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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
