Victoria

Posted on April 11, 2012 by Judge Tom

 

Irish Wolfhounds

“Five thousand bond, cash or commercial surety,” Judge Cohen pronounced while signing orders without looking down from his lofty perch at the seventy-two-year old man before him. The old gent would have to put up five thousand dollars cash or come up with at least five-hundred cash for a commercial surety bond, neither of which he had.

Judge Marvin Cohen so wanted to imitate his mentor and former law partner Judge Earl Lefebre. Lefebre had ascended to the bench two years before Cohen. Soon after his robbing ceremony, Lefebre gained the reputation of being tough on crime and handing out maximum sentences whenever possible. Lefebre’s behavior embittered him with the criminal bar  and caused his brother and sister judges consternation, since Lefebre’s docket would backlog to the point that other judges would have to take his cases to dispose of them. Lefebre could pull off such ridiculous behavior better than Marvin, because he was twenty years older than his former law partner and smarter.

Once Lefebre threatened to dismantle the firm in which both were partners when Cohen had entered into a particularly stupid and disastrous business arrangement without consulting his mentor. Cohen panicked and with tears in his eyes beseeched his older partner to keep the firm together. The younger lawyer promised never to do such a ridiculous thing again. Lefebre’s fatherly instincts kicked in and he relented and kept the firm in business.

Neither of the two men had seen the inside of a courtroom much during their practice together. Both left the unpleasant duties of appearing in court to associates in their small firm.  Earl and Marvin were content to make a lot of money from other assorted businesses, such as fast food franchises, long-haul trucking, and building beachfront condos. Eventually they tired of playing at the law practice, and sought the prestige of becoming judges. Both used their considerable fortune to purchase political influence and the expensive campaign consultants necessary to win their elections to the bench.

“The silly bastard is at it again. He still thinks he is Judge Roy Bean sitting west of the Pecos,” Victoria McNeil muttered under her breath to Catherine , her young friend from the District Attorney’s office. Vicki’s criminal defense practice made her aware of old people’s propensity to engage in kleptomaniac behavior, but no one could ever explain to her why they did this. She had a soft spot in her heart for the old folks afflicted with this compulsion.

Vicki’s contemptuous protests were not audible enough for the judge to throw her in the slammer, which he would have done with relish. During her first five years of practice, Vicki had clashed often with judges. Only Cohen brought out her true ire.

Wolfhounds

Victoria came from a family of attorneys who handled mostly lucrative personal injury, workman’s compensation and Federal Employee Liability Act cases. Vicki didn’t fit into the mold of the family firm, or in any mold for that matter.  For sure, on occasion, she liked mixing it up in the courtroom with some of the good old boy trial lawyers, as they were known before they acquired the more refined title of litigators. Her salty language could make even these courtroom-hardened attorneys blush.  Some assessed her as lazy, but Vicki had a keen sense of justice and mercy. She pursued these ideals in the most direct manner, avoiding complicated, time and energy wasting trials when possible.

“I will represent Mr. Duferene pro bono,” Vicki announced as she sprang to her feet in from where she sat in the back benches of the courtroom, among attorneys awaiting their business before the court. Vicki tossed her curly blond hair, stared at the judge with her robin’s egg blue eyes, adjusted her perpetually rumpled polyester suit, and supplicated “May I have a few minutes to confer with my client?”

Cohen responded,” You may, but let’s move this docket along. You know it is Christmas Eve and the Sugar Bowl is just around the corner.” Since Cohen only worshiped when it didn’t interfere with golf or business, Christmas meant little to him except to provide him with more holidays.

On the LSU Campus

“Thank you your Honor.” Vicki forced the traditional title of “Your Honor” from her throat but couldn’t miss the opportunity for sarcasm by continuing, “I will not interfere with the Court getting to the Christmas party or the football game.” Cohen jerked his head up from his paper shuffling at the sarcasm. But, he knew from past experience not to engage in verbal battle with the sharp-tongued, fast-witted, feisty Vicki. Above all, he wished she would stray into the realm of contempt, but he also knew she would only go up to that fence and not cross it, so he just let the caustic remark pass.

After a three minute conference with her bewildered client, Vicki again addressed His Honor. “I respectfully request a modification of bond to allow Mr. Duferene’s daughter who is present in court to sign his bond as a personal surety.”

The judge had returned to shuffling his papers and without lifting his head responded with two short words, “Motion denied.”

“But your Honor,”the complimentary title gagged Vicki again, “my client is indigent. Mr. Duferene is a seventy-two-year-old widower surviving only on social security and living with his daughter. He has lived in this community all his life, he has no previous convictions, or even arrests, he has a daughter who is willing to sign his bond and he is charged only with is a minor misdemeanor.”

“There is no such thing as a minor crime in this court, Ms McNeil. You know that,” the flustered Judge Cohen admonished Vicki.

Always one to have the last word, Vicki replied, “I know that only too well—Your Honor.”

“Be careful Ms. McNeil,” His Honor sternly advised, then re-asserted his ruling “Motion for bail modification denied.”

“Well, Your Honor, I guess you will miss that Christmas Party after all.” McNeil knew all too well he would be on the golf links with some of his rich friends and not at a Christmas Party, “Because I hereby give you notice of my intention to take a writ to the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeal on the issue of the excessive bond you have set in this case, and I am requesting that you provide reasons for your ruling.”

Cohen flung papers aside, again glared at Vicki, and announced loud enough for the people in the next courtroom to hear, “You are at it again Ms McNeil. You try the patience of this Court. Someday you are going to go too far”.

Vicki stood before the irate judge in mocked contriteness, stared at her scuffed shoes, folded her arms across her waist, produced a slight smirk on her lips that the judge could not see and said with a smattering of sarcasm, “Well, Your Honor, today, on Christmas Eve, I am just trying to get a little justice, or maybe even mercy, for an old man.”

A collective murmur arose from the audience of attorneys and court watchers, as if their collective thinking suggested, “Ah, Vicki you have gone too far now, darling. He is going to put your pretty little butt in jail this time for sure.”

Cohen was weary of the battle with Vicki. He knew that if he found her in contempt this would only prolong his day, and endear her even more with the members of the local bar association observing this encounter. This would not bode well for him at next year’s election.

Judgeship elections were not the genteel affairs of the past. Contested judgeship elections had become bitter and expensive. Also, if she perfected her writ, which she might or might not expend the energy to do, it would play havoc with the rest of the holiday season. Odds were about even on bets being placed by local lawyers in the back of the courtroom as to whether or not Vicki would really go to the trouble to perfect the threatened writ. Most of Vicki’s colleagues knew she was not keen on doing the necessary research and work of preparing briefs arguing dry and uninteresting legal issues. She would much prefer to do verbal battle.

But, in order to avoid his own inconvenience, His Honor found a way to save face by announcing, “Many other busy attorneys have important matters to be heard before this court today. I am not going to let you waste their time any more, therefore I grant your motion to allow Mr. Duferene’s daughter to sign his bond.”

“I thank the Court for its indulgence and hope Your Honor enjoys the Christmas Party and the Sugar Bowl,” Vicki said, once again playing with fire.

Cohen’s only response was a grunt, “Good day,  Ms. McNeil.”

For today, Vicki had tired of the skirmish with the good judge. Besides, she needed to go home, have several strong drinks and tend to her nine dogs–five Irish Wolfhounds that weighed in the neighborhood of 180 pounds each, and four other assorted breeds. All of her children, as she called them, had documents proving their noble blood lines. Vicki expended enormous effort and considerable money taking her charges to dogshows far and wide in her thirty-seven-foot Winnebago. They brought home many ribbons, a goodly amount of which were blue.

A few weeks after Vicki’s encounter with Judge Cohen, Catherine and her husband attended a dogshow on the LSU campus in Baton Rouge. Much to their surprise, they saw Vicki there. Her five Irish Wolfhounds and other assorted dogs would compete for ribbons at the show. Surprised to see them there, Vicki greeted them with characteristic exuberance.

Grooming a wolfhound

Unlike her courtroom attire, rumpled polyester or cotton suits looking like she had slept in them,  Vicki was impeccably dressed in a cream colored silk suit and white blouse. Her hair was coiffed to perfection. Catherine had never known Vicki to give this much attention to her appearance and almost didn’t recognize her when she approached the couple. Vicki insisted that the two join her for a behind the scenes tour of the regional AKA-sanctioned dog show. Catherine and her husband had already observed massive RVs from all over the country parked in the parking lot. “Expensive goings on here,” Catherine’s husband said to her.
A storm of human and dog activity raged backstage. Hundreds of dogs of every size, description and breed were being prepared by their masters to be examined in detail by officious judges. Sprawled across the floor like vines in a dense jungle, extension cords of every color connected blow dryers, curling irons, strong lights and fans to their power sources. Catherine’s husband wondered what kind of circuit breaker could stand such a load. Scores of cages from Chihuahua to Great Dane size housed dogs awaiting their turn for grooming. Big dogs, little dogs, ugly dogs, pretty dogs, happy dogs and disgruntled dogs, stood dutifully on tables as their fidgety masters and canine cosmetologists chatted excitedly with one another while they primped and groomed the precious animals for their big performance before the serious judges.

The sound of dogs communicating with other dogs by means of barks and snarls filled the vast arena. Nervous dogs constantly went to and fro the building on leashes with their handlers to the grass outside to relieve themselves prior to their big introduction on the show floor.

As Vicki escorted the couple through the sea of dogs, owners and handlers, she received warm greetings. She was obviously well known in these circles and called each pet by name as she petted and complimented each contestant. Catherine thought, “This, not the courtroom, is really Vicki’s world”.

Vicki's World of dog shows

After listening to Vicki’s conversation throughout the day, Catherine’s husband observed, “It seems like Vicki’s law practice is just the means to provide resources for her expensive passion of breeding and showing her dogs”.

Just then an urgent announcement came over the public address system, “Three Irish Wolfhounds are out of their cages and running free. Their master needs to retrieve them immediately.”
With a “Sorry folks,” Vicki quickly interrupted her guided tour and rushed off to corral her giant children.  Catherine and her husband observed the rest of the event on their own.

