Memory issues. They're a ... Wait, what was I saying?

Memory is a bitch.

As I age, I find that I'm more forgetful. I have to make lists to stay on task. I walk into rooms and stand there trying to remember why I walked into the room. I ponder for far too long someone's name. The other day, it was Sofia Vergara's name that eluded me. Now I can't remember why I was trying to remember it.

My husband is so forgetful that he doesn't remember he's forgetful. He's always been this way. He forgets to lock doors, close doors, pick up his cellphone from a restaurant table, check a hotel closet for clothes, etc. Our front door keys are in the seat pocket of an airplane (Glenn has no memory of this incident - he insists I lost them). The key I gave to a neighbor for when Glenn locks himself out of the house? Glenn locked himself out of the house, borrowed the key and promptly lost it. His original wedding ring is at his parents' former house somewhere. Hundreds of cellphone chargers and power cords are in hotel rooms and press boxes. I now buy replacements in bulk.

Glenn thinks I have an unreasonable hatred of candles. I don't. In my single days, I burned candles and scented my house in lovely, lucious smells. Now I live with a man who toddles off to bed or - even better - out the house and leaves candles burning. He scorched the bathroom wall and ceiling with soot by leaving a candle burning too close to the wall. Glenn's defense: "Anyone could do that. You forgot your cellphone the other day."

Last week, the window salesman came by. Many of our windows are original to the home but not in a historic kind of way. The salesman looked at the bedroom window and said we'd need to put in one that opens as a fire exit. Glenn remembers that conversation as we need to put in one that opens so we can let in fresh air. He loves opening windows, requiring me to go through the house periodically and lock all the windows he's closed but forgotten to lock. I've been fighting his insistence on getting window screens. I just know he's going to drive off and leave three or four windows wide open. Then the dog will push through the screen. Or the cat will push through the screen. Or a burglar will push through the screen. Glenn just thinks I'm anti-fresh air.

Now the memory issues are a sensitive subject. Glenn's mother suffers from dementia as did his aunt and cousin. So I usually just collect his cellphone from the restaurant table and hand it to him when he starts searching for it 20 minutes after we've returned home.

Not that I should be smug. I went grocery shopping the other day for his parents and picked up lunch for them. When I got to their house, I put a pan of cookies in the oven, settled them at the table with their lunch, put away the groceries and left. Then I made a U-turn in the middle of the road and went back to retrieve the cookies from the oven.

Dead trees and wet concrete. Oh, the horror.

A few months ago we did something we didn't want to do. We're frugal and we abhor murder. But the tree outside our kitchen window had to go. Little cracks started appearing in the window. Then they turned into big cracks. Yep, the tree roots were pushing against the foundation.

If you're a homeowner, you know that the mere mention of needing to cut down a tree is enough to draw a waterfall of tears. Cutting down trees is expensive. I always try to convince our handyman that he can tackle this chore himself. He just shakes his head and laughs. He thinks I'm kidding.

Not long ago, my friend Sue and I noticed that a cypress tree around the corner was dead. A few weeks later, the homeowner happened to be sitting outside with a cold beer when Bailey and I strolled past one summer evening. I decided to casually mention the dead tree to her for 2 reasons: 1.) I'm an idiot who didn't realize the sycamore shedding bark like leaves meant the tree in my back yard was dead. The handyman had to tell me. Then he shook his head and laughed when I tried to convince him to run over to Home Depot and rent the equipment to knock it down. 2.) The dead cypress tree is smack next to her garage. It could total the roof or a vehicle.

So I casually mentioned it after some small talk. She immediately burst into tears. Not quite ... but just about. She's gotten estimates, and she can either feed an entire country or pull down the tree. She's still deciding. Although, hey, if you know a contractor looking for cypress wood who will pull down the tree in exchange for the scrap, let me know.

But back to our tree. It had to go. When you start becoming destructive and bust my windows, you get your walking papers. I didn't watch while it toppled. It's probably a good thing. I can't stand killing a tree and I would have cringed when the tree crew asked if they could take a leak in our back yard. I probably shouldn't have made such a large pitcher of iced tea for the tree crew.

It's a good thing I didn't go all Wizard of Oz and plant a field of poppies.

With the tree down, I had to decide what to do with the empty space. I quickly decided on a flower bed with bird feeders and a bird bath. I worked, sweated, pulled up grass, tilled the soil, planted the flowers and then approached my husband with a bit of distressing news. I needed a water hose within close proximity to the flower bed in order to keep the flowers alive. And, looky, there's a faucet RIGHT NEXT TO the new flower bed.

Let me tell you something about Mr. G. He has a hatred of water hoses because he doesn't like getting concrete wet. Seriously. Joan Crawford hated wire hangers. My husband hates wet concrete. He once scolded me because the water from my pretty flowering pot was draining and getting the front stoop wet. He apparently thought I was going out there and wildly sloshing the water into the pot and all over the concrete with the nifty watering can he bought me so I could avoid using the hose. He didn't realize pots have little holes in the bottom to allow for drainage. He's got issues. Deep, deep, deep and mystifying issues.

Now I'm not exactly certain what is so bad about wet concrete. With mental illness, it's really best not to peel that onion. Trust me on this. I've tried sympathetic looks. I've tried soothing tones. I've tried a little soft music. Mr. G. just isn't willing to crack open his sheer and utter insanity on this issue.

So Mr. G. got a pained look on his face when I mentioned the need for a hose. Have I mentioned the new flower bed is adjacent to the driveway? We're not talking about a wet sidewalk; we're talking about getting a giant slab of concrete wet. Imagine if Mr. G. had to see that every time he roared into the driveway in his little Mazda. So he tried to change the subject. Then he questioned why I couldn't just tote my watering can back and forth. After filling it up in the sink, of course. No need to use any of the existing hoses! The concrete might get wet. I explained that I really didn't feel like making six or seven trips to the kitchen sink to water the flower bed every other day. So Mr. G. made a counteroffer. He would water the flower bed. And he did! All of ZERO times. When I questioned him about it, he looked at me and said: "You didn't really believe me, did you?"

Me and the Pioneer Woman ... It's complicated

The Pioneer Woman

I'm on the fence about the Pioneer Woman. There. I said it.

Years ago, I discovered the Pioneer Woman's website. I loved the step-by-step photos of recipes. I loved the dog stories. How could I not love the dog stories? I loved the cattle pictures and tried not to think about their ultimate fate. I loved that she was a ranch housewife who loved to blog in between soccer games and dog baths.

Then I printed out one of her recipes and gave it a whirl. It was a flop. Then I printed out another one of her recipes and gave it a whirl. It was ... how do I say this ... a flop. But maybe I just don't like Oklahoma cooking. Except for her restaurant style salsa. That recipe is totally brilliant.

I bookmarked her website and continued to visit it every morning. I just like the way she writes. She's funny. She's silly. She's a redhead.

Try to make me not smile. Just try. 

