Zella died today.  She was our 11+ year old German shepherd.  Actually, she was my husband’s dog.  He came with a dog, I came with a cat; they are both now gone.

I was never a dog person, especially a large dog person.  The main reason for this was that I was not around dogs growing up.  We were a cat family.  So when I met CS and he had a large dog, it took a while for me to even go in the back yard to meet her.  And slowly I learned how sweet and gentle she was.  Then CS went out of town and asked if I’d feed her.  Wha?  I wasn’t THAT into her.  But the things we do for love!  And I learned she was a sweetie.

Then CS and I got married.  And Zella stayed in her back yard and me inside.  Then CS went out of town again.  And I took it upon myself to walk Zella in his absence.  She loved it.  And so did I.  And we walked every day.  She was very well behaved; she was a gentle giant.

Within the year, I decided Zella was lonely and needed a friend.  Enter Lucy, our (then) puppy Australian cattle dog, or blue heeler.  They got along fine.  And we began to walk both dogs.

Then Hurricane Katrina hit, and we evacuated.  After the tension of a 13 hour car ride, we were all testy.  Once in the hotel, Lucy and Zella went at each other.  And this “dog thing” all being new to me, I jumped in to separate them.  And got bit.  By Zella.  Some stitches later in my left wrist, I regained the fear I once had of large dogs.

Since the bite, almost three years now, if CS or I spent time with the dogs, they’d get jealous of the other’s attention from us.  And they’d start to fight; it was the only time they fought.  And it forced me not to spend time with them both.  And as Zella aged, she got more aggressive.  So our walks all but ended.  And I’d feel guilty walking Lucy and not Zella, also, so my walks with Lucy all but ended, too.

The two dogs would sleep inside on hot, cold or wet nights.  When I got pregnant, their room needed to be converted to the nursery.  To accommodate the dogs, we built a porch on the back of the house.  The dogs took to it right away; it was immediately their space.

In the past six months, Zella has been struggling with walking.  Her hip displasia was really kicking in.  It got to where she’d not even leave the screened-in porch for any reason.  It got messy in the porch, and we knew she was on the decline.

Yesterday, she couldn’t walk.  And she whimpered when she was moved.  Today, CS took her to the vet and they “put her down.”  And we cleaned the back porch, then swung Sun in her swing and drank a glass of wine sitting on our barely used new outdoor furniture.  And we watched Lucy look for Zella.

It is going to take time for us to adjust to life without Zella.  Even our neighbors will miss her (two snuck her food and another would play with her).  I feel guilty for not being a better momma to her, especially since Sun’s birth, but really since Katrina; I feel bad for CS’s loss; I ache more so for the loss Lucy will realize in the next day or so (the vet prepared us for odd behavior to expect from her as she realizes Zella isn’t coming home to her); and I hate that Sun won’t remember her.  Zella was a good pet, every bit a member of this family.  And she is already sorely, sorely missed.

Georg Williams‘ rendering of Zella on oil.

So I know I can’t stop gushing about the San Diego ComicCon.  I was so excited to being going and each day I looked forward to its attendance.  See, here’s the deal.  You think you KNOW what the Con is all about, don’t you?  Superman and Batman and Green Lantern and nerds dressed like Star Wars and other beloved comic characters.  Ok, sure the Con has that. In droves. But it has SO MUCH MORE.  Like what, Nola? you ask.

Well, I don’t go for the superheros so much or even the sneak peeks to upcoming comic book- (or graphic novel-) turned movie.  Sure, I like a lot of those movies but no more than the next gal.  No, what I go for is the art. Yes, art.  Not all of the art is comics.  Many of these artists do lots of other styles of art.  And going to the Con can get you in on the newest stuff these folks are doing AND you can get your piece signed and even personalized.  Further, many of they folks also write and/or illustrate books not in the comic format.  And so you can buy those too.

Enough of me telling you about it.  Let me show you.  My absolute favorite booth at the Con was the whimsical and surreal Artist Sisters.  I showed you their booth in my earlier ComicCon post:

Artist Sisters are—can you guess?—sisters that are artists.  They each have a different look but each one’s work definitely compliments the other.  Two years ago, I bought a small print of C.J. Metzger’s, and on Day One this year I bought an original mixed media piece from her sister, Miss Mindy.

