Our Earth Ship

Rick and I were just dating when he decided that his next home would be underground. Anyone else would have found that strange and probably questioned why?...not me. Nope. I had my eye on Rick Broussard for some time. And while I figured that he, too, had taken a shine to me, where he or I would live was not that big a deal for me. I didn’t care, so long as we would be together.

As it became obvious that we would marry, the idea of this underground home became the center of conversation for us. I was fine with it. If he had said that we would live out our days in a tent…I would have been fine with that, too.

After we married, the house underground became a reality. Taking nearly a year to complete, we were both involved in this earth sheltered creation. Rick was more involved than me. He had spent a couple of years researching it and even toured an earth sheltered home up north somewhere.

Before construction had even started, we both hiked into the woods and marked the trail that would later become our long and winding driveway. We purposefully dodged dogwoods and sidetracked luscious fern beds.
Harold Weaver was our general contractor. This was a new venture for him but he was more than willing to oversee Louisiana’s first real underground dwelling.

Louisiana Life magazine sent one of their writers out to our construction site. Highlighted among the unusual and peculiar homes in Louisiana, we were featured even before the house was complete. The interior of the house was still incomplete but we moved in any way with our newborn son. We were fortunate to be able to both stay at home with our little boy. Rick had enough royalties coming in to cover our household expenses for nearly four years. Together we carved out an existence in the piney woods of Claiborne Parish with our little boy by our side.

We’re still living underground and loving it! We know it’s not everybody’s cup of tea but it has certainly been ours. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. It reflects our love of nature and art. Rick and I fight over wall space for my art and his photography. It’s not fancy, but neither are we.

Our forty wooded acres surround the house and past our piney stand of timber lays more wooded land. For more than thirty years we’ve seen the trees turn lime green in the spring and back to deep red in the fall. We’ve watched our little boy grow up into a man.

Our greatest moments have been when we are all sitting around our fire pit together reminiscing about life here. We created our own little world and every now and then, we let people in.

Living underground with Rick Broussard in our ‘Earth Ship’ has been a real trip!








This is the roof of our Earth Ship. The little house to the left is the entrance from the top.  We planted our first garden on the roof.

Now it holds all the transplanted bulbs and flowers from nearby abandoned housesites.

The Other Prophet

My grandfather claimed he was a prophet. He died several years ago at the age of 92. He was my father’s father. The little bit that I knew about my grandfather included only that part of him that ‘took up the cross to save our souls.’ He lived in East St. Louis, Illinois. We didn’t see much of him during my earlier years. With my father in the service, I’m assuming that it was mostly distance that kept us apart.

My first memory of my grandfather was when I was only four years old. I vaguely remember trying to talk to him about a small plastic Indian toy. I remember being so frustrated because he would not answer my questions and he wouldn’t even talk to me. It was years later when I shared that memory with my mother that she told me that it was impossible for my grandfather to understand what I was saying because I only spoke French. We returned to the States from the south of France when I was four years old and I couldn’t speak a word of English. My mother and I had spent most of our time interacting with the nuns. My mother and the nuns communicated with each other and me in French. I think it must have been a way for my mother to learn the language. She became very affluent in French.

My next memory of my grandfather was when he and my grandmother came down one summer to Louisiana to spend some time with us. My grandfather carried a little black book with him all the time. He often referred to it as the ‘other scriptures.’ He would constantly preach to us about Jesus and how he was chosen to continue his work here on Earth. On one occasion when I asked about his little black book, he shared with me that he was one of God’s prophets and these were divine words that God had shared exclusively with him. He didn’t let me see the book or read the divine words. He only spoke about it….a lot! So much so that most of us were always dodging him. It was like seeing some crazy person who was going to dominate your time repeating the same message over and over again. We dreaded when he would come to see us and we dreaded when he got up and we dreaded when we would have to sit at the dinner table and listen to his preaching.

I remember one time, I was coming around the side of the house and I unexpectedly walked up on my grandfather who thought he was having a private moment. Something that day had ticked him off and he was cussing about whatever it was. I had never heard those kinds of words come out of my grandfather’s mouth. I was shocked. He heard me gasp for air. The shock on his face and mine stopped us both in our tracks. He spent the next few minutes making up excuses for his foul language and then begged me not to tell anyone especially my grandmother. That experience gave me the upper hand. From that point on, my grandfather stopped preaching to me and actually started avoiding me. I guess he was fearful that I would spill the beans on his not-so-perfect and not-so-God-like behavior. I never told my grandmother.

