For Mr. G., it's a Very Brady Christmas

Tonight, I tried to get Mr. G. to watch a show about Shreveport restaurants with me. He refused. The reason: "A Very Brady Christmas" was on in the back.

Don't worry too much about him. He got caught up in the nostalgia of seeing the Brady family once again. He later emerged from the bedroom with the sad news that the Brady Christmas movie was really lame.

I could have told him that as I feel that I've watched every Christmas movie ever made. I LOVE CHRISTMAS MOVIES! I watched a really sad one recently starring Jason Robards. I had to watch a few cheery movies to make up for it.

It got me to thinking, though, about the silly things we watch every year. Part of the fun of Christmas is just sitting on the couch watching Christmas favorites. I love the ones from my childhood. All my life, I'll remember watching "A Christmas Story" with my mom, dad and sister and reveling in the humor of it. 

Here are a few of my favorites. Make up your own mind about "A Very Brady Christmas" (but don't say we didn't warn you):

BELLS OF ST. MARY'S

Hands down, this is my favorite Christmas movie. It even edges out "It's A Wonderful Life." Everything about this movie is great, but I really love the Christmas pageant in which the kids make up their own script.

IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE

I'm pretty fond of Jimmy Stewart so - of course - I watch this every year. Some years, we're lucky enough to catch it on the big screen. It makes me want to buy an old house and fix it up. Did you know, by the way, that Richard Nixon built the White House press room over a swimming pool? The joke later became that they needed to add a trap door for troublesome reporters. That story reminds me of a famous scene in this movie.

HOW THE GRINCH STOLE CHRISTMAS

I love Ron Howard. I have no love for Jim Carrey. I'm able to stomach him as the Grinch because of the makeup. Plus, I like immersing myself in a Hollywood-extravaganza Whoville. And I kind of love it that the little girl can't sing.

FROSTY THE SNOWMAN

This transports me back to childhood. Skip the sequel. It's awful.

RUDOLPH

To this day, I don't understand what's so bad about wanting to be a dentist. That weak plot point aside, how can you not love the Island of Misfit Toys? I think that scene resonated with me. Recently, I was at Dirt Cheap, where I bought a little Thanksgiving owl who was missing a leg. I proudly put him on my mantle and gave him a back story. He lost the leg in the war. No Island of Misfit Toys for him!

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

The mice in this movie live in the walls, but they wear clothes and sleep in really comfy beds. It's kind of like "The Borrowers." The entire town has to work together when a Scrooge in the bunch publishes a letter in the newspaper questioning Santa's existence. Watch it and I defy you to get the clock song out of your head.

A CHRISTMAS STORY

If I don't watch this every year, I feel like it wouldn't be Christmas. Glenn sat down and watched it with me this year. You should have heard his laughter. This is such a well written movie with sly narration. It's a classic even if - like me - you secretly worry about children shooting their eyes out.

ELF

Will Ferrell in tights. Enough said. Oh, and SANTA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THE HOLIDAY

Every Thanksgiving, I give thanks for Nancy Meyers. OK, not really, but I should. The great thing about Nancy Meyers' films is that you get an interesting plot and a fabulous house. This movie, has two fabulous houses - one of which is a cozy cottage in the snowy, English countryside.

LOVE ACTUALLY

I could've done without the porn storyline, especially since I watched this with my mother the first time I saw it. But I break into a smile every time at the recording studio scene that opens the movie. Also, the wedding scene, the first lobster, Hugh Grant dancing, etc., etc., etc.

CHRISTMAS IN CONNECTICUT

Oh, Barbara Stanwyck. How could you make up a husband and kids and a house in Connecticut for a newspaper column? Also, does anyone actually flip pancakes like that?

HOLIDAY AFFAIR

Wait, Robert Mitchum and Janet Leigh made a Christmas movie? They did! It's not particularly memorable, but it's cute.

CHRISTMAS CAROL

There are a million versions of this classic. One even stars the horrible Jim Carrey. I love the 1951 version. It's the only one for me, with one notable exception.

A MUPPET CHRISTMAS CAROL

I can't explain it. I love everything about this movie, even the meeses. How can you not love Michael Caine singing through the streets of London? Or muppets in Dickens-era costumes?

A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS

I don't watch this one every year. It depresses me a bit for some reason. However, Linus' speech is killer.