I started watching her TV show. I rolled my eyes at some of the recipes. How can dumping a can of corn into a bowl be called a recipe? I marveled at how enthusiastic and chipper her children seem and wondered how much she bribed them. I did like her sense of humor and the snapshots of ranch life. Mostly, I tried to ignore my husband who seems convinced the Pioneer Woman is some kind of a stepford wife. Mr. G. mimicking the Pioneer Woman: "I like to smile all of the time. Watch me smile while I prepare thoughtful casseroles for my husband's 20-year-old girlfriend."

Then I stumbled across the Pioneer Woman haters on the Internet. Surprise, surprise. The Pioneer Woman isn't just a little old housewife. She's a rich little old housewife. Her husband's a megawealthy cattle rancher. I'm not sure why this was a secret. Only the Pioneer Woman and Teresa Giudici can afford Viking appliances - and Teresa's are about to go up for auction.

The worst of the haters is the Marlboro Woman. Marlboro Woman loves to hate, and she hates everything about the Pioneer Woman. She hates Pioneer Woman's recipes, white teeth, relatives and billowy blouses. She posts recaps of the Pioneer Woman's TV shows and shreds them. At first I thought the recaps were kind of funny. Then it started bothering me how nasty they were. Then I thought, geez, can you find one thing to like about the Pioneer Woman? Just one thing? Didn't your mama teach you that?

Then Marlboro Woman blocked me. I never made a single comment on her website so I'm not sure how I offended, but offend I apparently did. Out of curiosity, I dropped her an email asking why I was blocked. I got a terse reply back that didn't really answer my question. I can only assume she caught onto the fact that I, like the Pioneer Woman, favor billowy blouses.

So I'm going back to the Pioneer Woman's blog with my tail tucked between my legs. It's friendlier over there. The people are always nice. Plus she gives away prizes.

The flashy, mail-filled life of a political reporter

Life as a political reporter. It's glamorous. It's flashy. It's exciting. It's incredibly abusive. Some of the time.

I read somewhere that reporters get a front seat to history unfolding. It stuck in my mind because that's a pretty good summary. But I realize that we're not exactly invited guests. No one really wants us there. We barge our way in anyway. First Amendment, y'all. Besides, if you can't be there, we're happy to put you there through words, video and photos.

The pay isn't great. I'll never have a condo in Mexico much less Gulf Shores. But it's fun. It's a totally fun, amazing job. I get to write, and someone pays me to do this. I get to interview incredible personalities. And they pay me for something I'd do for free. If I could afford it.

Then there's my mailbag. Some days, that's the downside.

No, I cannot introduce you to Michelle Malkin

Don't get me wrong. I love hearing from readers. They put the food on my table and the gas in my car. I'm in this business because I love people. However, it's never fun when someone attacks you personally or clearly wants to violate you although I have pretty tough skin.

You would have no idea from the stack of mail on my desk that the U.S. Post Office is struggling to survive. The mail just keeps on coming, mainly from prison inmates. In my younger days, I got creepy letters. Sometimes I got really creepy letters meant for Michelle Malkin. For the record: I am not Michelle Malkin, I don't know her and I certainly cannot put you in contact with her. Sorry.

It's not just inmates who write me. I get really nice letters. I get really nice cards. I get really nice emails. I keep a file of them and flip through them from time to time. It makes me smile and energizes me.

Sometimes I get not so nice letters, cards and emails. Every time I get one - good or bad - I want to pump my fist into the air at the thought that someone is reading our copy; someone is buying our product. And they care enough to express an opinion. Thank you!

Sometimes I get letters telling me I'm the worst piece of scum on the face of the earth. My co-worker got a communication the other day suggesting he is a socialist. Really, we're both nice, God-loving, family-oriented people. But fist pump because someone read what we wrote!

Back when a former governor was in office, I got a letter suggesting I was having slumber parties at the Governor's Mansion. I think the implication was that I seemed too cozy with the governor or that I was a liberal (or that I needed a place to sleep). No politician truly loves news reporters. It's like cats and dogs. We tolerate each other but we're not likely to put on our jammies and watch a "Golden Girls" marathon together. Although how much fun would that be? Oh, let's not talk about the state budget, Dorothy's saying something funny. Pass the popcorn. Ooh, and can I see the second floor?

For the record, I cannot convince the governor to get your son out of prison, give you a job or erase your tax dispute. I just can't.

If I had a magic wand, I would wave it and resolve all of the world's problems, starting with giving every dog and cat a good home, of course. Then I'd tackle the people problems. I'd smooth out family disputes, cure addicts of their drug problems and make every child feel loved. No one would ever go hungry or sleep under an interstate. But I don't have a magic wand.

Today I got a letter blasting the subject of my story. I'm never sure how to respond to letters like that although respond I must. My mother brought me up well. Sometimes I write: "Thank you for your opinion" and leave it at that. I'm not going to argue with you. You're entitled to your opinion, after all. It's my co-worker who is the socialist. Not me. Just kidding. So I settled for a smiley face, which was probably the wrong response because I didn't really agree with what the person wrote.

I wonder how Michelle Malkin deals with this situation? Maybe I should have an inmate write and ask her.

How to run a cat out of town

Our little Ava

You've met Ava. She's the intellectually challenged cat we took in a number of years ago. I took pity on Ava late one night and fed her. The next day, she was back with a dozen suitcases, a rollaway bed and a list of rules. My advice to you: Never feed a stray cat.

Life with Ava requires:

- Only petting her while she's eating.
- Never picking her up.
- Refraining from taking photographs of her. It bores her.
- Never asking her to do long division.
- Absolutely never sneaking up on her while she's sleeping. She hates that (although it's rather amusing to watch her spin up in the air while hissing and clawing).

So I took the little diva in and tried to convince Mr. G. that she was our other cat, Frankie. He didn't buy it.

Ava is incredibly attached to me. She comes in and visits when that big mean guy is on the road. She waits for me in the driveway every night and runs up to my car. Otherwise, she naps in the garden on the wooden bench that the neighbors so generously gave her (well, really, us).

After Frankie died, I worried that Ava was lonely. I mentioned to Mr. G. that Ava loves when you talk to her. She meows and preens. Really, she's quite the little conversationalist. Mainly pop culture. Ava's not much of an intellect. Mr. G. rolled his eyes. The next morning, I heard him ask Ava how her day was going. Then he told her to eat all her breakfast so she could get a treat.

One day, it occurred to me that I should have a plan for Ava in case I die unexpectedly. I'm not expecting to die unexpectedly. But you never know. What I mean to say is my death would be unexpected. I'm pretty sure Mr. G. and Bailey would live on my life insurance payout, and life would go on. But Mr. G.'s never taken to Ava despite talking to her in the mornings.

Me: You know if I die that you have to take care of Ava.
Mr. G.: What if I move?
Me: Then you have to take her with you.
Mr. G.: Michelle, she's a stray cat. The next homeowner will feed her.
Me (indignantly): Ava is our cat. We love Ava. She depends on us. You couldn't just abandon her.
Mr. G.: Whatever.

