By the time you read this, I sure hope it's over. The government shut-down, that is. But from my perch on the porch swing at the farm in early November, things don't look so bright. Perhaps my pessimism stems from what was to have been a wonderful weekend gone awry. Eager beavers - my better half and I - made a bee-line for the airport early on Thursday to get a jump on the TSA lines, which we had heard were becoming a bear. And justifiably so for, at that time with the government shut-down in full swing, TSA agents were not being paid for work being performed.
Yet, feeling sort of lucky, Rodney and I zoomed through, with TSA pre-check and no hold-up. We even had the good fortune to miss the man - must have been a real character - who stripped down to his boxers in the security line. But you know what they say, "Life turns on a dime." We soon learned the meaning of delay, and disappointment.
The long November weekend that lay ahead was one of great promise. With our daughter, son-in-law, and darling grandson coming home for the holiday in just two short weeks, it offered a pre-Thanksgiving taste. Orchestrated by Betsy, the plan was to fly non-stop, mid-afternoon, to Logan airport in Boston, where evening transport would be waiting to ferry us to our daughter and son-in-law's home on a hill in New Hampshire.
After an overnight stay and some loving Lukas, as my dear friend Donnis calls it, the five of us would be bound for the Berkshires - a beautiful mountain region - in western Massachusetts.
We would be returning to The Red Lion Inn where the four of us grown-ups had stayed before and where little Lukas, not quite one, would be introduced to the rocking chairs on the spacious veranda overlooking Main Street in Stockbridge, the scene Norman Rockwell painted. And I had a sneaking suspicion Lukas would also love the iconic ornamental lions standing guard out front.
I had big plans to rock Lukas Karl Cecil Green there, so big that I had written about it - not here, but there. As a former guest of The Red Lion Inn, I had been contacted last winter; it was a request for a submission for "The Lion's Tales," a creative publication comprised of tales penned by guests of the Inn. The treasured tradition actually began early last century, in early 1900, when a dozen tales told by the lion appeared on The Red Lion Inn's Sunday menus in an effort to educate the guests about the history and antiques of the Inn. Apparently, the interest was overwhelming, so much so that The Red Lion Inn began publishing them in booklets for the guests. For example, there were nineteen tales included in the booklet published in 1944.
Then, in 2001, the Inn invented a contest for the submissions. And the rest is history, with the booklets presented as "Bedtime Story" booklets for guests at turndown time. While I did not take the coveted prize - that honor went to Mark Raymond with his submission "Ms. Fitzpatrick's Magic Room" -- my entry entitled "A Little Lagniappe" in a nod to Louisiana, by Cecily Ellzey Bateman, was published in the Spring 2025 edition of "The Lion's Tales." It was a cute little ditty, perhaps not my best but certainly not my worst work dashed off, on a moment's notice.
And Washington Parish, as always, played a key role. As it turned out, the Red Lion Inn is owned by the Fitzpatrick family, who once owned Country Curtains, a go-to mail order business which my mother introduced me to as a child. Their catalog was a mainstay in the den cabinet of my childhood home. And I cloaked the windows of the farmhouse, the one Momma left me, located just northeast of Franklinton and listed on the National Register of Historic Places, with quality curtains - from Country Curtains - just as my beloved mother once did before me.
The Red Lion Inn is exceptionally historic, beginning in 1773 with its founding. It was initially a tavern which stagecoaches used as a stop, between Albany and Boston. And the Inn also served as a gathering place for concerned citizenry during the time of the American Revolution. In addition, several Presidents of the United States from Grover Cleveland to Franklin Delano Roosevelt were guests of The Red Lion Inn. Add to that list famous foIks from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to John Wayne. Over 250 years old, it is a remarkable place filled with not only antiques but also history. Of course, we were in hog heaven; we have been twice to The Red Lion Inn in the Berkshires. I recommend everyone visit the first chance they get.
So, imagine my disappointment last month, when our trip went to hell in a handbasket as my father liked to say. Delta delayed our flight time and time again on the first Thursday of November. In life, timing is everything. And sad to say, it was the day before the beginning four percent of the ten percent flight reduction was to take place. We woefully felt the effects coming down the pike. Holding out as long as possible, for a hail Mary, we realized later in the day that we had to ditch our plans for the short weekend getaway. A Hobson's choice.
So, here I sit at our farm on a balmy South Louisiana November Saturday, waiting for the LSU/Alabama match-up. What once was The Game. And downhearted, all I can think about is how I should be rocking little Lukas on the porch at The Red Lion. And how we're driving - not flying - to New England, to see precious Lukas, for Christmas.