REMEMBER THE NIGHT

I discovered this last year while trying to find something new. It stars Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray. Barbara is a criminal. Fred is an attorney. Fred takes pity on Barbara and takes her home to his mother and aunt for Christmas. It's really quite good.

BACHELOR MOTHER

I watch this every New Year's Day, but it's set at Christmastime. Ginger Rogers plays a shopgirl who gets mistaken for the mother of an abandoned baby. She politely insists the baby isn't hers. The store - which plans to lay her off after the holidays - surprises her with a Christmas present that turns out to be the baby she had to give up because of her uncertain employment. Trust me: It's funny. Haha.

A tale of Thanksgiving

Every year at Thanksgiving, I head to the grocery store for oysters and chicken livers. This isn't a combo I'd normally put in my cart, but it's necessary to assemble my Granny's oyster dressing.

Don't get me wrong. I must have cornbread dressing, turkey, a roll and cranberry sauce once a year or I sink into a deep depression. But I also must have oyster dressing. It must be that bit of Cajun in me.

I'm the first to admit that oyster dressing isn't for everyone. It has a strong taste, but I love it. I tote it to every Thanksgiving gathering and brace myself for no one but me spooning a portion onto a plate. My mother only makes it when I come home for the holidays, because we're the only two in the family who eat it. What is everyone's problem? We need more converts!

I don't actually recall my grandmother ever making this dressing. What I recall is my mother making it because it was her mother's recipe. Regardless of whose recipe it is, it's become my holiday tradition.

Rice is also an integral part of the recipe. Here's a fun fact about me: I make terrible rice. My rice is always mushy. Even a rice cooker doesn't seem to help matters. Don't you want to sample my rice dressing?

This year, I thought about skipping the oyster dressing. I got sick - as I've mentioned a million times - and I thought about skipping Thanksgiving entirely. That thought depressed me, especially since I was supposed to spend Thanksgiving with my grandparents. Who knows how many more Thanksgivings we'll have together? 20? 30? (Thanks, Sophia).

So I dragged myself to the grocery store the day before Thanksgiving. The parking lot looked like Walmart as the clock ticks down to Black Friday. Insanity. After crying a little about the price of oysters and having a long thought in the produce section about where Granny procured her oysters, I went in search of chicken livers and came up empty.

Finally - after scouring the meat section for the 10th time and directing the umpteenth person to the turkeys (they were hiding) - I asked the butcher, who sent me to the freezer section. There, amongst the Eggos and the Cool Whip, I found the secret room of the grocery store where they hide the weird animal parts. Included in there were my chicken livers.

Finally, back home, I assembled my mushy rice, oysters, chicken livers, etc. and threw them into the fridge for the next day. Mr. G. came into the kitchen and immediately fled to the living room. He hates my oyster dressing.

At Thanksgiving, I set my dressing next to a similar looking dressing. See! It's not just me. Other people make rice dressing. Then I sat near the table and directed everyone to my dressing. Just kidding!

As always, there was plenty of leftover oyster dressing to take home. No worries. More for me!

Then Mr. G. surprised me.

Mr. G.: "Hey, make sure to get some of that dressing to take home."

Me: "You mean my oyster dressing?"

Mr. G.: "Uh, no. That other dressing. That was really good. It had hamburger meat in it like rice dressing is supposed to be made."

Sigh.

Mr. G. travels to Yorkshire and develops an intense loathing of Branwell Bronte

Haworth is just unbelievably beautiful ... and it's Bronte country!

One of my lifelong dreams was to visit where the Bronte sisters lived and died (for the most part; Anne died at the seaside). So when I headed to London with Mr. G. last summer, I worked out how to reach Haworth - AKA Bronte Country - in north England. Then I told Mr. G. it was very convenient to London (it's not) and would be absolutely no trouble to reach (it's not) and that we would stay overnight in an actual pub (winner winner, chicken dinner).

This is where Mr. G. is just an absolutely wonderful sport (and a big part of the reason I love him). He's never read a Bronte novel in his life. But I told him that we would stay in an actual pub and see the moors, and he was in. Then he so immersed himself in the outing that he developed an intense dislike of poor Branwell Bronte.

From the hustle and bustle of London, we were off to the English countryside. 

Our journey started at King's Cross, where we felt very much like Harry Potter. Alas, the trains are sleek and modern - in other words, nothing like the quaint individual compartments of Harry Potter. I booked the evening train so we could squeeze as much out of London as possible during the day before heading north for the final leg of our visit. However, we had enough sunlight to see a glorious rainbow. It was a sign. We quite enjoyed Yorkshire. It was relaxed and friendly compared to the congestion and sophistication of London. In other words, it was much more our speed.

