Gail Grenier Sweet

Martin Luther King, Jr. and my brother George

I don't think much about Martin Luther King on January 16, because it's also my brother George's birthday. He would have been 41 this year, had he not died young. He comes and goes in my thoughts and sometimes in my dreams at night, but always on January 16, he is with me. 

I remember shoveling snow with George.  It was the day after Thanksgiving, 1977.  George was 12.  He was staying at our house so he could hang out with Mike and me and our little son Charlie.  George was thrilled to be an uncle.  We awoke that Friday to giant drifts of snow blocking our garage doors and halfway up our windows.  We all grabbed shovels.  George was SLOW, shoveling here and there, throwing snowballs here and there.  We dubbed him “the screen door in a submarine.”  George died in a car accident nine months after that snowy day. 

I recently dreamed that he was an excellent writer.   When I woke up, I thought about that dream and figured George might have become a writer if he had the chance to grow up.  Before he died, he was already writing songs and playing guitar. Would he have joined Anna and me in Louisiana?  Would he have liked Cajun and Zydeco music?  Would he have danced with us?  Would his hair still be auburn?  Would he have any hair?  It’s hard to think of him as a middle-aged man.  It’s Feb. 23 as I write this.  I’ve been in a George funk all month.  I wish he were here.

 

Cajun Adventure, Post-Hurricane Rita
(continued)

Sister Ancilla introduced Dolores to Anna and me.  It was 9:00 am, we had our work gloves and goggles, and we were ready to work.  But this day would provide our second lesson in Southern time.  It clearly wasn’t time to work.  Dolores fairly bubbled with stories flowing in what I came to recognize as a thick Cajun country accent.  Her drawn-out vowels screamed “South” and her consonants screamed “French.” 

gail grenier sweet photo

Anna and Dolores, New Iberia.

For instance, Dolores gestured to her back yard and said, “Da brush is real tick ovah dere.” 

French speakers, like most Europeans except Spaniards, have a hard time saying “th.”  And Dolores was a French speaker – Cajun French, which is a different from the Parisian French I learned in school.  Cajun French has a rolled “r” like we hear in Spanish or Italian, instead of the guttural “r” associated with the classic French of, say, Pepe le Peuw singing “Every little breeze whispers Louise.” 

Dolores used the term “French,” not “Cajun,” like most country Cajuns I’ve met through years of going to Cajun dancing and cooking workshops.  When Anna and I told her we liked the Lafayette dance halls, Dolores said, “Dose Frenchies really know how to shake a leg.”

Talking with Dolores, we learned that she’s one year older than I am (she’s 56), and that she and Huey (her “little husband,” as she said) have been married 38 years.  She told us Huey is a tugboat captain who has trouble getting work because of his heart problems and employers’ fear of medical bills.  We learned about their children and grandchildren and about James, a nephew they adopted when he was a baby.  Now in his mid-20s, James had a high fever when he was about five and ever since has been unable to walk or eat on his own.  Because of his scoliosis, he can’t spend much time in a wheelchair.  He lies in bed most of the time and uses a ventilator. 

All writing unless otherwise noted is ©Gail Grenier Sweet. All Rights Reserved. Permission to reprint must be granted by the author.
All photos unless otherwise noted are ©Gail Grenier Sweet. All Rights Reserved. Permission to reprint must be granted by the photographer.