A Geisha, a Samurai and a Missionary Made Me Do It

As long as I can remember, the front bathroom in my grandmother’s house on 22^nd Avenue in Hattiesburg, which shared an alley with the Gold Post Restaurant, not one mile to the east of the campus of USM, had been decorated the same way since I was a baby.  Her house was probably built back in the 1930’s and was of a Mediterranean style with a red clay tile roof and a beige, actual stucco exterior.  There were 10’ ceilings throughout most of the house and a 12’ ceiling in the living room.  Every finish in that old house was all-natural; be it the heart pine floors, the old English red brick fireplace, or the different stucco finishes on the walls and the ceilings.  Grandmother had moved to that house in 1965 after my father sold their old family home on Hardy Street, directly across the street from the entrance to the university, to build Burgertown on the property; a drive-in restaurant with indoor seating and the first drive-up window in the Southeastern United States.  The bathroom in the front of the house was finished with 2”x4” white tiles from the floor up the walls to about three feet from the ceiling.  There were 4”x4” matching white tiles on the floors and all of the fixtures, a classic pedestal sink, a cast iron tub (though not a clawfoot, was very large and rounded just the same), and a short, round bowled water closet that were all of the same bright white porcelain finish as the tiles.  Though the shower spigot above the tub was added later and had separate controls for the water, they were white porcelain cross handles, the same as the other faucets as the tub controls and the ones on the sink.  There was a nook for a small white dressing table to the left of the sink and two very ornate, old-gold scalloped framed oval mirrors; one over the table and one over the sink.

All of the other usual bathroom trappings that are used to accessorize a bathroom were present, as well.  While today, I am certainly not a fan of those old shag carpet bath mats, I was grateful for those three olive-green shaggy mats she put down on the floor, as they kept my feet from touching the cold floor tiles, as I waited what seemed an eternity for the eventual scalding hot water to flow from one of the faucets in the tub.  And in keeping with the theory that more-is-better, we were blessed with a coordinating shag carpet toilet seat cover and a shag carpet toilet lid cover.   It was the contrast of a white plastic container on the green-carpeted lid on the back of the water closet that caught my attention.   It was 1995 and grandmother’s sister, my old-maid aunt, Floy Smith, who had been a 25 plus-year missionary to the Philippines after serving for 10 years as a school teacher for the US Military in Manila, had moved home to retire and was living with my grandmother. 

Having spent so much time in the Far East, Aunt Floy had quite a collection of furnishings, art, decorations, and nick-knacks with an Oriental theme.  While grandmother was quite easy going and not bothered by too much, Aunt Floy had “redecorated” my grandmother’s classically appointed house with many of these things that had adorned the walls and floors of her house in Baguio, the Philippines.  The only room that seemed to be “off limits” to Aunt Floy’s whims was that front bathroom.  We never knew if it were grandmother’s absolute rule (though highly unlikely, considering her unimposing demeanor being exactly the opposite of that of Aunt Floy, my dad, or myself) or if was just the fact that there was really no place to add any of the embellishments, usually reserved for the likes of an Oriental brothel or a Chinese Buffet.

Because of the “rule,” one always knew that he or she could go into that front bathroom and do their appropriate deed without fear of being watched by an extremely white faced geisha, half-bowing to the left, as she held an opened fan in her ghostly hands or grimaced at by some tubby round semblance of Buddha, only a slight bit less scary than the samurai warrior statues, who must have been related to the “Chucky” dolls of horror film genre.  But it was on a fall weekend afternoon in 1995, when Aunt Floy had gone to give one of her many lectures at the college about her experiences abroad, did Vicki and I sneak over to visit Grandmother.  We were going to be there only time enough for a quick visit and “coffee and a piece of pie,” then we would make a hasty retreat back to our apartment, before the orator returned home from her speaking engagement.   I had said my goodbyes and was going to quickly run to the front bathroom, south of the carved mahogany screen in the den, right of the oversized Oriental trunk that stuck out past the short wall by the door, and past the mammoth white and gold plaster, bejeweled elephant end-table, that in no way shape or form, matched the original large leather wing-back chair that stood out like one healthy tooth, in a mouthful of cavities. 