Vicki’s giant canines would go on to win a few ribbons that day, which would invigorate their mistress, allowing Vicki to return to the courtroom to battle with some beleaguered judge on behalf of some indigent soul being mauled by the establishment.

Posted in Collards, Crawfish and Crooks | Leave a comment

Truck Parades

Posted on March 8, 2012 by Judge Tom

Judge Tom on Fat Tuesday

Mardi Gras has come and gone again. Visitors to Mardi Gras think the local folks provided the greatest free party on earth, just for them. I guess in a way that is true, but the locals look forward to this time to have fun themselves. Each year New Orleans natives eagerly await Mardi Gras season so they can show off the costumes, and the decorated floats they have labored on all year long. On the big day itself, they will “pass a good time”–all for their own benefit. Visitors are welcome to watch and even participate in the fun once they loosen up enough.

The big carnival crews such as Rex, Bacchus, Endymion and Comus arrange for professional artist like Blaine Kern to produce for them–at great costs–spectacular floats. The locals and visitors alike, who line the streets yelling “Throw me something mister,” are thrilled as these works of art pass on the street in front of them.

 

Throw Me Something, Mister

Invariably, first time visitors to Mardi Gras insist they are not going to demean themselves by shouting and waving their hands seeking cheap favors made in China from people in costumes and masks pretending to be royalty, gods and goddess, story book characters or some mythical creature. This demure attitude lasts for about one parade. By the second parade, one will see their visiting friends flailing their arms franticly, screaming at the top of their voice “Throw me something mister,” and stepping on little kids’ hands to retrieve cheap trinkets that have fallen to the street.

But for me, the most fascinating events of Mardi Gras are the Truck Parades that roll only on the special day. They get larger every year. These parades are populated by hundreds of floats imaginatively created by ordinary folks in neighborhoods all over the city and its suburbs.

My family and I were once privileged to ride in a Truck Parade. This was only after we paid our dues and joined a neighborhood group. We had to agree to meet regularly to decide our theme, construct complicated costumes, and to decorate the flatbed truck the organization had purchased long ago–for this purpose only.

The logistics of being in a Truck Parade are mind boggling. The average number of people, adults and children, that will ride on a flat bed float on Mardi Gras is about forty. Each person is expected to provide the beads and trinkets they will throw during the parade. You order your “throws” by the gross, e.g. a hundred gross of this and two hundred gross of that, early in the year. Each rider also buys special, more costly throws that will be given to their friends, family and special persons on the parade route. Sometime well before Fat Tuesday cases of “throws” from China arrive at the group’s headquarters (one of the member’s homes).

The theme for each year’s parade and the division of labor is hammered out at early meetings. This can be a process requiring delicate political skills. No Robert’s Rules of Order here. Our organization had been in Truck Parades over many years; therefore, our meetings went smoothly.

After weeks of discussion, the group decided we would be leprechauns. The women went to sewing many green costumes with silver spangles. We men created large shamrocks from plywood and attached them to our float. During the process of decorating our float, we determined the flatbed truck was too short to accommodate all of us. At our local trade school I had just re-honed my welding skills, learned in the oil fields of Venezuela. Although we had electricians, carpenters, and plumbers in our group, I was elected to weld an extension on the end of our truck. By then we had attached much flimsy plywood and paper mache decorations to our float. I damn near burned up our laboriously created work of art when sparks from the arc welder ignited some paper mache. Fortunately, I extinguished the fire quickly and survived the wrath of the rest of the krewe.

Throw me something Mister!

On a Mardi Gras Truck Float, every person is assigned a space on the rails of the truck that is about the width of a commuter airplane seat. Each rider is expected to prepare his space and arrange his throws in such a manner to allow him to throw his prizes with ease to the bellowing crowds as the float rumbles past the masses of people. Old timers willingly give advice on the most efficient mechanics of preparing throws for delivery to the excited revelers along the parade route.

At the break of day on Mardi Gras day, the four of us arrived looking like leprechauns and carrying hoards of throws to board our truck float. We also had to provision ourselves with food and drink for the day long sojourn through the streets of Jefferson Parish. We brought soft drinks and sandwiches. Most of our companion leprechauns fortified themselves with hard booze and cases and cases of beer. Riding in a truck parade is not for the claustrophobic, because there is no getting off the float once you board until you are returned home late in the day.

There is no getting off

Of course, potty facilities are of paramount importance on a float. Due to the amounts of beer consumed during the long day the Pot-Delight, which was well disguised with painted shamrocks, receives an unprecedented amount of use.

We chugged off, diesel fumes from the semi pulling our float engulfing us, to join the hundred-and-twenty-five other floats that form our parade. The captain of our organization assembled all of us in a large parking lot and assigned us a number. Our driver, well experienced in this procedure, deftly put us in our proper position.  Then, we waited and waited for the parade to begin. Hot coffee and cocoa for the kids and long underwear under our leprechaun costumes kept us warm on this chilly morning.

Horns blasted as the hundred-and-twenty-six trucks orderly moved, out towing their carnival revelers. We followed in the wake of the elaborate floats of the Mystic Krewe of Argus as we rolled onto Veterans Highway. Most of the members of Argus were local politicians. Needless to say, their organization did not lack funding.

Once on the major artery of Veterans Highway, we encountered a sea of humanity. Voices with a thousand different pitches implored us with the magic words, “Throw me something Mister.” Our truck horn blasted warnings to the anxious hoards to stay clear of the truck–all to no avail. Arms fully extended, young and older filled with Mardi Gras mania crushed near to the sides of the truck. I feared a child might get accidentally thrown under the wheels of the slow moving vehicle that had to “stop and go” the entire parade. By the grace of some providence, nothing bad happened, even though the process of stopping to throw beads to the crowd, then slowly lumbering on in line behind the other semi-pulled flatbed creations carrying their Disney Characters “Mickey or Minnie”, Pirates, Sailers, human-sized shrimp and crawfish, was a slow one.

Human Sized Crawfish

Strangely enough, I could recognize folks I knew as our Truck Float plowed through the sea of people. It also astounded me that I could differentiate between interesting and more ordinary faces. Of course, the more interesting and young deserved my special trinkets. I found it uncanny that I could be pick out special people in crowds of tens of thousands. Veterans of truck parades on our float confirmed my observation.

This Mardi Gras was cold for New Orleans–in the forties. Once, we had friends visit from North Dakota. Before they came, they asked about the clothing to bring. I told them the weather could call for anything from Bermuda shorts to foul weather gear. My Northern-winter-accustomed friends protested that forty degrees would not be cold for them. They soon thought otherwise when damp cold winds drifted across Lake Ponchartrain on to their ill-protected bodies.

While we kept warm with long underwear beneath out costumes, some of our Truck Krewe supplemented the long underwear with vast quantities of booze.

Our long cold, day ended when our driver returned us and our float to its vacant lot, where it would await redecorating next year. Our throws were completely depleted and so were we.

Riding in the truck parade proved to be a most interesting experience, but I have found that watching parades less taxing than riding in one.

Truck Parade

 

 

Posted in Collards, Crawfish and Crooks | Leave a comment

SPARROW AND RONNIE

Posted on January 8, 2012 by Judge Tom

The French Quarter

“Ah, it ain’t so bad, Judge, ‘cept for the shriveled up old men”. Sparrow justified to me while she sat in my court for the third time. She had been adjudicated a Child in Need of Supervision for being a runaway and ungovernable kid. Over the last year, I had placed her in two group homes and a shelter facility near the French Quarter, one run by a man  whom I trusted with these damaged kids. She ran from all three placements.

What fifteen-year-old Sparrow explained to me was that turning tricks in the French Quarter “Ain’t so bad ‘cept for the shriveled up old men”. For this frail, pale, blond-haired, blue-eyed child, the “family” she found in the Quarter treated her better than the one from which she had fled. In Sparrow’s mind, her pimp treated her better than her stepfather. Her stepfather had sexually abused her from the time she was nine. To avoid offending her abusive spouse, Sparrow’s passive, dependent mother chose to ignore what was happening to her helpless daughter. I have known women who killed their spouses for less provocation, but Sparrow’s mother could only cringe as she continued a life under the influence of the subhuman who repeatedly raped her daughter.

I had seen Sparrow in the French Quarter two weeks earlier, when I tried to get her to return to the shelter on Rampart Street. She promised, “Yeah Judge, you know I will.” But years on the bench had finally allowed me to acknowledge the likelihood that this young girl would not leave the bricks until apprehended by the police again.

Bourbon Street

My fifteen-year-old daughter and I were returning from the Cafe Du Monde with a sixteen-year-old boy named Ronnie. This young man had fled his father’s home after having enough of his old man’s drunken beatings with the buckle end of a belt. “Well, what would you do if you were chained to the doghouse in the backyard, sir?”, Ronnie had described a level of abuse that was difficult for me to understand before I’d listened to other, similar stories.

His mother had long since abandoned Ronnie and the abusive father. He, like Sparrow and kids from all over this country who had been abused and thrown away, found refuge in the French Quarter. I had also found him to be a Child In Need of Supervision and confined him to a mental hospital in Uptown New Orleans run by the State of Louisiana, for evaluations so I could get a fuller understanding of his needs.

I had committed Ronnie to the hospital for evaluation after his social worker had testified in a review hearing that she  found Ronnie living in the French Quarter with an eighteen-year-old girl. At the time of the court proceeding, I joked with all  the hearing attendees, “Sounds like Ronnie has a good deal. Here we are all working late in a courtroom on a beautiful spring afternoon and Ronnie is being cared for by an eighteen-year-old girl. Who is in worse shape?”

