Baker and Carmen

Baker and Carmen Guilbeau

I was trying to remember the first time I met Glenn's parents, and I'll just own up to it: I have the worst long-term memory in the world. I have no idea when I met them for the first time. I don't have a cute story about it.

All I know is that I got very fond of Baker and Carmen over the years.

Glenn's dad was a World War II vet who loved good food and good people. You couldn't help but like him.

Not long before he died, he decided to read "Gone With The Wind" and then watch the movie. That was his project, and he completed it. Then he put in an order for "Doctor Zhivago."

His short-term memory waned a little as he got into his 90s. Whenever I went by the house, I'd ask if he'd eaten. He'd pause, look thoughtful and then say: "Well, I can't remember, but I'm always ready to eat." Then I'd fix him a sandwich. He was a joy.

Baker, who wanted to live to 100 (and nearly did)

He doted on his caregiver, Barbara, and they'd go to the movies, go get coffee and dye Easter eggs. He was game for anything.

His death a few years ago left a huge void, but we thought we'd have Glenn's mom for awhile since she was 10 years younger than him. Life, though, makes its own plans.

My mother-in-law with her dear friend Miss Ellen

My mother-in-law was a very proper lady who dressed to the nines and spoke very precisely. She would've been home at Buckingham Palace even though she grew up on a farm outside Fenton.

She played basketball in her youth and traveled to the big city of Baton Rouge for a high school tournament. Years later, she'd remember hearing a ship's whistle on the Mississippi River and thinking what a lonely sound it was.

Despite her rural roots, she and Baker ended up in the New Orleans area, where they lived until Hurricane Katrina.

My mother-in-law was a woman who liked the color blue, books, the song "Stardust," Christmas, roses, Snickers bars and brownies. She loved ice cream. I mean she LOVED ice cream. My father-in-law used to joke that all of his pension went to Blue Bell.

She taught school and eventually became a librarian. She traveled the world, picking up Christmas ornaments in the various ports along the way. She wrote beautiful thank you notes. She was a lovely lady.

Her home was always warm and comfortable, from the piano in one corner to the blue and white dishes in the kitchen to the shelves overflowing with books.

At her old house in Metairie, she had an entire room set up as a playroom for her grandchildren. Once she moved to Baton Rouge, a child's tea table graced the guest room and stuffed animals perched on a bench in the living room. Every Christmas, photos of her grandchildren as babies decorated her tree.

An outing to the pet adoption event at PetSmart. Alas, I couldn't convince her to adopt a dog.

As she got older, she developed dementia. This is the cruelest disease in the world. It dimmed her mind even if it didn't dim her beautiful smile.

One night a few months ago, I stopped by and found her more confused than normal. She insisted that the neighbor's car across the street was hers and that she'd gone over to peer into the windows and put a key in the door lock. I tried to reason with her by pointing out that she had a Volvo and the other car was a Chevy (or whatever it was). "Yes," she said, with a knowing smile. "They put that Chevy sign on it, but it's my car."

Rattled, I decided to stay awhile and watch a movie with her. "Gone With the Wind" was on - always a good choice.

We watched in silence while I sat there, scared and sad for her. Suddenly, she piped up with an observation.

"I never understood why Scarlet chased after Ashley. Rhett was much better looking," she said.

And, like a ball bounced against a wall, a little bit of her came back. She was spot on. What did Scarlet see in Ashley?

Visiting with friends

Lately, though, she was sad. She missed her husband. She was scared at night. She was lonely.

Mind you: We tried to take her on outings. Barbara would make popcorn and proclaim it movie night. My mother-in-law would go into her room and shut the door. I took her to the zoo. We fed ducks, but I don't think she was really into it. The brightest moments were when her grandchildren - and eventually the grandchildren's children - stopped by for a visit. She could often be found in the kitchen sneaking cookies to the great-grandchildren who had refused to eat their dinner. She was never fond of dinner herself and preferred to move right to dessert. But, lately, even those favorite faces didn't do much for her.

Then she stopped eating entirely and couldn't even be tempted with ice cream. Glenn took her to the doctor who ordered her to the emergency room. Less than two weeks later, she was gone.