So, obviously, Mr. G. needs to go first. Not that I'm planning anything. I read Agatha Christie just for fun.

Beware bad boy cats

Lately, a strange cat has been coming into the yard. I should explain here that Ava is feral. I'd love for her to move into the house, but she's too wild. She only comes in if we leave the door open, and then she stalks about, sniffing everything before heading back outside, where it's safe. The strange cat has trouble written all over him. He's not welcome. He's the overage bad boy with a van of the cat world. I don't watch Ava catching anything fatal by associating with other cats. She's completely in agreement with me.

The other night, I was in bed reading when I heard snarling right outside the window. I leapt out of bed, but Glenn was ahead of me. Sure enough, the bad boy cat was in our back yard. Glenn, wearing boxer shorts, took off after the cat. Mr. G. came back 20 minutes later, completely out of breath. He explained that he chased the cat down the street, around the block and out of the neighborhood. "That's the last we'll see of him," he predicted. So maybe, just maybe, Mr. G. is more attached to Ava than I thought. Or he just really doesn't like bad ass cats.

It's a wedding, and we'll cry if we want to

The bride

My sister, Linda, got married last weekend. She's my little sister. She's an attorney. She lives in Shreveport. She's my only full sibling. Her husband's name - Lord, is that strange to say - is Jack.

I was six when she was born. I very clearly remember my mother showing her to me and saying, "Remember how you asked for a baby sister? Here she is!" I remember very clearly saying, "No, I asked for a puppy." And I had.

Sisters. Please take note that we are the same height.

We haven't always gotten along. She has a knack for pushing my buttons. I have a knack for overreacting. She insists I'm short while she's tall. She makes fun of the fact that I once served as veep of a "Fawlty Towers" fan club. Don't laugh. Despite it all, I'm glad I got a baby sister instead of a puppy. I'm glad I got to make her Mickey Mouse pancakes on Saturday mornings, watch endless episodes of "Designing Women" with her and go to the movies with her. Even if I most definitely did not ask for a baby sister.

The morning of my wedding, my mother - who isn't a big drinker - handed me glass after glass of mimosas. She either wanted to calm me down or she was scared I would bolt. The morning of my sister's wedding, my mother handed Linda a bottle of champagne and a box of disposable champagne glasses. She didn't even cut the stuff with orange juice. In fairness to my mother, my sister is more high strung than I am. I'm the calm one in the family. If you know me well, you should open your eyes wide in horror at that thought.

Grandmother and Linda

Linda got her hair done, put on her gown and hung out in the bride's room downing champagne and eating chicken nuggets. She was a beautiful bride. She lounged on the floor in a pool of sparkly white satin. Suddenly, she sat up and said, "Is Grandmother stopping by before going into the church?"

My grandmother is our only living grandmother. Our grandfather is the only grandfather we've ever known. They are the rock in our family. They made sure we all went to college. They are generous with love, advice and compliments. Their grandchildren adore them.

Linda and Jack

A few years ago, Grandmother was diagnosed with advanced cancer. I drove to the hospital to sit with my grandfather while the doctors did the surgery that discovered the cancer. I remember standing stoicly in the waiting room while everyone cried around me. I just knew she would beat it. I had unwavering faith. What I didn't realize was that the cancer treatment would make it difficult for her to walk. She's in constant pain. If there's anyone who doesn't deserve a life that like, it's Grandmother. She is the most selfless, kindest person ever. Ever.

The minute my sister saw our grandmother in the bride's room, she burst into tears. No worries. Her mascara was waterproof. Our grandmother stood there, looking a little bemused by the tears. What this, for me? Our grandfather looked like he was on the verge of crying as well. We're not a family that gushes about our love for each other. We don't end every conversation with an "I love you." But we're not immune to the sentiment of big occasions.

Not a puppy but I'll keep her

I was assigned a reading for the wedding. I swapped with another girl for a shorter reading. My eyes were dry as I stepped up to the microphone. I got through the first sentence and burst into tears. I looked toward my sister who had a "WTH" expression on her face and looked back down at the piece of paper in front of me. I got out a few words and then gave in to the hysterics, sobbing uncontrollably while my mother kicked herself for not medicating me with champagne. I fled back to my pew. I kept the reading, though. If you were there and wondered how it ended, give me a call.

I had very personal reasons for getting as upset as I did. They involve my parents' divorce and my mother's struggles as a single parent with two young girls. My Dad was involved, but he wasn't there around the clock. It was usually just me, Linda and Mom. So often, it felt like it was the three of us against the world. Those years seem miles away. I never thought I'd miss them, but I do at times. Now we're all settled and happy. Linda's wedding brought it full circle. It's no longer just the three of us. I couldn't be happier about the fuller circle. I love my stepfather, my brothers, my husband and my brother-in-law. But it would be nice to step into a time machine from time to time and whisk back to the days when we were just three.

Paging the IT girl

Most of the time, I'm a political reporter. Then there are the days I double as an IT person for people who are even more clueless than I am about computers. It makes me feel like a goddess.
The other day, a coworker not yet on Twitter decided Friday was the day. He was joining Twitter. He set aside several hours for what he just knew would be a long, involved installation process. Then he asked me for help. He was up and running within five minutes. It's not that I know all the shortcuts. It's just a really simple process.
My husband excels at breaking his computer. Really, his employer shouldn't give him a computer. He's better off with a notepad and pencil. The world is better off with him just having a notepad and pencil. I'm better off with him just having a notepad and pencil - especially when I'm slouched in my red chair, watching "The Real Housewives" reunion, sipping a glass of chilled white wine and I hear the plaintive plea from the other room. "Um, can you come here for a minute?" It's never a minute. Never, ever, ever.
One night I went into the home office. He was seated at his computer with that stricken look on his face. Somehow, he'd hit something that popped up a window at the bottom of his emails. He wanted to know how to fix it. Here's my approach to IT problems: I hover my mouse over things and click until I stumble across the fix. My husband wants me to TELL him how to fix things so he'll LEARN. "Just tell me," he always says in an exasperated tone. No matter how often I tell him I'm uncertain how to fix it without a little exploratory clicking, he doesn't believe me.
Luckily, though, this was a problem I'd encountered before on my husband's computer (although what he's hitting still escapes me) so I could tell him to click the "X" at the top righthand corner of the offending box. As I've told him at least a million times before. He summons that box like Aladdin summons a genie. He just can't remember how to get the genie back in the bottle.
Mr. G. used to call the IT department at his workplace when he encountered problems. Then they got caller ID and stopped taking his calls. He's asked if he can call the IT department at my workplace. I refuse to hand over the number so they'll continue to answer my calls.
I don't really blame IT for ignoring my husband's calls. I overheard one of those phone calls.
Mr. G. : "Um, yeah, I've got a box on my screen. How do I get rid of it?"
PAUSE
Mr. G.: "It's a box."
PAUSE
Mr. G.: "What's in it? I don't know. It's a box. Just TELL me how to get rid of it."
PAUSE
Mr. G.: "I'm looking (for one whole second). I don't see an 'x'"
LONG PAUSE
Mr. G. "I. Just. Want. To. Get. Rid. Of. The. Box."
So it's all on my shoulders. It's a big job. I'm convinced that Mr. G. could innocently set off North Korea's nuclear weapons simply by pushing a few buttons on his computer. Then he'll ask me to TELL him how to fix it so he'll LEARN.
The other day, I came home to the news that we're taking a work trip. My husband has to go to a conference, and I get to tag along. As I was working out in my head the logistics of working Bailey into the trip (can't leave Boo-Boo at home!) and sorting through possible sightseeing excursions, I heard my husband say, "This will be great. You'll be right there if I have any computer problems."