French Market Entrance

On the Sunday I saw Sparrow in the Quarter, my daughter Paige and I picked Ronnie up at the hospital for an approved afternoon away from the mental health facility. We went to the Audubon Park Zoo, then down to the French Market for beignets. As part of my personal policy of sitting on the bench, I frequently made unannounced visits to institutions that housed kids who’d been committed to the State’s custody. I had learned early on in my career that an announced visit would only give me what the facility staff wanted me to see, without revealing the deficiencies of the operation. All too often, kids would jokingly say to me at their next court hearing, “Were you there on the day they gave us steak or the one where they served shrimp?”

No longer the naive jurist of my first year on the bench, I now wanted to see what was really going on with the kids I had committed to the care of the State of Louisiana.
While driving on Dauphine Street out of the Quarter, Ronnie shouted, “There is that little old Sparrow. Look, there she is out on the bricks turning tricks.”

Dauphine Street corner

Ronnie and Sparrow had met while attending their respective hearings in my court. I stopped the car and invited Sparrow to return to the shelter. After she refused my offer, Sparrow ended back up in my courtroom two weeks later. I recommitted her to State’s custody to be placed in a well-managed group home for girls. A couple of months later at a review hearing, State social workers advised me that Sparrow had run away from her last placement. We never saw her again. I’ve sometimes wondered what became of her, especially when I came upon kids who looked like her.

Some months after we saw Sparrow in the Quarter, the New Orleans policed returned Ronnie to my jurisdiction, where I conducted a trial to determine if he was a Juvenile Delinquent for having discharged a shotgun in a French Quarter barroom. The evidence clearly showed that  Ronnie somehow got hold of a Remington 12 gauge, pump action shotgun, walked into a gay bar on Decatur street and started shooting. He obviously didn’t intent to shoot anyone. He took his anger out on the liquor cabinet, the chandelier, the artwork on the wall and the stained glass windows. He created extensive physical damage to the premises before the police arrested him. Witnesses testified that patrons and employees fled the bar onto Decatur Street squealing in panic. Ronnie declined to give me any explanation for his violent actions.

When I looked down at him, and said, “Ronnie,  you’ve left me no options now,” the sullen youth just sat silently. I confined him to the Louisiana Juvenile Correctional facility with orders for further psychiatric evaluations. In subsequent reviews of Ronnie’s case, which I did every six months with all children I had committed to State custody, I found Ronnie had matured and seemed to be able to control his behavior. He eventually was released from State custody. Like all the kids I have seen, I wonder what has happened to Ronnie in his life.

French Quarter street band

A few weekends ago, my wife, Karen and I had occasion to visit the French Quarter again when I went to a training session at the beautifully restored Louisiana Supreme Court building on Royal Street. While wandering the Quarter photographing old buildings with lacy wrought iron balconies, local characters in costume, art hanging on the stately iron fences enclosing Jackson Square and street bands, we also saw young, grubby street waifs huddled in doorways cupping their hands around pungent smelling cigarettes. Seeing these young street urchins brought back memories of Sparrow and Ronnie and of all the abused, neglected and throwaway kids I have seen over the years and tried to help. Truth be told, some are so damaged they are beyond help.

Art Hanging on Jackson Square Fence

When I hear the allegations in the Penn State scandal, I know, that if true, we will learn of many more victims. Some may flee to the falsely perceived safety of the French Quarter. One would have thought that by now the administrators and staff at Penn State should have made themselves aware of the the nature of the pedophile and reported these atrocities to law enforcement authorities much, much sooner.

Regrettably, this looks like a colossal cover up that has cost unmeasurable damage to incalculable numbers of victims–all for the purpose of preserving the reputation of a money-generating football team.

One can only hope this travesty will help us get our priorities straight.

LA Supreme Court Bldg.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Kangaroo Jumping Shoes

Posted on November 21, 2011 by Judge Tom

Surely the folks who published Superman Comic Books wouldn’t lie to us, would they? There they were, right next to Charles Atlas—the strongest man in the world who didn’t allow any big bully to kick sand in his face in front of pretty women on the beach. Kangaroo Jumping Shoes would give an eight-year old the power to outrun any kid in town and leap tall buildings if need be.

They cost seven dollars, plus COD. I had saved more than that working for Uncle Big Buddy in the alfalfa fields. I certainly deserved these remarkable shoes, but I had to convince Mother of their worth. “Well, it’s your money. You earned it, so I guess you can spend it foolishly if you want to” she finally relented. She helped me fill in the order form and send it in with a money order to the clever people who designed and engineered the marvelous shoes.

Kangaroo Jumping Shoes

Mom, Dad, Mike, (my Panda Bear-toting four-year-old brother) and I lived on Pine Street in West Monroe, Louisiana. The sisters Jane and Estelle lived across the street. Another family with two boys named Tommy and Bobby lived down the block from them. The Bullies, T.M. Hinton and Troy Counts, lived in the next block. The Bullies usually worked as a team when they came to beat us up. Either one of them could easily do the job by himself. One, or both of them, would wrestle me to the ground then demand, “Say calf rope”.

They would not free me until I uttered the magic passwords “calf rope”. What I remember most about T.M. was his bad breath. When he would get on top of me and pin me to the ground, he would breathe right into my face. His breath smelled of everything he had eaten in the last month. I don’t think this kid ever heard of a toothbrush.

The four kids in our block were fun playmates, especially Jane. She wanted to be a nurse when she grew up and practiced on me until mother caught us. Mother instructed me and Jane’s mother that I would to get no more physicals from Jane. That was too bad, because the physicals were just beginning to feel real good. And my turn to examine Jane was coming up soon.

When the magical shoes arrived, I invited the kids in our block to help me test them. T.M. and Troy were not included. Opening the box, I found the shoes to truly be a feat of modern engineering. Two strong springs about five inches long– kind of like bed springs– were sandwiched between two flat pieces of metal with thin rubber mats on the outside. The fantastic shoes strapped on the feet with strong leather straps at the ankle and toe. The whole assembly was painted bright red. The picture of a Kangaroo on the heel portion made them quite handsome–well worth the seven dollars plus COD.

The neighbor kids helped me attach the awkward contraptions to my feet. At first, I could not even walk with the wonder shoes. “Not to worry, I just have to get used to them”, I thought, then I would be running as fast as the wind and hopping like a Kangaroo. It took some time just to learn to walk in the clumsy things and I never did get to Kangaroo status. My faith remained intact though some of my playmates had their doubts. Attempts to run caused my ankles to twist resulting in skinned-up knees, but I kept saying to myself, “I’m getting better. It’‘ll just take a little time before the true power of the wonderful shoes will become apparent.”

Dad, Mother, Tom, Mike

After a couple of weeks, my playmates became even more doubtful of the value of my high tech shoes. They began to question my judgment for buying them. I concluded that, before they started to make fun of me and my ingenious shoes, I must do something to restore their confidence. Jumping off a tall–well not too tall–building would do the trick. Tommy and Bobby had a shed next to their garage that was about eight feet from the ground to its flat roof. It would be perfect for my demonstration.

I invited all the neighborhood kids, even T.M. and Troy, especially T.M. and Troy. I kept hoping to myself,  “If I convince them that my magical shoes had transform me into a superboy, maybe they will stop beating me up.”

Finally, a day and time was set. My uncle Warren, who was a  sergeant in the Army stationed at Fort Benning, Georgia had sent me some paratrooper boots. I put the boots on, laced them up tightly, and strapped the Kangaroo Jumping shoes to the shiny, supportive boots. It took a little doing to climb up the homemade ladder we constructed to get to the top of the shed. Once there, it looked awful high. I really just wanted to crawl back down. But, there they were, T.M. and Troy, staring and snickering at me. Nurse Jane expected me to do wonderful things. Honor, stupidity and the desire to impress a female demanded nothing less than a jump.

I jumped. Thank God for the paratrooper boots. If it were not for them, I would have broken both ankles and maybe more. When I hit, one ankle turned inward and the other outward and I sprawled out like a new born colt. Because I was a skinny kid, subsisting mostly on vanilla wafers and milk, the damage was not as severe as it could have been. The laughter of T.M. and Troy hurt the worst.

Paratrooper Boots

Nurse Jane quickly summoned my mother. Mother’s alarm quickly turned into a hissy-fit when she determined I had not actually broken a bone. My badly twisted ankles did require a visit to old Doctor Joe Brown. Both mother and I dreaded that prospect, because we knew both of us would get a good cussing from the crusty doctor. If Dr. Joe’s medical training had included bed-side manner, he had discarded it from his medical practice early on.

This visit to Doctor Brown was no different. The first words out of his mouth were “Damn Genevieve, (Dr. Joe used mother’s real name when he was really mad) what the hell did you let the little bastard do this time?” Mother explained what had happened. Dr. Joe bandaged me up and sent me home.

This would be my first experience with truth in advertising. You would have thought this lesson should have been good for a lifetime. It wasn’t.

Catalogues arrive daily at our house, advertising all manner of products. According to my wife, I get sold on far too much stuff. I have to admit she is right.

But, some of it actually works like it should…some of the time.

Posted in Paperboy to Prosecutor | 1 Comment

THINGS GRANDKIDS NEED TO LEARN

Posted on November 4, 2011 by Judge Tom

Hanging out with grandkids this summer made me even more aware of things they need to learn to enhance their life experiences. They are ill-served if allowed to just come into the house, crack a fresh cold drink–the beverages my father called belly washes–pop open their Ipod 2s and have their thumbs fly through the zillion apps available to them. I do think the modern machines are marvelous and undoubtedly offer us more information–sometimes totally erroneous and useless–than our poor little brains can successfully process. But they cause grandkids to sit for hours in air conditioned spaces  eating junk food and sipping soft drinks. At least until the can gets warm, then they open a cold one.

When they get old enough, grandkids, just as our own kids were taught, need to be instructed on how to drive a car defensively and safely. In our society that has as many automobiles as people this essential skill has to be learned well and practiced often.

“Yes Pa Pa, I heard you say for the tenth time that I must assume all other drivers on the road are either crazy or drunk. I also heard you tell me that living In New Orleans, I will be about half right in that assumption,” Number One Grandson, Charles, confirmed to his grandfather.

