Tag Archives: New Orleans

Sorting, Donating & Remembering

 

peru days

Robert in healthier days, working in Peru (2016)

I have been putting this off. Not that I needed to do it in a hurry. Today I spent some time sorting through my husband’s jeans and shirts. He had a stash of jeans in large sizes – he used to be a big guy. Cancer diminished his body, but not his spirit. He had given away most every piece of clothing to a local shelter where he volunteered. The only clothing left in his closet were two pair of jeans, one pair dress pants, a sport coat and 3 shirts. Then I found the stack of jeans. I’m sure he planned to take the bag to the same shelter. I will do so this week, along with some sweatshirts and PJs that I found.

Robert was a bicyclist and loved riding the trails on his mountain bike up in Memphis and in Jackson. But here in New Orleans the terrain is flat. He loved riding these streets as well. Most days he would ride ten miles. He did that until earlier this year, until his energy was zapped by chemo. All the memories fill my heart as I sort through his old biking clothes – he was serious – he had all the gear of a racer. The elastic in his biking shorts has dry rot now. Ditching those.  One thing I know, is that my husband’s life is so much more than all these things.

Bike

Biking along the Natchez Trace

As I sort and pack up his clothing, my very heart hurts with pain. Until I pull out his favorite biking shirt. Neon reflective green, with black stripes. I can see him now, soaring over the hills and through the sand, never stopping, breathing deep, sweat dripping, blowing hot breath as he pedals up a hill. He is strong. He is muscular. He is healed.

As I will be one of these days. But until then, my heart still hurts.

