When my mother heard the news we were moving south, she remembered pecan pralines and dirty rice, bayous and shrimp boats, and dark heavy drapes shut against stultifying heat. She remembered nowhere to live along the Atchafalaya, U-boats staining beaches black with oil, and shipyards swarming with war workers. She remembered the tin roof of the side-yard, shotgun house where she lived with my father. She remembered Morgan City and World War II. She was a western girl, raised in a Oregon, and these were days before air conditioning.
She remembered hurricane warnings, and instructions to fill the tub with water. She remembered reading, forgetting, and bathing in the tub water.
She remembered fevers and rickets, Oysters Bienville, and not to wear red. She remembered Huey P. Long, Leander Perez, and parlor doors sliding shut on women while men retired to their after-dinner smoke and conversations about politics, leaving women to conversations about babies. She remembered the thickness of boredom.
Her sister remembered the fifty-girl Girl Scout troop my mother led, and the boys club she worked to build and how she garnered the support of the local priest, and the local Mafia, and the company my father worked for constructing floating dry docks for the ships transporting all the goods of war.
Her sister remembered the political acumen it took to ensure that no credit went to her––not male, not Catholic, not southern. And I remember how the year we moved South she was diagnosed with the cancer that killed her.