C.J. Metzger print, “Modesty.”

Miss Mindy’s “Designer Fish.”

In addition to their fabulous art, these two talents also write and illustrate children’s books.  So on Day Three, I bought their box set, one book by each sister (the box is at the bottom of the pic):

Each book is signed by the author and personalized, in this case to Sun.  Sun LOVES her new books. She actually sat quietly on my lap last night as I read one of them to her.

Day Four, we returned YET AGAIN to their booth and bought a second box set for a certain friend’s little girl for Christmas.  I am pretty certain mother and daughter are going to love it!

My only regret? I should have bought more from them!  Now I have to wait a whole year to lay my eyes on their work again to make more selections.

And I am confident the sisters work next year will not disappoint.  How will I ever have the patience to wait?

As I stepped out of the airport and in to the parking garage, I was hit with a wall of humidity.  It was only 83 degrees, even at 10:30 at night, but the air was thick and moist; it felt heated, like I was in a sauna.  As we then entered our house, still sticky with sweat, I saw a mosquito fly by.  And I sighed.  Humidity and mosquitoes. Yes, they are omnipresent in New Orleans and not surprising to be faced with immediately upon my arrival.  Yet they annoyed me.  I was not relieved to be home. 

To leave the absolute perfect humid-free weather of San Diego, with its beautiful beaches and pleasant outdoor dining, and return to the sultry summer in the South that is New Orleans was not liberating; no, it was oppressive.

And now there is a pile of laundry to do, groceries to buy, a house to rent, work to do at the office—all the things I gleefully abandoned for our trip.  How nice it was to be relieved of the pressure.  But stepping into the steam of New Orleans brought with it all the pressures of my day-to-day life without reminders of the pleasures.

Now, today, Monday, I will struggle to get that first day back under my belt.  And I will do the tasks I am required to do.  And soon (I hope) I will be charmed again with this sultry city of mine.  New Orleans owns me, I know that for certain, but I can dream of summers spent away. 

Too tired to write what I saw.  Here are pics instead:

Incredible, eh?

First purchase of the day was from Artist Sisters.

Aren’t these Ugly Dolls cute?

Emily the Strange.

Con-goers striking a pose.

This was written in 2006 upon my return from that year’s International Comic Convention.

2006 was my first ComicCon. Let me say straight away that I was not disappointed.  I didn’t give much thought to what I expected, but looking back I realized that I expected a Star Trek-esque thing to be going on.  I thought I’d stand out for not being in costume; I did not stand out.  In fact, being one of something like 125,000 attendees, it is hard to stand out.  But one thing did stand out for me: Batton Lash’s “Tales of Supernatural Law.”

Here’s what happened.

ComicCon 2006 had 55 rows of exhibitors, and each row was divided into 4 sections.  Each section, in turn, had maybe 8 exhibitors.  That makes for over 1,500 booths in an area of 460,000 square feet.  The first walk through the Con lasted 3 hours, and we had seen no more than a third of it, and much of that, we discovered, was overlooked when we spent our second day there.

Wedged between one of the main entrances and DC Comics’ huge space was a small booth that CS and I kept passing.  It had a sign that read: “Supernatural Law.”  You have to understand that I am that annoying person in the movie theater that sighs heavily and keeps repeating “yeah, right!” during legal thrillers.  I am an attorney.  But I am not the suing kind of attorney.  So even if the legal technicalities are off, I may not notice more than the non-attorney sitting next to me.  But when the theories of law are so far-fetched, my bubbled suspension of disbelief bursts, and there is no putting it back together.  So instead of suffering through these types of movies (and novels and TV shows and comics), I usually just skip them.  And so naturally, when I saw “Supernatural Law” with the tag line “Beware the Creatures of the Night–they have lawyers!” we walked on by and by and by.