“ I intended to stop at that intersection. I was not going to pull out in front of that car coming down the highway”. Number One Grandson asserted to all of us in the car. Before I shouted for him to stop, his mother, his brother Nathan–Number Two Grandson, and Karen gasped in unison. Nathan said under his breath, “I thought he was going to kill us all”.

But before learning the heavy responsibility of driving, modern kids just need to learn to have fun without the aid of some gadget that requires batteries. They need to learn to retrieve a “Pick-up Stick” without causing the other sticks in the unruly pile to move. This is therapy for the attention deficit-disordered and requires manual dexterity that may later be used to fly an airplane or spaceship.

Young Tom on the Levee

Lincoln logs, rough hewn pieces of brown wood with notches at each end, offered a valuable education on to how to build log cabins, but they were pretty much limited to just that. The more versatile Tinker Toy set,which contained round sticks that fit into round disks with holes through the center and all around the circumference enabled a kid to create many imaginative structures.

But for the more gifted, nerdy kid who aspires to become an engineer or astronaut, his parents would fail their responsibilities if they did not give him or her and Erector Set. Such was the case with my cousin Joe Allen who, after serving a stint as a naval aviator, became a test pilot for the Lear company and the FAA. I can remember Joe Allen sitting admits the gazillion metal parts of his Erector Set telling me what he planned to build next.

I see in the sporting good store one can buy a professional grade horse shoe set. These sets include perfectly balanced cast iron u-shaped objects that never saw the bottom of any horse’s foot, two beautifully powder-coated stakes that would never rust and a book of instructions and rules. In my day, we scrounged up old, rusty, mismatched horse shoes from the barn, a couple of pieces of lead water pipe, then stepped off a course under the shade of big pecan trees. We made up the rules as we went along and enjoyed ourselves for hours at a time.

We did not have to have parents or someone like an anonymous manual writer to instruct us on how to play any game or how to enforce rules we created. We children, peer-to-peer, made up our own rules. We disputed among ourselves perceived infractions of our rules. These peer-to-peer debates, discussions and sometimes confrontations steeled us for conflicts we would later face in life. We had to learn to settle things among ourselves as best we could or leave the game–or worse yet–find a new set of friends.

 

When children settled their own differences


We did not have the luxury of plastic toys made by slave labor in China, Taiwan, Indonesia, India or Bangladesh. The truth be known that during the Great Depression, very few of us kids had any store-bought toys. Of course some kids from the lucky sperm club–kids with rich daddies– had access to sophisticated toys like the fabulous Lionel Train sets. Those of us fortunate enough to know a kid in the lucky sperm club sought to befriend him so we could get a chance to run his marvelous train.

Most of us had to make do with toys that came in a Cracker Jack box or inexpensive toys form the five and dime store. But more often than not, we made our own toys using instructions passed down orally from generation to generation from whatever material was available. No paper pamphlet or instructions found on Google provided us with the information necessary to construct our make-shift toys. No kits provided the raw material to make the toys. We just made do with whatever was available.

For example, an old worn out pair of skates could be converted into a brand new skate board. One only had to remove the clamps from the two skates then screw them inline to the bottom of a piece of scrap two by four board about three feet long. The project became complete after you attached a T-shaped handle made of more scrap wood to the front of the two by four with the skates attached.

Another useful and entertaining item we boys, and some girls, made ourselves were slingshots.  Sling shots were useful for shooting at birds, lazy cats, offending dogs, and your playmates. Small, smooth pieces of gravel proved to be the most effective ammunition. They could travel a considerable distance and inflict serious damage to a bird if you were lucky enough to hit one. When shooting at your playmates, custom dictated that you use less damaging china-berries. But even the less potent china-berries could inflict a large red whelp on our foe.

Easy to construct, for a slingshot one only had to have access to a forked branch from a tree, some old car tires, a piece of leather cut from the tongue of an old shoe and a bit of strong twine. Branches from a willow tree worked best. With your trusty pocket knife, which should be with you at all times, you would cut the handle down to about six inches long and leave the forked branches that formed a Y about five inches long. You would then cut groves around the tips of the Y branches so a rubber band could be firmly attached. The process then required you to cut–from the best rubber you could find on old car tire–two strips about ten inches long. You would fold each of the strips of rubber over each of the two Y branches and bind them securely onto them with twine. You then made a slip knot in two pieces of twine and slipped them over the other ends of the rubber bands. After cutting a piece of shoe tongue leather into an oval shape about three inches long, you would punch a hole in each end of the leather with a nail and attach the twine.

As anyone can see, the making of a simple slingshot took some skill, thought and considerable time. I find this time better spent than staring at an IPad for hours at a time retrieving baseball, basketball and football scores, but maybe I could be wrong.

Pop guns found their place in our childhood arsenals. Mulberry trees provided us all the ammunition we needed. We found constructing a pop gun less complicated than a slingshot, but it proved just as effective. A piece of straight cane about a foot long and a straight stick the same diameter of the inside of the cane sufficed for construction of this weapon. We hollowed out the cane, attached a round component of a tinker toy set to the end of the stick to make a plunger, then inserted the plunger into the cane. When loaded with proper sized mulberries, one had a weapon that could produce a nasty whelp on an opponent at fifty feet.

Rubber guns could be found in any southern child’s arsenal. Construction only required a piece of scrap wood about a foot and half long and wide enough that it could be cut into the  shape of a pistol, a wooden clothes pen, and and old car tire. We shaped the weapon somewhat like a pistol then put a notch on the front of the barrel to hold the rubber band cut from the cross section of the car tire. We then attached a clothespin to the rear of the handle of the “gun” to hold the rubber band that had been stretched to that location. Firing the “gun” simply required depressing the clothespin. Some kids became quite innovative and built rifle-type rudder guns that could fire multiple rounds.

Cowpoke Tom, his brother and cousin

We kids of the Great Depression and the Second World War had our favorite cowboy heroes. Your cowboy hero could not be a sissy. In other words, he could not sing or court pretty girls. Heroes had to wear white hats and defeat villains–who wore black hats–in either a knockdown-and-drag-out fist fight fight in a bar room or a gun fight with six shooters on a dusty street. A cowboy could also gain hero status by jumping on a team of runaway horses about to pull a stage coach over a cliff.

As an older kid I tried to convince my younger cousin to “play like” he was the bad guy and I was the good guy. My cousin actually liked to “play like” he was the bad guy. Somehow he thought the men in the black hats were smarter and more resourceful than the good guys. He went on to play this role through out most of his life.

If we felt we had some musical talent, we could play the Juice Harps that the good Kellogg’s folks gave us when our parents bought a box of corn flakes. Some obnoxious kids could play these three note instruments for hours until someone rested it from him and bent it in half.

If we felt artistic, we could boil down hackberries in an old coffee can to produce a deep purple, permanent dye. This magic substance of regal color could be used to paint your tree house, the vehicle you had built for the soap box derby, your skate board or some unsightly fence. But if the unwashable substance stained your “Sunday-Go-To-Meeting” clothes your mother would make you select a little keen switch with which she would stripe your legs and behind. Not being brutal mothers, they would always require a “keen” switch as opposed to a thick limb, lest they cause permanent injury. I suppose nowadays even the “keen” switch treatment would be considered child abuse that should be reported to child protective services. Then some young social worker, who never had a child and probably never would, could come to instruct your mother on child rearing.

We had never heard of things like marijuana or crack cocaine, but we would sneak out behind the barn and smoke rabbit grass in our corncob pipes until we became sick as dogs, turned green and threw up. Simple to construct, corncob pipes suited our needs to test the rules. One simply took an old piece of corncob, broke off the fat end and hollowed it out with your trusty pocket knife. You then took a twenty penny nail and bored a hole near the bottom into the hollow inside. A thin piece of cane inserted into the hole provided a fine stem. One then only had to find some dead rabbit grass and light up.

Now, the grandkids who fish use expensive rods and reels acquired from Sports Authority, Bass Pro or Cabela’s. Only the best will do. The lures don’t come cheap either, and are lost frequently. A fishing trip with a professional guide breaks the grandparents’ bank, but does produce many fish.

Fishing with grandsons

Kids I grew up with had little expense in their fishing equipment, but were relegated to catching some scrawny brim or perch from the banks of a river or creek. Their fishing gear consisted of a cane pole that cost nothing, some twine, that cost almost nothing. You topped off your fishing equipment with a hook from a box of number 2 hooks that you bought for a nickel and a piece of rope on which you could string your fish to carry home for a dinner of bony fish.

Those of us outside the “Lucky Sperm Club” did not have the advantage of playing tennis or golf to keep in shape. Monroe, Louisiana did have a beautiful swimming pool built by the WPA (Works Progress Administration) during the Depression. All of us kids in the vicinity learned to swim well at an early age.

To stay in shape on a regular basis, we engaged in contest like Hide-And-Go-Seek (Fate as we called it in New Orleans), Hop Scotch, Jacks, Marbles, Mumblety Peg, Cowboys and Indians,  and Jump Rope. Of course Jump Rope and Hop Scotch were mostly for girls. We boys engaged in these games only if challenged mercilessly by the girls.

During the summer we would play these games with our playmates from “can to can’t”, making up new rules as we went along. Our parents would shoo us out of our un-air-conditioned house just after breakfast and lock the screen door behind us so we could not come back inside and mess up the house our mother had just cleaned. When the day grew hot, we sought the shade of trees. When we got thirsty, we drank out of a garden hose. When lunchtime  came, our mothers would shove some sandwiches outside the screen door for us, then latch it again. We played well into the night by the light of fire flies until we could play no more. Obese playmates were rare.

As we get older, we become nostalgic about the “Good Old Days”. I am the first to admit that not all aspects of “The Good Old Days” were so good, but that is subject matter for another story. However being required to live with nature and with our peers, solving problems and making up rules to govern ourselves as we went along seemed to condition us physically and mentally for the inevitable conflicts and vicissitudes we would face in life.