We got to Leeds, turned the wrong way on the platform and were turned around in the right direction by a friendly train attendant with a Scottish accent so thick that we just squinted at her in confusion. Finally, we caught the Keighley train (far smaller and less posh than the previous train) and found a taxi to Haworth. It was very much an adventure.

By the way, Keighley is pronounced Keith-lee. Haworth is Ho-worth.

In my mind, the Brontes lived in a lonely parsonage on the wind-swept moors. They, in fact, lived in a tiny town. They were villagers, not rural farmers. The parsonage is just back of the main drag with a lovely view of the graveyard. Death was very present in the lives of the Brontes.

We were quite comfortable at The Old White Lion. It has a bar and a lounge right out of "Fawlty Towers."

Our inn/pub was The Old White Lion. It's at the top of a very steep street, and it's a 300-year-old coaching inn. I knew the age of the place would appeal to Glenn. In fact, he loved the entire vibe. We

Glenn came to Yorkshire hoping for this. 

stepped in, close to midnight, and found a group of older locals drinking in the bar. They immediately welcomed us into their conversation before calling taxis to ferry them home. Glenn insisted - with much glee - that the bartender was like someone out of "An American Werewolf in London," but I think he was just hoping. Glenn was in his element: Beer, friendly conversation and a cranky bartender.

The next day, we tried and rejected the English breakfast. I just can't cotton to kippers and stewed tomatoes. Then we strolled up the cobblestone main street of Haworth. Everything screams Bronte, from the names of the shops to the multitude of pubs that Branwell Bronte frequented.

The Bronte influence is everywhere!

I filled in Mr. G. on Branwell while we walked and widow-shopped. Branwell was the only boy in a family of girls who would become lionesses in the literary world. You know, of course, that the girls grew up to publish "Wuthering Heights," "Jane Eyre," etc. The children grew up amid great sorrow (a mother who died young of cancer, horrific boarding school conditions and two sisters who died from those horrific boarding school conditions), not to mention the ever present knowledge that they would be cast onto the street when their father died and the parsonage went to the next preacher and his family. Ironically, the Rev. Bronte outlived every single one of his children.

Branwell was supposed to be the family's saving grace. With his sisters, he created elaborate stories about his toy soldiers when he was just a boy. He was wildly creative and incredibly sensitive. It's not a good mix. Branwell turned into a wastrel who got mixed up with a married woman and descended into the drink. That married woman's name was Mrs. Robinson. Coo coo c'hoo.

Branwell Bronte drank here ...

The way my mother told the story, the girls hid their own talent and published under fake names because the family was supposed to be pulling together to launch Branwell as an artistic genius. It's clear that Branwell was a disaster who wasted any money and effort his family invested in him. Every pub in Haworth seems to have a sign that proclaims Branwell once drank there. It's no great wonder that he died in his early 30s.

Today, Branwell is famous for his wasted life and for his artwork that hangs in the National Gallery. The painting is of his sisters. In a fit of who-knows-what, Branwell erased his own image from the painting. It's just as well. It's the girls who left the lasting legacy.

And here ...

We went through the parsonage, which remains much as it did in the Brontes' time, downstairs, at least. Upstairs, Charlotte's bedroom was bare of furniture as was the small bedroom that Anne and Emily once

Branwell left us this at least.

shared. Branwell's room, though, was dressed up with the furniture and knickknacks from the set of a recent movie on the Brontes. It was so realistic - not at all tidy but cluttered with drawings and books - that Branwell could have left the bedroom just five minutes prior, likely to pop into the pub. Mr. G. sniffed with distaste at the amount of attention devoted to Branwell.

We wandered through an addition to the parsonage which contained tons of things that belonged to the Brontes, including their dogs' collars. Then it was down the stairs to a special exhibit on Branwell's artwork.

Mr. G. wandered into the exhibit and walked swiftly out. "Why does he get an exhibit? His sisters are the ones who actually accomplished something" he angrily said.

Sorry, Branwell.

NEXT: We nearly die among the sheep poop to walk in the steps of the Brontes (except Branwell; he stayed home and drank).

Pub crawl tales: Jack the Ripper left a body here!

This is why he went to England.

