Cold Spaghetti

…and a maniac.

Or, as said by her teacher, Ms. Gladys, “Kate is different.”
I’d be concerned if she didn’t say the same thing about Kate’s best bud, Stella. Stella is 5 days older the Kate and equal in her rough-and-tough, into-everything, early-mover style. They play peek-a-boo at school, stopping to glare at anyone who tries to get involved and then moving to another side of the room to continue. They tag-team tearing up the changing table, so that a teacher is dealing with the mess one made in the front without seeing the other one re-making a mess at the side. They wake up sleeping babies (actually, this one could be just Kate). They blow kisses and screech to each other across the room (to be fair, Stella blows kisses. Kate screeches.)
So Kate is 10 months old. She’s been struggling with an ear infection diagnosed last week. The pediatrician prescribed an antibiotic… a serious antibiotic (Omnicef… the one that caused all the problems for Will last year where I swore I’d never do antibiotics for ear infections ever again).

After careful consideration, research, and deep thought, I decided to forgo the script in favor of wait and see, using Motrin, warm compresses, and nursing to treat pain. She seems to be doing much better, although she still has a cough (improved, though) and her nose is still a bit runny (particularly in the morning… allergies?) At 10 months Kate…
– Weighs about 17 1/2 pounds
– Walks across the room (15 or so steps), but then remembers how much faster she can crawl and gets back on all fours
– Adores her big brother
– Practices gymnastics while nursing
– Babbles and babbles and babbles
– Strongly favors her right hand
– Loves to wave!

During Violet’s visit, we took a walk in the park, enjoying the neighborhood fiddle player practicing his tunes and taking in the egrets and ibis that were nesting along the park’s interior island. On Sunday, we took the kids to the park to feed the ducks, see the birds, and just generally enjoy the beautiful day. Thank goodness for wagons! Perfect for the occassion.
The morning was overcast, so it is harder to make out the many birds against the white sky. They were everywhere!
Seagulls, too.
Ducks everywhere, as usual… even in hidden spots!
Will took over pulling the wagon for awhile. Kate LOVED it.
Will was sporting a straight-outta-Boca look of bermuda shorts, palm tree top, white socks, and dark sandals. Oh — and Superman shades.
Looking to Oschner Island.
Will insisted on taking the path through the Audubon Golf Course.
Loyola’s chapel rang and played tunes while we walked through.
Will found a golf ball! (And Paul pointed out the mini-cache hidden under the bridge.)


The tree (below) lost one of its enormous branches in Katrina’s winds.
Houses along the park.
Crazy Kate, chattering away at her brother. (One of her teachers has decided that Kate sounds like a “pterodactyl”).
Egrets were flying all over the park. Hanging out in people’s yards on the parks edge, flying through the walking paths, getting in the way of golf carts. This one is flying out towards Magazine Street at Audubon Zoo.
Egret and golfers.
More egret and golfers.
What a lovely morning!

On Saturday, our friend Reilly turned 2 — and super parents Dora (an owner of Frock Candy and Shoe Nami) and Paul (Irish Furniture Maker) set the bar for awesome kids parties! Using Paul’s warehouse, they set up a huge chalk-friendly floor, enormous space jump with attached ball pit, and bubble machine. It was like kid heaven.
Both of my kids were into the bubble machine.
While Will loved throwing himself in the ball pit, Kate just loved the balls that fell out.
Will was especially into the cakes — yes, TWO cakes! When it was time for cake, Will was the first one at the table, positioning himself right across from Reilly. Friend and teacher Renee saw him and instantly saw those wheels turning… mentioning to me how Will was sitting completely erect, still, and at the ready, watching those cakes. I had to check it out myself. I saw him just as Reilly’s aunt was encouraging her to take a finger to swipe some icing. After a few go-’rounds with Reilly (who was hesitating to put her finger on the beautiful pastry), Will crept up on the table, reached over, and swiped a hunk of corner icing before I could even breathe to stop him. (His audacity was met with applause from Reilly’s family so we escaped that one!) Now I know what to discuss when we talk about going to parties!
We all had a great time!

Of the 17 Wards that make up Orleans Parish, the 9th has become it’s most well-known. In the 1920s, the Industrial Canal was dredged through the city’s largest ward, creating the “Upper” and “Lower” sections; “upper” referring to the section upriver from the canal to the west and “lower” as the downriver section to the east. In New Orleans, one tells direction based on the flow of the Mississippi, not the direction of the sun.
Much of the 9th Ward sits above sea level along the natural levee built by the Mississippi River. It is home to historic buildings, million dollar mansions, famous musicians (Fats Domino, Kermit Ruffins, as examples), and the famous Jackson Barracks. Like most of New Orleans, the streets of the Lower 9 are tree-lined, with corner stores, beauty parlors, and small restaurants.