I don’t know whatever happened to that little black book. But later in years, I shared that conversation with my father. Conversations with my father about his past were never encouraged or openly discussed as far as I remember. But I do remember my mother sharing with me the unfortunate childhood my father experienced at the hand of his father. She told me that my grandfather frequently beat his children and would abandon them and my grandmother on numerous occasions. My grandfather was obviously fighting with his demons. I was told that my grandfather walked out on my grandmother and their six children. I think it was six children…..obviously too many to leave during the Great Depression anyway. It seems he left them and returned some seven years later, begged forgiveness and resumed his life with my grandmother. His obsession with his religious beliefs was blamed on the death of one of their children. My mother told me that when one of their babies became ill with pneumonia and that my grandmother begged my grandfather to let her take the child to a doctor. He refused. My grandfather prayed over the child and told my grandmother that God would heal the baby. The baby died. I think my grandmother eventually forgave my grandfather for that but I know she never forgot it.

While we were really not that close to our grandparents, my memory of my grandfather is not necessarily a pleasant one. I don’t recall him ever taking us anywhere or spending time getting to know us. He was self absorbed and his obsession as God’s other prophet left us feeling empty about him and certainly not enlightened about God’s love. I think my father must have felt the same way.

What my grandfather did teach me was that real love can’t be felt in words but in actions.

Character Counts

Does character really count in the world of politics?

When I was involved in managing political campaigns, smearing the reputation and defaming the character of the other candidates was never part of the process. Times have changed. Negative campaigns and smear tactics are common place now. And that’s because it works. Sad to say, it works best for the one who can smear the other one the most. Attack ads and dirty politics means victory for the candidate who can play the dirtiest. During my early years of political campaigning, the candidate’s party affiliation was never an issue. It was about the candidate. It was about their character and their vision. That too has changed. We now have voters who don’t pull a lever in favor of one candidate over another but whether or not they have a “D” or an “R” behind their name. So, does character really count?

The last campaign I helped manage was that of State Representative Jean Doerge. One of the Political Action Groups supporting her opponent released a television commercial that attacked her character by lying about her retirement benefits and her so called ‘real’ reasons for running. The poll results for her opponent, believe it or not, began to favor him. It was suggested that she fight back or lose the race. She and I had decided early on that we would not succumb to this method of campaigning. She did not want to win this way. If she couldn’t win on her character and her record, then so be it. That was a brave statement to make. With all the pressure to fight back from her supporters, she took the high road and against all odds, she won!

This coming week the character of the candidates running for her seat will be up for public scrutiny. And we have a choice. We can allow ourselves to be swayed by the Political Action Groups invading our homes through television or mail, or we can simply vote on the candidate on the basis of their approved message.

The Louisiana Committee for Republican Majority headed up by Senator David Vitter’s wife, Wendy , launched their “Operation Clean House” campaign in 2006. Their goal was to target the remaining Democratic seats left in the State and build Republican majorities at all levels of government. One of their first targets was Representative Jean Deorge’s seat. The LCRM produced and distributed the insulting piece of campaign trash that hit households in Webster Parish recently just in time for the first round of voting in the election for a new District 10 State Representative. Some voters were outraged. Others were influenced by it as the approval rating for the candidate they were supporting gained in the polls.

What concerns me about Wendy Vitter and her committee’s push for majority rule is that no matter what party affiliation you align yourself with, full control and any kind of majority rule is not healthy. I for one do not want an all-Republican state government nor an all-Democratic state government. (Remembering that:Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.)

The attack ads and the slandering messages against a particular candidate or movement won’t end this coming week. In fact, this is just the beginning. There will be a new wave of propaganda and manipulation coming our way on the national level. Get ready. I would like to caution everyone to beware of any message delivered by any political action group or Super Pac.

