The Lemming Quadrille ©Averyell A. KesslerMy mother was astounded when I announced I wanted saddle shoes. “They’re for children,” she said. “You’ve outgrown them.”“Not now,” I answered. “Everybody has them.”“Everybody?” she asked.“Almost everybody,” I continued. “It’s a thing.”“Oh yes,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I know about things.”I was an eighth grader at Bailey Junior High and edging into dicey teen-age years. Maturity was blooming like four o’clocks on a picket fence. The ever-present specter of fads, popularity, and the overwhelming desire to fit in were creeping into my psyche. I’d already passed in and out of Bobbie Brooks pre-teen clothing phase and pressed shiny pennies into my loafers. I had learned how to stuff tissue into a size AAA bra, and squeeze into a panty girdle. (No one in the eighth grade needed a panty girdle, but they held up our stockings. Stockings? What were we thinking?) I had no idea I was trotting behind the bell cow of “follow the crowd” mania.After three days of whining and fruitless pleas, I spoke lethal words, “I’ll be the only one without them.” Finally, Mama gave in. We drove downtown to Capital Street and parked in front of Myron’s Shoe Store(??) the go-to shop for saddle shoe craziness. The salesman was delighted to see us when we stepped into a shoebox shaped store smelling of mold and air-wick, plus a faint tinge of shoe polish. It was late October, but the ice conditioner was still blasting out a whirlwind of freezing air.“Saddle shoes?” he asked eagerly, rubbing his hands together.“Yes,” Mama answered.“I don’t know what’s going on, but this saddle shoe craze had been really good for business,” he laughed. We settled into padded green chairs and waited as he climbed aboard a chrome fitting stool, pulled it to within an inch of my knees, and picked up his measuring tool. “Now little lady, let’s check your size.”The words little lady were fingernails scraping across a blackboard, but I ignored it. He darted into his stock room and returned with a single box. “I don’t have your exact size, but these might do. I can put them on the stretcher and they’ll be fine. Stretcher? Was that an instrument of medieval torture? Was I in competition with Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters, fighting to slip their enormous toes into a tiny glass slipper?The next few minutes flew by as I tried on the shoes. Ouch. The salesman stretched them again, then again. The third stretch sealed the deal, and I was able to walk around the shop without overt pain. He led me to a large, medical looking machine in the center of the store. It was a pediscope, the ultimate shoe fitting gadget of the day, and a frightening combination of a weigh-for-a-penny scale and goose necked X-ray machine. When I stepped on, a ghastly green light appeared on the dial exposing my bony feet (or someone’s bony feet) encased in shoes.“A perfect fit,” the salesman brayed. “Plenty of room for the toes.” He failed to mention heels.I was giddy when we left the store. I was set, blending in with the popular kids, ready to mix with the elite of 14-year-old society. Three days later, I began to limp.Mama noticed before I did. “I knew those shoes didn’t fit,” she said.“Yes, they do,” I answered. I’m surprised a bolt of lightning didn’t crash through the kitchen window and flatten me. My heals were throbbing, as red and raw as a Gulf Coast sunburn. My toes were pressed together like the teeth of a fine-tooth comb. I remembered Scarlet O’Hara sucking in breath as Prissy laced her corset tighter than a drum skin. I was undeterred. She who would be beautiful must suffer. Right?My grandfather WG arrived early then next morning with a box of fresh picked camelias for Mama. He noticed my limp and asked what was going on. After I told the story, he stared at me with searchlight eyes.“Remember what I told you – don’t follow the mob.”“Yes,” I whispered. “but everybody wears them.”“Forget about everybody. Those shoes hurt, don’t they?”“A little bit.” I bit my lip; my heels still thrummed from a fresh outbreak of blisters.“Do you want to follow the mob when it jumps off a cliff?”“No!” I answered.“Then be an individual. Walk in your own shoes. The ones that fit!” Good advice from a 19th century man.I’ve been walking in my own shoes for a long time now. I’ve managed to steer clear of lemming philosophy and group think because I’ve never read an entrancing story written by committee or heard a glorious sonata flow from a board of directors meeting. I welcome John Milton’s marketplace of ideas. Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties.* This is not intended to be a political post, because I avoid those like a bad case of athlete’s foot. It’s just a brief push back against a world where labels are common, point of view seems to be everything, and independent thought is a pile of tin pennies. Cut and paste philosophy is not my thing, never will be. I’m glad my grandfather taught me not to follow the mob. His lesson was simple. The lemming boss is never the first one over the cliff, only his followers. He watches, as one by one they tumble into the sea, and I’m certain he’s not wearing saddle shoes.*Areopagitica – John Milton’s passionate speech to the British parlimant in defense of freedom of speech and expression.

