N Posted by Rain at 12/01/2007 08:48:00 PM
12 Days of Christmas Cajun Style
Day 1 Dear Emile, Thanks for da bird in the Pear tree. I fixed it las night with dirty rice an it was delicious. I doan tink the Pear tree would grow in de swamp, so I swapped it for a Satsuma.
Day 2 Dear Emile, Your letter said you sent 2 turtle dove, but all I got was 2 scrawny pigeon. Anyway, I mixed them with andouille and made some gumbo out of dem.
Day 3 Dear Emile, Why doan you sen me some crawfish? I'm tired of eating dem darned bird. I gave two of those prissy French chicken to Mrs. Fontenot over at Grand Chenier, and fed the tird one to my dog, Phideaux. Mrs. Fontenot needed some sparring partners for her fighting rooster.
Day 4 Dear Emile, Mon Dieux! I tole you no more of dem bird. Deez four, what you call "calling bird" wuz so noisy you could hear dem all da' way to Lafayette. I used they necks for my crab traps, and fed the rest of dem to the gators.
Day 5 Dear Emile, You finally sent something useful. I liked dem golden rings, me. I hocked dem at da' pawn shop in Sulphur and got enough money to fix the shaft on my shrimp boat, and to buy a round for da boys at the Raisin' Cane Lounge. Merci Beaucoup!
Day 6 Dear Emile, Couchon! Back to da birds, you coonass turkey! Poor egg sucking Phideaux is scared to death ah dem six goose. He try to eat they eggs and they pecked the heck out ah his snout. Dem goose are damm good at eating cockroach around da' house, though. I may stuff one ah dem goose with erster dressing to serve him on Christmas Day.
Day 7 Dear Emile, I'm gonna wring your fool neck next time I see you. Ole Boudreaux, da mailman, is ready to kill you, too. The crap from all dem bird is stinkin up his mailboat. He afraid someone will slip on dat stuff and gonna sue him. I let dem seven swan loose to swim on da bayou and some stupid duck hunter from Mississippi done blasted dem out da water. Talk to you tomorrow.
Day 8 Dear Emile, Poor ole Boudreaux had to make 3 trips on his mailboat to deliver dem 8 maids-a-milking & der cows. One of dem cows got spooked by da alligators and almost tipped over da boat. I doan like dem shiftless maids, me. I told dem to get to work gutting fish and sweeping my shack--but dey say it wasn't in their contract. They probably tink they too good to skin all dem nutria I caught las night.
Day 9 Dear Emile, What you trying to do? Boudreaux had to borrow da Cameron Ferry to carry these jumping twits you call lords-a-leaping across da bayou. As soon as dey got here dey wanted a tea break and crumpets. I doan know what dat means but I says, "Well la di da. You get Chicory coffee or nuthin." Mon Dieux, Emile, what I'm gonna feed all these bozos? They too snooty for fried nutria, and da cow ate up all my turnip green.
Day 10 Dear Emile, You got to be out of you mind. If da mailman don't kill you, I will. Today he deliver 10 half nekkid floozies from Bourbon Street. Dey said they be ladies dancing" but they doan act like ladies in front of dem Limey sailing boys. Dey almost left after one of them got bit by a water moccasin over by my outhouse. I had to butcher 2 cows to feed toute le monde (everybody) and get toilet paper rolls. The Sears catalog wasn't good enough for dem hoity toity lords. Talk at you tomorrow.
Day 11 Dear Emile, Where Y'at? Cherio and pip pip. You 11 Pipers Piping arrived today from the House of Blues, second lining as dey got off da boat. We fixed stuffed goose and beef jumbalaya, finished da whiskey, and we're having a fais-do-do. Da' new mailman drank a bottle of Jack Daniel, and he's having a good old time dancing with the floozies. Da' old mailman done jump off the Moss Bluff Bridge yesterday, screaming you name. If you happen to get a mysterious looking, ticking package in da mail, don't open it.
Day 12 Dear Emile, Me I'm sorry to tell you--but I am not your true love anymore. After the fais-do-do, I spent da night with Jacque, the head piper. We decide to open a restaurant and gentlemen's club on the bayou. The floozies--pardon me--ladies dancing can make $20 for a table dance, and the lords can be the waiters and valet park da boats. Since da' maids have no more cows to milk, I trained dem to set my crab traps, watch my trotlines, and run my shrimping business. We'll probably gross a million dollars next year.
My son has been on lock down for almost two weeks so I was unable to talk to him on Thanksgiving. I can't even begin to tell you how much that hurt, I missed him and although I had a great Thanksgiving, it was just not the same without Rusty sitting at my table.
Being a "Prison Mama" really sucks and I don't ever want to "get used to it" or become comfortable with the situation. My fear is that I will become an institutionalised "Prison Mama" like some of the moms that I have met recently online. I refuse to become so comfortable with the role that I begin writing to other prisoners and adopting them as my own "boys". I will not open my heart or the front door of my home to any other prisoner -I don't care how long the "boys" have been cell mates. I will not accept the excuses or the 'form letter' apologies to justify the behavior for the crimes that have been commited. I will not put money on their books, purchase televisions or send them stamps "so they can have the small comforts of home. I believe that these women are fooling themselves and have become involved in a bullshit scam.
Now don't get me wrong, I have accepted my sons pending fate and I have stopped detaching myself from the situation. I am forcing myself to deal with the roller coaster emotions, medication adjustments and doctors appointments. Dealing with reality is gut wrenching, painful and I just want the healing to begin. I believe in Rustys future... as well as my own.
N Posted by Rain at 11/27/2007 10:56:00 PM