Mardi Gras and “Coat of Many Colors” that we made; Riding the streets of New Orleans.
~~~~~

 

The Moment of Departure

Friday, September 13, 2019
IMG_6761It is 3:00am on Friday morning. I am remembering. The coffee maker beeps and I go to the kitchen and make my first coffee in my cup from Elizabeth’s Restaurant – one of our favorite places for breakfast. My first memories of R’s and my time together are of our times on the phone on early mornings as we have first coffee in separate cities – I am in Jackson, MS and he is in Delhi, LA, back in 1998.  Nothing tastes quite like that first sip of Community Coffee as we look toward the rising sun.

Wednesday, August 14, 2019…(continued from last week)
I ask R. again if he is certain he is ready for Hospice. He nods. I call the doc and everything is set up before the sun goes down. R signs all the papers with the nurse and he is at ease over the decision. At last, I think.

1

Over the next 2 days R. is getting weaker and weaker, more pain. Several visits from loving friends from Rayne Methodist. He loves them as well. Afterwards, as he sleeps, I play Simon & Garfunkel. Silence like a cancer grows.

He can no longer swallow pills so I call hospice and they send out liquid morphine and Ativan. They say give him .5 ml morphine every hour. That’s not enough. He cries out in pain. Esophagus is inflamed and painful. Difficult to swallow, so I drip .75ml morphine into the side of his mouth as I gently hold his head. No sleep for either of us. He rests for about 10-15 minutes, then is in pain again.

I continue to get him up and on the walker from bed to sofa. Calls me every minute it seems. We say prayer together and he reads to me from the Upper Room meditation, then puts the booklet on the bedside table. “My greatest fear is that I will die mean & nasty  –  I want you to call me on it if i get that way.” I assured him I would. He has never been mean and nasty and I tell him I do not think he will start now.

Sunday August 18, 2019
I lie with him on the guest bed. He wakes – I mindlessly move something from one place to another on the bedside table. He is lucid. “Can you explain to me the logic behind what you just did.”  “There is none,” I smile and answer. “I am merely being here with you.”

I call hospice on Sunday morning and request a hospital bed, as he can no longer get up without help and I’m concerned he could fall.  I go to a local store to purchase single bed sheets. These are the sheets that my husband will die on, I think, and I weep as I make the purchase. Afternoon, aide comes and gives R. a bath in bed, then sits him up in the wheelchair. Hospital bed is delivered. While they set it up with much clanging, I wheel R. back to our bedroom. My son John, friend Carol Spencer and Pastor Jay Hogewood follow. Carol gives us communion, Jay anoints R. with oil. R. is looking for the W.H. Auden poem The Wave, his favorite line of which is I inhabited the wake of a long wave. He speaks with Jay about what he wants in his memorial service. Come thou fount of every blessing.

I tiptoe in to give him his meds tonight, “What’s going on”. I’m here to give you Morphine and Ativan. He pulls the sheet over his head like a little kid and says No.  I wait, then drip the meds under his tongue.

Monday August 19, 2019
Nurse is here and I assist her in changing the dressing on his pressure sore. I hold his frail body on his side so that he sits up a bit. He tries to focus on what we are doing as I hold him and the nurse replaces the bandage. His eyes open wide. “Is this it? Is this it?” No, this is not it R. This is not the moment of leaving this life to the next. “Are we in New Orleans?” Yes, we are in New Orleans. “Good,”, he says as I lay him gently back on the pillow. My husband is ever the curious.

Daughter Jennifer is here and she plays Bob Dylan, R’s favorite. We watch as his hands tap to the beat of Dylan’s tunes in his sleep.

Friends Kelcy and Jim Patterson stop by in late afternoon. Kelcy says she is staying the night and I am grateful. Jim is a physician and takes R’s pulse and listens to his heart. Later we tell all good night. We do not sleep. R is calling out for me all night; intense pain. More morphine and Ativan, not working; he calls me to help him, concerned that he might soil the bed. I struggle to get him up and on the bedside commode, then back in bed, and he is using all his strength to help. I ask Kelcy to help get him back in bed. “Put your hands around my neck” I say and he does.

I lift him up into bed and Kelcy lifts his feet , then with his arms still around me I pull him up so that his head is at the top of the bed. He hugs me tightly, and I have pleasure in that. “I think this bed is just for one person,” he says, “I don’t think you can get in here with me.” I agreed with him and pried his arms from around my shoulders and he immediately rested on the pillow. More morphine. .75ml. He sleeps for a few moments. Then he calls out all night in pain. I give him as much morphine and ativan as I can but he does not rest.

Tuesday August 20, 2019
Morning and R. struggles to breathe. Daughter Jennifer is here. About 10 am R. tries to sit up in bed, gargling acid reflux, “Not working, not working”. I call Dr. Jim back, as he and Kelcy had left a few moments prior, and he returns. He suctions out about a cup of brown acid from Robert’s throat. R. is still restless, but less pain. I give Jim the bottle of morphine and I cradle R’s head. We drip the liquid into his cheek. I watch R take two breaths, then no more.  The point of departure is here. “He’s stopped breathing,” I whisper. “Faint heartbeat. No pulse. Heart stopped. He is gone,” Jim says. I feel great relief for my husband. The pain has ended. I watch his face and for the first time in over two years there is no sign of pain, no sign of struggle, no sign of worry.

I kiss him goodbye.

Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again.

 

 

 

 

 

How do your memories influence your fiction writing?

“Any sorrow can be borne if it can be made into a story,” said Danish author Isak Dinesen (Out of Africa). 

8_Wells-LiteratureEmpathyMany of my friends are writers. Most of them I know very well. Well enough that when I read some of their work I occasionally recognize autobiographical events, people or places, but these “true” events and such have been fictionalized and told as if they have happened in the lives of the story’s characters. Every author writes from his or her personal experiences, and I believe the more you know about an author the better you can understand that author’s perspective and ideas and what they may be trying to get across to the reader.