With congress’ overall approval rating less than 10%, I think it’s safe to say that it’s time we all woke up and did our own homework. Leaving the issues up to our elected officials to explain to us isn’t working. They’re not listening to us. They’re not listening because they don’t have to, especially after they get elected. You see they know what we all should know…and that is that 98% of all incumbents win. While those percentages have gone down slightly, the odds are still in their favor and we’re to blame.

Bumps in the Road

I was only seventeen when I graduated from Doyline in 1969. I registered at Louisiana Tech University for the fall quarter that same year. I moved into my dorm room at Pearce Hall that summer. Being the over achiever that I am, I ran for dorm president and won. Now that I look back, it was an easy win because nobody really wanted the job. But I was proud I got it and I was eager to serve.

My major was in advertising design and most of my early classes were all art classes. I took drawing and design and made A’s in everything art related. General studies was another story. The last real art class I took was when I lived in France. I really didn’t have much experience in technique but I did have a natural talent that came through in my drawings and design work.

I signed up for my first painting class. I had never painted before other than a few watercolors and tempera paintings when I was in the 7th grade. But I was eager to see how I would do since I had done so well in all my other art classes. I don’t remember the teacher’s name but he was a young teacher. Every Tuesday and Thursday mornings at 7:30am, I would drag myself out of bed to make my way to the studio. I was so eager to learn.

On the first week, it was obvious which students had come from schools with an arts curriculum. They knew instantly what to do and how to do it. I on the other hand had to ask questions. Lots of questions. My eagerness to do well spilled over into my off time. I spent many hours painting. I didn’t miss any classes. I turned in all my assignments. But I could tell that there was something wrong. When it came time to critique our work, the teacher never seemed to like what I did. He was very drawn to the students in class whose work seemed more contemporary and abstract. I didn’t know how to paint that way.

At the end of the quarter, my teacher called me into his office. We had all turned in our portfolios. I had no clue as to what was going to happen next. I entered his office. He was sitting behind his desk. The window behind his desk was open and you could see the students walking across campus. I remember sitting on the other side of his desk and looking out the window out of embarrassment. I couldn’t look him in the eye and I was feeling very anxious about what he was going say.

He opened his grade book and said “You have an F in my class.” He said it so matter of fact and without any feeling. I was speechless. He went on to say that because I had attended every class, he was going to change it to a D. I was stunned. “I’m really not sure why you’re even in college,” he told me. “You have absolutely no talent.” That was all he said to me that day but it was enough. I went back to my dorm and sobbed.

It was the last quarter of my first year. It was time to go home for the summer. I packed up my belongings to spend the summer at home. I never told my parents about that incident. I was so embarrassed. I spent my summer at home and when it came time to register for the next year, I told my parents I had decided not to go. I dropped out of college and that September accepted a proposal of marriage.

It would be nearly ten years before I ever picked up another paint brush. Neither my spirit nor my self esteem was strong enough to overcome those words. ….”you have absolutely no talent.”

I have told my students that story because I don’t want them to allow anyone to steal their dreams. And I tell all my sweet art students that there is NO BAD ART, JUST BAD ATTITUDES. I want them to be fearless with their creations and confident that they can do it. It might not be perfect. It might not be an award winning piece. But it is their creation and it is their artistic expression and that’s all that counts!

I love teaching art. I don’t have a degree. But over the years of teaching art at The Children’s Center, I have developed a teaching technique that works. Many of my students have gone on to win awards for their art and so have I. And while that experience with my college art teacher was sad. It was just one of many bumps in the road.

To teach children how to love art and provide them with the opportunity to experience the joys of creative expression is my dream now!

Lost Innocence

I was six years old when I was molested. My father was in the military and we had moved from Okinawa to Kentucky. My mother had family there and we went to live near them. We moved into a house at the top of a hill and at the end of a little dirt road. There was only one other house at the end of the road. An older gentlemen lived there alone. A widower, I think. He lived in a one room house just across the road from our home.

My mother had her hands full with four children. My father was serving a tour of duty in Korea. I was the oldest of four children. My sister was one year younger than me and my little brother and little sister were just toddlers. It was not uncommon for my mother to send me and my sister off to the old man’s house while she put the little ones down for a nap. I remember the one room house that the old man lived in. It had a wood burning stove at one end where he would parch corn. We loved to smell the corn roasting on that old stove. I remember laughing with my sister when the old man would pull out his false teeth. We thought that was so funny. He didn’t seem to mind us hanging around. And I enjoyed the attention since there didn’t seem to be a whole lot to go around with my father gone and my mother trying to manage us and the smaller members of our family.