When I finally passed through the Filipino Open-air market and closed the door to the bathroom, something was different from my memories of 27 years of using this facility.  Sticking out like a whore in church, right atop the shaggy, fuzzy, olive-green cover of the water closet lid was a stark white plastic rectangular box, with a popup lid in the middle of the top.  I stared for a moment and wondered what horrifying, far eastern deity was going to spring forth from the container and render me immobile, as its counterparts from the den came in and turned me into human sushi.  After a moment I realized that the small box was made of plastic; not some foreign exotic wood or woven bamboo.  My curiosity got the best of me as my heart rate once again, fell to within an acceptable range and I popped open the top.  Arising from a long pliable slit in the thin bottom layer of the top of the plastic container that ran the length of the popup lid, was what has become to me, the eighth wonder of the world: a pre-moistened towelette, infused with the soothing goodness that is aloe vera, for personal hygiene use.

While I had been familiar with WetOnes as a child, the individually packaged towelette accompanying a plate of barbecued ribs, and even Baby Wipes, as Nolon Ray’s diaper changes could sometimes be a worthy opponent; I marveled at the thought of the use of a “Baby Wipe...for an adult?”  I immediately recalled the communal thrones with no stalls in the Biloxi High School Field House, tamed by periodical bearing coaches and players alike; the misspent weekend nights in college, when the evening’s debauchery often ended with a trip to Krystal or some unsuspecting Waffle House, for something, anything, covered with onions, extra cheese, peppers and chili; and even the occasional set-to with a family sized box of spicy chicken from Popeye’s and a large order of onion rings.  Yes, I was clearly in the presence of the brainchild of some unnamed genius, who in his infinite wisdom had made it possible for anyone wishing to punish themselves with the after effects of deep fried, dairy burdened, bingeing personal chastisement, could again return to a much fresher and less punishing form of moisturized cleanliness than before the battle began. 

So as my appreciation for this marvelous lotion laden papyrus has grown over these past 19 years, so have the numerous uses for this magical, hygienic tool.  As I have mentioned before, having been handed the “Errant, Clothes-Staining Food Particle ‘Curse’,” passed from my grandmother to my dad then on to me, these damp blessings make for a fantastic spot remover, eradicating tomato tainted food stains and coffee spots from clothing.  Having budding artists in our household has also made the power of the moist towelette an unbeatable foe to many a permanent marker doodle, oft found on tables, doors and walls of our home.  Finally as I have found myself, once again donning the highly polished leather pair dress shoes for my new position, a baby wipe is the perfect counterstrike for dulling scuff marks, that would normally leave the wearer in search of an old school barber shop or bus depot with a skilled, but costly shine man, to reapply a durable shine.   With all of these extra benefits afforded me by such an ingenious creation, not to mention the superlative job they do as there primary task, I would like to thank the memory of a retired missionary to the Philippines for recognizing the benefits of a chance purchase of a relatively unknown product, next to Charmin in HBA.  If it weren’t for her, I would have missed many years of using such an innovative product that leaves my skin oh, so kissably soft and smooth.    

Commuting with Goats and a Boulder Sized Bra

After moving home from Nashville back to Biloxi in 1997, for nearly the next 3,650 days, sometimes twice a day, I made the hour long commute to Mobile, AL, and back home again.  I was working for Joe Bullard Cadillac-Hummer on the I-65 service drive, which Mobilians call the Beltline Highway.  People would ask me why I would drive so long to go to work or how could I spend that much time in a car, commuting everyday.  As a kid from the Coast, if I had not moved away for a while to a much larger, metropolitan area, I would probably have asked myself one of those same questions.  As it were, however, I had kicked off the white shrimp boots, washed the sand from between my toes and headed north to the Music City.  Many of you Ole Miss fans and Biloxi natives may remember Floyd Franks, the All-American receiver from West Biloxi, who was Archie Manning’s number one target, while at Ole Miss.  He was my boss as I was working for an investment and insurance company, selling 401k plans and IRA’s.  He was promoted to the position of managing partner in Nashville and I chose to follow him there.