Before we went to England, I supplied Mr. G. with guidebooks and forced him to watch travel videos. Then I asked him what was at the top of his list for the trip. His response: Pubs.

I never have to eat fish and chips again. You can see the pea mush underneath the giant fried fish.

So we experienced the pubs, which I learned are bars with typical bar food. In other words, it's beer and fried potatoes. I sampled the fish and chips, but I couldn't embrace them. They were greasy in an unfamiliar way (in other words, not like McDonald's). Also, pea mush is inexplicably popular in pubs so I now know where Nigella Lawson got her inspiration. And ... a Cajun dish is on every single menu. We were never brave enough to actually try a Cajun dish. Do they have Tony's over there?

Fortunately, Mr. G. adored the pubs. They offer so much beer on tap, a friendly atmosphere and sports on multiple television sets. He even pretended he was interested in soccer and made soccer-related conversation with the other pub patrons. Mr. G. was right at home in England.  It was very cute.

Behold: The White Hart.

So I have some pub-related advice for you: If you're ever in London near Aldgate East station, do pop into The White Hart. Jack the Ripper left a body just outside the loo window. It's very quaint.

Actually, I didn't go into the loo at The White Hart so I don't know if it even has a window. I was too busy laughing quietly while Glenn tried to talk soccer with a family from Hong Kong who spoke not a word of English other than "We come from Hong Kong." Glenn persisted, pointed at the TV screen and asked which teams were playing soccer while the family giggled politely.

It was while looking at what Glenn was pointing to on the TV that I noticed the chalkboard sign advertising the pub's association with Jack the Ripper. We were there, killing time (haha) before a Jack the Ripper walking tour.

We'd ducked in because I was out of my comfort zone of Mayfair.  Thanks to Marriott points, we were staying in a very nice section of London. We came back every night to a turned down bed and classical music playing softly in our room. If it hadn't been for those Marriott points eventually running out - and, of course, Bailey Boo back home - we might have just stayed in London.

The White Hart, where you can get a whopper next door.

Now we were in the East End, which looks rough even on episodes of "Call the Midwife" and in fact looks nothing like episodes of "Call the Midwife." Still, we were visiting the streets in which Jack the Ripper killed his victims. Was the neighborhood still dangerous? It certainly didn't look like Mayfair, which is full of fancy cars, expensive shops and a sprawling park. So I was relieved when Glenn suggested finding a pub upon realizing that we were very early for our tour.  A pub seemed safer than standing on the street just begging to get mugged.  Can you tell that I'm from a small town?

I fell in love with this church and then grew amazed that such grandeur could arise amid such poverty.

Side note: For the most part, the East End is perfectly safe these days. We were in Spitalfields, which is home to an impressive church, tons of pubs and every ethnic restaurant you can imagine. Keira Knightley used to live here. Samantha Morton still does. We were in absolutely no danger.

Spitalfields also is Jack the Ripper country. He killed six women, all residents of Spitalfields. Two of them actually were killed in Spitalfields (the rest died in Whitechapel).

The White Hart is conveniently located next to a Burger King.  It features traditional pub fare as well as Thai food.  And it has that interesting advertising gimmick.

You can't buy this kind of publicity! 

There's a chalkboard drawing of a woman in a Victorian-looking dress and an odd hat along with the explanation that Martha Turner drank her last pint at the pub. She was found three nights later behind the pub with more than 30 stab wounds.

Our tour guide knew all about Derrick Todd Lee ... and Jack the Ripper.

Fortified with this knowledge, I was rather smug when we started out Jack the Ripper tour. We met our tour guide right across from the pub and started walking to the scene of where the first body was found. I thought, "Oh, I know where we're going!" Then we walked and walked and walked. We walked right past the pub for a long ways. In fact, we walked far beyond "at the back of the pub" before he dramatically pointed to where the body of Martha Turner had been found. I looked back and couldn't even see the pub.

So much for truth in advertising.

Mr. G. Goes To England: Day 1

Looking for Big Ben out the plane window.

Mr. G. and I rarely get on an airplane together. Why fly when you can load up the car and take the dog with you? At least that's always my argument.

Last year, though, we went to London for our 10th wedding anniversary. We also went to York (or, as Glenn says it, Yawwwwk). We had such a good time so I thought I'd blog about it!

Plus, we don't have children to bore with our travel stories. And Bailey's really bored with London since she had to stay home.

