Lara Richards

Frida Kahlo caught two snakes

2009-10-01T15:02:26Z

Here's the highlights from the conversation I had last week with my Maw about one of our cats, Frida Kahlo (named thusly because she's pitch black, thin and hairy, just like the artist Frida Kahlo's eyebrows):

"Frida has caught two baby snakes in the last two weeks," my Mom said like any proud-Mama would. "And Frida's so proud when she catches one. She brings it in the den to show me."

Mom described the little snakes to me, maybe rattlers, maybe just bull snakes.

"And I THINK I've figured out how the snakes are getting in the house," Maw continued.

She THINKS she has, which means she's not sure. Seems that with all the rain that North Texas has gotten over the past few weeks, the porch foundation has shifted a bit, creating a tiny gap between the sliding glass door that leads from the porch to the outside.

A gap big enough for baby snakes, apparently.

"I don't know if there are more baby snakes crawling around the house or not, WITH their Mama," she said. "I'll keep you posted."

And so, that's how things are out at the house right now. Two baby snakes caught by Frida. Countless more possibly in the house.

New Orleans' critters

2009-09-17T13:51:30Z

Actual conversation that I had with a friend the other evening as we were walking down the sidewalk back to our cars:

Lara shrieks and jerks back.

Lara: "Was that a big frog? It scared me!"

Lara's friend: "No, it was just a big cockroach."

Dear fancy-schmancy law firm, Part 2

2009-09-12T20:04:30Z

I sent a note to a local law firm about why I couldn't attend a reception they were hosting the Thursday before the Labor Day weekend. (I was on the road to Paducah for a weekend-long work session on our sagging farmhouse roof.)

I didn't expect to hear anything from the law firm partner that I sent my note to, but I did. Turns out, juding from the partner's reply, they might be pretty cool and, more importantly, appreciate my farm girl roots.

Here's the law firm's reply:

***
Lara, thanks for the nice note, and I do understand your choice. We look forward to meeting you at the firm's interviews.

regards, Law Firm Partner

p.s. Here is a roof quote for your enjoyment:

But I don't begrudge anybody, because I know how hard it is to have that dream and to make it happen, whether or not it's just to put a roof over your head and food on the table.
Carol Burnett

Dear fancy-schmancy law firm,

2009-09-12T19:57:56Z

So I had a major country girl conundrum last week. I had been invited to a law school reception at the home of the partner of one of the law firms down here in New Orleans that I'm really interested in working for. I had heard through the grapevine that the firm really uses the reception as a way to get a good look at the candidates and it was highly encouraged that I attend.

But I couldn't. See, I had already committed to being in Paducah for the long Labor Day weekend to work on our roof, which has needing working on for a really long time.

I chose the family and the roof, of course, but I felt it necessary to send the law firm a note to explain my absence. I decided to just lay it all out for them. Here's what I sent:

***

Mr. Law Firm Partner,

I regret that I was unable to attend the law school reception at your home last week. I have heard from several of my classmates that the event was delightful.

My absence on Thursday is in no way a reflection of a lack of interest in working for the firm, however. I was disappointed that I was unable to be there, but I had a prior family commitment. Lest you think my "family commitment" was a Labor Day barbecue or something equally trivial, I shall provide a bit more detail.

I am the oldest of six daughters born to a farmer/rancher and school teacher in a small Texas town called Paducah. The country house we live in is 80-plus years old and has needed a new roof for several decades. The roof situation has drastically worsened over the last five years, so much so that leaks had developed in the house.

For the past year, my family has been saving money to fix the roof. I enlisted the help of my best guy friend from high school, who agreed to serve as the general contractor of sorts on the project, while myself and Sisters 4 and 6 climbed up to help.

I have had the roof project on my calendar for Labor Day weekend since this summer, and I had promised my family I would be on my roof at sun-up Friday. There was simply no way I could be in New Orleans at your reception Thursday evening and then in Paducah on the roof Friday morning. As you well know, I chose the roof.

I am very interested in the firm because of its commitment to excellence and reputation in the New Orleans community as being the best of the best. I think I am an excellent candidate for a position at your firm because of my scholastic excellence, work experience as a journalist, and my diverse life experiences, roofing now included.

I look forward to meeting you and/or your colleagues at my interview with the firm Thursday morning.

Thank you for your understanding.

Lara K. Richards
Tulane Law School, Class of 2011

Torin Halsey's gonna kill me

2009-09-03T13:22:27Z

I'm notorious for putting things off. I can procrastinate like the best of them.