Never offer a picky eater a turkey melt

Oh, no. Not a turkey melt!

Mr. G. is a rather picky eater. He comes by it honestly. His mother is a picky eater, and she nurtured the pickiness in her baby boy to a ridiculous level.

For one thing, Mr G. cannot skip breakfast and go straight to lunch. Even when he covers a late game, stumbles in at midnight and rolls out of bed at 11 a.m. He might concede to brunch, but it better feature eggs.

My sister-in-law, Nancy, told me a story once about visiting the Guilbeau Manse when Glenn was a young college student home for the weekend. Everyone but Glenn got up early, ate breakfast and lingered over coffee. Then Glenn got up around noon. My mother-in-law ordered everyone out of the kitchen so she could make Glenn's breakfast. No, really. Everyone: Out of the kitchen. The prized son has risen, and he's going to want breakfast. And apparently the entirety of the kitchen table to himself. Cajun mothers and their babies. There's no closer bond.

For decades, my in-laws lived in Metairie (my husband claims he's from New Orleans. Let me set you straight. He's from Metairie). Their home turned into Glenn's personal bed and breakfast during Jazz Fest every year. He'd invite his friends in, spend the day at Jazz Fest, head into the French Quarter and come home in the early morning light. One Sunday morning, Glenn made it home ahead of his friend, Thomas. Knowing Glenn, he probably wandered off and Thomas spent the next few hours looking for him. Glenn's version of that story is that he wanted to turn in sooner than Thomas did. Regardless, there was Thomas, using the hose to wash off his feet in the back yard when my mother-in-law raised the kitchen blinds. My mother-in-law gasped, looked at Thomas with indignation and said, "Thomas, what are you doing coming at 6 in the morning? My son was in at 3."

All of this brings me to Saturday lunch. My husband had a breaking news story. Something about two former players trying to kill each other in Alexandria. Probably while trying to find a downtown restaurant open past 2 in the afternoon. But I'm just guessing. Anyway, I offered to make a grilled cheese sandwich for my hard-working husband. Then I decided to surprise him with a turkey melt as well as a grilled cheese sandwich and fried tomatoes.

Mr. G.: Is there turkey in this sandwich?
Me: Yes, I made you a turkey melt.
Mr. G.: Why would you do that? You said you were making grilled cheese.
Me: You like turkey so I thought I'd surprise you.
Mr. G.: I don't like turkey.
Me: Glenn, I've seen you eat turkey.
Mr. G.: I don't like turkey and cheese together. You're always trying to make me eat things I don't like.
Me: Yeah, always. It's my mission in life to torture you through food.
Mr. G.: Well, you made me a turkey melt when you said you were making grilled cheese.
Me (Patience now thinner than paper): Oh, for God's sake, Glenn. Open the sandwich, take the turkey off and give it to the dog.
Mr. G.: Oh, yeah, I guess I could do that. OK. I love the tomatoes. How did you make them?
Me: (complete silence)
Mr. G.: Hmmm, they're nice and crunchy.

My parking lot problems

Sheldon had parking problems as well

It's legislative session time, which means I'm parking in Texas so the lobbyists can have front row spots on the hill. Not that I'm bitter or anything. I need the exercise, and it's not hot enough yet for me to glare at their luxury cars as I struggle up the hill past them. Notice I said yet. I park in what's known as the garden lot with all the male legislative workers. The female legislative workers get to park on the top of the hill with the lobbyists. It's thought that the women should be closer to the building because they often walk out at night. They'd put me on the hill as well, but we wouldn't want a lobbyist to be raped and murdered on the way to his Lexus SUV, now would we? This year, in addition to the indignity of hoofing it in with the boys, I got spot number 666. If you think I pull into 666 each morning, you might want to hold back on toilet papering my car. I swapped parking tags with another member of the media when he wasn't looking. I'm a true sweetheart. Today, I took a break from session to meet someone about a story at a local coffeehouse. It was a pleasant day so I enjoyed my stroll through the Capitol gardens and saluted Huey before arriving at my car. I arrived at my car to find a woman who appeared to be taking photographs of it. Now I don't drive anything snazzy Are you kidding? I'll probably be driving this car until I retire. Should've, could've, would've gone to law school and become a lobbyist. Then I'd be on the top of the hill in a massive, luxury SUV. But I digress. My point is it was somewhat surprising to see someone photographing my car. I walked up to the woman and politely asked if she was taking a photograph of my car. She ignored me. I walked in front of her and asked again. This time, she looked at me and started gesturing. At some point, two things became clear to me. One, the woman was deaf. Two, she actually was photographing the Toyota next to my car. Through a series of hand gestures, the situation came into sharper focus. Someone had parked in the woman's parking spot. Not just that, but someone had parked in a deaf woman's parking spot, and she was taking photographs because she couldn't just call Capitol security and say, "Hey, someone's in my spot." I decided to help her. I didn't recognize the car. But it was an older Corolla with piles of junk in the seats so I narrowed it down to belonging to someone in the media. Then I peered a little closer into the window and spied an insurance form. Aha! I could get a name and an address. I looked up triumphantly at the woman, who shoved her phone in front of my eyes. She'd tapped in "Car looks like my daughter's. I was taking a photo to show her." I nodded my head, walked to my car, climbed in and drove off.

A Christmas Story

Scottie thinking about the cafeteria instead of his Christmas sweater

My Uncle Scottie is special. He's lived away at school for as long as I can remember. As a child, I always knew the giant bag of candy in my grandparents' freezer was earmarked for Scottie. On nice days, we'd go visit him. We'd sit at a picnic table while he happily crammed candy into mouth. All of the candy. The entire giant bag of candy. Tons and tons of sugar making an always hyper Scottie really, really hyper. The school eventually asked ever so nicely that we stop bringing candy.

Scottie can't talk. The fact that he can walk is a testament to my grandmother's determination. When she realized he wasn't hitting the developmental benchmarks that her older children hit, she grasped each of his chubby little hands, pulled him gently to his feet and walked with him in a hunched over stance until he finally got the concept of walking. It must have taken her months.