Posted in To Speak the Truth | Leave a comment

Tractors

Posted on September 25, 2011 by Judge Tom

Boys who grew up in the South love tractors about as much as they cherish pickup trucks, their first 22 rifle or 410 shotgun, and their favorite fishing poles. They start off with red, cast iron toy tractors some kind uncle gives them for Christmas. I must admit, I don’t own a tractor at the moment, but I wish I did. I do own a chain saw which gives me some sense of power, but it is not like having your very own tractor.

Tom and Brother Mike - Young boys in the South

In the late 60s, when land prices were reasonable, I acquired a twenty acre farmette on the Dixie Ranch Road just out of the quaint town of Lacombe, Louisiana. The rest of the world had progressed into the Twentieth Century, but Lacombe preferred to stay somewhere in the early Nineteenth Century.

Occasionally, a local fellow by the name of Abe helped me with chores around the place. With a  cafe au lait complexion, kinky red hair and hazel eyes,  Abe was a dependable worker who knew about the needs of animals, how to drill water wells, and how to mend broken fences.

Abe’s expertise in repairing fences came in handy after my neighbor’s Brahma bull wandered off the free range surrounding my twenty acres of lush, green rye grass and marched himself through my barbed wire fence. On this occasion, I had hired Abe to assist me in stringing a thin electric wire hooked to a transformer around the premises that would shock the offending bull should he attempt to enter the property again. Several events led me to resort to this drastic measure.

Before I arrived at the electric fence solution and armed with the courage of a few too many beers at Henry Keller’s Conoco filling station and bar room, I told Terrance Green, a tough fellow who worked on the oil rigs it the Gulf of Mexico, and the owner of the big black animal, “If your bull comes on my property again an tears up my fence, I am going to have to shoot him”. He didn’t take kindly to this threat and  told he told me what he would have to do if I shot his bull. After a couple days of sober reflection, I went to Henry Keller’s and apologized to Terrance and informed him of my plan to install an electric fence instead of shooting his bull.

Just as Abe and I were completing the hookup of the electric fence, the obsidian colored bull arrived, seeking entry into the field of inviting rye grass. “Hurry up Abe, connect it to the transformer. Here he comes”, I shouted to Abe.

The mean animal approached the fence cautiously. It seemed like he could sense something amiss, but he had to get to that delicious rye grass. He stuck his nose into the fence but missed the electric wire. He proceeded forward and his right leg touched the wire carrying high voltage, low amperage alternating current. The big critter went wild. With all four legs he jumped straight into the air and twirled like a graceful ballerina.

Down he came straight into four strands of barb wire. The electric wire did not break and continued to shock the senseless animal. He jumped, bucked and twisted, landing back first on the barbed wire and the offending electric wire then twirling in the air like an acrobat in a circus.

Abe and I shouted with glee as we watched the spectacle of the dancing bull. When the enormous animal finally freed himself and ran back to the security of his free range, Abe and I surveyed the damage he had done. His antics had mangled the fence and he had stomped a mud hole in the ground, but nothing we could not repair in about an hour. I never saw that bull again.

Abe was not with me when my little Ford 8N tractor reared up like Roy Rogers’ horse Trigger and damn near throwed me into the ground breaking disk I was towing. The small Ford–the first and only real tractor I have owned–had a grey body and fenders.  Its forty-five horse powered engine and wheels were painted bright red. Its fanny shaped metal seat sat on a piece of spring steel that bounced you like a mechanical horse on a merry-go-round as the tractor traversed rough ground. The slick seat offered no sides or back to prevent your from slipping off. I bought the dear machine from another attorney, Clarence McManus. Clarence and his father, a good old boy from Picayune Mississippi, realized a little extra cash from a used farm equipment business they ran out of their farm. I also acquired the ground breaking disk from my friends.

Ford 8N Tractor

One Saturday, after a rough week of prosecuting “Bad Guys”, I decided to prepare the fields of my farmette for planting some yet undecided crop. All alone in the country, I consumed a few beers then hopped on the Ford with the disk attached. The job went well until I attempted to drag the disk through a small bog. The disk grabbed a buried stump and immediately stopping all forward motion. But tractors are geared to keep going. The big wheels spun in the wet soil and the front of the tractor reached for the sky. My feet came off the clutch and brake, so I held onto the steering wheel literally for dear life lest I fall back into the sharp, heavy blades of the disk I was dragging behind me. The beer I held between my thighs spilled all over my jeans. After a few terrifying moments that seemed like hours, I freed my right hand enough to slam the throttle shut, and with the help of some providence I don’t understand survived disaster.

Abe did assist me in vaccinating one of two little mean Welch ponies my father-in-law gave me. Frankie and Johnny, two of the most onry critters that ever drew breath, were lousy for riding but they did eat a lot. Their little short legs made riding them more like sitting on a jack hammer operating at full blast, but the kids loved them. In order to avoid expensive vet bills, I employed Abe to help me administer the shots they required.

We got a halter on Frankie and hemmed her up in the fifty by eighty foot vegetable garden area. When Abe attempted to administer the shot, I Frankie bolted and jumped into the fence constructed with hog wire on the bottom and barb wire on the top. After we untangled Frankie from the fence she had torn up, we tried again. Abe instructed me, “Twist her ear then bite the tip of her ear hard”.

“Sure”, I thought, “this is the country fellow having some fun with the city slicker.” I had no desire to put that horse’s ear in my mouth.

But Abe became impatient and commanded again. “Do as I say, damn it. Twist that ear and bite down on it hard until I tell you to let go”.

“What the hell”, I thought. “I don’t think Abe is kidding. If biting this horse’s ear will get the job done I will do it.”

So I twisted Frankie’s ear as hard as I could and bit the tip of the hairy ear with all my might. Sure enough, Frankie stood as still as a stone statue while Abe popped her in her behind with the big needle.

But  Abe was not around to help extricate me when I lassoed myself to a John Deere tractor I’d borrowed from a friend. As I now look at my left calf, I still see the mark the half-inch nylon rope made when it dug into my leg.

It was late afternoon on a cool Saturday in early spring. My neighbor Harry, who lived just down Dixie Ranch Road, lent me his John Deere Tractor in hopes that I would buy it. After having lunch and a few beers at Henry Keller’s, I decided to harrow down the big chunks of sod which disking had created. My plan entailed tying a half-inch nylon rope to each end of an old bedsprings and towing it behind the tractor.

The bucket seat on Harry’s John Deere provided much more comfort and security than my old Ford. The seat had strong, deep vertical support for my back as well as both hips. I would later find that this comfort and support would cause me serious problems.

I cracked a cold Falstaff beer, hopped into the snug seat of the John Deere and stuck the beer between my legs. The first couple of passes down the twenty-acre field went well. I did notice a length of old steel cable on the ground in the south part of the field, but was careful to avoid it.

On about my tenth trip up and down the field, I made a sharp turn to the left. All of a sudden I felt something loop around my left leg and tighten up, binding me securely in the John Deere’s seat. The Falstaff fell to the ground. I immediately shut the engine off,  assuming I had run over the the old steel cable I had seen and it had somehow tied me to the tractor. On closer examination, I discovered that the half-inch nylon rope I towed the bedsprings with had bound me in the John Deere seat. It was stretched so tightly it felt like steel cable. I could neither move my left leg nor reach the clutch. I now realized the left tire of the tractor had grabbed the rope when I turned sharply and flung it over my left leg. The rope was still wrapped around the tractor wheel and my left leg was becoming numb.

John Deere Tractor

Although operating the  clutch was now impossible,  if I could loosen the rope I would slip the tractor in reverse and nudge the tractor backward with just the starter motor. Luckily, I was able to get the tractor in reverse, but when I engaged the starter motor the rope tightened up. The rope was wrapped around the wheel that acted like a windlass to tighten the rope with any motion. The pain became severe and I feared I would pass out and die on the John Deere before anyone found me.

I remembered that, just like all boys growing up in the South, I had my pocket knife with me. The bad news was that it was in the left pocket of my thick Levy’s, where the rope cut off access to my knife. I could not pull any slack in the rope and could not tear through the work-tough blue jeans. As I had done many times in the past, I started making deals with God. “God, If you you help me out of this, I will stop drinking.” At least for a while I mentally reserved.

As dusk approaches in the country, the world becomes quiet and still. Birds and other animals prepare for night. I could hear children playing at my neighbor’s about half a mile down Dixie Ranch Road. I called out over and over, hoping they could hear me. In the still of early evening sound travels well and I got lucky.

In about fifteen minutes, two boys about seven and nine years old came running across my field. “What is wrong mister”? the older boy asked.

I explained my predicament as simply an quickly as I could. The boys gazed up at me in wonder then the younger boy announced, “I’ll go run for help.”

“No” I implored, “I can get free if you guys can just help me get my pocket knife out of my jeans.”

The two boys scrambled up on the John Deere and tugged on the rope crushing my left leg. I felt like I might pass out any minute now. The boys strained with all their might and I was able to slip the pocket knife past the rope. It dropped on the ground, but the older boy quickly retrieved it and handed it to me. I opened the knife and sawed through the taught rope. It popped loose like an overstretched rubber band.

I thanked the boys and offered to give them money. Having been taught to never accept money from strangers, they refused my offer. I drove the tractor back to my pickup and hobbled over to the old Chevy. I treated my wound as best I could with bandages from the first aid kit in the truck then found my way back home.

It took some explaining to my wife and the doctor who eventually treated me as to exactly how I had inflicted this nasty wound upon myself. I never did tell them that Mr. Falstaff had been with me on this disastrous adventure.

My escape from this potential disaster proves to me again the old adage, “ God takes care of fools, babies and drunks”.

I still want another tractor, but since I put a cork in the bottle over thirty-seven years ago, I won’t be driving it under the influence.

Cast Iron Tractor Toy

 

Posted in Paperboy to Prosecutor | Leave a comment

The Crummy

Posted on September 4, 2011 by Judge Tom

The first case on the day’s Juvenile Docket listed the defendant’s last name as “Crummy”. The District Attorney, Andrea Price, asked the arresting officer, “What led you to believe that a Crummy committed this burglary?”