Sunshine Days ©Averyell A. KesslerIt’s a hot Friday in May and Mama and I are driving to Power School for the most joyous day in the school year – the last. I’m eleven and the folksy voice of Farmer Jim Neal mixes with the steamy air drifting into our car. It’s a time for celebration and finality, my saddle shoes will be cast aside, my blue zipper notebook is headed for a high closet shelf, and the ultimate bete noire, my arithmetic workbook, will be cast aside as damaged goods. Sunshine days are back. Hooray!Sadly, I’m still dealing with “the arm.” This simple pre-seat belt technique wasn’t a product of Vincent Price’s fertile imagination or a variation of his seat-rattling chiller “The Tingler,” but a handy movement used by almost every parent in Jackson. As Mama’s black Chevy coupe slowly guides to the corner of Laurel and St. Mary, she is wary; a stop sign is just ahead. As usual, traffic does not exist, no cars are visible, no strollers either, not even a rambling dog. Nevertheless, her arm shoots out. Bam! The car stops, and I am pressed against the seat back, immobile, breathless, and pinned tighter than a butterfly in a bug collection. My voice catches, I am unable to speak.“Are you alright,” Mama asks. My stomach constricts, as my breakfast of sliced bananas and cheerios rises in my throat.“Uhuh,” I gasp, swallowing hard.She releases me. I am safe, I guess. That’s what she tells me. The car lurches forward; we pass the stop sign as well as a row of duplexes near Belhaven Creek. Riverside Drive is just ahead, so I know that arm is coming again. If I am lucky, maybe it will disappear over the summer. And summer, as I know so well, presents another set of challenges.Even though I am an only child, my mother is well schooled in parenting skills she learned from Dr. Spock, back fence chatter, and the Fletcher’s Castoria label. Her summer litany of rules and regulations will appear the moment the doors of Power School were closed and locked.-No swimming until 30 minutes after I’ve eaten. It doesn’t matter if I’ve only consumed one tiny mint or a handful of M & M’s, a mustard coated pronto pup, a bag of potato chips, or an enomous a dripping Nutty Buddy, I wait on the side of the pool as thirty unending, molasses-slow minutes tick by and I learn the meaning of eternity. Orange crush counts too.-Keep your band-aid dry, especially if a bleeding ankle has been slathered with merthiolate. Although it stains and stings like an angry hornet, it works. The arrival of stingless Bactine was a childhood miracle.-Do not step on an ant hill or poke it with a stick. Those pesky critters can outrun a Cheetah in less a minute. Never scratch a mosquito bite or touch anything that crawls across sidewalk, slithers down a honeysuckle vine, chitters, or hides in the azaleas. If something jumps out of the hedges and growls, run. Roses have thorns, and snapping turtles are aptly named. Duck and cover if something swoops down from the sky. Sounds simple enough, but there’s more.-Do not track mud, sprinkler water, or freshly cut grass into the house. Dripping bathing suits belong outside, not hanging over a towel rack in the bathroom. Going to sleep with damp, chlorine scented hair is a no-no. Although green is a lovely color, it doesn’t blend well with Sunday school outfits. Neither does bubble gum or dirty fingernails.-Make sure all the checkers remain in the Monopoly box as well as the dice, the get out of jail free cards and tokens, especially my favorite, the top hat.