I guess I didn’t recognize what was going on with me and the old man until I saw him turn his attention to my little sister. I thought it was peculiar and something just didn’t feel right. It was hard for me understand what was going on but I felt it was wrong. I knew I couldn’t tell my mom because then she wouldn’t have anyone to watch us while the babies slept. My brain was exploding with questions and fears. I remember it was in December and very cold out. The snow was taller than me. I was angry at my mother or maybe I was just angry. But I remember going outside in the bitter cold and looking up at the big blue sky and looking for clouds that looked like my grandmother. I didn’t know my grandmother but I just figured she was in heaven. I started talking to her and asking her to tell Jesus that we needed some help. We needed to get out of here.

We woke up early on December 21st. It was my birthday. My mom was getting us all dressed up to go into town. We were in the kitchen and she was tying my shoes when she noticed smoke in the kitchen. She ran outside and spotted smoke trailing from the attic above the kitchen. She yelled at us to bring her some water and she sent me over to tell the old man to alert the fire department. The rest of the day was kind a blur for me. I know that we probably ended up at my Aunt Bertha’s house. She lived across the hollow from us. The fire was extinguished before too much damage was done to the house.

We stayed with my Aunt Bertha that night, I imagine. That evening when everything had settled down, my mom came into our bedroom and sat on the edge of my bed. She seemed worn out. She apologized to me that we had not had a chance to celebrate my birthday and she had not been able to buy me a birthday present. I told her it was alright. In my mind, I had gotten what I had asked for. I was hiding the fact that I was happy about the fire. I was happy because that meant that we couldn’t live in a burned out house and we would surely have to move. And that would take us away from that old man.

We did move and I never thought about that old man until nearly 30 years later when I was conducting a ‘watch out for strangers’ lesson series for the children at The Children’s Center. The video was for children but it was also a teaching tool for caretakers. It detailed how to tell if someone in your care might be a victim of child abuse. I watched the video with the children and at the end of the show, the memory of that moment in my life flooded my consciousness.

Looking back, I guess my little brain deduced that all was well because Jesus set the house on fire so we could move. And no one else was harmed.

We all need to keep a watchful eye out for our children and our neighbor's children. There are programs in place to help you identify the sex offenders in your community. Use it. Call the Sheriff's Department if you have any concerns.

The Last House

I was about 27 years old when I decided that I would be the Minden Civitan’s Toys for Tots chairman. Judy Talley and I were the first females to join the all male group back then. The Toys for Tots campaign at that time accepted used toys that the volunteers would refurbish for poor children. I had decided that was not acceptable. I would make the challenge for the community to step up and donate NEW toys and/or money so we could purchase new toys.

I had also learned that the Minden City Police played Santa and all the deliveries to the needy children of Minden were delivered in cop cars by city cops. I thought that was unacceptable, too. A cop didn’t need to deliver toys to these kids. How scary, I thought. And not to take away from the generosity of our city cops who were more than willing to do this wonderful deed….I just felt that a real person needed to do it. Well, need-less-to-say, I bite off more than I could chew.

I was successful in raising more money that year than any previous year. And I had decided that I would selfishly deliver these gifts to the needy. We had our fund drive. The toys were purchased. The girl gifts were wrapped in one kind of Christmas paper and the boys were wrapped in another. The names were submitted and our committee met to divide up the toys and bag them up in black garbage bags for delivery. The Minden city cops were ready to pick them up and make their deliveries when I informed them that I would be doing it. They were surprised but offered to help if I got in a pinch.

I was young, naïve and ambitious. I thought I could do this myself. I set out that day and piled what I could in my car for the first round of deliveries. I had a little trouble locating the houses from the address list. I was not familiar at all with the black section of town. I did have enough sense to locate a city map and mark off my journey. But it didn’t take me long to see what a challenge this was going to be.

I made my way to the homes in the poor district of town. I was fearless. It was late at night and this was Christmas. I knocked on door after door and handed the grateful recipient their black bag of goodies. Everyone was so gracious and so grateful.

