Wally World's grocery pickup service surprisingly works

Why shop when someone will do it for you?

I recently used the Wal-Mart grocery pickup service, and I feel like I should start out by defending why I used it in the first place.

I don't drive a minivan packed with five screaming children. I'm not elderly. I certainly can use the exercise of walking around the grocery store.

Happy New Year!

Then I got sick over Christmas. I'm starting to feel human again, but it was a rough few days. When we got back from Shreveport, the last thing I wanted to do was go to the grocery store. But I also needed to get to the cabbage and black eyed peas aisles before I had to make do with lettuce and red beans (not that I've ever done that for New Year's).

I shop at Wal-Mart because I can stretch my dollar. Plus, we're Wal-Mart people. I'm using the royal we to refer to my family. Glenn's family doesn't shop at Wal-Mart, thank you very much. I think it's a New Orleans thing.

I lovingly loathe Wal-Mart. Why they put in several dozen cash registers is beyond me. Only two tellers ever seem to be working at any one time. I once worked the photo desk for Wal-Mart - not as an employee but as a fed-up guest with a bunch of other fed-up guests in line with me. My aunt regularly cuts her own fabric in the fabric department. She can't ever find an associate who will admit to working in that department.

At the same time, I love Wal-Mart's prices. I love that the employees are friendly. Old Sam knew what he was doing.

Now I could send Mr. G. to the grocery store, but that's never a good idea. I once sent him to the store for chicken broth. He came back with something you shoot up a turkey's butt. I still have no idea what that was. He either can't find half the ingredients on the list or he comes back with a cute bag of flour that only holds a tablespoon worth.

I, on the other hand, tend to come home with more than was on my list. Then I kick myself and do it all over again the next week.

So I've been toying with the idea of trying the pickup service for some time, especially after spending Thanksgiving in Houston and hearing about how iKea does something similar.

In the midst of hacking up a lung this week, I logged onto Wal-Mart's website to check out the grocery pickup service. I've seen the grocery pickup signs in the parking lot at the Neighborhood Wal-Mart on Coursey, but apparently they're still training. My closest choice was Prairieville.

My salmon came with a plank. I don't know why.

I started making a list and was amazed at how easy it was. I typed in bananas and was able to specify how many I wanted. I typed in salmon and got pictures of salmon choices. In fact, you can look at pictures of everything. Even better, I was able to peek into the fridge and count how much yogurt we had left before adding four more containers to my list. Best of all, the site keeps a running total of how much you're spending.

Once my list was complete, I paid and chose a pickup time. You can't pick up your groceries the same day, but you can pick them up the next day.

Wal-Mart called 40 minutes ahead of my pickup time to let me know the groceries were ready. I got in the car and headed to Prairieville after finishing work. Once in the special parking spot marked for grocery pickup, I called the number on the sign to announce my arrival. It took about 10 minutes for the groceries to arrive at the car. I used the free time to read emails.

Leeks are so good!

The associate who came to my car told me a few substitutions had to be made. No big surprise there. When is Wal-Mart ever adequately stocked? They didn't have the salmon I specified, but they had something close to it ... on a plank. They didn't have the rice I specified, but again, they got pretty close to it. Instead of two leeks, they only had one, but it was a huge stem of fresh, wonderful smelling leeks (and, really, two bunches would have been too much). I held my breath when he said a substitute had to be made on the black eyed peas. It turned out they gave me a nicer brand because the store brand was out of stock.

My biggest worry had been that the meat wouldn't be cold. It was nice and cold. It hadn't been sitting in a grocery cart next to the side entrance for an hour until I arrived.

The associate loaded my bags into the car, and I was on my way without my Payless flats ever touching Wal-Mart's concrete. I had read that associates weren't supposed to accept tips so I didn't offer one. I probably should have - and I will in the future.

I really like the pickup service, even if it does make me feel like I should borrow five screaming children before I head to the store. Even better, I think it will be perfect for times when Mr. G. has to do the shopping.

Twas the week before Christmas ... and the microwave pralines were burning

Isn't it funny how certain foods transport you to your childhood?

Trust me, these are unbelievable.

For the Millhollons, it's orange balls. One bite and I'm back in my grandparents' brick house on Winnfield, back in the l-shaped kitchen with the oven that was never used because it got the house too hot and the armoire that I just knew would take me to Narnia if I sat inside it long enough.