I remember when my father-in-law got the news that he was dying. He didn't want to die. He fought death. Even at 96, he fought death. He wanted to live to 100.

We took her to a pizza joint a few years ago and demanded that she show us her basketball skills. Here she is, lobbing basketballs into a net to win points. 

The day of his funeral, it didn't just rain; it stormed. Making the two-hour trek to the cemetery on what used to be my mother-in-law's family land in rural Jefferson Davis Parish, we worried that someone would die on the way there because you could barely see to drive. It was almost as if my father-in-law was shaking his fist at his own funeral.

Two years later, we got the news that my mother-in-law was dying. I walked into the emergency room after getting that phone call and found her in bed. She was lucid and talking. I don't remember what she said because I was thinking that maybe the doctors had gotten it wrong and that she would rally.

The doctors had it right. She didn't rally. She died three days later, and she almost seemed to welcome death. Not long before she died, she asked why her husband hadn't been to see her in the hospital. Reminded that he was dead, she said, "Oh, that must be why I dreamed last night that I got to Heaven and Baker said, 'Carmen, why are you here? It's not your time.'"

I have to agree with my father-in-law on that point. I don't think it was her time.

My mother-in-law was a strong-minded woman. She made up her mind that she was dying, and she died. She decided it was her time.

The day of her funeral, we once again made the trek to the LeBleu land. This time, it was sunny without a cloud in sight. As the religious person talked about how she was in Heaven, a bird landed on the ground near me and started singing loudly.

My mother-in-law was a devout woman who always had her rosary near at hand.

I have no doubt that she is in Heaven, and that she's as happy as a chirping bird on a beautiful spring day.

To all the books I've loved before ... I'm glad they came along

Do you ever go back and read the books you read as a child? Is it just me?

Since we didn't have a lot of money to spare, my book collection as a child consisted of library books, hand-me downs from my parents and books that I'd carefully select from the limit my mother would give me on books sold through school. I would read the descriptions, look at the book covers and agonize over my selection. For the life of me, I can't remember which company sold these books. All I remember is flipping through a pamphlet of book descriptions and circling my choices. The best day of all was when the order arrived at school.

I find comfort in visiting former favorites. My sister told me not long ago that we're probably the only people alive who still think about books we read as children. I hope not.

Sometimes, I'll drive myself half crazy trying to find a book I read oh so long ago. I can remember the barest details of the plots and have to go from there. It's my own little mystery game. Usually, my mother supplies the title and solves the mystery. She did become a librarian after she retired.

I sent my mother a text recently about a book I remembered involving a childhood in a castle, staircases that led to nowhere and a myriad of rooms. She quickly supplied the title. Really, she's available for all of your book hunting needs. She's a marvel.

Here are a few of the ones I remember:

The Everything Book by Eleanor Graham Vance

This is a treasury of things for children to make. I pored over this book as a child, looking at illustrations of paper plate puppets, stilts and decorated Easter eggs. I don't think I made a single thing, but I had big dreams of somehow turning eggs into intricately painted Easter scenes.

Horse & Pony Stories edited by Jane Carruth

In fairness, this is on the list simply because my sister bought it for me when we were kids. She got very upset when she blurted out early that my birthday gift was a book. Then she consoled herself by telling me: "But you don't know it's about horses." This book has a permanent place on my nightstand and in my heart.

The Wolves of Willoughby Chase by Joan Aiken

This has it all: A poor cousin living in a garret, an opulent manor house, an evil governess, an orphanage, secret passageways, train travel and wolves. Naturally, all is well in the end. I read this over and over and over again.

The Borrowers by Mary Norton

For me, the best thing about "The Borrowers" were the illustrations. I loved the illustrations showing what the tiny people who lived in the walls were able to "borrow" and fashion into furniture.  And I loved that there were tiny people who lived in the walls. Plus, how can you go wrong with characters named Pod, Homily and Arrietty Clock?

