Any friend of Lulu's

Here I am. Did you miss me?

Were you afraid I'd fallen into an open grave?

Did you fear Sandy had engulfed me?

Allow me to assuage your concerns. None of the above occurred.

Only, I must've taken a wrong turn on Memory Lane while at my uncle's funeral because since my last post I've not been able to think of a blessed thing to write.

You know how it is.

Faces from the past come into view at such times and everybody's trying to figure out who everybody else is, and which branch of the family tree they dangle from.

Not to mention wondering how those you remember as young got to be so old, and when time put those lines and creases on them, and whether they are thinking the same about you.

Meanwhile you're making a valiant attempt to mentally place everyone while simultaneously avoiding saying something that makes you feel like a total nebbish.

I did okay but I'm sure I stuck my foot in my mouth at least twice.

It'll have to do.

So anyway last Sunday, in order to do something that did not require an excess of thinking or processing information, and to take full advantage of the clear cool day, TG and I drove into Baton Rouge for a little light sightseeing.

I love the state capitol building and it had been at least fifteen years since I'd seen it, so we tooled over in that direction first.

The impressive art deco monument to Huey Pierce Long looked exactly as I remembered it: Stark white. Tall. Poised beside the mighty Mississippi's sinuous curves like a thousand-eyed alabaster sentinel.

A trifle spectacular, if something can be spectacular only a trifle.

The first thing I did was what everybody does when they visit the Louisiana State Capitol: I walked up the steps slowly, reading all the state names.

Since it was Sunday afternoon, I was surprised to see that the doors at the top of all the steps were open.

So I went inside.

I was politely asked to surrender my sunglasses, my camera, and a hinged bangle bracelet to the recesses of a gray plastic bin that was shoved through carwash-type strips into what I assume was an X-rayer.

Then I had to toe a duct-tape line until I was told to walk through a portal that presumably could tell whether I was packing heat or a box cutter.

I wasn't.

After retrieving my effects and before having a chance to even look up, I was verbally greeted in a very warm and friendly way by what turned out to be a very lovely and sweet lady.

I told her I was so glad to discover the capitol building was open on a Sunday afternoon, because it had been many years since my last visit and I was keen to see it again.

She said she was glad too and asked where I was from, and I told her.

Then she asked what brought me to Baton Rouge, and I told her.

And at the mention of my Uncle Sherrill, whose funeral we'd held the day before, like the weep-prone ninny I am, I started crying.

This lady could not have been more kind. She offered a tissue and her condolences, asking about my uncle and where he'd lived and how old he had been.

When I answered "Seventy-three," she told me she herself was seventy-six and wondered if she'd gone to school with my uncle at Istrouma High.

(We'd already established that this lady, one of nine children, had grown up in the shadow of the capitol building in which we stood, as had my mother and her three siblings.)

I said Uncle Sherrill had gone to trade school to become an automobile mechanic, maybe not sitting in traditional classrooms so much for his last few years before graduation.

She agreed she neither knew him nor recognized his name.

Then, since my own mother is seventy-five and also attended Istrouma High School until she quit early to marry my father, I asked the kind lady if she knew Ann Sandifer.

I wish you could have seen her face! A huge smile, happy and sweet with recognition, lit it immediately at the mention of my mother's name.

And she confirmed she had indeed gone to school with Ann Sandifer of Chippewa Street, remembering her thick black hair and massive dark eyes.

"You tell your mother you met Lulu," she said. "Lulu Langlois (say Lang-Wah), L-A-N-G-L-O-I-S. But just say Lulu and she'll know who you mean!"

After showing us the House of Representatives chamber with its ornate ceiling made of sugar-cane tiles, Lulu steered TG and me toward the stunning Louisiana State Senate chamber, once the target of union (and I don't mean yankees) terrorists opposing Louisiana's conversion to a right-to-work state.

She introduced us to the Security Specialist/Tour Guide stationed there as "old friends."

Wally, a distinguished war veteran and native of Grosse Tete, Louisiana (population 670), was as genial, helpful, and knowledgeable as anyone we'd met at the capitol building.

Turns out when he's not expertly protecting members of the Louisiana State Senate, Wally traverses the globe teaching law enforcement agencies about top-level security and intelligence techniques.

Wally did not know my mother. But, "Any friend of Lulu's!" he exclaimed, greeting TG and me warmly before spending a half-hour regaling us with fascinating stories.

Later that day while standing a scant five miles from the state capitol, paying respects and placing flowers at the graves of my mother's parents, I called my mother who was by then back home in South Carolina.

(The three weeks of my uncle's suffering leading up to his death had taken a toll on her, and she'd gone back north a few hours after the funeral.)

I told her I'd met her old friend Lulu.

"Lulu Langlois?" my mother exclaimed, happy and excited as Lulu had been to hear of Ann Sandifer.

Like sixty years never happened.

I'm glad Lulu had my mom as a friend, and vice versa, and I'm privileged to have met her, and to hear Lulu tell it, the feeling was mutual.

And I'm thankful for my dear daughter Erica who opened her home to me this week so that I could rest.

And so that I could take pictures of my beautiful third girl.

And I'll be glad to see my beloved TG tomorrow when I go the rest of the way home.

That is all for now.

Happy Weekend! Happy November!