Tuesday, June 4, 2002 * looking back... Thinking for some reason about my younger years. Not sure why. Must be an age thing. Maybe it has to do with overhearing some people talking in a restaurant yesterday at lunch time. One was saying something about being a born 'Dallasite'. The other was surprised as so many people move about and so many never stay in the area of their birth (although a percentage seem to return in later years). I was born and raised in New Orleans, not far from Canal Street - which is the main street into Downtown N.O. and the French Quarter and the Mississippi River. The city is predominantly Catholic and thus, I grew up taught by nuns and priests all my life. Later we moved out by the lake and I remember coming home from school, meeting my friend, and both of us going out to the lake and doing our home-work on the seawall. In the summers, we drove out to the Gulf - usually Biloxi - and stayed either at relatives or at a hotel on the water for weeks at a time. Never was much of a swimmer, but loved being close to the water. Would sit on the pier and look out for hours. Dad was born in London (his dad was from Dublin), but when his family settled in the States, they lived in Jacksonville, Florida. They must have had a thing about "water" too as both my grandfather and great-grandfather were ships' captains. Anyway, sometimes we spent part of the summers in Florida - again on the water. We had a fishing camp (just a one-room shack on the bayou with a short pier). Dad and some others had built it on Grand Isle. It had about 6 bunkbeds in it and a small table and a stove and sink. It was mainly a "mens" fishing camp. But one of my fondest memories is him taking me there one weekend - when I was probably about 9 or 10. I loved to fish (still do, but don't get much of a chance anymore). Anyway, it was raining and we stopped at a place to get some drinks and bait - Dad introduced me to the man there. I was so proud to be there with him. Then we took the boat out, fished some in the rain, then headed for camp. By the time we got there, we were drenched and cold. Dad heated up a can of mushroom soup he found in the cupboard and I thought that it was the best soup I'd ever tasted in my life. Don't remember much else. The camp was destroyed by hurricanes several times and rebuilt. Then finally they stopped rebuilding... guess all the men were getting too old. It was called "Camp Atlast". Not sure where that all came from... or what called it out. Maybe I miss being around the water more in summer - and it's already June. I have at least 5 other vivid memories involving water - one happened on the Mississippi, one on the Gulf, one on a lake here in Texas, one on the coast of Florida and one on a beach in Maine. But I'd better save them for another time as this is getting a mite long. Thanks for reading Rian |
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