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Post by Deleted on Jan 27, 2016 13:53:13 GMT
That sounds so very cool Kimby.
This particular closet that I refer to was very deep and then made a turn under the stairs. This made it especially private. One had to pass through two fairly long racks of clothes, mostly coats which made for great camoflage.
I have wondered what children growing up in New Orleans chose as a substitute for closet hiding. The vast majority of homes in New Orleans don't have closets They were considered "rooms" therefore taxed as such so people resorted to armoires. Not very roomy at all.
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Post by Kimby on Jan 27, 2016 20:18:36 GMT
Unless they were connected to a secret world like in "The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe"'
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Post by Kimby on Jan 27, 2016 23:05:07 GMT
We watched "Spy", a funny and well-crafted sendup of James Bond crossed with Homeland. Starring Melissa McCarthy, and a well-cast ensemble. We liked it in the same way we liked Team America: World Police. Both films poke fun in enjoyable ways.
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Post by Deleted on Feb 26, 2017 21:15:01 GMT
One memory that has rattled around in my brain for a big part of my life dates back to when I was about 10 years old. One night my biological father was taking my big brother floundering in the shallows of the Gulf of Mexico. I don't remember if it was decided that I was too small to join them or if I had been asked and said I did not want to go. So I was with my mother that evening "out on the town" (Gulfport, MS!) and her duty (?) was to entertain me until the others finished. There was a wonderful movie playing in town, but it was not really the sort of movie that interested her. Nevertheless, she asked me "would you like for us to go and play bingo at St. John's or would you like to see King Kong vs. Godzilla? Even at that age, I knew what she was hoping I would say, but I said "I want to see King Kong vs. Godzilla!" And so that's what we did. It was wonderful, at least I thought so. But from the day after that fabulous movie to this day in 2017, I still feel guilty about subjecting her to that. It's amazing what (some) parents will do to please their children.
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Post by bixaorellana on Feb 27, 2017 3:04:37 GMT
Now that you're an adult yourself, you know that adults can give themselves over to hokey movies if they have to, plus your mother must have been tickled to afford you such a perfect pleasure. You obviously learned from her how to do things you didn't care to do just because it was nice for someone else. So ~ time to forgive yourself!
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Post by Deleted on Mar 3, 2017 15:58:29 GMT
Several years ago we had a good friend who lived in the French Quarter in a really cool apartment on Royal Street.
One Mardi Gras while we were out and about we went by her place and "took a load off', ate, kicked back and visited for a stretch.
While we were there our friend was unable to find her cat who was an indoor kitty and she was really worried that the cat might have slipped out with all the comings and goings. Her boyfriend made a really insensitive remark and while I can excuse him to some degree as he had imbibed a bit too much, it only heightened her anxiety. He said, "for all we know the cat is dead, lying out in the street with all the other debris, so there's really not much else you can do but just wait and see if it comes back". Well, the cat did come back.
The next day, Ash Wednesday, I got a call from my friend who asked me if I could go over to her boyfriend's house and retrieve a bag and bury it in my yard. The boyfriend had spent the night at her apartment and upon returning home early the next morning to get ready to go to work found his cat dead on the rear deck of his house not far from where we live. He was devastated and because he did not have any yard to speak of wanted for me to bury "Jake" in our yard.
So, off I went on my bicycle and put the bag containing his dead cat in my basket and rode it home to bury.
It was so surreal. The nearby Catholic church was just letting out from the Ash Wednesday services, all these people with ashen smudges on their foreheads, and me with a dead cat in my bike basket riding past.
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Post by bixaorellana on Mar 3, 2017 17:39:37 GMT
What a story, Casimira! You could easily work that up into a great short story, with its Joy Williams + Walker Percy vibe. Wow.
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Post by Deleted on Mar 3, 2017 18:24:32 GMT
What a story, Casimira! You could easily work that up into a great short story, with its Joy Williams + Walker Percy vibe. Wow. Thanks Bixa. I had to look up Joy Williams but, flattered enough to have anything resembling the likes of any association with Walker Percy. My friend went on to marry this same man. Mind you, after the incident, burial and all, it was never spoken of. He never thanked me, neither T. or I ever brought it up nor did she. We ran into the two of them on this past Mardi Gras and the memory was triggered. In the back of my head I, in some kind of albeit twisted way,I wanted to say, "remember the time...?" But I refrained and for good reason obviously.(BTW,.my friend always had poor taste when it came to her choice of men.)
