Diary 10|16, 17, 18, 19|2015. Sondheim. Gallagher's 527. Catastrophe.

Friday, October 16, 2015. Times Is Hard.

Two weeks since my PT Cruiser went into the shop. The parts have arrived, but the one mechanic who handles transmission matters is too busy to get to me. I wonder if there's a repair shop anywhere that has even a single part of any car. Every time I have to get something done, there's three or more days before the ordered parts come in. The Marys both have their respective automobiles across the lake. I am stuck at home, my menu consisting of another ham sandwich. I wanted to cook something, but I have a lot of writing to do for my columns in Inside Northside and Inside New Orleans magazines. And I can't get to the store to buy anything. When the radio show ends, I leave immediately in tuxedo for the first performance of NPAS's Stephen Sondheim show tonight. I'm a little late for the run-through--radio schedules are chiseled in stone--but I have permission from the conductor to step in a few minutes late. From my vantage point, the show went well. I know I made a couple of goofs, singing parts that I wasn't supposed to. (I sing lightly in the beginnings of phrases with the hope that nobody notices.) It could be said (and was) that the high school chorus singing with us was at least as good as those of us three times their age. And I recall a lesson I learned from my barbershop-quartet years: when you will be standing on risers, cheek by jowl with other singers, for a half hour or more, you cannot have your knees locked into position, lest you get cramps in your legs and numbness in your feet. I turned a few degrees to the center and loosened my legs up, but still discovered that my Time Saver legs--which allowed me to work standing up for ten hours at a stretch when I was in my teens--are no longer in shape. I am very tired when I get home. [divider type=""]

Saturday, October 17, 2015. First Taste Of Pat Gallagher's 725. . . or is that 5204? 392?

Another Saturday with no radio show. Until LSU football is over, I have the day off. I have to admit that I might learn to like this. Dave (ML's pre-husband) and I have breakfast at Mattina Bella. He and I have pleasant conversations, but I am not one of his bros quite yet. I wish he could call me something other than Mr. Fitzmorris. Or maybe it could be that his life and that of my daughter will see the biggest changes this side of parenthood in the next year. They are spending every day checking out venues for their wedding reception next year, which must be fun. He begins his first serious job in a week and a half. Dinner for the four of us at Pat Gallagher's Mandeville branch. For reasons I don't quite understand, the place has been named Pat Gallagher's 527 Restaurant and Bar. The number is the address on Causeway Boulevard, but the buildings are spaced so non-intuitively that the 527 is neither a help nor a hindrance in finding the place. Better is to say that it's in the parking lot in front of the first Winn-Dixie off the Causeway--a location known well to all Mandevillians. Pat says that he opened the second location of his excellent and very popular Covington restaurant because he found that a large number of his Covington clientele actually came from Mandeville. The menu is pretty much the same at both places. The new place takes over a building that has hosted numerous restaurants. It was a big open space then. Now it's been cut up into what Mary Ann says is a floor plan much like that of the Covington place. We are in a small room in the back (or the side or the front, I wasn't quite sure). The eating is in Pat's longtime style of Southeast Louisiana cookery, with Cajun and Creole flavors well mixed, sauces as rich as they can get without becoming ridiculous, and excellent meats and seafood. We begin with a dish of fresh-cut fries to go with the drinks, and then another one. The fries came with a chipotle aioli--a great dipping sauce. Now oyster Rockefeller soup, made in the style of an oyster stew. Lighter than the creamy potage usually served under this name, and good because of that. I could have made a meal of this. But I move through a good-sized salad with a white remoulade dressing. The Marys split a big filet mignon, and Dave has a big salad with grilled chicken. This is their happy meal. I press the waiter as to the condition of the soft shell crabs. He says they're still big and nice, so I go along with the fried job but without the creamy crawfish sauce. Mary Ann claims the sauce as a side order; she will eat it like a soup. This denudes my plate, whose only item other than the crab is cheese grits. I have burned out on cheese grits. And this crab is a junior. Fair enough: the price was within reason for that. But now I wish I had had the pompano. Well, that's my problem. I make the plate better by adding some creamed spinach from the tub of same that Mary Ann always orders in steak houses. (Gallagher's is and always has been very strong on red meats.) Speaking of that, the steak, sizzling on its plate, makes the Marys happy. I'm the only one who gets dessert. Gallagher's has two bread puddings: one with raisins and whiskey sauce, the other with white chocolate. I get the former. (The white chocolate job is a good idea, but usually way too rich for me wherever I find it.) This was not quite the caliber of dinner that I'd expect at the Covington Gallagher's (which is where Pat is working tonight, because he can't be in two places at one time). It is too soon for a review of the new place. But this was MA's call, and I hear and obey. [divider type=""]

Sunday, October 18, 2015. Two Sets Of Notes, And A Catastrophe.