But I had more gifts to deliver this year than any previous year. On my second load, it was getting quite dark and I was worried that I might not have enough time to make all the deliveries. I was at an intersection when a friend of mine waved me down. It was Thelda Harris and her husband. I had worked with Thelda through the Community Action Center. She was a well known professional in the black community and she and I had become good friends. She obviously wondered what I was doing ‘in that side of town’ and asked what I was up to. I explained that I was delivering toys to the needy. She and her husband immediately offered to help me. By this time, I was worried about getting everything delivered. I took her up on her offer.

Thelda and her husband took half of the stash I had in my car and we went over my list of recipients and carefully divided up everything according to areas. She and her husband took off to make their deliveries and I set out to finish the ones on my list.

I was wrapping up my deliveries and every door that I knocked on I was met by a very appreciative mother or grandmother who thanked me and blessed me. And in each case, the recipient was far more in need than I had perceived.

I had one more name on my list. It was in an area of town that I was unfamiliar with. I pulled over and turned on my overhead light and looked for the road on my map. Even today, I couldn’t tell you where it was but it was out there and at the end of a long dirt road.

It was after midnight and I was wondering if I could get away with not delivering this last one. Would they really know? Would they really care? My guilt got the best of me and I set out to find this last house on my list.

I finally made it to the last house. It was nearly 1 AM. I had wondered if they would even still be up at this late hour. I thought that if all the lights were out, I would just place the bag on the front step and hope that they would find it in the morning.

I drove up to the house, or trailer, I should say. The lights were still on. I was hoping that the lights would be off so I could just set the bag down and go home….finally. I was so tired and I just wanted to go home. This job was more than I had bargained for.

I walked up to the door and knocked. A young woman came to the door and was surprised to see me, of course. I immediately told her who I was so she would not be alarmed. “Hello, my name is Chris. I am the Civitan's Toys for Tots Chairman and I’m here to make a delivery.” She did something I wasn’t ready for. She invited me in. I had not entered a single home. I just made my deliveries and said Merry Christmas and I was on my way. “Oh no, thank you." "Please, please come in,” she insisted.

I stepped up into the trailer and in front of me stood a lighted Christmas tree. I made my way in and she offered me a chair. I sat down and immediately said, “I can’t stay. It’s late and I’m sure you want to go to bed and I have to go to work in the morning.” She was so gracious and it was as though she hadn’t heard a single thing I said. She immediately went into thanking me while her eyes were filling up with tears. “I can’t thank you enough for coming,” she said. “We lost our home in a fire. We lost everything." She went on to explain to me why she was up at this hour. She explained that she was a single Mom and she had submitted her son’s name for consideration for the Toys for Tots long after the deadline. As it got later, she realized that maybe she was too late. And she was still up because she was trying to figure out what she was going to tell her little boy when he woke up in the morning to see that they had no presents under the tree.

While she was telling me about her unfortunate circumstances, I happened to glance over at the little Christmas tree in the corner. There were no presents. She kept thanking me and calling me her Christmas angel.

I’ll be honest. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I was so over taken by my emotions that all I could think about was getting home so I could cry. I gave the lady a hug and wished her a Merry Christmas. I finally made it home. I was exhausted. I cried myself to sleep.

I haven’t shared this story with anyone until today mainly because I didn’t want it to come off boastful. But I realized while writing these blogs how much our early decisions in life dictate what paths we choose. We all have so many things to be thankful for and it’s easy to get wrapped up in our own little world and forget that there is another one out there. The number of poor people is growing in our country and in our own community. Whatever their circumstances are, I don’t think it is for us to judge. But I do think that we should not forget them!

I am still friends with Thelda Harris and I love her dearly. Merry Christmas Mr. and Mrs. Harris!

The Minden Civitans still sponsor the annual Toys for Tots and deserve a great deal of thanks for all they do for this community.

Duty Calls!

Another great memory from summers at the Children’s Center also took place at Lake Bistineau State Park. Our regular summer routine included taking the children to the swimming pool at State Park #2 every Tuesday and Thursday. We would separate at the front door of the pool area and each would go their respective ways. Girls in the girl’s dressing room. Boys in the boys. Most of our children were between the ages of 5 and 12. And it was common place for the older kids to assist the younger ones. They were all pretty good about that.

