tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41371765191940637992024-03-05T21:59:28.890-06:00Queen of Extraneous InformationAnn Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-11210801709198893992015-08-10T08:44:00.001-05:002015-08-10T08:54:57.161-05:00I'M SOIE D'EAU. . .ARE YOU?<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
As a former English teacher and as an always
lover of words, I've spent my adulthood learning and trying
to know the etymology or origin of as many words as I could. I can
remember one of the earliest words that fascinated me was <em>assassin</em>.
During the Crusades, there was a sect of Shia Muslims who were sent out on
suicidal missions to kill important enemies, especially
Crusaders. The Arabic word for these killers was <em>ḥashshāshīn,</em>
which means a hashish user. The <em>assassins</em> (Latin derivative)
would get their courage from smoking <em>hashīsh,</em> thus the
name. Its first known use was about 1520. Interesting, huh?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Now, please don't think that I'm going to wrack
my brain to think of every origin of every word I know. I'm not.
There are just a few that I would like to call to your attention, because
they are very interesting, and they might come up the next time you play
JEOPARDY!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
In 1776, the Irish playwright Richard Brinsley
Sheridan wrote his first play, <em>The Rivals.</em> In it he created a
character by the name of Mrs. Malaprop. This character used words
that did not have the meaning she intended but the meaning of a
similar-sounding word. For instance, at one point Mrs. Malaprop
says, "<em>illiterate</em> him from your memory!" [She
means <em>obliterate</em>.] There are numerous examples, but you get the
point. In 1598, in <em>Much Ado About Nothing</em>, Shakespeare has
a character do the same thing, but the character's name is Dogberry and his
incorrect use of words was known as <em>Dogberryisms.</em> They also appear in
Shakespeare's <em>The Merchant of Venice</em>. However, the word
malapropism itself seems to have not been used until Lord Byron used it in
1814.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I was in high school, my best friend and I,
having learned about malapropisms, started using them as part of our high-school-code
language. Instead of saying we'd meet at a certain time and we,
therefore, needed to <strong>synchronize</strong> our watches, we'd say,
"Let's <strong>scrutinize</strong> our watches." Now that I think about
it, we weren't imitating Mrs. Malaprop, but the many characters played by
the comedian Stan Laurel and the more contemporary Leo Gorcey as
Slip Mahoney in <strong>The Bowery Boys</strong><em>.</em> One of my favorite malapropisms
that I still use today is <strong>I resemble that remark!</strong> instead of<em> </em><strong>I
resent that remark!</strong> However, my very favorite is in the Broadway musical, <strong>The
Music Man</strong><em>.</em> Mayor Shinn looks at his wife and says, "Not one <strong>poop</strong>
out of you, Madam!" Mrs. Shinn looks at the audience and says, "I
think he means <strong>peep!"</strong></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
A <strong>neologist</strong> is one who makes up or coins
new words and uses them as part of his or her speech or writing.
Some of our U.S. presidents have been considered <strong>neologists</strong>. George
Washington was first to use the word <strong>administration</strong>. John Adams
is credited with using <strong>caucus</strong> and<strong> lengthy</strong> for the first
time. Theodore Roosevelt used <strong>muckraker</strong> and <strong>lunatic fringe</strong>
for the first time. President Harding was the first to use <strong>bloviation</strong>
and <strong>normalcy</strong>. Presidents George W. Bush and Thomas Jefferson are
the leaders by sheer numbers in creating words. President Bush coined
words like <strong>misunderestimate</strong> and <strong>embitterment</strong>. But Jefferson
is the leader in the number of first-used words and phrases like <strong>belittle</strong>
and <strong>separation of church and state.</strong> He is credited with
creating more than one hundred words and phrases, which we still use today.
Incidentally, my husband was the first I knew to use the expression <strong>moron
fringe</strong>, referring to some of his students at Tulane University.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There have been many books written on the subject
of the etymology of words and the countless neologists who have first
introduced certain words into our vocabulary. Sadly, however, my name is
not mentioned in even one volume!<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have been making up words all of my life.
When I was in high school, in addition to using malapropisms as I mentioned
above, I made up a word which was to eventually become very famous and
well known in the popular culture of the 60's. Long before Hollywood came
up with a certain word, I had a bad habit of calling my friends, brothers, and
others who did things that I thought were sort of goofy, <strong>idgits</strong>
for <strong>idiots</strong>. I knew my mother would not let me refer to anyone as an
idiot, so I tried to hide the word in a nonsensical one. It didn't work.
After my mother severely criticized me for using a word that sounded too
much like idiot, I sought a new word to use that, to me and the
recipients, meant the same thing. I started with the consonants: <strong> bidget,
cridget, diget, figit, gidget</strong><em>. . .</em>I liked the sound of<em> </em><strong>gidget</strong><em>.</em>
It could also mean a <strong>girl idgit</strong> which I had used a good deal.<em> </em>So<em>,
</em><strong>gidgit</strong> it was, and it became a very important part of my speech
during my high school years in Bay St. Louis, MS, long before Sandra Dee became
the personification of a small girl. And my classmates (the ones who are
still speaking to me) and my relatives can attest to the fact that I used the
word FIRST!<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Continuing my career as an "accidental
neologist," after I finished college and began teaching, I started again
making up other words and expressions. I knew, by this time, I
couldn't use words that even rhymed with idiot, and now being educated and a
little more sophisticated and living and teaching in South Louisiana, I came up
with the best of my new words, a French-sounding word: <strong>soie d'eau</strong> [pronounced
<strong>swa do</strong>]. I used it to describe things, people, almost anything as the
best, high class, top drawer, etc. It became such a part of me that
colleagues and students even started using it! If you were to translate
the actual French, it would mean <strong>silk water</strong>. That's not too
bad.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Now, most of what I have written about myself
here has been sort of tongue-in-cheek. I would never get a lawyer and try
to sue Hollywood for using my word <strong>gidget </strong>without my permission! And
while everything I have said is the truth, I know where my <strong>humble</strong>
self belongs, and it is not in the Journals of Etymology.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
However, I close with my use of a perfectly
good word that, as far as I know, I was the first to use in a particular
situation! In 1972-1973, I was in graduate school at Tulane
University. I had a part-time job at a public relations/advertising
agency in downtown New Orleans. My boss at the agency had just gotten a
new client in Metairie. . .a bank. This bank had something new: a
drive-up window, the first in the Greater New Orleans Area. We were
sitting around trying to come up with a word or phrase that would differentiate
between the hours of the drive-up teller and the inside teller. Everyone was
throwing around words and terms. All of a sudden, my mind went back to my
sitting in movie theatres and hearing the song that, to me, was like the <em>sirens</em>
that tempted Odysseus: <strong>Let's all go to the Lobby; Let's all go to the
Lobby; Let's all go to the Lobby to get ourselves a treat!"</strong> I
suggested the word <strong>lobby</strong>, and that was it! After
that, I wrote reams of radio and TV copy, using "drive-up hours
are such and such; lobby hours are so and so." Every bank in the
GNO that opened a drive-up window after that started using the word <strong>lobby</strong>
to refer to the place where the inside tellers were. And, as far as I
know, everyone everywhere else followed suit.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Ah, my claim to fame! However, my
different use of the word <strong>lobby</strong> won't end up in a permanent
record somewhere. But, the next time you are sitting in the drive-up lane
at the bank, look over toward the teller and see what the lobby hours
are. And remember me! I know, and now YOU'LL know and,
to me, that's <strong>Soie D'Eau!</strong></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></div>
Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-58278262493681004242015-08-10T08:38:00.003-05:002015-08-10T08:38:24.882-05:00I CHOOSE. . .ANN!
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Recently, I heard a news report that in
New England some elementary schools have discontinued the game of dodge
ball. Those who support the ban feel that it is wrong to
make children targets. Even when a softer ball was suggested, this
did not satisfy parents who did not want their children "in the line of
fire" from the ball! When I heard this, I was transported back many
years to my elementary school days when I was THE main target in dodge ball.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I was an easy target because I
was a plump child with bright red hair. And, as soon as I got hit, my face
turned red as well. I have never had any athletic talent, and I was slow
moving. The balls I threw never hit anyone; I was a terrible
thrower. I've never jumped rope in my life, and the opposite actions in
jumping jacks befuddle my brain as well as my coordination. In other
words, I was the poster child for being picked on at recess and
in physical education for my inability to be physical! And I never
was chosen for teams during recess and, therefore, was always the last person
chosen, if at all. If my brothers were the leaders in choosing their
sports teams, even they wouldn't choose Ann. And I don't blame
them. In other words, I am what those parents in New England fear their
children will become if they are the targets in dodge ball. But what am
I?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am a survivor! As I have done in
other facets of my life, I learned early on that I had to be in control of my
own interaction with friends and foes. I had to carve out
a place for myself in the coordinated, physical fitness world in which I
existed. I couldn't change my prowess in games and sports, so I had to
change something else -- my attitude. I developed the attitude that not
being chosen was preferable to me than being chosen. I looked around and
found the places where I could be valuable, such as score keeper,
equipment manager, and even retainer-holder. It's not cool
to ignore or be mean to the girl who is holding your retainer in a
Kleenex while you play softball!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over the years, I have worn my
short-comings like a mantle and have gotten a good deal of mileage with
them. As team leaders looked my way when choosing their team, I'd give
them <em>the look</em> and shake my head. They'd move on to someone else,
and I, being left over, assumed my role as retainer-holder, etc. Later as an
adult, when people signed up to bring various foods to the pot luck luncheon or
supper, I was always assigned the paper plates. Ann didn't cook. Nobody
wanted to eat anything I fixed! And I didn't blame them.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was teaching at Slidell High
School, my success as a non-accomplished person in some areas became very
apparent to me. Several of the women faculty members would get together
and play Bridge. I could play a little bit, but I never could remember
what had been played because I was too busy talking to really pay
attention. When asked if I would join the group, I told them that nobody
would want me to be their partner. One of the ladies said, "Ann, you
can be our entertainment and make us laugh. Come on and join us." I
realized then that I "had arrived." I was a terrible Bridge player,
but I was still wanted! And I was correct; nobody wanted me as a partner.
. .that's not true. There was one person who always wanted me as her
partner. Mary Ann Girod Collins was such a fabulous player; she could
partner with a broom and win! The only negative thing she ever said to me
was, "We were underbid." Now, before you think that I am exaggerating
my inability with the cards, we had table cloths with the symbols of the four
suits all over them. I was required to point to the symbol of the suit
when I was bidding. Now that's pitiful. But, usually I was the
dummy because Mary Ann usually got the bid.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I know I am talented in several
areas, and I really do not have any hang-up about some of my other abilities
being sub-standard. I'm comfortable with me and, like Popeye,<em> I yam
what I yam. </em>However, I really must share an experience I had
when I was chosen for "a team." Because of my being involved as a
faculty member in many of the extracurricular, after-school activities, I was
able to get out of selling tickets at the football games and/or taking up
tickets at the basketball games.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
safe, until my behavior got me punished!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For several years, the faculty at
Slidell High School chose sides on the Friday before the rival football game of
Louisiana State University and the University of Mississippi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was on the Ole Miss side. . .not because I
had any loyalty to that school (I had gone to the University of Southern
Mississippi), but because I was from Mississippi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While we did have Ole Miss and LSU graduates
on the faculty, it really was a Louisiana vs. Mississippi thing. . . EXCEPT for
our principal, L. V. McGinty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. Mac
loved LSU.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He even had a recording of
the Tiger Band playing their fight song.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He brought that out each year to play over our loud speaker system at
the end of the school day on that Friday before the big game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was SO tired of hearing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Go Fighting Tigers. . .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>However, one Friday before the big game
day, I walked through the main office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was empty<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, </i>but there on a
counter was THE record in the ready for the end of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, I had to do something, so I hid it
under a stack of papers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the rest of the day, announcements
were made asking anyone who might have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">accidentally</i>
taken a recording out of the office to please return it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It got so bad that even my Mississippi
buddies sent notes to my classroom to PLEASE RETURN MR. MAC’S RECORD! I caved
and told somebody where it was, and I thought all was forgiven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, at the end of the school day, Mr.
McGinty made all of the necessary announcements, including asking the football
ticket seller team who would be on the gate that night at our high school game
to meet in his office after school. Then, he read off the names (all of whom
already knew they were on the team) and then he added, “And Miss Bryant!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My goose was cooked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had an out-of-town trip planned to meet my
family in Jackson, MS, and I had to leave that Friday night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then to add insult to injury, Mr. Mac,
again, played that darn record as the last thing of the day!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all met in Mr. Mac’s office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There weren’t enough chairs; I sat on the
floor, in the corner, so nobody would see me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The entire team was very organized with team leaders or captains
assigned to various entrances to the stadium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mr. Mac started. . .”Captains, choose your teams!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of my Mississippi buddies, who was a
captain and was one of the people for whom I had pinched the recording, looked
around the room, tried to catch my eye, which I refused to let her do, and then
she said those words I NEVER thought I would hear in my lifetime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I choose. . .Ann.” Not only was I chosen. .
. I was the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">first</i> one chosen!!!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the game that night, I complained so
much about having to stand at the gate and wear that ugly carpenter’s apron
with sections to put the collected tickets in, that I was moved to the ticket
booth to actually sell the tickets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
did fine until the Superintendent of Schools at St. Tammany Parish walked up to
my booth to buy a ticket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow, I
gave him the wrong amount of change!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Everyone, including the Superintendent, laughed, and I was promptly
fired from the entire endeavor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I left
the game before it started and pulled out of Slidell that night, heading for
Jackson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I was never again asked to
have gate duty at any game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, I never
stole Mr. Mac’s record again. . .only because I never could find it again!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I DID learn an important lesson: being <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chosen</i></b>
isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be!!!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-80304831683697957232015-08-10T01:05:00.002-05:002015-08-10T01:08:40.251-05:00SIXES AND NINES<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0in 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">THOSE of you who remember Pontchartrain
Beach, probably remember the rides, the smells of the food, and, perhaps, some
of the acts that we got to see on the raised stage there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I vaguely remember a few beauty contests (in
bathing suits) on that same stage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over
the years, several beautiful young women started their national careers as
beauty queens crowned at Pontchartrain Beach in New Orleans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two come to mind.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0in 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">FIRST is Dorothy Dell Goff, Miss New
Orleans, 1930, at age 15. After winning the Miss USA contest, as well as
becoming Miss Universe, also in 1930, Ms. Goff changed her name to Dorothy
Dell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She appeared in the Ziegfeld
Follies in New York and went to Hollywood in 1933. </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Paramount began to consider her as a potential star. Her most important and
substantial role was in the </span><span lang="EN" style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Shirley
Temple</span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> film </span><span lang="EN" style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Little Miss Marker</span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">. Dorothy Dell was killed in an automobile accident in
California in 1934.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is buried in
Metairie Cemetery.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0in 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">NEXT, appearing in the 1930 Miss New
Orleans Contest with Dorothy Dell Goff was her good friend and classmate at
Sophie B. Wright H. S. in New Orleans, Dorothy Lamour, who won the title of Miss
New Orleans the next year, in 1931. This Dorothy became a big band singer and later
a movie actress, known for wearing a sarong, very well!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She repeated this wardrobe often as she
played in the Road movies with Bing Crosby and Bob Hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 8;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0in 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I OFFER this information to you, Dear
Reader, so that you will have a little background in these early beauty
contests in New Orleans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A secondary
reason is to make you aware how daring these bathing suit competitions were in
the early 1930’s, with short skirts (knee-length) only begun to be worn in
1925.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the world my proper,
modest aunt, Anne Leigh, entered when she signed up to be in the Miss New
Orleans Competition of 1931.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0in 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">ANNE knew Dorothy Dell Goff, Miss New
Orleans 1930.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had worked together
at Maison Blanche.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know if
Dorothy Dell Goff had encouraged my aunt to enter the next year, or, by just
knowing the previous winner, my aunt decided to do so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a courageous decision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sure no one in her family encouraged her,
least of all my grandmother!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t
know where she got the bathing suit, but according to her, it was very skimpy,
as most were in those days – no padding, no stays.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0in 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">MY AUNT’S telling of her experience was
always tinged with a little guilt in even being in the contest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She told me that she looked out into the
audience and saw her brother and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>younger
sisters (my mother was one), and was embarrassed to be seen by them on stage in
a bathing suit, not to mention the hundreds of others who were gawking at all
the contestants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anne also described the
way they paraded around, each contestant holding a card with her number on it.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0in 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">ANNE’S number was six, or was it nine?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She never could remember. Whatever it was (she
was very nervous, as well as being mollified at the entire experience) she
accidentally turned her number upside down. Therefore, if her number was six,
it now became a nine; if it was a nine, it now became a six.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get the picture?<span style="mso-tab-count: 6;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>MY AUNT ANNIE was always a wonderful
story teller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have already related her
experience at having gone to the casting call in New Orleans for the role of
Scarlett O’Hara in GONE WITH THE WIND, and I am certainly not casting any doubt
on her factual telling of these stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>However, one wonders. . .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As you
might have guessed, the winner of the Miss New Orleans Contest, 1931 was
announced. . .NUMBER SIX, or was it NUMBER NINE?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, according to my aunt, Dorothy Lamour,
another contestant, might have turned her number (six or nine) to reflect the
number announced, nevertheless, Dorothy<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>was crowned Miss New Orleans, 1931, and we all know what happened to
her!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0in 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">MY AUNT never went into another bathing
beauty contest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She became a first grade
teacher and was the first teacher at St. Martin’s Episcopal School in Metairie,
LA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She never married but had an interesting,
full life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These near-misses for fame
and fortune were so fascinating to us as kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As I got older, I came to realize that, while these things happened if
Anne said they did, she also had the ability to look at any situation with a
twinkle in her eye, a great sense of humor, and as a teachable moment!<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0in 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I CLOSE with one last example of this
wonderful woman’s wit, wisdom, strength, and faith. Aunt Anne was diagnosed
with Parkinson’s and had to leave teaching and was completely bedridden with
her limbs, as she put it, frozen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One
day I was visiting her and related a new treatment I had read about that was
having some success in Florida. I suggested that we go to check it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked at me kindly and said, “ Honey, do
you remember in the Bible when the people tried to get the crippled man to
Jesus, but the crowds were so great that they couldn’t get in the door?” I
nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she continued, “So, his
four friends took his cot up to the roof, removed some stones, and lowered him
down to Jesus who healed him.” Again, I nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Well,” Aunt Anne sighed, “I don’t have four friends who are able to
take me to Jesus!” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Whenever
I left Aunt Anne, I would bend down to kiss her good-bye. She couldn’t put her
arms around me to hug me good-bye. Instead, each time she would give me her
same benediction:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Pray for
wisdom.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aunt Anne certainly had it
(after her beauty pageant experience), and I have prayed for years to have it
too. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-no-proof: yes;"><img border="0" height="210" 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</span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><img border="0" height="210" 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<br />
<div style="margin: 1em 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Dorothy
Dell<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dorothy Lamour<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anne Leigh</span></div>
Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-1317938899543842902015-08-10T00:07:00.003-05:002015-08-10T00:07:26.072-05:00HEALTHFUL NEGLECT
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span>In addition to all of the political correctness we are
subjected to daily, during these days we are also inundated with nutritional
and environmental correctness! While the former is getting too <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>much, I must admit that many of the scientific
finds in our foods and environment seem to be for the greater good, and I am
mostly glad to be made aware of them.</span><span> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "Segoe UI","sans-serif"; font-size: 6pt;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span>However, I can’t help but remember how lackadaisical most
Americans were when I was a kid. While our mothers sterilized our bottles
before they gave them to us and Lysoled the floors before we started crawling,
there were some areas in which they fell short. . .only due to not being made aware.</span><span> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span>One of our favorite things to do as kids was to go to the
drive-in movie. We rummaged through pockets, sofa cushions, and looked
everywhere for enough change to make up 35 cents. . .Mama’s cost to get
in. We kids were free. We usually got to the drive-in before it was
dark. With our help, Mama found a good parking spot. Then, we’d start
getting ready. We put the speaker on the window. Then, we would
step outside for Mama to spray us with her pump sprayer containing. . .DDT, to
keep away the mosquitoes. I don’t remember eating or drinking at the
drive-in, but I do remember being the one to go to the refreshment center to
buy a mosquito coil. We would put it on the dashboard and light it.
