Pulled from Google Maps

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s quote, “There is no grief like the grief that does not speak,” opens Chapter 2 of UNSPOKEN WORDS. It speaks to Jane’s grief, her inability to deal with Mark’s death, and the uncertainty of her life—living with actions, deeds, thoughts she regrets.

This chapter mentions her toting a backpack of Gs—gloom, grief, guilt.

As I was writing this chapter, my  husband, our three dogs, Beau, Jack, and Reni, and I were living in our RV in the driveway of our newly purchased (with a mostly destroyed interior as a foreclosure) home in Atlanta. It was early October. Severe bronchitis left me with no energy from not enough oxygen. Thinking was beyond my ability. I could hardly get out of bed.

Meanwhile, I was trying to help my husband manage a cadre of trades working on the house so we could get our furniture moved before the worst of winter—in Kansas and in Georgia—fell upon us.

I ended up in Urgent Care, at my husband’s insistence. And while I had been the catalyst for our move, needing to be back in the South, I still missed my Kansas home, my daily routine, my writing groups, and my friends.

When the calendar rolled into December, when we’d moved the furniture from Kansas to Atlanta, when I was wearing splints on both wrists from unpacking boxes, I felt more human. Then the phone rang right after Thanksgiving Day. My husband’s brother was missing in the Chicago area. Another phone call followed that one—my husband’s uncle had passed away in North Carolina. The news on top of a mountain of change completely overwhelmed me.

But as I always do, I dig in “to get it done.” It used to be a specialty of my life. Not so much anymore… (a story for another time.)

Merriam-Webster defines surreal as “marked by the intense irrational reality of a dream.” Life in surrealism isn’t something I recommend. My husband and I began making phone calls to the northern city where his estranged brother had lived, like you might see in a murder-mystery movie when an amateur sleuth is clawing for clues. We knew little to nothing about his life. I called hospitals and police stations. Hubby called the contact numbers his mother offered.

Little by little, elements of his brother’s life took shape. Sadly, the calls concluded a few days later when my brother-in-law’s body was discovered. My husband had the unenviable task of dealing with funeral homes, the laws of transporting a body for burial, and his grief-stricken mother, whose brother had just died, so we had two funerals that December in different states.

There are lots of details, complications, and overflowing emotions about that time period. However, you now have an inkling about how challenging life was… it was my backpack of gloom, grief, and guilt.

Jane’s journey continues in Chapter 2 with her arrival in New Orleans. She heads from Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport to Greenwood Cemetery. Since I rarely fly into the city, we usually drive, until recently, I wasn’t aware of how much the airport had changed. In 2019, the airport debuted three new wings with shops for food, drink, and souvenirs—representing the city, culture, and state of Louisiana. Check out their website—the restaurants will make your mouth water. It’s worth flying there just for that. The three-letter identifier for Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport is MSY. It stands for Moisant Stock Yards. https://flymsy.com/shop-dine-relax/

But back to Greenwood Cemetery. It’s a real location.

The scene where Jane arrived at the mausoleum, signed in, and found Mark’s burial place mirrors my own experience there. You see, my step grandmother, we called her Miss Juanita, is buried there.

She holds a huge place in my heart. Thinking of her, even now, gives me a warm, emotional hug. I didn’t understand as a child, however as an adult, I would describe her as my Champion. She was the only one who dared argue with my father—and won! I got to go skating on a Saturday night when I was a child because of her. I got attend parties on Saturday night at the firehouse because of her. I got to see unconditional love in action, though I didn’t understand what that was at the time because of her. Yet, I felt it. Felt it deep into my bones.

My Greenwood Cemetery backstory goes like this:  My husband had taken a job in Kansas City. I stayed in Florida, trying to find a Kansas City job. After six months, we decided we didn’t want to live apart—job or no job—any longer, so I joined him in July. That October, Miss Juanita had a stroke. She had no outward appearance of the condition, but she had difficulty swallowing.

My husband and I headed south out of Kansas for New Orleans. (Some day, I’ll tell you about the Mime I encountered in the French Quarter on that trip and how I got him to break character and shout at the crowd.) When I saw Miss Juanita dressed in a hospital gown, I felt something deep in my bones, something I wished I could ignore. Sometimes being right about something just sucks…the life out of you.

