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Gilbert “Gil” Daniel
5,558 followers -
Retired Old Man, fishing, enjoying life, amazed at what I see & hear. ✿⊱╮
Retired Old Man, fishing, enjoying life, amazed at what I see & hear. ✿⊱╮

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+Sherry W Hope you are on line. Do you know anything about hummingbirds? My neighbor found one and it has a problem with its beak. The top goes one way the other the opposite. I have held together for a bit and now it seems to stay but it is shaky and sitting on a shot glass of sugar water now. Any suggestions?
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IF YOU FEEL OUR ELECTION WAS FLAWED THERE IS A WAY YOU MAY HELP.
There is a case before the supreme court that requests a REVOTE. To help please call SCOTUS and ask them to #HearTheCase #16-1464

CALL 202 479 3011
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SAY: #HearThe Case #16-1464
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I double dare you to read this post to the end. Then let me know if you agree it is one of the best.
Genetic Drift

I was having a discussion recently with a friend of mine about eccentric personalities and how each community is blessed with a few. We were recalling Iceum, as he was called. Each day he drove through a small rural town in his wagon pulled by his ole gray mule. Usually followed by a child or two. He had a gift of taking this worn quarter from his overalls and rubbing it on peoples ailments to make them better. He also had a good cure for, The Piles, as they are called in the South. He put his concocted formula in those blue Vicks jars. Made it seemed more steril that way.

Where do these eccentric beings go as they age? The question: is the normal aging process appropriate for someone who has defined their life by being so not normal?

What I have noticed...how each community has a way of growing new ones when they are gone. They will always be back. Seems to be an organic thing. When one dies they seem to always be replaced. A lot like genetic drift…I suppose?

Iceum, Goat Man, Ruthie The Duck Lady, Mr Okra, Opossum Man,...just to name a few eccentrics I have known. I don't think they were out of touch with reality, they just were not interested in reality. They lived in the world, but were not a part of it. Strange in some ways how these characters are always embraced as a part of their community. Maybe they remind us that there is more to life than staying huddled over a computer all day or constantly being attached to our cell phones. It's their whimsy that deserves to be remembered...

Ruthie

The ducks waddling behind her have given way to stuffed versions that Ruthie "The Duck Lady" Moulon clutches wherever she goes. Hailed as one of a vanishing breed -- a genuine New Orleans character -- Ruthie no longer rambles through the French Quarter in roller skates and a wedding veil, cadging free beers and Kool cigarettes from bartenders and tourists.

Before becoming an icon, "Ruthie the Duck Girl" started out as a skinny, sickly child who, for reasons unknown, didn't go to school. Growing up, Ruthie and her brother Henry raised ducks in their family's Royal Street apartment. Like any baby ducks, the fowl would imprint on Ruthie as if she were their mother, and follow her everywhere. Tourists would gawk at the girl and her quacking coterie, and soon Ruthie's brother and mother were promoting the "Duck Girl." They sold picture postcards and other memorabilia, and charged people to take her photo. The Duck Girl had become a popular tourist attraction.

She would speak sweetly at you or cuss a blue streak, depending on her mood. On her feet were roller skates or cowboy boots, and Ruthie would wear a wedding dress, veil, fur coats and buttons that sported such phrases as "That's Just Ducky" or "F--k Off and Die."

Ruthie's real name was Ruth Grace Moulon. She was a native of New Orleans and reared in the French Quarter. Ruthie became the subject of documentaries and a musical portrait as well as various newspaper articles. Ruthie died on Sept. 6, 2008. She was 74.

I remember it well…it was on my birthday and on the eve of the arrival of Hurricane Gustav. And so it was, that as the unceasing downpour drenched the assembled mourners, the funeral's chief celebrant, Monsignor Robert Massett of St. Mary Magdalen Church in Metairie, took note of the water pooling at and soaking through everyone's footwear and commented in rather unpriestly fashion: "Even today, she chose the damn ducks over the rest of us!"

Indeed. In a town in which funerals are near-mythic events unto themselves, and in which distinguishing oneself in the field of eccentricity is akin to entering the Baseball Hall of Fame in a Yankee uniform, Ruthie the Duck Lady's interment was fittingly both mythic and eccentric.