Orange balls came to us courtesy of my great-grandmother Tommie. My grandfather was allowed to call her Mother, but the grandkids and the great-grandkids had to call her Tommie because she wasn't old enough to be a grandmother let alone a great-grandmother, thank you very much. I adored that woman, and she truly adored us.

Tommie lived on a farm near Snyder, Texas, where she made wonderful things in her tiny kitchen. A few times a year, she'd come to Louisiana laden with sweet-filled tins. I always cast aside the ones containing peanut brittle in favor of the tin holding the wax paper-covered orange balls.

Orange balls are hard to describe. They're basically slightly thawed frozen orange juice, crushed vanilla wafers and coconut rolled in powdered sugar. Since Tommie didn't share her recipes (or her age), I had to turn to the internet when I tried to recreate them. I think I came pretty close to her recipe. I made them one Christmas for my grandfather. He immediately put in an order for chocolate pie and jam cake. So I think he was pleased.

In Glenn's family, the special food is date loaf, which isn't bread but fudge. Go figure.

The cursed date loaf candy.

Glenn's sweet aunt made date loaf for a family gathering and everyone got very excited when the lid came off that tin. Later in the day, I was washing dishes when I looked up and saw one of Glenn's relatives in the driveway sneaking bites of date loaf out of the tin intended as a birthday gift for Glenn's father. Apparently it's just that good.

Date loaf came to the Guilbeaus courtesy of Aunt Nat. Aunt Nat was the third and final wife of Glenn's grandfather Dr. Ben. Dr. Ben was a country doctor who had the worst luck with wives. His first wife was his brother's widow. They had two children before she died prematurely. His second wife was his daughter's friend. They had several children (including Glenn's dad) before she got sick at a young age and died. Her nurse was Aunt Nat. Dr. Ben and Aunt Nat had several children before Dr. Ben died, leaving Aunt Nat with very young children and the children from the second marriage to support. She raised them all and lived to be 103.

The first thing I learned about making date loaf was that it requires setting aside a date loaf towel. The candy is rolled into a log inside the towel. The first time I made it, I created such a sticky mess that I ended up throwing away the candy, towel and all. The recipe I got from the sweet aunt wasn't very specific on details.

Glenn's cousin Edmie. She was a wonderful cook and just a wonderfully sweet person.

Then Glenn went to a family funeral and came back with a spiral-bound collection of family recipes that someone had gathered and printed. This is a brilliant idea, by the way.  I hate that I never asked my granny for her bread pudding recipe before she died.

I'd forgotten about the cookbook until it popped into my head the other day.

The first recipe I tried was his cousin Edmie's pralines. She was famous for her pralines, and I eagerly flipped through the cookbook to find out how she made them. In the microwave. She made them in the microwave. Can you believe it? I almost skipped over to the microwave in excitement. I placed the ingredients into a Pyrex dish, shoved it into the microwave and stood at the kitchen counter looking through the rest of the cookbook until the smell of sugar burning reached my nose. Have you ever tried to remove burned pralines from a Pyrex dish? I might have to throw away the dish. I'm going to have to fiddle with that recipe. Microwaves can be very different so I don't blame Edmie.

Next I tried the date loaf and crossed my fingers.

Here's the date loaf recipe if you're very, very brave.

Cook 1 1/3 cup sugar and 1 cup evaporated milk to a soft boil. Add 1/2 stick butter and 8 oz chopped dates until dates are melted and mashed. Add 3 cups pecans. Stir until it "leaves the side of the pot." Wet two cheesecloths or broadcloth material with cold water. Put half of the date mixture on each piece of material. Roll into a log. Let cool, the cut and serve.

Sounds simple enough, right? I decided to take a crack at it with the idea of giving Glenn a taste of his childhood for Christmas this year.

Let me tell you: A pan of fudge combined with 3 cups of pecans is very hard to stir. Not only that, a very hot glob of fudge is very hard to roll into a log.

But I was determined. It's Christmas after all, and I thought Glenn would be so pleased if I finally mastered this family recipe. So I brought the milk and sugar to a soft boil. No problems there. A candy thermometer is your friend. I added the dates and butter and tried to guess what melted dates are supposed to look like. Then I added the pecans and wished I had a mechanical arm. The mixture was heavy, and I wasn't certain how long I was supposed to stir it. Two minutes like with pralines? I have no idea.

I was struggling with it when Glenn walked through the kitchen and noticed what I was doing.

