram packed into the attic of that garden shed. If you lifted your head up too high the nails that held on the roof shingles would hit you. Now Karen, note because of my liar -calling sister, I have been forced to admit, I did get one birthday party. She tried to tell my daughters that I had birthday parties at the park but those were actually for my youngest sister, Karol as her birthday fell on August 10th before school started. We all got gypped’ as usually our birthday gifts consisted of back to school clothes, which we would have gotten anyway. Poor Karen’s birthday hit right after Christmas so her birthday was always thrown in with her Christmas presents.
My grandparents always got me incredible and totally me gifts. Once a sewing basket filled with sewing notions from my Grandmother Murphy. She taught me how to sew and I made a quilt for my troll doll, which I still have framed and hanging on my wall. My mother’s mother, Mudd got me once Russell Stover chocolate turtles. My mother said they were too rich for children but Mudder told me I could eat the whole box, which I did. I never even got sick. Therefore, to set the record straight, yes Karen I did get ONE birthday party in 17 years. You caught me.
When I was seventeen, I went to college. For two weeks, I was underage and could not go to Aggieville, the strip of bars and shops that Kansas State University students loved to visit. My first weekend of college all the girls from my dorm headed out to bar hop in Aggieville. I could not go, as I did not have a valid I.D. They had no problem in going without me. For two weeks I sat in the dorm as all my friends went out to have what I thought was the time of their lives. I, on the other hand, sat in my dorm room plucking my eyebrows, painting my nails, reading and popping popcorn. These were the days before television in the dorm room, DVD players, and the internet. I did as I always do. I stuck my nose in a book. Big birthday whoopee!
Then my birthday FINALLY rolled around and here came my friends. “Let’s go to Aggieville! Woo! Hoo! You’re eighteen and legal!� they cried jubilantly as they applied another layer of lip-gloss and flipped back their Farah Fawcett’s wings.
“I don’t think so,� I muttered barely looking up from my latest read “Jaws� by Peter Benchley.
“Why not Murphy? Let’s par- tee!�
I was not moving. They had gone out for weeks leaving me all alone in dorm room hell. Call me holding a grudge, I was going to be stubborn and stand my ground that happened to be sitting in my dorm room.
“Alright then Murphy, can we borrow your I.D.? One totally crass so-called friend asked.
“What do you want my I.D. for?
“Free pitchers on your birthday, can we have it please?�
I can tell you that what I basically told them was don’t let the doorknob hit you on the backside on your way out. Actually, my lines were a tad more colorful!
So birthdays!
As an adult, I have a party for myself every year whether anybody comes or not! It’s my day and looking at the alternative, I prefer celebrating birthdays in a big way. I am alive! Last year I told my friends to kidnap me and take me somewhere fun. I had my bags packed and was ready from beachwear to snowsuit! What I wasn’t prepared for was Hurricane Katrina.
We were to all meet at my shop Saturday night, my birthday after I finished work, have a celebratory Leopardtini, and hit the road! Then Hurricane Katrina hit the fan and all plans came to a screeching halt. As the storm wailed outside, I wailed on the inside, another crappy birthday!
However, something happened in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, Jefferson was flooded with displaced families who left New Orleans and the coast with nothing more than their flip flops, t-shirts, maybe a family pet, and their credit cards. They came to Jefferson driving brand new S.U.V.’s thinking a few days to kick back while the storm is hitting at home. We got the lucky ones.
They took the boat rides, the train rides, visited the museum, walked the ghost walk and then the news came crashing in. They had lost their homes, livelihoods; they were maxed out on their credit cards and no way to get to their money in the bank. They were broke and homeless.
I have to say that Jefferson really embraced these folks and I got a wakeup call. I had my home, my family, my job, and my things. I was ashamed of my wealth. Here were people who were in shock. I heard my bookseller friend in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi lost her house and her bookstore. Pastor Polly Standing at the First United Methodist Church I caught waiting tables at The Hamburger Store. “Who are all these people?� I asked her as volunteered bussing tables.
“Kathy, these are Hurricane Katrina families and Judy and Buck are feeding them all for free,� she called back as she ran dirty plates back to the kitchen.