On this day, we were all lined out. We established a pretty effective routine. Our lifejackets were all assigned. Everyone was sun screened and checked off. The towels were all hung on the fence and all the supervisors had taken their positions around the pool. We were ready for a day in the sun.

The pool had some really terrific lifeguards. They were mainly young high school students from the area. It wasn’t unusual for us to bring some extra sandwiches for the lifeguards. We had established a pretty good rapport with them and as a result they were very attentive to our children.

One of the female lifeguards came out of the girl’s room and walked over to me. I was standing at the shallow end of the pool settling an argument over whose turn it was to play with the pool toys. The lifeguard walked up to me and said, “Mrs. Chris, one of your girls needs you in the bathroom.” I thanked her and made my way to the bathroom. At first I thought it must be one of our younger ones having problems with their bathing suit.

I entered the changing room and gently called out, “Hello! Who’s in here?” No answer. So, I walked into the bathroom area and still didn’t see anyone. “Hello, is anyone in here?” I looked under the stall doors and didn’t see any feet. Whoever it was must have taken care of it. I was about to leave and I heard a meek little voice say……”I’m here.” I turned around and walked back near the stalls trying to see where it came from. “Who’s is that?” I said. “It’s me, Hannah.” I bent down to look under the stalls again and still didn’t see any feet. “Hannah, where are you?” I said “Right here.” While she was talking I opened the door to all the stalls. “Right where, baby, I can’t see you.” There she was in the last stall. Hannah was barely five years old. She was one of our new kids. She was a tiny blonde headed cute little thing.
“What’s the problem, honey?” I said.
“I pooped.”
“Okay, that’s nice. So?”
“I need you to wipe me.”
“What? You are kidding me, right?”
“No, mam. My Momma wipes my butt.”
“Well, that’s great but I’m not your momma, Honey. You can’t do that yourself?”
“No, mam.”
“Now Hannah, you are a big girl now and you need to do big girls things.”
Hannah began to whimper. “Please, Mrs. Chris, wipe my butt . I can’t do it.”

A hundred things went through my mind in those few minutes while I was taking my best shot at convincing her that this was something she needed to do herself. I didn't want her to see but my gag mechanism was on high alert. Once I realized I wasn’t getting through, I wondered how in the world I was going to do this. Other than my own child, this was not something I was accustomed to. I pondered it for a second and then it occurred to me. ‘Wait a minute, I own the Center. That makes me the boss….. I don’t have to do this. …..I have people! …..I know, I’ll get one of my people to do this.’ I was so proud of myself. I was so proud that I had figured this out. I always told my employees that I would never have them do anything that I wasn’t willing to do myself. And while that was all true everything changed for me at this moment because I was the boss….thank goodness.

I told Hannah to hold on that someone would be in shortly to help her. I told her not to worry that we would take care of this. I exited the girl’s bathroom and made my way to the area where all the supervisors were sitting. Julie Vogel was the first one who acknowledged that something might be wrong. I’m sure I had ‘a look’ on my face. She looked up at me and said ‘Is everything okay, Mrs. Chris?” She had no idea what was awaiting her in the girl’s bathroom. Julie was a great employee. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do if I asked her. She was always so attentive to the kids and she was great about anticipating situations and taking charge. I knew that she was the one to do this and I knew that she would be thoughtful of Hannah.

“Yes, hon would you go check on Hannah? I told her.“ She is in the girl’s bathroom.” I was sure that Julie was thinking the same thing I was. …that Hannah was just having bathing suit problems. “Sure” she said. Julie jumped up and made her way to the bathroom.

I took her seat at the pool and waited for the end results. No pun intended. After several minutes Hannah emerged from the girl’s bathroom. She was all smiles and she stopped to put her lifejacket on and then jumped in the pool. Julie came out after her. There was no expression on her face. I had thought to myself, “Gee, she took that well.” She made her way over to us and sat down in one of the lawn chairs. She still didn’t say anything. I was surprised that she wasn’t willing to share that experience. We never kept anything from each other when it came to the kids. A few minutes passed and I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Are you mad at me?”