It's not often that I have two singing gigs in one day. But there I am in the choir loft at St. Jane's in the morning, and there I was again, in tuxedo, back in the auditorium next to Covington's City Hall with NPAS and the encore performance of "Into The Woods With Stephen Sondheim." With a much bigger crowd than on Friday, we deliver an even better performance. Again, the greatest applause goes to the high school singers who perform with us. (Some even did solos.) There is a party for the NPAS membership after the show. I pack up a case of assorted wines--I hear there is always a shortage. We head for home first, so I can grab the wine and change out of the tux. If only I had gone straight to the party. . . When Mary Ann turned into the driveway, Dave, who is out of ML's car and happened to be looking our way, shouts that the cat Twinnery has been hit by MA's car. We find Twinnery easily enough. He is howling loudly and moving around in the thick parts of the woods. We all try to get him, but he keeps moving, looking okay to me. He walks and even runs. When he got to the fence, he jumped over it, all four feet of it. I finally catch up with him and pick him up gently. He still shows no signs of anything wrong, except for the meows of clear upset. We bring him inside, and we see a problem. His back leg isn't coordinated with the others, and he wavers across the floor before jumping into an isolated spot between two chairs. His instincts are perfect: he has to find a safe, isolated space, so he won't be a sitting duck for a predator. There is a twenty-four-seven veterinary hospital in Mandeville. We take him there. As we drive, Twinnery begins to look funny, his mouth wide open, looking very mean. The veterinary doctor tells us this is a symptom of shock. They take him in and check him over. He has a fractured pelvis, but that's all they can find just yet. They will keep him overnight and run some more checks on his fluids tomorrow. He will have to be kept inside for six weeks in a confined space with pillows and a shallow litter box. That doesn't sound too bad. MA and I head home, making a stop at Zea for dinner. I have not had a meal all day. There was to be food at the NPAS party. But it's too late for that now. Brief history of Twinnery. He is named for his brother Runt, who actually turned out to be the biggest cat in that litter, back in 2000. Runt became very fat and died a couple of years ago from a stroke. Twinnery looked just like Runt, except that he remained lean and muscular, with a much cooler style. Nothing shook up Twinnery. An attack of dogs back in 2003 chased all our cats away--we never saw most of them again. But a couple of weeks later, Twinnery and Runt emerged from the woods and resumed their positions as mousers. Twinnery was very good at catching vermin. He also chased killed and ate two or three rabbits. He could handle big snakes, too. He was often yelled at by the Marys, because he had a way of jumping on top of the counter while they were cooking. More than anything, Twinnery was my buddy. He liked and understood me, and I him. I always knew what he wanted when he meowed. He liked to sit on a stool in my office, watching me write and do the radio show. When the girls were out of town, he was the one I talked to. The vet bill was already $600. Keep it going, we told the vet, and explained what manner of cat this was.

Monday, October 19, 2015. Catastrophe.

I'll make this short. All the tests on the cat Twinnery through the night and into today looked hopeful. But as time went on, all his problems got worse. Finally, the veterinarian said that the humane thing to do was to put Twinnery down. He was in great pain, even with painkillers. Too many new developments were too bad to go on. On the phone, I agree to this denouement. Everything happens at the same time. Mary Leigh and Dave are across the lake, looking at restaurants for their reception next year. Two of our three cars are in the shop. Mine is on day fifteen of a repair. We have no way of getting to the vet's office, fifteen miles away from home. We call Rainbow Chrysler and lay out our problems. They agree to let us have a loaner car, and even deliver it to us. The end for Twinnery took place in the most amenable possible place. A special room is set aside for exactly this purpose. A mural shows a pastoral, tree-studded meadow with happy dogs running around. The vet, a young woman who seemed nearly as sad as we were, brought Twinnery on a soft bed into the room. He was goofy with painkillers, but he meowed and purred when we petted and stroked him these last times. Unless I am mistaken, what he was saying was, "Boy,have I got myself in a fix now!" He seemed resigned to his fate. He was emotionally better off than we were at that moment. Mary Ann was beside herself with sorrow, and cried until she couldn't cry any more. The vet administered the shots, doing the deed with a minimum of suffering for our wonderful, fifteen-year friend. Then she put him in a white cardboard casket, and handed it to me. The box was still warm on the bottom. I've had about two dozen cats in my life, but this one was in a class by himself. There will never be another Twinnery. [caption id="attachment_37847" align="alignleft" width="300"] Twinnery in happier times. [/caption] I do the radio show as usual. At the beginning I confess my sorrow, got it off my chest, to prevent choking up during the show. This is when the actor inside me comes to work. He's not a very good actor, but he does cover up the things my listeners won't want to here. Then I take a nap, eat another ham sandwich, and go to NPAS choral practice. We begin learning songs for our Christmas show. Life must go on. Unfortunately, Mary Ann sees things a different way.