My grandparents love all of their children, but they light up when they see Scottie. He's not just special in a developmental sense. He truly is special. For us, he is pure joy, even if his hands are always sticky and wet from shoving them in his mouth. Scottie loves to eat. He loves to be outside. He loves to run. He's very slight with an ever present smile. Looking at him, I see my grandmother's coloring and traces of my Dad and Uncle Brian. At times, I wonder who Scottie would have become had God seen fit to make him a regular Joe. At other times, I see how happy my family is to see Scottie. I don't think he knows who we are, but he always seems just as happy.

Many years ago, one of Scottie's schoolmates got a recliner. The recliner was built on a rocker frame. Soon, Scottie was racing into the shared living room and claiming the recliner. Every day. It became a problem. Finally, the school called, explained the issue and Scottie got a recliner of his own. My grandparents were so happy to have something to buy him that he actually would enjoy. Now that the giant bags of candy were taboo.

To say that Scottie adores food is an understatement. He lives for it. I don't know how he does it but he can make a grab for someone else's food without even looking their way. It's uncanny. At school, he strolls around the living room, slyly edging toward the cafeteria door. He doesn't know who the president is or that there's something called the White House, but he knows what is on the other side of that door.

Scottie lives in a cottage at his school with other men who share his developmental challenges to varying degrees. Some wear helmets to protect their heads. Others are confined to wheelchairs. Grown men wander around with toddlers' toys in their hands because that's where their development stopped.

It's always sad to see these souls because you wonder - at least I wonder - why God brought them into the world this way. Yes, they're loved, fiercely loved by their families. But is it fair that they have such limitations? It often depresses me to visit although I'm always happy to see Scottie.

A few years ago, I went to the annual Christmas party, where one older resident sat in his chair and held a finger over his mouth to shush the chatter around him. Every once in a while he would vacate his chair and wander off somewhere. We were warned not to take that as an invitation to sit down because he would take off his shoe and throw it at us. We left the chair alone. Then Santa walked into the room, and not just any Santa. The saddest Santa you've ever seen: Thin, without a pillow to fill out his stomach, a gray wig perched sloppily on top of his natural brown hair and sneakers to pair with his too short, threadbare red felt pants. The cranky resident in his chair lit up and cried "Santa!" To this old man, Santa existed, and he was right there in that cottage with a sack of toys. For me, joy came into the room with that old man's innocent excitement. For Scottie, well, the ornaments on the tree looked like maybe they might be edible, and he was plenty happy about that possibility.

Dealing with a picky eater

My husband and I are involved in the care of an 80something near and dear to us. One of our jobs is to get her to eat. You'd think this would be easy. Imagine if you had someone offering to cook you anything you'd like to eat. You'd eat, wouldn't you? You'd pretend you were the queen living at Buckingham Palace and eat, wouldn't you? You'd be wrong.

Now I have some experience with picky eaters. My husband is a picky eater. Before we married, my husband took me to meet his parents. My future mother-in-law immediately got down to business and told me about the food issues. Apparently, for the first - oh, I don't know - 10 to 40 years of his life, my husband ate fast food restaurant hamburgers and nothing else. My father-in-law would go to the restaurant and buy the frozen patties. They cooked them at home, making a separate meal just for him while the rest of the kids ate the regular meal. I was horrified by this story, and then I remembered that my husband is the youngest child.

Growing up, my mother's rule was that we had to eat what was in front of us. For the most part. We got to pick one thing that we didn't have to eat. I chose pork chops. I hate pork chops. Otherwise, we were expected to at least try everything else. This held for me, my sister and two of stepbrothers. Then there's my baby stepbrother. He was impossibly cute as a young child. One Thanksgiving, we were seated at the table with our plates of turkey and the side dishes, and I looked over at his plate. He had a celery boat filled with peanut butter and a minuscule piece of turkey. I looked at my mother, who immediately changed the subject. I'm still bitter. That woman made me eat liver and onions as a child. A celery boat of peanut butter certainly never came sailing my way.

Getting back to our charge, I went over the other day with a plate of food. She refused it, saying she wasn't hungry. I looked down at the counter. A dripping ice cream scoop was sitting in a pool of melted ice cream on the granite. Two empty bowls containing streaks of ice cream were on the coffee table. So I knew what the score was. Now, my initial thinking was if you get to your 80s, eat all the ice cream you want. Add some nuts and some hot fudge. I'll get the whipped cream for you.

Then our charge went to the doctor the other day. Her doctor is little more strict than I am. He decreed that she has to eat regular meals. Candy and ice cream aren't going to cut it. We relayed this information to her care giver, who takes her to the grocery store. A few days later, they went to the grocery store and the care giver watched in horror as ice cream, candy, cookies and crackers went into the cart. Finally, she had to say something: "Glenn doesn't want you eating all that junk." Our charge looked at her, flipped her hair and said, "Glenn's not here."

A day later, I went over to the house and started slyly looking for the candy under the guise of cleaning. I thought I could sneak at least some of it out of the house. Would you believe that I couldn't find it? Any of it? She apparently has a hiding spot.

Tonight, we offered to do dinner. I made stuffed shells. Have you made stuffed shells? This is not an easy recipe. It took me several hours. I roasted some broccoli, added bread and sent Glenn over with a plate. She refused it, saying she wasn't hungry. When Glenn came home, I told him we may have to take drastic measures. No Internet for a week. Wait, she doesn't have the Internet. How do you ground someone in their 80s?

My granny: A force of nature, sha

Florence Gertrude Gauthreaux Hebert

Exactly 101 years ago this month, Florence Gertrude Gauthreaux came into the world. I imagine she immediately let out a gusty yell, protested the choice of midwife and asked for something to read. But I'm just guessing.

Some of Granny's children

Florence - she also answered to Gertrude - was my grandmother. I called her Granny. The neighborhood kids called her Mrs. Hebert. My cousin used to call her Mrs. Hebert as well because that's what the neighborhood kids called her. You can't argue with second-grade logic.

My grandmother, who died in 2008 at age 95, was a pistol. She lost her mother at a young age. She and her sisters were divvied up, and Granny landed into a Dickensian/Cinderella childhood with her godparents. She wasn't bitter about her lot in life. She was thankful. She got regular meals and an education because her mother died of appendicitis after having four children in four years. The regular meals because her godfather was a better provider than her sickly father was (He died young). The education because her godparents lived next door to the parish truant officer. Life just tends to work out.

Granny as I remember her

Granny got a few years of education in a one room schoolhouse and used it to her advantage. By that, I don't mean that she applied herself, put herself through law school and became president of the United States. What I mean is that she read. Voraciously. She read the classics. She read romance novels. She read children's stories. She read newspapers. She read tabloids. She derived a tremendous amount of pleasure from reading. Her children and grandchildren also love to read.