On the fourth or fifth walk-by, we had by then stopped at every other booth at least once, and it seemed that, for the sake of completeness if nothing else, we should stop here, too.  Batton Lash, the writer and artist, was signing his books.  He was very personable and, well, normal.  To his credit, he is not a lawyer.  We bought one of his trade paperbacks, had him sign it, and walked back to the hotel.

As we rested before going out to dinner, I picked up “Tales of Supernatural Law” and began reading.  This is the deal: It isn’t for lawyers.  It isn’t (really) about the law.  It is a monster book.  Good ole classic creatures.  Ed Wood monsters.  And these monsters have troubles, troubles the kind a lawyer can help with.  But the legal end of things is not far-fetched.  I mean, the far-fetched part is that monsters exist, not that if they did exist they’d have legal problems.  Why should monsters be so lucky as to avoid legal woes?  So if you can go along with the premise that monsters can exist, then the well done legal twist will not be a distraction; in fact, it is quite refreshing.  What I am saying is that I was pleasantly surprised that this trade paperback did not cause my bubbled suspension of disbelief to burst.  And that, my friends, is saying a lot.

What “Supernatural Law” has is Dracula hiring Wolff and Byrd, counselors of the macabre, to sue for the use of his name without proper compensation; a suit for damages caused by a cursed  monkey’s paw; a hexed super model; grave robbing; haunted houses; ghosts; and even a touch of romance.  For example, the first monster we meet is Sodd–he had an accident with some toxic waste and lightening and was mutated into a mangled mass of tree limbs.  During the change, he did damage to public property and was arrested.  He hires Wolff and Byrd to defend him.  Their first move is to get him out on bail.  The grounds?  Sodd’s roots (pun very much intended) in the community.  You don’t need to be Sandra Day O’Connor to get this legalese.  But Batton does have a licensed attorney as a consultant, and so he gets the “legal stuff” right.

Wolff and Byrd’s NYC offices reminded me of Jack Nicholson’s P.I. office in “Chinatown” or maybe Sam Spade’s.  Shadowy figures crossing over the etched glass door.  Batton told us the next day that he had in mind the one- and two-man ambulance chasing law firms in Brooklyn he was familiar with in his former neighborhood.  (Batton now lives in San Diego, being one of the many men that lost the long-distance romance battle over who would move).

That night, we did manage to enjoy a nice meal with friends and the milder San Diego weather.  But as soon as we were back in the hotel, I was reading again, and more again in the morning.  With just under 200 pages, “Tales of Supernatural Law” is chuck full of good, er, tales. So if you are in the mood for a romp of classic monsters and creatures with a new twist, this trade paperback is for you!

Tomorrow we return to San Diego for my second attendance of ComicCon.  I will do my best to get good pics and stories for interesting posts whilest away.  We will even get Sun out in the California sun!  Oh, the fun we will have!

I have begun a list in my head, not even on paper yet.  I have gotten a haircut and bought a bathing suit.  Today I will go to the library to check out Sue Grafton’s “T is for Trespass” for the flight and I will get a pedicure.

Although this upcoming trip isn’t technically a vacation, I have allowed myself the indulgence of thinking of it as one.  How could I not when we are certain to be dining at La Strada, one of my all-time favorite restaurants?  Also, it will be Sun’s first trip to the beach.  And as far as U.S. beaches are concerned, they don’t get much better than Coronado Island.

Considering I just had to convince my husband that in fact today is NOT Sunday, I’d say we’re all in need of a change in latitude.

I have been very busy lately hunting down streetcars for Young Leadership Council’s Streetcar Named Inspire project.  In addition to snapping pics of streetcars all around New Orleans, we have also been interviewing artists and blogging about all things NOLA streetcars.  Go here to read all about it!

Growing up, my mother was the height of organization and cleanliness.  My mother was a stay-at-home mother that cleaned and cooked. A lot. She’d fuss if we didn’t make the bed in the morning and if we dumped our school books on the kitchen table in the afternoon.

Twice a year, my mother would take all the food out of the pantry to touch up the paint that got scraped. She’d spring clean the closets and strip and redo her linoleum floors once a year too.  All the while, she was preparing dinner for us every night.  With five children, we rarely had leftovers.