-And finally, lick your ice cream cone from the bottom not the top. The same goes for grape popsicles, push-ups, and anything else in Shady Nook’s tempting drink box.My childhood rules for easy, sunshine days were simple. Keep my shoes in the closet, a frozen coke in the fridge, and a quarter in my pocket in case the ice cream man comes by. Visits to the dentist will vanish, as well as spelling tests, piano lessons, and mushy green beans in the school cafeteria. I have a choice between Riverside pool and the blowup one in the back yard. The rigorous efforts of the Presbyterians will melt away and I will abandon memorizing anything, ever.In summer, my imagination blossomed as the adults in my life stepped back and allowed me to soar. I made up my own stories and plotted out my own games. It was a time for lying in the grass and staring at the sky as a menagerie of clouds floated by. I spent afternoon’s searcing for a drifting elephant or a puffy white frog. Genie’s too.The public library was a wonderland because Peter Pan lived there, as well as Madeline, Babar, and The Borrowers. So did Winnie and his gang. I had no idea where deepest darkest Peru was, but I knew Paddington.As I May drifted into June, the calendar taped to our fridge was blank. There was no drumbeat of organized activities and no adults stifling the simmering pot of childhood creativity. The smotherings summer heat meant nothing except running through the sprinkler, making clover necklaces, and watching Daddy lift a dripping paddle out of the ice cream freezer. Better yet, television had not captured my soul.Still, I knew what was coming, summer was not endless. When August approached, as it always did, my sunshine days would fade like dandelions in the grass. Power School would reopen again, the rattle of my alarm clock would shake me awake, and our Chevy’s would resume its slow path to Riverside Drive. As a rising fifth grader, my status at Power would be substantially upgraded, and anything was possible. But while freedom reigned, I intended to squeeze the last bit of sticky, sweet juice out of every sunshine day. When it was all over, perhaps the arm would finally disappear.

Watermelon©Averyell A. KesslerI watched closely as Hattie Jean Peaster leaned toward an oak- framed mirror hanging over her dressing table and inspected her face. When she opened her purse and withdrew a shiny tube of Revlon’s Fire Engine Red, I knew something was up. She’d already changed into a Sunday School dress and a pair of low heel shoes. She uncapped the lipstick and coated her lips with heart stopping red, then blotted her mouth with a tissue until only a soft pink remained. Hattie Jean was the mother of my best friend, Martha. I spent half of my childhood at her house on St. Mary Street.“Where are you going?” Martha asked.“We’re all going.” Hattie Jean said. She opened her compact and patted a fresh dusting of powder over her nose and cheeks. “Put on a clean pair of shorts.”“Where?” Martha asked again.“Watermelon,” she said simply.At my Laurel Street home, watermelon was far more than a tasty bite of sweetness dripping with flavor; it was an event. We called it a watermelon cutting, and it was woven into Belhaven’s social structure just a firmly as an Easter egg hunt, a birthday party, or a swirling sparkler on Fourth of July. Hattie Jean knew the rules and dressed accordingly. She was a delta lady and a party was a party, no matter what kind. With luck, there’d also be a tumbler of Old Grand Dad seasoned with a few ice cubes.I thought about a Belhaven watermelon cutting last week when I rambled through Kroger’s fruit and veggie department. As always, I saw rows of precision cut watermelon chunks in shiny plastic boxes as well as carefully measured slices also plastic wrapped. (What did they do with the juice? Just wondering.) A few whole watermelons were on a secondary aisle, nestled in a humble cardboard box like abandoned puppies. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. At least they weren’t paired with kale.In my growing up days, there were several ways to obtain a watermelon, from someone’s overflowing garden, the Farmers’ Market, or the Jitney. Of course, the real fun was selecting a Smith County beauty from the back of a pick-up parked south of Jackson on Highway 49. Over the years, my father honed the selection process into an art, choosing between green or stripped and large or extra-large (personal seedless watermelons did not exist, and we would have considered them serious aberration of nature). Next came his thumping technique to determine if the melon was ripe. A yellowish spot on the bottom was a good indication, but not always. Finally, he asked the watermelon man to cut a small plug out of our chosen melon and offer a sample. Once the decision was made, the watermelon road home in our backseat like a member of the family.A watermelon cutting was not a solitary occasion or lace tablecloth event. It lacked the elegance of an iced petit four or the delicacy of an angel food cake. Certainly not a romantic dinner for two. A watermelon cutting was a Saturday celebration, a gentle gathering of friends, an invite all the neighbors, come-on-in affair featuring good conversation, ubiquitous cigarettes, and laughter echoing into the night. Emily Post did not attend, neither did crabby relatives or anyone associated with the WCTU. Hattie Jean came with bells on. Sometimes it developed into an impromptu cookout, sometimes not. It didn’t matter. The watermelon, now lolling in a tin tub ice bath, was the star. Adults drifted into our backyard and mixed cocktails from bootleg bourbon and icy cokes. They unfolded lawn chairs and settled into a circle as children ran free, played may I, hopscotch or gathered under the basketball hoop. Mosquito coils were a necessity. So were card tables, newspapers and a good butcher knife. Also, a saltshaker for those addicted to the taste. Paper plates weren’t needed. Knives and forks? Laughable! Only a stack of paper napkins was allowed at a watermelon cutting. Keep the hose handy too.The highlight of the evening occurred when the ice-cold melon was lifted from the tub, placed on a nest of newspapers, and sliced open. Suddenly, the oppressive summer heat no longer mattered, and one of Mother Nature’s best creations stole the show.“Who wants the first piece?” Daddy called out. It was his mantra. The Laurel Street seal of approval for a glistening green melon with honey sweet fruit the color of a flaming sunset. The adults received a huge halfmoon slice, the children a carefully carved wedge. We ate it with both hands, tasting heaven as sticky juice ringed out mouths and dribbled down our elbows.And then, seeds. The disposition of seeds depends on the end game. Do you want to politely dispose of them or spit them at each other in a merry end-of-the-evening melee? Hattie Jean and my mother were in the first group, Martha and I the second. Nothing was more fun than squeezing a seed between your thumb and index finger and watching the slippery devil arc in the air and attack like an angry bumble bee. Not once, but again and again, especially when the victim wasn’t expecting it. A seed spitting contest was always the last hurrah before children were hustled home for a much-needed bath.Now, summer is here and I want watermelon. Not chunks in a plastic box or anything pre-sliced. I want an authentic Mississippi, field grown beauty that looks like sunshine and leaks juice sweeter the Aunt Jemima’s finest. I want to chill it in a tin tub and slice it in the backyard with my grandchildren. I want to hold it in my fingers, nibble it down to the rind, and suck out the last bit of juice. Most of all, I want to show them that I can spit seeds with the best on them! I’m sure Hattie Jean would approve.

