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decided to buy a variety of herbs himself.

"We have a cook who's very much into this sort

of thing herself," he explained. He flashed a smile at

me. Mama returned to the house to bring out some

other items, happy at how well the day's sales were

going.

Pierre sat in the rickety old cypress chair Daddy

had made years ago and, at my request, described his

mansion in New Orleans in greater detail. I sat on the

grass at his feet. Nearby, curious gray squirrels

squinted and waited to see what we were about and if

there would be any crumbs.

"You have beautiful wildflowers here, but on

our estate, our garden walls enclose huge banana trees

and drip with purple bugle vine. In the morning I

wake to the scent of blooming camellias and

magnolia, and the streets of the district are under a

canopy of oak."

"It does sound like you live in a beautiful place,

too."

"It's beautiful and quiet, but minutes away by

streetcar is the bustling city," he said with visible

excitement in his eyes. I listened, enchanted as he described the art galleries, the museums, the grand restaurants, and the famous French Quarter where the jazz musicians played and people sat in coffee stalls

drinking cafe au lait.

"The French Quarter is really more Spanish

than French, you know. All of the buildings that date

from colonial times are Spanish in design and

architecture. And the so-called French market is

Spanish from foundation to chimney pots."

He knew a great deal about the history of New