The last census showed that the majority of the inhabitants owned their home and that more than half of them were retired. Of the homeowners, few held mortgages. They simply owned their home outright, having grown in that home and lived there for many years. One of our teachers at Abeona describes her home, flooded in the Gentilly neighborhood in the Upper 9th Ward, as “the pride of her family, her family home” and talks with a tear in her eye about how hard her parents worked to make it a home for her family.
(Note the water line on the stop sign above.) The picture was taken from the Holy Cross neighborhood in the Lower 9th Ward, between St. Claude and the River. Families must gut their homes in a timely manner in order to save them from demolition. Here, someone had gutted their home (from the appearance, this happened many months before). There are so many obstacles to overcome before rebuilding, yet the signs are clear that this area is loved and people want to return home.
In the Florida Avenue area (between Florida Avenue and St. Claude) — where the levee breach was so huge that a barge floated in and where water pushed in so fast and so hard that homes splintered off their foundations and cars were thrown like toys — all that remains are footprints. There are blocks and blocks of empty lots.
There may not be a house sitting on this land. But it is still someone’s home.
Photographs of what this area looked like after the storm may be viewed on Charlie Varley’s website. Click here to see his year after Katrina collection. Here are “then” and “one year later” shots. Note that the white house a few pictures above is the same one in his before and after collection (page 12); it is still sitting, collapsed, in the same position it was in after the flood.
A homeowner has made a sign to signal that this empty space is still 2026 Tennessee. The lot looks out to the newly constructed levee (the white wall) the St. Claude Drawbridge and the city skyline beyond. The Lower 9 has, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful views of the city.
A mailbox, labeled clearly for mail delivery, in front of a destroyed home.
A home sitting several feet off of its foundation.
This home has “do not demolish” signs on it at the request of a film crew.
Violet and I discussed the time frame for which the “HELP” was written. Finally, we decided that it didn’t matter when. Writing help on one of these destroyed buildings is just as relevant today as it was on August 29th, 2005.
A community reaches for faith to survive.
What would it mean if this were the only home you’ve ever known, the center of your family, the one thing that you own?
An open gate and open door, leading to…?



Entergy at work (below).

Paul spent the last week in Sierra Vista, Arizona, leaving me as a single mother with two children and no bathtub. Lucky for me, our friendly neighbors were more than willing to let us use their tub. Even luckier for me, Violet spent a few days here during her vacation tour of the Gulf Coast.Violet was our neighbor in Michigan and she and her husband, Millard, are friends and role models. It was a bummer that Paul missed her visit, but frankly, she came at the perfect time. As a research-minded, academy-familiar, professional mother of two, Violet is just about the only person I feel completely comfortable talking to about my professional endeavors because She Gets It. I found out Monday afternoon that my Wenner Gren application did not get advanced, mostly because the reviewer felt it lacked in “theoretical anthropological significance.” Considering my committee chair, a Wenner Gren reviewer for several years, felt it was easily one of the top he’s read, I felt a bit wounded by the letter. But after an evening of licking my wounds, I was able to brush it off and move on.

So Tuesday, I had a meeting with another committee member, who was shocked at Wenner Gren’s decision, but felt it a good thing for two reasons: my focus is so much changed that it may have been worth taking a new funding direction and increase the budget. Current literature on RDS suggests using a Deft (design effect) greater than 2, greatly increasing sample size. That, combined with recent changes in focus, was putting things in a different light. I felt better after discussing all of this with Beth. But I felt even better after talking it over with Violet, who immediately advised brushing it off and going for more. *sigh*

Wednesday, I spent the day with Violet. We went to a local gym, where I oogled the FOUR outdoor pools (two just for kids) and contemplated how many organs I’d have to sell for a summer membership to take the kids to the pool. We enjoyed breakfast at Oak Street Cafe while Charlie entertained in the background. In the afternoon, we toured the 9th ward (particularly the lower 9, downstream from the industrial canal) — my first time in going post-Katrina (more on that in another post). In the evening, we left the kids with favorite babysitter and friend Michelle and had an UH-MAZING dinner at Dick and Jenny’s. And each night, Violet helped me get the kids bathed and in bed. It was wonderful.

Thursday, we took a walk in Audubon Park. We noticed the egrets and ibis (and maybe others?) mating and nesting in the trees at Ochsner Island, passed the violin player practicing under the oaks, and regrouped. Before leaving, Violet came to Abeona to take a few pictures with the kids.
Thanks, Violet, for a wonderful visit!

Soundbites from Will on the confusion between Daddy’s business trip this week and Manx’s death (and other things)…

“Manx is on a business trip.”

“Mommy, why did Daddy put bricks on Manx?”

“I have two kitties, just like Abeona has two potties… a white one and a brown one.”