A Silent Gathering ©Averyel A. KesslerI wrote this for Memorial Day Last year. It’s the story of my family’s visit to the American Cemetery in Normandy.As Memorial Day approaches, I am thinking of a man I never met. His name is Charles Willis Kessler; his was a young, second Lieutenant from the small town of Eunice, Louisiana. Two of his brothers went to war also, one older, one younger. Both came home. Willis did not. He lost his life a few days after the Normandy Invasion when a Nazi sniper saw the bright flash of silver officer’s bars on his uniform and killed him with a single shot. His family received word that he had been buried in a small churchyard in Mer St.Eglise, France. Nothing more. His mother never recovered.Over forty years later, my family decided to find Willis. No one else in the family had ever visited his grave. We’d been been touring France for over a week when we rented a car and drove to the village of Mer St. Eglise, a few miles from the coastline and close to the site of the Invasion. As we wandered through the churchyard, a priest came bustling out of the church and greeted us. He did not speak English, our French was spotty, but he spoke magic words “Cimetiere Americian Normandy.” We were off again barreling towards the Cemetery and Omaha Beach. What happened next made me proud to be an American.The cemetery is extraordinarily beautiful and a stunning tribute to all persons lost in the terror of WWII, even those whose bodies were never found. We were welcomed warmly by the officer on duty. He ushered us into his office, found the location of Willis’ grave, and asked us to sign the visitors’ book, recording the names of all relatives of the hero soldiers buried there. He produced a beautiful bouquet and a bucket of sand and led us through a sea of gleaming white crosses and stars of David. They were beyond number, a silent gathering of heroes, Suddenly, there it was, Willis’ grave, his name carved in stark stone letters. His name, Kessler, was ours also. After a small ceremony, we placed the bouquet on Willis’ stone and sprinkled sand over his grave. Then photographs. I still have them as a reminder of that sweet, sad day. As we walked away from his grave, it was difficult to speak. Even our young teenage sons were quiet. On that day, we learned the meaning of incredible sacrifice from one of our own.So, why did Willis go to war? What caused this young man fresh out of LSU to leave home and volunteer to fight for his country. A few facts are clear. Pearl Harbor. Hitler’s ruthless invasion of Europe. The sinking of American ships as well as those of our allies. Uboats invading the North Atlantic with plans to blockade all ships. The creeping realization that angry tyrants sought to conquer the world. But I think his motivations were more than that. I believe they were deeply personal. It was a matter of survival, and the preservation of his way of life. Hot bowls of oatmeal his mother served her large family on cold winter mornings, as well as tasting her homemade donuts. Watching his father walk to his job managing a sawmill, a job he chose, not one forced upon him. It was Willis’ small-town sensibilities, dedicated teachers, and Sunday meetings at Eunice’s Baptist Church, as well as a broadening of experience when he entered college. Again, his choice, his future, his chance to shine.He did not fight to affirm someone’s wish to control the free expression of ideas, parse speech, or advance the views of the easily offended who only offer their own brand of tyranny. That would have been unthinkable in his day when the principals of America’s foundation were honored . He did not give his life to encourages mob violence, censorship, or cut-throat politics. Again, unthinkable, even though memories of the Kingfish and scars Louisiana’s checkered past still echoed. He fought for the ideals he had been raised with and for the fear that his small-town way of life would be taken away forever. Although his early life may not have been more than a 5-mile radius around home, it was his and was worth fighting for.As we returned to our car, another humbling event occurred. Several large, heavily loaded tour buses passed through the cemetery gates and stopped on the parking plaza. Surely, these were Americans coming to visit Normandy as we did. But no. This was different. Out of curiosity, we watched as hundreds of people streamed away from the buses and walked into the cemetery. Many women carried flowers. Men spoke in loud voices, pointing and waving their arms as they described what had occurred on this sacred spot. All were French. They had come to remember the invasion and pay tribute to the Americans who died for their freedom. Viva Les Etats Unis! General John J. Pershing said, “Time will not dim the glory of their deeds.” I hope it never does.I write in honor and remembrance of Charles Willis Kessler of Eunice Louisiana, Second Lieutenant, 357 Infantry Regiment, 90th Infantry Division, who died on June 14, 1944. He was awarded a posthumous Purple Heart.

