Love is a cement chicken.

Greg and I have been married almost 24 years. Riding in the car recently, heading to a wedding, he and I were reveling in the fact that we’ve been together longer than we were single. As with any good pairing, our relationship has matured to a point that we know each other almost as well as we know ourselves. This is a good thing, as it helps us to communicate in a constructive manner when big issues come up such as financial decisions, and issues involving the well being of our children. But knowing each other so well also means that we do things for each other that may seem odd, or downright crazy if in the context of another relationship.

Years ago we worked out a two mile walking course in our neighborhood. Greg and I try to walk after dinner every day. The key word there is “try”. Sometimes we walk everyday for weeks in a row; sometimes we may walk once in a week, and sometimes weeks go by with no walking at all. As with any activity, it all depends on kid’s schedules, work schedules and just life letting us do it.

A little over a year and a half ago, the planets were aligned and we were on a good run (no pun intended), walking every day for a few weeks straight. At about a quarter mile on our route we take a left turn at a corner by a red brick ranch style house. During these particular weeks this house was being renovated, and I noticed something. I had always secretly admired a particular garden ornament that for the previous 14 years or so resided in the overgrown front garden of this house. It was one of those things that appeals to you for reasons only your right brain can understand, and for that reason, it can’t be put into words. This garden ornament, a two foot high cement rooster, had been moved from the garden to the front walk. The renovators had pulled up the entire front garden, except a few mature bushes, in order to fill the yard and around the house with dirt. Every day we walked I would take note of the rooster’s position. Sometimes in the dirt, sometimes on walk close to the porch, other times on the front porch. Then they tore up the front walk and the chicken found a more permanent spot behind the wrought-iron gate, on the walkway in the back yard, still in view from the street.

One day when Greg and I had turned the corner near the house, I was checking out the rooster, thinking how lonely he looked in the back yard, far from where he once reigned over his jungle of bushes and overgrown vines. Greg noticed me staring, and asked me what I was looking at. I told him how I had always admired the cement rooster, and how nice I thought it would look in the new herb garden that I was working on in our back yard. But alas, although the cement rooster was obviously not getting the respect he deserved sitting there in the back yard, what could I do about it.

Greg immediately told me I should go knock on the door and offer to buy it. What? I thought. Oh no, not me. I’m too shy to knock on a stranger’s door and offer to buy their cement rooster. I could never do that. Of course, Greg is not shy, and told me that I will never know unless I ask. But, I just couldn’t do it.

A few days pass, with little discussion about the cement rooster. Then, coming home from work one evening, walking up our driveway, I see a cement rooster perched on our front porch. I was confused, surprised, and excited all at the same time. I went up on the front porch so I could get a better look. It was defiantly the same cement rooster that I had coveted from our neighbor’s yard down the street. Examining the rooster close up, I saw details that I hadn’t seen from the street. It seemed bigger than I thought it was. There were flecks of white and green paint revealing that it had once been painted. The details in the feathers and in the head were fading a bit, for some reason, to me, it was even better than I thought.

So, I went inside to find out how the rooster found its way to our front porch. My middle son, 17 years old at that time, was home. I questioned him about the cement rooster. He told me, to his great chagrin, that his father had instructed him to go down the block, pay $10 for the rooster, and bring it home. My son made sure that I knew how heavy that darn lawn ornament was, and especially how very embracing it was to walk the two blocks back to the house with a heavy cement rooster in his arms. I thanked him very much for his sacrifice, hugged him, and told him how much I loved the rooster. This seemed to make it almost O.K.

Later that evening, when Greg got home, he explained to me what he had done. A few days earlier, he saw a lady leaving the house. He did something that I could never do; he went up to this total stranger and introduced himself. She turned out to be the real-estate agent selling the house. Greg explained to her that he wanted to buy the cement rooster for his wife, and she promised to let the owners know, and she gave him her card. Eventually Greg was able to talk directly to the owner. She seemed happy to sell the rooster, but didn’t know how much to ask for it. Greg suggested $10, and she was fine with that, but didn’t know why anyone would want to buy a 50-year-old worn out lawn ornament for $10. When Greg told me the rooster was 50-years-old I almost flipped…that just made me like it even more. Greg agreed, and said he really had to keep his cool when she told him how old the rooster was.