The small but magnificently disparate assembly of mourners -- maybe 60 in all -- comprised elder family relations, representatives sent from the New Orleans police and fire departments, assorted musicians of varying genres, Jackson Square artists, Bourbon Street bartenders, documentarians (how they loved Ruthie!), and others drawn randomly from the ranks of the business, commerce, hospitality and striptease industries, in addition to the requisite smattering of 9th Ward hipsters. In short, Ruthie's people.

She grew up in, lived in, got drunk and arrested in and basically did everything but die in the Vieux Carre. To a lot of folks, Ruthie was the Vieux Carre -- unconventional, incorrigible, over-emotional, overly opinionated, charmingly cantankerous, generally intoxicated and to hell what you thought of her anyway. She certainly didn't care, as long as you opened your door or your wallet or preferably both.

In truth, after her status as the French Quarter's primary duck specialist her most acclaimed talent was an astonishing proficiency at garnering free meals, drinks and smokes at some of the area's finest dining establishments, most of which presumably waived their right to refuse service to domesticated waterfowl to accommodate this extraordinarily beloved denizen of the night. And the afternoon. And, truth to tell, most mornings -- if the previous night's adventures allowed for it.

At the intimate requiem Mass at the Jacob Schoen Funeral Home on Canal Street, Jo Anna Palmer, a lifelong friend of Ruthie's -- and a Jackson Square artist -- gave a brief invocation.

"She was the tiniest little thing," Palmer said. "She did not walk the stage a poor player. She was just Ruthie. She was a light that was happy and alive. This thrilling little person -- she gave just by being herself."

As several of the assembled partook of the traditional Catholic Communion service, an older, blind black man with a long white beard, wearing overalls as well as a hospital wristband, pulled out a mouth harp and began a mournful dirge, something along the lines of "Amazing Grace," but with some other, improvisational elements in it. The mourners, already prone to tears from the service's beginning, fell further into -- what was it, exactly: Sorrow? Remembrance? Nostalgia?

In the back of the room, sitting on a folding chair, there was a second-line grand marshal on hand, a former Jackson Square artist named Jennifer Jones. Dressed in spats and mostly black parade garb, with her long hair braided in gold bands, she had been sitting in the back of the chapel, wiping away tears throughout the service. But at the final prayer's conclusion, she stuffed her Kleenex in a sleeve and rose to perform a silent pantomime.

She approached the casket from one side, moving slowly, mournfully. She worked her way around the casket and once on the left side, she began a high-stepping dance, now fast and celebratory, spinning her umbrella with vigor.

On the top of her second-line umbrella, where a white dove of peace traditionally resides during a funeral service, she had attached a small stuffed duck for the occasion as well. Her silent movements were oddly surreal in the absence of the traditional funeral band.

Jones told me. "The dance signifies a spiritual portal onto the next life. I guess you could call what I do a liturgical dance. A New Orleans jazz liturgical dance."

As six pall bearers led Ruthie down the aisle, joining the procession out of the chapel -- and seemingly from out of nowhere -- was a large brown puppet that appeared to be some kind of Muppet on the down and outs, and it made me consider where I might wind up if I were a drunk Muppet in the waning years of my career. Exactly! New Orleans.

At the cemetery, the crowd had dwindled to perhaps two dozen, and Massett made haste of the interment ceremony for practicality's sake.

Ruthie, it should be noted, died Sept. 6 at Our Lady of the Lake Regional Medical Center in Baton Rouge, after residents of the nursing home were evacuated to that city as Hurricane Gustav approached. The official cause of death was cancer, but many speculate that the stress of the storm and relocation hastened the outcome.

My own inexpert opinion -- and this is not an implausible theory -- is simply that her time had come. Suffice to say that neither abstinence nor moderation were among her marked characteristics. A life well lived or good health thrown away, really what is the difference in New Orleans and what does it matter now?