Granny with Mom, Uncle Raymond, Aunt Marilyn, Uncle Albert and Nanny

I would imagine that reading was a necessary escape for my grandmother. She spent the first few years of her marriage living with her in-laws. When she and my grandfather got their own place, it was a 3-room shack without running water. They raised six kids there. I think they slept in shifts. Before she died, Granny told a lot of stories. One involved being a young mother with a young child (my Uncle Albert). My grandfather did odd jobs to put food on the table. He fished, picked moss and hunted. When work was scarce, they didn't eat. One of those starvation times came when Uncle Albert was a baby. My grandmother didn't remember her own empty stomach but her thankfulness that Uncle Albert still was breast feeding so he didn't go hungry.

Granny had four children: Albert, Herbert, Olive and Raymond, and then she took a break. A long break. She was in her 40s when my Aunt Marilyn and my mom were born. She always said she had my mom to keep Aunt Marilyn company. It's a good thing she did. One day, my grandmother snuck out of the house to gossip with a neighbor. My grandfather decided to sneak across the bayou to the store. How they managed to sneak past each other in a 3-room shack is a mystery for the ages.

My mother during the bayou years

My Aunt Marilyn was 4 and my mom was 2 at the time. They wanted to swim in the bayou. Being good girls, they knew the rules. They weren't supposed to go swimming without supervision because my Granny knew someone whose kids drowned (supposedly the kids were in a boat with their father. The kids ended up in the water. The father couldn't decide which one to save so both boys drowned. Sophie's Choice on the Bayou). My aunt and my mom decided one would swim while the other watched from shore; then they'd switch places.

My grandfather was rowing home when he spotted two small children playing by themselves in the bayou. "What idiot let his two small children play unsupervised?" he muttered. Then he got closer to the tiny figures. "Oh, I guess I'm the idiot," he said. My husband loves that story.

Granny in her late 50s/early 60s

Granny became a widow when my mom was 17. She mourned my grandfather and never remarried. She left the 3-room shack for a home with a screened-in porch in Gibson, where she had the misfortune to live across the street from a man who liked to wander out to his driveway every morning in his boxers to get the newspaper. Actually, it was his misfortune. One morning, the man stumbled out his front door in an early-morning, bleary-eyed haze. Granny popped open the front door of her porch and hollered: "I know what you're doing. You're trying to turn me on by coming outside in your drawers. Well it's not working." The man died of mortification right on the spot. No, I'm just kidding. He settled for canceling his newspaper subscription and moving to another country.

Granny never drove. The fact that she didn't have a car puzzled me as a young child. One day, I asked where her husband was. She said he was at work (he was dead). This satisfied me because, naturally, the car was with him at work. If Granny couldn't find a ride, she took the bus. She climbed onto the bus to go to New Orleans when the pope visited. She climbed onto the bus to visit us when we moved to Bossier City. The bus didn't stop in Gibson except when Granny was onboard. Somehow, she convinced Greyhound to not only swing by and pick her up but to also drop her off on the return trip.

Aunt Peggy and Granny

Getting in touch with Granny was tough despite the clunky, dial phone that rested on her kitchen counter for decades. She insisted on an unlisted phone number. I didn't know this until I went to her funeral. A sweet lady came up to me and explained that Granny called her from time to time, but she couldn't call her. Granny wouldn't give out the phone number. The sweet lady was Granny's cousin. Even family didn't always rate.

Please don't misunderstand me. Granny was a pistol, but she could be very kind. She was an excellent seamstress (a skill my Aunt Marilyn and my cousin Helen inherited), and she shared her talent. Every newborn in Gibson got a baby quilt from Granny. She adored her grandchildren. The back of her couch was lined with high school graduation photos. We grew up longing for our own photos to join the collection. Subtly, Granny instilled in us the desire to graduate from high school - and most of us did. Granny always made me feel special. She used to pull me aside and confide that I was her favorite among the 16 grandchildren. Then she'd give me a small gift and make me promise not to tell the other grandchildren because Granny was on a fixed income and couldn't afford to buy something for everyone. Years later, at Granny's funeral, my cousin tearfully related that the death was very hard on her because - and she shouldn't be telling me this - Granny always told her that she was the favorite and gave her a stuffed toy at Easter.

Granny gave me this teddy bear one year

Eventually, after she turned 90, it became clear that Granny couldn't continue to live at home alone. There was the problem with the bills. She decided she had paid enough to the electric/telephone/water companies during her lifetime, and she wasn't paying anymore. She had a point. There was the problem with her memory. She started accusing people of stealing absolutely absurd things like butter, and there was no reasoning with her. "Granny, why would so-and-so steal your butter?" "Well, to eat with bread, I guess." Then there was the problem with the house itself. It was in bad shape, and she didn't want to let in anyone to fix it.

5 generations. Granny loved babies. This is my Nanny's family.

Finally, my mother and Aunt Marilyn showed up one day and invited her to lunch. Granny loved lunch, especially when it involved a buffet at a Chinese restaurant. They took her to lunch ... at the nursing home. She cried. I saw those tears running down her cheeks and started sniffling. My mother shot me a look and told me not to start. The nursing home was a good thing. Granny made friends, got her nails painted, played Bingo, attended Mass and did crafts.

Granny at my wedding. She was in her 90s.

Granny lived a long life. Every year, she phoned the doctor's office and went in for a physical. She was plump, as grandmothers should be (although she always insisted she was a size 8). But she kept active. She'd pair sneakers with knee-highs and a house dress and walk every day. Around and around the block. She was fiercely independent.

I was at work when my cousin Kim called about Granny's stroke. We thought this was it. But it wasn't. I drove to Thibodaux every weekend for weeks. My mother drove from Shreveport every weekend. We wanted her to die with all of us at her side. So, naturally, she slipped away in the middle of the night while we were asleep. Even in the end, Granny did it her way.

Rest in peace Cajun Man

If 1992 was Queen Elizabeth II's annus horribilis, the first week of February was our septima horribilis. Not that I'm throwing a pity party for us or anything. It's just an observation.

Glenn and Thomas

The week started with a funeral for Thomas Simoneaux. Tom - the "Cajun man" - was one of my husband's closest friends. I've often thought about publishing a book; Thomas actually did it. He wrote "The Nihilist's Holiday." It's for sale on Amazon. Check it out.

A party in the new house 

It's partly because of Thomas that Mr. G. was so proud when we bought our house. It's not Tara or Spelling Manor, but it's ours ... at least it will be after a few more payments. We were kind of giddy the first few months we lived here. We couldn't believe we were homeowners after years of apartment dwelling - and not fancy apartment dwelling. The prospect of waking up one morning and not finding the car in the parking lot always was a distinct possibility. Remember "the club?" I was a loyal customer.

Then we decided to become homeowners. Our first real estate agent showed us a handful of beatup homes and asked us to sign an exclusive agreement with her. We crumpled it up and found the wonderful Missy Roberts. She stuck with us and found a home in our price range that wasn't a handyman's special. The minute I walked through the front door, I was ready to make an offer. It was perfect: 3 bedrooms, a fireplace, a beautiful kitchen, 2 patios and a garden.