Our office was right downtown on 3^rd Avenue, just a few blocks north of Demos’ Restaurant, where they served my most favorite meal all the while I lived in Tennessee: a grilled chopped steak, pasta aioli with brown butter, and a Greek salad with a homemade Italian dressing.  The location and ambience of this little place, combined with the checkered-linen tablecloths, a candle made from an empty, straw wrapped Chianti bottle, and excellent service by waiters and waitresses aspiring to be the next CMT star, made this particular meal a once-a-week event for Vicki and me (as most foodies or fat-asses could do (and I happen to be both), I have associated my commuting experience with food, so I will turn this discussion back toward the topic of my commute, itself).  We lived about 22 miles south of town in Franklin, in an area called Cool Springs.  Being from the Coast and my experience of our travel habit of being able to be anywhere in 15 minutes, I had determined that living close to the Exit on I-65, I imagined that I could be parked and in my office in 25 minutes.  That could not have been further from the truth.  For the most part, every daytime inhabitant of the office buildings in Nashville, lived as far south, or further than I did.  Short of borrowing our office manager’s broom or leasing a helicopter, I could not have arrived to the downtown area in less than 45 minutes, let alone find a place to park and get into my office.  This is the time in my life when I learned that commute times were not based solely on distance, but also traffic volumes, weather, and the ability to avoid being caught driving in the HOV lane, as the only occupant in an automobile.

Driving an hour to work in Mobile was actually a pleasure, based on the experience I had just lived while working in Nashville.  I was constantly moving at a pace of 70 mph or greater, I had the coolest new product that GM, Acura, and Jaguar had made as company cars, and you cannot imagine the things I saw in the brief hour it took to get from my doorstep to Mobile.  You always saw the haggard mothers, putting on makeup in the rear view mirror, steering the car with their knees, after dropping the carload of kids off at school and getting on I-10 like a rocket launched on rails.  Another daily sight were those outside sales reps or service people with coffee in one hand and a stack of papers in the other, proofreading proposals and sales statistics or workorders and schematics of some broken piece of equipment, as they sped along in two-thirds of their own lane and veering back and forth into one-third of mine.  Then there were those other banner commutes when you saw things you wish you had not have seen. 

People driving cars that would make those highlighted in the pages of “peopleofwalmart.com,” do a double take, blush, or regurgitate their Kool-Aid and corndog breakfasts.  Between the MS-AL state line and mile marker 15 in AL, must be the Bermuda Triangle or Bizzaro World of interstate travel.  I don’t know what it is, but this is the stretch of interstate where those you would least like to look at clothed, took the opportunity to dress for work or school.  These oddities of the human form, oblivious of the world around them, felt it perfectly appropriate to use their car as a changing room and would don everything from feminine foundations to sport coats and ties, while their automobiles resembled sail boats in the America’s Cup Race, tacking back and forth between buoys.  At one point, when a much older woman, whose rather large, yet misshapen upper female adornments had definitely succumbed to the forces of gravity, was trying feverishly to put on a bra, which more resembled a sling for launching boulders in medieval times than a bra, I said to myself that I was glad my son wasn’t here to see this; I’m afraid it would have turned him against women, forever.  This is also where I saw what had to be at least a 6’ 6” over 400lb woman, wedged in the passenger seat, flabby shoulder pressed fully against the passenger glass of a faded red Geo Metro, literally beating and choking her stick-figured husband, as he swerved across both lanes of traffic and the medians, causing a traffic delay of 5 miles back to the exit at Franklin Creek Road to the west.  One time I saw when a load of goats had gotten loose from a trailer being towed by a yellow and white, two-tone Chevy pickup, driven by a very frail, elderly black gentleman-farmer.  Goats are not the most majestic of creatures in the first place and when trying to be cornered by an old farmer, whose frame resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa with a 45 degree bend, and good Samaritans headed to the beach, dressed in Bermuda shorts with socks and sandals, goats can be downright pissy, as they used their heads to knock the would-be capturers to the ground and repeatedly careened into their bodies as they would try to stand up and get away.  I had to pull over and catch my breath from belly laughing in hysterics, as these do-gooder city types were screaming bloody murder and were forsaking the skin on their elbows and knees to free themselves from the beating they were taking from these little ole goats.   And for some reason unknown to me or the greatest of minds in nuclear physics at NASA, this area is also where common sense becomes devoid of grown men who believe that one strand of narrow gauged string is substantial enough to hold a mattress, tied down to the top of a car, travelling at speeds well in excess of the posted limit.  As this had become so common, I could tell when the frequency of the Sine wave would become too great to withhold the flapping mammoth, that the mattress would launch, as if almost on cue, and climb to great heights while spinning out of control back to earth, always directly in the path of some unsuspecting person who thought they had avoided the line of fire. 

