As you can guess from my recent articles about Noirmoutier, Crestview’s French sister city, I’m wild about the place. It’s a magical, wonderful place, filled with warm, hospitable people. Friday night 46 of them (I think it’s 46) arrived at Northwest Florida Regional Airport.

I was so proud of the welcome our local hosts gave our guests. Their flight was almost two hours late, and after nearly 24 hours of travel, they were just bushed. As they staggered down the stairs and escalator, they were suddenly greeted by shouts and cheers and waving Tricolors (the French flag) from their Crestview friends (new and old). You could see their eyes light up, their smiles grew big, and for the 20-some kids in their group, looks of apprehension vanished and were replaced by massive grins.

Once they were all assembled at the base of the escalators, they surged through the barricade, and under the amused but watchful eye of a TSA officer, the group from the concourse side and the group from the waiting side merged into one. There were hugs, and cheek kisses and hand-shakes and smiles all around.

There were my dear friends Gérard and Marie-Thérèse, René and Madeleine, and sweet Dr. Marie-Thérèse Reed, the world’s most consummate hosts. When my friend David and I visited Noirmoutier this time last year, there was nothing they wouldn’t do to make our stay comfortable, happy and memorable.

There were many of the students I met at their school and at a community forum, including Momo, with his arm in a sling (what’s that all about?), and Bruno, whose brown eyes constantly twinkle and who’s always ready to smile. There was the headmaster, Monsieur Perrocheau, and Noirmoutier’s Mayor Noël Faucher and their wives. There was Ivan, one of the “BAFA boys” (official escorts) I had met last year.

And there were two new friends, Xavier and Christophe, who are staying with us. (Xavier is René and Madeleine’s son.)

Some misguided people around these parts sadly still dismiss the French, which is rather shameful when you consider that these lovely folks have been America’s stalwart friends since before our Revolutionary War. Like any friends of many years, there are bound to be occasional differences of opinion. No friends agree on everything, and friends always agree that sometimes they’ll disagree, but they also agree that differences are quickly buried in the past. Especially when the friendship is so much bigger than any silly minor differences of opinion, it is an excellent reason not to harbor lasting resentments and make insulting wisecracks. Friends don’t do that. And these lovely people from Noirmoutier are most definitely our friends.

I was proud of the welcome they received, both at the airport and about an hour and a half later, at Jack Foster Stadium, when Mayor David Cadle presented Mayor Faucher the key to the city, and the Big Red Machine struck up “La Marseillaise.” (And the boosters at the Nut Hut distributed our guests’ first taste of that fabulous southern treat, boiled peanuts, to assuage rumbling tummies, many of which missed dinner in the dash from the airport to the high school!)

I hope our guests have even half the fun I had in Noirmoutier last year. And I can’t wait to see them again on their own, magical turf!

CHS drama teacher Joe Hernandez has done a lot in three short years to revive Crestview High School’s once-renowned drama program. In its heyday, drama teacher Mrs. Shirley Cadle and her husband, then band director Mr. David Cadle (now our mayor), collaborated to produce big, glorious musical theatricals on a truly impressive scale. Their shows are fondly remembered by many in our community, so when Mr. Hernandez was hired, there was great anticipation for the stage spectaculars so many folks missed.

Reviving the drama program, Joe Hernandez has had to take baby steps as he inches the department in the direction of the big, splashy productions for which the school was renowned. His tireless enthusiasm and energy have paid off. Hernandez, who is heading off to the University of Southern Mississippi to pursue his masters in fine arts in theatre, leaves behind an equally spirited troupe of young thespians.

When the curtain rises on the brilliant Neil Simon comedy “Brighton Beach Memoirs” next month, it could be argued that the show would have three directors; Hernandez, his successor Allison Wilks, and the kids themselves. For during the gap between Hernandez’s departure and Wilks’ arrival at CHS, the troupe of seven performers have been self-directing themselves in preparation for their Sept. 17 opening night.

Compounding the challenges in producing “Memoirs” are the summer renovations to the Pearl Tyner Auditorium—an exciting feat in itself—which means Neil Simon’s wit has been echoing in a variety of rehearsal venues around town, including several church halls. On the bright side, when the curtain goes up next month, it will be a brand new grand drape, under a new ceiling, and the room will resound to a new audio system.