For several days, many family members converged in her room, fussing over her, trying to make her feel cared for and comfortable. New nightgown, robe, slippers. Late one afternoon when everyone else went for coffee, I stayed behind to talk with her. The stroke we’d learned left her with limited ability to speak, so I asked her to listen and then I poured out my heart.

I told her when I was growing up, I didn’t understand the reason I had two American grandmothers. I told her I loved her, and I didn’t want to hurt anyone with this confession, but I’d love her far more than my biological grandmother. I told her how she made me feel as though I mattered. I told her some of my most wonderful childhood memories were with her on the island, learning to fish, crab, make gumbo, and play pinball on the old machine at the bar—the only one on the island when I was growing up.

About a month later, I’d just started a new job, we moved from an apartment in Kansas into a house, and the movers were unloading our furniture. In the mists of that chaos, I learned Miss Juanita has passed away. She would be buried at Greenwood Cemetery.

It broke my heart not to be able to make the trip. A regret I’ve lived with, especially after my first visit to Greenwood Cemetery to place flowers at the mausoleum.

Just as Jane did, I checked in, my heels tapped a staccato beat, as Maggie’s had, while I searched for the correct aisle to find the crypt. I sat on a marble bench that could’ve been carved from ice only moments before. Sunlight splashed a rainbow of light, which stuck a knife into my wound of grief, causing it to bow up and like an angry dragon—then I let go of a scream, “NO!”

So you see, or rather read, how the memes about what writers will do—Don’t piss them off or you’ll wind up dead in one of their books—is indeed a fact. Actually, most things in fiction are rooted in real life. It was Eloisa James who said, (I’m paraphrasing) “Fiction teaches us about life.”

Fiction gives me an opportunity to pick apart, examine, play with, toy with, different emotions. It’s an emotional “lab” for my different characters to experience an emotion, yet because of their life’s story, each character may respond differently.

Other tidbits from Chapter 2—Jane’s married name was Maucele. On the real island in East New Orleans, there is a Maucele Road. It’s named for Joe Maucele, the man who owned the bar and grill on the island where Miss Juanita worked. He’d been my grandfather and father’s friend.

I also want to mention Gambino’s Bakery. Jane wanted a drive-by from the airport before going to Greenwood. Gambino’s was a constant in my life until 2005, when a hurricane named Katrina wiped it away. Grandmother Blanche, my American biological grandmother lived on Filmore, just down the street from 5242 Elysian Fields Ave New Orleans, LA 70122, the address for the “Ain’t There No More” Gambino’s Bakery. I still order my King Cakes from them. https://gambinos.com/

Eddie’s Place. It’s where Jane comes to understand everything isn’t what it appears with her friends. The bar and grill is fictional and named after my Great Uncle Eddie. He wasn’t really my uncle, but my godfather. The gentleman friend of Grandmother Blanche. Eddie’s place is a compilation of many establishments I’ve visited in the Quarter, which is short for French Quarter, which is not how we identified that part of town when I was growing up. The French Quarter was referred to as Vieux Carré. (Find a YouTube channel to get the correct pronunciation. I tested one link on Google, and it butchered the pronunciation.)

A little piece of history:  The Vieux Carré, founded in 1718, is the oldest neighborhood in New Orleans. It was originally the city’s central area and developed around what is now known as Jackson Square.

Lastly, Garden and Gun magazine is mentioned in Chapter 2. I lived in Olathe, Kansas when the first publication hit the stands. The publication, headquartered in Charleston, South Carolina, launched in the Spring of 2007. My copy came in the mail. It helped ease my homesickness for southern things. From the first copy to the most recent copy, I have almost all editions. It gives me inspiration.

Please understand, my life is not a backpack of Gs—gloom, grief, guilt. However, I have experienced Gs. Yet, each day, I have a choice about how I feel. I’ve chosen to change the Gs. They now represent goodness, greatness, and gratitude.

If you’re interested in knowing what happens next to Jane, Suzanne, and Maggie, pick up your copy of UNSPOKEN WORDS today!

Amazon eBook: https://a.co/d/9vggOYs

Universal Link: https://books2read.com/u/mexJME

Happy Reading!

Linda Joyce