The smoke was supposed to permeate the car and drive away the mosquitoes. Many
times one, two, or all three kids fell asleep during the movie, so the
mosquitoes obviously didn’t keep us awake, or maybe by this time we were all
drugged.</span><span> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span>Another memory which is vivid is the exciting sound of the
mosquito truck in our neighborhood. We’d run outside in the dark, and run
behind the truck, inhaling the mosquito spray. However, all three of us got
bitten regularly and at some point the bites turned to Impetigo, which Mama
treated with Gentian Violet. It turned us all purple, but like the DDT,
it didn’t kill us. Neither did the mosquito spray, but I learned as an
adult that the spray not only killed the mosquitoes, it also killed our
lightening bugs. The mosquitos came back; the lightening bugs did not!</span><span> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span>I remember also sitting in the car while the service
station attendant pumped gasoline into our car. We three inhaled that
smell, which to us was pleasant. I don’t ever remember being chastised for
doing these things. These were innocent acts, not unlike my high school
students who took pleasure in sniffing their handouts, tests, etc. that had
just been mimeographed. Remember?</span><span> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span>Although there wasn’t much fast food in those days, and I
was an adult before I had a frozen dinner, I don’t remember hearing about
dangerous foods, etc. Except, every household had a big can of Crisco
shortening. And this was not added to cooking in teaspoonful amounts. .
.how about a half cup or whole cups?</span><span> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span>I’m very happy to report that neither my brothers nor I
developed any brain damage with all of those poisons we were exposed to.
And my brothers’ off-springs were perfect, beautiful babies who grew to be
brilliant and talented adults. Do I need to emphasize how perfect the third
generation is? They all, however, DO roll their eyes at me from time to time!??</span><span> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span>After our father died, Mama went back to college full-time
when we were 9, 8, and 5. She had to go to class; she had to study.
While we lived in a controlled (sort of) college campus situation, we were on
our own a good deal. My aunt used to tell my mother that she (Mama)
practiced HEALTHFUL NEGLECT. Mama wasn’t insulted; she was sort of proud
that she could trust us while she had to take time to get an education so that
she could support us! One of her most memorable warnings was telling us to be
home “by dark-thirty.” I never was sure if that meant thirty minutes before
dark or after dark. But we usually got home at the time Mama wanted. I guess
it’s like what the Bible says, <i>Train up a child in the way he should go: and
when he<b> </b>is old<b>, </b>he will not depart from it. </i>Proverbs 22:6.</span><span> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span>During her last years, however, Mama did have some regrets
as to things she did as far as we were concerned. One thing she said was
that if she could have a do-over, she would NEVER lift her hand in anger at us,
and that meant switching. I think she was a grandmother when she told me that,
and the thought of anyone spanking one of those darlings made her cringe. We
didn’t get spanked much, but whatever we did to merit such treatment, we really
deserved it! Also, I think Mama had one other, big regret that she never
voiced: using DDT, Gentian Violet on us, and letting us inhale Mosquito Coil
smoke!!!</span><span> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"> </span></span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><img height="114" src="data:image/png;base64,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" v:shapes="Picture_x0020_2" width="135" /></span></div>
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<span><i><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"> </span></i></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span><i><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">OMG,
Did you know that inhaling the smoke from one mosquito coil does the same
damage to health and lungs as smoking 100 cigarettes?</span></i>
</span><a href="http://www.hoaxorfact.com/Pure-Facts/one-mosquito-coil-equals-100-cigarettes.html"><span><span style="color: blue;">http://www.hoaxorfact.com/Pure-Facts/one-mosquito-coil-equals-100-cigarettes.html</span></span></a><span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"> </span></span></div>
Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-81085554583086180572015-08-09T23:31:00.004-05:002015-08-10T00:08:49.981-05:00NEW ORLEANS' OWN NASH ROBERTS HAD NATIONAL IMPACT<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Most of you are already aware of the Voting Rights Act of 1965. This original, unrevised legislation prevented states and municipalities from restricting voting rights of minority populations. It was signed into law by President Lyndon B. Johnson. Designed to enforce the voting rights guaranteed by the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments to the United States Constitution, the Act resulted in the mass enfranchisement of racial minorities throughout the country, especially in the South. According to the U.S. Department of Justice, the Act is considered to be the most effective piece of civil rights legislation ever enacted in the country. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The following Southern states and jurisdictions were brought into coverage under the original formula contained within the unrevised Voting Rights Act: Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi, South Carolina, Virginia, and forty counties in North Carolina. Without the permission of the U. S. Department of Justice, none of the above could make any changes in voting dates, places or anything that would confuse voters. My late brother, Giles W. Bryant, who was an assistant attorney general of Mississippi, was the Mississippi official responsible for reporting to the Justice Department in the 1980’s and 1990’s on matters concerning the Voting Rights Act.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />One summer in the 1990’s (I believe), Mississippi had a statewide election scheduled. Everything was ready when it was announced that there was a hurricane in the Gulf, and most of the experts were forecasting that it was headed for the eastern part of the Mississippi Gulf Coast, i.e. Pascagoula, with storm conditions reaching as far west as New Orleans. The powers-that-be in Mississippi went into panic mode. Should they close all of the polls in Mississippi? Should they just close the ones on the Coast? How and when should the election be rescheduled? There was to be a meeting in the governor’s office with my brother assigned to make the call to the Justice Department. Before the meeting, my brother called our mother and me here in New Orleans. I gave him an up-to-date weather report. He told us about the election problem. All of a sudden, Nash Roberts came on TV. I turned the sound up so that we all, including my brother, could hear his forecast. Nash The Flash, with his marker, drew the trajectory of the storm, according to his calculations. It bypassed Mississippi and, according to Nash, was going to make landfall on the Gulf side of the panhandle of Florida. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A little later my brother attended the meeting in the governor’s office and reported to all in attendance that Nash Roberts had said that the storm would not affect Mississippi but was headed for Florida. All of the officials from the Coast nodded and looked relieved. Then they all had to convince the others in the room (not from the Coast) that if Nash said it, that was how it was going to be. Then, my brother called the Justice Department and told them that Mississippi was going ahead with her elections, and there would be no interruptions. The Justice Department didn’t seem to understand how Mississippi knew, but they were o.k. with it. Not one person in that room, who had lived on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and who had watched Nash Roberts during hurricane season, had any doubt. And the storm did exactly what Nash Roberts said it was going to do!</span></div>
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Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-77659264322518427962015-08-04T20:40:00.001-05:002015-08-04T21:13:16.329-05:00ALPHONSE'S TOMB<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">FOR
MOST of my life, I thought everyone had <em><span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">interesting</span></em>
family members who from time to time were involved in some weird, familial
situations. Everyone I knew seemed to have someone in their family who was a
little off-center. And as I grew older and more educated, and
as my world expanded, I learned that Southerners had certain reputations,
thanks to authors like William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, and Pat
Conway. When I first started teaching English at Slidell High
School, across the hall was the fabulous senior English teacher, Jean
Davis. I can remember this Mississippi-Delta-Educated Southern
Belle referring to the famous Faulkner as <em><span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">thatdamnbillfaulkner</span></em>, as if it was one
word. Also, I can remember her saying, "<em><span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">Thatdamnbillfaulkner</span></em>. .
.hanging our dirty linen out on the clothesline for everyone to
see!" You can understand where Mrs. Davis put the blame for the
reputation that Southerners and, particularly, Mississippians had!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">MY
NEW-YORK-BORN husband used to love to quote to Southern-me what he heard was
attributed to writer Pat Conway: "My mother, Southern to the bone, once
told me, 'All Southern literature can be summed up in these words:<em><span style="font-family: "Times","serif";"> On the night the hogs ate Willie, Mama
died when she heard what Daddy did to sister.</span></em>' " Over
the years, I sort of changed it to. . .<em><span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">Mama
was never the same after she heard what Papa had done to Sister and the night
the hogs ate Willie!</span></em> Conway's mother's quote left out an
important part of Southern literature: <em><span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">insanity</span></em>.
I had to insert it!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">SO,
THIS is the background of my current post, <em><span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">Alphonse's
Tomb. </span></em>Alphonse was my mother's first cousin, the oldest child
of my Grandmother's youngest sibling, Jessie. My great Aunt Jessie was more
than a little off-center, and she was a perplexing woman. She was as
unlike her sister, Emily, my grandmother, as anyone could be. My
grandmother loved her sister, but was aware of the realities of Jessie and her
peculiar ways.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">EMILY and
Jessie were the two youngest of fourteen children. After the death
of their father, it was just the three of them at home: great
grandmother, Emily, and Jessie. Jessie was a couple of years younger than
Emily and realized in the early 1900's that if Emily married, Jessie would
have to be the one to take care of their mother. So, "she upped and
married the first man to come along," before my grandmother could.
My grandmother married my grandfather in 1906 because, as my grandmother told
me, "he was a gentleman, he had a diamond stick pin, and he promised to
always take care of my mother." He did until her death in 1922.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">ANYHOW,
Jessie had three children in a hurry, with Alphonse being the
oldest. Aunt Jessie divorced him soon after the third child's
birth. Divorce in the early 1900's? Shocking!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">I SHALL
NOT go into the many stories told about Aunt Jessie and her antics of
trying to survive as a single mother in the early part of the 20th
century. Let's just say the scene in <em><span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">Victor/Victoria</span></em>
in the restaurant with a hungry Julie Andrews was already very familiar to me
when I saw the movie for the first time! And, not all landlords or
managers of apartments are the ones to be afraid of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lone woman with children, living in a flat
or apartment, but who is unable to pay back or current rent can be a scary
thing. Nothing really happened, but the landlord brushed a little
close to Aunt Jessie's skirt, and she screamed as if something terrible had
happened! Get it? She moved out immediately, paying nothing!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">HOWEVER,
finally Aunt Jessie married Uncle Will. He helped her raise her children,
and from our perspective, they had a good marriage for many, many years. Aunt
Jessie loved to travel and they did, all over the US. Life was perfect.
Or was it? More about her travels later.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">DURING the
Depression, everyone had a hard time. My family had moved from
Mississippi to a small Louisiana town near the state line for free
text books for the younger children still in school. Later, they
moved to New Orleans for Granddaddy and the older kids to get jobs.
Everyone's pay went into the family coffers. They made it, by the
hardest, during the Depression. Grandmother's nephew, Alphonse, came
to New Orleans to see if he could get a job. He stayed with his aunt's
family.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">ALPHONSE tried
his hand at shining shoes. My grandmother even cut up her flannel
nightgown into shoe shining rags for him to use for his work. He tried to
sell papers. He just couldn't make it. He left New Orleans and went
back to where his mother and step-father lived in Arkansas.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times;"></span><div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Times;">
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">IT WAS there
he asked his mother, Aunt Jessie, for some money. That's all I was ever
told. She refused him, and he shot himself in her home.
Suicide! That was worse than divorce! <em><strong>Aunt Jessie was never the
same.</strong></em> She spent the rest of her life trying to deal with the fact that Alphonse had killed himself because she wouldn't give him money.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">
THE FIRST thing Aunt Jessie did was to bring his body back to Marion County,
Mississippi, for burial. One thing that always stuck with Alphonse during
his time in New Orleans was the above-ground burials. He had told his
mother that he did not want to be buried in the ground but in a tomb like in
New Orleans. So, Aunt Jessie moved heaven and earth to fulfill this
request, and in Columbia, MS, that was not easy. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">FIRST,
the City Fathers of Columbia refused to let Aunt Jessie build an above-ground
tomb in the Columbia City Cemetery. She kept after them. They kept
refusing. She kept after them. Finally, they admitted that they
owned some farm land outside the city limits, just in case they needed to
expand the City Cemetery. They finally gave Aunt Jessie permission to
build a tomb there. . .<em>waaay</em> outside of town. And she did. However, it
was soon obvious that the Mississippi workmen who built it had never been to
New Orleans! It had to be one of the ugliest structures ever built.
It was made out of concrete blocks, covered with white stucco. It was
absolutely square with a flat roof. I'll try to find a picture to post
here so that you, Dear Readers, can see how ugly it was. But it got
worse.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">REALISING
how ugly it was, Aunt Jessie, found two huge, white kneeling angels. I
don't know where she found them, but she did, and she had them placed on the
flat roof. They overwhelmed the structure. There was one door in
the front of the box. It had a door knob, lock, and one small square window. It
was a glaring white box in the middle of acres of a green Mississippi
field, and it remained that way for years. There were no other graves
there. My aunt Jessie had bought several plots (about twenty) when she
bought the land for Alphonse's tomb. My grandmother bought another
twenty. Later, some of their other nephews bought some plots nearby. But,
thankfully, they were not used for another ten or fifteen years or so.
And here is where I entered the picture.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">AUNT
JESSIE and Uncle Will would go to Columbia once a year from Arkansas for Aunt
Jessie to sweep out the tomb and dust Alphonse's casket. My grandmother
would meet her in Columbia from her homes in New Orleans or Gulfport, MS.
They would all take rooms at a local boarding house in one of those beautiful Victorian homes. My Aunt Mary would drive her.
Sometimes, they would take me. I must have been about four or five
for my first trip, because I remember it all very well.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">SOMEWHERE,
there is a picture of me, sitting in a field making clover necklaces with
Alphonse's Tomb in the background. . .as far away as I could get from it.
I can still see my grandmother, my aunt, and my great aunt with their heads
covered with cloths to protect their hair from the dust and dirt. My aunt
Jessie had the key to the tomb. She'd open the door, and they'd walk in and
start cleaning. I kept moving <em><span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">away</span></em>
to another clover patch. I promise you, I never went inside that
tomb. I've never even looked through the window of the door.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">WHEN she
wasn't coming to Mississippi to clean Alphonse's Tomb, Aunt Jessie was dragging
Uncle Will with her all over the US to attend séances to try to communicate
with Alphonse. They attended mass séances in a place called Chesterfield,
Indiana. She dabbled in rose rubbing. . .not painting roses, but rubbing
rose petals on a blotter to see what image from <em><span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">beyond</span></em> would be produced. This woman had
grown up in a very religious, Christian family, but her pain was so great that
she sought relief from the weirdest elements. Most of what I learned
I got from overhearing whispered remarks by my aunts and grandmother. But
even at my young age, I felt very sorry for Aunt Jessie and what she must have
been through. Today, I can't even begin to put myself in her place and
who knows what I would have done if given her trials and in a time when
there wasn't much for women except marriage and motherhood.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">TIMES
CHANGE. I never thought I'd miss the white stucco, but I do. Before she
died, Aunt Jessie had the tomb covered in ugly, yellowish brick. Today, it
is beyond ugly! (See picture below) If I ever win the lottery, I might have it
repainted white, and maybe add a roof to it to give it some presence.