In my experience, I’ve never written a story or novel from a preconceived outline or plot diagram. Things change too rapidly, and life may give me another idea that will work better, and the story writes itself like a runaway train. Cities and towns have souls and memories and stories just waiting to be mined.

I am guilty of stealing other’s life experiences as well, and giving them to my characters, changing them up a little.  A red-headed male friend once told me about being chased by a rooster every time he stepped foot in his grandparents’ yard. Seems the rooster was after his red hair, and his grandma shouted to that rooster, “Don’t you spur my baby you peckerwood”. That ended up being in the history of my protagonist in a manuscript – the red-headed boy was too easily remembered.

Humor is everywhere. My daughter’s boyfriend was learning to tie a necktie, and the stress he put himself through developed into a short story. He asked me if I knew how to tie a Windsor knot and I said to look up ties in the Encyclopedia (this was  in the olden days before Google) and he returned, downtrodden, and told me, “it said ‘see railroad'”.

My husband and I walked around Jackson Square in New Orleans late one evening. Fortune tellers and tarot card readers sat around at tables draped with fabric, candles burning, as they lured customers to their tables for readings. Suddenly a young man rounded the corner and had a python wrapped around his body. We walked a little faster around the Square, the man and python following us for a long while. This experience gave me a short story series.

Sadness and sorrow, as well as shock, are always singed in our memories. In my childhood I remember a little friend drowned in her father’s minnow trough. She was about 5 or 6 years old, as was I. My parents went to the wake and took me with them. I had no idea what had occurred until we arrived at the ramshackle house on the outskirts of Hattiesburg MS and saw people peering into a long wooden box on the dining room table. Children climbed on chairs to have a look. I did not want to miss out on whatever they saw in there so I mounted a chair and looked in and was stunned to see my friend, her little body perfectly still in a pretty pink dress, her lips blue, sleeping in that box. That scene will never leave me. I’ve included the scene in one of my novels.

There are so many scenes from my childhood that I’ve used in numerous places in fiction, hiding them in different places than they occured, most times, or they hide themselves, or take a turn you did not expect. When you are going in one direction and think you know where the characters are headed, they just may surprise you and hop on a freight train!

What are some of the events tattooed in your soul? (I promise I won’t steal it, although I may change it up a bit so you won’t recognize it!)

Moving: New Venues & Adventures!

After 4 delightful years at the little shotgun house on Magazine Street, Uptown Needle & CraftWorks is MOVING!

Our last day of business at 4610 Magazine will be October 6. We are moving in a couple ways — temporarily to an online shop, as well as to new venues for workshops. You will hear more about this exciting news in weeks to come as we transition to this new phase.

We will be offering workshops and our products in Covington and at the Backroom on Bourbon (part of Jezebel’s ). We will also continue to offer workshops at 4610 Magazine with the new tenant, Home Malone, where owner Kristen Malone represents over 80 artists and features fabulous products made in the Deep South. Kristen plans to open her 2nd location in January 2019.

Many of you know that my magical husband/partner Robert has been living with “metastatic carcinoma of unknown origin” for over a year and a half.  Even though he has cancer in his bones, he felt wonderful for over a year now – riding his bike 10 miles a few times each week, planting a garden, teaching and working in the shop.
Fast forward to July of this year and weeks of physical distress for R. Thanks to the wonderful doctors at Touro Infirmary, the origin of those cancer outliers was finally identified. Robert has a port (he calls it his USB) and will begin chemo this week with a mixture of chemicals that will attack those renegade cells with the fury of a bad storm.  He has documented his journey thus far on his blog here.
We are very excited about this transition, and I am pleased to have the freedom to focus on my husband and our life together. I will keep in touch through my blog and through email newsletters about workshops- and perhaps a “reunion” soon.
When we opened our shop in 2014 the #1 focus was never on selling fabric, yarn or handmades. It was on building community through community engagement. You have created a wonderful community that today totals over 3500 strong! We thank you for sharing your love, support and creativity with us. We will miss you all more than you know.
See you soon at a workshop near you, or through your orders online! If you have not checked out our online shop, please do!
Peace be to all, and please keep us in your prayers.
Emma & Robert

 

AND WHAT’S A MOVE WITHOUT A SALE?
Up to 50% OFF* 
ENTIRE STOCK!

  

* ALL Fabrics & Pre-cuts 40-50% off regular prices. PLEASE NOTE:
Our website cannot offer the 40% fabric discount through the regular purchase platform; however, you may certainly browse through our fabrics here, make note of what you would like, call 504-302-9434 to pay by credit card. We will be happy to mail your order for our flat rate of $9.99.
* Handmades, Bags, Clothing 30% off
* Notions, thread, patterns, trims & kits 40% off
* Scrap Paks 50% off

* Sale now through October 6 only!

 
We are selling some of our furniture/fixtures and class supplies as well, so if you’re in the neighborhood – stop in! You’ll find some funky stuff! We will be at this location through October 6, then packing for the move.

 

Tell me about that revolution …..

mammau's quilt

Mammau’s Quilt

This is one of my paternal grandmother’s quilts, and it is over 100 years old. My Mammau. She was from Bayou La Fourche, Des Allmandes and Jacoby, Louisiana. I have no idea what happened to her other quilts but I am very pleased that this one was put in my care, moved from house to house, lovingly packed each time. The colors are still lovely, vivid and clear. The fabrics appear to be clothing remnants, flour sacks and such. The star patterns are not all the same design.