But back to England. We went for a few reasons. One, it was our 10th wedding anniversary. Second, there's a direct flight between New Orleans and London. Third, we're not getting any younger. It's time to see the world instead of just talking about it.

The flight is long, but alcohol is free on international flights. Mr. G. shared this knowledge on the flight back with everyone around us. Some of them didn't know. He was voted MVP (most valuable passenger).

I skipped alcohol and food for as long as I could. I really didn't want to have to use the facilities. Then I couldn't fall asleep. I'd brilliantly chosen seats that didn't have any behind them so we wouldn't be kicked the entire way to London. They also happened to be next to the toilets. All I heard, all night long, was the bang of the bathroom door and the flush of the toilet. After yet another bang as someone wrestled with the door, I looked over at the guy across the aisle. He was snoring. The pocket in the airplane seat in front of him bulged with empty wine bottles (not the full size version, thank goodness). I buzzed for the flight attendant and asked if I could have a glass of white wine.

"Of course you can!!" the flight attendant exclaimed and patted me on the shoulder before sprinting down the aisle to fetch my wine. Really, British Airways is awesome. We also got hot tea like it was running water.

London!!! It seemed to rain at least once a day.

When he wasn't napping, Mr. G. tracked our progress on an electronic map on the back of his plane seat. As we approached London, he kept peering out the window for Big Ben. He thought it would be like when you're in the pirate ship flying over London in the Peter Pan's Flight ride at Walt Disney World.

Our first day in London was a half day. What we should have done was go to Notting Hill, visit Portobello Road (street where the ancients of ages are stored) and then done a pub crawl before hitting the Tate Modern.

Instead, we set off to find the Charles Dickens Museum, which no one in the entire city of London knows exists. No one - not a cop, not a store clerk, not even one of bicyclists who were everywhere because of a race. We got very, very lost and found it after the last tour had gone. The tea shop still was open, and Mr. G. soon was happy with a scone and a cup of tea while I wept into my guidebook.

Glenn insisted that we sneak upstairs to take a peek at the rooms. We were quickly discovered and nicely told to return downstairs. You can't take us anywhere.

So we went to the Tate Modern, purely because it was open late. And it was free!

The entrance to the Tate Modern. 

I'm not much for modern art. I'm not really much for art at all. I don't understand what makes one piece great and another piece Elvis on velvet. Still, I enjoy looking at art and finding something that catches my eye.

The Tate Modern was a madhouse. There were people everywhere. We were searched at the door, something to which we were getting accustomed. The queen probably gets searched when she turns up at Windsor.

We wandered aimlessly for a bit before deciding we needed a battle plan. There were so many floors and so many people. London in July is nuts.

In the cafe, we grabbed a seat, admired The Shard visible through the window in between the pelting rain and perused the guide. Once I saw the names "Picasso" and "Andy Warhol," my plan was set. Glenn would have been fine with going back to the hotel or finding a pub, but I wanted to see the sights! Darn it.

Andy Warhol's Marilyn!

To make a long story short, we never found the Picassos. That museum is big as I've mentioned. We did find the Andy Warhols. Then we wandered from room to room. My good friend Cynthia Faulkner - a world traveler - once told me that the way to visit an art museum is to walk into a room, stop, look around and see what grabs you. I've followed that advice ever since.

We saw a lot that we didn't like at the Tate. We saw a lot that had us questioning how it was deemed art. Then we turned the corner and stepped into a room that was completely dark except for a glowing tower of radios.

I don't how stacking radios into a tower constitutes art, but it grabbed us. We had so much fun going in circles around the tower and craning our necks to study radios from every era. In all, 800 radios make up the tower.

Our favorite exhibit at the Tate Modern.

The exhibit's official name is Babel 2001. I gather it's designed to mimic the Tower of Babel. Every radio talks at you in a different language. We just had fun spotting radios from our parents' days and our own teen-age years.

Saying goodbye

My grandmother with her eldest daughter, Olive Ann.

I'm pretty sure I know what Heaven is like. I think it's endless amounts of time in which you can sit not just reading a book - but thoroughly enjoying what you're reading - without worrying about the laundry or the bills or job security or people dying. Instead of endless goodbyes, it's a series of wonderful hellos as loved ones pop in to spend eternity with you. 

My granny had six children during her long life. She lived nearly a century so I thought those children also would live that long. I was wrong.

My aunt and uncles are together once again. Here are Olive, Albert and Herbert with baby Raymond.