Mr. G.: "Oh, don't worry about making that for me. That's (brother) Kevin's thing. I don't really like date loaf."

I guess I shouldn't complain. Years ago, when I made my first Thanksgiving dinner, I decided to get fancy and make cranberry compote instead of just opening up a can of cranberry sauce.

It's not Thanksgiving without cranberry sauce shaped like a can.

We sat down for Thanksgiving dinner, and I noticed Glenn looking around the table with a frown on his face.

Glenn: Where's the cranberry sauce?

Me: Right here (passing him the homemade compote).

Glenn: No, where's the stuff in the shape of the can? That just doesn't look right.

He absolutely refused to eat the homemade version even though I tried to convince him that it was so much better.

So this year I presented both versions and relayed the story to relatives after my cousin and I nearly killed ourselves using the vacation rental's wonky can opener to open the precious can of cranberry sauce. Glenn dutifully ate the cranberries shaped like a can.

Then I walked into the kitchen before going to bed and found Glenn standing in front of the open fridge eating the leftover homemade cranberry compote with a spoon out of the tupperware bowl. Victory is mine!

A purpose-driven life (or something like it)

My mother-in-law was looking at a photograph the other day from my father-in-law’s 95^th birthday party. It’s a beautiful (and relatively recent) photograph of her, her late husband and their four children.  

My husband, Glenn, is right there in the picture, taking his place as their youngest child.

Gazing at it, my mother-in-law suddenly looked puzzled.  “I guess this was taken before Glenn was born,” she said.

Somehow, in the concealing cobwebs that come with dementia, my mother-in-law has displaced my husband. She can name her children; she just confuses the chronology of events. In her mind, Glenn was born about 10 years ago, long after the rest of the children were born. 

We laugh about it.  We joke that I robbed the cradle (even though I’m actually 12 years younger than my husband).  But it’s sad.

My mother-in-law wants to remain active.  She’s often insistent on getting her driver’s license renewed.  She says she’ll take driving lessons if needed.  She wants to be able to run to the grocery store.  I just say “OK” and change the subject.  Then I worry about who’s going to take us to the grocery store in 40 years.  Who’s going to decide it’s time to take away our keys?  Bailey will probably be far too busy by that point.

Not long ago, as we were preparing to go out for dinner, my mother-in-law’s caregiver phoned.  My mother-in-law needed to speak to my husband.  Immediately.  Glenn got on the phone and listened as his mother told him that she wanted to volunteer at the library. 

So I called the Jones Creek library and left a message for the director.  Then I sent an email.  I got no response, which I found incredibly rude.  Never one to accept silence as an answer (just ask my husband), I phoned the Main Library.  This time, a very helpful man explained that they really don’t use volunteers, even volunteers in the form of retired librarians.

I’m at a dead end.  I thought my mother-in-law could read to kids or help prepare craft projects.  I thought she could do something. 

And herein is my frustration.  My mother-in-law may be struggling with what sometimes comes with advanced age, but she also shouldn’t just sit on the couch and watch television all day, every day.  She needs to do something.

My husband would argue that I would be perfectly fine with watching television all day, every day – and there is some truth to that.  However, I also read.  I sew.  I craft.  I pull weeds in the garden.  I put together scrapbooks.  I cook.  I write.  I play games on my computer.  I clean the house.  I organize the cabinets.  I index genealogy records on a volunteer basis.  I do things, even if it’s not what my very opinionated husband thinks I should be doing.  I’m very content puttering around the house, keeping busy.  I scold him because he lacks hobbies.  What the heck is he going to do when he retires?   

You need a purpose, even if your purpose is finally getting around to pasting those 10-year-old vacation photos into a scrapbook. 

I recently read a book called “Dark Corners” by Ruth Rendell.  In it, one of the characters retires and discovers that idleness isn’t what he thought it would be.  Then he turns a certain age and the city of London sends him a free bus pass.  He spends hours each day on the top deck of a London bus, seeing the sights and learning the neighborhoods.  He’s perfectly content because he’s found a purpose for each day.

You need a purpose, even if it’s soaking in the sun on the top deck of a bus.

Metropolis

Saturday night, Mr. G. and I grabbed some lawn chairs, a picnic supper and a puking Bailey(more on that later) and headed to City Park.