Being somewhat socially responsible, I would always stop and see if I could offer any assistance in many of these occurrences.  The unfortunate victim(s) of the said event would almost always answer me in the same manner every time; with a blank lifeless stare or a gaze of disbelief, “I don’t know…what just happened…?” Being a veteran of this daily commute and finding humor many more times than not, I had to bite my bottom lip and try and explain why goats feel threatened by humans or why even though mattresses are soft when lying on them, they can remove the front end of a car, doing 80 miles-per-hour. 

So, as I now have the privilege and honor of driving to work in Covington, Louisiana, an hour in the opposite direction of where I was headed 17 years ago; I look forward to my commute.  My new job, my new coworkers and new clientele of varied demographics have been like medicine to my soul and a welcome breath of fresh air to my family as a whole.  But I would be remiss if I did not share the fact that I also look forward to the antics of travel on I-10/I-12 along the coast of Mississippi, 19 miles into the state of Louisiana.  This is not only a new adventure, but an adventure that promises to be even more fraught with tales of humor and disbelief, as the colorful characters, sure to become the highlight of these tales, are rich with the heritage of my family, being of the Coonass, Creole, and redneck varieties.  I bid you all safe travels in your daily commute to work and hope that you too, will be able to use this time to energize your bodies and invigorate your minds to prepare for your job; and as I have often said many times in the past regarding the commute back home, take that time to decompress and leave work at work.  That way when you get there, you won’t feel like arguing needlessly with your spouses or children, or feel a need to kick the dog.  Remember this as I only had to be reminded one time, both spouses and dogs have sharp teeth and they will bite you when they are provoked.     

For Better or for Worse, Fred Flintstone

When I started writing again, I made a promise that first and foremost I would write that which was on my heart first, then delve in to the little trivialities that others may seem to find as funny as I do.  Most of the time, it is never too deep or weepy, and almost always it contains some observational humor that my odd and very twisted sense of humor finds to be utterly hysterical.  Again I stress that these are things that “I” find to be funny.  Often, they are incriminating to a point and show a sense of absurdity, which generally is my reaction.  However, me relaying the story of what happened last night, February 7, 2014, at 8:47p.m. is simply nothing more than an out of shape oaf, relaying a self-incriminating story that had a much funnier outcome , than could have been.

Have you ever been somewhere and had something so exciting happen, that you forget where you are and what you are doing?  You seem to lose all faculties and can concentrate only on whatever that may be.  It could be finding out that one of your children won a special game or award.  Possibly it’s realizing that unexpectedly you have come into some type of a windfall that is truly a welcome blessing.  It may even be the results from a meeting that went extremely well; ten times better than you expected, causing you to almost jump out of your skin until you can tell someone.  This is exactly what happened to me last night.  As we were finishing up our work for the day, the owner of my company called me into his office for a private meeting, while the other employees were completing reports and securing the office.  We met for quite a while and the meeting was a two way street.  We talked of his expectations and what he was looking for from my employees and I told him what I needed to complete the job at hand, thus the results were better than he was expecting them to be.   We talked of leadership, direction and the payoff he could expect from enacting my policies.  As I walked out of the meeting, feeling quite emboldened and excited at the prospects of such, I could think of nothing other than calling Vicki to share the great news.  I got on the interstate with a great cup of coffee, with a little cream, from PJ’s and pointed the horse to the barn in a rapid fashion. 