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Post by lagatta on Mar 4, 2017 3:41:16 GMT
I'd have broken up with him over that; however if I had any lawn or garden, I suppose I'd have permitted burial of the cat. Not the cat's fault. People don't have to be animal lovers, but I have always found those who make callous comments about those who are a bit unhinged.
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Post by kerouac2 on Mar 5, 2018 22:13:33 GMT
I remember learning about spontaneous combustion in school and how weird it seemed, even though it was mostly about damp hay igniting in a barn or something. And then they said it could actually happen to fat people. I think they were just trying to freak us out.
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Post by Kimby on Mar 6, 2018 0:18:41 GMT
That reminds me of reading one of my Dad’s magazines called “True: A Man’s Magazine”. It was not a girly magazine but a sensationalized version of Sports Afield. There were scary “true life” stories about being trapped in quicksand, or attacked by crocodiles or Kodiak bears, etc., but the one that really got to me was about spontaneous human combustion.
One of the examples told of a man watching his housekeeper sweep the kitchen when her back ignited. He beat out the fire and got her into a bathtub to make sure it was really out. Then he put her in pajamas and into bed. When he checked on her later, there was only a pile of ashes between the sheets!
That gave me nightmares for weeks.
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Post by questa on Mar 6, 2018 2:45:51 GMT
When I heard about people spontaneously igniting, it was just at the time the local panel beater's business burnt down, I stood with the other kids across the road from the fire and heard one fireman say to a man near me, "It was a case of spontaneous combustion... Someone left some polishing rags in a pile near the door, The chemicals in the rags and draught did the rest". I wasn't afraid but utterly fascinated by the idea of it all and kept asking teachers if cows could ignite...or if you were on a boat, would jumping into the water put out the fire...still looking for answers.
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Post by kerouac2 on Mar 9, 2018 20:22:13 GMT
When I was little, my mother had a battered old coffee pot filled with every kind of button imaginable. There weren't really any charity bins back then and anyway, by the time old clothing was discarded it was not in any condition to be passed on to anyone. But the buttons were always saved. When I would get bored, my mother would give me a needle with a big thread to string up as many buttons as possible. It's amazing what can keep a child occupied.
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Post by whatagain on Mar 10, 2018 20:47:47 GMT
Last time I strung buttons was in Shanghai, waiting for my flight, I restrung 4 buttons on my coat. Three correctly one not, so that the coat would have a bulge. I htne lost the coat, must have been an enchanted one.
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Post by questa on Mar 14, 2018 6:01:01 GMT
This is a weird thing that happened to me and if anyone can explain it, I'd be grateful.
When I was about 4 years old I had to have my tonsils out. My parents took me to the small private hospital, owned by 2 doctors where they did small ops. After demonstrating on my doll how the ether mask would let me go to sleep, my face was covered and I was out to it. Just as I dozed off I dreamed I saw the scene from the top step of the hospital entrance. North of the hospital was mainly sand hills and beach and a few buildings but what astonished me was a pipe with large flames blasting out of if. It seemed miles away but the flame just kept burning until I woke up all blurry.
Jump forward and I was 17 years old. It was my first time back to my village and had driven 2 friends there. It was now a busy town with industry and tourism big deal. My friends wanted to see some '20s architecture so I drove to the old hospital. It had been demolished and an 8 storey building stood there in its place. My friends wanted to see the view so I went with them up the fire escape stairs. On the roof, I looked at the view and my stomach clenched. Just a few miles away, Caltex had built an oil refinery and the customary burning gas flame was in full view, just as I had dreamed, flaring across the sand hills.
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Post by Kimby on Mar 14, 2018 12:43:15 GMT
Cool, Twilight Zone-y story, Questa.
Did the doctors say anything had gone “wrong” during your anesthesia? Maybe you had a near-death experience?
Was the refinery built at the time of your surgery, or since then? The practical me wants to know.
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Post by Kimby on Mar 14, 2018 12:54:55 GMT
What a story, Casimira! You could easily work that up into a great short story, with its Joy Williams + Walker Percy vibe. Wow. Image issues, STILL? I thought you’d figured it out, bixa?
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Post by kerouac2 on Mar 14, 2018 13:25:46 GMT
The little helper has to try to restore the missing smileys one by one when he has a little time.
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Post by questa on Mar 15, 2018 4:17:14 GMT
Kimby, I could almost hear the theme..doo-dee-doo-doo as I typed!