Uncle Herbert died first. Then Uncle Raymond and Uncle Albert slipped away. Now Nanny's gone. They died one after the other, as if Granny were calling them to the Heaven one by one. Only my mom and Aunt Marilyn are left, and we're taking them to the doctor's office once a week from this point onward.

All their deaths were hard. Nanny's death, though, really hurts because she was my mom and aunt's best friend.

Nanny and Aunt Marilyn with my cousin Nick. In the background is my mother and baby Amber.

She wasn't even really my Nanny. She was my Aunt Olive who was supposed to be my godmother, but my parents never got around to baptizing any of us. Still, I always called her Nanny. Then my little sister started calling her Nanny. I think my younger cousins called her Nanny. The name stuck even though I knew in my heart of hearts that she was supposed to be my godmother - not theirs. I was honored to have such a connection to such a special person.

No one is a saint. We all have flaws. Somehow, though, Nanny was practically perfect in every way. Her kids have suffered a tremendous loss with her passing. The rest of us - sisters, nieces, nephews, etc. - are just very sad.

So beautiful - inside and out.

What can I tell you about Nanny? Pictures of her as a young girl show a stunningly beautiful person. If you think a young Elizabeth is a looker in "The Crown," then you haven't seen pictures of Nanny. She had to have been the prettiest girl on Bayou Boeuf.

She also was fun. She liked to dance and go to the Cut Grass in Morgan City. She'd wrap a scarf around the bedpost and practice her dance moves. She liked games and set a rule that Monopoly was to be played until someone actually won. Some of this I knew. Other things I learned after she died.

Nanny holding my Aunt Marilyn. 

Nanny married young and raised five kids. She was a voracious reader and liked to do crossword puzzles. She had a thing for knicknacks featuring lighthouses and mooses (meese?). She made the best vegetable soup in the world.

She seemed mild-mannered, but she had a backbone. She was kind and soft-spoken, but she had gumption. She also wasn't naive. That's a tough combination to master.

The Mona Lisa smile: Granny, my cousin Sheila and Nanny with a newborn Amber.

Looking through pictures in which Nanny posed with grandchildren and great-grandchildren as babies, I noticed something. In most of them, Nanny isn't looking at the camera but gazing at the baby with a Mona Lisa smile. It reminded me of the time she came to my house for a slumber party for my mother's birthday. Spotting a picture of her granddaughter Olivia on the kitchen wall, she asked if she could have a copy of it. She loved the expression Olivia made in the photo. Nanny had such a fondness and affection for babies, but especially, of course, for her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren.

Glenn and I went to England last year, and I asked my aunts what they wanted back. Nanny told my Aunt Marilyn that she wanted something with Princess Charlotte on it. I hunted in every tacky gift shop I saw until I finally found a key ring with Princess Charlotte's face on it. Later, Nanny said something had been garbled in the translation. She wanted Princess Charlotte herself.

Nanny was the eldest of my grandparents' three girls. My mom and her other sister, Aunt Marilyn, arrived nearly 20 years after Nanny was born. There are pictures of them as little girls holding Nanny's first child. Still, they were always very close to Nanny.

Aunts and cousins at the zoo. Nanny clowned around and covered her face with a camera. 

Nanny spent most of her adult life in Gibson. She lived in a snug little house that her husband, my Uncle Ricky, built. My grandmother eventually moved across the street.

When I was growing up, we'd go to my Granny's house and the dust would hardly have settled from the cars crunching into the shell driveway before my Mom and Aunt Marilyn were heading across the street for coffee at Nanny's. I didn't understand this for the longest time. Granny had coffee, but somehow Nanny's coffee was better. Really, they just wanted to settle onto the bar stools in Nanny's long kitchen and talk to her while she stood on the other side of the counter and smoked a cigarette.

Beautiful Nanny.

That's how I'll remember Nanny: in her kitchen. Guests were always on one side of the kitchen counter. Nanny was always on the other side, a cup of coffee or a cigarette in her hand. She'd pour the coffee and gently laugh at what her guests had to say.

What I also will remember most about Nanny is that everyone liked her. I never heard anyone say a negative thing about her. She didn't want a funeral because she didn't want people to be sad. That was probably a good decision because everyone is very sad that she's gone. There wouldn't have been enough Kleenex in the world to dry the tears at a funeral for her.

Gibson: a Louisiana town with tigers on a gold leash

To me, this is Cajun country and pure beauty.