As many of you know, who share the cellular connection that is Cspire , the reception on I10 within a mile or two of the Mississippi-Louisiana line is at best, sketchy, and at worst, nonexistent.  In my childlike exuberance in trying to convey an oral summary of the minutes of my meeting, I dropped the call three times and when the call was not dropped, all Vicki got from my yelling at the receiver was “Johnny Cochran is mooning a tent in a van…” not my eloquent words, which were “John Baldwin is 100%, enacting my plan.”  I should have known right then and there to calm myself a little; especially when the response to my next question regarding what’s for dinner was “Mick Jagger Lake and a fake tomato” not the more accurate “hamburger steak and baked potato” that was actually on the menu.  I drove the remaining thirty-eight miles like a NASCAR driver qualifying for the pole at Daytona.  I pulled in the driveway and not thirty seconds later, did Vicki and Anna pull in beside me from the farm.  As Anna ran toward me screaming “Daddy, Daddy” to give me a big hug, I leapt from the driver seat of my old beater truck and embraced my baby girl.  We exchanged pleasantries on the driveway for a few seconds, and she went in the house to feed Cooper, my English Bulldog. 

Vicki emerged from the back driver side of the car and proceeded up the ridiculous incline that is my driveway, between the SUV and my pickup.  Not wanting to waste a minute of time in telling Vicki my great news; I leaned back into the truck to grab my briefcase in the seat and my journal, which was really a landmine, lying on the dashboard.  In my excitement, as I hurriedly had jumped from the running truck to greet Anna, I had failed to completely turn off the key.  I quickly grabbed for the journal on the dash, as Vicki approached the tailgate of the truck, all of our mail in her right hand with her iPhone and her purse in the left hand.  With the dexterity of the Hobbit and the grace of a newborn colt, I stumbled in the cab and knocked the shifter from Park, into some other gear that definitely was not Park.  The truck shot backwards as I was climbing out onto the running board and I was stricken with a shocked paralysis that caused me to pause for a second.  As the truck gained uncontrolled speed in reverse, I heard Vicki scream Nolon! Nolon!” While this only happened in a matter of seconds, it played out like a half-hour episode of The Benny Hill Show.  

As the truck sped past Vicki, the open driver door from which I was hanging slammed into her arms as she was making some futile attempt to stop the two-ton rocket.  The mail and all of the other contents flew from her hands and littered the base of our driveway and the gutter of the street.  She was able to keep her feet, but looked on in horror, screaming only my name, as my feet bounced beneath the running boards as I was being dragged to oblivion, underneath the running boards.  I was groping the steering wheel; at the 7 o’clock position with every bit of strength I could muster in my left hand, I through the gear shifter fruitlessly into Park with my right hand and hopelessly grasped for the brake pedal, which was just out of reach.   I looked like one of those tight Wrangler jean-wearing cowboys, throwing his free arm about as he holds on to the rope encircling the torso of a bull for dear life with the other.  Somehow in the fray, after having my flailing feet beaten to a pulp, I started to run with the truck; my feet imitating the running movement of a cartoon character winding up for a hasty exit, stage left.  The truck hit the curb opposite my driveway, and thankfully slowed as it careened up the incline of my neighbors yard, narrowly missing an oak tree and the master bedroom, as it came to an unclimactic halt.  There was complete silence surrounding us in the street, and the only sounds I heard were those of the dinging warning bell because the door was open and the keys were in the ignition; the air blowing with a whistling sound from the dash broken air-conditioning vents; the muffled sounds of an ESPN radio broadcast and the clicking of the hazard lights, flashing the two green arrows, pointing in opposite directions on the instrument cluster.