The young cop glanced at me, where I sat on the bench in the small courtroom reserved for juvenile cases. He looked down at his hands and then replied, “By the evidence they left. They leave distinctive evidence at each job they do”.

Judge Tom in the courtroom

“The Crummy’s” would become a familiar name in my courtroom over the years, but this was the first case I’d heard as a judge that involved the family. Most of the ten percent of our population that engage in antisocial behavior–otherwise known as criminal behavior–are just plain dumb. Sometimes TV and the movies bestow extraordinary capacities on these low-functioning folks.

If the truth be known, many of us in the “criminal justice” business looked forward to our encounters with the smart criminal. Though they tended to be sociopathic, character- disordered people, at least they gave us respite from the 99.5% of dumb criminals that came our way.

In my third of a century of dealing with criminals I have not come across many with the smarts of Willy “The Actor” Sutton. For sure, I have seen some smart, mean guys that would just as soon kill you just for the thrill of it but these were few and far between. Most of the ten percent of our population that engage in antisocial behavior–otherwise known as criminal behavior–are just plain dumb. Sometimes, TV and the movies bestow extraordinary capacities on these low functioning folks.

Jack Rau, an ex-marine, tough-minded criminal defense attorney I crossed legal swords with on many occasion routinely advised his young hapless clients, “Son, you are just too dumb to be a criminal. You need to find something else to do in life or you will spend most of your time in jail.”

The Crummy’s–yes, that was their real name, which aptly described their characters–belonged to the other 99.5% of the criminal population I came to know. Providence had blessed the whole family with room temperature IQs. A nest of them lived in Marrero, Louisiana near the Johns Mansfield Asbestos Production Plant. I always wondered if this location had something to do with their unfortunate genetic condition.

The Crummy’s practiced burglary and theft, but not very profitably. They did not operate on a grand scale, or with the finesse of “The Dutchman” Ernst, a professional burglar that I’d known in my days as an Assistant District Attorney. They restricted themselves to burglaries of unoccupied houses where the pickings were slim, and theft of bicycles. We saw their kids in Juvenile Court on a regular basis.

Some of the smartest criminals were the old time burglars like Hiney “The Dutchman Ernst”. Stealing was a business for them and they expected to get caught from time to time. They kept a stash of money with someone, often a trusted girlfriend, to help them get through the criminal justice system.

The first money from their stash would go to a bondsman to set them back on the bricks so they could “earn” more money. A criminal defense attorney who would arrange the best plea bargain he could get for his client was the recipient of the second batch of money. The balance of their dollars would go to influence the Pardon and Parole Board to look favorably upon their petition for an early release from prison.

To their credit, these professionals would never think of carrying a weapon on a job. This was mere self-preservation on their part. They understood that the system would punish much more harshly for an Aggravated Burglary than for a Simple Burglary, and their attitude was “After all, this was just business anyway. Nobody needed to get hurt.”

Most of the professional burglars worked alone or with another trusted professional. But sometimes they screwed up, as happened with Hiney “The Dutchman” Ernst. Hiney, a handsome man who attracted hoards of women, had peeled safes (opening them with oxyacetylene torches) for many years. All law enforcement agencies in the New Orleans area knew Hiney’s signature well.

A Hiney Ernst Style Safe

However, once “The Dutchman”, hungry for revenue, made a mistake. He partnered with a young, hotheaded punk. Unknown to Hiney, his young partner carried a gun on the job, things went wrong and they got caught. Now, Hiney faced an Aggravated Burglary charge.

When the case fell to me as an Assistant District Attorney, I watched as the virile Hiney, dressed in blue suit with carefully Brylcreamed hair,  appeared with his attorney G. Ray Gill before Judge J. Bernard Cocke to plead guilty.  Judge Cocke, who knew Hiney’s reputation well, sentenced “The Dutchman” to the minimum sentence of five years. I am sure that Hiney’s being sixty years old at the time had something to do with the minimum sentence.

A couple of years later I met Attorney Gill in court again. In casual conversation I inquired about Hiney.

“The Department of Corrections made Hiney a chauffeur at Saint Gabriel’s Prison, just up river from New Orleans”, Gill replied, smiling slyly.

“Saint Gabriel’s”, I exclaimed, “that is the Women’s Prison.”

As Mr. Gill nodded his head in agreement,  I lamented, “My goodness”, I have helped send Hiney to stud heaven”.

“Yes you have, son”, The wily old G. Ray grinned in agreement.

Experienced detectives could recognize a perpetrator like Hiney by the way he peeled a safe. The police take immediate note of the signatures that many criminals leave at crime scenes. “The Dutchman” had a distinctive way of cracking a safe. The James brothers of New Orleans took the valuables from a home, then had a meal from the refrigerators of their victims. Will Pratt, an electrician by trade (who grew up with me in my neighborhood), could defeat they most sophisticated alarm systems.

So, I leaned back in my chair with no expectation of the next words out of the mouth of the youthful patrolman, standing first on one foot and then on the other in his nervousness at appearing in Court for the first time.

“What evidence did this Crummy leave?” ADA Price persisted.

“Ma’am, the defendant defecated in the premises he burglarized. The whole Crummy family does this each time they commit a burglary,” the Sheriff’s Deputy replied.

Since this behavior seemed so bizarre, I thought maybe the enthusiastic young officer was exaggerating. Two subsequent burglary cases where Crummy juveniles were involved soon dispelled my doubts. All the Crummy’s defiled the premises they burglarized with their excrement.

Having spent about half my life dealing with people lying outside social norms, that world seemed somehow normal to me.

When I moved to Paradise, for a while, the silence, serenity, and lack of crime seemed unnatural to me. “Don’t my new friends in my new world realize that this is not the real world?”, I often thought to myself.

Eventually, I came to realize that Paradise is the real world and my old world was this bizarre existence created by the 10% of our population who, for very complicated reasons, are calamity driven and require a daily amount of chaos in their lives.

I prefer living in Paradise.

Living in Paradise

 

Posted in Collards, Crawfish and Crooks | 1 Comment

Mind Games

Posted on August 17, 2011 by Judge Tom

Playing tennis with grandkids

While recently sailing a boat, playing tennis and many rounds of golf with grandkids, I injured a butt muscle. My injury has compelled me to spend many hours on my comfortable couch reading and watching hours of mindless television.

I now understand why folks like Rupert Murdoch become as rich as they are. They pump hundreds of dumb commercials into our lazy brains during every rotation of the earth. What I don’t understand is why governments allow people like Murdoch to influence public policy while becoming even richer, and therefore more powerful. But as a wise man once observed, “I really don’t understand all I know”.

But maybe, we need these intellectually challenging commercials to enlighten us and keep us on a par with the technological advances of the Chinese.

I probably need to know that, if I use a Titleist golf ball, I will able to hit it as far as Tiger Woods, John Daly or Tom Watson. Not so. I have hit every ball made by man and when I do make some sort of contact with the ball it does not soar like an eagle. The ball usually just skips along the fairway seventy or eighty yards somewhat in front of me, like a wounded bunny rabbit.

Playing golf with grandkids

I am warned that if I don’t fly Southwest Airlines, a gigantic ball of red tape will chase me down the concourse and crush me unless alert Southwest employees roll up in their cart and save me, like old cowboys jumping on a team of runaway horses just about to pull a stage coach over a cliff. Sometimes I dream of a giant ball of red tape pursuing me.
My good friends from Viagra remind me that I can dress like a cowboy. If my super-duty pickup truck becomes stuck in a mud hole while towing a trailer full of horses, being the unshaven, macho cowboy I am, I can simply remove the horses from the trailer, hitch them to the truck and pull us free. When I arrive at my lovely old fashioned ranch house sitting by itself on the high chaparral, I grin in anticipation of how I will be rewarded by the woman of the house for being such a virile man.

Television teaches me to fear Low T. The good folks in the flat screen do have a solution for Low T. It is a potion that comes in a small bottle. They insist that if you slug down their product, you will receive no unwanted calories. Instead, you will get a jolt of energy that will make you grab the chainsaw and cut down every tree in sight.  I can only imagine what I could do if I slammed down a vile of Low T. solution and a handful of Viagra pills. I become weak just thinking of the aftermath. But only you can know is it Low T?

When grandkids visit, their diet seems to be restricted to hotdogs, chicken fingers and tater tots. I have been at a loss to find a way to get some real nutrients in the little rascals, that is until I received some enlightenment from the good folks at PediaSure. They assure me, that if the grandkids drink a bottle of their gook each day, they will ingest all of the vitamins and minerals needed by an active child. But the hustlers at PediaSure don’t give me a clue as to how to get the headstrong grandkids to depart from their accustomed diet and try their magic potion.

The good man selling Flex Seal demonstrates to me that he can make an unsinkable boat out of his screen door. It is unclear why he would want to destroy a perfectly good screen door. It really does not make a very seaworthy boat. I presume he does this to convince me that his product will seal any other leaks that may occur in my house. I wonder if Flex Seal will prevent the horizontal rain of a Florida hurricane traveling 150 MPH from penetrating  my abode?

My information sources on TV advise me I can become a successful, rich doctor by attending medical school at  St. George’s University in the Caribbean. The only thing I learned to do in the Caribbean was to scuba dive. Is this not the same island President Ronald Reagan invaded, fearing that communism was taking hold there? If the island is full of communists, how could I become rich?

Besides, my reliable informants in the TV set tell me that I can see to my own ‘feet’ health care by simply going to the Dr. Scholl’s diagnostic station at my local pharmacy. The magic machine will prescribe the proper inserts for my shoes that will insure long term foot health. Why would I need to travel to St. George to learn this valuable information?

Some idiot dressed in a three thousand dollar business suit stands in a desert as Mercedes Benz cars zoom past him on all sides, spraying him with sand like a bull in a corrida, to tell me about Mercedes Benz C-class. This unstable person beseeches me to drive safely. The only lesson I take from this demonstration is how fast these expensive German cars can go. I guess that is all I am supposed to learn and damn the safety lecture.