Did you know that Gibson in Terrebonne Parish used to be known as Tigerville because tigers once roamed the woods outside the bayou town?

A religious statue inside the former St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Gibson. The church was open on a recent weekend, allowing me to wallow in childhood memories. 

Actually, it's not at all true that tigers once roamed Gibson, Louisiana. The fact of the matter is that Cajuns can't tell the difference between a tiger and a bobcat. Sorry, but there were no tigers on a gold leash in early 1800s rural Louisiana.

This home had to have been gorgeous once upon a time. Now it's falling apart.

Still, there are two towns in Louisiana that once were named Tigerville: Gibson in Terrebonne Parish and the still-named Tigerville in St. John the Baptist Parish. Silly Cajuns. One Cajun says "Sha, there's a tiger in the woods; then another Cajun says "Sha, there's a tiger in the woods." Then the town is named after the "tiger" in the woods.

Up this 'hill' used to be a house that my mother was convinced was haunted. We were surprised on a recent visit to find the house gone. Where did it go?

The "Tigerville" that I know is the one in Terrebonne Parish, just down the road from Houma. It's been called Gibson for as long as I can remember. I have a fondness for Gibson that probably is a little strange given that I never lived there.

Granny's house in Gibson before the screened in porch was added. Here's Granny with one of her many, many dogs from over the years. Granny's house was bought and moved by another family.

Gibson was where my Granny lived in the bend of Mary Street. She lived in a three bedroom trailer with a screened in porch on the side and a yard big enough for a garden. The refrigerator - for decades, it seemed - was a brown, side-by-side model that always had popsicles in the freezer. The couch had pictures of the grandchildren in graduation gowns lined across the back. There were many, many grandchildren (let's see if I can get this right): Gerlinde, Greg, Helen, Mark, Anthony, Shannon, Mitzi, Rick, Scott, Sheila, Kim, Nick, Michelle, Linda, John and Jesse.

Uncle Albert and my cousin Mark in front of the built in cabinet that was in the corner of Granny's living room.

My mother once told me that Mary Street was never supposed to be Mary Street. It was supposed to be Carroll Street, which intersects with Mary Street. The sign got turned around, and no one thought to turn it back in the current direction. So the street with the church on it became Carroll Street, and the street with the homes on it became Mary Street. Given that the church was called St. Patrick, I'm not sure this story is true. But, trust me, it could absolutely be true.

This used to be the post office. It had an entire wall of postal boxes. No one had a mailbox by their house in Gibson. Later, after a new post office was built across the bridge, this became a beauty shop. Now it's someone's home. 

There isn't much to Gibson these days except for decaying houses and tons of trailers. My Nanny's house is neat and trim, but other houses just are falling down. Carroll Street used to be the main street of the town. It had a post office, grocery store, beauty parlor and church. Now only the church remains, and it's a Hispanic Catholic Church instead of the Catholic Church of yore.

Gibson Elementary School. I've always wondered how old this building is. 

When I say there isn't much to Gibson these days what I mean is there isn't much of the Gibson that I remember from my childhood. Most of the people that my Granny knew are dead. For the most part, their homes are abandoned. Some lovely homes remain. Gibson is a town in which people like to build piers along the bayou. Very often, an alligator will swim up to your pier.

The best house in Gibson! This is my Nanny's house. Nanny, by the way, is Cajun for godmother. Can you spot the dog in the window? My cousin's British twin lived underneath this house. Inside story.

The town itself is pretty country. For the longest time, you only had to dial four numbers to reach anyone else in Gibson. There was no need for the prefix.

The old bridge has been closed for years. It's owned by the parish which put it up for sale. It didn't draw a buyer. Because of its design and engineering, the bridge is considered eligible for the National Register of Historic Places. 

Gibson has a bridge across the bayou that you used to be able to drive across. As a child, that bridge was so cool to me because you could drive or ... (wait for it) ... walk across it. It had a pedestrian walkway right alongside the driving portion. How cool is that? You can still walk across the bridge (did so on a recent Saturday!), but you can't drive across it. The parish closed the bridge years ago and recently put it up for sale. Bye to another piece of Gibson history.

The Walther house. The Walthers came from France and owned a general store in Gibson (not the store on Carroll Street but a different store). Unlike most of the residents of Gibson, the Walthers were Methodist, which made them an exotic species. 