mammau's quilt2

The faded, rough backing

The backing is also interesting – I have not been able to identify what the textiles are. Loosely woven work clothing perhaps, faded whites and blues, and the batting layer is still intact and very thick. The entire quilt is quite heavy, large and of course it’s all hand-stitched. My Mammau taught me to sew on her 1918 Singer treadle machine.

I would love to try and duplicate her patterns in this quilt but the thought of all those little pieces gives me a headache. Ok, I love to quilt – just not with pieces this small. So how do I reconcile my love of quilts and quilting and my aversion to tiny piecing? Because I know how quilting and sewing can enhance a life, and even change one’s emotional perspective. It’s all about creativity and community.

Therefore, I want to join with Scott Fortunoff of Blank Quilting Company in starting the “Sewing Revolution of 2018”. In his most recent blog, he said the following:

  • I am going to continue to urge people to teach others how to sew and quilt.
  • I am going to try to convince people to get a new machine and give away their old one to someone that can’t afford one.
  • I am going to keep selling more fabric, of course.
  • I am going to continue to donate fabric to those who can’t afford it.

If you say it more and more, people will believe it and they may venture to jump in.  And in Scott’s words: “We cannot allow this great art to wither away and become a lost art” when it is so easy to embrace.  “What is going to be your contribution to the Sewing Revolution?”  Let’s do this and let’s have fun doing it.

Sew………. are you with me?

Continue reading

Everything Grows

IMG_3402

Lemons still on our tree

The best thing about New Orleans is that everything grows. The worst thing about New Orleans is that everything grows. Given time, a tiny cat’s claw vine will take over anything in it’s way. It will even invade an attic if there is a crack in a window. It will grow underneath siding and emerge through a hundred-year-old wooden shutter, clinging to rusty hinges and reaching towards the sunlight.

Every year Robert makes preserved (salted) lemons. He squeezes the lemons, cuts them up, adds Kosher salt and seals this up in jars. After about ten days or so, the lemon juice becomes syrupy and the lemons become soft enough to mash. The juice has a distinctive rich lemony taste that adds deep flavor to anything – guacamole, soup, salads. We have several citrus trees in our yard. Our semi-tropical climate is conducive to thousands of plant species. Many we don’t want. Many we do.  Our grapefruit tree has its first 3 fruits that we are waiting to pick, as soon as the green disappears.

IMG_3403

Grapefruit, almost ready

There is an old storage shed in our backyard made from the original slabs of bargeboard in the walls of our house. Beside the shed grow invasive elephant ears and Mexican petunias. We dig them up month after month and they keep coming back. On the walls of this shed, the cat’s claw vine creeps up. At one time it covered the roof but we hired someone to pull it all down and dispose of it. But it comes back. Always. In dry climates I hear that the plant is propagated because it is drought tolerant and has pretty yellow flowers. Well, yes, it does. But it grows maybe a half-foot per day here in NOLA.

So how do we co-exist with things that grow and are valued elsewhere, but are hated here in our own back yard? I think of the cat’s claw vine like I do my husband’s cancer cells.

IMG_3401

Cat’s claw vine trying to take over our backyard shed

We tolerate them, but we try to live as if they are not there. We try to do what we can to eliminate them, and we hope what we do is good for us and for the “good” plants (and “good” cells). All we can do is try to keep these things under control so they do not smother out the good things in life.

We enjoy our fruits, and keep planting good things – like more orange trees, more herbs and veggies – the “good stuff”. Maybe the good stuff will outgrow the bad. We can only do what we can. We can only hope.

That’s what this Christmas season brings to me. Hope. Hope in the future. Hope in good health, good energy, good friends and

IMG_3404

Cat’s claw vine growing through our neighbor’s historic shutters. There’s no apparent origin – unless the vine is growing under the siding.

good fruits.

 

Little Boxes, Filled with … what?

A couple of months ago, my husband R. was diagnosed with Metastatic Carcinoma of Unknown Primary. At first we are numb. Walking around staring at each other, trying not to get teary-eyed, but doing it anyway. Now, a few weeks down the road on this new journey, we’ve moved into another phase. Not acceptance. It’s something else for me. R. has an “attitude of gratitude”, and I’m into some other twilight zone of feeling I have not quite owned up to. I’m dealing with this new circumstance as I deal with most others.

I’m making things, keeping my hands moving. Yes, I’m escaping in a sense. Sometimes escape and denial is necessary to get you through. I’m making tiny houses. What is a house but a place where a soul resides. Little doorways. When I’m stitching, I do not have to think so much about the fact that my husband will gradually disappear from this life. But all these thoughts jump back into my stitches. I pray for him to not have pain. I try not to think about how lonely I will be in the future in this house.
I try not to think a whole lot about what I’m doing and my mind can wander off down the endless avenues of my brain. Every stitch a prayer. Going down one way I think of the beauty of the fall season here in New Orleans, which is the cooler temps. Then my thoughts take off another way and wonder about that hurricane that is forming and heading our way.
But with each stitch, each pull of this deep purple thread tightening that little doorway, I am thinking of what these cancer cells are doing to my husband day by day. And that I can do nothing to stop them, nothing to stitch those cancer cells up in a little box and burn them – and my scissors cannot cut off their threads of multiplication. It’s going to be a long journey.  Over time, about twenty minutes into my little house, my brain settles into the rhythm of my stitching, and I am once again in a meditation zone. I’m not in charge. And every stitch is a prayer.