“Is Daddy going to get Manx?”

It’s been two days since he’s said anything. I actually think he understands the concept, but asks about it just to test that it’s legit.

Life has been full of so much adventure that I missed posting some pictures from Kate’s first bathtub experience. It was last weekend, in Mobile, with her brother.





They had a BLAST. Now Kate does her best to throw herself into every bathtub she sees. We REALLY need to get a move-on with renovations so that we can have a tub, too!!

We were in the presence of grace and beauty on Sunday evening when my friend, Niki Wolf, had dinner with us! Niki and I have been friends since middle school, when I introduced myself to her on the bus to the summer arts program we attended together. She was a year ahead of me, but we were able to perform in a number of shows together (in Brighton Beach Memoirs, I played her over-worried mother and she the beautiful daughter with dreams of Broadway — perfect choice!) Now Niki and husband Jeff are triple threats working in the Big Apple. Among other things, Niki works as a Rockette (she’s the one on the left in the picture here, and the one cheering here), choreographer, and often travels to be a guest judge for dance competitions. Which is what brought her to New Orleans. (She’d made it once before, too!)Because we were out of town for Itzhak Perlman, we thought we were going to miss each other. But Saturday night, I got a surprise email from Jeff saying that Niki was going to be back early from judging in Jackson, MS, and could do a late dinner on Sunday. Hooray! So, we connected via phone and on Sunday night, Paul, Will, Kate and I waited outside Niki’s hotel for her limousine to arrive. Being the classy people we are, we took her to Mothers for dinner (that’s a pun, just in case readers aren’t familiar with the establishment). We had a great time and like always, we connected as if we talk everyday. I adore seeing her, loved that she was able to see the kids, and hope to someday see her perform again. (I would have loved to see her play Lola with Jeff as Joe in Damn Yankees — scroll down this link to read a brief show review.)

“Mommy, I want Manx back.”

“I know, Will. But Manx is gone.”

“But I love her, Mommy.”