The Last Day©Averyell A. KesslerIt’s the last day of school, my final day as a six grader at Power School. My brain is pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. We all are. Even Miss Latham, our teacher, has a faraway look in her eyes as she tries to hold back an imminent explosion of joy. Outside, the custodian and his crew are mowing and the fragrant aroma of just-cut clover drifts through the open windows in my classroom. The brown grass edging Riverside Drive is turning lush green, and pink puffs are falling from the mimosa trees on the front lawn. It’s summer. No one can hold it back. I feel it in every inch of my body, tingling like an electric current, or the stomach-churning rush of a descending elevator. After today, I’ll be free. A stay up late, run through the sprinkler, bubble blowing, bike riding, dive and splash summer stretches out like a golden road. I pay no attention to the sweat dibbing into my socks.About a mile to the east, the swimming pool folks at Riverside Park are preparing to open. They are sweeping the remains of winter debris from the empty pool, and stocking the concession stand with Tootsie Rolls, Life Savers, and Bit’O Honey bars. They’re revving up the snow-ball machine too. If I’m lucky, they’ll purchase a cotton candy machine. If I’m truly lucky, Mama will buy me a new swimsuit and a bathing cap covered with flowers. No chin strap!But the day is moving like molasses. Bright afternoon sunlight pours into the classroom and warm air covers me like a wool blanket. Desperation sits in the desk beside me, staring with laughing eyes. Gotcha, it says. I am trapped, held prisoner by the oversized wall clock hanging over Miss Latham’s desk. I am surprised when she stands, looks at her watch, and makes a stunning announcement.“I think we still have time to check the spelling test we took yesterday.” Oh no! I’ve been dreading this, hoping beyond hope that she’d forgotten about yesterday’s 45-word monster. Instead, she plows ahead, methodically passing out papers so that no one gets his own test. I sit squirming as Jimmy Evans’ test falls on my desk. Then it begins, Miss Latham patiently calls out Arizona – A-r-i-z-o-n-a, Kentucky – K-e-n-t-u-c-k-y, misery – m-i-s-e-r-y, despair d-e-s-p-a-i-r. Finally, she says, freedom – f-r-e-e-d-o-m. I rejoice. Jimmy scores 100, because I have not looked at a single word on his test. Miss Latham collects the papers. I doubt she will even glance at them, but the last torment is over. I look at the clock again. Hallelujah, it’s almost time for the bell. No more pencils, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks! In five minutes, I’ll be gone forever. Gone? Forever? I remember the day it started. It’s only a whisp of remembrance, but it’s there.In August of my 2nd grade year, the new Power School was finally finished and ready to welcome its first students. A modern yellow brick marvel, it was a sprawling, one story building settled in the middle of 5 acres fronting on Riverside Drive. The campus included a softball diamond, a basketball blacktop, hopscotch patterns, and a wide lawn for games. Our new desks were even footed (no rocking) and without initials carved on top or concrete globs of bubble gum stuck under the bottom. The black boards had become green boards, and the windows opened wide to receive fresh air. Everything was fresh and clean, the walls were spotless, and seamless linoleum floors were polished to a high gloss. On that first day, we gathered around the flagpole with our teachers and parents, as Miss Briscoe, the principal, welcomed and blessed us. We sang a loud, off-key version of My Country Tis of Thee and recited the Pledge of Allegiance as the flag was raised for the first time. Here we come, ready or not. After everyone walked inside for punch and cookies, our parents wrangled us into our classrooms and kissed us goodbye. The new school had opened, and we settled in to learn the latest and greatest from a cadre of teachers, both young and old. Anything was possible.Now it is ending. This is my last day at Power School, my final stroll down the long hall leading to the cafeteria, my last time to slink past Miss Biscoe’s office and hope she doesn’t catch me sprinting across the front lawn. Bailey Jr. High was a gleaming star on a high hill, an exciting unknown adventure, with new friends, new teachers and the tantalizing prospect of lipstick and high heels. I couldn’t wait.I am thankful for my Power School teachers. They taught for the love of the job and of the kids too. They would rather have endured a three- hour root canal than miss a day of school. They called our parents when we were out with measles and intervened if anyone was being pushed around on the playground. They patched up skinned knees and helped us button our coats on freezing winter days. They had rules, could control a giggling classroom by clapping their hands, and God help the poor child who stepped out of line or cut up in the cafeteria. They smiled when we did well, and worried when we didn’t. Not just because of our failure, but because of theirs also.I hope there are still good teachers out there now, people who teach because they love learning and slog through difficulty to make sure everybody learns to read, understands fractions, and can write a proper sentence with a minimum of difficulty. The good ones open sleepy eyes and help fledgling adults emerge from the chrysalis of childhood. They are a parent’s best friend, and an ally in learning. They lead us forward, point to the stairsteps of learning, and say, “One step at a time. Take my hand. We’ll climb together.” They are a blessing. I remember them all.

