Okay, I warned yall that I write snippets of my (select one: _ novel _ short story _ terribly long paragraph) late at night. Here it 12:30 AM and Im feeling inspired, so Ill pick up where I left off the other night. Which had to do with the earthly beginnings of my main character: Well, you know you havent made a good first impression when your parents cant even remember when you were born! Oh, they got the month right (July) and the year right (you really dont expect me to reveal that, do you?), but when I was about fifteen, I went through a brief astrology phase. I had read Linda Goodmans Sun Signs and suddenly wanted to have my horoscope cast, so I needed to know the hour of my birth. So I asked. The conversation went something like this: When was I born? July, my folks replied as a duet. I know that. What time? Around two in the morning.. This from Mom. Seriously, Eloise? You cant even remember what time your son was born? It was more like four in the afternoon.. This from Dad. Really, Hank! I think I have more cause to remember than you. And I have the stretch marks to prove it! E.. This, of course from me. Being a logical sort (hey, I have my moments!), I asked to see my birth certificate. We dont have a copy here, my mother replied. I mean we did, of course, but after I registered you for first grade, I thought I put it in the bible, but when last I looked, it wasnt there. At this point, I should tell you that I was a deprived - okay, spoiled rotten - child, and never attended kindergarten. My sainted mother just couldnt bear to part with her little darling any sooner than she had to. I, of course, milked that for all it was worth. In the end, I never knew what time I was born (although I can tell you the exact minute of my rather unremarkable death). It seems the courthouse burned when I was a child, and there went my birth certificate, in a puff of smoke. The church records didnt have the time of my birth. Just that I was born and baptized. And that was supposed to have been named Lynette. I know this because where name was there was Lynette Marie in a lovely penmanship, carefully scratched through with my real name in a hasty scrawl below it. About that Lynette thing. First you should know it is definitely not a name I would have chosen for myself, had I been a girl. Back in the day, there was no ultrasound, and my mother consulted some old voodoo witchdoctor whose husband worked for Dad at the foundry. This IS Louisiana, after all. She cast her spell, and said emphatically that they needed to pick a girls name, because they were definitely going to have a girl as their second child. Dont bother with no boys name. You aint gonna need it. All things considered, maybe she should be forgiven for that slight error. But Im getting ahead of myself... Anyway, its my understanding that my parents still hadnt picked a name by the day of my baptism, so old Father Courtois, who did the honors, picked the name. Martin Aloysius Broussard. Again, a name I never would have picked. Christopher, maybe, or Philip, but Martin Aloysius? Really? Ive never quite forgiven that old priest. Which may explain why I still havent gotten both feet through the pearly gates (which are really sort of Day-Glo Green, by the way). I know, I know, you want me to get back to that little fortunate incident involving Bobby and Trish, but just hold your horses, I have to tell this in an orderly fashion.
Posted on: Sun, 01 Jun 2014 06:16:07 +0000
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