The Hamburger Store served over two thousand free meals to these people. The families parked on my front porch as we had wireless internet and they would try to reach love ones. I rallied my Pulpwood Queens book club to bring food and we provided coolers of ice cold drinks. I placed decks of cards, games, newspapers out on the front porch for the families to keep them occupied. My girls and I decided to do free story hours and I found the adults enjoyed the stories as much as the children did. Our exchange student from Japan, Chisato, taught the children origami. This went on for weeks and I started offering free haircuts and shampoos to the families.
We still have families here from those storms and they have found Jefferson their new home. Suddenly not having birthday parties seemed somewhat stupid to me. Here were people who had lost everything but each other.
My children and I cleaned out our closets and gave away all extra clothing, shoes, bedding, sheets, and pillows. I haven’t missed a thing.
This year I again asked my friends to kidnap me for my birthday, as this was the biggie. Fifty years of birthdays uncelebrated and I wanted to do something really different. Since Hurricane Katrina swept through and washed out my birthday, I wanted to go to New Orleans and see for myself where it happened. I wanted to see how much had been done and since the media has decided that its old news, I just wanted to see what was probably the world’s biggest natural disaster to happen in my lifetime. We are heading to the Big Easy! I will have a full report later in September.
Now some people tell you, please refrain from gifts, your presence and well wishes are all the birthday guy, or gal would ever need. After going through Hurricane Katrina and Rita, I could not agree more. Honestly, I do not need a thing, but there is something that I want. First, I want everyone to send me a hand mirror signed on the mirror side. They need not be expensive, just unique and remind me of YOU! This will be a tribute to my friend and Pulpwood Queen Joyce Jackson Futch who we lost to cancer. She had a border of hand mirrors in her house and I want to border my bookstore with these hand mirrors to be a reflection of my friends. You say you want to see beauty. I see beauty reflected in the eyes of others. Look out instead of looking in. Beauty does come from within but we must reflect that to others.
Second, I want tiaras, crowns, and they need not be expensive either but unique. I am going to make a light fixture of these treasures from my friends to remind me, I know this sounds sappy, but it is YOU that light up my life. We have crowned ourselves the “beauty within� queens and I can tell you that entering my shop always brings a smile to everyone’s face. I think this will have everyone laughing his or her head off so why not have that happen with a little bling!
Third, I want everyone to understand that though it has been a year, the devastation of Hurricane Katrina and Rita should not be forgotten. We need to help more than ever. Thanks to author, Cathryn Michon, I have an address and have been helping her collect books for the libraries in Louisiana to replace all the wonderful books that were lost during that devastation. Here is her email and I hope that you will make a donation too.
Kathy,
Here is the info that you asked for as to where books can be sent for the Trent Reznor/Melissa Beyeler library restocking project for Louisiana.
Apparently I had it wrong, they need both kid and adult books.
Books may be sent to:
Care unlimited Renee Pratt 3313 S. Saratoga Suite 6 New Orleans, Lousiana 70115
Please indicate that the books sent were solicited by Melissa Beyeler so she knows where they are coming from.
Melissa also asks that you include who has donated the books, and an address for them, so that the people from her foundation can send donors a tax deduction thank you letter.
This further from Melissa:
“We also need books for adults- so everything will get used. We are trying to re-stock all the schools and libraries as well. I so appreciate your help on this, it means the world to me.”
Kathy I am so grateful to you for the way you jumped in on this one. It’s a really noble effort and I know that it is dear to your life mission of spreading a love for books and reading.
Love,
Cathryn
Last, I would like to say that I now see the second part of my life as the time of my life to give back for all that I have taken. Because the First United Methodist Church was so instrumental in coordinating the Hurricane Katrina and Rita relief efforts for the displaced families, I am starting an annual Christian and Inspirational Book Festival. To be called BOOKS ALIVE! this will be a total fundraiser for that church November 3 – 5, 2006, to replace all their depleted funds and to help them continue their outreach and mission efforts.
I sent out an email to all my Christian and Inspirational author friends and asked them, “Who can help me help this church in helping others?� Every author I emailed told me they would come except one and that was only because his church was having their annual fall festival that same weekend. He is coming later. Go to my website, www.beautyandthebook.com to read more about BOOKS ALIVE! In addition, if you cannot make it, please send a check made payable to the First United Methodist Church of Jefferson. That donation would be the best birthday present ever!