As I remained glued in a sideways fetal position, hand throbbing from it’s grip on the steering wheel; I realized I was breathless, as if I had just run a desert marathon with someone’s hand covering my mouth and nose.  I looked up through the windshield and saw Vicki leaning over the scratched black hood of the Escalade, face buried and her arms cradling her head.  With my legs having the consistency of warm jelly, I climbed authoritatively into the driver seat, turned off the flashers, lowered the driver window and started the truck.  It roared to life as if nothing had just happened and slowly proceeded out of the flowerbed, across the street, and back up the steep incline of my driveway.  I turned of the truck, this time removing the key, as I heard the da-nah-nah, da nah-nah of the ESPN station’s jingle.  I sat there staring at the garage doors silently for at least two minutes.  After I had caught my breath and my composure was somewhat restored, I called out for Vicki.  With visions in my head of what might have happened, and recollections of exactly 8:42 on the morning of September 15^th, 2008, when I was thrown onto the tracks of my bulldozer and run over; I began to laugh.  Vicki struggled to walk the ten feet to where I was sitting and fell against the dirty driver door of the truck.  I laughed as I said, “Now that’s something I bet you want forget!”  She began to sob uncontrollably and shouted that I could have been killed.  I began to belly laugh at that point and said, “Yeah, but what a way to go.  What did it look like?”  With an anxious stare from her eyes and tears pouring down her face, all she could say was, “I felt so helpless, I couldn’t do anything to stop it.” And in the most pitiful voice, a combination of fearful speech and all out crying, she said “Your little feet were caught under the running board, and you looked like Fred Flintstone trying to stop the truck.” 

With that being said, I could no longer control my laughter and rolled onto the ground from the seat.  It was at that moment I realized I was going to be a bit sore and felt the pain above my knees, which was more like carpet burn than anything.  I hobbled to the house, made it to the kitchen and leaned against the bar.  Vicki had preceded me into the house and was staring into her hands as she sat at the kitchen table.  Mortified and visibly shaken I asked if she were alright.  She said yes, as she was desperately removing her wedding rings from her already swelling hands from the impact of the door.  We made our way to the bedroom and changed into our bedclothes.  She had settled down quite a bit and was wearing the signature blue silk gown that I find so comforting to see her wearing.  She once again asked the rhetorical question, “Do you realize that you could have been killed, tonight?”  All I could say in my retort was, “Do YOU realize that you referred to these planks as  ‘my little feet’ and compared me to Fred Flintstone?”  It was at that exact moment when we both came to the conclusion that we were both okay and realized that in our house, for better or worse, takes on a whole new meaning.

A Biblical Curse on a Canvas of Cotton

When you meet new people, be it joining a new organization, the teachers and other parents at your kid’s new school, or maybe it’s a new boss and coworkers at a different job, you cannot help but yearn to put your best foot forward and make a great impression.  Often you may try and lose a little weight to gain a more youthful or healthy appearance, you may opt to buy new clothes to freshen a haggard wardrobe or you may try and change a negative trait or bad habit, such as biting your nails or using poor grammar or slang terminology.  In fact many people will do a combination of all of these just to try and prove to themselves and others, they are not who they really are.

Last year, after going to the stockyard to find an appropriate scale that would weigh me to the nearest ton, (the number, which I will hold privately in order to keep a team of paramedics from following me, thinking my ultimate collapse is eminent) I decided to lose some weight.  As I have lost weight, an amount equivalent to that of the population of a small Pacific Island, I still need to lose the combined weight of the inhabitants of the Republic of Tonga, but I feel that all of the progress that I have made, will make a good impression; so the weight loss issue is, by all means, handled… granted, Burger King and Popeye’s corporate planners are having long meetings to determine how to replace this part of their revenue stream.  A few years ago when I was building a housing development and dealing with out of town investors who dressed like “old man” pimps with pointy shoes, I went to Jeff’s Haberdashery in New Orleans to have their tailor, Omar the tent maker, purchase several bales of cotton and 2 flocks of sheep to make me some custom suits, shirts and dress pants, of which I have hardly ever worn.  Therefore, I have a closet full of slightly used garments that fit my enormous frame or in a crisis; these clothes can be joined together to make emergency housing for over 100 people.  The negative trait or bad habit concern that I mentioned earlier, is where I seem to have the problem and seems to pose certain obstacles for me in trying to make the best of impressions.