One of the French Quarter's most revered eccentrics has passed on to the great juke joint in the sky, to a corner of the Everlasting where, no doubt, there is no repentance for cussing, the drinks are all doubles -- and on the house -- and you're still allowed to smoke. And there's probably a lot of ducks.

In his last words of the funeral service -- acknowledging Ruthie's proclivities toward the steadfastly unholier activities of this material world -- Massett made a simple and quite appropriate request of the gathering of mourners.
"Maybe," he said, "we should say a prayer for God."
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One of the best Posts I have read completelly. I double dare you to do the same and tell me if I was wrong.
Genetic Drift

I was having a discussion recently with a friend of mine about eccentric personalities and how each community is blessed with a few. We were recalling Iceum, as he was called. Each day he drove through a small rural town in his wagon pulled by his ole gray mule. Usually followed by a child or two. He had a gift of taking this worn quarter from his overalls and rubbing it on peoples ailments to make them better. He also had a good cure for, The Piles, as they are called in the South. He put his concocted formula in those blue Vicks jars. Made it seemed more steril that way.

Where do these eccentric beings go as they age? The question: is the normal aging process appropriate for someone who has defined their life by being so not normal?

What I have noticed...how each community has a way of growing new ones when they are gone. They will always be back. Seems to be an organic thing. When one dies they seem to always be replaced. A lot like genetic drift…I suppose?

Iceum, Goat Man, Ruthie The Duck Lady, Mr Okra, Opossum Man,...just to name a few eccentrics I have known. I don't think they were out of touch with reality, they just were not interested in reality. They lived in the world, but were not a part of it. Strange in some ways how these characters are always embraced as a part of their community. Maybe they remind us that there is more to life than staying huddled over a computer all day or constantly being attached to our cell phones. It's their whimsy that deserves to be remembered...

Ruthie

The ducks waddling behind her have given way to stuffed versions that Ruthie "The Duck Lady" Moulon clutches wherever she goes. Hailed as one of a vanishing breed -- a genuine New Orleans character -- Ruthie no longer rambles through the French Quarter in roller skates and a wedding veil, cadging free beers and Kool cigarettes from bartenders and tourists.

Before becoming an icon, "Ruthie the Duck Girl" started out as a skinny, sickly child who, for reasons unknown, didn't go to school. Growing up, Ruthie and her brother Henry raised ducks in their family's Royal Street apartment. Like any baby ducks, the fowl would imprint on Ruthie as if she were their mother, and follow her everywhere. Tourists would gawk at the girl and her quacking coterie, and soon Ruthie's brother and mother were promoting the "Duck Girl." They sold picture postcards and other memorabilia, and charged people to take her photo. The Duck Girl had become a popular tourist attraction.

She would speak sweetly at you or cuss a blue streak, depending on her mood. On her feet were roller skates or cowboy boots, and Ruthie would wear a wedding dress, veil, fur coats and buttons that sported such phrases as "That's Just Ducky" or "F--k Off and Die."

Ruthie's real name was Ruth Grace Moulon. She was a native of New Orleans and reared in the French Quarter. Ruthie became the subject of documentaries and a musical portrait as well as various newspaper articles. Ruthie died on Sept. 6, 2008. She was 74.

I remember it well…it was on my birthday and on the eve of the arrival of Hurricane Gustav. And so it was, that as the unceasing downpour drenched the assembled mourners, the funeral's chief celebrant, Monsignor Robert Massett of St. Mary Magdalen Church in Metairie, took note of the water pooling at and soaking through everyone's footwear and commented in rather unpriestly fashion: "Even today, she chose the damn ducks over the rest of us!"

Indeed. In a town in which funerals are near-mythic events unto themselves, and in which distinguishing oneself in the field of eccentricity is akin to entering the Baseball Hall of Fame in a Yankee uniform, Ruthie the Duck Lady's interment was fittingly both mythic and eccentric.

The small but magnificently disparate assembly of mourners -- maybe 60 in all -- comprised elder family relations, representatives sent from the New Orleans police and fire departments, assorted musicians of varying genres, Jackson Square artists, Bourbon Street bartenders, documentarians (how they loved Ruthie!), and others drawn randomly from the ranks of the business, commerce, hospitality and striptease industries, in addition to the requisite smattering of 9th Ward hipsters. In short, Ruthie's people.