Good times

Mr. G. was happy because he finally had a place to entertain his friends. After Jazz Fest one year, he, Tom and our friend Mike slouched into chairs on the patio, sipped whiskey, smoked cigars, lit the chimenea, fired up the stereo and agreed that moment was the best part of the weekend.

San Francisco

Thomas moved to San Francisco, and we flew out to see him. Thomas was the best tour guide. I sometimes give tours at the State Capitol to visiting friends and relatives. I show them where Huey P. Long was shot and where a pencil landed in the ceiling during a union bombing. But I'm not good at it. I don't have that gift of gab. I don't store funny, interesting stories in my head. Thomas could rattle off anecdotes about every neighborhood even though he wasn't a native. He had stories about the mayor, celebrities, Chinatown thugs, the homeless, the governor, you name it. He showed us Japantown and gamely had a drink with us at the Cliff House (tourist trap) before steering us to a neighborhood joint for dinner.

We went to Muir Woods and marveled at the redwoods. We went to the California Academy of Sciences and visited the penguins. We walked to the Golden Gate Bridge, where Thomas pointed out swimmers taking a dip in the icy bay. We drove the Pacific Coast Highway, with Thomas taking the wheel on the winding road so we could look at the view. We tried to find a cigar bar. We failed, left one bar and walked past a couple of people openly smoking marijuana on the street. "That's San Francisco," Thomas said. "You can smoke marijuana in public, but you can't smoke a cigar."

Thomas was deeply thoughtful. I collect snow globes, and I love my dogs. When Isabelle, an 17-year-old springer spaniel, died, Thomas gave me a snow globe featuring a picture of her for Christmas one year. You shake it up, and the snow falls gently past her beautiful face. I made the mistake of allowing Mr. G. to be in charge of Thomas' gift that year. Mr. G. didn't get his shopping done so Thomas got a sampler pack of Yankee scented candles meant for a neighbor. Thomas pretended to be thrilled by our thoughtfulness. I was mortified.

The 3 amigos: Mike, Thomas and Glenn

Last Christmas, Thomas came through town on his way home to Galliano. We called a Madelyn Carroll, a friend of Thomas' and ours from the Baton Rouge Advocate, and dined at Tsunami. We fried fish and made gumbo the next day. It was a great weekend. A few months later, Thomas died in his sleep. It was found he had a heart issue. It wasn't expected. Here's something you learn as you age: When you're a kid, someone dying in his early 50s sounds like the natural order of things. A few decades later, you realize how young 51 is.

How to make a Twinkie without even trying

Lime tree

Meet our lime tree. I like to call him Leo. For years, he produced beautiful limes like clockwork (except for that year he went on strike, but we increased his wages and he went back into production). This year, Leo did something shocking, and I'm not even sure how he afforded the operation (It's not like we increased his wages by that much). Leo became a lemon tree.

Alien limes?

I noticed the change not long after I toted home a bag of lemons from my neighbors across the street. Wondering how Leo was doing (and where the heck my dang limes were), I went out back to check, looked up and was confronted with a very large, yellow lime. We're talking large in the neighborhood of a grapefruit. Alien large. So I summoned Mr. G. to the back yard.

Mr. G.: I think they're limes.
Me: They can't be limes. They're too big.
Mr. G.: I don't know what else they could be.
Me: I think they're lemons.
Mr. G.: You're crazy. How would a lemon tree plant itself in our back yard?

I swear Sue's garden looks a lot like this

There was only one thing to do: Ask Sue. Sue is my neighbor. She tells me she's 29 (like me), which is amazing considering she's a grandmother and has lived in our neighborhood since before I was born. I don't question it. Sue is simply marvelous and is my go-to person when I'm stumped on anything gardening related. She prefers fruits and vegetables to flowers. She's constantly pulling up her flower beds to plant more vegetables. She does something with Epsom salt that convinces everything she plants to produce beautiful fresh veggies. It's a trade secret. She also feeds our cats when we're out of town and usually calls to see if they can have a little extra chicken fat she just happens to have on hand. "It will make their coats so shiny." The answer to the chicken fat question is always "no" much to the cats' disappointment (How do I know they don't want chicken fat? How do I know they don't want shiny coats? They've been longing for chicken fat to give them shiny coats). Truth be told, Sue probably gives them the chicken fat anyway. She probably gave it them before she even called to check. You have to love Sue. It's impossible not to love Sue.

Lemons!

So I totally trusted Sue when she told me that lime trees could become lemon trees. I believed her even after I searched the Internet and learned this cannot happen. Even after I realized the more likely diagnosis is that my lime tree was planted with a lemon tree, and the lemon tree's only now producing (What gives, Louise? Have you been on strike?).

We've got lemons. Lots and lots of lemons

My real problem is you wouldn't believe how many lemons we have. Bowls and bowls and bowls of them. Louise was bountiful. My husband suggested I make lemonade. Are you kidding me? Too easy. I made a lemon meringue pie. It wasn't good. I left it in the fridge, hoping my husband would get a bad pie craving. He didn't so I tossed it in the garbage.

The Barefoot Contessa: A cooking goddess

Then I turned to the Barefoot Contessa and made her lemon cake. The recipe involves squeezing 100 lemons and grating them. I might be exaggerating, but after you've scraped your knuckles for the fifth time on a zester, you get cranky. The cake is actually two loaves. The batter smelled - and tasted (I have no fear of raw eggs) - heavenly. I decided to get fancy and make a traditional loaf plus mini loaves in the mini loaf pan I found at Wal-Mart for $1.50 after Christmas one year.

Is it a Twinkie or a lemon loaf?

The creation was lemony and scrumptious even though I threw down my spoon before making the glaze. My husband took one look at my glorious mini lemon loaves and said, "Are those Twinkies?" And then I realized I just spent two hours in the kitchen and scraped my knuckles raw to make Twinkies. If you need me, I'll be looking up Lemonhead recipes. How hard could it be?

There's just something about Mary (Miles Minter)

Mary Miles Minter

One of these days, I'm going to finish writing a novel based on Mary Miles Minter's life. The plot is in my head. Most of the characters are in my head. I've even written some chapters, including the opening and the ending. I really should get cracking on the middle of the book. You wouldn't believe the research I still need to do for that book.

Mary has fascinated me ever since a friend pointed me to the book "Cast of Killers." It's a terrific read based on an unsolved Hollywood murder mystery involving Mary (I should point out the criticism about the book. Let's just say the author didn't allow facts to get in the way of a good story. Nowadays, the book would bear a "loosely based on" disclaimer. That said, it's an enjoyable read).

Mama Rose ... I mean Charlotte Shelby

Getting back to Mary, she was born in Shreveport during the early 1900s. Her birth name was Juliet Reilly (I'd love to know her precise birthplace if anyone knows it). Her father, J. Homer Reilly, was a newspaperman. Her mother, Lily Pearl Miles, was a doctor's daughter. What Lily Pearl really, really wanted was to be a star.