I talked to Jesse Hinton yesterday. He’s got the lead role in “Brighton Beach Memoirs,” a role originally played on Broadway by Matthew Broderick, who won a best-actor Tony for it. Jesse’s enthusiasm practically spewed out of the phone as he told me he and his six fellow cast members are doing “whatever it takes” to assure a successful production. I’ve seen Jesse, as well as the rest of the cast, on stage before and trust they will do a superb job.

It is an exciting time to be a theatre enthusiast in Crestview. I can’t wait to see to what heights Allison Wilks will elevate the CHS drama program.

Welcome, Allison! Break a leg!

When our representatives to Congress finally created the National ‘Do Not Call’ Registry, they also created a couple substantial loopholes. Not surprising, they exempted themselves and all other politicos. For good measure, they also exempted charities and non-profits, pollsters and media.

As anyone who has ever gone dashing through the house to grab the phone after settling on the couch to watch a bit of TV after supper only to find it’s someone begging for votes or money can tell you, these shameful loopholes suck.

Last night I returned home to find Congressman Jeff Miller had filled half our answering machine with so much political blah blah blah. Today I called his local Pensacola office (no one answered at his Fort Walton Beach office) to ask that our phone number be taken off his call list.

The earnest receptionist didn’t seem to understand my request and lectured me insistently on the permissibility of the congressman to bother anyone he feels like, whenever he feels like it. In true politician style, the receptionist totally dodged my question, “What do you think ‘do not call’ means?” and, get this, repeated the same spiel she had just delivered! So, I asked, can I give you my phone number and have it placed on the congressman’s own “do not call” list?

Well, apparently there’s no such list. Ol’ Jeff can call me — and you — anytime he wants, and dagnabbit, he’s determined to do so.

Therefore, here’s what our politicians need to do:
1) Remove all exemptions to the National “Do Not Call” Registry. What’s so confusing about the simple request to “do not call”? It means “I don’t want you to call me.” Plain and simple. Even if you’ve allowed yourself a shameful loophole, you should still check the registry just in case I’m on it. If I don’t want someone calling to sell me a timeshare, it probably a good bet that it also means I don’t want you calling to sell me a load of political bull ca-ca either.
2) Today’s technology is pretty impressive. For those people who like receiving calls from charities and non-profits, allow them a mechanism to opt-in to receiving those calls. Same for those folks who like having pollsters interrupt their dinner hour. But make it a conscientious decision on the part of the telephone subscriber to purposefully choose to allow those calls.

So I had the bright idea that I’d call Jeff Miller at home during his supper and discuss his thoughts on telephone abuse and interruptions during quality time with the family, but — what a surprise — his insistent receptionist just said “thank you for calling” and hung up on me.

Let’s write or call our representatives and get them working on closing those National “Do Not Call” Registry loopholes. They’re being abused, and their authors are the worst abusers.

It’s hot and sultry outside but inside I discovered the arts are flourishing. I swung by the Crestview Public Library this morning and saw a really cool exhibit in the lobby display cases. A talented young mixed-media artist named Eliezer Nieves has on display a captivating selection of pieces done in what he calls “color graphs.” He employs clippings and text from publications as well as photos and hand-written thoughts to make bold, eye-catching statements about a variety of topics, including current events, politics, relationships and people. The exhibit will be up through August. Check it out.

Next I swung by the library meeting room and watched a slew of youngsters making piggy puppets under the watchful gaze—and with a bit of assistance from—their guardians, parents and teachers. It was the regular monthly Family Crafts gathering, one of the many great services offered at our library. With a broad smile, four-year-old Aaron Bailey held his puppet up proudly. Look for a photo of Aaron, his puppet, and his proud mom, Donia Bailey, in next Wednesday’s Arts & Entertainment page in the News Bulletin.

Over at the high school, rehearsals are in full swing for the Drama program’s fall production of Neil Simon’s comedy, Brighton Beach Memoirs. Sadly, drama teacher and director Joe Hernandez is leaving CHS to work on his master’s degree in theatre, but he assured me an equally talented and enthusiastic replacement, one of his classmates, will most likely be hired to take his place and continue the momentum as the lavish, professional and enjoyable productions the community enjoys continue at CHS.

Down at the north end of the main hall, Summer Art Camp is in full swing under the instruction of art teachers Laurel Siwicki and Lori Phillips. Aided by rising seniors and alumni artist aids, the camp boasts its largest enrollment ever, with 39 young artists making everything from mixed-media self portraits in a cubist style to sculptures using pipe cleaners. Today they were writing their own fairy tales, which they will then illustrate.