But recently, I outdid myself.

Last summer, before I left the newspaper to head down to New Orleans for law school, I asked TRN chief photographer extraordinaire Torin Halsey for a big favor. I wanted to purchase a camera and I figured Torin, being not only a great photog but a great guy/dad/friend, could help me pick the perfect one out.

We met at Best Buy one day, he asked me what I was looking for, what I wanted to do with the camera, etc. He made his recommendation and helped me getting outfitted with the perfect camera.

I didn't get the camera revved up before I left Texas because I figured I'd do all the charging up and downloading of the computer program stuff once I settled into my new apartment.

And then school started. And then it was Christmas. And then it was Spring Break. And then I went to New York for the summer.

And that wonderful camera that Torin helped me pick out 14 months ago sat and sat and sat in its box. I finally - three days ago - took the thing out and figured out how to use it.

It does take the most wonderful pictures, by the way. (See the previous blog "Y'all, Meet Roger Traynor" to see a picture of my new cat. Yes, I took a picture of my cat. I'm officially an old maid now, I know.)

So, in honor of my good friend and photographing mentor Mr. Halsey, I'm going to attempt to take you on a photographic tour of my life in NOLA over the coming weeks/months.

Better late than never, eh?

Y'all, meet Roger Traynor

2009-09-03T13:16:27Z

My dearly departed contracts professor named her cat Roger Traynor, after the renowned California Judge Roger Traynor.

My professor's sister had warned that Roger was a very shy cat. He liked to hide under the bed and was slow to get comfortable with people. Well, I guess good ole Rodge sensed that I was a Texan pretty quickly, because within 5 minutes of being dropped off at my house two weeks ago, he was in my lap, instant friends.

So far, me and Mr. T (sorry, but I'm trying on numerous nicknames for my hairy friend) are getting to know each other. He only likes soft food, which has really stunk up my tiny apartment, but we're trying to find a happy medium. He's decided that my favorite turquoise chair makes a good substitute for his scratching post, a habit I'm trying to break.

He loves crawling up in front of the air conditioning units in my apartment. He loves sleeping in suitcases. He likes watching me shower, which is something that will take some getting used to as well.

If he's not attempting to sleep directly on my face, he likes to climb on top of my trunk to sleep.

I'm officially a cat lady now, but so far, so good. Turns out, Roger's a pretty cool beast. Check him out.

My new friend

2009-09-02T03:39:05Z

I don't pretend to understand the universe or to have the full capacity to comprehend why some things happen, why some things don't.

Last year, after more than a decade as a journalist, I uprooted myself from Texas and started a new adventure in New Orleans - law school. Needless to say, the transition was very bumpy. I had to learn how to study again, how to be a student, how to be around people that wanted to be lawyers (eck!)

On any new adventure, it's always nice to find a comfortable spot along the way - especially with a friendly face - to help you make sense of your new-found chaos.

I don't know why I gravitated toward my contracts professor. She just seemed very grounded, very real, and yet extremely approachable. She had recently battled cancer - and won! - so she was also one tough broad. In other words, my kinda gal.

I found myself in her office often. Sometimes, I was seeking help to make sense of the law, but most often, I was just looking for someone to help me make sense of my new world.

She and I had communicated over the summer by e-mail. I told her I couldn't wait until school started so that I could come into her office again and she could help me sort things out -- from what classes to take to my job hunt to what kind of lawyer I wanted to be.

In early August, I received word from school that my professor had been injured in a swimming pool accident and had died of massive brain injuries. I don't know why the cosmos would put her through cancer only to snatch her away in a freak accident. As I said earlier, I just don't understand.

I was still up in NYC finishing my summer job when word reached me of her death. I e-mailed another of my professors to ask about funeral arrangements, if there was going to be a memorial service, what her family was doing, etc. That professor told me that everything was taken care of, except for her two cats.

And you all know the rest of the story.

I now have a cat. While I love having animals out on the farm, I've never personally wanted an indoor cat in my own home, especially an extremely furry, hairy beast like the one I've got now.

But it was the thing to do. It was the only thing to do. It's my way of grieving and coping, I guess, since I can never again go into my professor's office and ask for advice. Instead, I come home to her cat every day. He's no substitute for my professor, but there is a sense of peace and solace that coming home each day to her cat provides.