Every year Baton Rouge Gallery does Movies on the Lawn - a showing of silent movies with a live score. For 7 bucks, you get to watch a movie on an inflatable screen and feast on free popcorn. It's a lot of fun. Bring lawn chairs or a blanket, and you're good to go.

Mr. G. is not a fan of silent movies. He believes that movies require both color and audible dialogue. Just call him the Ted Turner of Baton Rouge.

However, he took a film class in college, a much beloved film class, and the teacher had touched on "Metropolis." So when I mentioned it was being screened Saturday night, he was game.

True that

Bailey had a tough Saturday. She tends to have a sensitive stomach, something the pound director casually mentioned to us as we were pulling out of the parking lot and Bailey was safely perched atop her new doggie bed in the cargo area of our car.

Pound director (tapping on the car window): Oh, just one more thing.
Me: Yes?
Pound director: She gets sick from time to time.
Me: Sick?
Pound director (waving his hand as if this was really a minor issue): You know, occasionally throwing up if her food disagrees with her.

"Occasionally" was putting it mildly. We considered just putting the house for sale and moving during the transition from puppy chow to big girl food. It seemed easier than cleaning up all the puke. Finally, the vet told us to put one kibble of big girl food in her puppy chow and then increase it to two kibbles the next day and then to three kibbles, and so on. Bailey, who is 4, is almost entirely transitioned off puppy chow. Just another six months or so.

On Saturday, after a weekend of feasting on barbecued hot dogs, Bailey was sick. Apparently Mr. G. gave her hot dogs. Then Mrs. G. gave her hot dogs. For all I know, the neighbors gave her hot dogs. But she seemed to have puked all she was going to puke by the time the movie rolled around so off we went (naturally with a hot dog in a sandwich bag because we're stupid, stupid, stupid).

We got to the park early and took flyers from the pretty girls pitching some laser tag/bowling/sliders place on Sherwood. Mr. G. nodded his head at them and listened to the spiel, pretending that yes, he plays laser tag ALL the time and then quietly asked me later what the hell laser tag is.

My favorite part of any outing is the people watching. Movie on the Lawn attracts movie lovers of all ages. A nattily dressed old man turned up with his daughter.

Daughter: Say hello to the dog.
Old man: Hello, puppy dog.
Daughter: Now help me with this blanket.
Old man (to me): She said I wouldn't have to do any work.

A beautiful Husky showed up with a young couple. The Husky was most interested in Bailey, who snobbishly ignored her, even when the Husky howled to get her attention. Throughout the movie, that poor Husky rolled on her back in the grass, wagged her tail and howled while Bailey blew on her nails.

We munched on sandwiches, giving Bailey bites. She had a little hot dog and a little popcorn. And a little food from the sweet girls sprawled on a blanket next to us. Then she puked all over the lawn just before the movie started. Mr. G. quickly cleaned up the mess, and we hoped no one noticed.

"Metropolis" is a strange but also stunning film. And long. Very, very long.

It tells the story of a futuristic class struggle. It features the exaggerated acting common in the silent film era.

The leading lady in Metropolis

The film was greatly cut down not long after its initial release in the 1920s. The editing apparently didn't do the film any favors. The original film was considered lost until a copy surfaced in Brazil not so long ago.

From what I can gather, the film is famous, in part, because it was massively expensive to make. Basically, it's a movie about a city underneath a city. Set in 2027, the city above is full of light, a beautiful garden, flying cars (still waiting for this!) and privileged sons of the wealthy. The city below contains the machines and the workers who risk their lives to make the city above work. Toss in a mad scientist, a beautiful woman and turmoil in a father-son relationship, and you have a movie.

"Metropolis" is a German film, and Hitler was a fan of it. So there's that.

The film's influence can be seen in Madonna's video "Express Yourself." Yes, really.

Parts of the film are especially fantastic. The sets must have been incredible. You go from a city with flying cars and soaring buildings to the catacombs to a room with impossibly huge curtains to a man tumbling down a cathedral roof.

The dance scene above is one of the film's most famous. It's hilarious and unexpected.

One of the best things about seeing this movie in Baton Rouge was the musical score. It wasn't the original, but a new one conjured up Matsy. It had elements of "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" (the boatride scene). It was surprising and perfect all at once.

There are three more entries in this year's Movies on the Lawn. I'm especially excited about next month's "Peter Pan." Maybe we won't feed Bailey a boatload of hot dogs ahead of it.