So now, my 50-year-old cement rooster resides in our back yard among cast-iron plants near the deck. My beautiful herb garden is just a fond memory now, as it was a victim of Katrina flood waters. My cement rooster will stand century over the herbs once again, as soon as we can get our back yard into shape this fall.



I recently found a cement hen at the flea-market, for which I paid considerably more than $10. Although the cement hen is very cool, and looks great next to the cement rooster – she will never be as special as the cement rooster. Every time I go in the back yard, I’m reminded of how fortunate I am to have a thoughtful husband who knows me so well.

Like it was Yesterday…

It was barely light outside as we loaded up our blue and white VW van. Walking through the damp grass from our white clapboard shotgun house to the van, arms full with pillows, blankets and essential stuffed animals, we piled into the open side-door. On this cool February morning in 1973, our family of seven, Mom, Dad, Robert (11), Becky (me, 9), Cheryl (7), Peggy (4) and John (2), was setting off on our long anticipated trip from our home in Chauvin Louisiana to Virginia Beach.

Dad had returned a few days earlier from a yearlong Navy tour. We were all so happy to have him back home, and excited about our trip. This family vacation of sorts had more than one purpose. Besides spending some much-needed family time together, we were going to look for a place to live. Dad was being transferred to Virginia Beach.

Just like all Navy families, we did a lot of traveling. Because Mom and Dad liked to make traveling an “adventure” for us, Dad had converted our VW van from the standard, run-of-the-mill “kid transporter”, into the special highly utilitarian, beloved family “Adventure Van”. Fully equipped with cabinets, filled with all things necessary to feed and entertain 5 children under the age of 11 and countertops with a fully functioning sink, and hot plate. The passenger bench seat was remodeled and repositioned. The back of the bench seat was removed; this allowed for the seat to be positioned snugly, long-ways, under the long window behind the driver’s seat. Dad fashioned a new back for the bench, which he upholstered with groovy green and orange vinyl. The whole middle of the van from the behind the cab to the back door was open space. The floor was covered with lovely ocean blue indoor-outdoor carpet so that all of us kids could spread out to sleep or play. I was very proud of our adventure van – it was one-of-a-kind.

As we worked our way back and forth from the house to the van, our bundles and we were being inspected, licked, and sniffed by a very large, very friendly mutt. This was my sister Cheryl’s latest adopted stray animal. Solid white, with coal black eyes and nose, he had the head and personality of a Labrador and the body of a pit bull; and he could smile, which he did all the time, so Cheryl called him Happy. Happy’s tail wagged 110 miles a minute as he weaved between us, and we dutifully tried to ignore him. You see, Happy was not legally adopted. He showed up one day about two weeks before Dad came home. Against Mom’s instructions not to play with or feed stray dogs, Cheryl did. But, we were all guilty of encouraging Happy to stick around, Mom included. And now we were leaving, and Happy needed to find somewhere else to go, so we had specific instructions to ignore him.

Dad never was a “dog person”, or any kind of pet-person. So when he returned home to find this very large, strangely cheerful mutt living under the front porch, he was not too pleased. He shooed Happy away several times since he had been home. Sometimes Happy stayed away for a few hours, other times he just hid under the house. I was glad to see Happy show up this morning, because I knew it was probably the last time we would see him.

Dad took a few giant steps in Happy’s direction, clapped his hands loudly, and yelled, “Haaah! Haaah!” Happy ran straight under the house. About 30 seconds later he poked his big head out from under the front porch and watched us as we finished packing the van.

We climbed into the van, and everyone settled into their spots. Dad was driving, and Robert was sitting in the front passenger seat. Mom sat directly behind Dad, on the bench seat. It was determined beforehand the bench seat was going to be shared between the kids, because it was the only place in the back that had a good view out the window. I thought I was so lucky to get it first. I sat next to Mom with my pillow and a stuffed yellow and white rabbit that I had gotten for Easter a year earlier. Cheryl, Peggy and John were spread out with pillows and blankets on the floor of the van, each claiming their own space. As we backed out into the street, I saw Happy stick his whole head out from under the porch. Cheryl climbed on to the bench with me, we stuck our noses on the window and waved good-by, and yelling “Bye Haaaappyyyy!”