But, since I never play the lottery, it’s not going to happen.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">OVER the
years, more family members died. Aunt Jessie, Uncle Will, and Alphonse's
two siblings and their mates are all inside of Alphonse's Tomb. The once
empty field is now a beautiful cemetery with hundreds of in-ground
graves. There are still no above-ground tombs in Columbia or Marion
County except for Alphonse's Tomb.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">MY
GRANDFATHER, grandmother, aunts, uncle, my mother, and my husband are all
buried in the ground within steps of Alphonse's Tomb. Someday, I'll be
buried there, between my husband and my mother. (At least it will be easy to
find my grave should you want to visit; just ask anybody where <em>the</em> above-ground
tomb is.) No one shows up now to open the tomb or to sweep it out and dust
the caskets. When my aunts were still alive, there was talk about making
Alphonse's Tomb into a small chapel (and naming it Leigh Chapel but Aunt Jessie
wasn't a Leigh) and interring all of the caskets in some of the twenty plots
Aunt Jessie owned. Nothing ever came of that. There are still many
plots there that my family owns. I once asked my grandmother why she
bought so many plots. Her answer? <em><span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">I love a crowd! </span></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">MY
FRIEND and colleague, who was another of the fabulous English teachers at
Slidell High, has always suggested that I write a play or some other work of
Southern literature and entitle it <em><span style="font-family: "Times","serif";">Alphonse's
Tomb</span></em>. She has a southern, gothic novel in mind. Perhaps,
this is my first step in doing so.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times","serif";"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><img height="313" 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" v:shapes="Picture_x0020_1" width="417" /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>Alphonse’s
Tomb in Woodlawn Cemetery; Columbia, MS.</div>
Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-51357716086740188942015-07-25T12:55:00.001-05:002015-07-25T13:10:44.565-05:00WHEN MOTHER WAS A GIRL<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> All of my life, I have had the reputation of being tenacious. . .it is almost impossible for me "to give up." I'll keep on something until I've succeeded. Now, I must also admit that I am most discerning in my tenacity. Some things just don't interest me and, if after one attempt, I have not mastered or completed the task, I don't try again. Case in point: I tried doing the Rubik Cube once; I failed, so that was it! However, I am still trying to catch a dollar bill that's been dropped straight down, doing so with my forefinger and thumb. I haven't done it so far, but I keep trying.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> We are all familiar with Charlie Brown and his friend Lucy. Poor Charlie tries every year to kick the football. He keep inviting Lucy to hold it. . .every year. She does. Just as Charlie is approaching the ball, Lucy pulls it away and Charlie falls flat on his posterior. . .as he does every year!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> I read somewhere that the sure sign of insanity is trying to do something the same way time after time and expecting a different outcome! My mother used to tell the story about a lady who was given a test to see whether or not she was crazy. They locked her in a room with nothing but a mop and a water spigot on the wall. They turned the water on and left. If the lady started mopping up the water, she was kept in the asylum. If she turned off the water at the spigot, they let her go. All of my life, when I did something a bit off-center, Mama would say, "Ann, you're mopping water"!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> Well, I may be mopping water on this tenacious activity, but for much of my adult life, I have been looking for a picture. . .a portrait. And here are the particulars! My grandmother and grandfather married in Columbia, MS in 1906. About that time, my very fashionable grandmother was photographed in a beautiful outfit, hat, and parasol. . .all of which she made. I can only deduce that the portrait was taken in Columbia. However, many years later, when my mother (my grandmother's youngest) was a teen-ager and living in New Orleans, Mama would go downtown "window shopping" on Canal Street with her sisters or her friends. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> One day, she and her companions passed by the window of a photographer on the River end of Canal, and my mother saw a very large portrait of a lady in a beautiful old fashioned dress, hat, and parasol that was hand-colored pink and was in a large exquisite frame. It was my grandmother! Mama had seen the original smaller photo many times, and she recognized it immediately. She and the others went into the shop and found out that it was named WHEN MOTHER WAS A GIRL and it was for sale. I was never told the amount, but I know it was too much for my mother's family to buy. </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Therefore, ever since I heard that story, I have searched for that large portrait.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> As you can imagine, it has been almost impossible before the advent of the internet. However, I've had no success on that search aid either. I can't tell you how many antique shops I've visited. I have attended and have my look-outs at auctions. I've even looked in some of the majestic homes in New Orleans, either as a guest or as a paying member of a tour. No luck. I do realize that it doesn't have to be in this city. It could have been destroyed by fire or hurricane. There are many scenarios that I can imagine happened to the picture, but I keep trying!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> I almost gave up looking several years ago, but I serendipitously found another object I had sort of been looking for. My aunt had been teaching in Gulfport, MS. One of her first grade students gave her a beautiful, Japanese tea cup. It was egg-shell thin porcelain, beautifully decorated, and had a "magic picture" at the bottom of a Geisha girl. The process of creating a portrait in thin porcelain is known as <em>lithophane.</em> Somehow, my aunt's teacup got a small crack in it, and my aunt was devastated. As I looked for my grandmother's portrait, I looked also for another cup like the one Aunt Mary had. One day, on Canal Street, in the window of a shop, I found NOT one cup like my aunt's, but an entire tea set of the same pattern, including <em>lithophanes</em>. It included six cups, six saucers, a teapot, a sugar bowl, and a creamer. I bought the entire set, and I was so proud to present it to my aunt. A few years later, before she died, she gave it back to me. The set has started my passion of collecting <em>lithophanes</em>. I love it dearly, yet finding it re-sparked and encouraged my search for my grandmother's portrait.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> I may never find the portrait and, perhaps, no one in my family will take on the search when I'm gone, but it has not all been in vain. In addition to the teacup, I have found many interesting things along the way, tangible and intangible. By the way, I just learned of a website online. It is called google images and one can try to match by sight or description, images they are seeking. I have spent hours, scrolling through these images.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> Yes, I may be the poster child for insanity. . .looking for the impossible needle in the proverbial haystack, but, perhaps, you can help me. I've posted a photo of the original. If in your travels, you come across it, please let me know or obtain it and let me know. You'll be reimbursed by my family or me. . .unless, of course, it is more than a hundred dollars; then, you'll just have to tell me where it is so that I can <strong><em>VISIT</em></strong> it!!!</span></div>
Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-8968756957016866692015-07-25T00:11:00.001-05:002015-07-25T11:50:40.680-05:00WHAT'S IN A NAME?<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> <span style="font-size: large;">As in most families, there are
stories that are told over and over and never challenged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must admit to hearing stories about my
family and never questioning the authenticity, the facts, or the particulars
until I was much older, but by then the ones who told me the stories were
gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, here follows a family
story in which the two main characters are still with us so far. . .my youngest brother,
Tommy, and yours truly!</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: large;"> Four years after I was born, my
mother (already the mother of two) gave birth to my youngest brother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This great event took place in Jackson, MS,
while I was in New Orleans with my maternal grandmother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mother called her mother (and me too) to tell
us that she had had a little boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Family
lore has it that I said, “Let’s call him Tommy.” And from then on, everyone
agreed that I had named my baby brother. . . especially acknowledged by my baby
brother, Tommy!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: large;"> Tommy’s full name is Thomas Leigh
Bryant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His wife calls him Tom, and so do most of the people who have met him as an adult. However, family members and friends who knew him <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">when</i>, call him Tommy or TB.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As an attorney and a retired Lt. Col. in the US Army, I guess it would
be unseemly for him to be known as “Tommy.” Nevertheless, even Tom, Tommy, and
TB, all three have acknowledged that I named him.</span></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: large;"> As I now seem to be the “matriarch”
of the family, I have found myself making sure that other family members know
what I know about the family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I start
many a conversation with Tommy and his daughters with “Did I ever tell you. . ?”
Most of the time, I have; some of the time, I’ll tell them something they never
heard. One such conversation took place a couple of years ago.</span></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"> As TB was only three when Daddy
died, he doesn’t remember much except what he’s been told.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Mama was relating stories about family
members on both sides of the family, Tommy and our other brother, Giles, were
out playing ball or doing anything but listening to stories. So, one day not
too long ago, Tommy and I were talking about some of our father’s relatives.
One story Mama always told me was about one of my father’s uncles and his
wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tom Giles and his wife, Grace, had
been married for many years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had no
children, and they lived in McHenry, MS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Traveling from Hattiesburg to Gulfport, one had to go through McHenry,
and my parents often stopped to see Uncle Tom and Aunt Grace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I vaguely remember being at their house, but
I don’t ever remember having lunch or dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But Mama would tell about the meals they had in McHenry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: large;"> They all would be sitting around
a big dining table, laden with all sorts of wonderful looking and smelling
Southern food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the blessing,
everyone sat in readiness for the meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All
of a sudden, it was as if no one was at the table but my great uncle and his
wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She called him Suge (as in Sugar),
and he called her Suggie (as in a diminutive of Sugar), and Mama always
referred to them (not to their faces) as Suge and Suggie (as well as any other couple she knew who<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> were so involved in each other that the rest of the world didn't matter, but back to the original). </span>And it would start:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Suge, can I pass you the beans?” “Thank you
Suggie. Would you like the potatoes?” “Suge, is your tea sweet enough?” “Yes, Suggie,
thank you.” And this would go on with the two passing the food platters back
and forth between themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally,
others would have to get up and get a bowl or a platter and pass it to the
others. I always thought it as a very funny family story, not realizing that I
was the last person in the family who knew it after Mama was gone. </span></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: large;"> When I was relating this story to Brother
Tommy a couple of years ago, I interjected an innocent remark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I said something like, “I can’t
believe that Mama named you after Uncle Tom Giles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wasn’t close to the family, as I remember.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My brother was very quiet for a few seconds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, he said, “I thought you named me.” I
admitted I did, but then I added, “When Mama called from Jackson, she said I
had a new little brother and his name would be Thomas, and I said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">let’s call him Tommy</i>. Then my brother
asked (sort of sarcastically), <em><strong>THAT'S it? That's IT? That’s a no-brainer. .
.calling a Thomas, Tommy! For over 60 years, I thought you named me, and now I find out that you just came up with the nickname?</strong></em> I reminded him that I was only four and didn’t have
a whole lot of names in my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was
still almost in disbelief when he asked, “Why in the world did Mama name me
after someone she didn’t care too much about? I don’t ever remember <em>seeing</em> Uncle Tom.”
This I was able to clear up for him:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mama said that Uncle Tom Giles had a beautiful, gold pocket watch. As he
and Aunt Grace didn’t have any children, Mama thought that maybe he would leave
it to a namesake – Tommy! He didn't.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>TB was quiet
again and then, not unlike a bad-tempered child, my 60-something-year-old brother exclaimed, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where’s MY watch???</i></b> </span></div>
<h3 align="justify">
</h3>
Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-48000506210827397152013-04-06T21:21:00.003-05:002013-04-07T10:29:25.315-05:00ONE MO' TIME!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">After I left my
teaching position at Slidell High School in August of 1978, I moved to New
Orleans and began a full-time position at Tulane University’s Newcomb
Department of Music as an arts administrator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had worked for the Department’s Tulane Summer Lyric Theatre for ten
summers prior to my beginning my full-time position as Director of Music
Programs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">That Fall of 1978, I
took advantage of being in “the big city” of New Orleans and of not having to
grade papers, not having to be at school at 8 a.m., and the like, and I enjoyed
attending music, musical theatre, theatre, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and opera performances all over town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One night, a friend took me to a revue at a
small club in the French Quarter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
based on Black Vaudeville of the 1920’s and it was called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Mo’Time.</i> I didn’t know any of the performers, but a couple of
the professors in the music department had told me that I would enjoy it, so I
went.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t just enjoy it; I fell in
love with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I really didn’t have a
clue as to what I was going to see, and I certainly didn’t know why it was
called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Mo’Time</i>. . .that is until
the performance was over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there I
was, standing on my chair seat so that I could see over the heads of the people
in front of me who were standing and applauding and yelling, “One mo’time!” And
I was applauding and yelling with everyone else. It was electric!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgon33nYjMa7FLTnw1U4u2JT2JRaJLT-jb7I5UkbFxsTqty1W-N1m3B8K0to1dKfSwLRESQhocADjfnQnqfo6ILPxXyEK8XcYqdpOuHuIngXfeIy8OTqXbNW0Ftb5LaFxEhnby52OVPMpih/s1600/OneMoTimeLogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgon33nYjMa7FLTnw1U4u2JT2JRaJLT-jb7I5UkbFxsTqty1W-N1m3B8K0to1dKfSwLRESQhocADjfnQnqfo6ILPxXyEK8XcYqdpOuHuIngXfeIy8OTqXbNW0Ftb5LaFxEhnby52OVPMpih/s320/OneMoTimeLogo.jpg" width="249" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Creator, director, and
performer Vernel Bagneris had first staged <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One
Mo’Time</i> as a one-night performance at the Toulouse Theatre in the
Quarter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It played longer than that, but
soon had to move to another venue as the Toulouse was pre-booked for another
show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That new venue was where I saw
Vernel’s show for the first time, and the second time, and the third time!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never got tired of seeing the show. It was
like nothing I had seen or been involved with in my so-called show business
career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had seen a touring company do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ain’t Misbehavin’</i> at the performing arts
theatre (now Mahalia Jackson Theatre) in New Orleans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was very good, but not near as electric as
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Mo’Time. </i>I knew most of the Eubie
Blake songs in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Misbehavin’ </i>yet I knew
just a few of the ones in this new musical revue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That fact made me have to listen to every
word that was sung, and the songs were wonderful and very funny with their
double entendre lyrics. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The performers and
musicians in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Time </i>were fabulous, and
I couldn’t believe that I had never seen them work before, and they were from
New Orleans! It didn’t take me long to realize that my world had just been
expanded, and a new genre of music had been added to my list of favorites.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure how many times I saw <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Mo’Time </i>in the Quarter, but I know I
took somebody new with me to share in the experience each time I went to see
it, and they all loved it too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The show must have run
in the Quarter on and off for about a year, and then we heard that they had
gotten a nod from New York to perform the revue up there as an off-Broadway
production.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of us who had seen and
enjoyed the revue were delighted at their opportunity for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">big time.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">About that time, one of
the music professors in the department came to me and asked what I thought
about the department’s presenting a sort of farewell production of the revue at
our large Dixon Hall before the group left New Orleans for New York.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought it was a good idea, but we had to
put it before our chairman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we
did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The chairman did not think that our
established, musically-sophisticated audiences from Uptown New Orleans would
appreciate <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Mo’Time.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had not seen it, but he knew of it. What
he said was, “we’ll lose our shirts.” The professor and I, both great fans of
the revue, kept trying to persuade the chairman to give his ok to the
project.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, he gave in and looked
at me and said, “Ann, you will have to produce; I don’t want to have anything
to do with the show.” And he repeated, “and when you lose money, I’m going to
say ‘I told you so!’ ” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I won’t go into the details
of signing the contracts, advertising the one-time performance, having the
tickets printed, manning the box office, etc., etc., etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But,
by the time of the performance, we had almost sold out the 1200-seat theatre.
Yet, I was still worried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had never
seen the show on a proscenium stage (such as the small Toulouse Theatre and
now the big Dixon Hall Theatre).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I
had seen it, it was in a small club setting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had no idea how it would “play” in a large house and especially to the
audience our productions usually attracted! And remember, the onus was on
ME!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sweated bullets that night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The performance was
great, and the audience responded appreciatively throughout. The audience
laughed at the appropriate times and seemed to enjoy the performance, but I
still didn’t know whether or not I would get letters criticizing my choice of
programming. And then the exciting last number: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Hot Time In The Old Town Tonight! </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as the first chorus was sung, the
entire audience was on its feet, clapping in time to the music, and they stayed
on their feet for the entire song. The ovation was deafening at the end of the
song, and therefore, at the end of the show, when all of a sudden dozens of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the ladies and gentlemen were in the aisles, with
the others still standing <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and applauding.
. .they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> were cheering,
applauding, and then they started yelling, “One mo’time! One mo’time!” And the
cast and musicians did the last number again, one mo’time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Our audience</span> loved the show; they loved the fact that
it was New Orleans; they loved the fact that it had been brought Uptown to them
to see before the show left for New York.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was a wonderful experience for us all and a wonderful send-off for the cast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">By the way, we made a
profit of $1,700 on that one performance, and my chairman didn’t speak to me for two weeks. He wasn’t often wrong, but that one time he misjudged the
appeal of the show to our audience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After
all, they were New Orleanians!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The cast went to New
York and a few months later, I flew to Montreal, Canada as a guest of the
Canadian government to check out the possibility of the Tulane Choir touring
Canada later on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the way back from
Montreal, I stopped in New York City to see some Broadway shows and, of course,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Mo’Time. </i>I really don’t remember
what I saw, except the New Orleans musical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I arrived at the club-setting venue a little early so that I could see
the performers before the show as I had gotten to know all of them when we did
the show at Tulane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were so glad to
see somebody “from home.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple were
so very homesick, they almost started weeping when they saw me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, I took my seat in the house and
waited to see this wonderful show again, but in New York City!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The show was great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had made a few subtle changes, but
nobody would have known if they hadn’t seen it so many times as I had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cast was full of energy and seemed to be
performing just for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I say that
because I was the only crazy audience member out there obviously enjoying the
show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other audience members were “sitting
on their hands.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the audience
was made up of African-Americans who were some of the best dressed people I had
ever seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I remember how beautiful
and rich looking the women were and how handsome and successful the men looked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were polite, but they did not react the
way the former queens and kings of carnival and the scions of New Orleans
society had at that Tulane performance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the end, I was the only one who was standing up and yelling, “One mo’time!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later, I asked the cast if it was always like
that; they said no, but sometimes it was. This particular audience acted the
way that my chairman had feared that the Tulane audience would react.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought it was a very interesting lesson
for me to learn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our audience members here
in New Orleans are secure in themselves and in what they like, and they embrace
the varied cultures of New Orleans now and historically.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The NYC audience seemed to be afraid of
liking a work that was classified as Black Vaudeville.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">One Mo’Time</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">
takes place at the Lyric Theatre in New Orleans in the 1920’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">The
real Lyric Theater, at Iberville and Burgundy Streets at the edge of the
Storyville red-light district in the French Quarter of New Orleans, burned down
in the spring of 1927. The Lyric stage was a stop for many immortals of black
vaudeville, including Bessie Smith, Ma Rainey, Wilbur Sweatman, Jelly Roll
Morton, Bert Williams, Butterbeans and Suzy, and Ethel Waters, who performed
there under the name of Sweet Mama Stringbean.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;">
</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;">
</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">According to a review by Glenn Collins in 1990 in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Times</i>, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The plot [of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Mo’Time</i>] is the tale of performers in the Lyric Theater in New
Orleans, in the age when vaudeville was evolving into raunchier burlesque in an
attempt to compete with motion pictures. The theater owner plans to set fire to
the Lyric for the insurance money, but meanwhile the show must go on - and so
it does, for 2 acts and 25 musical numbers.”</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The show was so
successful that Vernel organized several touring groups and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Mo’Time</i> enjoyed fabulous success in
Europe and a run in London and even had a command performance before Queen Elizabeth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually, it had a run on Broadway and now
the real reason I have written about this wonderful musical revue.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">On Thursday, May 2 at
the Blues Tent, beginning at 5:40 p.m. at this year’s Jazz and Heritage
Festival, Vernel Bagneris will present the 35<sup>th</sup> Anniversary
Performance of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Mo’Time.</i> I can’t
believe that it has been thirty-five years since I first saw this exciting
musical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I could be helicoptered in
just to see that presentation, I might go, but I probably won’t because of the
logistics, and why should I break my record of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i></b> having attended the
Jazz and Heritage Festival?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if you
are there, please go see the performance for me and, certainly, for your own
enjoyment!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">If you can’t make it,
check out a production in Germany several years ago via You Tube.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The titles are in German, but the songs, etc.