“We love her, too, Will.”
In 1993, Manx was found with a litter of kittens at a rest stop off I-81 in Pulaski County, Virginia. Upon bringing the group home, the people that found her quickly noticed that Manx was “different.” Because the family had many animals and several big dogs, they realized that Manx’s petite stature and physical differences put her at risk. Paul offered to take her in and upon doing so, renamed her “Manx,” (the folks who found her had called her “Pixiedust”). When Paul brought her to the vet, they estimated her age at “around 2, we think”, confirmed that she had given birth (we don’t know what happened to the kittens), and said that her “special” qualities may have been due to being hit by a car, experiencing a seizure while giving birth, or a developmental disability. Regardless of what caused her differences, it was clear that they did not cause her any distress and that she was otherwise in perfect health.When I met Manx in 1998, she was a happy, round little furball. We met when she tried to rub against my legs, missed me, and fell. This is how Manx usually introduced herself: walking on the backside of the sofa and falling on your lap, rubbing on your feet and falling over, jumping up to sit beside you only to miss and splat on the floor. The coordination and grace that characterizes most cats were completely lost on Manx. Her back and front ends seemed out of touch with each other; one moving to the right when the other moved left. Her balance was always a bit off; a good sneeze knocked her over. It was all incredible endearing and a constant amusement.She wasn’t the sharpest cat. Manx would rub on an open door, rubbing along its base, pushing it so that it would swing out from under her, making her fall over on to the floor. She’d act surprised, get up, and repeat the motions — over and over — until finally the door slammed shut, causing her to startle and hop away. A few minutes later, we’d see her performing the same incantations with another open door.While not the smartest of felines, she was one of the prettiest. Perfect white chest and four precious white paws. Permanently petite in stature (6-7 pounds was her ideal weight), silky soft to touch, and with beautiful brown, tan, and grey stripes that graced her back and tail. Photographs rarely captured the sweetness of her appearance.Manx lived to love. Anyone, anytime, all the time. (Video link.) Until my asthma became too much, she curled up each night next to my chest. It was a chore to train her to sleep at our feet; some nights we woke up with her trying to squeeze herself on to our pillow. She was happiest rubbing herself against you (or anyone), having her back scratched and head rubbed. Her “elevator butt” — the rising butt that came when you scratched her back — was very impressive. Any contact with her caused her hair to fly off her body en masse, making you think she was going bald, but her coat remained unchanged. The patterns would change over time, but the amount of hair that came off never ceased… bathing and brushing rarely made a difference. In addition to purring, she showed her contentedness by drooling. So after a particularly heavy petting session with Miss Manx, you would not only be covered in hair, but her drool acted as a glue to stick the hair to you. It was not uncommon to get calls from friends who had visited weeks before, saying that they had found Manx hairs (conspicuous due to their striped appearance which mimicked her coat) on their belongings. I once found a Manx hair inside a book I was reading on the Metro in Washington, DC, two weeks after I’d been to see Paul (when we were still dating.)We laughed over Manx’s antics almost everyday. One spring day in Michigan, I let the cats on the back deck as I worked with the container gardens. Suddenly, Manx was gone! We realized that she had jumped off the deck (almost one story high) and was happily munching grass in the backyard. Paul and I mobilized to get her back into the house, working together to corral her to the front door. Manx was spooked and put up a chase. She ran to the front door as fast as she could — which for Manx, looked like Pepi Le Pew bouncing through the air, with her back end flopping side to side with each bounce. Watching her run from behind put us in hysterics; we giggled as we ran to the front. We had no idea how far she’d go to get back inside. Instead of stopping at the front door, Manx, in a single moment of grace, leaped from the front path over the stoop and sailed through the air toward the door — only to be stopped mid-air by the glass front. It was like watching Wylie Coyote slam into the side of a cliff, pause, and then slowly slide down. Manx did exactly the same thing, coming to a stop in a puddle on the front step. She was fine; but we pulled muscles laughing. (“We’re not laughing at you, sweetie, we’re laughing with you!”)Manx wanted everyone around her happy. If someone raised a voice, she was there — rubbing against legs, mewing her concern. When Will suffered with gas pains as a baby, Manx cried as much as he did. She sensed our emotions and seemed to try to make us feel better when we needed it. When Scout came into our lives, Manx took him in like her own baby. She carried him by the scruff, groomed him, and curled up beside him to nap. Scout, fireball that he was, responded by tackling and pouncing on Manx at every opportunity. He’d wait patiently, perched high on a shelf, watching for her to appear. Then jump down, directly in front of her, completely freaking her out. Manx complied with his annoying habits by playing the tattletale; even when Scout didn’t touch her, she’d whine and cry loud enough to cause trouble. Even as cats, the two of them were great at the “I’m not touching you” games that siblings play.As Manx suddenly dropped weight, lost some hair, and began to show her age (in the past few months) Scout’s demeanor toward her changed. He began grooming her, allowing her to eat from their food dish first, walking back from the water bowl to allow to her to drink. We understand that he was very protective of her body when she passed.We found out that she was gone while out to dinner with my parents in Mobile. In order for us all to say goodbye, to make it real, we knew we needed to personally handle her final arrangements. On Sunday, we had a small goodbye in the backyard, with the girls next door (who were very fond of her), and buried her by the lantana in our planting bed. Will and I painted shards of slate (I’ve been collecting discarded slate for painting medium) — I made a memorial plaque and Will painted “Our Family: Daddy, Mommy, Will, Kate, Scout and Manx”. We hung these on the fence around where we buried her. Before putting her in the ground, we held her remains, petted her fur (she felt just the same, as soft and silky as ever), and did what we needed to do to make it real for us. The girls’ being there helped keep it light and pleasant. Will said goodbye, but it still struggling with missing her and understanding what it means. Frankly, the concept of “here” and “gone” is pretty abstract (do I even understand it?) so I think he’s doing quite well, all things considered.We love you, Manx! Thank you for being our special girl.

While we were having a wonderful afternoon on Friday, our beloved cat Manx was taking her last breaths.

She was fine Friday morning when our neighbors checked on her, but was gone by the evening.

We were unable to return until Saturday afternoon, so we had to ask our neighbors (Mom and three girls — ages 12 and 9-year old twins) to place Manx’s stiff body in plastic bags and put her in our freezer. It’s Saturday night, we’re home, and she’s still there.

After contacting the vet and discovering that it’s a $70 fee for communal cremation ($155 if you want the remains) we decided that we really wanted to bury her here.

Manx, as many of you reading this know, was an incredibly special cat. Unbelievably precious, completely loving and trusting. Best guesses had her at 16 years old (with Paul for 14 of those years). Her disability (cerebellar hypoplasia) was mild but marked, she was klutzy and cute, spunky and sweet. No one was immune to Manx-love, she was everyone’s favorite girl.

We were very unsure of how to approach all of this with Will. He couldn’t find her upon returning home but quickly got distracted to other things. When the household calmed down towards the end of the night, he remembered her again, saying that he wanted to see her. We started to explain that she was gone, but of course the idea didn’t stick. Right now, Will believes Manx is “hiding.”

Scout is okay. For the past few weeks, he has been Manx’s caretaker. They’ve been sharing food and water lately — and Scout has actually allowed Manx to eat/drink to her fill as she wishes, even if it means that she goes first. (If you know Scout, you know that this is definitely NOT normal behavior.) We’ve seen him grooming her, cuddling up with her, and just generally being sweet.

I’ll do better to memorialize our sweet girl a little later…