theexileskitchen

A road trip to Baton Rouge….

In the 7 o’clock hour this morning, I gathered zinnias from the flower patch. The pail filled up and the butterflies waved their wings at me.

To the open car trunk, the flowers, a jug of water, a broom and the string trimmer were put. Off to Baton Rouge, I went to tend to the cemetery plots of some of my family members.

A stop in Denham Springs at their big Rouses is a must for pit stop and a snack and filler flowers. I chose alstromeria for bouquet making this trip. And a bag of Candy Apple Caramel corn cousins came along for the ride… Yep!

I drove way down Florida Blvd to North Foster and took the first left. Roselawn Cemetery is on the right. The ancient oaks were beautiful, majestic, as always.  But it’s an historic cemetery and I guess the owners have a difficult time keeping enough staff to maintain all of the grounds. In recent years, I’ve learned to bring my trimmer and a broom.

I followed the narrow road the way my Mama taught me. The Baby’s grave was first. He sadly died in utero years before there were ultrasounds and sonograms.  His parents were my Aunt Mary Margaret and Uncle Louis Boudreaux.  Uncle Louis never said much, maybe because Aunt Mary Magaret kept the conversation lively. She had a friendly smile and spoke with a lisp.

“Mandy, would like a Co-Cola? There’th thum in the frig. Get yourthelf one.”

Did I ever tell y’all the story of Aunt Mary Margaret and Wide, Wide Main Thweet? Well, here goes:

Mary Margaret was the baby of her sibling group, coming way after her brother and three sisters. She put up a fuss one afternoon to ride with her brother Oscar, who was going to town on an errand. Riding along Main Street in Baton Rouge, Oscar completed his errand and started to head home. In the back seat of the family car that winter day,  Mary Margaret wanted him to stop and get her some ice cream.

“It’s too cold,” Oscar told his baby sister, meaning the weather was too cold.

“I like it that way,” said Mary Margaret, meaning the ice cream.

“No, Mary Margaret.”

“But I’m hot. I want ithe cream.”

“I’m not getting you any ice, Mary Margaret, and roll up that window. It’s too cold to ride with the window down, and it’s too cold for ice cream!”

They continued the drive home in stoney silence.  Opening the car door to get his pouting baby sister from the back seat, Oscar saw that his hat was missing.

“Mary Margaret, where is my hat?”

“Wide, Wide Main Thweet!”

After tending Aunt Mary Margaret’s and Uncle Louis’ grave, I made the big loop through the cemetery to the front where my grandmother and her two older siblings are buried. I really had to employ my string trimmer and broom in this part of the cemetery. Roselawn needs to hire more grounds keepers. 

Let’s see; Oscar Bueto, the older brother in the above story, and his wife Ollie, Berenice Madoline Bueto (my mother is named for her) and my grandmother Irma Mae Bueto Austin are buried on the same row.

Grandma was a tough lady. When she was born, the doctor said this baby’s not breathing,  it’s dead and laid my grandmother off to the side. Her mother snatched her up and shook her till my grandmother started breathing. I’m so glad my great grandmother didn’t take the doctor at his word… Grandma was scrappy, intelligent and, yes, always a lady. A great combination. 

The last grave in Roselawn to tend was of  my cousin Mary Lou Boudreaux Spencer. She was another sweet soul and one of Aunt Mary Margaret’s daughters. I remember her coming to our house the night my father died. She was standing near the kitchen and I went and stood next to her and started to take her hand, but then I didn’t. Mary Lou said, “No, take it.” And she offered her hand and she held on tight to mine for the longest time. I’m crying as I write this now. I’m so thankful for the tenderness of a cousin.

Before heading to Resthaven Cemetery,  I decided to take a respite from the heat and get a repast. Coffee Call, a Baton Rouge landmark, was doing just that; calling me. So, a nice cup of coffee and fresh beignets hit the spot. If you’re in Baton Rouge, you’ll find them on College Drive. You won’t be disappointed. 

My last stop, when I do the cemetery tour, is always the grave of my parents. I only had my Daddy for sixteen short years. He was 47 when he died quite suddenly on a late Friday night.  But Daddy gave my brothers and me so many fun memories and conversations around the supper table packed with wisdom. He’d tell us that he was the last of the good guys,  straighten his cowboy hat and then light a cigarette. I believed him then; I know it to be true now. Sunday, August 11th would have been his 91st birthday. 

How I miss him. He shows up in the faces of my sons and grandchildren and in the little nuances of their personalities. Isn’t that funny and wonderful at the same time?

So, why make the pilgrimage to Baton Rouge every few months and do the cemetery tour? I go because Mama went with her mother and she with hers. It’s tradition, of course, but deeper also. I go because I knew these wonderfully kind, compassionate people or I know the stories told about them, which makes me feel like I knew them personally. I go because it would make my mother happy.

I love you, Mama. And I miss you.

Blessings to the reader.