are in Nawlins English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are three
segments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The entire three segments run
about 45 minutes. If you don’t have the time to see them all, at least go to
the last part of segment 3 for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hot Time
In The Old Town Tonight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>After
seeing it, you’ll probably find yourself yelling, <em>One Mo’Time!</em> [I wonder if Queen Elizabeth yelled<em> One Mo' Time</em>?]</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Segment 1:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vbyMEa2gRRg"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vbyMEa2gRRg</span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(about 14 min.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Segment 2:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nA6HnF1uJYc"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nA6HnF1uJYc</span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(about 12 min.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Segment 3:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iHYh17gxTBE"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iHYh17gxTBE</span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(about 16 min.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
[Note: for last song, go to 10:40 on time-line.]<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; tab-stops: 106.65pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com1United States33.303111718197819 -99.062476158142097.7810772181978187 -140.37107015814209 58.825146218197816 -57.75388215814209tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-12744769828254624632013-03-11T01:52:00.006-05:002015-07-26T22:36:58.206-05:00SILENCE<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">With my reputation as a talker, I'm
sure you, Dear Reader, are stymied at the title of this particular posting. You
have every right to not associate me with being silent or being quiet. Case in
point: several years ago I was a member of a weight-loss group that met to
discuss problems of being overweight, dieting, stigma of being fat, etc. Now,
each of us paid $35.00 (expensive in those days) per meeting to the psychiatric
social worker who moderated the group meetings. Never having been accused of being
reticent in speech, I still tried to keep my own counsel and to let others
speak up. I'd sit in silence. . .I'd sit in silence. . .the other members of
the group sat in silence. . .they sat in silence. . .the moderator sat in
silence. . .the clock ticked off the minutes. . .and I silently did the math of
how much the entire group (at $35 per person) was spending for 50 minutes of
silence. I couldn't stand it. Usually, I ended up being the first person to
speak up and throw out the conversational ball. Most of the time, a heated
conversation would then begin about why I thought I had to speak every time! At
least we weren't silent!!!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Now, on the other side of the coin:
As a speaker and as a teacher of speakers, I have gotten a good deal of
dramatic effect by use of the pregnant pause! As I used to tell my students:
don't look as if you forgot what you are going to say. . .look as if you are
about to unload a massive, verbal explosion! As most teachers do, I'd give them
examples, and I'd tell them about the two times when I actually experienced
deafening silence. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The first time was in 1968, after
Hurricane Camille. I had driven home to Gulfport to assess the damage of my
mother's and grandmother's houses, as well as the rest of The Coast. As I drove
down Highway 90, the Beach Road where I had learned to drive, I had never seen
such devastation, and I had never experienced such SILENCE as the dozens of
cars were driven slowly and quietly by drivers who, like me, were speechless as
to the ruin and destruction they were seeing. There were no tires squealing, no
radios playing, no horns honking, no children were laughing as they used to
when they played in the sand. There were no sounds of birds chirping from trees
and/or street lights because there were no trees or street lights. It was like
a soundless movie. . .except this <i>soundlessness</i> was deafening!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">The next incident was just a couple
of years later, during the Summer of 1970, when I was taking my first and much
anticipated trip to Europe. I was fortunate to spend over six weeks there, and
I got to see more than just <i>if it's Thursday, it must be Belgium. </i>One
place we visited was Dachau, the German Concentration Camp which was one of the
few camps not destroyed by the Nazi's as they were being pushed deeper into
Germany by the Allied Forces. Dachau now, as it was in 1970, is a museum,
memorial, and reminder: <b><i>NEVER AGAIN</i></b>. <i>Never Again</i> is
written in several languages on one of the walls in the parade grounds of the
camp. Never again will man's inhumanity to man be allowed to happen. In 1784,
the poet Robert Burns wrote <i>Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless
thousands mourn.</i> Yet, between then and the Holocaust, some didn't learn
much. We can only work and pray that it <i>never again</i> happens.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Inside of the museum were very
large, blown-up black and white pictures of experiments performed on the
prisoners at Dachau. There were also pictures of the prisoners as they looked
when they were liberated by the Allies. They were emaciated with hollow,
expressionless eyes. No one spoke inside the museum. Occasionally, one could
hear the sound of almost-silent sobbing. Perhaps I heard it because I was the
one making it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Outside, the parade grounds and the
path to the crematorium were covered with small gravel. The only sounds we
heard there was the sound of shoes on the gravel and, again, some gentle
sobbing. I looked past the outside walls with its now empty sentry boxes and
barbed wire to the most beautiful pastoral scene I had ever seen in person. The
tall, beautiful grass was gracefully, and soundlessly swaying in the gentle breeze. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Did the prisoners see the same, serene beauty I was seeing? Did they even
notice the beauty? Did they think that the world and God had forsaken them? I
couldn't begin to wrap my brain around their thoughts and their despair. But,
I'll never forget the SILENCE of the entire visit. It was overwhelming!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: medium; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One of my favorite poems to teach
was one by the American poet Edgar Lee Masters. Its title is <i>Silence</i>.
Now, some of you who were in my English III classes remember it, because I
taught it. If you never read it or if you have forgotten it, you must read it.
You can find it at </span><a href="http://www.bartleby.com/104/43.html"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: medium; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">http://www.bartleby.com/104/43.html</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">. However, I'll give you a short synopsis. Masters writes
about the different types of silence that he has experienced or imagined, just
as I have done here. Some of my favorite lines are: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And the silence of a man and a maid, And the silence for which music
alone finds the word, And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring
begin, And the silence of the sick When their eyes roam about the room…. And
the silence of Jeanne d’Arc, Saying amid the flames, “Blesśed Jesus”— Revealing
in two words all sorrow, all hope.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">But my very favorite lines in the
Master’s poem are the ones about the conversation between the young boy and the
old soldier with the youngster asking the soldier how he lost his leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as the old man is silent; his mind goes
back to Gettysburg and the horrible sounds of battle, and the screams and agony
of having his leg removed, and the pain and months of recovery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He remains silent because he can’t explain or
verbalize it<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if he could describe it all He would be
an artist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if he were an artist,
there would be deeper wounds Which he could not describe.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">[From
ABW: Keep silence and think about these lines.]<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;">Several years ago I
attended a play that had an unusual opening. As I sat in the small theatre,
waiting for the play to begin, there was the usual chatter, rustling of
programs, and anticipation that I have seen and experienced hundreds of times.
Finally, someone I supposed to be a performer, stepped out in front of the
curtain, sat in the middle of the stage, crossed legged, put his elbows on his
legs, his chin in his hands, and, saying nothing, stared at the audience. Well,
we got quiet real fast and stared back at him. He continued to stare and we did
too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nobody said anything. The
auditorium was silent. . .until someone in the audience, probably out of
self-consciousness or being uncomfortable in the silence, cleared his
throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, the performer got up,
walked behind the curtain, and the play began. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">The play had absolutely
nothing to do with the beginning incident, and we never saw that particular
performer again. I cannot even remember what the play was about, but, as you
can see, I’ve never forgotten that beginning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For some reason, it was important to not begin the play until everyone
was silent and then to continue not beginning the play until someone in the
audience broke that silence!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went back
another night to see the beginning, and it was the same, except, as I remember,
the second time someone laughed, and then the play began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Very interesting concept. . .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you reading this, Playwright Don Redman? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Why is it that we are
uncomfortable with silence?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as I
was at my fat-meeting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, I know why
I was uncomfortable. . .it was the money and it hurt my wallet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But why did someone ALWAYS break the silence
in the auditorium before the play?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is
sound the rule and silence the exception?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I taught a night
speech course at Tulane U., I always had many Tulane football players.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of them were being interviewed on TV at
some point after practice or games, and it drove me crazy that as soon as the
reporter asked them a question, they began answering with never a pause
anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Tell me, Football Player,
how did you think Tulane performed tonight?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Football Player:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Uh, Well, uh,
we, uh, had uh hard time in the, uh, first quarter, uh, because, uh, they are
a, uh, strong, uh, team.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I would tell them that
if they took a couple of seconds to think what they were going to say and then
say it, straight out, without uh’s, the reporter would cut any pauses or
silence on the tape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They can’t let an
interview go out with gaps of silence. I told them, “You will then sound
half-way intelligent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Don't look like a deer caught in the headlights; have a thoughtful look on your face before you speak. </span>If, on the other
hand, you fill the entire time with words and sounds without any pauses, they
can’t edit that, and you will sound like a stereotypical dumb, football
player!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I continued, “You are letting
the reporters be in charge of how you appear and sound on camera, and YOU
should be in charge!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One night, when I
did not have a class, I received a phone call at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It began: “Is this Miss Bryant?” I replied
yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Is this Miss Bryant who teaches
Speech at Tulane?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, Miss Bryant, I just wanted you to know
that I was interviewed on Channel 6 after practice tonight, and it’s gonna be
on the 10 o’clock news, and I sounded half-way intelligent.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thanked him, watched it, and he did! But I
can't teach them all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now, before you get
your knickers in a twist about the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">silent-treatment</i>
that you give your spouse, or your spouse gives you, or the agony of being
married to “the strong, silent type,” I’m not talking about silence as an
alternative to healthy communication between and among people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I'm not talking about the white noise you need to get to sleep at night. </span>And I’m not talking about deep, psychological
trauma as in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Silence of The Lambs</i>,
whichever number.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m talking about
silence as a dramatic effect in speech and theatre, silence in situations too
great, too unbelievable, too overwhelming to merit any sound, the pregnant pause of
anticipation, the silence of thought before speaking. . . <em>that</em> kind of silence.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">An old proverb tells us that <em>speech is silver, but silence is golden</em>. And, the Bible tells us that <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <span style="font-size: large;">there is a time to speak and a time to be
silent.</span></i> <span style="font-size: large;">Pray that God will give us the wisdom to know the difference.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span>Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-75508686249256856292013-03-10T19:02:00.000-05:002013-03-10T23:17:34.843-05:00I'M NOBODY'S WHIPPING BOY!<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">When I was in elementary and junior high school, I was fortunate to attend a college demonstration or laboratory school at Mississippi Southern College (now the University of Southern Mississippi). In case you aren't familiar with this type of school (Are there any more laboratory schools?), these were regular schools, usually attached to a college or university with a large, strong education department, with age-appropriate classes (elemetary and secondary) taught by master teachers who also served as critic or supervising teachers to the college students who practiced being teachers before graduation. The students enrolled in the George Hurst Demonstration School also served as guinea pigs for innovations in education and educational methods. As you might guess, we had the best of teachers, the best of student teachers, and the best of education. I must admit here that by the time I attended a regular high school, I hardly ever opened a text book, except in Algebra and Spanish!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, I learned a great deal as a student there, and even learned how to treat and to encourage students, both of which lasted me during my entire teaching career. However, the greatest lesson I learned did not seem positive at the time, but became life-changing in the long run.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">When I was in the fifth grade, I was in Mrs. Ford's class. She was a very scary lady who had the reputation of being a fabulous teacher. I learned the next year, after I was promoted to the sixth grade, that she was a wonderful person as well. Eventually, not only did Mrs. Ford teach me, she also taught one of my brothers, and even became close to our mother as her critic teacher when Mother did her practice teaching. Alas, I was the first of the Bryants to encounter Mrs. Ford.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I can remember that Mrs. Ford had two methods of disciplining her students. One was she would walk to the door (leading to the hall) and flick the classroom light switch on and off until she got our attention. And she got it! The other method of discipline was borderline corporal punishment. Our classroom was very crowded with desks. Mrs. Ford could not maneuver through the congestion of desks to reach the students in the center of the room. I sat on the outside perimeter of the desks so that I could have some mobility to the many wonderful books she had on the shelf for us to read. However, it didn't take me long to realize that I had made a BIG mistake. If someone in the room was talking or misbehaving, no matter where he or she was seated, Mrs. Ford would point at them with a finger on one hand, and rap the shoulder of the nearest student with a ruler with the other. Guess who got the licks. Yep, you guessed it: those of us sitting on the outside perimeter of the desks.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Now, I can assure you that Mrs. Ford never had cause to discipline me personally as I was so terrified of her that I kept a very low profile so that she wouldn't even notice me. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I never would have talked or misbehaved or called attention to myself. Yet, I still got many licks. . .for someone else.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I went home crying, asking my mother what could I do. She suggested that I ask Mrs. Ford if I could move to the middle of the room. That possibility never occurred to me! With fear and trembling, I asked Mrs. Ford and she allowed it (maybe she thought I couldn't see the board or something, thank goodness)! I can tell you that changed my life as a student, nay as a person! From that time on, I could see the big picture and could adjust to whatever idiosyncratic behavior teachers, as well as others, exhibited to impede my life and learning. I learned not to be a "whipping boy" for anyone, teachers, professors, bosses, anyone, and I began to stand up for myself and to never take another "lick" for someone else.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">You are probably asking yourself what is the origin of "whipping boy." Well, let me enlighten you.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">By the 15th and 16th centuries in England, it was already an established position in the Courts of the Tudors and the Stuarts to have a whipping boy for the purpose of punishing the crown prince for his misdeeds or lackluster schoolwork. As the school masters and other attendants were commoners or, certainly, less noble than the prince, they could not lay a hand on him. The "whipping boy" was often a good friend of the prince's who shared his classes and his free-time as well. The theory was that it <em>hurt</em> the prince to see his friend whipped for something he himself did. Mark Twain's <em>The Prince and the Pauper</em> shows the relationship between the prince and his whipping boy/friend.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The definition today does not exactly have the literal meaning of actually being "whipped" or "licked," as I was in the fifth grade. It can also mean being a scapegoat. . .being blamed for the misdeeds of others. Nobody really likes that, do they? Well some don't mind as long as they get what they want in the long run. If you are ok with taking the blame for others or being a whipping boy, as long as you are rewarded, that's fine. After all, the princes' whipping boys lived in splendor, ate well, again, had a very important friend (the prince), and often were later given titles and lands by the king for services rendered. However, I do not have that nature! </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I have spent a lifetime (since the fifth grade) not being anyone's whipping boy. I'm perfectly capable of taking my own licks or punishment in stride, and believe me I've made some real mistakes. My mother taught me better! Remember the old saying, "My mama didn't raise any stupid children"? I have had enough of my own disappointments and problems without taking the blame for someone else. And my mama and Mrs. Ford <strong>did</strong> teach me that! </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-3875351247006192822013-03-08T15:24:00.002-06:002015-07-29T13:36:10.005-05:00A Little White Smoke<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Have any of you noticed that, recently, certain words have permeated either our consciousness or our vocabulary? I have found myself using these words in a variety of circumstances that have no reference to what is currently going on at the Vatican. Instead of saying that a certain group I know is having a meeting, I use the word <i>conclave</i>. And instead of clicking <i>like </i>or <i>unlike</i> on <i><b>facebook</b></i>, I find myself wanting to click <i>white smoke</i> or <i>black smoke.</i> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I sit in my den and look out my French doors to my small backyard -- yet, instead of thinking of the beautiful red cardinals that fly into my yard from time to time, now I am thinking about the <i>College of Cardinals </i>who are making important decisions in Rome. All this being said, I must remind you that I am not a Roman Catholic, and except for a general interest in history and tradition, I really don't have a horse in the race for pope. However, I still find myself saying or thinking, "It doesn't take a <i>College of Cardinals</i> to decide for me to do X," and similar expressions. Or, "When I make my decision to do such and such, I'll send up the <i>white smoke </i>to let you know." Why do I do that? Why do <b>we</b> do that?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I never use words referring to specific terms used in our War on Terror and Terrorists, and I could not make an intelligent sentence using words like <i>drone</i> or <i>sequester</i>, unless it was about a dull noise or hiding something. Yet, these days, I punctuate my sentences with the jargon, usually reserved for the election of a pope. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps, it is because during this particular go-round, there is no sadness over the death of a pope. There is only anticipation of a new Holy Father. And, this is good news, as opposed to war, things dropping from the sky, and the country going broke. Subconsciously, perhaps we all want to be at the Vatican to receive the good news or even to be in the <i>Sistine Chapel</i> to be a part of the decision.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I was in graduate school, I remember a professor talking about <i>ennui</i>. He was talking about the "shut down" of workers in the workplace and said that at some point, some members of the workforce develop <i>ennui</i> or boredom. The word is, of course, French, and it comes from the Middle Ages. It seems that it was first used to describe Catholic Clerics/priests who, when they got to that point in their careers and realized that they would never be pope, they developed <i>ennui</i> and sort of shut down their fervor and their energy when it came to their work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don't know what <i>ennui</i> has to do with my making references to these particular words and expressions, but it seemed like a good idea to mention it here. On-the-other-hand, maybe we have developed <i>ennui</i> as we know that our names will <b>never</b> be mentioned by the <i>conclave</i> of <i>Cardinals</i> in the <i>Sistine Chapel</i>. I guess it is like the difference between British children touring castles and palaces in England, knowing that they can <b>never</b> live there, and our American children touring the White House and knowing that it is possible that, someday, they <b>can</b> live there! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">If you are reading this, the chances are you'll never be pope. I'll never be pope. But consciously or subconsciously, perhaps I am reacting to this brick wall in my life, and that, somehow, causes me to use the jargon of the process of selecting the pope. And, because neither you nor I shall ever be pope, we have developed <i>ennui</i>. And in my boredom, I write this blog. . .and in your boredom, you read it!</span> </div>
Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-43266560390361715452013-03-07T13:34:00.000-06:002013-03-07T22:56:37.911-06:00KNOW YOU'RE RIGHT AND GO AHEAD!<div style="text-align: justify;">
<em>I initially wrote this post on May 13, 2011. I'm not sure if I published it or not at that time, but it deserves to be read, and all of the information is the same. Anyhow, Hollywood does remakes of movies all of the time. Why can't I do it as well? So, whether you have read this before, experienced the Bryant Trait exhibited by one of the characters mentioned, or you have serendipitously clicked on this site, I welcome you. Enjoy.</em><br />