My professor's office was a comfortable place for me to go to learn, to escape, to figure things out in the wild and crazy world of law school. And now, hopefully, my home can be a new home for a thing she loved so dearly.

Fitting in

2009-08-30T15:31:25Z

Sister 3 asked me the other day how New York "fit." What she meant, of course, was how I fit with the city. Did it overwhelm me? Did I feel lost in it? Could I see myself returning to the Big Apple?

Quite simply, was it too big for this small town Texas girl?

No, it wasn't. Not at all. As I told Sister 3 (and I can't believe I used the rom-com "Sweet Home Alabama" to illustrate my point), I fit back home on the farm AND I fit in NYC. (For "Sweet Home Alabama"-illiterates, there's this scene where Reese Witherspoon's character, who has left her small town and made a success in the big city, is talking to her ex in a pet cemetery about the fact that she fits into both her old life in rural Alabama and her new life in NYC. Trust me, the scene is much more romantic - and apropos to my life - than I've just described.)

It was a strange feeling this summer, but New York City felt very small, even tiny at times. Maybe because it's landlocked. I could walk from the western border of the island to the eastern border. There were only so many streets that ran from the north to the south - around 230 or so. I could take the subway from the southern tip of Manhattan near Brooklyn to the upper tip right by the Bronx.

From Riverside Park, where I used to run every evening on the banks of the Hudson River, I could actually see New Jersey - a whole other state.

See, NYC was small, especially compared to the expansiveness of Texas I'd grown up around

As a kid, I would climb up the TV tower at our house, jump to the roof and climb to the very top peak. On clear nights, I could see the lights from all the surrounding towns - all 30 miles away.

NYC may be big in terms of population, but to me, it just seemed like a tiny little island. Not near as big and scary as a North Texas pasture that goes on until the horizon.

Breath of knowledge

2009-08-29T22:24:08Z

I'm in the midst of a big huge job hunt for a position with a law firm next summer. (Yes, sadly, in law school, you start looking for a job for your second summer during your first summer.) I've had countless interviews over the course of the last few weeks, which means I've sent out countless "Thanks for interviewing me and I really like your firm and here's why I'm a fantastic candidate" e-mails.

I sent out essentially the same e-mail to probably 20 or so people I'd interviewed with when I finally caught a glaring - and yet oh-so-Lara - typo.

I wrote a sentence about how I have a variety of interests at this stage in my young law career, from intellectual property to criminal law to labor and employment issues to litigation. And then I wrote, " . . . and I hope to find a firm with a breath of knowledge in these areas."

What, pray tell, is a BREATH of knowledge? Is it like a whisper of intelligence? A murmur of enlightenment? A sigh of wisdom? (Obviously, I had meant to write "breadth of knowledge.")

Hopefully, no big fancy law firm caught my typo. If they did, well, I hope it made them chuckle.

Home sweet home

2009-08-28T15:48:20Z

Many people have asked me how I feel about living in New Orleans.

The answer is simple: It feels like home.

I've had the pleasure and good fortune to live in many places across the US: A summer in LA, 2 years in Boston, 2 years in Austin, a few months in New Mexico, 4 years in the Indiana (OK, so maybe that one wasn't that pleasureable).

I've visited practically every state on some sort of vacation. I like to think I've seen the best that each place has to offer.

And yet, none of them felt like home. One sister asked me out of all the places I've lived before, which one I would return to. The answer: None, until now.

I can't explain what it is about New Orleans that has enveloped me so. It's warm, yes, both in temperature and in people. It's slow and easy going. It feels like a small town and yet, when you're wandering down Bourbon Street bumping into strangers, it feels like a big city.

I chose to come to New Orleans for law school because I figured it'd be a great place to live for three years. Now, well, maybe it'll be more.

New York City symphony

2009-07-26T14:35:44Z

When people ask me about living in the city, they always anticipate that I'll gripe about the noise. True, this isn't the farm in Paducah, but there is a certain melody about all the honking and screaming and bustle that is city life.

One of my great delights is the music that pervades the air, from car stereos to home-entertainment systems to the numerous musicians that call this delightful city home.

I especially like the musicians that occupy my building. There's the French horn player who warms up every afternoon for his evening gig with a Broadway show. A harpist lives on the top floor of my building, and there's the high pitch of a flute -- or maybe it's a piccolo instead -- that floats through the air outside my window. And I swear I heard a trombone the other day.

Only in NYC.