Tonsils out 1945-6, I left town (Cronulla) 1955 Refinery opened about 1957. I visited and saw the gas flame about 1960 Anesthesia was a simple ether mask, a quick and safe way to whip kids tonsils and adenoids out. Takes about 10 minutes and I was awake quickly.
Refinery built about 10 years after the tonsils bit. I just Google mapped. If you key in Kurnell NSW it will show a peninsular with the refinery. Then look for Cronulla NSW to your left and down. I am guessing that the hospital was on one of the bigger blocks near 'Cronulla Golf'. Remember I was looking across sand dunes which today are covered with bushes.
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Post by Kimby on Mar 15, 2018 12:56:55 GMT
And that’s the only episode of any sort of premonitions or visions you ever had? Or are you a closet witch? 😊
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Post by questa on Mar 16, 2018 0:18:55 GMT
Only "observation and deduction" stuff. The sort where you unconsciously notice something and this knowledge enables you to arrive at a conclusion that seems inexplicable. Also called a gut feeling or women's intuition. A great asset for a nurse. You can have all the qualifications in the world but if you are an 'intuitive' in your field you're gold. So, Kimby, nothing to indicate any ESP or magic. I am waiting for the quantum physicists to come up with a time travel apparatus that may have given me a minute a few years before it was due.
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Post by kerouac2 on Apr 9, 2018 17:35:48 GMT
I was wondering about people's oldest "guilty" memory from childhood. Mine dates from 1st grade (age 6) when there was a school outing regarding which we were supposed to bring a bag lunch. My mother prepared a sandwich or whatever, maybe even a hard boiled egg too, something she knew I liked, and added an orange for dessert. She had cut the peel with a knife to visually quarter it, because she knew that six year old fingers find it difficult to peel a big orange without a little assistance. I was quite happy with the contents of my bag. We had our lunch. I remember that it was in a music kiosk in a park in Hattiesburg, Mississippi because we had moved there for six months so that my mother could get her teaching degree from the university there, her studies having been interrupted by WW2. As we were all finishing our sandwiches, the group leader gave us all ice cream as a dessert. I was thrilled, but there was no way that I could also eat the orange. So I threw it away, the orange on which my mother had lovingly performed minor surgery just to improve my day. I felt guilty when I threw it in the trash, and that feeling has never left me after all these years. When I think of all of the stuff that I throw out now (even though I never like to do things like that), I find it rather incredible that this memory still haunts me.
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Post by bixaorellana on Apr 10, 2018 2:27:40 GMT
I can remember the first thing I was supposed to feel guilty for. My grandmother, who totally coddled me, smacked me because I hit my little brother. Far from feeling guilty, I only felt shock that I wasn't allowed to do whatever I wanted with him. After all, I was the first, the only real child. What did he matter and what was he there for?
The first pure guilt I can remember is for breaking something. I was in the guest bathroom of our house when I was around six and fooling with a little square blue ceramic dish my mother had in there. I managed to drop the top and break the little flower on top. I cried and cried, even though my mother said it didn't matter.
I have to say, Kerouac. Your guilt over that orange is deserved guilt.
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Post by Deleted on Apr 10, 2018 15:55:13 GMT
Being the only girl and the youngest of four I was subjected to having to wear girly dresses. I hated it. I was a tom boy and wanted to be out playing with the boys. I can remember my mother saying, "you better not get that dress dirty" in a stern voice.
Well, one Sunday while at the farm with a white dress on, sailor collar and all (oh how I hated that particular dress), went outside to join in with the boys. I intentionally got the dress dirty. I knew from having watched my mother try to get grass stains out that they were what I was going to go for in a big way. I rubbed the fabric of that dress in the grass as hard as I could. By the time I was finished it was a mess. When I returned to the house and saw the look on my mother's face I knew I was in for it. I tried pleading with her that it was an accident but she didn't buy it. I had gone so overboard it was obvious that it was intentional. She laid a guilt trip on me beyond all others. We didn't have a whole lot of money in those days and she let me know that, she called me "a little ingrate" and I got the silent treatment from her for about a week. (to me that was the worst form of punishment there was). I was also prohibited from going out to play with the boys for about a month, an eternity it seemed.
I
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Post by bixaorellana on Apr 10, 2018 16:37:38 GMT
Wow ~ you really paid for your sin that time, Casimira! I don't know why people make kids wear things they hate. I have a memory from when I was around four and my parents bought me an Easter hat. I didn't get the one I wanted, but instead one I really, really didn't want and went through the store crying about it and begging them to buy the other one. My dad mimicked my crying! There is an Easter photo of me and my brother. He is smiling at the camera and I have my patented disgusted look on my little face, undoubtedly because I'm wearing the hated hat.