In the Cold©Averyell A. Kessler(I wrote this during a weekend of extremely cold weather. I decided to post it again today, because there is shouting in the streets.)

Father, I pray for all who suffer in the cold,For those who know you, and for those who do not,For those whose eyes are open, and those who have closed theirs and walked away,I pray for those who are called by your name, and those who will never know it,I pray for all your creation,Continue reading “In the Cold©Averyell A. Kessler(I wrote this during a weekend of extremely cold weather. I decided to post it again today, because there is shouting in the streets.)”

Up to No Good with WG©Averyell A. KesslerSaturday reprise – This is the first story I wrote about my grandfather.When I was eight, going on nine, my grandfather, WG Avery, taught me how to shoot craps. The lesson occurred in his office a few weeks before I entered the third grade. I was already an expert at Parcheesi and Chinese Checkers so when he opened his desk drawer and lifted out a pair of shiny red dice, I was entranced. A new game!“Where’s the board?” I asked.“You don’t need a game board for this,” he said. My eyes widened. This was not Candy Land or Shoots and Ladders. “Close the door,” he ordered.At that time, WG’s office was in an old worn out house at the corner of Mitchell and Northwest Street, and so close to the railroad tracks that the building shuddered when freight trains clacked into town or the City of New Orleans roared by. The windows were coated with a fine patina of dust and cigar smoke. The floors boards groaned when the front door squeaked open and the walls were infused with the faint aroma of motor oil. But this was his territory, his home, the make or break center of his business. For some obscure reason, Mama dropped me off to stay with him while she ran a few errands. We were best buddies. What could possibly go wrong?“OK,” he began. “You shake the dice hard and toss’em on the desk. If you get 7 or 11, you win. If you get 2,3, or 12, you lose.“What about the other numbers,” I asked.“We’ll get to that in a minute,” he replied. “Let me show you.” He rolled the dice back and forth between his hands, tossed them onto his desk, and shouted, “Gimme a big red, come on big red.” A pair of 6’s landed on top of a copy of the Wallstreet Journal.“Boxcars, dadgummit,” he said.It didn’t matter; we kept going. We played until Mama returned. By this time, I knew the important terminology, “bones, snake eyes, and crapping out.”When Mama discovered my new game ad it’s singular vocabulary, she was horrified. A second lesson occurred in the car on the way home. I would not tell my father, my teachers, or anyone at Sunday School. I would not explain this game to my friends or sneak dice out of the Monopoly box. I would not peek into the secret gambling room at the Jackson Country Club.“But it was so easy,” I exclaimed. “And I won.”“Sometimes, your grandfather teaches you things he shouldn’t,” she said. “Craps is a bad word. Don’t say it again.”She failed to mention that he taught her how to smoke a cigar in the basement of their home in Detroit, Michigan. She was ten.WG wasn’t a total ne’er-do-well. Just an interesting man from another era. He taught me important lessons too, “Don’t follow the mob, work hard, most politicians are weasels and pole cats, and you can do anything you want to do (an important lesson for a female child in the 1950’s). He also taught me craps. So, don’t take me on in a game!When WG was approaching 90, he taught my sons how to shoot craps also. They were 6 and 8. I never said a word.Update for next week – I’ll be posting a reprise story on Thanksgiving Day. I’m the family pie maker and there won’t be much time for writing. I’m also in charge of cornbread dressing and roasting ducks with a recipe from Mulate’s in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana. Have a happy, festive, and thankful day.

