Of Pete Pan, Dogs, Writers and Children, and Mother's Day

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Mother's Day Thoughts

Is a writer ever “off duty?” Probably not. We try now and then to quiet the mind, sit back and listen to the sounds of spring. We put cushions on the big old wooden rocker that faces the bayou—and watch the barges and occasional gator floating past. The wind can feel like the touch of a mother, smoothing the hair on a brow furrowed with worry that we really should be writing, about something, about anything. How else can we “make a difference”—a euphemism for establishing a meaningful existence?

It is chilly today on my bayou and the rocking chair is tucked carefully ‘round the corner of the cottage, catching the full warmth of the April sun. A cold front came through and dropped the Southern Louisiana temperature from 90 plus to a very uncomfortable 54 degrees. As the wind smoothes unruly hair in a direction resembling symmetry, the “Mother’s Touch” reminds the writer in me of an all-too-brief-encounter on the ferry the day before.

French Quarter Fest in New Orleans was a huge success for the Crescent City, but too crowded and noisy for someone accustomed to the rural countrysides of Africa, and secluded seashores of the United States. With a frightened young Shitzu puppy, who doubles as a newfound traveling companion in tow, a retreat to the bayou seemed the best choice. The serendipity of a chance encounter on a ferry opened another portal for the muse—and a reminder that stories do not have to be headlines.

Late Sunday afternoon, dog and writer caught the Canal Street ferry for Algiers on the West Bank. New Orleans was running the “big” ferry to accommodate the festival—along a Mississippi River crossing that takes minutes and has been in existence since 1729. The ferry is a pretty spectacular ride. It offers great views of the Mississippi and New Orleans and boat and barge traffic. You can take your car, or not, and the only charge is $1.00 to cars on the way back from the West Bank.

Canedog and his writer/owner settled in to watch the water while the overflow crowd rambled aboard, and the ferry schedule was thrown out the porthole once again for the weekend.

There was a tug on the leash, courtesy of a young boy; perhaps eight or nine. He was cute as can be, with blue jeans that were just little too short, scuffed up black shoes, and black hair to match that fell across the palest blue eyes one can imagine. Those blue eyes were so pale, they seemed translucent and I understood once again what that universal “window to the soul” is all about. I have only seen eyes of that hue once before, and the last time they frightened me.

The boy was bold.

“OK if I pet your dog?”

“Sure.”

“Does he know any tricks?”

“Well. Yeah, but he is still a baby and he’s kinda nervous, but you can try. Put your hands in front of him and say ‘give me ten.”’

To prove my point, Canedog rolled over with paws in the air in a gesture of total submission and no intention of performing. The boy tried the “give me ten” thing a couple of times and gave up. He had something else on his mind, and was clearly sizing me up.

“Do you have a son?”

“No but I have a daughter.”

“Does she have a tree house?”

“Sarah, that’s her name, is all grown up and away at school, but yes, she had a tree house.”

The boy stood up now, very interested, and got closer.

“Is the tree house still there?”

There was no point in telling him we had long since moved, but I wasn’t telling a lie to say the tree house still stood.

“Yeah it’s still there, she just doesn’t play in it anymore.”

We both laughed and the answer seemed to please him even more as he knelt down to pet the pup that was still very much not into doing tricks.

“Could I be your son?”

I heard him all right, but needed to stall.

“What?”

He knew I heard him the first time, but he played along.

“Could I be your son? My Momma left and I’m with auntie and I need a mother.”

Whew. Panic. The boy did not notice my pale shock.

“I’m gonna go ask her.”

I was shouting into the wind

“Who?”

“Auntie.”

He disappeared up the steps to the upper deck just as the horn sounded that we were about to dock. Should I wait? It would be pointless, and besides I could obviously not be his mother. Mind racing, I thought about the Cajun farmer whom I met last year whose wife had left him for a swirl of drugs and alcohol and how his boy now rode the cane cutter with him “because it is in the blood.” How many more orphans of the storm that was Katrina are looking for a mom, a dog, and a tree house?

The ferry gate opened and the human tsunami took Canedog and my alter-ego "the writer" down the ramp and into the West Bank neighborhood where the getaway car was waiting.

How many of us are all alone on our ferries and front porches and sitting in our rocking chairs with only the touch of the spring breeze to remind us of our own lost mothers?

A Peter Pan experience where the dog takes care of the children is no substitute for a mother’s love.

Authors Website: http://www.georgianne-nienaber.com

Authors Bio:

Georgianne Nienaber is an investigative environmental and political writer. She lives in rural northern Minnesota and South Florida. Her articles have appeared in The Society of Professional Journalists' Online Quill Magazine, the Huffington Post, The Ugandan Independent, Rwanda's New Times, India's TerraGreen, COA News, ZNET, OpEdNews, Glide Magazine, The Journal of the International Primate Protection League, Africa Front, The United Nations Publication, A Civil Society Observer, Bitch Magazine, and Zimbabwe's The Daily Mirror. Her fiction expose of insurance fraud in the horse industry, Horse Sense, was re-released in early 2006. Gorilla Dreams: The Legacy of Dian Fossey was also released in 2006. Nienaber spent much of 2007 doing research in South Africa, Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. She was in DRC as a MONUC-accredited journalist, and was living in Southern Louisiana investigating hurricane reconstruction and getting to know the people there in 2007. Nienaber is continuing "to explore the magic of the Deep South." She was a member of the Memphis Chapter of the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences and is a current member of Investigative Rorters and Editors.