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Post by kerouac2 on Apr 10, 2018 16:40:56 GMT
Sounds like my mother, the little hellion. A story she always told was having to go to church on Sunday. She would always be dressed up in her Sunday best by her mother, but then the adults would spend FOREVER getting ready. So one day she went down the street by the railroad tracks where there was an abandoned stone wash basin, totally overgrown. She would run around trying to catch salamanders. You can imagine what state her dress was in when her father tracked her down. He spanked her in the middle of the street with her panties down in front of EVERYBODY. Nope, she never forgot that.
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Post by kerouac2 on May 6, 2018 16:12:07 GMT
When I was 11 years old and just about to start a year of living with my grandparents in Lorraine, we had a paperback edition of George Orwell's 1984 translated into French, and I decided that I would retranslate it back into English. I proudly announced this to my mother, and I think I still remember the smirk that she was unable to completely hide.
The translation enterprise ended on day 2.
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Post by Deleted on Jul 12, 2018 0:57:02 GMT
Bixa's picture of a clock that she purchased while in Istanbul triggered this particular memory.
While on a trip to Istanbul in 2000 I had two particular things that I wanted to buy while I was there. One was a sapphire ring that I had made for my mother as she had always expressed a desire to own a sapphire ring. The other thing was a gift for my husband and one day while shopping in the Grand Bazaar I spotted some really cool vests that were custom made with scraps of beautiful Turkish wool kilim rugs, beautifully lined and trimmed with leather. My husband has always been super keen on vests, the open kind as opposed to the pullovers. I chose a gorgeous, fairly sedate remnant and knowing his size ordered one to be made for him. It was perfect in every way and I was very excited to surprise him with it. So, upon my return I gave him the vest and he expressed what I then believed to be great enthusiasm and admiration for it. Winter rolled around and I eagerly anticipated his donning the vest. Then another winter arrived and the same. It remained in the closet and we never spoke of it although I knew he really didn't have the enthusiasm I had thought he would about it.
One day while I was out working in my front garden I spied a man on a bicycle wearing a beat up, faded, very worn version of the same type of vest. I called out to him and he turned his bicycle around and came to my gate. I told him that I noted his vest and it appeared to be something he had lovingly worn for a long time. He said that he had it for ages and it was like "an old friend" despite it being faded and all, he continued to wear it. I asked him if he could wait a few minutes and he came inside the gate while I ran upstairs and retrieved the vest that I had bought for my husband. I said "this is for you" and proceeded to tell him the story and he lit up like a Christmas tree and willingly, graciously accepted my gift. When my husband came home I told him what I had done and he sighed with what was both relief and joy. He then went on to say how badly he felt that he had not appreciated what he knew was a gift of love and couldn't ever bring himself to tell me that it "just wasn't him". I told him that I knew that and held no resentment albeit perhaps a bit of disappointment.
Well, the gentleman I gave the vest to was a local jazz musician and travelled the world over. Every time I saw him he told me that wherever he went people always complimented him on his vest and he produced for me a series of photographs taken from all over the world wearing that vest. He said that when people asked him where he had got the vest he told them the same story. "First you have to be wearing a tattered, faded beaten up old vest and then you have to be in New Orleans and have a lovely woman who had visited Istanbul and be riding your bicycle down Z street call out to you and present you with this vest. We became friends and he continued to give me photographs with a group of people or one other person, him sitting at the drums etc. On the back of each picture was the location and date of where it had been taken. He passed away while in Toronto on tour and when I learned of his death I attended his funeral which was here in New Orleans. I spotted a younger man in the church wearing "the vest" and when the ceremony was over I went and introduced myself to the man who was his son. His eyes lit up just as his father's had when I had given him the vest that one day years ago. He said his father never tired of telling the story of how he had acquired it and he gave me a huge hug while I had tears rolling down my cheeks.
(The moths would have had a meal of it and in retrospect with regard to my husband the vest "really wasn't him".)
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Post by Kimby on Jul 12, 2018 3:27:23 GMT
That’s a really lovely story, Casi.
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Post by bixaorellana on Jul 12, 2018 7:06:58 GMT
Oh, Casimira -- what a story! That is beautiful and touching in equal measure. I am amazed and impressed by your perfect impulse in giving the man the vest. p.s. ~ also amazed that you ever thought it "was T".
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