An Easter Gift©Averyell A. KesslerMy Easter memories are especially strong. I remember Saturday mornings when Mama allowed me to spread discarded sheets of the Clarion Ledger over the kitchen table, drop Paas tablets into coffee cups filled with vinegar and water, and dye dozens of hard-boiled eggs, many of which would never be found or eaten. I was helping the Easter bunny. What could be better? I recall the Easter morning my grandfather rowed me across his pond in Avery Gardens to find eggs tucked into the grass on a small island in the middle. And always, a rainy Easter when a vicious thunderstorm forced Mr. Bunny to hide eggs inside I found all but one. Luckily, it turned up days six later, but it took weeks to banish the smell.I usually had a new Easter dress, purchased to last all summer, as well as a tiny purse and lacy socks. I recall Daddy trying to refresh my scuffed Mary Janes by scrubbing them with saddle soap and finishing the job with white shoe polish. Hats and I were not friends, so Mama completed my outfit with a perky bow surrounding my ponytail. After church we had a festive family lunch featuring baked ham, glazed sweet potatoes, homemade yeast rolls, and whatever vegetable I decided was edible that year. Also, a traditional gelatin salad. It had a cream cheese center, but no one told me. Dessert came from my Easter basket, Goldbrick eggs, jelly beans, and Mama’s favorite, Heavenly Hash. Daddy chose peppermint patties, my grandfather liked horehound candy – a bitter concoction we ordered from Vermont. But he also like turkey gizzards.Mama’s Easter orchid is my favorite memory. I spotted it in Morgan & Lindsey, a bustling 5 and 10 cent store near our house. The orchid was displayed among a variety of stuffed bunnies, ribbon decked Easter baskets, and a jumble of Easter candy laid out like squares on a patchwork quilt. “Easter Corsages” the sign read, “$1.50” Big words for a third grader, but I got it. The orchid was a small, pink and white replica of an exotic bloom somebody stamped out of plastic, tied with a purple ribbon, and enclosed in a sealed plastic box. “It’s beautiful,” I thought. “I want to buy this for Mama so she can wear it to church on Easter.” When I returned home, I went slipped into my room, emptied my bank, a bronze replica of the Stature of Liberty, and counted my assets. I had five quarters, seven nickels and a solitary dime, plus a silver dollar my Grandfather had given me. More than enough. I asked Daddy to help me with the surprise.When Easter Sunday arrived, our church was transformed into a flower garden by an abundance of graceful Easter lilies, pastel picture hats and little girls in fluffy dresses and shiny shoes. The boys had new shoes too, also jaunty bow ties and maybe a blazer in miniature. My mother walked in with a plastic orchid pinned to her lapel. It didn’t quite match the color of her suit or the elegance of the congregation, but she wore it proudly. A few heads turned when Mama and I settled into our pew, but no one said anything. Finally, an inquisitive chatterbox leaned forward, arched her eyebrows, and asked “My goodness, Paula, is that a plastic corsage you’re wearing?”“Yes,” Mama answered. “My daughter gave it to me. Isn’t it beautiful?”My mother wore the orchid only once, but she kept it in her jewelry box. It was a heart gift she chose to keep. As I grew, I forgot about it. When she moved into my home during her last years, I did not find it among her treasured possessions. It was an out of sight, out of mind object lost in the past. But wonder of wonders, I found it last week, hiding under a pile of napkins in an unopened dresser drawer. I hadn’t thought about it in years, but I recognized it instantly. Its pink petals had faded to gray, the white ones were dull and dusty. The purple ribbon was shredded, but it was intact and whole, just as it was on the day Mama wore it.It’s in my jewelry box now, safe and secure, a tiny trinket of little cost, but infinite worth. I’ll tell my children about it, the grands too, so they’ll know why I’ve saved this bedraggled relic. It reminds me that the best gifts, no matter how small or inconsequential, are those given in love. Big gifts too. Perhaps that’s what Easter is all about.