Being a direct descendent of my father’s parents, Ollis Ray Saucier and Thelma Smith Saucier, I have been blessed with a few gifts and traits, of which I can say are quite helpful when I go about my day.  I can work out complex mathematical functions in my head in mere seconds; I can lift the back end of a midsize car or truck off of the ground, while standing flatfooted; I can even sing in a high tenor voice, despite my largess and “ogre-ishly,” deceiving appearance.  However, accompanying these few positive attributes I possess, are several unfavorable gifts that often demonstrate my temporal humanity.  While I can give multiple written examples and photographic proof of my shortcomings, I have chosen to regale you with an autonomic trait I inherited from both my grandmother and my father.   As I have grown older and settled into being the defacto patron of the family, I guess that it was inevitable for me to escape the curse of the food-stained garment.

No matter the occasion, be it a formal Sunday meal, Thanksgiving Dinner or a Christmas feast at my grandmother’s house on 22^nd Avenue in Hattiesburg, I can never remember a time when my grandmother did not possess the battle scars from going 10 rounds with her plate.  Being a very Southern woman with a genteel upbringing; always in a dress and shoes with a heel, the gracious countenance of true Southern ladies, and a case study in manners, directly from the pages of Emily Post, one would not expect to see the remnants of red tomato gravy, coffee with cream and two lumps, or some fragment of a home baked good adorning the fabric of her garment, centered just about the second button from the top.  But as strange as this was to imagine, the tarnishing was going to happen every time my family got together.  This was long before the moistened stain-towelette or use of baby wipes for stain removal became in vogue.  So along with a normal place setting of fine china, silverware and a linen napkin, that was set at the head of the table for my grandmother, was also a small plate, resting on the tablecloth to the front and right of her place-setting; serving as a vessel to hold a damp, lightly soaped dishcloth, that was intended to be used as a countermeasure to the staining offensive.

My dear father, a very private person who would walk miles out of the way to avoid calling attention to himself in any form, is another of my family members who could not evade the opportunity for some sauce, condiment or morsel of nourishment to leave it’s mark upon his ever carefully pressed and tucked, shirt--- and yes, most times it was when he would be out to eat or in the company of others.  Every day of my life, this was a man who would wake before dawn, shower and get dressed in a pair of dress pants, a cotton button down dress shirt, and highly polished Rockport lace-up Oxfords, or some derivative thereof, before even taking one sip of coffee.  He was tough, very masculine and was the poster child of what a “man’s man” should be.  Yet, he always carried himself as a gentleman, with the manners and social graces reserved for English society or heads of state.  Dad was a phenomenal chef of renown on both sides of our family and those few friends he let in close enough to know.  He would have every burner ignited on the stove, preparing gourmet sauces or icings; both double ovens roaring as they turned out vast amounts of pastry, breads or roasted meats; all the while manipulating a huge Kitchen Aid commercial mixer that sits atop my cabinets, today.  The spatter of liquids on the cooking surfaces and the clouds of flour that hung low in the kitchen, gave testimony to the fact that we were in the midst of some serious production taking place, but Dad, in tucked shirt and hair parted from one side to the other in perfect order, showed no signs of battle fatigue or unwelcomed adornment of any of the ingredients.  But let it be a red gravy, a recurring theme amongst the Saucier bloodline; any condiment, ranging from A-1 Steak Sauce to French’s Yellow Mustard, or thousand island salad dressing with fragments of the salad’s contents; Dad would inexplicably find a way to decorate himself in an unwanted fashion, for all the world to see. 