American Girl

2009-07-25T22:19:01Z

My walk to work each morning each morning takes me past the best of the best shopping in New York City. I cross Fifth Avenue and Madison Avenue before arriving at my office on Park Avenue.

My route takes me right by the American Girl shop, and it always makes me smile when I pass the store in the morning and see little girls anxiously waiting to go inside to buy the latest historically inspired doll. And they are just SOOOOO excited!!

The American Girl shop also serves as my personal "watch" of sorts as well. I know that if I pass the shop and little girls are still waiting outside that I'm on time. (The store doesn't open until 9 a.m., which is the start of my workday.)

My favorite hobo

2009-07-25T14:32:38Z

It goes without saying that there are many homeless people living in New York City. The panhandlers take to the streets and subways in droves, asking for handouts at virtually every street corner.

One of the beggars' tactics is to get on a subway car with you. People are literally trapped, a captive audience, as the beggar walks with hands out. Sometimes, if they tell a really good story, I'll give them a buck or two.

The most creative I've encountered so far was this woman who came on the subway with her own makeshift stereo system, which played that disco hit, "On the Radio" while she sang. I must admit that she had the most amazing voice, and the song truly put me in a great mood for the rest of the day. (Which probably explains why I shelled out some money.)

But my favorite hobo encountered happened yesterday. He was sitting in a chair on the corner and held up his homemade sign. It read:

I need money for
Beer Drugs Hooker
(At least I'm honest.)

And it made me chuckle.

Nasti D-Light

2009-07-18T22:57:36Z

I am about to admit to something that I never thought I would ever do in my entire, entire life.

Last week, I threw away ice cream.

Yes, ME!! Lover of all whipped dairy goodness.

There's this chain of ice cream shops up here in New York City called Tasti D-Light. I'm always seeing them and people are always smiling coming out from them. So last week, me and my sister went into one because I was craving ice cream, which I do 23-1/2 hours of every day.

She ordered the vanilla flavored; I got the rice pudding. We started walking down the street, each eating our cones. It took us about a block before little sister spoke up.

She didn't like her ice cream. I told her I hated mine, too. Hated it so much, in fact, that we found the nearest trash can.

Mine tasted like whipped cardboard, minus the cardboard flavor. Her's was like eating a shave ice without the topping.

When I get home to Texas in August, Mom has promised to make me Milky Way ice cream. The recipe is simple -- you take about 16 Milky Ways and melt them, add a gallon of chocolate milk, about a quart of half and half, and some vanilla. You whip it up and throw it in the ice cream maker. And tada.

Now THAT's what I call ice cream.

Felt tip pen on paper

2009-07-18T22:33:14Z

So my sister the artist dragged me to the Museum of Modern Art on Friday (the MOMA, for short). Now, I'm not much of an art connisseur, but I do dig the classics -- Monet, Manet, Picasso, the French guy that did all the pics of the girls dancing, etc...

Modern art, well, not so much. I can appreciate Warhol and Basquiat, and I have to admit that the Jackson Pollack's we looked at Friday were way more interesting than those splatter paint T-shirts I made at cheerleading camp back in high school. But when I got to a room where the "artist" had just cut out large pieces of construction paper and then drawn a line down the middle of it and framed it, well, it just didn't scream art to me.

Now some of the modern stuff was pretty cool. From afar, I couldn't figure out what this one mural-ish thing of a horse was made of. Turns out, it was cigarettes that the artist had twisted and squished into the shape of the animal. Pretty cool. And then there was this other exhibit where the artist had dipped probably 1,000 paint brushes in red paint and then squished it into some kind of jelly and then mounted it. (Believe me, it was LOTS cooler in person.)

My standards for art aren't high. I want it to inspire me or make me smile or make me think. I like when I look at something and say, "I would have never thought to do that" or "I could never do something that creative" or "Wow, I'd like to meet the person who created this." Simple standards.

Which brings me to "Felt Tip Pen on Paper."

I walked into the room and there, on the far wall, were seven sheets of standard 8-1/2 x 11 inch paper mounted on the wall in seven different colors -- red, blue, yellow, etc.. From afar, it looked like someone had just colored seven sheets of paper with different kinds of pens. From upclose, it looked the same. And then I looked at the "title" of the "art" -- Felt Tip Pen on Paper. That's exactly what someone had done.

There was no pattern or method to this "art." Someone -- I'm guessing a 5-year-old -- had just colored seven sheets of paper with felt tip pens. And then a big city museum decided to hang it up.