Aunt Tilly, alive and well...
Dave Laird
I received an e-mail from my Aunt Tilly last night, which came somewhat as
a relief, as she lives in the bayous just outside Gulfport, Louisiana
where Hurricane Katrina slammed into the coast the hardest of all. Despite
her many eccentricities, many of my family have been concerned for the old
bat, as no one has heard from her since shortly before Katrina made
landfall.
While I no longer have the copy of her e-mail, transmitted just hours
before Katrina turned Billy Bob's Used Car Lot right across the street
from Aunt Tilly's house into a scrapyard, I believe her comment at the
time went something like, "Oh shit! I just watched Reverend Billadeau's
Chevy pickup truck humping a VW Beetle in town awhile ago, and the storm
isn't even here yet. We could be in for an interesting ride this time
around."
Poor Aunt Tilly--she's the hands-down winner, next to me, of course, as
the Black Sheep of the family. The last time she attended a family
reunion, she stunned everyone by showing up wearing combat boots beneath a
long, flowing flaming red low-cut gown, with a pet alligator in tow behind
her on a thick rope. At age 69, she had driven all the way from Southern
Louisiana in her faded yellow Ford station wagon, ostensibly with her pet
gator, Fred, sitting in the back seat contentedly munching on Fritos and
guzzling copious quantities of beer during the long trip.
"Don't check my bag if you please, Mr. Customs man..." song writer
for-a-generation Arlo Guthrie once sang. Arlo should have had a pet gator
named Fred if he didn't want unwarranted searches, except Fred would
probably have eaten his stash AND the customs man, since Fred eats nearly
anything thrown his way, living or not.
During the reunion, Tilly tied old Fred to a nearby tree, and he spent the
rest of the scorching-hot afternoon snapping at anyone who chanced to come
near him, but voraciously eating any table scraps thrown his way. Damn,
but that gator could make eating chicken bones sound like a French
gourmand tasting one of those fruity dinner wines in Campbell,
California's winery row, smacking his lips between each chomp of his
massive molars, and belching loudly, shortly before demanding more scraps.
Of course, those of us who have more experience than others with Aunt
Tilly's exotic habits were not that upset at having an eight foot
alligator named Fred at our reunion, as we know Tilly too well. When the
good ole boys of the family sat down beneath the pear tree to chew their
tobacco and gossip about the good ole gals of the family, Aunt Tilly just
naturally joined them, whipping out a sack of Red Man tobacco and, after
adjusting her underwear for comfort sake, she made herself right at home.
I once paid Aunt Tilly a visit at her home in the swamps a decade or so
ago, which is perhaps why our relationship was cemented for all times'
sake. Her house, built out of various trees that grow wild in the mangrove
swamp, was actually a delightful piece of artisan's artform, once you got
used to being surrounded on three sides with swamp, complete with various
life forms, some of which I only vaguely could identify.
Oh, it had the requisite number of modern conveniences, including
electricity, running water and HBO via the satellite dish. Aunt Tilly says
she particularly likes getting up early of a morning so she can watch the
skin flicks, as she particularly likes those young studmuffins in action
while she fixes herself some herbal tea and breakfast.
It wasn't so much finding modern amenities in a hand-made house built in
the middle of a bayou, but some of her livestock that was just a tiny tad
bit eccentric, even for my limited tastes. She had a pet cockatoo on a
perch in the corner of the front room, who regularly screeched out various
obscenities in three different languages, including Vietnamese. Tilly
stated that he had learned his blistering verbiage from a previous owner,
although I cannot imagine, given her own propensity for trashy language,
that he didn't learn new words from Aunt Tilly along the way.
Her two coon hounds, Juba and Fred, both sleep in bed with her, or so she
stated. The obvious problem I observed was when she calls the dogs by
name, her pet Gator, Fred, who fortunately DOESN'T sleep in her bed, comes
running, too. This makes for interesting dinner sessions, as the Gator
naturally wants his share of the table scraps, and will snap at both dogs,
who wisely keep their distance, during impromptu meals.
Add to this exotic mix of pets Ripley, the renegade badger, Hector the
Molester, a large pink flamingo who persists in peering in the windows,
and a blue heron named Hugo that only knows one word, but can yell it at
anytime of his/her choosing. The first night of my visit with Aunt Tilly
was quite interesting, as just as I was settling down on a sagging old
couch for a night's sleep when old Hugo sounded off right outside the
front porch screen, scaring the bejesus out of me. To the uninitiated,
Hugo sounds like a mix between a woman screaming at the top of her lungs
and a jet airliner about to land on the roof top.
Despite her many personal anomalies, what touched me about Aunt Tilly is
that she is a recognized artist, with several one-woman shows to her
credit. One of my personal favorites, an oil painting of Hector the
Molester peering in a rustic window, his huge long eyelids closed in what
one presumes is bliss. It sold shortly after my visit for about $500 at an
art gallery in Biloxi, but I'll never forget that picture.
I will post selected parts of Aunt Tilly's e-mail this morning tomorrow,
after I have had a chance to savor and relish her narrative about what
happened when Katrina came ashore. No, Tilly's house is still standing,
and no, it didn't flood, well, sort of.
Built nearly 20 feet in the air on industrial-grade metal stilts that are
sunk nearly thirty feet into the swamp grass, her house has withstood
every hurricane that ever hit shore in the Gulf States with ease. From my
hurried reading of her message this morning, I gather Aunt Tilly,
surrounded by her various pets and hundreds of other visiting dignitaries
from the swamp, rode the storm out just fine. When the storm surge came,
rising to the middle of the long steps that lead upward to her house, she
sat on the front porch overlooking the swamp, painting a picture and
chewing her Red Man.
Now that the water has receded the power has been restored, and although
her faded yellow Ford station wagon has disappeared, in her own words,
"The sumbitch had a rod knocking, so it was probably time for a new rig"
and she acquired two new pets, which I will discuss tomorrow, as time
permits.
It's good to know the old bat is alive and well. I can hardly wait to
finish reading her narrative.
Dave
--
Dave Laird (Da...@kharma.net)
The Used Kharma Lot / The Phoenix Project
An automatic & random fortune for the Minute:
<Crow-> these stupid head hunters want resumes in ms word format
<Crow-> can you write shit in tex and convert it to word?
<Overfiend> \converttoword{shit}