I thought all mothers cooked and cleaned as vigorously as my mother.  I learned that was not the case.  We’d have friends over and ask if they wanted to stay for dinner.  They’d inquire what we’d be eating, and I’d go look at my mother’s calendar—she always had her menu written down for the coming two weeks.  My friends were amazed.  Their mothers didn’t know what they were having until about an hour before they ate—no pre-planning went into it.  But with a large family on a budget, planning was essential.

So, every two weeks my mother went to Schwegmann’s.  She wrote her grocery list, organized by the order of the aisles, on an envelope and put her coupons inside.  She’d buy so many groceries, she’d need two baskets.  When the first basket was full, she’d take a note she’d tucked into her purse out and place it on top of the bursting basket, “Please do not touch.”

During the summer, I’d go with my mother to Schwegmann’s. I LOVED going to Schwegmann’s.  We went to the store in Gentilly.  This was their largest store; it was once the largest grocery store in the nation. Can you imagine?  The Gentilly store had two stories; the upstairs had a pet store and the administrative offices.  My sister and I would visit both.  The women in the offices gave us candy.

Downstairs, there was a lunch counter (frequented usually by the working men in the neighborhood), a shoe repair place, shoe store (Shoe Town–remember Crazy Johnny?), hair salon, post office, florist, and even a bar room (also frequented by those workmen).  The Gentilly Schwegmann’s was such a special place.  It was just so big!

It was so big, in fact, that as a child it was the biggest indoor place to which I had ever been (apparently I never went to the Superdome as a child). And in my child’s eye, it was the biggest place on Earth.  Once, I told my father I loved him and he asked, “How much do you love me?” And I responded, “Grocery store much.” He laughed and asked what I meant.  I explained.  Schwegmann’s was the biggest quantifiable thing I could imagine existing.  It became our thing, for me to tell my father I loved him “grocery store much.”

I have many memories of time spent in Schwegmann’s, and all of them are positive.  It was more than a grocery store, more than a Sav-a-Center Rouses or a Whole Foods. It was a way of life. And for us New Orleanians, it is very much missed even still, both the grocery and the way of life.

Update: Thanks Dail_m for the link to a few pics of the inside of the Gentilly store–click here and view the last one, No. 13, for an idea of the size of this place.

The following morning, my sister called first thing with no new news. That, we knew, was bad. I drove into the office in an attempt to feel normal. Distractedly, I did what I could in the way of work. This was interrupted before noon with a call from my sister. She was at the hospital and they had told my family that my grandmother was terminal. Her organs weren’t working on their own and it wasn’t likely that they would. They got my grandfather’s permission to take her off the machines. They kept my grandmother on morphine. They were moving her to a private room and were advising that it could be days before she died. She would not return home.  The bomb had been dropped. I was numb. “You need to be here. She’s asking for you,” my sister said. I didn’t want to go. I had been dropping work since this ordeal began over three weeks prior, and I think I thought that if I delayed going, I could delay her death.

After a brief internal struggle, I grabbed my purse. My knitting was now left in my car due to the fact that I had left work suddenly to go to the hospital enough times to warrant it. I arrived at the hospital and set off for the fourth floor. I had hoped it’d be two or five, a different floor always meant progress. Four was bad; it was a step in the wrong direction. As I turned the corner, I saw my family spilling from a doorway into the hall.

I went into my grandmother’s small room; she was barely conscious when I arrived. Someone leaned in close to my grandmother and said, “Nola’s here.” I moved to her bed and held her hand. I didn’t have any appropriate words to say. “I’m here, Maw-Maw. I love you.” She nodded. I don’t know if she knew I was there. She continued to call for me and my one brother not there. “Nola’s here,” someone would say. My grandfather was nervous. He kept rattling the coins in his pocket. Once my parents showed up, he seemed a bit relieved. After about ten minutes, everyone left my grandparents alone. He told her that everyone was there with her and that it was okay for her to leave us. We then shuffled back into her room. We all took turns holding her right hand. The left one had the IV of morphine in it. She looked very small in the bed.