In search of Willoughby

Juliette, Georgia, in its heyday

One of my favorite movies (and books) is "Fried Green Tomatoes." I even dragged Mr. G. to the tiny Georgia town where they filmed the movie. This required a lot of back roads and countless time out of our trip schedule, but it was worth it.

Much like Whistle Stop, Juliette in Georgia is kind of a knockabout place. There's not much there, but I'm a sucker for small towns. I kind of like the idea of living in one around 1910, when you could walk to work and grocery shop on Main Street. It makes me sad to drive through small towns and see the abandoned buildings that once constituted Main Street. I'm at a loss for why small towns can't sustain a two-screen movie theater and a general store. Do we really require a 16-screen megaplex and a Wal-Mart?

Willoughby: Not the happiest of 'Twilight Zone' episodes.

In other words, I'm searching for Willoughby, probably because we moved a lot when I was a kid so I never really had a Willoughby of my own.

An aerial view of the Hebert property. That patch of white between the rusted roof and the bayou is where my mom's childhood home stood. Those trees on the other side of the road (away from the bayou) once were known as the Hebert Woods.

What I had to sustain me were my mother's memories of her own Willoughby, which really was just a parcel of land on the bayou near Amelia that had been in her family for a century at least when it went to another family last year. It was kind of a knockabout place, and I've listened to my mother debate with other family members about what exactly it was called. The latest answer is Boeuf, but I've also heard Bayou L'Ourse tossed out (this was listed in my uncle's obituary). My aunt recently told me "We NEVER lived in Bayou L'Ourse" so heck if I know. My grandmother just settled for "the Assumption Parish side of the bayou" - or maybe that was where she was born. I don't know. It's hard to determine point of origin when you're deep in the bayou without any streets much less street names. My mother will tell you firmly, though, that they lived on the bayou. They did not live in the swamp. Thank you very much.

The old church in Amelia where my mother was baptized - and where she later set up her cowboys and Indians on the church pew during church services. 

The Kennedys had Hyannisport, and the Heberts had Boeuf. To get there, you leave Gibson in Terrebonne Parish and take a right just before the bridge to Amelia and Morgan City. Amelia, by the way, is where my mother was baptized and had her First Communion. It's also where my family did their shopping and were buried. You can see the cemetery from the family land. All you had to do was get into a boat and row across the bayou to Amelia. No one needed a car.

I think, although I'm not certain, that we ended up there this way: Jean Baptiste Etienne Penisson settled there with his wife, Henriette Boudreaux (they're buried in Amelia). They had a daughter, Marie Rosalie, who married Jean Severin Hebert (or John S., as we always knew of him). John S. and Rosalie had a ton of children, including my great-grandfather, Jean Jules, in 1878. He lived nearly 100 years.

At some point, Jules and his wife, Eugenie, moved across the bayou to Amelia, where they lived next door to Oleus and Louise Montet. In the Montet household was an orphaned niece named Florence Gertrude Gauthreaux. Jules and Eugenie's son Horace married Florence. They became my grandparents.

Granny at what I think was the back door of the old house. With her are Aunt Ethel's children.

But back to Bayou Boeuf. My grandfather built a home on the family land there once he married.  It was a three-room shotgun shack: Living room/Bedroom, Bedroom and Kitchen. I know exactly what it looked like because A. I saw it once when I was a kid and B. Miss Teen (my granny's neighbor) had the same floorplan. My grandparents raised six kids there before moving down the highway to Gibson. Four of their kids were actually born in that house, probably in the front bedroom, but who knows. I never thought to ask Granny before she died.

The bayou house also is where an old uncle was laid out for his wake after he killed himself in the bayou. The story goes that he ran out of coffee ration slips during the war and just couldn't go on. We do love our caffeine although I doubt the truth of that story. Granny tended to spin stories when she thought you couldn't handle the truth. Once she got into her 90s she let some things slip, but she never told me the truth about that tale of woe. She did tell me other stories, though. Those were some fun afternoons full of jaw-dropping gossip.

Aunt Ethel's yellow house in its heyday. In Assumption Parish, the Mary statue in the front yard is standard.

We decided to go back to Boeuf recently even though our connection is gone. I should probably explain something about Cajun families. Everyone seems to marry young. My grandmother lived to meet great-grandchildren and even a few great-great grandchildren. My grandmother's sisters and my grandfather's siblings weren't just people I knew from stories. I met many of them.

Aunt Ethel and Uncle Bake. How cute are they?

