OpEdNews
Original Content
April 14, 2008
Off Duty Writers, Dogs, Children, and Mommas on Mother's Day
By Georgianne Nienaber
Is
a writer ever “off duty?” Probably not. We try now and then to quiet
the mind, sit back and listen to the sounds of spring. We put cushions
on the big old wooden rocker that faces the bayou—and watch the barges
and occasional gator floating past. The wind can feel like the touch of
a mother, smoothing the hair on a brow furrowed with worry that we
really should be writing, about something, about anything. How else can
we “make a difference”—a euphemism for establishing a meaningful
existence?
It is chilly today on my bayou and the rocking chair
is tucked carefully ‘round the corner of the cottage, catching the full
warmth of the April sun. A cold front came through and dropped the
Southern Louisiana temperature from 90 plus to a very uncomfortable 54
degrees. As the wind smoothes unruly hair in a direction resembling
symmetry, the “Mother’s Touch” reminds the writer in me of an
all-too-brief-encounter on the ferry the day before.
French
Quarter Fest in New Orleans was a huge success for the Crescent City,
but too crowded and noisy for someone accustomed to the rural
countrysides of Africa, and secluded seashores of the United States.
With a frightened young Shitzu puppy, who doubles as a newfound
traveling companion in tow, a retreat to the bayou seemed the best
choice. The serendipity of a chance encounter on a ferry opened another
portal for the muse—and a reminder that stories do not have to be
headlines.
Late Sunday afternoon, dog and writer caught the
Canal Street ferry for Algiers on the West Bank. New Orleans was
running the “big” ferry to accommodate the festival—along a Mississippi
River crossing that takes minutes and has been in existence since 1729.
The ferry is a pretty spectacular ride. It offers great views of the
Mississippi and New Orleans and boat and barge traffic. You can take
your car, or not, and the only charge is $1.00 to cars on the way back
from the West Bank.
Canedog and his writer/owner settled in to
watch the water while the overflow crowd rambled aboard, and the ferry
schedule was thrown out the porthole once again for the weekend.
There
was a tug on the leash, courtesy of a young boy; perhaps eight or nine.
He was cute as can be, with blue jeans that were just little too short,
scuffed up black shoes, and black hair to match that fell across the
palest blue eyes one can imagine. Those blue eyes were so pale, they
seemed translucent and I understood once again what that universal
“window to the soul” is all about. I have only seen eyes of that hue
once before, and the last time they frightened me.
The boy was bold.
“OK if I pet your dog?”
“Sure.”
“Does he know any tricks?”
“Well.
Yeah, but he is still a baby and he’s kinda nervous, but you can try.
Put your hands in front of him and say ‘give me ten.”’
To prove
my point, Canedog rolled over with feet in the air in a gesture of
total submission and no intention of performing. The boy tried the
“give me ten” thing a couple of times and gave up. He had something
else on his mind, and was clearly sizing me up.
“Do you have a son?”
“No but I have a daughter.”
“Does she have a tree house?”
“Sarah, that’s her name, is all grown up and away at school, but yes, she had a tree house.”
The boy stood up now, very interested, and got closer.
“Is the tree house still there?”
There was no point in telling him we had long since moved, but I wasn’t telling a lie to say the tree house still stood.
“Yeah it’s still there, she just doesn’t play in it anymore.”
We
both laughed and the answer seemed to please him even more as he knelt
down to pet the pup that was still very much not into doing tricks.
“Could I be your son?”
I heard him all right, but needed to stall.
“What?”
He knew I heard him the first time, but he played along.
“Could I be your son? My Momma left and I’m with auntie and I need a mother.”
Whew. Panic. The boy did not notice my pale shock.
“I’m gonna go ask her.”
I was shouting into the wind.
“Who?”
“Auntie.”
He
disappeared up the steps to the upper deck just as the horn sounded
that we were about to dock. Should I wait? It would be pointless, and
besides I could obviously not be his mother. Mind racing, I thought
about the Cajun farmer whom I met last year whose wife had left him for
a swirl of drugs and alcohol and how his boy now rode the cane cutter
with him “because it is in the blood.” How many more orphans of the
storm that was Katrina are looking for a mom, a dog, and a tree house?
The
ferry gate opened and the human tsunami took Canedog and my alter-ego
"the writer" down the ramp and into the West Bank neighborhood where
the getaway car was waiting.
How many of us are all alone on our
ferries and front porches and sitting in our rocking chairs with only
the touch of the spring breeze to remind us of our own lost mothers?
A Peter Pan experience where the dog takes care of the children is no substitute for a mother’s love.