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Allen Benjamin Bryant was born in South Carolina in 1817, and was the son of John Lewis Bryant and Cynthia Peacock Bryant (later Phillips) who were both featured in an earlier post. Allen made the journey from South Carolina to Mississippi with his parents and eventually settled in Covington County (north of Hattiesburg), Mississippi. When the War Between the States broke out, Allen joined Quinn's Mississippi State Troops Infantry, Company D as a private. Company D was made up, mostly, of men from the Covington County area. There was some fighting at the beginning of his service, but nothing like what he and the other men would experience at the Siege of Vicksburg!</div>
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In 1863, General U.S. Grant's objective was to seize control of the Mississippi River, north of New Orleans. Vicksburg, MS, because of its placement on the River, was being called "The Gibraltar of the Confederacy," and Grant set about to capture the city. The seige began on May 18, 1863. I won’t go into detail about the siege, but it lasted for six weeks with the Confederate soldiers and the residents of Vicksburg being starved by the Union Army, and this was in addition to the maladies of scurvy, malaria, dysentery, and diarrhea. In my Mississippi History classes, we learned that the Rebel Soldiers and residents ate anything they could get their hands on, including rats and leather shoe soles. When Vicksburg surrendered on July 4, 1863, Private Allen Benjamin Bryant, C.S.A. became a prisoner of the Union Forces and was sent to a "Yankee Prison."</div>
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I have not yet learned which prison Allen was sent to, nor do I know how long he was a prisoner. But, according to my Great Aunt Florence Bryant Rouse and my Uncle Vann Bryant, he made the most of his time there. He was given a Bible. During his time in prison, Great, Great Grandfather Bryant read the Bible so much that he ended up memorizing the entire book, chapter and verse!</div>
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At the end of the war, Allen went back to Covington County, Mississippi. Aunt Florence said that before he left to join the Confederate Forces, he had buried most of his money. (I've heard this buried and/or hidden money story in tales from almost every branch of my family.) When he got back home, he dug it up. It was there! He used it to buy more land in his community of Lux, Mississippi. He and his family lived fairly well and were respected in the community. Allen died in 1906 at the age of 89.</div>
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Aunt Florence told of a very interesting and probably very “telling” incident in the life of Allen Benjamin Bryant. It seems that after he got back to Mississippi and life took on some semblance of normalcy, he and his family attended church services at the local Baptist Church one beautiful Lord's Day. The congregation was excited about the presence of a new pastor that Sunday, and everyone waited to hear his first sermon, including Allen. Perhaps it was nervousness, a mistake, or he just didn't know, but the young minister misquoted the Bible in his sermon. Alas, Allen Bryant stood up right then and there and corrected the preacher and then sat down. Remember, he was supposed to know the Bible by heart after memorizing it in prison, according to Aunt Florence. Anyway, after church, someone asked him why he didn't wait and talk to the preacher in private about the scripture mistake. According to Aunt Florence, Allen Bryant explained himself with confidence.<em> There are too many people in the church who can't read the Bible for themselves. They need their preacher to tell them the scriptures and to tell them right. I had to set the preacher straight!</em></div>
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When I heard of this Bryant Incident, I knew immediately how much like my Great, Great Grandfather Allen Bryant my Grandfather Bryant was. E. Wheeler Bryant, the grandson of Allen, might not have stood up in the middle of the sermon and corrected the preacher, but he would have corrected him right after church! As Granddaddy himself said about himself, "I'll tell you how to hold your mouth when you stir the oatmeal!" And he did. Then, I thought about his youngest son, my Uncle Vann. Now Vann would probably do just what Allen did. . .correct the preacher then and there! </div>
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My father, the oldest son, would not have corrected the preacher in mid-sermon, I think, but he was as determined and self-confident as his father and brother. There is a story told of my father about when he was a kid he was called to the front of the room or church sanctuary to give a poem or quote a scripture. Anyhow, he was running down the aisle to “perform” when he tripped and fell on his face. Family lore tells us that he picked himself up and continued running to his destination, saying “I’m gonna say it anyway; I’m gonna say it anyway!” </div>
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My brother Giles and my nephew, Giles III, would probably not have corrected the preacher in mid-sermon, but eventually they would have let it be known that they were aware of the error. And then there is my youngest brother, Tommy. A younger version of Tommy would have corrected the preacher in the middle of the sermon. To support this contention, there’s a family incident, involving Tommy at a Vacation Bible School Graduation and the singing of “Deep and Wide” with the motions. Let’s cut to the chase and just say that Tommy took it upon himself to correct his fellow performers as to which way was <em>deep</em> and which way was <em>wide</em>! As he has gotten older, however, Tommy or Tom would show much more finesse and wait or, even better, he would make sure it was a real error and not just nervousness or a bad mistake. After all, he is a lawyer and he must see or hear the evidence!</div>
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Every one of these men whom I have known and loved could be described as being self-confident and tenacious when it came to correcting errors in life. It must be a Bryant trait. At some point, they all seem to have subscribed to the Davy Crockett motto: <strong><em>Know you're right and go ahead!</em></strong> While they might not all tell you how to hold your mouth while you stir the oatmeal, they have not been reticent in letting others know what they think is right or correct.</div>
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And the Bryant women are not exceptions. E. Wheeler's sister, Aunt Pearl Bryant McKinnon, was as strong as her brother and didn’t hesitate to tell it like it was! Tom Bryant's daughters also have the Bryant traits, with his youngest, Anna-Kathryn, being more subtle and his oldest, Rebecca, being in control with a great sense of setting the record straight and playing by the rules. My other niece, Christina, is so very sweet, but she has a fire in her when needed, which is typical Bryant! <br />
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I understand all of these Bryants as I am of their mettle and therefore just like them (and some are like me)! Yet, it is, somewhat, comforting to know that I was born a confident, know-it-all, control-freak and didn’t just morph into what I am. While I probably wouldn’t correct someone in mid-sermon or speech, I am the worst kind of know-it-all. Unfortunately, I was given license to correct as an English and Speech Teacher, as well as a theatre director. I might not tell you how to hold your mouth while you stir the oatmeal, but I <em>will</em> and <em>have</em> told people how to hold the spoon! And, in my life, I might have fallen on my face from time to time, but, characteristically, I have gotten up and continued on my journey, yelling, <em>I’m gonna say it anyway; I’m gonna say it anyway!</em></div>
Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-86554746066783879102013-03-05T08:07:00.000-06:002013-03-05T17:14:42.475-06:00A BEAR IN THE ROOM<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Many years ago, I took
my mother on her first trip to England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We did all of the touristy things in and outside of London.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rented a car and drove cautiously on the “wrong”
side of the roads in the beautiful English countryside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mother enjoyed everything except, perhaps, my
driving, which always caused her angst, no matter which side of the
road/highway I drove.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had a good
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, there was one thing that
really did put us at logger-heads: a self-guided tour we took of the interior
of Warwick Castle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After we completed
our sightseeing and were driving away from this very famous castle, my mother
commented on the stuffed bear in the great hall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What stuffed bear?” Mother described a huge,
stuffed bear, standing on its back legs with giant teeth at-the-ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, I thought my mother had finally lost it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was not my first trip to Warwick, and I
had never seen anything like a stuffed bear! Needless to say, we spent much of
the rest of the trip, “discussing” that dumb bear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t until we got back to New Orleans
and had our film developed (I told you it was many years ago.) that the
argument was settled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There in one
picture (that I had taken) of the Great Hall was a huge, stuffed bear, standing
on its back legs with giant teeth at-the-ready!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once again, Mother was correct! And so much for my powers of observation
. . .</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Most of us are aware of
the English idiom <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">an elephant in the
room.</i> It has come to mean that the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">elephant</i>
is an important and obvious topic or problem, which everyone present is aware
of, but which isn't discussed, as such discussion is considered to be
uncomfortable. Some experts think that its coinage was in the mid 1950’s, but
it could have been earlier than that. However, as I have never seen an elephant
in a room, except for museums of natural history and an occasional painting or
drawing (please, no snide remarks about large Republicans), and I can now admit
I’ve seen, ignored, seen, ignored, seen, ignored, and finally had to admit to a
bear in the room, I choose to use the bear idiom rather than the elephant one. However.
. .</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj47KvTFNb7opsuJUAcAF9HFfE8aFA3NgzxYxQtN77l-9zao4fNwCua8FZ0m8yBtjUsoxRz_tjXxy6cTiljnzv7YTwWlQDbOb6wUMfMC2Tt2xM_XqYrkvFXzoR_hwiUhQeDTDqeEml_mBvI/s1600/elephant+in+room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj47KvTFNb7opsuJUAcAF9HFfE8aFA3NgzxYxQtN77l-9zao4fNwCua8FZ0m8yBtjUsoxRz_tjXxy6cTiljnzv7YTwWlQDbOb6wUMfMC2Tt2xM_XqYrkvFXzoR_hwiUhQeDTDqeEml_mBvI/s1600/elephant+in+room.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In September
2006, the British artist Banksy set the phrase in visual form with an exhibit
of a painted elephant in a room in the <em>Barely Legal</em> exhibition in Los
Angeles. The theme of the exhibition was global poverty. By painting the
elephant in the same bold pattern as the room's wallpaper, Banksy emphasized
the phrase's meaning, by both making the elephant even more obvious and by
giving those who chose to ignore it (like the woman on the couch) an
opportunity to pretend that it had blended into the wallpaper background.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Whether it’s a bear or
an elephant, denying the fact of its presence is never a good idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right now, I’m sure each of you can think of
a group of people (politicians, parents, teachers, etc.?) who deny some
problems from time to time. Except for my lapse of good observations during my
visits to Warwick Castle, I would like to think that I’m aware of bears in the
room, even if I can’t or won’t address them fully. I can’t think that I would
ever put blinders on and ignore a situation completely. Not me!!!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Here’s a photo of
Warwick Castle, showing the huge bear standing in the back left of the Great Hall
that my mother noticed but I did not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You could have missed that couldn’t you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, what’s that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There in the foreground!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, no. . . I never noticed until now that
there are two additional bears in the room. . .on the floor as bearskin rugs!
OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forget all of the stuff above about my never
putting on blinders and never ignoring situations. Now that I remember, my
family has often called me an Ostrich, hiding my head in the sand. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just like to think that I pick and choose my
battles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aw, heck, who am I trying to
kid? I guess I wouldn’t be aware of a bear or an elephant in the room unless I were
an egg and an elephant, like Horton, was sitting on me!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoteKaroU3wYDvlNEJsN4hoW-PVHeRkH32YfXoWVR0MhvoWBfcf7aPik6Qrnn7RgS45QcESAuyFQyK0EeQBPzPSWiOlHIWqoePNayL7SF1EzFoWRPZxqI8V27DkqE2bRjDHPD9xv81LxVQ/s1600/Warwick+Castle+with+bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoteKaroU3wYDvlNEJsN4hoW-PVHeRkH32YfXoWVR0MhvoWBfcf7aPik6Qrnn7RgS45QcESAuyFQyK0EeQBPzPSWiOlHIWqoePNayL7SF1EzFoWRPZxqI8V27DkqE2bRjDHPD9xv81LxVQ/s400/Warwick+Castle+with+bear.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_iW5iGEgb6uC9QzF3dckm9G3LOKBe7mrKAAsLbl2uAO0jNC_NU_mQ0VrljYv3OcQnSsdhpY-TV9kRpmZd0wMuA1-jB2qDml5I_x5OhoRR4URBHVDOtKeBHhfY0DsCL_1B5FPqkKYiBqM3/s1600/hORTON.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; height: 124px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; width: 207px;"><br />
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Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-17873456104259159032012-06-19T21:56:00.001-05:002013-03-06T20:20:08.267-06:00TODAY'S LESSON: IDIOMS<div style="border: currentColor; text-align: justify;">
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When I began this blog a year or so ago, I had high hopes of continuing my role as a teacher, a purveyor of knowledge to those who might be interested in reading my musings. As I had immersed myself into family genealogy, my thoughts on paper seemed to focus on family members. . .that and my desire to preserve family stories for the younger generations in my family. Nevertheless, while I am still addicted to genealogy, my memory has returned me to my original intent, which is to provide readers with interesting, extraneous information that will probably be useless in every sense except for the sheer fact of<em> knowing</em> it. [NOTE: There will NOT be a test on this material!]</div>
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Recently, in an email to a friend, I was recalling a watershed event many years ago in my life and career, and in doing so, I described a decision I made based on the event as being an inevitable one in which <em>my fate was sealed, my goose was cooked, my bed was made.</em> As I re-read my email, I laughed at myself, thinking how many more idioms and phrases I could come up with which would mean the same thing. All of this to say that I have been inspired to write a post on this blog about some of the idioms we use in our language and how we got to some of them.</div>
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Years ago, I worked with a young American French teacher. She was born in this country and educated in the schools of the USA. However, she had a different way of speaking English. I finally realized that she used NO English idioms. I listened to her in casual conversation situations, and there was not one <em>ever </em>in anything I ever heard her say in English. I cannot comment with any credibility on her French, as I do not speak the language. But her English was as <em>pure as the driven snow</em>.</div>
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At this point, perhaps, I should give defining an idiom <em>the old school try.</em> <em><strong>The Oxford Companion to the English Language</strong></em> defines an idiom "as an expression, word, or phrase that has a figuative meaning that is comprehended in regard to a common use of that expression that is separate from the literal meaning or definition of the words of which it is made." In other words, most of us know what <em>to kick the bucket</em> means. . .someone dies. This is the figurative meaning. It does not mean literally that a person walks over and kicks a bucket and dies. (I'm sure there are some instances in life -- or death -- when that has happened, but that is for another lesson!)</div>
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For those of you who might remember comic strips in the Sunday newspapers, I call to your attention one entitled THE FAMILY CIRCUS. Its story line always put a, seemingly, normal family of father, mother, and three kids, and a dog into average, family situations. If you remember, the youngest child, a toddler, was non-verbal and his reactions to what was being said by his parents or siblings showed up "above his head" in word pictures while he had a puzzled look on his face. Sometimes, the dog even had the same word picture understanding of an expression that the toddler had. It was a great example of a novice of language hearing figurative expressions and picturing them literally. </div>
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Although not an example of an idiom, but of misinterpretation of figurative and literal language, the above reminds me of my three-year-old great niece getting all excited about riding on the Mississippi River Canal Street Ferry when she and her mother were in New Orleans the other week. All my niece said was, "Would you like to ride the Ferry across the Mississippi River and back again?" The little one was sooo excited; she almost couldn't contain herself. However, she showed her displeasure when they walked onto the ferry boat. Through her sobs, she told her mother that she thought they were going to ride over on the wings of a Fairy to the Westbank and back again. Now, we all say Ferry <strong>Boat</strong>! But even that can confuse a three year old.<br />
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There are an estimated 25,000 idiomatic expressions in British, Australian, and American English. I'm not sure who does the counting of items such as this, but even I'm impressed with numbers like that. Which brings me back to my French teacher colleague. With that many idioms in English, how was it possible to not use any idioms? That is almost impossible for an English speaking person. However, years later I think I learned why my colleague did not use idioms or idiomatic expressions and didn't seem to understand the ones I used. It seems she was an only child of naturalized American citizens from Italy. Both parents spoke Italian at home. My friend was educated in America in Catholic schools, taught by nuns. She learned Italian at home; non-idiomatic English at a strict Catholic school; and French in text books and in classrooms in high school and college. <br />
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I read an interesting bit of extraneous information the other day. I had used the expression <em>rack and ruin </em>to describe my financial situation if I had to pay all of a certain bill at one time. I decided to look up the origin of the expression. According to Gary Martin in the website The Phrase Finder, <em>rack </em>is a variant of the now defunct word <em>wrack,</em> more usually known to us now as <em>wreck</em>. The use of the two similar words 'rack' and 'ruin' is for the sake of emphasis. In that respect, the phrase follows the pattern <em>beck and call, tit for tat, fair and square,</em> etc.<br />
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The first record of use of the expression in English seems to have been in 1548 in a sermon by Ephraim Udall in which he stated "The flocke goeth to wrecke and vtterly perisheth." In 1577, Henry Bull moved the phrase to <em>wrack and ruin</em> in his translation of Martin Luther's <em><strong>Commentarie upon the fiftene psalmes.</strong></em> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUAx-3rqFZ4KkC9d3dny6Sqpk7fm4i_CKhw1ezkXXCAVf8rNjqPQZzSexNFrDHzRZhirjBH8qtBeyOa3Op3BQuPTejBfoL_bOmBi4BDizKIHyIG54OXSKcCVPCmdr8gSW6rbwjB_LO_fRC/s1600/Corpus+Christi+College.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUAx-3rqFZ4KkC9d3dny6Sqpk7fm4i_CKhw1ezkXXCAVf8rNjqPQZzSexNFrDHzRZhirjBH8qtBeyOa3Op3BQuPTejBfoL_bOmBi4BDizKIHyIG54OXSKcCVPCmdr8gSW6rbwjB_LO_fRC/s1600/Corpus+Christi+College.jpg" /></a>The phrase finally became <em>rack and ruin</em> in 1599 when Oxford historian Thomas Fowler published <em> <strong>The History of Corpus Christi College.</strong></em> Fowler wrote, "In the mean season the College shall goe to <em>rack and ruin</em>." This was Fowler's prediction of the, then, 82 year old school. It was established in 1517, is the twelfth oldest of Oxford University's colleges, and is very famous for its historical significance of providing the translation of <strong><em>The King James Bible</em></strong>. Perhaps, Fowler should not have worried about the school's buildings decaying and becoming destroyed, because now after 411 years after his <em>rack and ruin</em> prediction, the college is still standing and being used as a busy Oxford college. Please note the picture of Corpus Christi College as it stands today. </div>
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For most of us, to speak a sentence, a paragraph, or a longer tome, <em>we would be hard put</em> to do so without idioms. They are a part of our conversations and our lives. However, sometimes our references are unknown to others and we must remember that even others who speak our own language might not know our own, particular idioms. New Orleans, for example, seems to have a language of its own. Try explaining <em>neutral ground, makin' groceries, how's yo mama and dem, suckin' heads, etc.</em> to English speaking people from other parts of our own country. It took our Saints winning the Superbowl for America and the rest of the world to understand that great, burning question on the lips of most New Orleanians. . .<em>Who Dat?</em><br />
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Speaking without using idioms is like trying to eat a meal without condiments. How boring plain food can be. How bland non-idiomatic language can be. Whether we are <em>between a rock and a hard place </em>or <em>up to our rear end in alligators;</em> whether <em>your advice and a dollar and a quarter will get someone on the street car</em> or <em>Confession is good for the soul;</em> and whether or not we make a decision that brings us to the <em>brink of rack and ruin</em>, and we accept the inevitability of our decision as to <em>our goose being cooked, our fate being sealed, our bed being made</em>, <em>the die being cast</em>, the decision being <em>written in stone. . .</em> You get the picture; you fill in the rest!<br />
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Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-42731816018511606712012-06-17T20:10:00.003-05:002012-06-17T20:10:56.713-05:00REMEMBERING BOBBY MERRITT, TENDERLY<div style="text-align: justify;">
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When I recently learned that a long-time friend and colleague of mine, Robert Merritt (Bobby) died after an agonizing, painful bout with cancer, my heart became very heavy. It is hard for me to accept that this funny, intelligent, droll man is no longer on this Earth. Bobby and his beloved wife, Anna-Merle helped me so much to make the transition from college graduate to teacher at Slidell High School. Their combined philosophies of life and education kept me in the field of education, which I very nearly abandoned that first year of teaching, 1966-1967.</div>
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Although most of our fellow faculty members at SHS, as well as students who knew us both, assumed that the first time we met was when I began that first year of teaching in 1966. Bobby had been teaching at SHS for several years when I first arrived there. It was after a year or so and after sharing our pasts that we learned that we had met prior to our South Louisiana experience.</div>
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After my father died in 1952 in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, my thirty-year-old mother took a good look at her life, her sketchy education, her three young children, and made a decision: she would go back to college and earn a degree in teaching. She already had two years of college work, as well as two years of nurses’ training. Mother decided that the hours for an elementary education teacher would be more aligned with our hours as students than that of a nurse, so the decision was made. And as Mississippi Southern College (now the University of Southern Mississippi) was in Hattiesburg, that school was her goal. We owned a small three-bedroom house in Hattiesburg, but Mother felt that we would do better to try to move to the Veterans Village on campus and rent out our house for a sum that would help us. We did just that. We rented our home out for $40 a month and lived in a three bedroom campus housing apartment for $25 a month. We had already made a profit, if the tenants paid their rent!</div>
