Annabelle Terrebonne and Gracious Duncan

Proverbs 11:29 ...and the foolish will be servant to the wise hearted.

While visiting a friend at Ochner's hospital in New Orleans, I met two wonderful ladies, Annabelle Terrebonne, and Gracious Duncan.  They are second cousins, once removed, on their stepmother's brother's half-sister's side.  That’s Annabelle’s story and she’s sticking to it.  These two ladies are animated, energetic, deeply caring people that love good stories and laughter.   They have more stories and jokes than their mamas have relatives. Family and friends come first in their lives.  They are West Bankers as well as their parents and grandparents and are proud of it.   You would think they were sisters, the way they finish each other’s sentences.  The have lived next door to each other most of their lives.  Gracious even married her stepfather's son from a different marriage.

 Annabelle is a nurse at Tulane, (she’s the one on the left).   She possesses a strong N’Awlins accent and loves to talk.  When I introduced myself, she looked me up and down before saying, “Who’s your mama n’dem?”  There are no strangers in her world because everyone is treated as if they’re family. She tells it like it is and is usually blunt. Being a nurse, she is required to wear a name tag, while at work, for identification purposes.  This causes some confusion to those with little common sense when seeing her last name.  It upsets her to no end when a patient looks at the name tag reading “Terrebonne” and then says, “Are you from Terrebonne Parish?”  She will straighten to her full five-foot-two-inch height, stare them down and say rather sarcastically with much vigor in her deep N’Awlins voice, “Now why the hell would I run around with the name of a parish on my name tag? You insane? Dat's my name you couillon! I know your mama done taught you better den dat?”

 When not nursing, Annabelle is a Cajun Re-enactor for the Grande Derangement, (the forced removal by the British of the Acadian people from the present-day Canadian provinces of Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Prince Edward Island causing death of thousands of people).  She usually pretends she doesn't understand the term fully and just acts deranged, which brings knee-slapping laughs from Gracious.

 Gracious is a scholar and teaches at Tulane.  She was there visiting people in the hospital to cheer them up, her favorite thing to do. Gracious was dressed in a bright red above the knee dress, high heels and more jewelry around her neck and wrists than madams on Bourbon Street.  You would never guess she is a professor the way she dresses when not lecturing at the University. You might find her going through garbage looking like she’s homeless, or she may wear a bright orange wig (Bozo the clown orange) and be dressed in short shorts as she visits antique shops on Magazine Street.  Upon hearing her story, I said out loud, “Good gracious!”.  She smiled at me and said, “You got that right dahling,” and slapped me hard on the back.

 Gracious, also, is a researcher in the field of Genetics and is sought after as a popular speaker at conventions and University campuses across the United States.  She has an infectious laugh that is throaty and low with a heart of pure gold. Gracious has recently established the first genealogical database research web site for Purebred Registered Canines…called C.A.R. or Canines of the American Revolution.  She owns a beautiful English Bull dog that she claims is a direct descendant of George Washington’s favorite canine. Her ancestor, she says, was a favored slave of General Washington and was given a dog for a reward by the General.  The family has carefully and proudly maintained the line throughout the years.  

 Yeah, you right.  Gotta love ‘em, BLESS THEIR HEARTS.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

 The Funeral

I had one remarkably interesting experience while working as an art and dance therapist at Central Louisiana Mental Hospital back in the 1970’s.  Some of them were good, some bad and some funny.  One of the most unusual ones was the death of one of my therapy patients.   This man had spent most of his life in the hospital.  I was told he had no family that ever checked on him.  Mr. Doe had been in my class for about a year.  He loved playing with the clay and often would make unusual pieces.  One was a gravy boat with a dragon head.  The neck was hollow, and liquid could pour from it.  He gave it to me as a gift. I don’t use it but treasure it just the same.

 One day, Mr. Doe didn't attend his therapy.  I checked on him.  He had died during the night.    At mental hospitals where people have been institutionalized for most of their lives and abandoned by family, they were usually buried on the hospital grounds. This wasn't unusual.   Now here is the strange part.  There was an estranged family who wanted a proper burial and they wanted me to be one of the pall bearers.   I had questions whether this would be appropriate, but after talking with my superiors, decided it would be fine. 

 Now, this man was huge - well over six feet tall and probably on the plus side of 300 pounds.  His daughter, it turned out, was the only living relative, and she really didn't know him because she had been abandoned as a baby and raised in another state.  She was willing to come home and have him buried in a cemetery Pineville, Louisiana, not on the hospital grounds.  The service was to be conducted at a local Catholic church.  I knew no one there, and really felt out of place.  Yet I wanted to do this for Mr. Doe, whom I had learned to respect. 

 The priest that conducted the service was recovering from a long illness, running fever, and heavily medicated.  I should have noticed the signs.  We rolled the closed casket to the center of the aisle in front of the altar and the priest began his service.  Being medicated, he was unsteady on his feet and tripped reaching for the casket for balance.  It moved down the aisle a bit.  He brought it back while waving the metal censer suspended by chains, over the body once or twice hitting the casket which allowed more smoke to leave the censer.   I was unfamiliar as to why this smoky incense was being used, so I asked the man next to me.  He explained that many see it as a symbol of prayers or the soul of the deceased person rising. It is also used as a sign of reverence and dedication, used at funeral services to honor, and commemorate the dead.  I thought I rather liked that idea even though the priest was clumsy.

 When the priest finished, he missed the censer holder and dropped it on the floor.  Stumbling, he placed his Bible on top of the casket which made the casket roll again and the flowers on top fall off.  While recovering the censer rolling about the floor and placing the flowers back on the casket, he apologized and was sorry the other priest was not available.  I was relieved that the rest of the service went well, except for a few more fumbles on his part.  

 During all this, the daughter sat rigid and stared straight ahead disassociated.  I guess she felt it her duty to bury her only relative although she really didn't seem to have any emotions whatsoever toward him. 

 The service was finished, and we stood on each side rolling the casket to the hearse.  As we reached the door, the daughter suddenly screamed, “Wait!  I want to take pictures.” We looked at her with shocked expressions.  She wanted the casket opened.  The priest complied.   She stood next to her father while someone took their picture.  But that wasn't all.  Next, the priest had to be photographed with the deceased.  And then all eight of us pall bearers had to take our turn for the photo op.  We finally closed the casket and lifted the heavy man down the steps to the hearse.  It began to rain.

 At the cemetery, we had the daunting task of taking the casket to the top of a hill in the rain.  Since it was a long climb, the body was placed on a rolling cart.  We began our ascent.  The wet ground was slippery.  One man lost his footing and his shoe and fell, getting mud all over his suit.  He recovered his shoe and we proceeded.  Then we all began losing our footing as we slipped and slid trying our best to keep this heavy casket going forward and upward.   Suddenly, the casket, with the 300 pound plus sized man inside, slid off the cart and slid toward the bottom of the hill.  Thank the good Lord the casket did not open.  After several attempts wrangling the casket to the top of the hill, we managed to get Mr. Doe to his grave site and finished the service.  We stood in stunned silence with bits of grass, flowers, and mud all over our clothes and around the casket, while the rain continued.  Still the daughter sat rigid and straight faced. 

 As we began to leave the daughter suddenly asked for one more photograph.  What?  So, we stood around the casket, muddied clothes, and all for the final picture.  With that finished, she turned and walked away, got in her rented car, and left.  No thank you, kiss my foot or anything.   I certainly hope this eased her guilt.

 Hears to you, Mr. Doe.  I’m glad I knew you as a person, too bad your daughter didn’t.  Bless her heart.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.