Happy Birthday to me and let me tell you too that if you let me know when your birthday is, I will help you celebrate your special day too. What is your favorite birthday memory? How would you like to make your day more memorable? Or what was your biggest birthday disaster? I love the stories. My favorite motto by Muriel Rukheyser is “The world is made up of stories, not atoms.� Let us just see that we have one heck of a story to tell, shall we? And my birthday wish? Pay it forward.
Tiara wearing, Book, and Birthday sharing,
Kathy L. Patrick
Kat Receives Big Rock for Big Birthday!
My husband, Jay, got me a big rock for my up-and-coming 50th birthday. When I say big, I mean really big. So big, he had to rent a BobCat bulldozer to haul the thing to my house. You see, he actually brought me a whole trailer load of big rocks from his grandmother’s homestead to place by our front drive as you pull in to our house. Now I know you were thinking I thought she meant a diamond but in all honesty, these rocks mean much, much more.
I was a geology/art major in college. A member of the Geology Club at Emporia State University in Kansas I was really into rocks. I had a license tag that stated “I LOVE ROCKS!� and have always been fascinated since a kid with rocks and other found objects in nature. Now you know I am not just obsessed with books, I am a well-rounded obsessive/compulsive person.
My two daughter’s middle names are Amethyst and Alexandrite. My husband on our honeymoon bought me some quartz crystals in Arkansas, later a sterling silver and quartz crystal bracelet. Somehow, I never got the big ring. Having a store bought diamond was never important to me, but we have been digging for raw diamonds in Arkansas.
On our first anniversary, as we were careening down the highway I screamed, “Stop, stop! I have to have that rock.� My husband reluctantly hit the brakes, pulled over, climbed the hill, rolled this massive rock slab down the hill, tilted it up to the tailgate of his truck, and macho, macho man, lifted that rock into the bed of his truck. We looked like low riders all the way back to Texas. Now that is true love to me my friends. When a man does something for you that goes against his better judgment and does it for you anyway, you know that he loves you. Let me clarify that statement by saying of course, nothing that would be considering breaking the law in case any of you get any ideas, ha ha.
When Jay entered the house last Monday and asked, “Okay, Kathy, where do you want your rocks.� I, as pleased as punch, walked out the door, down the drive to point and instruct the placement of the behemoth boulders.
Once when on a trip home to visit family in Kansas my Daddy, Jay and I went for a drive out in the Flint Hills of Kansas. As we drove by Eureka Lake, I told them the spillway had some amazing sedimentary rocks just full of fossils. We pulled in and stopped for a look/see. We walked down the dirt road to the spillway before the dam and it was as dry as a bone. As I looked over the vast amounts of shale slabs that amounted to the dried up creek bed Jay looked up at me and said, “Oh no, I know exactly what you are thinking. There is no way Kathy we can get one of those rock slabs up that hill into your dads S.U.V.�
I did not say a word. I just put on my pouty face and pointed. My daddy went, “What are you talking about? Rocks! Surely, you don’t mean�. He stopped mid-sentence as he watched Jay walk over to one of the slabs, tilt the massive rock up on its side, and proceed to roll it rather clumsily up the hill. My daddy jumped in to join him. I bounded up the hill to unlock the Mountaineer and get the back ready for the huge rock slab. It would just fit if I could just move some of the tools to the middle seat. That rock is now the coffee table in my great room of our house. I look at it every morning as I drink my first cup of coffee. As I read in my favorite burgundy winged back chair I glance up now and then to admire this grand work of nature.
Everybody in the world knows that I am obsessive/compulsive about books, but rocks? They are all over my house plus bird nests, interesting sticks, and jars of sand. I even have one of the weathered boards of my grandparent’s home place hanging on my wall and a burned out brick from the house in the window box above my kitchen sink. An old bottle of dirt from “Outhome� as we call it sits on my table to remind me of where I come from in case I ever get too big for my britches.
My big dream is to climb Ayer’s Rock in Australia. I ogled a real moon rock once at the Louisiana State Fair. The only problem with collecting rocks is it has taken its toll on my husbands back. He totes the rocks and books.