It was still very early; the sun was just coming up as we started down the street. My excitement about being the first to sit on the bench seat quickly faded and the boredom of the long ride set in. My sisters and brother had all settled down on the floor and seemed quite comfortable as they snoozed. I stared out the window for a while, watching the familiar scenery of Chauvin speed by. After a short while, I decided sleeping was a good idea. Although seatbelt safety was obviously not a big concern in the creation of the “Adventure-Van” – Dad did attach seatbelts to the bench seat. There was a set of three lap-belts. Mom had strapped herself into the one closest to the front of the van. Having two seatbelts at my disposal, I sat in the middle with the seatbelt loosely around my waist. I laid down with my head close to Mom, and decided it would be a good idea to slide my legs into the other seatbelt.

I laid there for a while, wide awake, wishing I could fall asleep, which I knew would make the boring part of the ride seem shorter. The seatbelt around my waist began to twist and pinch, and the seatbelt around my legs was getting tangled. It didn’t take long for me to free myself from the seatbelts in order to get comfortable. It worked. I fell asleep.

I felt the van swerve. With my eyes still closed, I thought, “ Gee Dad, you need to drive more carefully”. Then another big swerve – still in a dream state, and my eyes closed, I reached my hand up to grab the back of the seat so I wouldn’t fall off. When I grabbed it, it came lose. Never opening my eyes, I braced myself, expecting to hit the floor any second. I didn’t. I felt like I was drifting in the air for a moment, and decided that it all must be a dream – and I think I fell back to sleep still drifting.

When I opened my eyes, I was laying on my back in the damp grass. The sun seemed extra bright, and it was hard to keep my eyes open. I didn’t try to get up. My body felt like lead. I looked to the side and saw Peggy sitting next to me crying hysterically. I didn’t know what was going on. I remembered the swerving, and thought we must have been in a wreck, but I didn’t remember a wreck. I noticed two strange ladies with dark hair standing to my right, looking at me and whispering to each other.

Next, I was on a stretcher being loaded into the back of an ambulance, feet first. I didn’t notice at first that Mom was loaded in next to me. They put her in headfirst. I looked over and recognized her vertically stripped orange and brown slacks that I thought were sooo cool. I couldn’t understand why I was backwards. I wanted to ask Mom what had happened; surly she would be able to tell me. I called to her, but she didn’t answer. I guessed she couldn’t hear me above all the action going on inside the ambulance. I closed my eyes.

“Open your eyes honey,” I heard a very sweet voice say. I opened my eyes and saw a nurse with a puffy black hairdo looking right at me. I remember how blue her eyes were, and that she had thick eyeliner and red lips, I thought she was very pretty, but she wasn’t smiling. She put a mask on my face. The cool air blowing into my nose and mouth felt good, and made it so easy to breathe. I closed my eyes again.

“Stay awake honey, talk to me, what’s your name,” said the pretty nurse. She took my mask off.

“Becky,” I said, my voice sounded strange to me, and it was difficult to talk.

“Keep your eyes open Becky, Okay honey,” she said.

I asked the nurse to please put the mask on me. I tried to explain to her how it made it easy to breathe and it was so cool, and felt so good. But the words didn’t come, just a strange broken sentence. But she understood, and put the mask back on my face, and I closed my eyes again.

Floating…floating. It was dark, I was lying on my back, but I was floating in the air. I was wearing a long white dress. I could feel the breeze blowing as I floated, turning here and there. No control over where I was going, floating in the dark.

I woke and felt the weight of my body, as if I had landed on the hospital bed, no more floating. I lay there in a dimly lit room. I could see a light above the nurse’s station that was not far from the foot of my bed. There was a window to the right of me. It was dark outside. I couldn’t understand how it could be nighttime already. I felt like we just left the house an hour ago.

I was hungry. I saw Cheryl sitting the floor next to my bed. I asked her to share the peanuts she was eating. But she didn’t answer me. The nurse at the desk heard me talking to Cheryl, and came over. She came and stood on the side of my bed. She stood where I knew Cheryl was sitting eating peanuts that she wasn’t sharing with me.

“Hi,” she said, “What were you saying? Do you want something?”

“I’m hungry,” I said, still sounding strange to myself, and wondering where Cheryl went.

