"Mom, Can I Borrow A Shoebox?"

Making a Mardi Gras float...

I remember when my son had to create a mission in fourth or fifth grade as part of learning about the history of California. Naturally, all the parents competed with each other to create the best mission diorama for some elementary school open house. For sure, it was a fun family project, but I can't say I was not creatively involved.

I don't have any recollection about doing this in Catholic school, but the first four years of my education was at a public school and every year around "Carnival Time" (That's what we called it in back then!) we'd create Mardi Gras floats out of shoe boxes. Mom would sacrifice one of her boxes to staple the top of the box vertically to the bottom container that held the shoes. Lots of glue, tempera paint, colored crepe paper, usually the Mardi Gras colors of green, purple and gold, and old beads from last year's booty, help create the beginning of some sort of concept.

Even as a kid, I never was enamored with all that fake royalty, glitter, masks and such, but okay, the top of the box had to have revelers to help make a concise float concept. One year, the solution was to taking my plastic, olive drab soldiers, and paint them in the colors of Mardi Gras. I used mostly the soldiers who were throwing hand grenades, ( you remember that pose!) and have them throwing something into the adoring crowd. Another year, Trigger, Bullet, farm animals and a roping Roy Rogers graced the top of my float. I tried to glue my Nelly Belle jeep to the deck of the float, but it never would stay atop of the deck and would just roll off the float.

One year, I designed the float with those colored plastic, (Wasn't everything plastic back then?) four engined airplanes which I believe I received from the throws of the prior year. I used cotton balls to create the clouds which "floated" in front of a painted blue vertical background. Back then, we kids were seriously into the environment recycling all kinds of junk to enhance our special entry. We'd glue Life Savers, doilies, pins, MandM's, moss, sticks and stones, colored buttons stolen from granny's button jar, and Scrabble chips to misspell Marty Graw!

I wonder if any New Orleans mother ever got their shoe boxes back on Ash Wednesday or ever even wanted them back!

Copyright 2017/ Ben Bensen III

"Come All Ye Faithful..."

Holy Trinity Cathedral

"When we get there, I don't think we need to stay too long," my wife said. I thought to myself well what's the big deal. It's kinda rude just to show your face and then, run!

"Okay, whatever," I acquiesced.

When we arrived at the Holy Trinity Cathedral in New Orleans, which I later found out was first Greek Orthodox Church in North or South America, the parking lot was almost full.

http://holytrinitycathedral.org/index.html

About two Saturdays ago, I moseyed over for a cup of coffee and some abuse from the gang at Gus's restaurant, but there was no one or cars to be found as is usual. There was an envelope taped to the locked door of the restaurant. I wasn't sealed so I decided to open it up and see what was the reason for everyone's Saturday no show.

Written on a torn, half sheet of yellow ledger paper by a local landscape gardener, Steve Smith, was his condolences to the owner, Gus Michailakis. The first thing that crossed my mind was that Gus had complications from his inner ear surgery and passed away. 

I was not the only friend who shared that concern.

Sketchy information from close friends who spoke to witnesses said that on Friday night, with little or no warning, the eldest son, George, left the kitchen where he was working and went into the men's bathroom to end it all. George was the eldest son with a history of mental illness. One shot was all that was heard. 

Naturally, chaos ensued. The restaurant wasn't crowded at that time, but patrons poured out of the door into the parking lot. The local police showed as did the ambulance. Out of respect for the family, none of the patrons asked and little information was divulged. At this point, one week later, the details of his death don't seem so important.

Waiting our turn to see George in repose, I noticed in front of me, the neighborhood friend Therese and I ran into as we walked to the church. She stood in front of the casket with tears in her eyes. I looked around to see how precious friendships really are and what a simple neighborhood eatery means to a community. If only George could have understood the important part of his being alive and the out pouring of love that was shown at the crowded church.

I turned my head back towards the casket to notice that, our friend, Debra, touched George's hand which was surrounded by a crystal rosary. Her doing so reminded me of seeing our son in his casket and touching his hand. A hand, though still rather childlike, was a talented hand. Little hands that we had to hold so he wouldn't scratch himself from the many food allergies that plagued him most of his life. Soft hands that could easily grasped a double play ball or tap an errand throw of a football back into his arms. Talented hands that could build and paint model aircraft as well as create marker and charcoal and pastel art. 

The same hands that later would nervously pat me on the head as he passed by never knowing quite how I would receive it, were now cold and gray. It has always stuck with me. As our turn came up to pay our respects, I could tell Therese was beginning to have a hard time coping, for George was Brian and Brian was now, George. But when she met Pam Michailakis, in the receiving line, both mothers hugged and fell into desperate tears. I really don't know what was said or commiserated. I'll never know what it means to share one mother's heartbreak with another mother, but I could tell Tee was already exhausted.

We sat in a pew for a moment or two trying to regain some composure, then we walked back to the car. Starting it up, I slipped a Christmas cd into the player. The first song to play was,"Oh Come All Ye Faithful... It was then that I realized the "twenty minutes" was probably more than enough!

Copyright 2016/ Ben Bensen III