Speaking of the bridge, Gibson is largely an island. It is hemmed in by Bayou Black, Donner Canal and Tiger Bayou (tigers again!). I say "largely" because there are sections of Gibson that aren't on the island, including the cemetery.  Where the church is used to be a small island. Once upon a time, Carroll Street was a channel. The channel was filled in.

Beautiful St. Patrick's Church. I don't know what it's called now, but take a peek inside if you're ever in the area. There's an organ loft and an actual confessional. 

On a recent trip to visit Nanny, I asked my mother to take me around Gibson so I could take pictures and hear the town's history. "OK," she said. "This is going to take about two minutes." And it did.

I lit a candle for my Granny, but I didn't have the 50 cent offering on me so my aunt says it didn't count.

I loved Gibson as a kid because everything was so close. The church, store and post office were just down the street. The school, cemetery and the one really grand house were across the bridge. At some point, a library was built in the parking lot of the school. Granny and Nanny (my beloved aunt who lived across the street from Granny) were ecstatic. They no longer had to wait for the bookmobile to swing through town.

Stained glass windows inside St. Patrick's. 

The church has a long history. It was first built in 1876 only to be knocked down by a hurricane. A second church was built in 1889. It, too, was knocked down by a hurricane. A third church was built in 1892. Guess what happened to it? Yep, it was knocked down by a hurricane.

The organ loft inside St. Patrick's. This church was greatly loved.

A fourth church went up. It was knocked down ... by a fire (surprised you, huh?) in 1940. So the current church dates to 1940, and it's not really St. Patrick. It's actually St. Rita, which once stood in New Orleans only to be taken apart, stained glass, pews and all, and taken to Gibson, where it was rebuilt like a set of Lincoln Logs.

The Walthers' store. It's since been moved and no longer is in Gibson. 

There are other churches in Gibson, but the most distinct one is the Methodist church. This little squat building is on the National Register. I've never stepped foot in it. I always wanted to, but Granny was convinced it was the Walthers' church and that mere Catholics weren't allowed inside. Or so she said.

Gibson's Methodist church. 

The little church has a cemetery with a really odd brick structure. I don't know what that thing is. It could be a tomb, but it has trees growing on the roof.

What the heck is this thing? 

Nowadays, the post office and a much bigger library are across the bridge near the Methodist church. The old post office is someone's house. The store is closed and crumbling - no more grabbing an orange soda and gingerbread planks. Even the house at the top of the hill that my mother and my aunt thought was haunted is gone. The old Melancon house still is there, but it's deserted and surrounded by campers.

The old store sold gingerbread planks with pink icing. It is really deteriorating.

My favorite house in Gibson was always Miss Teen's house. I once had dreams of moving Miss Teen's house, fixing it up and turning it into a writer's cabin. How cool would that be? Now there's a tree growing through Miss Teen's house so it's probably not going to happen! Teen was short for Clementine. She was friends with my Granny. I don't know much about Miss Teen other than that she was a widow who missed her husband very much.

Miss Teen's house has definitely seen better days. 

Miss Teen's husband died in 1966. She died in 1992. She had a long wait to be reunited with him. Her house was a shotgun shack. If you fired a shotgun through the front door, the bullet would go through the house and right out the back door. One room flowed into the next room. There were three main rooms: Living room, bedroom and kitchen with a bathroom tacked on right off the kitchen. What was sweet about Miss Teen's house were the added touches. There was decorative woodwork in the kitchen and a nice little porch swinging out on the side of the house.

Another gorgeous old home in Gibson. 

Gibson was named for Randall Lee Gibson whose family had several sugar plantations in the area. Randall was born in Kentucky but grew up in Louisiana. He studied at Yale and became a U.S. senator. It was Randall who convinced the townspeople to stop calling the place Tigerville. Maybe he knew the "tigers" were actually bobcats.

A beautiful bayou scene in Gibson. 

While visiting Yale's hometown of New Haven, Conn., Randall envisioned great things for Tigerville. "What will be the condition of our government when Tigerville becomes as large as New Haven and its citizens as intelligent?" he wrote.

Another Gibson home. By the way, this house looks exactly like the home Great Aunt Ethel lived in a few miles away. Even the color is the same. This was Mrs. Porche's house. She was a schoolteacher at nearby Gibson Elementary. 

No worries. Tigerville/Gibson hasn't yet become the New Haven of the South.

Another abandoned home: This used to be the Authement house. 

It's just a beautiful bayou town whose history is becoming lost as buildings are allowed to deteriorate.