So the next time you want to know what love is, think of my nontraditional rock. For me there is nothing more sexy and endearing than a man lugging my books and hauling rocks. Looks like my 50th birthday is going to a grand one. The way I figure it, 50 to go and as long as my husband’s back holds out the next plan of action is a water feature by our front deck. Anybody know where we can get some really cool, big rocks?
Tiara wearing, Book, and Rock sharing,
Kathy L. Patrick
Kathy’s Song
When the Isle of Capri Casino & Resort called and asked me if I could come do Art Garfunkel’s hair and makeup for his concert this past Saturday night, I said, “YES,” and thought of junior high. “Ceceliaâ€? was my favorite song to sing to and my sisters and I used to dance like wild maniacs on my mother’s white champagne shag carpet in front of the hi fi stereo. I grew up with the music of Simon and Garfunkel. In high school, their songs became standards for band and choir. My big question was, did Art really have any hair to do?
When I arrived at the Isle of Capri in Shreveport, my contact Trela was there to greet me. She took me to the concert hall and as I entered, Art Garfunkel was doing sound check and rehearsing with the band on the stage. His personal assistant introduced himself and told to have a seat. As soon as they were finished, he would escort me back to the dressing rooms.
As I sat listening to my almost personal concert, I was instantly back in 1969. When I was 13, I could not figure out how if someone got up to wash their face when they went back to bed how someone could have taken their place, as in the song “Cecelia�. I had to laugh at my own innocence, which was lost, completely when I saw the film “The Graduate�. I think everybody who grew up in the seventies could sing verbatim “And here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson.� Years later, I found out that Anne Bancroft was actually only like four years older than Dustin Hoffman in the movie. At the time, I was appalled that someone would “sleep�, as we said then, with the mother of his girlfriend. Today, this would be on daytime television only the young man would “another word� with both the mother and the girlfriend at the same time. I reflected on how I missed those days of innocence.
Rehearsal over, I was led back through the maze of the concert hall to the dressing rooms. The first band member walked by and asked me if I could iron his shirt. “Sure I could iron his shirt.� As he handed me this Hawaiian shirt with cocktail drinks all over it. I wondered if all makeup artists were asked to iron shirts.
Art Garfunkel entered and very politely asked me if I was the person who was to help him get ready. Really friendly twinkly eyes, he looked exactly like I remembered, yet older but in a good way. He really had not changed much over the years except his hair had receded into that horseshoe shape. He asked me also if I could help him pick out a shirt and then press it. Sure, I could iron his shirt. I mean how cool to iron Art Garfunkel’s shirt. I would have polished his shoes, as I pinched myself to believe I was actually in the presence of Art Garfunkel.
I guess Art Garfunkel is kind of like an icon to me of the sixties and seventies. The sound, the harmonies that really changed the way men were perceived. This was the sound of men more in tune to their feminine side, a softer, gentler side; there was a change in the air. The folk singers, Woodstock, we were going to change the world by being passive yet pro-active. Make peace, not war. I thought of a poster that had a daisy perched in the gun barrel end of the rifle. I would just take this all in and go with the flow.
Art was presenting the shirts he was thinking about wearing and as he asked me about the deep purple one, the one that looked like a gambler’s shirt, shouldn’t he wear that shirt? I agreed, it did look a bit like Vegas. He then looked as his slacks then decided that jeans were in order. I definitely agreed that Art Garfunkel should only wear jeans. He then told me that jeans should never be ironed, just washed, and worn as he pulled a rolled up pair out of a duffel bag. I couldn’t agree more as I am highly suspicious of any man that has jeans with starched creases. Rather screams “Urban Cowboy� and not a child of the seventies, you know what I mean.
As I went out into the hall to press Art’s deep violet silk shirt with black lace silk down each side in the front, his assistant told me that I would have to place towels on the floor, so the shirt would never touch the carpet. I used a cloth napkin on top of the shirt as I pressed so the iron would never touch the silk. The assistant periodically would move the towels to ensure the shirt never touched the carpet. I thought wow; this must be what it is like to be a big time star.