The arts are as valuable to our schools—and community—as sports and academics. They are a hallmark of a civilized and cultured people. We are fortunate to have so many venues for locals to express themselves in visual and performing arts here in the Crestview area. Go out and make or support art!

PS: If you love art, support art, make art or teach art, be at the Crestview Public Library on Monday, 20 July, at 6 pp.m., for the organizational meeting of a Crestview area committee of the Okaloosa Arts Alliance. Let’s get some of that county art money and events flowing to the county seat, Okaloosa County’s largest city. To get more information, e-mail Rae Schwartz at bakerny@yahoo.com and just ask.

Some of you knew I was about to have surgery last week to correct a deteriorating aortic heart valve. I learned about it in 2004 and my cardiologists and I have been monitoring it since. (I always suspected my supervisor back at my old cruise line job in New Orleans aggravated the situation!) I don’t think word got out to everyone, so I just wanted to give you an update.

I live! I live!

I went in Tuesday morning, 2 December, at 5 a.m., and fortunately was given ample time to catch up on my sleep. The thoracic surgeon didn’t stitch me back together until after 4 p.m. (My apologies to anyone patiently waiting to use that operating room at the Fort Walton Beach Medical Center.) I first remember coming to close to midnight.

I had a sensational heart surgeon, Dr. Michael Sheridan. At his recommendation I opted for a titanium valve instead of tissue, because at my activity level, I would’ve worn out a tissue valve within 12 or 15 years and would face replacement surgery all over again, he explained. The titanium valve will outlast me. (But will it set off metal detectors at airports, I wonder?)

At Dr. Sheridan’s urging, the nurse in Cardio-Vascular ICU had me up and sitting in a chair by 10 a.m. the morning after surgery. After lunch that day, she came in my room and asked, “Are you ready for your walk?” Through thoughts still hazy from anesthesia, I had imagery of scenes from World War II films in which nurses in starched white uniforms wheeled people about the garden in wicker wheelchairs. No, the only wheeled conveyance in the lovely Nurse Amanda’s mind was a four-wheeled cart on which I’d cling for support.

Yep, I was up and walking less than 24 hours after open-heart surgery. I was dangling all sorts of tubes and wires, and two collection units for nasty bodily drainage fluids got to ride in the cart, but I was walking. Friday morning the tubes came out (preceded, at my insistence, by a warm, happy shot of morphine), after which I was tethered only to a bundle of monitor cables. I was told I could unplug myself and walk at will. I was also allowed to regain some dignity and wear my own lounge shorts, though I still had that humiliating hospital gown on top. If I had a visitor or other escort, I was allowed to leave the unit and walk the corridors.

(Amusingly, FWBMC rules prohibit patients ambulating the hallways unless they are draped by gowns on both sides. I guess there were complaints of bare, unattractive rumps shocking visitors!)

Saturday evening they moved me upstairs to Progressive Care, where I had a private room big enough to host a dance party in, and bigger halls to roam. My new monitor broadcast a signal to the nurses’ station, so I didn’t have to unplug myself before having a walk around. Sunday morning my dressings came off and I took my first full shower. I also saw my incision sites for the first time. There’s obviously a good reason there are no mirrors in the rooms in CVICU: patients would get a glimpse of their wounds and have further heart woes!

Sunday afternoon Dr. Sheridan came in my room as I was writing Christmas cards and said I could go home. I called my roommate Leon and told him, “Fetch the car!”

It is great to be home and enjoying the holidays. As I can’t lift more than ten pounds, nor reach, tug, climb ladders, etc., for the next two months or so, I get to supervise decorating the house. Leon’s sister had a tree cut down for us at a farm up near Andalusia, Ala., and I got some new ornaments to hang during my recent three-week trip to Germany, Sweden and France.

So…I am home, sleeping in my own little bed, and when I have pain, I pop a Lortab or two, which is “the good stuff,” I am assured. (I see it being hawked on the street all the time in the police reports I monitor for the paper.) That will explain last night’s peculiar dream in which a citizen mob was selling out of the back of my Land Rover European candies left behind by a bunch of party-goers whom I had given a lift up at LSU. I told you it was the good stuff!

I hope your Christmasses are going well. As I face mine with a new heart valve beating madly away and a recuperation aided by the thoughts and prayers of my friends, it sure drives home the need to focus on the more precious gifts we’ve been given, rather than the latest electronic geegaw. Two that pop in my mind are life itself, as well as the special bundle that showed up in a manger in Bethlehem a couple millenia ago. Please try to  keep the perspective correct.

And thank you for your support and prayers.