NNAOPP Update – March 2019
The Irish Orphan
This
past week the grandkids were in Sanibel for their spring break. Twins Finn and Charlie still love going to
the city playground. This year they met
Liam, a fellow eight-year-old from Iowa.
They so enjoyed each other’s company that they arranged to meet the
following day. By the third of these
encounters I became friendly with Liam’s Dad, Trevor. He was wearing a Dublin Ireland tee shirt,
and I inquired if he had been to Ireland recently, and he told me the following
story:
“I
was born and raised in Ireland. When I
was six weeks old I was placed in an orphanage called Drewstown House located
about an hour’s drive north of Dublin.
The couple who ran the orphanage were protestant missionaries from
Iowa. When the woman, who would later
become my Mom, first saw me, she declared, ‘I want to adopt that baby.’ It wasn’t until I was 10 that I officially
became a member of the Williams family.
Apparently Irish law discourages children from being adopted by people
running orphanages, but they persisted, and my last name was changed from
Shepherd to Williams.
“My
adoptive father was born in 1923 and grew up on a farm in northeastern Iowa. He was a combat veteran in WWII fighting in
Italy where he was wounded, and his brother was KIA. After the war he returned to Iowa to run the
family farm, until he felt the call to become a missionary. Mom and Dad had six birth children when they
left for rural Ireland to run an orphanage in 1954. They left their two oldest to stay with
grandparents, got on a ship for a week-long voyage, and began what would become
a 30-year adventure taking care of 35 unwanted children at Drewstown House.
“When
I arrived in 1966, I was the youngest, and the oldest kids were about 12 or 14. The orphanage was situated on a large
property with a big pond, forests, and fields.
The house was three stories and all the kids slept in an open room on
the third floor. The Williams were kind
people, we had plenty to eat, we attended a local school, and it was almost
like growing up in paradise. When I was 17, my adoptive parents believed it was
time to move back to Iowa.
“In
2008, I decided I wanted to find my birth mother. We traveled to Ireland, found the appropriate
records and located her. At first, she
didn’t want to see me, but I subsequently met my half-sister and two half-brothers. Through them I assured her I didn’t want
anything other than to know more of my origins, so she agreed to meet me. She was sixteen when she was placed in an
‘arranged’ marriage with a much older man.
It was a very unhappy situation. She had an affair with a man her age, got
pregnant, and then gave up her newborn and placed it in the orphanage.
“I’ve
kept in touch with many of the kids with whom I grew up in Drewstown House. Almost all have done well. Five of the kids were from one family, the
McCurry’s. Their mother died when they
were young, and their father was a mean drunk who abandoned them. They lived alone in an isolated farmhouse for
several months. Neighbors finally
figured out something was wrong and would leave them food, the only food they
had. Later, social workers arrived and placed them in Drewstown House. All five went on to successful professional careers
with stable family lives.
“My
Dad died last November at the age of 95.
He was a remarkable man. He could fix anything, and he was always fun
and playful with his charges. I don’t
remember ever seeing him flustered. You would have loved meeting him. When he
first arrived in Ireland, he started planting hundreds of Sequoia redwood
seedlings. (Trevor then showed me a
picture, from a recent visit, of his son Liam standing in front of one of the
now giant trees).
I
told Trevor about once meeting the lead singer from Manfred Mann, of ‘Do Wa
Diddy’ fame, in the same Sanibel playground, but his story was far superior.
For
those with an interest in this year’s Mardi Gras observations read on. For those who fail to find much mirth in
these musings stop here.
Mardi Gras - 2019
As
is our custom, we met friends for lunch at the Rib Room on the Friday before MG
at 11:30am. We left at 5:30pm. The eight of us consumed copious quantities
of wine and other spirits along with generous helpings of prime rib. Then we strolled to Patrick’s Bar Vin for
additional refreshments. The Fridays
before Christmas and Mardi Gras are Patrick’s busiest days, and this year was
no different.
She
was a big ole girl, the kind that could easily throw a hog over a fence, and
she approached me at Patrick’s.
“I
like those beads, could I have them?”
“Sure,
but it’s Mardi Gras. You know the rules.”
“Hey,
I’m a lifelong New Orleanian. Only the
tourists flash their boobs. They’re not much to look at anyway.”
I
wisely chose not to agree with her disingenuous attempt at self-deprecation, as
she could have easily disemboweled me, but being in a festive mood, I gave her
the beads of her desire.
She
then asked, “Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“How
old are you?”
“73.”
“Is
that your friend over there?”
“Yes.”
“He’s
really good looking.”
“I’ll
pass along your kind words.”
“Is
he married?”
“No.”
“How
old is he?”
“73.”
“I
think that would be a little old for me.”
“Probably
so.”
A
friend of our host stopped by our table on Friday to give him a decorative shoe
she made for the Muses Parade. During
the course of our brief visit she shared the following tale:
“I
was married for 22 years. My husband was
a raging alcoholic. At the end I told
him he had to choose either me or the bottle.