“You knew?” she said surprisingly. “Well, yea!” She glared at me while waiting for an explanation. “ I own the Center…… I have people……I have you!….. And I don’t do butts!”
I can’t tell you what she called me but it’s sufficient to say that it wasn’t complimentary. We both busted out laughing. She took it like the champ she is.

Years would pass and we would retell that story and laugh. Respectfully, of course. Once I retired, I sold the Children’s Center to Julie. She’s the boss now and I have it on good authority that she ‘doesn’t do butts’ either.

Hannah would spend many years at the Children’s Center with us and some of our favorite stories are centered on her. She was a very unique little girl. She was creative. She was different and we absolutely loved her.

Jewels in the Sun

When I founded The Children’s Center some twenty five years ago, I had no idea the amount of joy that would come from this experience. There were so many wonderful children that passed through the doors of the Children’s Center and they left me with some of the most wonderful memories and hilarious stories. (Some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent.)

One summer stands out in my mind. We always carried the kids to Lake Bistineau State Park in Doyline.…Just a couple of miles from where I grew up. The park had a great swimming pool area. It seemed that only the locals knew about this place. We basically had the pool to ourselves most of the time. The swimming pool was situated right on the lake. We spent many summers there swimming and fishing with the kids.

On one of our trips, we set up the row of lawn chairs. Julie and I and a couple of other supervisors would position ourselves around the center of the pool so we would have access to both ends of the pool. They had lifeguards there but we always watched our own.

We settled in. Everyone was sun screened. The kid’s life jackets were all assigned. All the towels were draped over the fence behind us. We took our positions. We were sitting in our chairs and enjoying the sun and enjoying the banter of the kids in the pool.

There was a diving board on the deep end. The kids had to pass our swimming test before they could enter the deep water and be allowed to dive off the diving board. There was one little guy, Jimmy. He was a pretty good swimmer for his age. He successfully passed our swimming test and was ready to venture out into the deep end. He was so proud. This little kid was short and a little stocky. He had blonde hair, almost white.

Now, the thing to note here is that the pool had strict rules. And one of those rules was that no cut offs and no shorts were allowed. Only appropriate swim wear was allowed. Jimmy loved to swim, obviously. But he and his older brother Mike were notorious for showing up on swim day without proper attire. And this day was no exception. We found swimming trunks for Mike but we couldn’t find anything for Jimmy. Jimmy was devastated. As luck would have it, Jimmy showed up that day in a pair of shorts that for all practical purposes looked like swim wear. We decided that we would take our chances.

All the kids were required to dress back into their dry clothes before entering the van to go back to the Center. With no change of clothes for Jimmy, we decided that we would let him wear his shorts and leave his underwear in his backpack. He then had to agree to sit out for thirty minutes before leaving so his shorts could dry out. He agreed.
Now that everyone was happy and all problems solved, Jimmy was headed for the diving board. His little chest was poked out and he was just so excited to finally make it to the ‘big kid’s area.’ Jimmy climbed up on the diving board and walked to the end. “Hey, Ms. Chris, watch!” Jimmy made his first jump off the board. I waited for his head to pop back up so I could praise him. “Great job, Jimmy!”

Jimmy stood in line again. He made his way to the end of the board and hollered again, “Hey, Ms. Chris watch this!” I watched. This time he did the splits before entering the water. By this time, we had all decided we had gotten by the watchful eye of the lifeguards who were already turning kids away who were not in proper swimwear. We were worried about Jimmy. While he made another big jump on the end of the board, I noticed something was wrong. There was something amiss with his shorts. As Jimmy swam to the side of the pool and hoisted his little body up, I looked him over and couldn’t see anything.

Jimmy spent the entire day on that diving board. After a while we gave our attention to the other children swimming. While glancing around I saw that Jimmy was on the diving board again and about to make his now famous split- legged jump. He had learned to jump even higher now. He sprang off the board, split his legs and hollered as he hit the water. What was that? I thought. Something didn’t look right. Something was hanging from his shorts. I turned to Julie and told her to watch Jimmy to see if she could tell what was up with his shorts.