My grandfather's father was Paw Paw Jules Hebert. I don't remember him; but I was 3 when he died so I probably did meet him. Paw Paw Jules had a daughter, Aunt Ora, and several sons. Aunt Ora married and moved to Morgan City. Uncle Aaron died in the war. My grandfather, Horace, stayed on the Hebert land until he moved to Gibson in the 1960s. I never knew Uncle Howard since, like Uncle Aaron, he died before I was born. I should remember Uncle J.T., but I don't. He must have lived in Morgan City, which was like the other side of the world to us. Uncle Wilfred - or Uncle Bake - lived until 1982, and I remember him vividly. He was a nice man who liked to tease in a good-natured way. I used to imagine that my grandfather must have looked and been very much like him (he died prematurely not long before I was born). Uncle Bake was married to Aunt Ethel.

Aunt Ethel (really my mom's aunt) survived Uncle Bake by decades, staying on in the little yellow house on the Hebert land after everyone else left. That little yellow house hardly seems big enough now for two adults and six children (girls in one room, boys in the other; apparently all the Heberts had six kids), but it seemed grand in comparison to my mom's childhood shotgun shack. It even had a bathroom. Aunt Ethel surprised us all by dying a few years ago at age 85. I guess we thought she'd always be there, working on her crossword puzzles and tending to her flowers.

This Memorial Day weekend, we decided to go back to the Hebert land and see what was still there. Our party for the trip included Nanny (my Aunt Olive), my cousin Kim, her husband, my godbaby, Aunt Marilyn, me and Mr. G. The biggest problem would be finding the place even though we had two people who grew up on the land in the car with us.

We turned too soon and ended up in the town of Bayou L'Ourse (which is lovely even if it decidedly is not where my mom and her siblings grew up). We wound our way around to the bayou that separates Assumption Parish from St. Mary Parish, craning our necks for anything that looked familiar. When we reached the bridge, we knew we'd gone too far and turned around. Finally, Nanny told us to turn around again and guided us to what is now a paved road sandwiched between massive shipyards. The road even has a name now: Bayou Lane. It seems fitting. We parked at the end of the road, got out and went exploring.

Skirting a row of cars parked on the side of a shell road, I followed Nanny as she walked without hesitation to a stranger's door behind Aunt Ethel's house. My husband later joked that the menfolk hung back while the women and children breezed past the new "No Trespassing" sign.

Mom and Aunt Marilyn on the front porch of the old house, which was torn down in the 1980s.

Nanny had no fear because this was where she'd been born, on this spit of land down what used to be a shell road.  There, among an avenue of trees, is where the original Hebert house (the Big House) likely once stood before it burned to the ground long before my mother was born. There, back by the bayou, is where my mother's childhood home once stood. There, near a magnificent tree is where Paw-Paw Jules' house once stood, a three-room house that he later shortened to two rooms (kitchen and bedroom) after his wife died (although, as my aunt said, who the heck shortens a house? You usually add on, not take off a room). Somewhere there, probably by the bayou, is where the shack stood that housed Paw-Paw Jules' brothers until one of them tied his hands and feet together and flung himself into the bayou. Still there, right by the road, is Aunt Ethel's yellow house, where my mom and her sister watched Neil Armstrong land on the moon.

It was all foreign to us. We hadn't been there in 20 years, and it showed. Down the street was Cousin Bea's house, but Cousin Bea's long gone. At the end of the road was Miss Viola's house, but she's long gone as well and someone's fixed up her house and added to it, making it look picturesque, like something out of a movie.

The avenue of trees on the Hebert land. This avenue leads to the bayou.

Then we spotted the nice trailer behind Aunt Ethel's old house. It seemed like old times, back when one of her children lived behind her house in a different trailer. And, I think my aunt thought that it was Hebert land so no doubt we were related to whoever lived in that shiny new trailer. We weren't.

The Hebert land sold after Aunt Ethel died. It sold to an old man who peered at my younger aunt, said her name and reminisced about her birth. He grew up down the bayou - someplace called Bayou Cheramie - and used to come by in a boat to visit my mother's brothers. He took us through Aunt Ethel's house, inviting us to take anything we wanted, and invited us to visit again.

Sisters: Aunt Marilyn and Nanny by the old bayou.

I have a feeling that was our last trip to the Hebert land, which makes me more than a little bit sad. Soon enough, Aunt Ethel's house will fall down on itself, and there will be no trace that we were ever there.