The Reilly ladies lived on Cadiz Street in Dallas

I don't know how Lily Pearl ended up marrying Homer. But married him she did. The union produced two daughters: Margaret and Juliet (later Mary Miles Minter). The couple soon separated. Lily Pearl packed up the girls and moved to Dallas, where she offered lessons. I think she gave acting lessons, but my memory might be failing me here.

The Lyceum Theatre, where Charlotte played a maid

Soon, the little family was in New York. And, by New York, I mean New York City. In 1908, Lily Pearl - now Charlotte Shelby - played a maid in "Love Watches" at the Lyceum Theatre. She was only 31 but probably considered a little long in the tooth for that era. No worries, though. Charlotte (Lily Pearl) channeled her energies into becoming the mother of all stage mothers. Really, Mama Rose had nothing on her.

Poor Margaret

Margaret was put on stage and did passingly well. She was pretty and scored supporting roles. Then, so the story goes, a babysitter could not be found for Juliet one day when Margaret had an audition. Juliet tagged along and grabbed the director's attention. A star was born. From this point on, if you want to put "poor" in front of Margaret's name, go right ahead. She had a terrible life.

The youngest looking teenager on Broadway

By 1912, Charlotte had a problem. Juliet was only 10 and child labor laws curtailed her working hours. Fortunately (for Charlotte at least), Charlotte's big sister, Mary, had a misfortune back home in Louisiana. Mary married a Minter and incorporated her maiden name into her daughter's name. Little Mary (perhaps Marie) Miles Minter died young (supposedly from drinking apple cider laced with snake venom, but I ask you ... how does snake venom get into apple cider? Was this a common problem back in those days?). Charlotte stole her dead niece's birth date, rechristened Juliet as Mary Miles Minter (II) and tacked seven years onto her age. The Gerry Society (the child labor police) either didn't notice or ignored the switch (or maybe Charlotte threatened to lace their apple cider with snake venom). The new Mary Miles Minter had to be the youngest looking 17-year-old in New York.

An early movie starring little Mary

1912 was the same year in which Mary made her first short film, "The Nurse." She was billed as Juliet Shelby. Three years later, as Mary Miles Minter, she had the starring role as a fairy in another feature picture. Most of Mary's films are lost, including her turn as Anne of Green Gables in a film that outraged the series' author. The director of Anne was William Desmond Taylor.

William Desmond Taylor as actor

William was interesting. He was an Irishman, a problem child who was sent to America in the hopes that he would do something with his life. He dabbled in acting, married well, fathered a daughter and then went out to grab a bite to eat and vanished - but not really. He eventually headed to California and started anew without the baggage of a family. In other words, he was exactly the type of man you would want your young daughter to fall in love with. Exactly.

William as director

Less than 10 years after deserting his family, William was directing Mary Pickford and other stars of the day. He made friends and money. He rented a bungalow. He was close to actress Mabel Normand. Mary - all of 20 when he died (by now she was back to her real age) - apparently fell in love.

The house that Mary bought

Although young, Mary was supporting her mother, grandmother and her sister (poor Margaret) in a comfortable California lifestyle. They had an ivy-covered mansion. Mary was a star. Yet, she was still young and could be naive.

James Kirkwood Sr.

In 1916 - when Mary was 14 or 15 - she "married" the already married director James Kirkwood in the hills above Santa Barbara. I'm not sure where Charlotte was that day, but she obviously fell down on the job. Basically, James said a few words and told Mary they were now husband and wife. Mary soon was pregnant. Mama Charlotte eventually found out after wondering why her diets failed to peel weight off Mary. Mary had an abortion, and James was pushed off a cliff. Just kidding. James lived a long life and hopefully dug within and became a better person. Indirectly because of him (he fathered the writer), "A Chorus Line" stood for a time as Broadway's longest-running production.

Mary and William Taylor

No worries about Mary, though. She had great taste in men. She shifted focus to William Desmond Taylor. So what was the nature of the relationship between the two? No one seems to agree on that point. Mary wrote William gushing love letters even though he was more than old enough to be her father. William might have gently rebuffed her or he might have been an old goat and taken advantage. Regardless, Mama Charlotte was none too pleased with the situation (and can you blame her?). Charlotte stole Mary's love letters and diary and placed them safely in her purse ... just in case she needed to blackmail Mary into falling in line. Don't you do that with your kids?

The bungalow where Taylor died

On Feb. 1, 1922, William was found shot to death in his Hollywood bungalow. The murder remains unsolved to this day even though there was supposedly a deathbed confession (well, a death on the kitchen floor confession). It's one of Hollywood's enduring scandals and mysteries. Really, Google him. William Taylor and his whodunit murder are an Internet sensation.

Mabel Normand, a story for another day

Police found a love note written on Mary's stationary in William's apartment (Charlotte must have missed that one). It was to the point and said: "I love you. I love you. I love you. XXXXXXXXX Yours always, Mary." Sweet, huh? So who killed him? No one knows. The possibilities include a valet with a fake accent, a different valet who died in an asylum and Mabel Normand herself (who probably was the true love of William's life). Or maybe it was one of these three: Mama Charlotte, Mary and poor Margaret.

Mary with her mother and grandmother

Charlotte had a pistol, and that pistol conveniently disappeared after the murder. Years later, Margaret claimed her mother killed William Taylor. Here's what Margaret said about her mother: "She told me they were pinning it pretty close to her. She was awfully worried. And she was very grateful that her mother had gone to Louisiana and thrown the gun that had killed William Desmond Taylor into a bayou on the plantation."

Margaret died at 39

However, Margaret was an alcoholic with a penchant for rash marriages that ended in quickie divorces. She suffered a nervous breakdown. She got arrested on her honeymoon (along with her new husband, who actually was married to someone else). Her mother hosed her down with a garden hose and kept a weapon handy because of Margaret's drinking problems. They spent a lot of time in court battling over money. Usually, Charlotte tried to put Margaret "away" to avoid court appearances but she didn't always succeed.

Charlotte in later years

Charlotte was cozy with police officials. Maybe she bribed them. The police file on the case - along with the physical evidence - later disappeared.

Mary, whose film career came to an abrupt end

Or maybe Mary herself did it. She was emotional. She was obsessed with an older man.

Mary's final home

After Margaret died just before her 40th birthday, Charlotte and Mary lived together until Charlotte's death in 1957. The Taylor case ruined Mary's movie career, but she was shrewd investor. She married, for the first time, after her mother died. She died in 1984.

 Margaret Gibson

Years before Mary's death, a has been actress named Margaret Gibson collapsed on the kitchen floor of her home in California. Gibson had a hard life. She went on stage as a young girl to support her mother. She went to Hollywood only to get involved in opium. Then, in 1935, she abruptly moved to Singapore and married an accountant. A bladder infection brought her back to the U.S. in the 1940s. Two decades later, Gibson had a heart attack. While dying on the floor of her home, she told neighbors she killed Taylor. Gibson did work on films with Taylor, but it is believed they stopped working together in 1914. Whether her dying words were the ramblings of a confused, old woman or an actual confession probably will never be known.