Last week, Steve and I, along with two good friends, packed up the kids and boarded an Amtrak train headed for New Orleans. Since it had been forever and a day since Steve and I had traveled by train, we weren’t quite sure what to expect, but figured that reaching our destination would be half the fun. Let me tell ya, within five minutes of entering the train station, we got ourselves an upgrade on that fun ticket and not once during the entire seven hour trip to New Orleans did we hear a child ask, “Are we there yet?”.
The train was running an hour behind schedule, so that gave our little party of six more than enough time to sit in the tiny shoebox of a station and assess the personalities that would be joining us on the journey. It was immediately apparent that we had two large groups that would be making the trip to The Big Easy with us. One group of 30 or so was headed to a family reunion. Grandmamma, great grandmamma, and an assortment of aunts, uncles and cousins were sprinkled across the small waiting area. I liked this group. They laughed, they hugged, they set up a fabulous picnic complete with fried chicken right there on the brown naugahyde seats in the waiting room. The second group was comprised mostly of middle aged women headed to their 30th high school reunion. Since the family reunion group had captured my attention and caused me to crave some greasy fried goodness, I didn’t take much notice of this second group. After all, they seemed pretty tame…HA! We just hadn’t met “Juiced up Joyce” yet.
Once on board the train, it didn’t take long to realize that this high school reunion group had a ring leader: Joyce. She laughed loudly, drank loudly and much to my delight, told juicy, gossipy stories even louder. That is how I became acquainted with the sad tale of an ugly baby Hermanie Grace. The following is an excerpt of their hard-not-to-be-overheard conversation:
Joyce: (eating pineapple chunks that she has been soaking in overpriced vodka purchased from the lounge car) Catherine, did you hear what that Georgina child named her baby?
Catherine: (between bites of chicken she has brought on board with her) No, Joyce… didn’t know she had had that baby.
Joyce: Well, she did and that mama named her baby Hermanie Grace.
Catherine: That’s a pretty name.
Joyce: No it ain’t. Now what that is is a tribute. Givin’ that baby an ugly name for an ugly daddy.
Catherine: Is she a pretty baby?
Joyce: Lord no, Catherine! With Herman as her daddy?! What do you think? That baby is named Hermanie Grace so people will know why she looks that way… bless her heart and Herman’s.
I have no idea if this story is true or not, but if I EVER meet someone named Hermanie Grace, I will more than likely wet my pants.
Our journey continued and by the time we had reached Picayune, Mississippi, we had made friends with Joyce and company, knew all about their weekend plans (liquid refreshments and visiting the casino were high on their agenda), made the acquaintance of three guys sitting behind us (who I highly suspect did not have meeting women anywhere on their agenda), and had been taken on a tour of a roomette (which I kid you not included a most lively demonstration of how the bed came out of the ceiling by one very animated, very Bea Arthur adoring, steward named Kyle). With bellies full of microwaved cheeseburgers purchased from the diner car and hearts filled with delight at the interesting and unique people we had met on this leg of the journey, we settled back in our seats and witnessed one of the most glorious sunsets we had ever seen as our train chugged over Lake Ponchartrain. Yep, ridin’ the rails beats a game of license tag Bingo any day in my book…
There is more to this story… I mean we had to get home after all onboard yet another train. But that tale, which involves legs being left in luggage, will have to wait for another day.
**The names have been changed to protect the innocent, guilty, and obnoxious.
The train was running an hour behind schedule, so that gave our little party of six more than enough time to sit in the tiny shoebox of a station and assess the personalities that would be joining us on the journey. It was immediately apparent that we had two large groups that would be making the trip to The Big Easy with us. One group of 30 or so was headed to a family reunion. Grandmamma, great grandmamma, and an assortment of aunts, uncles and cousins were sprinkled across the small waiting area. I liked this group. They laughed, they hugged, they set up a fabulous picnic complete with fried chicken right there on the brown naugahyde seats in the waiting room. The second group was comprised mostly of middle aged women headed to their 30th high school reunion. Since the family reunion group had captured my attention and caused me to crave some greasy fried goodness, I didn’t take much notice of this second group. After all, they seemed pretty tame…HA! We just hadn’t met “Juiced up Joyce” yet.
Once on board the train, it didn’t take long to realize that this high school reunion group had a ring leader: Joyce. She laughed loudly, drank loudly and much to my delight, told juicy, gossipy stories even louder. That is how I became acquainted with the sad tale of an ugly baby Hermanie Grace. The following is an excerpt of their hard-not-to-be-overheard conversation:
Joyce: (eating pineapple chunks that she has been soaking in overpriced vodka purchased from the lounge car) Catherine, did you hear what that Georgina child named her baby?
Catherine: (between bites of chicken she has brought on board with her) No, Joyce… didn’t know she had had that baby.
Joyce: Well, she did and that mama named her baby Hermanie Grace.
Catherine: That’s a pretty name.
Joyce: No it ain’t. Now what that is is a tribute. Givin’ that baby an ugly name for an ugly daddy.
Catherine: Is she a pretty baby?
Joyce: Lord no, Catherine! With Herman as her daddy?! What do you think? That baby is named Hermanie Grace so people will know why she looks that way… bless her heart and Herman’s.
I have no idea if this story is true or not, but if I EVER meet someone named Hermanie Grace, I will more than likely wet my pants.
Our journey continued and by the time we had reached Picayune, Mississippi, we had made friends with Joyce and company, knew all about their weekend plans (liquid refreshments and visiting the casino were high on their agenda), made the acquaintance of three guys sitting behind us (who I highly suspect did not have meeting women anywhere on their agenda), and had been taken on a tour of a roomette (which I kid you not included a most lively demonstration of how the bed came out of the ceiling by one very animated, very Bea Arthur adoring, steward named Kyle). With bellies full of microwaved cheeseburgers purchased from the diner car and hearts filled with delight at the interesting and unique people we had met on this leg of the journey, we settled back in our seats and witnessed one of the most glorious sunsets we had ever seen as our train chugged over Lake Ponchartrain. Yep, ridin’ the rails beats a game of license tag Bingo any day in my book…
There is more to this story… I mean we had to get home after all onboard yet another train. But that tale, which involves legs being left in luggage, will have to wait for another day.
**The names have been changed to protect the innocent, guilty, and obnoxious.