I fear that I never did know my retirement number. Never mind. I suspect that nowadays all of our retirement numbers are just fantasies anyway. But I am assured by the conscientious folks at T. Rowe Price that they can tell me how invest with confidence–that is if I had anything to invest.

The Michelin Man stands on a rainy hill slinging a brand new set of tires on my little car if it goes into a skid with my family aboard. He stirs guilt in my soul by reminding me I was surely irresponsible, and risked my families life by using his competitors’ inferior tires.

Other good friends in my television box warn me that I could have a car accident if I have the dreaded “Dull Headlights”. But these inventive folks have a solution for this dangerous situation. They will sell me two tubes for the price of one of a miracle solution with the imaginative name of “Fast Bright”. They insist that their New Age polish will shine up my dull headlights and prevent catastrophe. See Fast Brite for yourself.

But if my tires fail or my dull headlights cause me to get into an accident, a little green Gecko with charming shiny eyes and a delightful British or Aussi accent will sell me insurance that will make my life right again.

By now, my days of laying on the couch have caused my back to ache. Fear not. A seventy-something gentleman has invented a contraption to cure my ills. He calls it a “Teeter Hang”. The very name causes my back to spasm. The man demonstrates his machine by strapping himself in and rotating upside down. This alone gives me vertigo. But the inventor jumps to the floor like a circus acrobat and announces, “I never felt better in my life”. I have seen one of these machines in SAM’s Club. Although I trust SAM’s to provide most of my worldly needs, I think I am going to pass on  The Teeter Hang.

If I don’t have good sense enough to know whom I should trust and befriend, there is a service for my dilemma. The savvy people at Beenverified will furnish me a background check on anyone I wish to date or do business with. I can only suspect that the clever folks at Beenverified are ex-CIA agents who have access to our personal data. I think these folks are spooky, but if you require their services…Beenverified.

When a day of watching TV informs me of the many maladies I could contract and the awful side effects of medicines to cure these maladies, I slide into a maze and dark circles form around my eyes. Hydrolyze to the rescue. Yes, the makers of this magic cream assure me that I can remove the telltale dark circles with a little dab of their potion.

I think I will just turn off the TV, rub some Hydrolyze around my tired eyes and take a nap.

Posted in To Speak the Truth | 1 Comment

Dueling Justice

Posted on July 16, 2011 by Judge Tom

Seeing the fiasco going  on in Wisconsin, where one male Supreme Court Justice apparently attempted to strangle one of his sister justices–after calling the Chief Justice a bitch, suggests to me that this good fellow must have some deep-seated mommie problem. I am reminded of a similar instance many years ago on the Louisiana Supreme Court. One might say, “Well you might expect this in Louisiana, but you should be surprised at this coming from the more civilized citizens of Wisconsin.” I think this just proves that human nature and Supreme Court Justices are the same, no matter where you find them.

Earl Long

Folks are always accusing my beloved Louisiana of having the most bizarre, corrupt politicians and judges to be found anywhere in this country. This is not so. True enough, some elected officials in Louisiana have engaged in bizarre behavior, but they were not hypocritical and did nothing to hide their unique behavior. As a matter of fact they seemed downright proud of their idiosyncrasies. Governor Earl Long took great glee in leading an entourage in a limousine caravan across the Southwest United States, while loyal state senators collected chickens and pigs along the way and and carried them in cages atop their cars.

When the good Governor needed extra inspiration, he would retire to his “pea patch farm” in Winn parish with his girlfriend Blaze Starr. Blaze, a Bourbon Street stripper, gave many men inspiration nightly when she disposed of her clothes to the rhythms of some sultry tune.

“Uncle Earl”, the affectionate title given our colorful Governor by many of his eager supporters, gave local and national reporters material that proved better than fiction. But the press hounded the stressed out Governor on his interesting exploits. Some sullen members of the media failed to see the humor in the antics of the man who was supposed to lead a state rich in natural resources. They wrote unkind things about the man. These unkind remarks angered Uncle Earl, and some say pushed him beyond the brink of sanity.

Uncle Earl fell completely out of favor with the Fourth Estate one hot summer day. The hoard of reporters followed him and Blaze into the Saint Charles Hotel, located naturally on St. Charles Ave. in downtown New Orleans. They pummeled him with questions as he and Blaze ascended the stairs to the balcony above the gracious lobby of the hotel. The mass of newsmen and women shouted questions from the lobby. By now the red-faced, paunchy Governor had had enough. He approached the rail of the balcony and with great ceremony, took his penis in his right hand and showered the astonished reporters below with urine. He did with deed what he had been telling the reporters all along.

This act of rebellion caused the Governor’s wife and nephew, Senator Russell Long, to have the troubled Governor put in the booby hatch–Louisiana for mental institution. When the chief doctor of all state institutions, whom Uncle Earl had appointed to the job, refused to release him, the livid Governor fired the doctor and replaced him with a physician that did release him.

The disturbed Governor had the good graces to die shortly thereafter, but not before he had proven to the world that he could outdo anything Blagojevich or any other Governor of Illinois could do. However, all of Uncle Earl’s supporters knew that for some time the Governor had just not been himself and dutifully forgave him any of his indiscretions.

Uncle Earl’s brother, Huey Long, wrote his own colorful chapter in Louisiana history. Huey preceded his brother Earl to the governor’s mansion in Baton Rouge during the mean years of the Great Depression. He did so by promising the unwashed masses they would  have, “A chicken in every pot and a car in every garage.” He did provide some good roads so people could get to the polling places to vote for him and free text books for schools. When his higher ambitions brought him to the United States Senate, he left the state in the hands of O.K. Allen, his personally chosen stooge.

Huey Long and armed bodyguards at State Capitol

Huey actually ran the State while in the U.S. Senate preparing for a run at the Presidency of the United States. Huey’s plans were cut short when a young dentist from a family Huey had offended gunned down the Senator at the back entrance of the State Capitol. Many times I have seen the pot marks the bullets left in the white marble columns. There have been many theories of what actually caused Huey’s death. Some surmise that bullets from Huey’s own bodyguards’ guns accidentally ricocheted off the marble into Huey’s paunchy body.  Some conspiracy theorists even suggest that Roosevelt himself had something to do with Huey’s death, because Roosevelt perceived Huey to be a threat to run for the Presidency.

Between the Longs, Louisiana had the respite of Jimmy Davis, the singing cowboy, for governor. Jimmy, a good old boy from north Louisiana, sang country songs to prospective voters. He even wrote the popular “You Are My Sunshine”–which I heard only yesterday in and advertisement on television.

Jimmy Davis

Jimmy Davis Singing “You Are My Sunshine”

Jimmy divided his time between “The Red Stick” (Baton Rouge) and  Tinsel Town. He did little for the State of Louisiana other than make us residents look like hicks. But this good Christian man had a repertoire of gospel songs that could just tear your heart out.

The glib, brilliant Edwin Edwards made Blagojevich seem like a clumsy choir boy. Self-assured, Edwin dodged the wrath of Federal Prosecutor Johnny Voltz three times, but was finally done in by a fourth attempt from another prosecutor. He has just recently been released from prison. While running for a second term for governor, Edmund, an avowed ladies man, proudly announced, “The only thing that would defeat me was to be found in bed with a dead girl or a live boy.”

Edwin Edwards

When David Duke, the acknowledged head of the Ku Klux Klan or the American Nazi Party–take your pick–challenged Edwards for a third term, the former Governor printed bumper stickers encouraging potential voters to “Vote for the Crook, not the Kook.” I have learned from recent media that Duke is thinking of seeking a nomination to run for President of the United States. This will be the best show on television. Ain’t a free country great?

But I digress. I started talking about one Wisconsin male Supreme Court Justice attempting to strangle one of his female sisters on his bench. His defenders assert that the jurist had to defend himself from the potentially lethal fist of his diminutive, sixty-something-year-old cohort on the court.

Again, lore has it that we can best that in Louisiana. The story goes–and I submit this is pure hearsay because I was not present to witness this evert–that two of our elderly supreme court justices went at one another with their walking canes in the lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel. From the descriptions I heard it sounded like a duel of sorts, walking canes being the weapons of choice. They did not stage the duel under the Dueling Oaks out in City Park, as was the custom of Creole gentlemen of old who felt they had been insulted and needed satisfaction. Whatever the grievances the elderly jurist had for one another, they felt it proper to seek satisfaction in the lobby of the venerable old hotel in downtown New Orleans with their walking canes.

Roosevelt Hotel Lobby

I had heard the story of the duel in the Roosevelt around the legal community long before I was to argue my first case before the Louisiana Supreme Court. The two old combatants still sat on this august bench and still detested one another. One, who was appointed by Huey Long to the court, had become Chief Justice of the Court and his old adversary sat two justices down to the Chief’s right.

As an Assistant District Attorney in Jefferson Parish, I had gotten a conviction in a murder case. The defense attorney exercised his right to appeal the conviction directly to the Supreme Court of the State. This would be my first appearance before the seven justice Court to defend my conviction. The name of the Attorney General of Louisiana and my boss’s name, the District Attorney of Jefferson Parish, would precede mine on the brief I had researched and written, although neither of them knew an iota about the case. I would would be left to argue the case all by myself. An Assistant Attorney General was on hand to show me around the Court and teach me how to use the fancy lectern which stood in front of and way, way, below the seven jurists who would fire questions at me.

When the bailiff called my case, I approached the electrically controlled dais and fiddled with it. I tried with marginal success to adjust it to my height. In short order the Chief Justice ordered me, “Quit fooling with the machine son and begin your argument.”

I promptly obeyed only to be interrupted by a question from the Chief. I answered as best I could, but the Chief, being hard of hearing glared at me and said, “Speak up son. What did you say?”

Before I could reply to the Chief, his old adversary leaned forward and glared at the Chief then snarled at the Chief, “Turn up your hearing aid. He said defense counsel made no objection to the introduction of the gun.”