The Happy Hollisters by Jerry West (multiple books)

This collection is a generational addiction. My grandmother bought these books for my mother and read them herself "to make sure they were OK to read." Ha! She just wanted to read them. I'm going to admit that rereading "The Happy Hollisters" as an adult has been something of a letdown. They're really not that well written, but I loved them as a kid. The Hollisters were a family of five children who traveled everywhere and solved mysteries. For me, these books were a glimpse at other parts of the U.S. in the days before the Internet could take you aboard a clipper ship or into the Grand Canyon.

The Snow Ghosts by Beryl Netherclift

I'd spoil it if I said more than that it involves the English countryside and a magical snowglobe. This is a time slip book. After reading it, I thought everyone in England had a walled kitchen garden and ate chess pie. I was so disappointed when I learned that chess pie is just custard.

A Question of Time by Dina Anastasio

Syd is a young girl who moves to a new town and makes a new friend who happens to look just like a doll she finds in a shop. Then she realizes the new friend lived in the town more than 50 years ago and doesn't seem to have aged. It's spooky fun.

A Childhood in Scotland by Christian Miller

I found this on the shelves of the Bossier Parish Library and checked it out again and again. This is an autobiography that immerses you in a Scottish castle and the neglected childhood of Christian Miller. It's a gilded - if slightly tarnished - life.

So what were your favorites?

I have vague memories of a Nancy Drew-like book about youthful detectives who solved mysteries with the help of their science lab over the garage. Excuse me while I text my mother.

It's not a chipped salt shaker ... It's a door prize!

I was at my mother-in-law's house the other day when she asked me if I wanted something. Not something to eat. Not something to drink. Just something from the collection of cherished items she's spent 88 years collecting.

Naturally, I called in an appraiser and boxed up the most valuable items.

Just kidding.

Mother-in-law: Do you want something, honey?
Me: Nope.
Mother-in-law: Are you sure? You and Glenn do so much for me.
Me: I'm sure.

And, truly, I am. I don't want any of it. I have enough of my own crap. Plus, I've been down this door prize road.

That's what I call this phase of life: the door prize phase.

Visit the home of any elderly person. It won't just be a visit. They will try to thrust a door prize into your hands as you walk back out the door.

At 15, I owned my very own set of china. It was pretty and painted with roses. I displayed it on a shelf in my room for awhile before finally packing it into a box. What does a 15-year-old need with china?

My granny gave me the china. I have no idea why. She just liked giving things away as she got older. Even the Avon lady got something from her house. But, then, who doesn't like the Avon lady? She stopped by every week so she was like family.

Granny set great store by her collections. They were her treasures. I do have a few of her things, including the shawl she wore until nearly the day she died. It's in my hope chest because what in the world am I going to do with it? It does make me smile when I find it while unearthing other things in the hope chest.

A friend told me to save flowers from my granny's funeral so that I could fashion them into a rosary. Thanks but no thanks. I don't want to remember her funeral. I'd rather remember my godchild having A Terrible Two - as my cousin called it - during the wake. It really wasn't much of A Terrible Two, but my cousin always makes us laugh, even when she's just coming up with a clever name for her child's minor meltdown.

Old people give away things because they know their time is dwindling.

After my granny went into the nursing home, I wondered what happened to the red chairs that used to sit on her porch. Those chairs were one of the few things she didn't give away. I peeked into the screened porch that now belonged to someone else. The chairs were gone.

I was thinking about those chairs the other day. I don't even want them anymore. What I loved about those chairs is that they were at my granny's house. I'd sit on one and eat her spaghetti while listening to the sound of her stories filtering out through the open door to her house. Inside were shelves filled with collectibles. I always pretended that I loved dusting them because she seemed to get a kick out of my imaginary love for dusting. She also hated to dust.

That's what I want: not the chair, but that moment in time when my granny lived in a small house at the end of road in Gibson. My nanny lived across the street in a house with a long counter and bar stools that my mother and aunts would perch on while they drank coffee. We'd walk to the store down the street and get an RC cola and gingerbread planks frosted with pink icing. One of Granny's friends usually walked with us, and I'd look at them in amazement while they talked in Cajun French. Granny would notice the look on my face and start laughing. That's what I want.

I always decline the door prize. Until it's a time machine, I don't want it.

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.