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Did I say "three bedroom campus housing"? That's a euphemistic expression meaning WWII army barracks, hurriedly partitioned into apartments to provide the "boot strappers" [WW II and Korean War Veterans] affordable housing while they took advantage of the education offered via the G.I. Bill. </div>
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My mother, brothers, and I had one of the only three bedroom apartments in the Village. One heard EVERYTHING through the partitioned walls of the next apartment. And, DO NOT drop anything on the floor because if it was small enough, it fell through the cracks on the floor and onto the ground below. Our group of apartments (we were #20), were placed right across the street from the Kappa Alpha and Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity houses on Fraternity Row.</div>
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Fraternity row was to me more interesting than the dramas going on in the apartments of Vets Village. I can remember looking out the window of our end apartment at night and gazing at the frat boys and their dates at the parties held at their residential frat houses. I can still see in my mind's eye the beautiful girls in their exquisite strapless evening dresses with yards and yards of tulle in their skirts and petticoats. They usually had floral corsages on their wrists, something I had not seen before in my movie-viewing.</div>
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The guys were just as fascinating. There were the usual number of men in white sport coats with their black tuxedo pants. However, while we were there between 1954 and 1958, many of the guys wore something else as part of their evening attire: black tuxedo Bermuda shorts with Madras-looking coats, cumberbuns, and ties. Wow! Now that was COOL. One member of the Pi Kappa Alphas was even "cooler" than the others. He would drive up in his convertible dressed in his Bermuda short, Madras coat tuxedo. His car? It was the ONLY Edsel I ever saw in "real life." Boy, those were the days I dreamed of being part of! I would later attend MSC, which was USM when I got there in 1962. The campus had changed. Those post WWII frat houses and the Vets Village were gone; so were the styles, and what was an Edsel?</div>
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Back to those earlier days. Now, not all of the time was taken up by the frat boys in partying. There was one unseen Pike who, after everything was quiet and most people in the Vets Village and Frat Row were studying, including my mother, would pull out his trumpet and play the mournful song, TENDERLY. <em> </em>Although the song was a popular love song by Nat King Cole, everytime I hear it, I still think about a lone trumpet playing it and those days at MSC in the mid-50's. And to me it conjurs up memories of charming, childhood days and dreams of future excitement and fulfillment. </div>
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Most of the kids in Vets Village were infants and toddlers, so my brothers and I at ages 9, 8, and 5 were the oldest, and we used our advanced ages to our advantage. Everything was an adverture to us, and in spite of motherly warnings, we felt nothing was off-limits. I hope the statute of limitations is over for our low crimes and misdemeanors, because I know we did some things my brothers and I would like to forget.</div>
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Money for luxuries like drinking an occasional soft drinks or going to the movies was tight during those days, but we three were most resourceful. I started a woven pot holder concern with my brother Giles as my designer and pot-holder-maker and my brother Tommy as my precious, little salesman no one could turn down. I was the "brains" behind the endeavor. After a kind "townspeople" family gave us a full set of Nancy Drew and Hardy Boy Mystery Books, I set up a lending library with hand-made cards, card-envelopes pasted in the backs of the books, and charged usury fines. Unfortunately, my brothers were my only customers, and they didn't have any money!</div>
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Another of our money-making schemes was to retrieve metal coat hangers from the closets of the frat houses and dorms during term breaks, sand the rust from them, put them in bundles, and to sell them to the laundries and cleaners in Hattiesburg. I would like to say that I conceived of this idea and at nine years old was a<em> wunderkind</em> business tycoon. Ah, no. Our wonderful next door neighbor in Vets Village was a combination Pied Piper and Fagin, and he got us involved in this project. Although we dreamed of riches beyond imagining, our leader bought each of us a malted milk for our hard work! We wuz robbed!!! To this day, NO metal coat hangers in my house! Me and Joan Crawford!!!</div>
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One scheme which was <em>all</em> ours was "finding" the returnable bottles in the back of each frat house, gathering them, washing them, and returning them for the few cents each brought. For years I felt so guilty that we were stealing the bottles, then I realized or rationalized that if the guys left town during break without returning them, somebody needed to do so! What a service The Bryant Kids did for the environment AND the/our economy!</div>
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There are so many memories running through my aging brain right now. I can remember my brothers dragging home (to #20) the most beautiful blue flocked Christmas tree I've every seen. The Alpha Tau Omegas had thrown it out, and the boys rescued it. It was still in its stand. It was too big for our small living room, but we didn't care. We didn't have anything with which to cut it down to size, so we stood it up and let the top bend over. It was still gorgeous! We didn't have much to put under it, but it didn't matter to us. There was always something: a family pass for a year to the movie house across the street from the campus, given by the people who owned it and whose son was a friend of our brother, Giles; a basketball from another family for us to share; a set of World Book Encyclopedia from our grandfather; a pot holder loom and materials. These wonderful items we received approximately one per Christmas. Life was hard, but good. We had the entire campus as our playground. We knew the campus policemen, and they knew us! </div>
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Although we also lived across the street from the Kappa Alpha house, my memories of the KA's seem to be warmer and fuzzier! "Warmer" because of an incident involving my brothers and a friend of theirs from school. During quarter break at MSC, the boys went into the KA house (The frat houses were always left open during break.) and found a torn, single bed mattress upstairs. They threw it out the window in the back of the house, ran down, and put fire crackers in it. They seemed to get a kick out of lighting these fireworks and watching tufts of cotton shoot out of the mattress ticking. That is the "fuzzier" part! They must not have had too many fire crackers, because their "fun" didn't last long. They abandoned the mattress and left to find something else fun to do. The next day, they must have found some more fire crackers, because they went back to have some more fun, blowing up the cotton in the mattress. When they got there, much to their surprise, they found NO mattress. . .only a black, charred spot where something rectangular had been. . .like a single bed mattress. I'm surprised they are not still hiding under beds, waiting for the camps cops to arrest them!</div>
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In spite of losing bedding and having to put up with three bratty kids, the KA's were always very nice to us. Unlike the other frats, they had their Coke machine <em>inside</em> of their house. From time to time, we would go over, knock on the door, give them our nickle or dime and ask if they could get us a cold Coke. They always did so. Some guys were friendlier than others and invited us to stand inside the foyer of the house rather than in the heat outside. I remember as my eyes adjusted to being away from the sun, I was amazed to see that it was like a big living room with furniture and a TV set. Some guys might be sitting in front of the TV, others might be sitting at a table playing cards or studying. They seemed to look like <em>normal</em> people. I had heard all of the KA jokes, although I didn't really understand them!</div>
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It would be another twelve or thirteen years before I would, again, meet one of those Kappa Alpha fraternity guys who would get us cold Cokes from their machine. Bobby Merritt was one of those guys!</div>
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Bobby remembered the three kids who lived across the street from the KA House, and he admitted that he was often one of the guys who fetched the cold Cokes for us. After our reunion, whenever I thought or think of any of those frat guys in their tuxes, their Bermuda short tuxes, even the face of the driver of the Edsel, I see the face of Bobby Merritt. After I met him as a fellow faculty member at Slidell High School, he became the face of the male college student of the mid-1950's.</div>
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Anyone who knew Bobby Merritt has, at least, one Bobby Merritt Story that in the telling of it can reduce the listeners to gales of laughter! Just since news of his death, I have heard many of these from friends, colleagues, and former students. </div>
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It wasn't long ago when former SHS coach Dennis Cousin and I (former colleagues at SHS and at Xavier University) were talking about "the good old days." Inevitably, we got around to a Bobby Merritt story. I recalled the time Bobby slipped away from SHS with his sixth period biology class in tow to go to the baseball field at the Jr. High to watch Dennis' team play. Mr. McGinty was fit to be tied when he learned of this "escape." Bobby remained in the proverbial dog house for many months until it came time to sign our contracts for the next year.<br />
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Bobby was worried as Mr. Mac was late in offering Bobby his contract. Finally, the contract was given to Bobby; he signed it and took home his copy. A couple of days later, Bobby told us that as soon as he got it home, one of his cats fouled it. And as Bobby put it, "You know cats do not foul an area unless it has already been fouled," insisuating that our beloved principal, Mr. Mac, had shown his anger on Bobby's contract! The ridiculous thought kept us all in stitches for the rest of the school year.</div>
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Elodie Gomez tells of the time that Bobby showed up in the teachers' lounge, went to the fridge, got out his lunch, sat down at the table, and started eating. When quizzed as to what he was doing, he replied with just a little bit of the attitude of "can't you see what I am doing?" "I'm eating my lunch." He was reminded that it was just the end of the second period and lunch was two hours away. He jumped up and put his lunch back in the fridge, and ran back to his classroom. Somehow, he had lost two hours in his mind!</div>
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I remember Bobby, Ed Gilleon, and my being in the teachers' lounge. We three were sitting around the table, smoking. Bobby was also playing with an empty match cover, folding it mindlessly. At one point, Ed Gilleon looked at what Bobby was doing and commented, "That looks like a Bronze Star Ribbon." Bobby kind of looked at Ed sideways and asked a little flippantly, "And how many Bronze Stars do YOU have, Ed?" Ed either replied one or two, but either number almost knocked Bobby on the floor. That was when we learned that mild-mannered, business teacher Ed Gilleon had received a Bronze Star for his part in the Battle of Monte Casino in Italy during WW II. </div>
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The first summer after my first year of teaching, I spent almost the entire summer with Bobby and Anna-Merle. Bobby was in school in Natchitoches, LA, and I went up there to spend time with Anna-Merle while Bobby was in class. We three even drove to Six Flags Over Texas while I was up there. We had a wonderful time.</div>
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I am ashamed to admit that I have not kept up too much with Bobby and Anna-Merle since I left SHS and Slidell. I did meet them a couple of times when they came to New Orleans and were doing Cajun Dancing. Bobby executed the line dancing as he did almost everything else he did. . .absent-mindedly-looking, but doing it well and, seemingly, without effort! But whenever we did see each other, we took up our conversations as if we had just stopped a few minutes before.</div>
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At the beginning of this, I stated that my staying in teaching at SHS could directly be credited to my friendship with The Merritts. My learning that one could have fun, enjoy life, and still be a teacher was important for me to learn. I guess I had seen too many versions of "Good Bye, Mr. Chips" to really understand and to enjoy the individualism and humanism of people who chose to teach. Some might say, "Oh, heck, Merritts. We could have gotten rid of her had it not been for you!" Others, might add good thoughts to the already fond feelings they had/have about Bobby and Anna-Merle to learn how instrumental they were in my morphing into a teacher.<br />
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For the rest of my life whenever I think of Bobby Merritt, my memories of him at SHS will be pushed back by my thoughts of him as a college, fraternity guy being kind to three fatherless kids who were thrown into a strange situation of having to be around the "big boys and girls" on a college campus. My thoughts of him will be fraternity dances and 50's attire, music, and convertibles. They will be of a lone trumpet playing, <em>The evening breeze caressed the trees, Tenderly. </em>And my thoughts of Bobby as a young man on that college campus soon to meet and wed his beloved Anna-Merle will relieve my heavy heart and caress <em>my</em> memories, <em>Tenderly!</em><br />
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I can only hope that it wasn't Bobby's mattress that my brothers blew up!<br />
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Ann Bryant Whittemore<br />
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<u></u></div>Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-32958234551151791702012-06-17T02:45:00.000-05:002012-06-17T02:45:36.742-05:00WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ACTOR JEFF CHANDLER?<div style="text-align: justify;">
<em>This will be my first post about a subject other than my family. Perhaps I've run out of material on my family; perhaps I am unwilling to share some of the previously unshared stories about my family; and/or perhaps I just want to interject other interesting, extraneous information from time to time.</em></div>
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<em>This information about the handsome actor of the 1950's, Jeff Chandler, is some I just happened on accidentally. I had read what was on the Internet Movie Database years ago, and there wasn't that much. However, I was looking for some information on wrongful deaths, and I came across a website entitled </em><a href="http://www.wronfuldeathattorneys.org/"><em>www.wronfuldeathattorneys.org</em></a><em> and some interesting cases came up, including the life and death of 42 year old Jeff Chandler. This is what makes life so interesting and serendipitous. . .one accidentally comes across interesting tidbits without actually looking for them. Enjoy learning something extraneous!</em> <strong>Your Queen of Extraneous Information!</strong></div>
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<strong>A LOOK AT RUGGED LEADING MAN OF THE 1950'S </strong></div>
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<strong>JEFF CHANDLER</strong></div>
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In the 1950s during the waning years of true studio power, Universal-International boasted the strongest roster of contract players and Jeff Chandler, along with Tony Curtis and Rock Hudson, was an vital box office draw for the studio. Chandler made few A productions and basically toiled in routine program features. Yet Chandler was a very popular star as evidenced by the era’s fan magazines. With a head of premature curly silver hair, dimpled chin, warm eyes and fair looks, he was a heartthrob for the ladies and appeared in a number of women’s pictures. On the other hand, the actor was tall and rugged, spoke in a low voice and possessed a heroic quality that worked well in westerns and war pictures captivating to men. Like most contract players, Chandler suffered through poor scripts and was a better actor than given credit for. </div>
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Born Ira Gossel on December 15, 1918 in Brooklyn, he was a child of New York’s bad tenements. His parents divorced when he was young and his mother took him to live with her parents. An only child, young Ira was overprotected by his mother and received no relief from the situation until she remarried. Ira decided at an early age become an actor and wanted to participate in high school plays but his family’s poor financial circumstances prevented this. He found employment in a variety of after school jobs including Montgomery Wards, Radio City Music Hall and his grandmother’s candy store. His father, a former silk salesman, returned to New York to establish his absorb business and provided $500 toward fulfilling his son’s dream. </div>
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The money enabled Chandler to study drama at the Feagin School at Rockefeller Center alongside comedians Jack Carter and Sheila Stephens (later MacRae. From there, he went on to gain experience at the Millpon Playhouse on Long Island making his professional debut in “The Trojan Horse.” In 1941, Chandler and a friend pooled their resources and formed a shortlived stock company at Elgin, Illinois. </div>
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America entered World War II in 1942 and Chandler enlisted in the cavalry. A year later, he was a second lieutenant in army aircraft and spent two years stationed in the Aleutians. Following the war, hr completed his tour of duty at Fort Ord, California. In 1946, Chandler landed in Hollywood with a bankroll of $3000. He immediately spent $1000 on a wardrobe and the rest was depleted in a few months. He had known actress Marjorie Hoshelle in New York and they married that same year. The next major change came in 1946 and that was ridding himself of the awkward Ira Gossel. The Chandler was borrowed from Van Johnson’s character in “Easy to Wed” and the Jeff was suggested by friends. </div>
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Chandler appeared fifty times in small parts on “Lux Radio Theater” and starred in “Michael Shayne, Private Eye” and “Our Miss Brooks” as the pleasing teacher Eve Arden’s Miss Brooks moons over. The turning point in the struggling actor’s career occurred as a result of a part in an episode of “Rogue’s Gallery” starring Dick Powell. The major star-producer took a liking to the young man and recommended that he audition for Powell’s latest film for Columbia. Chandler won a small role in “Johnny O’Clock” (1947). Chandler once commented on his good fortune, “Dick’s been keeping his eye on me ever since. People are always doing things for me and I’m not that nice of a guy. They’re impressed with my size.” </div>
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Three itsy-bitsy parts in the Twentieth Century-Fox pictures “The Invisible Wall” (1947), “Roses are Red” (1947) and “Mr. Belvedere Goes to College” (1948). Meyer Mishkin, Chandler’s ever hustling agent, arranged a screen test at Universal-International for its upcoming characterize “Sword in the Desert.” He got the part and signed a ten-year contract with the studio. </div>
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In “Sword of the Desert” (1949), Chandler supported Dana Andrews and Marta Toren as a Hebrew underground leader guiding refugees to Palestine. The studio next cast him as a police chief in “Abandoned,” a 1949 dud finding Dennis O’Keefe and Gale Storm stumbling onto an illegal baby market racket. The breakthrough to stardom came in “Broken Arrow’ (1950). Universal-International loaned Chandler to Twentieth Century-Fox for the film with the stipulation that he receive star billing. This was a wise move as Chandler returned to his home studio as a star. </div>
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“Twentieth was looking for a guy big enough physically to play the section,” Chandler explained about his role as Cochise, “and weird enough to movie audiences to lend authenticity to the part. I seemed to fit the bill.” “Broken Arrow” was not only and engrossing action filled western but a rare picture for its time in attempting to depict Indians as intellectual equals to white men. However, critics dismissed the film as patronizing and serving no justice to Indians. Even James Stewart’s performance as an ex-army man drew criticism. Chandler played Cochise with a dignity earning praise from all quarters. He was rewards with an Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor of 1950 and lost to George Sanders for “All About Eve.” Twentieth Century-Fox also used Chandler in “Two Flags West” (1950) a Civil War drama with Linda Darnell and the 1951 remake of “Bird of Paradise.” Back at Universal-International, it was a return to mediocrity in “Deported” (1950). </div>
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The Chandlers separated in 1951 and he was linked to a number of actresses including a supposed fling with Susan Hayward. Chandler and his wife had two daughters, Dana and Jamie, the last named after Katharine Hepburn’s character in “Without Love.” The couple reconciled in 1955 and eventually divorced in 1959. </div>
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The actor captured top billing for the first time in “Smuggler’s Island” (1951). Universal’s 1937 picture “Some Blondes are Dangerous” was remade as “Iron Man” (1951) and “Flame of Araby” (1951) was a mediocre costume epic with Maureen O’Hara. For a second time Chandler played Cochise only this time “The Battle at Apache Pass” (1952) fell short on quality. He led a predominately male cast in “Red Ball Express” (1952), battled pirates in “Yankee Buccaneer” (1952) and was second fiddle to Loretta Young in “Because of You” (1952). </div>
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Chandler entertained a desire to sing and made his musical debut on “The Peggy Lee Show” in 1952. He discovered that being a famous name provided an easy means to enter the music business. Decca Records signed him to a contract and the Chandler Music Company was created. Several records were released including “I Should Care” and “Lamplight” and he penned the lyrics for the title song to “Six Bridges to Cross” (1955), a Tony Curtis vehicle about the Brinks Robbery. Chandler also thrilled his fans with nightclub appearances in Las Vegas. </div>
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There were more battles with rampaging Indians in “The Great Sioux Uprising” (1953) and “War Arrow” (1953), more island natives in “East of Sumatra” (1953) and more pirates in “Yankee Pasha” (1954). He played Attila the Hun in “Sign of the Pagan” (1954). Universal-International developed Chandler’s romantic image by casting him in pictures designed to appeal to female audiences. He was a mining engineer whose dedicated work habits disturb wife Jane Russell in “Foxfire” (1955). Joan Crawford married him and then feared he was trying to destroy her in “Female on the Beach” (1955). </div>
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The studio cast him in two more remakes. Rex Beach’s tale of Yukon gold miners, “The Spoilers,” was filmed for a fifth time in 1955 but the cast of Anne Baxter, Rory Calhoun and Chandler were tepid compared to the 1942 cast of Marlene Dietrich, John Wayne and Randolph Scott. “Mad About Music,” a 1938 Deanna Durbin feature, became “The Toy Tiger” (1956). “Pillars of the Sky” (1956) once again pitted Chandler against Indians and he was a demanding and hated captain in the war narrate “Away All Boats” (1956). “The Tattered Dress” (1957) was a seamy sage of crime and deception with Chandler as a criminal attorney. He co-starred with Orson Welles in 1957’s “Man in the Shadow.” </div>
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During his contract years at Universal-International, Chandler was deprived of good parts offered by other studios as his home studio its popular star busy in program pictures. Twentieth Century-Fox had proposed roles in “Lydia Bailey,” “The Day the Earth Stood Still,” “The Secret of Convict Lake” and “Les Miserables” to the actor. Chandler displayed little injure. “I can’t argue with the people at U-I,” he said, “because they have put me in money making films that built my popularity.” </div>