Jimmy made his way to the end of the board. He was so excited because now he had the attention of Ms Julie and Ms Chris. Jimmy jumped up and split his legs. Yep, Julie saw it, too. “Is that what I think it is?” Julie asked. “I think so.” Before we could converse about what we thought it was, Jimmy was up on the diving board again. “Hey, Ms. Chris, Ms. Julie, watch!” And watch we did. This time our eyes were focused on his crotch area. “Houston, we have a problem.”

Instantaneously Julie and I both saw it. “Are those the families jewels I see?” Julie said. It seems that Jimmy shorts had a hole in the crotch area and because he had left his underwear off, things started to find their way out of the hole. “Surely, he can feel that when he hits the water,” I said. We watched his face as he surfaced and made his way over to the edge of the pool to pull himself out of the water. By this time all our eyes were on him and his reaction. We looked closely to see if others could see what we saw, especially the lifeguards. No one seemed to be paying attention.

We knew we had to do something quick. We didn’t want to embarrass him for sure. We called his brother Mike over. Instead of being direct with the situation, we asked Mike to watch Jimmy jump off the board. We instructed him to watch him closely. “What is that?” Mike blurted out. “Guess?” we said. “Oh, no!” Mike said. We instructed Mike that he needed to take Jimmy into the boy’s bathroom and fix the situation before the lifeguards and the other kids caught on.

Jimmy and Mike made their way to the bathroom. Mike had his arm around his little brother and he guided him into the boy’s bathroom. Jimmy did not go without a fight. After several minutes, both boys emerged from the boy’s bathroom. Jimmy immediately jumped in the pool and made his way to the deep end again. Mike made his way over to us. “Don’t worry,” Mike told us. “Jimmy put his underwear back on. We’re good to go.” Jimmy never forgot his swimming trunks again.

The Silenced Minority

I am poking my chicken head out of my cage a little more on this post. I’m hopeful that my earlier posts will give my followers a better understanding of who I am so they’ll be kinder when I reveal this part of myself. I am coming out of the political closet. Yes, I am a liberal!....... a sorry liberal in most circles. I am a big time underground-screaming-in -private liberal.

For years I have watched what I’ve said in public. I’ve tried to keep a low profile, politically speaking. But I’ve been a coward of sorts. I didn’t stand up and defend President Clinton when the nation was crucifying him for accepting a private gesture of intimacy and then lying about it. It seemed everyone around me was outraged by his actions and ready to pounce on anyone that didn’t agree. So, I kept quiet. So, when a local congressman solicited a gesture of intimacy and lied about it, I thought “ah ha!” But then he was forgiven and re elected. So, I kept quiet.

When I owned the Children’s Center, I tried so hard not to let my personal political stands spill over onto the kids. I felt it was a family matter. I remember one general election when the children at Richardson were having a mock election. I went to pick up the children from school the day of their mock election. I was waiting in line and the first of the younger group were making their way to the van. I noticed one of the children was crying. I immediately got out of the van to comfort her. I escorted her to the van and inquired as to why she was crying. Had someone hurt her feelings? Had someone hit her? “What happened?” She couldn’t stop crying long enough to answer any of my questions. Finally, I told her that when she was ready to talk, I was here for her.

We made our way to the Center and it was obvious that she didn’t want to say anything in front of the other children. It seems this was going to be a delicate subject. We arrived at the Center and I escorted her to my office where we could talk in private. She went on to explain that they had mock elections at school today. “Yes, I know. So?” It seems that when they stopped to count the votes for Bush and Kerry, she was the only one that voted for Kerry. “Ok, that’s nice. So why is that bad?” I asked. “Well it wasn’t except that the kids started making fun of me and teasing me for not voting for Bush,” she told me. I let her talk and she went on to explain that the teasing got so bad that she started to cry in class. “What did your teacher do?” I asked. “She agreed with the class and she didn’t make them stop because she was for Bush, too.” I assured her that her vote was important even if it wasn’t the majority and that it was important that she stand up for her right to vote for whomever she wanted and sometimes in doing so, she was going to have to fight for that right and stand her ground.

I am taking my own advice. I have allowed myself to become the silenced minority. Not anymore. We need to open our minds and our hearts to other mindsets and other points of view so that we can meet somewhere in the middle and unite our country again.

“Now I know why the caged bird sings!