Now his assistant told me that Art might not let me do his hair and makeup, he might just do it himself. Hmmm, I thought I was making quite an amount of change to iron just a couple of shirts when Art leaned out his dressing room door and called, “Kathy, you do, do makeup right?�
As I entered his dressing room, I assured him I was a salon professional and use to work for Elizabeth Arden as a make-up artist. I had been a hair stylist and make-up artist for almost thirty years. If he would just tell me what he wanted done, I would make him look just perfect.
He explained that he just wanted a minimal look and of course, he would be adding his hairpiece that would need to be checked and adjusted. I am only telling you this as he told everyone at the concert that he wore a hairpiece. It is not a secret. Normally, I don’t understand why men wear hairpieces but this one was so fine, such a perfect match, that when he put it on, I thought, ah ha! Here is Art Garfunkel.
As he silently read a poem, he was to read on stage, I did his makeup. After he finished we chatted as we did the final touchups. He turned to me and said, “What do you think of George Bush?�
I replied, “Personally, not much lately.� Realizing that he was wanting to know my political beliefs, I blurted out, “Now if you want to know where I stand in politics? I am the petition drive chairperson for Kinky Friedman for Governor in Marion County, Texas. He smiled the biggest smile you have ever seen and told me that he loved Kinky Friedman. I continued that Kinky had been to my hair salon/bookstore, the biggest book signing I had ever hosted, and I was planning to vote for him for Governor of Texas.
Now when I was in beauty school, we were told you were never, never, never, suppose to talk religion, politics, or sex. But this was the man who sang to the world about all of those things.
We talked about Kinky for a while and suddenly, I knew I had made his approval. I had passed the test. He asked me if I would step out while he got dressed and if I would stay to check him out right before he went on the stage. I told him, of course I would.
When I stepped back in the hall, the band was arriving from their dressing rooms and we chatted. I think they were all amazed that I had actually done his hair and makeup. They asked me what I did and I told them I owned a hair salon/bookstore and ran the largest book club in the world. The keyboardist asked me what I was reading, I told him “The Transformation� by Catherine Chidnet, and I had just finished “Small Town Odds� by Jason Headley and “The Dressmaker� by Elizabeth Oberbeck. We were off and talking about books when Art called me back into the dressing room. As I put on the light finishing touches, Art Garfunkel sang to me. It was if time stood still. I never want to forget that moment. Art Garfunkel was singing just for me.
Time to go and we all walked down the hall to the concert room. I knew that around fifty of my Pulpwood Queen book club members had come to the concert and were on the other side of the doors. Art thanked me and I told him, again, “It was my pleasure.�
As I took my seat for the concert, I closed my eyes and for that time, I was just a kid again. My good friend Carol Lancaster Lucky leaned over and whispered, “God, I feel like I did back when I was young.� I whispered back, “Me too, only 100 pounds heavier.� We just lost it as we tried to muffle our laughter then we just got lost in the music. After the second encore, the band began that rousing drumbeat and rhythm of my favorite song “Cecelia� and I was on my feet. They could not keep me from dancing to “Cecelia, your breaking my heart. You’re shaking my confidence daily.�
I told Carol the only thing that would have made it any better is if the entire audience had had Bic lighters. She laughed and said, “No way, that would be a fire hazard!� As we swayed to the music, we got lost in the music of our youth and the continuing music of artistry of Art Garfunkel.
Later on as we all poured out of the concert halls, everybody was talking about what a great concert that really was. I could not have agreed more. Everyone told me he looked fantastic, in fact, he looked exactly as they remembered him but they could not believe it was a hairpiece when he made that announcement. I told them, “The magic of make-up and beauty.�
Another great adventure for the Pulpwood Queen and again the wonderful place books can take you. Art Garfunkel also told me that he has walked across America and is now on a journey walking around the world, next stop, Istanbul. He told me he was thinking of writing a book and I told him, “That would be a book I would want to read, he should begin immediately.�
For more on Art Garfunkel, go to www.artgarfunkel.com and if I were all of you, I would check out his next concert appearances and let him know you would like to read that book too! He is an American treasure and instantly made me feel young again. That is worth the price of any ticket.
Singing, “Cecelia, I’m down on my knees, begging you please, to come home.�
Kathy L. Patrick
Founder of the Pulpwood Queens Book Clubs
Hairdresser to the Authors and can say, even once to Art Garfunkel!