She grew up in, lived in, got drunk and arrested in and basically did everything but die in the Vieux Carre. To a lot of folks, Ruthie was the Vieux Carre -- unconventional, incorrigible, over-emotional, overly opinionated, charmingly cantankerous, generally intoxicated and to hell what you thought of her anyway. She certainly didn't care, as long as you opened your door or your wallet or preferably both.

In truth, after her status as the French Quarter's primary duck specialist her most acclaimed talent was an astonishing proficiency at garnering free meals, drinks and smokes at some of the area's finest dining establishments, most of which presumably waived their right to refuse service to domesticated waterfowl to accommodate this extraordinarily beloved denizen of the night. And the afternoon. And, truth to tell, most mornings -- if the previous night's adventures allowed for it.

At the intimate requiem Mass at the Jacob Schoen Funeral Home on Canal Street, Jo Anna Palmer, a lifelong friend of Ruthie's -- and a Jackson Square artist -- gave a brief invocation.

"She was the tiniest little thing," Palmer said. "She did not walk the stage a poor player. She was just Ruthie. She was a light that was happy and alive. This thrilling little person -- she gave just by being herself."

As several of the assembled partook of the traditional Catholic Communion service, an older, blind black man with a long white beard, wearing overalls as well as a hospital wristband, pulled out a mouth harp and began a mournful dirge, something along the lines of "Amazing Grace," but with some other, improvisational elements in it. The mourners, already prone to tears from the service's beginning, fell further into -- what was it, exactly: Sorrow? Remembrance? Nostalgia?

In the back of the room, sitting on a folding chair, there was a second-line grand marshal on hand, a former Jackson Square artist named Jennifer Jones. Dressed in spats and mostly black parade garb, with her long hair braided in gold bands, she had been sitting in the back of the chapel, wiping away tears throughout the service. But at the final prayer's conclusion, she stuffed her Kleenex in a sleeve and rose to perform a silent pantomime.

She approached the casket from one side, moving slowly, mournfully. She worked her way around the casket and once on the left side, she began a high-stepping dance, now fast and celebratory, spinning her umbrella with vigor.

On the top of her second-line umbrella, where a white dove of peace traditionally resides during a funeral service, she had attached a small stuffed duck for the occasion as well. Her silent movements were oddly surreal in the absence of the traditional funeral band.

Jones told me. "The dance signifies a spiritual portal onto the next life. I guess you could call what I do a liturgical dance. A New Orleans jazz liturgical dance."

As six pall bearers led Ruthie down the aisle, joining the procession out of the chapel -- and seemingly from out of nowhere -- was a large brown puppet that appeared to be some kind of Muppet on the down and outs, and it made me consider where I might wind up if I were a drunk Muppet in the waning years of my career. Exactly! New Orleans.

At the cemetery, the crowd had dwindled to perhaps two dozen, and Massett made haste of the interment ceremony for practicality's sake.

Ruthie, it should be noted, died Sept. 6 at Our Lady of the Lake Regional Medical Center in Baton Rouge, after residents of the nursing home were evacuated to that city as Hurricane Gustav approached. The official cause of death was cancer, but many speculate that the stress of the storm and relocation hastened the outcome.

My own inexpert opinion -- and this is not an implausible theory -- is simply that her time had come. Suffice to say that neither abstinence nor moderation were among her marked characteristics. A life well lived or good health thrown away, really what is the difference in New Orleans and what does it matter now?

One of the French Quarter's most revered eccentrics has passed on to the great juke joint in the sky, to a corner of the Everlasting where, no doubt, there is no repentance for cussing, the drinks are all doubles -- and on the house -- and you're still allowed to smoke. And there's probably a lot of ducks.

In his last words of the funeral service -- acknowledging Ruthie's proclivities toward the steadfastly unholier activities of this material world -- Massett made a simple and quite appropriate request of the gathering of mourners.
"Maybe," he said, "we should say a prayer for God."
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Think long and hard on this one.
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Hurray--Our Terrorist is back!
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