Places really do hold memories, and all of the places where my Granny lived (save the nursing home) are gone. Even her house in Gibson - with the screened in porch, the lineup of graduation photos on the back of the couch and the framed picture of the pope - is gone. I can't walk up those steps, open that screened door and picture her sitting in her rocking chair in front of her stories.

A few good things did come of our visit to the Hebert land (as it will always be remembered in my mind even if it now is Charlie Davis' land). One, the women proved they're braver than the men. Ha! Two, we met some adorable French bulldogs who now live on the Hebert land. That seems fitting given our ridiculous love of dogs. Three, the visit made Nanny nostalgic.

Granny as a young mother with Nanny.

I learned, for example, that Granny could row herself across the bayou lickety split. Since she was 42 when my mother was born, Granny always seemed ancient to me. It was fun to hear about what a pistol she was in her younger years (not that she wasn't a pistol in her later years). I only knew her for the last 35 years of a very long life.

Nanny and Uncle Herbert. And a chair. Why is there a chair?

I also learned what kids did for fun on Saturday mornings in bayou country back in the 1940s. Obviously, there wasn't a movie theater, but the general store somehow showed movies on the weekends for the kids. Nanny remembers following the adventures of Rin Tin Tin each week in a room adjacent to the store. Each Saturday viewing ended on a cliffhanger with Rin Tin Tin's life in danger.

Beautiful Nanny

I love hearing about yesteryear. I especially love to hear Nanny reminisce. She's a favorite in our family - a woman with an enormous heart, a quick mind and a great sense of humor. Everyone loves her.

And I understand why my grandfather on the other side of the family holds onto the farm that's been in our family for so long. I understand why he holds onto it even though it's much too far away in West Texas and no one from the family really lives in the area any longer. Places hold memories, but places don't endure. And losing those places is like once again losing the people that made those places so dear.

My black thumb

Mr. G. likes to tell everyone I have a black thumb. Let me tell you something. I'm sick of hearing about my black thumb.

Every year, I proclaim that this is the year. I go to Home Depot or Walmart and load up on seed packets, Miracle Gro and containers. It's like back-to-school shopping when all of your notebooks are clean and awaiting the neat, meticulous notes that will pave your way to groundbreaking career in astronomy. You'll discover new galaxies. You'll discover life in those new galaxies. You'll get Pluto back into standing as a planet. Yeah, how'd that work for you? Same here.

But back to the garden. Every single year, it fails. Every tomato plant just withers and dies. My dreams of watermelon don't even yield a seedling. One year, I watched a cucumber plant bloom and produce tiny cucumbers. I checked on those tiny cucumbers every day. I exalted in those tiny cucumbers. Then the tiny cucumbers died. I had to stay in bed for a week.

What you have to understand is that my granny was an incredible gardener who prided herself on never having visited a plant nursery. She just dug up stuff on the side of the road and replanted it. Or she got "cuttings" from neighbors.  She was magical.

Plus it just seems that gardening should be part of my Southern DNA.

I have planted rose bushes that thrived. My kumquat tree produces bushels of fruit. The rosemary does really well when Mr. G. doesn't throw a heavy potted plant on top of it.

Then there's the casualty list. The Satsuma tree died without giving us a single Satsuma. The yellow rose bush died. The shrimp plant died. Even a tree that had no doubt stood for decades died. The other day, I was pulling brown leaves off the two-headed palm tree, and one head of the tree came off in my hand. It's like I decapitated it. Poor Marie Antoinette.

This year, I planted basil, zucchini, cucumber and green beans. Then I called my green thumb neighbor over to inspect the progress.

Neighbor: That's cucumber?
Me: Yes.
Neighbor: Doesn't look like cucumber.
Me: The packet said it was cucumber.

Then we strolled over to the zucchini.

Neighbor: That's zucchini?
Me: Yes.
Neighbor: Doesn't look like zucchini.

So now the seed companies are actively duping me. They see me coming and give me seeds for something meaningless so I won't destroy countless vegetables.

Then we went to the basil, whereupon my neighbor squatted down to peer at it before carefully straightening up and looking thoughtful.

Neighbor: I have trouble with basil myself.

So I give up. I'm never planting another plant. I'll just plant the Christmas tree out there so Mr. G. can proudly show off the yard with a sweep of his hand and chortle about his wife's black thumb. He really seems to get a kick out of it.