I posted pretty much every day last week, but I’m taking a bit of a blogging break, for a week or so, to work on some writing assignments for other places. This weekend I’m facing some fears and this essay is all about that.
You’re going where? my mother asks me.
To Texas. To meet some of the women I blog with.
Don’t do anything daring, she warns
Like what? I say.
It is 1960’s New Orleans. My mother stands in front of a full length mirror in a dressing room reminiscent of Blanche DuBois. The air ripples from the merciless summer heat as a breeze stirs the curtains and blows warm air in through the windows and balcony doors that are carelessly thrown open in a way that suggests decadence and revelry and women of ill repute. It is early evening, and Jazz and Zydeco music dance on the air into the hotel room from the French Quarter below.
I don’t like you staying in a hotel. Always keep your door locked. Do you know any of these women? I don’t like this.
She is there on holiday with four girlfriends, and it is a time when everyone left…
View original post 749 more words