Lesson Six -- Part One

1. My father was quiet.

Daddy never talked much.  He didn’t need to.  Somehow he had a way of making his wishes clear.  With the icy eyes of a wolf, he communicated exactly what he intended to with only a stare like Svengali.



2. He was mean.

The guy next door never smiled or said hello. He just looked through us like we were made of cellophane.  There were mornings even a scowl would have been as welcomed as an extra blanket on a icy morning.  But the worse mornings were when he headed towards his car in a skulking walk, growling like an angry pit bull.  I couldn’t swear to it in court, but I always felt that those mornings he pulled dangerously close to us kids milling at the bus stop.



3. I hated school. 

Eighth grade was a train wreck.



4. It was chaos.

Martha didn’t have anything against planning—she just didn’t seem to try very often, and even when she did the result was more like something ‘Lucy & Ethel’ would have thought of.



5. I’m afraid to fly.

You know the old adage, ‘If God had wanted us to fly, he’d have given us wings.’?  Well, I’ll go further…if God meant for us to fly he wouldn’t have given us intelligence or free will.



6. I love the city.

New Orleans is a mixed bag.  It is hot, humid and like any other inner city, dirty.  But I don’t care.  Whenever I’m there the scent of the live oaks caress my nose and tickles my memories and I know I’m home.