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With agent Meyer Mishkin, Chandler formed Earlmar Productions which resulted in the sole venture “Drango” (1957) for Columbia. Also at Columbia, he starred opposite Kim Novak in the biopic “Jeanne Eagals” (1957). Chandler supported three major female stars in “The Lady Takes a Flyer” (1958) with Lana Turner, “Raw Wind in Eden” (1958) with Esther Williams and “Stranger in My Arms” (1959) with June Allyson. He chose not to resign with Universal-International and went to Paramount to make two westerns. In “Deliver in the Sun” (1959), he led a wagon notify of French Basques including Susan Hayward and after years of playing western heroes, Chandler received the opportunity to act nasty as a archaic Confederate officer waging a private war in “The Jayhawkers” (1959). </div>
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Jack Palance and he vied for the affections of French star Martine Carol in “Ten Seconds to Hell” (1959). The actor composed coveted the understanding of owning his own production company and in 1959, formed a new company titled August Productions. “The Plunderers” (1960) was the debut effort and Chandler’s final western. For ABC television, Chandler common the fragment of King David in “The Story of David” (1960)filmed on location in Israel. </div>
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Twentieth Century-Fox’s sequel to the highly successful “Peyton Place,” “Return to Peyton Place” (1961) turned out lesser film with Jose Ferrer directing Chandler as love interest for Carol Lynley. “Merrill’s Marauders” (1962) was released following Chandler’s death. Critics praised Samuel Fuller’s direction and Chandler’s performance as Brigadier General Frank Merrill who led 3000 troops through the Burma jungle during World War II. </div>
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The Hollywood community and his fans were stunned by Chandler’s sudden death at age 42 and further shocked to learn his death may have been attributed to negligent hospital care. Nothing was ever proven but those medically responsible for Chandler’s care behaved in a suspicious manner throughout the well publicized controversy. </div>
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The actor’s ailments began in early 1961 when suffering a back injury while filming “Merrill’s Marauders” in the Philippines. The hurt proved so intense that Chandler was forced to enter a Manilla hospital to receive pain shots to deaden nerves and benefit tension and pressure in order to continue filming. Following the film’s completion, Chandler returned to Los Angeles and entered Culver City Hospital to undergo an operation for a ruptured spinal disc on May 13th. Five days later, his progress was halted by internal hemorrhaging requiring a marathon seven and a half hour operation and a 55 pint blood transfusion. </div>
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With a public hungry for information concerning the actor’s condition, his surgeon, Dr. Marvin Corbin, surprisingly refused to discuss any details except to portray his patient was “gaining strength steadily.” Chandler’s secretary later reported a ruptured artery was the cause of the second operation. Less than two weeks later on May 27th, Chandler again underwent surgery for internal hemorrhaging and again, the hospital would not release any information to the public. On June 9th, the actor was reported to be battling infections and June 17th brought the announcement of death attributed to shock and peripheral vascular collapse. </div>
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The hospital continued its policy of refusing to release reports and planned to deal with the Chandler estate through insurance companies. Ex-wife Marjorie immediately brought in an attorney on behalf of the estate and their children to investigate the circumstances of his death. Responding for the hospital, Dr. David M. Brotman expressed confidence that Chandler had received excellent treatment and issues a five hundred page report of the actor’s medical data. This report only served to heat up controversy as it was found incomplete and illegible in parts which prompted court approval for an inquiry into malpractice. Marjorie’s attorney wasted little time in filing a $1.8 million lawsuit that charged malpractice, breach of warranty, assault and battery and wrongful death. </div>
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The newspapers splashed every novel disclosure across headlines. Chandler’s death certificate revealed the details of an undisclosed fourth operation for a gall bladder inflammation. A fifth operation, a tracheotomy, was never confirmed and a private autopsy was performed on the body. </div>
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The Screen Actors Guild caused further publicity through an actors’ petition led by Clint Walker demanding an official investigation and the California State Bureau of Hospitals obliged. The investigation absolved the hospital of any charges of negligence and dereliction in Chandler’s treatment but discovered 27 counts of non-compliance with the California hospital licensing program. </div>
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The final damning bit of news was that the case never reached the courts as victory went to the Chandler estate. The hospital paid $233,358.42 in a settlement to avoid additional publicity and bad press. </div>
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Chandler’s will left $600,000 to his daughters and Marjorie sued to claim part of the legacy. During their divorce, she had attempted to be granted a substantial alimony. She had no success in either case. </div>
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With an undiminishing popularity and apparently lovely business sense, Jeff Chandler would probably have continued his successful career.</div>
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<em><strong>Post Script by Ann Whittemore:</strong> Esther Williams, in her autobiography, described an affair with Jeff Chandler. She also indicated he was a cross-dresser, telling him once that he (at 6'4") was too big for polka dots! Later, she admitted she just made all of the cross dressing up to create interest in the buying public for her book. Oh, Esther! How could you do that to so many of us who loved you both? My arms still hurt from trying to swim backwards for all of those years!</em></div>
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<br /></div>Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-4203762416168348782012-06-14T09:55:00.001-05:002012-06-15T19:08:34.736-05:00My Native American Heritage Redux<div style="text-align: justify;">
<em> In light of the current Massachusetts senatorial candidate who has been questioned as to her use of "reported" Native American family ties, I am re-posting my blog of Friday, May 6, 2011.</em></div>
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MY NATIVE AMERICAN HERITAGE </div>
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For most of my life, I have heard the stories that through the Bryant Line of my heritage, I had a great, great, great grandmother who was "an Indian Princess." Notice I write "Indian Princess" and not "Indian Squaw" or "Average Indian Tribal Citizen." If there is one thing I have learned through doing genealogical research, it is that hardly anybody is ever related to anybody "average." We all seem to have been descended from lords and ladies and even kings and queens. And this is most certainly the case in the Leigh Line of my heritage . . . is the King of Scotland of 1005 royal enough? Well, back to the Bryants. For most of my life, I would point to my high cheekbones and say with confidence, " It seems that my great great great Bryant grandfather married an Indian Princess." In retrospect, I think I got a good deal of social mileage out of that information, if not the financial opportunity to the largesse of legalized gambling, and I NEVER would have sought special treatment in trying to earn my place in the schools and work places of America based solely on family lore!</div>
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Well, as I really got into the research of the Bryant side of my family, I learned the truth. My cheekbones must have looked high due to my fluctuating weight. . . So far, NO Native Americans in my Bryant background. As the newscaster Paul Harvey used to say, "And here is the rest of the story."</div>
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In 1830, the U.S. entered into a treaty with the Choctaw Nation, trading 11 million acres (in now Mississippi) for 15 million acres of Indian lands (in what is now Oklahoma). This treaty, which became known as The Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek, opened up the Territory of Mississippi to hundreds of white settlers, many from Virginia and the Carolinas. Both sides of my family came to Mississippi prior to and as a result of the Treaty from "The Delta" to south Mississippi and some on to Alabama and then back to Mississippi.</div>
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My ancestor, Lewis Bryant, emigrated from England to America in 1773 at the age of 22. He arrived in Virginia and eventually ended up in South Carolina. He married and had a son, John Lewis Bryant. I am still trying to find John Lewis' birthdate, but I do know he married Cynthia Peacock in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1810. He and Cynthia had several children, the youngest of whom was born in 1822.</div>
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John Lewis Bryants made the journey from South Carolina to Mississippi, escourting family members as well as others to the newly-opened territory before the Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek. In 1822, John Lewis (an Indian Agent) and his family went to Covington County, MS where he obviously encountered some Indians he couldn't convince as to his peaceful nature, and he was attacked by the Indians who kicked him and "jumped on him" until he was rescued by other travelers. However, it was too late; John Lewis died of his injuries, and he was buried on the the bank of the Tallahala Creek near what is now Runnelstown, MS. Another traveler, Charles Phillips, lost his wife on the journey to S. Mississippi. He and Cynthia eventually married each other and ended up in Covington County, MS with three additional daughters of their own.</div>
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Family lore has it that Cynthia Peacock Bryant Phillips began tending to the sick and downtrodden Choctaw Indians in the Mississippi Territory. She became so well loved and well known that the Choctaws gave her a Choctaw name. Some family oral reports claim that she was even present at the signing of the Treaty of Rabbit Creek and is mentioned in the Treaty, which is part of the archives of the United States and Mississippi. So far, I have been unable to find written evidence of this latter claim.</div>
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Thus, I surmise that this is the basis of the story of our having an Indian Princess in our family. Our kinswoman, Cynthia, was made an honorary "Indian Princess." Cynthia Peacock's father, Levi Peacock, was born in the Rhine River Valley in Germany, and emigrated to South Carolina in America before American Independence. His daughter, Cynthia Serisitta Peacock, was born in Orangeburg, S.C. in 1783.</div>
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Cynthia Peacock Bryant Phillips died in 1876, and is buried in Sanford (Covington County), MS in the Jesse Bryant Cemetery. Her grave is marked. Her second husband, Charles Phillips, is buried on the banks of Covington County's Bowie Creek in an unmarked grave that " is abandoned to civilization," as a kinsman wrote. So, I guess we Bryants are not related to Native Americans. So much for Native American cheekbones. <em>Jetzt finde ich heraus!</em> [Translation<em>: Now I find out!</em> ]</div>
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However, my mother used to tell me that my paternal grandmother, as she was dying of cancer in 1944 (before my birth), had her hair in two long braids, and her face was thin with chiseled cheeks. This grandmother was Nettie Belle Giles Bryant of Hattiesburg, MS. Mama said that with her hair in the braids and her big brown eyes, my grandmother looked just like an "Indian Princess"! Here I go again -- this time I have to look for my Native American roots in the Giles Family!!! Still looking. </div>
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Ann Bryant Whittemore (New Orleans, LA)</div>
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June 14, 2012</div>
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<br />Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-16048963507494601322011-05-31T01:21:00.008-05:002011-05-31T16:29:04.391-05:00A TRIBUTE TO MISS HATTIE R. "DOLLY" LEIGH<div style="text-align: justify;">The beginning of June always reminds me of the birthdays of three of my mother’s siblings: my Uncle Robert, my Aunt Anne, and my Aunt Dolly. As a child, I was fascinated that a brother and two sisters could have birthdays so close to each other, June 2, 4, and 5. As an adult, I didn’t want to know what happened nine months before each of their births!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This posting is about my Aunt Doll, or Hattie Roberta Leigh, which was her legal name. She was the fourth child born to Enos and Emily Leigh [the third, Enos Wilkes Leigh, died in infancy.] I was told that, right from birth, Doll had some physical abnormalities. On the back of a picture of her as a precious little baby, my grandmother had written, “Look at her fingers.” Doll’s ten fingers were all bent slightly at the knuckles. As she grew to adulthood, her fingers were long and slender and the angle of the fingers took on a more pronounced look. My mother also told me that as a child, Doll was “diagnosed” by doctors as being “pigeon-breasted” or as having pectus carinatum, but she never seemed to develop the problems connected to this abnormality.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Doll didn’t finish regular high school. At first, she was put in classes that were much too hard and advanced for her IQ level. She struggled to keep up, but was unable to do the work. Later, she transferred to a vocational type high school where she did much better. But she didn’t need a vocation, as she never had a job and always lived with her mother and father, and later her sisters. After my grandfather died, and as the others got older, they all lived together – my grandmother and three aunts. I can remember my bed-ridden grandmother reading or writing a post card in bed or even taking a nap and Doll calling out, “Mama? Mama? Are you alright, Mama?” I’ll bet Doll asked my grandmother that same question twenty-five times a day, a.m. and p.m. for more than forty years.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Perhaps in another family, Doll’s short-comings in intelligence would not have been so evident, but she was a member of a family of children who were all very intelligent and who all became university/college educated. In fact, with the exception of Doll, all attended Tulane University and all graduated from what is now the University of Southern Mississippi. [There were five out of six children who obtained six degrees from USM. My mother and father met at Southern. My two brothers and I also earned undergraduate degrees from USM.] Growing up, I didn’t realize that not everybody’s parents and relatives did not go to college. Often, I was in groups of friends who were the first in their families to attend college. It was part of our heritage that we would leave the 12th grade and go straight to college. And we did.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yet, as kids, our best friend and playmate was our Aunt Doll. Even with her finger abnormality, she was the best jacks player I had ever seen. She could swoop up ten jacks before that ball hit. She was also very good at pick-up-sticks. She loved the game of “Old Maid,” and got a kick out of getting the “Old Maid” card. She was very good at embroidery, and did a great deal of it. She was also very good at coloring in color books.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Doll called me her “prayer baby.” She said that when my mother “was expecting me,” everyone thought I was going to be a boy. Doll said she prayed for a girl with brown eyes and red hair. [Doll was the only member of my mother’s family with brown eyes. All had blue or green eyes.] Well, I was born: a girl with brown eyes and red hair. Her prayers were answered. She also loved the fact that she and I were the only members of the family who were born in Louisiana. I was born in New Orleans, and she was born in Varnado, Louisiana.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As an adult, Doll became an adolescent diabetic. She was unable to give herself her insulin shots, so my Aunt Mary did that. She must have been in her 30’s when she became diabetic, and she lived to be in her seventies. However, she “hollered” every morning when she received her shot. Obviously, she never got used to that part of her malady in over forty years. But whenever the family went on a car trip, across town or across state, Doll was ready. She always carried several bananas, something to embroider, her hoop, needles, and thread. She had her white handkerchief and always a hat. She was prepared for a long journey even if it was just a short trip to the cemetery.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Leigh Family loved music and passed that love on to their children, nieces/nephews, and grandchildren. One of Doll's favorite songs was "Hello, Dolly." I even had that song played at her funeral as her casket was rolled into the small chapel. Everyone present smiled and lost some of their grief. Additionally, all of my grandmother and grandfather's children could play the piano, and Doll was no exception. Her specialty was “The Lord’s Prayer.” I was always so amazed that she, and all of her siblings, could play with two hands. I am pretty much a one-finger player, and that’s with two+ years of lessons.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was hard to grow up and leave Doll as our playmate. However, I am sure it was harder on her. She was a very faithful correspondent when I was in college. She would write a post card or letter almost every day. Her cards and notes almost always covered the same information every time, as her life didn’t change much. She would write about what she had eaten for lunch. She would tell me about seeing her “stories.” [SEARCH FOR TOMORROW was her favorite.] If my Aunt Mary took her for a ride, she would tell me about that. But the rides were usually to the cemetery or some other place where she would not have to get out and be around crowds. Lots of people made her nervous. She played “The Lord’s Prayer” on the piano every day, and she would tell me about it. And she always signed her cards and letters “Miss Hattie R. ‘Dolly’ Leigh.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Doll tried to work around the house a little. There were some things she was not allowed to do like cooking, washing knives, and handling strong cleansers. But she could make beds and fold clothes. There was a “gentle” story about Doll that was often told when you went to spend night at my grandmother's house. The story was that if you got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, by the time you got back to bed, Doll would have made up your bed!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Doll was so sweet and much loved by her nieces and nephews. As kids, we were never bored when we were with her. As adults, we tried to make her life happy and full. I gave her many beautiful stuffed animals. She loved them as she had loved us. She would talk to them and have them watch her stories with her. After she died, my Aunt Mary and I packed up her stuffed animals to give away to organizations that share items like that with children in need. However, there were some animals we could not give away because there was dried food on some of the mouths. Doll had tried to feed them. I still weep when I think about my Aunt Doll trying to feed her stuffed animals.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I miss Doll. I can’t wait to see and be with her in Heaven, but I hope she’ll have time for me now that she is perfect and whole. Often I’ll hear or see something that reminds me of Doll, and it takes me back immediately to my youth. I am fortunate to have some of her embroidery work, and I feel very special and very loved when I sleep on the white pillow case she embroidered in red with <span style="color: red;"><strong>H.R.L.</strong></span> for Hattie Roberta Leigh. When I sleep on that case, it’s as if Doll is asking me, <em>Are you alright, Ann? Are you alright, My Prayer Baby?</em></div><br />
Happy Birthday, June 2nd, Annie.<br />
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Happy Birthday, June 4th, Robert.<br />
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Happy Birthday, June 5th, Dolly.Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-25758125397676419922011-05-24T12:12:00.002-05:002011-05-25T20:09:38.665-05:00Why Wheeler Bryant Had A Black Ring Around His Little Finger<div style="text-align: justify;">This story was told to me (Wheeler Bryant's granddaughter) by the child of one of his half-sisters. My great grandfather, Duncan L. Bryant, had two families: several children by his first wife, Mary Hammond, and three children by his second wife, my great grandmother Frances Wheeler. He built two houses across the road from each other. The older children of the deceased Mary in one; he, Frances, and children (including Wheeler) in the other, with a great deal of traveling back and forth.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">It seems that when my Grandfather Wheeler Bryant was a youngster, one day he was outside playing with a little hachet, and he accidentally chopped off the first digit of his little finger, left I believe. He and his playmates were closer to his half-siblings' home so they ran there with digit in tow. One of his half sisters administered to him. She applied soot from the fireplace, placed the digit back in its original place, and wrapped the whole thing with spider webs. It stayed that way until the webs fell off and, by then, the digit was re-attached. However, from that day until his death (in 1965), he had a thin black ring around his finger between the first and second digit of that finger, the site of the re-attachment. However, Granddaddy always wore a signet ring on that finger, so I never noticed the "black ring" around his finger. Just Remember: I don't make these things up; I just report them!</div>Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-3205938866761038292011-05-06T14:53:00.014-05:002011-05-27T13:31:24.528-05:00MY NATIVE AMERICAN HERITAGE<div style="text-align: justify;"> For most of my life, I have heard the stories that through the Bryant Line of my heritage, I had a great, great, great grandmother who was "an Indian Princess." Notice I write "Indian Princess" and not "Indian Squaw" or "Average Indian Tribal Citizen." If there is one thing I have learned through doing genealogical research, it is that <em>hardly anybody</em> is ever related to anybody "average." We all seem to have been descended from lords and ladies and even kings and queens. And this is most certainly the case in the Leigh Line of my heritage . . . is the King of Scotland of 1005 royal enough? Well, back to the Bryants. For most of my life, I would point to my high cheekbones and say with confidence, " It seems that my great great great Bryant grandfather married an <em>Indian Princess</em>." In retrospect, I think I got a good deal of social mileage out of that information, if not the financial opportunity to the largesse of legalized gambling!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Well, as I really got into the research of this side of my family, I learned the truth. My cheekbones must have looked high due to my fluctuating weight. . . So far, NO Native Americans in my Bryant background. As the newscaster Paul Harvey used to say, "And here is the rest of the story."<br />
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In 1830, the U.S. entered into a treaty with the Choctaw Nation, trading 11 million acres (in now Mississippi) for 15 million acres of Indian lands (in what is now Oklahoma). This treaty, which became known as The Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek, opened up the Territory of Mississippi to hundreds of white settlers, many from Virginia and the Carolinas. Both sides of my family came to Mississippi prior to and as a result of the Treaty from "The Delta" to south Mississippi and some on to Alabama and then back to Mississippi.<br />
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My ancestor, Lewis Bryant, emigrated from England to America in 1773 at the age of 22. He arrived in Virginia and eventually ended up in South Carolina. He married and had a son, John Lewis Bryant. I am still trying to find John Lewis' birthdate, but I do know he married Cynthia Peacock in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1810. He and Cynthia had several children, the youngest of whom was born in 1822.<br />
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It seems that the John Lewis Bryants made the journey from South Carolina to Mississippi escourting family members as well as others to the newly-opened territory before the Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek. In 1822, John Lewis (an Indian Agent) and his family went to Covington County, MS where he obviously encountered some Indians he couldn't convince as to his peaceful nature, and he was attacked by the Indians who kicked him and "jumped on him" until he was rescued by other travelers. However, it was too late; John Lewis died of his injuries, and he was buried on the the bank of the Tallahala Creek near what is now Runnelstown, MS. Another traveler, Charles Phillips, lost his wife on the journey to S. Mississippi. He and Cynthia eventually married each other and ended up in Covington County, MS with three additional daughters of their own.<br />