With Dad’s passing and the funny remembrances of those body shots he took at the hands of varied cuisines, I would have hoped that the curse would have been laid to rest in a plot of ground at Roseland Park Cemetery, off 7^th Street in Hattiesburg.  But not wanting to let the custom die, my father saw fit to pass it along with me.  This takes us to my point of negative traits, ruining your opportunity to make a good impression.  As I have been recently working in Covington, La., a wealthy suburb of the Greater New Orleans area, just to the north of Mandeville on Highway 190; I have been surrounded by some very well heeled and sophisticated clientele.  These people are well spoken, equally well dressed and look, for the most part, as if they only eat 4 meals per week.  Not wanting to look any more out of place than I all ready do, I have been very careful to shave closely, make sure that the brown color of my belt matches the brown color of my polished shoes and I have continued eating healthfully, so as to continue to shrink my handsome, yet girlish figure.  One would think that avoiding the foods of the local Louisiana culture, rich with heavy sauces and other juicy goodness, would also help to avert the embarrassment that is a colorful pallet of real life depictions of the luncheon menu on one’s clothes, however that declaration has been far from the truth. 

On my ride into Covington, on I10/I12 in the mornings, I cannot pass up the opportunity to drink very strong coffee with a little cream, from my Tervis Notre Dame tumbler.  This tumbler comes complete with a tight fitting, “spillproof” lid that is made secure by a sliding cover, over a perfectly sized opening from which to sip.  Children master this technique of consuming a beverage from similarly designed “sippee” cups, at a time when their age is measured in months, not years.  Though I have been able to consume the majority of this bean-brewed ambrosia from the adult dispenser I have so carefully chosen to use, this week has been a testament as to why minute drops of liquid brown dye should be wiped from the cup immediately, as gravity and warm air, forcefully blowing from dashboard air vents, have detrimental effects on Egyptian cotton shirts when they encounter these caffeine laden globules of dark roast coffee.  And as sausage and cheese biscuits, dripping with hot melted butter and the love which is pork fat, have been replaced by a medium sized, Smoothie King Lean 1 chocolate beverage, served in a 32 ounce Styrofoam cup with a well fitting lid and long red straw, the act of preserving an unblemished wardrobe has failed to be an accomplishment of which I can claim.  When that thick, chocolaty richness becomes too dense to make it’s way up the straw, a bit a retraction and circular manipulation is necessary to once again achieve a steady flow of consumption.  This maneuvering of the red plastic implement within the scored “x” opening of the plastic lid has been nothing more than an opportunity for this life-giving fluid to be flung as from a spring arm, become nothing more than a sticky residue, whose sickening aroma is preserved throughout the day between the woolen fibers of my pant legs and the confines of the inner arm wrinkles of a long sleeved shirt.   With afternoons being the time of day when I have the most interaction with the patrons of my employer, fresh wounds from the midday meal seem to be the problematic and visible signs of fresh foods gone awry.  While Hummus has the consistency of a very thick paste and defies many of Sir Newton’s famous laws as it clings to any form of cutlery in any position, when mixed when the likes a water laden fresh cut vegetables, or topped with the golden-green drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, it becomes an explosive mass of stain-making slurry that has an affinity for leaving its mark for the drycleaner.

Needless to say, I persevere and do a yeomen’s job of that which I was hired to do.  I smile, greet and complete transactions as if I were born with an innate ability to do so.  Yet with hesitation and a modicum of humiliation, I cannot help but notice, though no matter how inconspicuous the stares and stolen glances may seemingly be, the attention that my carefully chosen clothing draws when they are dotted, speckled or spattered with substances that were created to go on the inside of my body, rather than embellishing an oversized wardrobe, encasing an equally oversized body, belonging to the likes of me.  I have resolved myself to the fact that I am cursed with a plague that has roots from a Biblical era. And no matter how, what or where I choose to provide my body with the necessary sustenance that it must have to survive; short of only consuming only ice cubes or water, I am also going to be able to non-verbally share with all of those who can see, a varietal representation of my breakfast, lunch and supper on a canvas of custom made clothing from a little shop just across the river on the West Bank, in New Orleans.