“I think we have some Jell-O, or ice-cream,” she said in a kind voice. “Would you like that?”

“No,” I said. “My sister has some peanuts; I’ll just have some of those.”

The nurse looked at me for a moment with a sad smile, then walked away.

Then I realized that Cheryl was never there. I had imagined or dreamed that I was floating and that Cheryl was with me. And it was then that I saw the predicament I was in.

I lay there on my back – naked. I thin sheet covered me. My left leg was wrapped in white gauze and hung from a sling that had a web of strings weaving in and out of the sling and attaching it to a metal contraption that supported it. I was uncomfortable, my back ached, I wanted to turn onto my side, but couldn’t. But worst of all, I was alone.

The next few days were a blur. I slept a lot. Nurses, doctors, strangers came in and out, poking me, checking this and that, waking me up, giving me shots in my butt. I hated the shots, but loved them at the same time. It didn’t take me long to realize that the shots took the pain away.
Dad came to see me several times during those blurry days. He would stand there and look at me, not saying anything, seeming very tired and sad. I didn’t say much either. Occasionally I would ask a question.

“Where am I?”

“In a hospital in Mississippi.”

“What happened?”

“We had an accident.”

The questions were simple. The answers were simple – no details.

I woke up once to see my Aunt Ilene standing on the left side of my bed. She was crying.

“Hi Aunt Ilene.”

“Oh, how are you feeling babe,” she said through sobs.

“I’m fine,” I said, which felt like a lie, but I didn’t know what else to say.

“Poor, poor baby,” she said over and over, and covered her mouth and cried.

I couldn’t understand her sadness. I knew I was hurt, but I guessed I was ok. I just didn’t understand why she cried when she saw me. She didn’t stay long. She told me she loved me and walked away…still crying.

After a few days, the blurriness began to fade. I became more aware of what was going on around me, and started to think more clearly. I realized that I hadn’t seen Mom. I guessed that she must be in a situation much like my own. She must be in a hospital bed somewhere, unable to get up. I wondered how she was, and hopped she wasn’t hurt too badly.

The next time Dad came to visit, he stood at the foot of my bed and watched me, looking sad and tired, like before.

“Hi Daddy”

“Hi babe, how are you feeling.”

“Fine.” – I lied. “Where is everybody Daddy?”

“Your brothers and sisters are back home with Aunt Connie.”

“Where’s Mommy? Is she hurt too? Is she in the hospital?”

“No baby,” he paused a long time. The edges of his mouth turned down and his chin began to quiver…

“No baby, mama’s gone…mama was killed.”

I couldn’t understand. What!? What!? – Did I really hear that? Did that really come out of your mouth? I felt all the blood and fluids rush to the center of my body. I felt like I was being sucked from my middle into a hole in the bed. I was light headed. Then I made sense of what I heard.
“No! Noo! Noooooooooooooo!” I cried and sobbed.

“Yes baby, mama’s gone,” Dad choked out, as tears filled his eyes.

And he stood there at the end of my bed and cried and I cried.

It was a beautiful spring day, the sky was deep blue and the sun was shining so bright. My brothers and sisters and I were all outside, playing on our swing set. Mom opened the kitchen window and called us in for lunch. I jumped off the swing in mid air, and we ran to the back door. Mom was waiting for us there with hot dogs she made for lunch. We sat around the kitchen table laughing and chatting. The hospital crossed my mind – oh, I thought, thank God that must have been a bad dream. I turned to Mom, thankful it was just a bad dream, and asked for another hotdog.

“I don’t have any hotdogs.” She said in an odd voice.

I opened my eyes. I was back in the hospital.

“I don’t have any hotdogs.” I heard again, and I looked to my left. There was a lady standing by my bed with a mop in her hands.

“If you ask the nurse, I’m sure she could bring you something to eat.”

I was crushed. I was dreaming, and I must have been talking in my sleep. I was mad at that lady for waking me from my wonderful, normal dream. I felt like she woke me up into a nightmare.

Days came and went. I lay there in the bed board out of my mind. I cried. I stared at the ceiling. I cried. I looked out of the window. All I could see was blue sky and the branches of a pine tree. I watched as they moved in the wind, and yearned to be outside. I yearned to be somewhere else, to be someone else.