This began a verbal duel between the aging adversaries that I could only watch in disbelief and with amusement. After several minutes of oral combat between the old foes, which seemed like several hours to me, the Chief looked at the clock on the wood paneled wall, then turned to me and announced impatiently, “Son, your twenty minutes are up.”

So throttle one another if you must, Wisconsin justices. You can never be as colorful as the jurists we grow down in the bayous of Louisiana.

Louisiana Jurist

 

Posted in Collards, Crawfish and Crooks | 1 Comment

OLD PICKUP TRUCKS AND OLD DOGS

Posted on June 21, 2011 by Judge Tom

I love old pickup trucks and old dogs. They are reliable. You can count on them. I have had the great pleasure in my life to receive love and devotion from old dogs and been able to rely on many old pickup trucks.

My love of pickup trucks began in 1952 when Jim McCune hired me to deliver prescriptions at night from his pharmacy in Metairie, Louisiana to his customers. Jim provided me with a brand new red Ford pickup to make the deliveries. This made this eighteen-year-old college kid feel like Cowboy Tom Mix out on the open range. I remember the light truck had a tendency to skid on wet streets after a rain, but I quickly became enamored of driving it.  After the pharmacy closed each night and all deliveries of medicine had been accomplished, Jim required that I take the truck and go to Curley’s Bar just down the road and bring him a sixpack of cold Dixie Beer. This extra duty just allowed me to drive the sweet little red truck some more.

After acting out a few more years in this drama we call life, sometime in the mid sixties, I acquired my first very own pickup truck. An elderly gentleman with a heavy accent had driven his pristine blue 1954 Chevy  pickup from California to Metairie to live with his daughter and son-in-law who lived next door. Since he was well beyond eighty at the time and in a strange new land that would require him to pass another driving test, he offered to sell me the truck at a good price. At the time we had a small spread across Lake Ponchartrain, so the truck would come in handy.

1954 Blue Chevy Pickup

The little 54 Chevy was a beauty. The old German immigrant who sold me the truck had been the sole owner and maintained it in true German fashion.The original blue paint retained its luster and all things mechanical worked perfectly. I added a wooden stake body to handle duties of the farm.

Once, with my five year-old-son Sean next to me, I drove the 54 Chevy to his grandfather’s farm in West Point, Mississippi to pick up a load of hay for some mean, short-legged Welsh ponies grandaddy had bestowed upon us. On the way home, while traveling south on Highway 59 just below Hattiesburg, Sean fell asleep and laid on my lap. The little truck, brim full of hay that extended well above the cab, handled the chore well. As I cruised down the interstate, I noticed in the over-sized side view mirror a black Mustang coming up fast on my left side. It contained young males.

All of a sudden as they approached to pass me on my left side, I saw one of the young desperadoes stick a pistol out a right side window of their sporty little car. I assumed they were going to take target practice into the bails of hay. My concern was that they might miss and hit the gas tank located directly behind the bench seat of the truck, or worse, hit me or Sean. “Pop, pop, pop”–they shot three rounds into the hay as they sped past us. No one was hurt. Sean did not even wake up from his nap. I was furious but had no other recourse other than to wish that the callous young fellows broke down somewhere ahead of me.

Mack Olivares, the owner of a Conoco full-service filling station in Gretna where I did business or a regular basis, led me to the Green Monster. I first met Mack after he had been the victim of an armed robbery. As a reliable eye witness, Mack enabled me to prosecute and convict the two punk Texas bastards who threatened Mack with a gun and robbed him of hard-earned cash.

The Green Monster, a vehicle to behold, had about eighty-three thousand miles on it when Mack sold it to me. Having been owned and maintained by Mack all its existence, the Green Monster came to me in excellent condition. I knew I could trust Mack. He did not fail me. The Green Monster, a 1964 full sized Chevrolet pickup with an extended cab and long bed came with dual fuel tanks and batteries. Mack had used it in his work to haul huge truck tires and in his scarce free time to go camping with his family. My curiosity about the dual fuel tanks soon became satisfied when I discovered how much fuel the mammoth 450 horse power engine consumed. Since those were the days when gasoline had yet to reach a dollar a gallon, I felt I could enjoy the safe feeling and luxury of driving the Green Monster.

1964 Chevy Pickup

The Green Monster could haul most any load I called upon it to bear. When you have a truck such as this, you acquire new friends easily. From time to time, everyone has to transport stuff–big, heavy, dirty stuff. How can one do this in their petite, smooth-riding, underpowered sedans or sports cars? It has always been a mystery to me how a family can get by without a pickup. Not long ago, we almost convinced some recently retired friends they needed a pickup to pull an RV they had contemplated buying. They were almost sold until they discovered how big the truck would have to be to safely pull the RV they desired. After much anguish, they abandoned the idea of the pickup and the RV and bought a very comfortable, fuel efficient, sporty car they have used to travel far and wide.

Some where along the way as gas prices rose, I decided that I needed a small diesel powered pickup. Extensive research informed me that the oldest and most reliable manufacturers of diesel-powered engines were, Mercedes, Peugeot and Isuzu. I bought an Isuzu Pup with a long bed. I could load it with topsoil from the Mississippi River batture and walk it up the deeply rutted path across the levee in low gear with no strain. It did not even object when I required it to haul this excessive load across the steep bridge spanning the Intercoastal Canal. (For the non-Louisianan, the “batture” is the narrow strip of land between the Mississippi River and the levee.)

When I developed a program to teach delinquent kids how to scuba dive so they could get jobs in the marine industries of south Louisiana the little gray and black truck aided in the task by transporting scuba gear for ten people to Florida for checkout dives. The little Pup did not have a jackrabbit start, but could hold its own with eighteen wheelers on  Interstate 10, once I got it up to speed.

Juvenile Delinquents Learning to Scuba Dive

All vehicles I have owned were passed down to children as they commenced driving. Daughter Paige received the Pup as she entered college. We took some test drives first to convince her that when stopped at an intersection she best not try beating an oncoming car across the street. The little Pup proved useful for many things, but it definitely would not win any drag races.

A compact sporty blue and silver Chevy pickup proved to be a delightful second choice. I had intended to buy a Dodge Dakota until the dealer tried a “bait and switch” on me. In disgust, I visited my high school friend whose family owned the local Chevrolet dealership. On the first drive I fell in love the compact Chevy S 10. It handled tautly and promised good gas mileage, which by now had become important. The first time I pulled up to Olivares Conoco to fill it up, in his south Tex-Mex drawl Mack exclaimed, “That thing is just too pretty to put to work.” It took about a year for the new to wear off to where I felt comfortable throwing lumber, fertilizer and heavy tools in the sturdy little truck’s bed.

Over a period of six months the Chevy S10 transported all our household goods from New Orleans to Seagrove Beach, Florida. I drove mostly at night with my faithful companion, Susie the border collie, asleep on my lap. I found it uncanny that she could sleep the whole trip, but somehow knew we had arrived at our destination when we turned off Hwy. 30A onto Lakewood drive. She immediately perked up, looked out the windows and commenced her urgent whining to signal she knew we had arrived.

Susie, border collie mix

Once, Susie and I tested the cute little truck to its limits. We borrowed a sixteen-foot, four wheel, six-thousand pound capacity trailer, stuffed it with furniture, appliances and yard tools, then hooked it to the hitch on the truck’s bumper. Susie and I had not yet acquired a frame hitch which could carry heavy loads. We made the trip that night and some how arrived without mishap. The next morning when I went to release the trailer from the truck, I discovered the excess load had twisted the hitch and bumper backward to a dangerous angle. Looking at the damage done to the dependable bumper, I could just imagine the trailer coming loose and strewing furniture all over Alabama.

The S10 aged gracefully, but my abuse had taken its toil on my old friend by the time it reached eight years old and turned over 180,000 miles. My wife, Karen, and I went to buy another S10 from our friend Jeff Shirley at the Chevrolet dealership in Panama City, only to be told the General Motors Company, in its wisdom, had discontinued this best-selling, reliable vehicle. They had replaced it with something they called a Colorado, which had a five-cylinder engine. Jeff half-heartedly tried to convince us we would be happy with the Colorado, but after a test drive, we knew Chevrolet’s innovation would not compete with other small trucks on the market.

PJ Dogg

So off we went to the Toyota dealership and came home with the pickup we have owned for the last five years–a fuel efficient, four-cylinder Toyota Tacoma. The little white Tacoma that I call my “baby truck” has four doors with seats in the back that can accommodate small grandkids or large dogs. P.J., our eight-year-old Golden Retriever, prefers to ride up front with me in the passenger seat. I crank down his window so he can sniff the air and commune with people when I stop at the Tom Thumb for a coffee break. P.J. rides proudly, sitting erect and looking very regal as we tool down the highway. Though the seat is a bit too small for his large butt, he has learned to compensate by putting his front paws on the center console to brace himself.

Over the years, various dogs have ridden with me in various old pickup trucks. Sassy, a small feisty mixed breed, didn’t care much for riding in a truck. She preferred hiding in the shadows at night beside my office on Huey P. Long Avenue in Gretna, Louisiana. The little vixen would then spring forth, barking as loudly as she could at unsuspecting pedestrians and scaring the daylights out of them, causing the terrified folks to flee down the street while calling out in horror.

Sampson, a large sturdy gentleman of a dog took up with Sassy and us, but she, being spayed, had little to do with the big oaf. Sampson did enjoy riding in the Pup with me down to the bayou country of Lafitte. Fences did not contain the traveling man, Sampson. He left home at will to share his gene pool freely with the female dogs of Jefferson Parish.

Lucky Dogg, named after hot dog vendors of the French Quarter, sported a lush golden coat and weighed over a hundred pounds. This good-natured fellow barely tolerated riding in any vehicle except a boat. He loved to swim and ride in boats, but he was just too big to comfortably fit in the front seat of a pickup.

I wonder how folks can get by without a pickup that can be trusted to do just about any thing they may ask of it. I also wonder how folks can get by with out the devotion of an old dog who will ask little of you and who will love you unconditionally until the day that they die.

Luckydogg

 

Posted in To Speak the Truth | Leave a comment