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Family lore has it that Cynthia Peacock Bryant Phillips began tending to the sick and downtrodden Choctaw Indians in the Mississippi Territory. She became so well loved and well known that the Choctaws gave her a Choctaw name. Some family oral reports claim that she was even present at the signing of the Treaty of Rabbit Creek and is mentioned in the Treaty, which is part of the archives of the United States and Mississippi. <br />
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Thus is the basis of the story of our having an Indian Princess in our family. Our kinswoman, Cynthia, was made an honorary "Indian Princess." Cynthia Peacock's father, Levi Peacock, was born in the Rhine River Valley in Germany, and emigrated to South Carolina in America before American Independence. His daughter, Cynthia Serisitta Peacock, was born in Orangeburg, S.C. in 1783.<br />
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Cynthia Peacock Bryant Phillips died in 1876 and is buried in Sanford (Covington County), MS in the Jesse Bryant Cemetery. Her grave is marked. Her second husband, Charles Phillips, is buried on the banks of Covington County's Bowie Creek in an unmarked grave "and is abandoned to civilization" as a kinsman wrote. So, I guess we Bryants are not related to Native Americans. So much for Native American cheekbones. <em>Jetzt finde ich heraus!</em><br />
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However, my mother used to tell me that my paternal grandmother, as she was dying of cancer in 1944 (before my birth), had her hair in two long braids, and her face was thin with chiseled cheeks. This grandmother was Nettie Belle Giles Bryant. Mama said with her hair in the braids and her big brown eyes, my grandmother looked just like an "Indian Princess"! Here I go again -- this time I have to look for my Native American roots in the Giles Family!!!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div>Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-77710296389125792662011-04-30T20:39:00.003-05:002011-04-30T21:15:55.434-05:00MAMA AND THE PREACHER<div style="text-align: justify;">In early November of 1943, my mother, Frances Marie Leigh, left New Orleans on the Southern Limited for California to meet her future husband and my father, Lt. Giles Wheeler Bryant, USMCR in San Diego to get married. From her accounts, the trip to the West Coast was like a scene from a delightful WWII movie with various travelers getting together to talk, joke, and become instant friends on the way west. My mother was a member of one such group, all of whom were going to California. They introduced themselves and each quickly had a new nickname: "Mississippi" from the serviceman from Mississippi; "Alabama" for the person from that state; Mama was "Louisiana." What each was going to had to do with what was going on in the world: one lady was going to see her husband stationed in California; several men and a couple of WACS were going to join their outfits in California; Mama was going to be married before my father was shipped out; one young man was going to his first chaplaincy assignment at one of the camps, bases in California. His name was Marvin Franklin, Jr. His father, Rev. Marvin Franklin, Sr., my Southern Baptist mother found out, was a Methodist Bishop.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When they arrived in California, Los Angeles I think, they all reluctantly said good-bye and went their separate ways. Mama boarded another train for San Diego where she hoped my future father would be waiting for her. He was there.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Daddy told Mama they were to married in the Chapel at Camp Elliot the next day. A Lady Marine was going to play the organ (Shubert's Serenade, the music Mama was playing on the piano when Daddy came to pick her up for their first date. Note: Mama's children and grandchildren had the same music played at Mama's funeral.), so-and-so would be his bestman and that gentleman's wife would be my mother's only attendant. Oh, and the officer officiating at the wedding was a brand new Methodist chaplain and their wedding was to be his first! My mother turned to my father and asked innocently, "It's not Marvin Franklin, Jr., is it?" My father was stunned. He was marrying my mother right out of two years of nurses' training and always felt she was a bit "away from the world." He finally was able to speak and admitted that, yes, Chaplain Marvin Franklin, Jr. was to preside at the wedding. Mama just smiled, knowingly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The wedding was held the next day. Mama said the only two people she knew at the wedding were my father and the "preacher." I believe Marvin Franklin, Jr., like his father, eventually became a Methodist Bishop, of Mississippi. My father died of a service-connected death in 1952. Mama never remarried, and she died several months after Hurricane Katrina in June, 2006. She and Daddy had three children, of whom I am the oldest. As we were very young when Daddy died, he never knew how we turned out. Mama raised us by herself. We became lawyers and a university professor/administrator. I think Daddy would have been very proud of us as adults. And, perhaps, Rev. Marvin Franklin, Jr. would have been proud that his "first wedding" turned out pretty well.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-60646859657182163472011-04-20T19:44:00.000-05:002011-04-20T19:44:07.456-05:00MY KIND, SENSITIVE GRANDFATHER LEIGH<div style="text-align: justify;">Because of his deafness, my maternal grandfather was not a one-on-one grandparent. I knew him to be a gentle, kind man, but we had little to say to each other because he could not hear me. However, according to my mother, his youngest child, Granddaddy Leigh was very much of a hands-on father when she was growing up. Even then he was gentle and kind. He had been a bookkeeper who lost his job, pre-depression, because of his hearing loss, so he took several jobs beneath his education and intelligence to support his family.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My mother told me that there were only two times that she ever saw her father weep, and they were both during World War II. One was when he was trying to listen to the old radio in the parlor the night that Paris fell to the Nazis. None of them could believe that beautiful Paris had fallen. Somber orchestral music played after the announcement, interspersed with the popular song, “The Last Time I Saw Paris,” which became like a dirge given the circumstances.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The other was when he and my mother went to the movies and he saw the newsreels from London, showing the children of that ravaged city being separated from their parents when they were being sent to the English countryside for safety. My grandfather had left his mother and family in Granada, Mississippi, to go to Bowling Green College in Kentucky when he was a very young man. While he was in school, his mother died, and he never returned home. It seems that J. Lane Leigh, my great grandfather, remarried very soon after my great grandmother, Antoinette Crowder Leigh, died. In fact, family lore has it that my great grandfather had several marriages before he himself died, or as it was actually said, “He made a habit of marrying the only daughter of doctors!”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My grandfather moved from the Mississippi Delta to south Mississippi, met my grandmother, married and fathered seven children. Thankfully, his kindness and sensitivity were passed on to his children, to his grandchildren, and, hopefully, to his other descendants.</div>Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-499527185362924982011-04-15T23:23:00.000-05:002011-04-15T23:23:36.729-05:00A Light In The Darkness<div style="text-align: justify;"> As a child, when I visited my grandmother, Emily Roberta Wilkes Leigh, in S. Mississippi during the summers, it was usually too hot to get to sleep easily. With the rhythmic sound of the fan as it oscillated back and forth (or later the comforting "roar" of the attic fan), my Mamo would tell me wonderful stories about when she was a girl or something about her family that she had been told, and before I knew it, I was asleep. I heard these stories over and over and never grew tired of hearing them. Here follows one story that my grandmother told me. After doing a good deal of ancestor research, I have come to believe that it is about her uncle -- her mother's (Mary Humphrey Barnes) brother, Jacob Pope Barnes. I'll give my reasoning at the end of the story.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> It seems that the hero of our story was living and farming in Marion County, Mississippi. He was unmarried and had been "keeping company" with a young lady in the county. Jacob (assuming that this is about him) and his family had been living and working in Marion County, Mississippi ever since his ancestors had arrived there from North Carolina a generation or so before. He kept hearing interesting rumors about land ownership in the new state of Texas (joined the Union in 1845), so for whatever reason, he made up his mind he would go west to Texas. He asked his young lady to marry him and go with him, but she was not the adventurous type and didn't want to leave her parents to go to unknown territory.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> He put together his few clothes, Bible, gun, a few tools, and made his farewells. After saying good bye to his family, he rode his old mule to the home of his sweetheart to say good bye to her and her family. She had not changed her mind; she didn't want to go to Texas. They parted and her father, in the spirit of Christian friendship and concern for this young man, traded Jacob a younger, stronger mule for the old one he had been riding. With his heart broken, Jacob and the mule set off at dusk for Texas. They rode a good way through the wooded areas of S. Mississippi, headed toward Louisiana and on to Texas. Jacob dozed, perhaps dreaming of his sweetheart, and let the mule continue on.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Jacob must have slept for a couple of hours as it was pitch black when he awoke. The mule was still plodding along when, all of a sudden he stopped. No prodding could get him to move on. Jacob did everything he knew to do to get him to start moving again. Finally, Jacob saw a pin-prick of a light ahead of him. He got off the mule and walked toward the light, maybe a camp fire. He couldn’t tell what kind of light it was. As he got closer, he was relieved that it was coming from a cabin which seemed to be occupied. Jacob thought that, maybe, he would find a kind family who would allow him to sleep in their barn for the rest of the night so that he (and the mule) could get a fresh start in the morning. He knocked on the cabin door. A man answered. Jacob started to introduce himself, when he realized that the man looked very familiar. Then he saw his sweetheart walk up behind the man. It was then that he recognized the cabin and the members of his sweetheart’s family. He was back at his sweetheart's home. It was a few minutes before he and the family realized what had happened. The mule had walked in a circle and had gone back to "his home." Jacob had slept through the entire circuitous journey. They were back where they started. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I’m sorry to report that Jacob’s departure and then re-appearance did not change his sweetheart’s mind about leaving her parents. I was told that the next morning, Jacob and the mule set out again for Texas, again alone. Each time I was told the story, I hoped for a different ending. But it was not to be. Man and mule finally got there. Jacob eventually married another, raised a family, and died at the age of 44 on February 1, 1877. And, as my Aunt Anne E. Leigh, my other story teller, used to tell me, "No one knows what happened to the mule"!</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Note: I have attributed this story to Jacob Pope Barnes as he seems to have been the only member of my family who went to Texas from Mississippi before the middle of the 20th Century! </div>Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137176519194063799.post-12122347710941227052011-04-12T03:25:00.001-05:002013-03-04T00:19:10.462-06:00DON'T GO NEAR THE WATER 'TIL YOU LEARN HOW TO SWIM<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the oldest grandchild of Enos and Emily Leigh, I suppose I have become the unofficial archivist of this branch of The Family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Leighs, like almost all Southern families, have always been story-tellers and as the oldest, I seemed to be the chosen recipient of many of these familial sagas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of these stories have been told and retold and are well known family lore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, I suspect there are some incidents in the life of The Leigh Family that have never been heard by my generation, except by me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here follows such an account.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This story was told to me by my Aunt Mary Leigh, the oldest child of the seven born to Enos and Emily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This incident happened when the family consisted of just my grandparents, Mary, her sister Annie, and another sister, Hattie or Dolly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a summer day in southern Mississippi. . .in fact, it was a summer Sunday.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Early that day, The Leighs had dressed for church, hitched the horse to the two-seater wagon, and driven down the dusty, unpaved red clay road to the Baptist Church for services.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a nice morning of singing, praying, hearing The Word, and spending some time with relatives and friends, Enos and Emily ushered The Family back to the wagon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enos had on his good suit, with cravat and stickpin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Emily had on her Sunday finery with hat, as was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">de rigueur</span></i> during that time period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They sat on the front bench of the wagon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary and Annie sat on the back bench.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary begged her mother that she be allowed to hold the baby, Dolly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Emily gave in with all the cautions usually associated with the transfer of an infant to a child.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They drove home in the heat of noon-day, probably with the chatter of the two older girls almost masking the sounds of the horse’s hoofs on the red clay road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were probably thinking about the fried chicken, corn bread, vegetables from the garden, and cold buttermilk they would have for Sunday Dinner. They came to the shallow stream that crossed the road, and Granddaddy slowed down as he had earlier that morning so that the water would not splash on their Sunday clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The horse stepped into the water, probably happy to wet his hooves, and walked cautiously toward the road on the other side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Aunt Mary said that before anyone knew what was going on, my grandmother fell off the wagon seat into the water of the stream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I report “fell,” but the actual words my aunt used were “flung herself off the wagon seat.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aunt Mary said she was never so afraid in her life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, she held on to Baby Dolly as she started screaming and crying that her mother was dead!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My grandfather did not even get out of the wagon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My grandmother stood up from the shallow water, probably squeezed out some of the water from her long dress, and I'm sure she didn't remove her hat as she never was outdoors without a hat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She climbed back into the wagon, and my grandfather indicated for the horse to continue the journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aunt Mary said as far as she remembered, no one said a word during the remainder of the trip home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, she said that she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never </i>asked her mother or father about the incident in the many years they were together as adults.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, this seems inconceivable to me, but Mary was always the dutiful daughter who shared a birthday (December 6<sup>th</sup>) with her mother and never questioned her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My grandmother lived to be ninety-six and her oldest child, Mary, lived to be ninety-five.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary told me that from the day of the water incident with her mother, she was always terrified of water and, therefore, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> learned to swim and never went boating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She must not have been that afraid of water as she used to take my brothers and me crabbing in the Gulf of Mexico when we were kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But on the other hand, we did stand and work on the broken concrete jetty while we gathered our crabs. . .</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aunt Mary told me that she didn’t have an idea why my grandmother would “fling herself into the water” that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a youngster I imagined that she and my grandfather were “having words,” and Mamo just ended the discussion by going into the brink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later, as I became a moody teen-ager, I thought maybe she had “a tantrum,” and just fell off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, as an adult I came to the conclusion that (A) she was playing a trick on those in the wagon [<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not funny, Mamo</i>] or most probably (B) she was hot and needed to cool off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I now vote for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">both </i>reasons as I remember other things I was told over the years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My grandmother had a saying that used to convulse my brothers and me:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t go near the water ‘til you learn how to swim.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, this begs the question:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>how can we learn to swim if we don’t go near the water?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would laugh but repeated her mantra often.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were additional <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stunts</i> I was told about by my mother and aunts, and I even witnessed one such incident myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For many years my grandparents and aunts lived in Gulfport, Mississippi, near the Gulf of Mexico.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My brothers and I used to visit them and later we too moved to Bay St. Louis and then Gulfport, Mississippi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Often, we would go to the beach to play in the sand and the water. . .I guess that’s when we would hear the “Don’t go near the water. . .” from our grandmother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, sometimes she would take off her shoes and stockings and she would walk in the sand and sometimes to the water’s edge and wade in the Gulf water, no higher than her ankles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She seemed to enjoy it, and once I saw her plop right down on the soft, mushy sand, right in the shallow water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all ran to her and she smiled with a twinkle in her eyes, exclaiming, “Oh, my goodness; look what I did! Well, since I’m already wet, I might as well stay here in the water.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t believe it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My grandmother couldn’t swim, but she was “in the water.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She never owned a bathing costume; she never wore slacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was always in dresses and whenever she went outside, she always had on a hat of some kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>[Now that I picture her in the water, I remember she was wearing a hat then too.]</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s why I have come to the conclusion of why my grandmother flung herself off the wagon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was hot and wanted to cool off, and I suspect she had done the same thing often as a girl in south Mississippi – too proper to actually own a swimming costume and too modest to swim in anything less.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, she had a reputation as <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a jokester as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, before you think that my grandmother’s theatrics permanently marked my Aunt Mary’s life as one who was relegated to live on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">terra firma</i>, I need to relate one more conversation I had with Aunt Mary.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary never did go swimming or boating in her entire life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She never flew on an airplane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of her siblings, as well as her nieces and nephews had been to Europe several times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The farthest away she’d been was to Canada – on the train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She always seemed to take the road “most traveled.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For most of my life, I would have characterized her as one who didn’t take risks or who didn’t care whether she had an adventure or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, you can imagine my shock of learning something about my aunt when, in 1984, New Orleans hosted a World’s Fair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the featured attractions was a cable strung from one side of the Mississippi River to the other side where the main exhibits of the fair were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And on this cable hung a gondola that was to carry passengers hundreds of feet above the Mississippi from one bank to the other.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, I have ridden ski lifts, Funiculars, cable trams to the top of the Austrian and Swiss Alps, but I would not have ridden that Mississippi River Gondola for a million dollars a minute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, few people ended up doing so compared to the other attractions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, before the fair opened and while everyone was just reading about the different attractions, my Aunt Mary told me that she would like to volunteer to be the “first person to ride on the Gondola.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>WHAT?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t believe it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do you really mean that?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My aunt answered, “I really mean it; I would love to be the first person to ride across the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>river on that cable car.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she meant it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That admission showed me that I didn’t really know this mild-mannered, selfless, retired first grade teacher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had a streak of adventure and daring that even I didn’t have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish that I could report that we made her dream come true, but she wouldn’t leave her home in Mississippi with her responsibilities of taking care of her loved ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, as she pointed out, whenever she saw the Gondola going across the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mississippi on television, she could imagine herself being up there and looking down on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">water </i>of the Great Mississippi River!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Water</i>? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now this was a statement from one who had had a so-called traumatic childhood event which kept her out of the water spots of the world for seven decades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps, she had more of her mother (my grandmother) in her than we, The Family, had reckoned!!!</span></div>
Ann Bryant Whittemorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05744838507106374694noreply@blogger.com1