The night slowly passed. The small room could not hold us all. I went with others to the waiting room. I sat and knitted. “Knit, knit, knit, knit, purl, purl, purl, purl,” I repeated silently to myself. My scarf was close to being done. We’d rotate being in Sunshine’s room. As the night wore on, Sunshine began being non-responsive. She also began reciting names. It started with “Albert, Ann. . .” and moved up the alphabet. She could not tell us who these people were. Some names we recognized: family members and friends. Others, we did not. My grandfather thought she was doing one of the word puzzles in her head that she did every day in the newspaper. My mother thought she was seeing people in Heaven. I don’t know what I thought. I did not think it was a puzzle. As she said names, I’d wrack my brain for a piece of the family tree I’d done. “Alphonse,” she’d say. There was no Alphonse in our family. I knew it meant something, something more than random ramblings.

Around 11:30, we gathered around her room and discussed whether we’d stay the night. I suspected her death was several days away and thus wanted to get a good night’s sleep so that I could continue my vigil in earnest. Others felt as I did. My sister could not be pulled away. Thus it was settled that my sister and grandfather would stay through the night and the rest would return in the morning. As I said goodnight to my grandmother, she had advanced a bit in the alphabet and said, “Robert.” That was the name of her father and the last word I ever heard her utter. She died at dawn.

Although I was close to being done with the loopy scarf, I put it away after my grandmother died. After several weeks, it was bugging me and I finished it. I wore it a lot, and every time I thought of my grandmother. And sitting at the hospital.

Time passed. My sister and I took my grandfather out to dinner. I wore my scarf. Weeks later, it got chilly again and realized I had left my scarf behind at the restaurant. I called, but it had not been turned in. I was devastated.  I thought about knitting another one in the same pattern with the same yarn.  But it wouldn’t be the same—I was a better knitter; it wouldn’t be loopy nor would it tell the same story.

And so it is with everything I knit. The love, sorrow, joy, concern that is running through my mind also runs through my hands and into the work. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The next morning, I called the hospital and was told the clot had not cleared and that discussions were being had with my grandfather for surgery. I grabbed my knitting bag and sped to the hospital. I returned to the dreaded third floor. I saw only my uncle, his red eyes indicated that he had been crying for his mother. They were preparing my grandmother for surgery and my grandfather was in with her alone for the last few minutes before she went in for surgery. My grandfather joined us shortly thereafter, and within the hour, more family joined us and I resumed my knitting.

Sunshine made it through the clot surgery very well. The doctor was able to get the clot with little danger to her losing her leg. “She isn’t out of the woods,” her doctor had warned us, but we were in a celebratory mood. “She’s a tough old bird!” my aunt exclaimed. It would be some time before anyone could see Sunshine while she was in recovery. The crew of us that had been there all day decided to go for dinner.

We drove around the hospital and settled on Chinese. My grandfather and uncle each ordered a lite beer, and I joined them. We all said a toast: “To Sunshine!” We laughed and loved and helped each other ease our pain and worry. The food tasted like food would taste if you’ve only eaten canned foods for a month: every dish was better than the next. I was so emotionally exhausted my beer made me light-headed. My grandfather and I split a second beer, drinking them in tall, skinny glasses.

We returned to the hospital and visited my grandmother. I went in with my parents. My father, being the deacon, prayed over Sunshine. I assumed he was giving her her last rites. She was conscious and seemed relieved to have the prayers said for her.

We went home a bit more reserved than we had been during dinner. The euphoria that Sunshine had made it through the surgery had worn off and we were now concerned about the true success of the surgery. The next morning, things were calm and I went into the office and visited Sunshine that evening. It was a long day, and one in which Sunshine’s stats changed very little. Her leg no longer looked like a dead limb, and that was reassuring.

My sister recognized one of the ICU nurses as a friend with whom she went to grammar school. She told my sister not to hesitate to call throughout the evening for any update. My sister did call, and things weren’t changing. This was slowly becoming alarming. My grandmother should have been getting more stable, but she wasn’t.