The nurses did what they could to comfort me. One nurse even brought me a book. It was a Disney Encyclopedia, it was my salvation from boredom.

A teacher came to visit me one day. She read a story about our accident in the newspaper. She presented me with a large multicolored stack of “get-well” cards that her fourth grade class made for me. I loved the cards, and read them until my eyes grew tired. One card was made in the shape of a frog. When I opened it, the long green construction paper arms and legs of the frog unfolded and spread out. I laughed when I opened it, and surprised myself. I asked the teacher to hang the frog on the contraption that held my leg in the air.

Finally the day came for me to leave the hospital. Every day I was in the hospital I imagined what it would be like to leave. I thought that they would finally put a cast on my leg, hand me a pair of crutches, and I would be able to walk out of the hospital on my own. I imagined getting on a plane with Dad, and flying home. – That’s not what happened.

A nice man came to my bed and cheerfully asked me if I was ready for my cast. I said “yes,” with great anticipation of being able to sit, stand, and move around again. They wheeled my bed into what I guess was the casting room. They pulled my sheet off of me, and moved me to a very cold hard table. Then the nice man, making small talk with me in his cheerful tone, started wrapping gauze wet with plaster around my belly. I was confused.

“Hey, what are you doing,” I protested.

“I’ve giving you your cast,” he said, still cheerful.

“But my body isn’t broken, just my leg”

“Oh, but this is the kind of cast they told me to give you. It starts here,” he placed his hand just above my belly button to illustrate,
“and goes all the way down to here,” showing me that it ends at my toes on my left foot. “ and then for good measure, it goes down to here too,” showing me that my cast will go halfway down my right thigh as well.

I immediately started to cry. How come nobody told me about this? I really felt like this cast was some kind of punishment, but I couldn’t figure out for what.

Once the cast was on, and I was completely immobile, Dad showed up with my Aunt Martha to take me home. Dad did his best to console me. Telling me that it wouldn’t be long, and I’d be healed up and out of the cast before I knew it.

Aunt Martha pulled a nightgown over my head. It was the first time I had worn any clothes in weeks…it felt so warm and secure.
They wheeled me through what felt like miles of hallways, and we finally made it to the exit. Dad had bought a new station wagon. They opened the hatch and loaded me onto a mattress in the back. Laying there in the back of the station wagon, unable to move, all I could see was the headliner, and bits of sky and clouds. It was a very long, strange ride home.

I wasn’t able to go to my mother’s funeral. I can only imagine what it was like. My sister Cheryl says she remembers being scared of the coffin, and not believing it was our mom lying there. Peggy, although only 4 at the time tells me she remembers kissing our mom goodbye.
I don’t remember actually going to my mom’s grave until years later. It seems strange that I never asked to go – but the combination of my dad getting remarried, and us still moving to Virginia Beach probably was the reason.

Six years ago my sister Peggy tragically lost her firstborn son Blake soon after he was born, due to a heart defect. Plans were made to bury Blake with our mom. Although this was such a sad time for us, and especially my sister Peggy, Blake’s funeral offered me a glimpse into the past. I saw my mom’s coffin. I thought that seeing it would be upsetting, and surprisingly I felt a sense of calm.

Filling in the blanks:
This story is told strictly from my memory as a 9-year-old. So I feel that it is important to fill in some details of that day. Over the years I’ve collected information from my dad, siblings and a few years ago I read the newspaper article about the wreck.

We were driving on the interstate in Mississippi, probably north on I-59, when it happened. We were in the right lane behind a slow moving truck, and my dad decided to pass. He merged into the left lane and began to speed up when he was surprised by a pickup truck headed straight for us, traveling in the wrong direction. My dad tried to turn the van out of the path of the truck. The truck hit the driver side of the van popping the doors open and throwing my mother and me out.

My dad, brothers and sisters had cuts and bruises, and were able to travel home the next day. I had a crushed left tibia and fibula, broken femur, lacerations on my right leg, and left arm, and had to have emergency surgery to remove my crushed spleen. I believe I was in the hospital for three weeks.

My mother died of head and neck trauma.

The driver of the truck was drunk. I think he had few injuries, and was able to walk away. I don’t know what if any legal action was taken against him.