When he said, ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ I moved out. I’d been preparing for this. He got perfect scores on his SAT’s and was
successful in business. He taught Bruce
Jenner how to use make-up and foundation. But when he was drunk, he was a scary
guy. I’ll see you later this weekend. Great
seeing you boys, but I got to go.”
“Wait! What was that about Bruce Jenner?” But she
left, and we didn’t see her again. I
guess I’ll have to wait until next year to clarify.
Here’s
a tidbit, a NOLA pharmacist, shared while she visited our balcony.
“We
had nine vials of morphine that were out of date that we had to dispose. A state official had to be present to insure it
was done properly. You can no longer
just flush it. So, I called a friend who
owns a funeral home. He said to come on
down as he was in the midst of a cremation.
We did, he opened the door to the furnace, and I threw the vials in. But it was a site I now cannot unsee. The state guy from Baton Rouge totally freaked
out. You could see the rib cage still
intact and hear the sounds of the grease frying. It was horrible.”
I
have no idea what prompted this story.
As
is my custom, I enjoy chatting with people including a lady I would later learn
was a 48-year-old school teacher from rural Illinois who just had her breasts
painted by our favorite local artist. She proudly displayed her wares, and
being a curious chap, I inquired, “Does it feel liberating letting those
puppies free?”
And
she replied, “Yes. In fact, it’s even
better now that I’ve had my breast reduction surgery.” She subsequently provided a highly
informative tutorial on said procedure showing the critical scars from which
tissue was extracted from her formerly fleshy appendages and the previous
location of her nipples. Being a gentleman,
I observed attentively.
Things I like about Mardi
Gras
Wheel
chair bound people in costume enjoying the festivities.
Funny
costumes. Group of large hairy guys
dressed as flamingos. A fat guy with a
ball cap wearing only a jock strap with a towel hanging from the back to spare
rear end viewers.
Creative
costumes. Centaurs with roller skates
holding up their back legs. A couple
dressed as plants.
Pete
Fountain’s Half Fast Walking crew wearing colorful outfits, bright pink suits
with green hats this year, and strolling to lively Dixieland Jazz.
The
fun people we met while dining at Arnaud’s including our waitress from Moldava
who just got engaged to a man also from her homeland.
Preservation
Hall and their 92-year-old pianist.
This
year’s blind referee costumes after the Saints were eliminated by a now famous
non-call. Probably one of every ten
costumes had some variation of this theme.
Chatting
with the body painter guy. I reminded
him that I wrote a letter to the WSJ editor, that was subsequently published,
about a conversation we had a few years back and his comment, “If someone tells
you (an aspiring artist) to paint within the lines, do it. If not, this is where you end up.” He said, he remembered, and fortunately,
thought that was funny.
Amazingly
gifted street performers. This year a
small guy took a tennis racket without strings, stuck his left leg through it,
then his left arm, head, and torso, then removed it from his right leg. All the while, he was standing on a board
that was balanced on a cylindrical roller all perched on a platform about six
feet above the pavement. Who even thinks
of such a feat?
Cops
in a good mood. They were generally friendly enjoying people have a good time. Many of them wore hats indicating they were
recruits, each of whom looked to be about 13.
Great
dining in NOLA eateries. Special kudos
to Italian Barrel, our best meal this year.
Seeing
our transgender acquaintance, but not being seen by her. Predictably, she was outrageously costumed
wearing a tall green wig (think Marge Simpson) and a green sparkly bra,
revealing the top half of her volleyball-sized bosoms. She wore a flesh colored body stocking below
the chest that was covered with a transparent, tent-like garment that appeared
to be made of plastic. You’ve got to
give her credit for fashion sense.
Playing
bridge with my mates when it got stocking cap cold on Monday.
Things I don’t like
Homeless
people freezing in entryways to fancy antique stores.
Kids
endlessly beating the same rhythm on plastic barrels with drumsticks.
The
numbnut standing on the balcony across from us who was throwing beads at
unsuspecting people as though they were weapons.
People
snapping their fingers or clapping their hands demanding that you throw them
beads.
Three
o’clock is typically the time when boob displays begin in earnest. Passersbys’ coffee cups are replaced by
plastic drink containers from nearby Pat O’Brien’s and various Bourbon Street
purveyors, at which time bead tossers can count on early stage alcohol
impairment as their reliable ally. It
was nasty cold on Mardi Gras day, but this didn’t lessen the crowds nor dampen
their behavior.
Another
of our host’s friends, who happens to be a pretty wine distributor, joined us
on our balcony on Mardi Gras day. She
grew up in NOLA and just returned having spent a few years in Houston. Shortly after she arrived, we were the
recipients of a perfect trifecta of flashes for beads, all three young and
pleasing to the eye. She said,
“OMG! I thought that was a myth.”
And
that was that.
Book Sales
Sales
continue to trickle in from Amazon. I
hesitate to brag, but I’m now receiving monthly electronic remissions from the
Seattle giant in the high single digits.
Chuck
Charles A. Wells, Jr.
3317 W. 68th Street
Shawnee Mission, KS 66208
816 289-1924
Author of: Ordinary People Who Aren't:
An Anthology and
Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People
Follow my blog at: http://www.nudenuns.blogspot.com
