The First Day of School

I have a confession to make. I haven’t been completely truthful with you about something.

When I wrote a few weeks ago about suffering through the absolute peak of my preteen geekiness, I said the worst moment was on my 10^th birthday in February 1964 (“The Fishing Trip, September 28, 2009). Upon further review, I must admit I lied.

In my defense, I wrote that because I was confronted with a Jack Marshall photograph of me in a little aluminum fishing boat. My own horror at my appearance came roaring back into my consciousness when I found that picture, but it was more than mitigated by my remembrance of that wonderful day of male bonding with my Dad, which at the time I considered the greatest day of my life and still would be were it not for the birth days two-plus decades later of my own children, James and Catherine.

No, the truth is the absolute worst occurred a bit later, when as a 5th grader at St, Joseph’s Elementary School in Shreveport, I was photographed (see below) wearing glasses so thick and so hideous that even now I literally shudder when I find it necessary to gaze upon my own image. On top of that, at some point during those same years, my ears grew faster than the rest of my head. Fortunately this was long after the Disney movie “Dumbo” was popular and long before the release of the critically acclaimed “Elephant Man” film, so the worst my so-called friends could come up with was the nickname “Big Ears” or just “Ears” which I was called fairly regularly for quite a few years. (Actually, as I think about it now, some of them still call me that, though I cannot for the life of me see why).

My father, Jack Marshall, either loved his youngest son so much that he couldn’t see the deformed youngster staring at him through the viewfinder of his camera. Or more likely, he could see all too well but he was too compassionate a father (and fellow male member of the human race) to let on. Because my friends, there are lots and lots of pictures of me from that period.

One reason there are so many pictures from that time was because in addition to being Jack Marshall’s always willing portrait subjects, we the Marshall kids were subjected to certain rituals. One was the “First Day of School” picture each September. No matter how big a hurry we were to get to St. Joe’s (or Jesuit, or St. Vincent’s Academy for my sister Mary), no school year started without us stopping to pose for Dad’s traditional photograph. He tried to vary the settings, but invariably there we were on the front or back porch of our house, sometimes with a bicycle or American flag prop, sometimes waving as if we were leaving at that very moment. Jack Marshall was channeling Norman Rockwell, and he was determined to do him justice!

Actually, despite my inner and outer geek, as I look now at the “First Day of School” picture at the top of this entry, I do see some things I like. Those are real Chuck Taylors I’m wearing, which I got not so much because they were cool (they weren’t back then, but they are now) as cheap. And I do believe my backpack, with its “US” symbol, is 100% genuine Army surplus, again in the Marshall family tradition of good value. Nowadays you’d pay a premium in a second-hand store for that kind of authenticity.

But the real reason I like this photo so much is Mary. Of course she is stylish – then as now. Of course she is much more thoughtfully coiffed and attired, no doubt the result of having actually thought about her first day outfit at least the night before (unlike my roll out of bed and put on what I wore the day before look). No, what I really like about this photo is the way Mary is looking up at me, idolizing her older brother for his wisdom and leadership as we head into the wild unknown of another academic year. This may be the only picture that captures Mary in that pose, for I can tell you with certainty it was short-lived. Pretty soon after that, she discovered that I, like most other boys of a certain age, didn’t have much of a clue about anything.

At some point, by the time we were both in high school, Jack Marshall could no longer count on getting us to pose for him every year. At least not on the first day of school. Definitely not cool. Now I would give anything had the chronicle continued, because even though there are photographs he took of us right up until his death in 1976, nothing quite compares to these special moments he commemorated each September, when we were unfailingly hopeful and the school year report card still was unmarked.

As for Mary, I’m pretty sure we’ve come full circle, and once again she does admire some things about me. After some indifferent patches in our high school and college years, we’ve been through a lot together, including marriages and divorces, parenthood and aunt- and uncle-dom, happiness and pain, lots of fun and not a few tears. Over the past 20 or so years, we’ve been downright nice to each other, most of the time.

But I look at Dad’s “First Day of School” photo and realize there is no chance I’ll ever see quite that look of sibling love and loyalty again. It is too childlike, in the best sense of the word, ever to be repeated. Nonetheless, there it is, forever preserved by the photographic talent and the love of tradition that were the trademarks of our wonderful father, Jack Marshall.

--Tom Marshall, New York City

The Art of Portraiture

Jack Marshall's portraits still amaze me.

There is a way that some artists connect with their subjects and show you something special about that person. I believe my father had that gift.

While Dad idolized the breathtaking landscape photography of Ansel Adams – and even did his best to emulate his remarkable vision of life in the West – I remember as a child hearing another unusual sounding name spoken with respect and admiration in the Marshall house. That name was Yousuf Karsh, the Canada-based photographer known for his stunning portraits of almost every important person who lived in the 20th century. Karsh made perhaps the most famous photograph ever, this portrait of Winston Churchill.

In my initial post to The Jack Marshall Collection­™ Blog, published last July, I explained my father's methodology for taking his portraits. It was simple. There were no sophisticated lights, or backdrops, or props. But somehow, with each person who sat down in front of his ever present Rolleiflex camera, Dad developed a trust which allowed that person to reveal themselves. Over the years, my father took portraits of family members, friends and neighbors, priests and nuns, girlfriends, boyfriends and spouses, actors, models, athletes, businessmen, politicians, the very young and the very old. As far as I know, he had no preference, and he approached each sitting with a single minded passion to understand and capture the essence of his subject.

Many of those portraits, including all those shown here (except for the crazy one of a very young me), are of people whose names even today I am uncertain. (If you are one of these people, or if you know for sure who they are, please let me know, and I will update the records).

Of the approximately 10,000 black-and-white images that I am organizing into The Jack Marshall Collection™, I would guess that maybe one-fourth are portraits.

My father's love of portraiture was obvious and long lasting. Some of the earliest photos I can find in Dad's archives are portraits, as are some of the very last photos he took before he died. To my knowledge, he was rarely if ever paid to take someone's portrait. He did it because ... that's what he did. There was something very special to Dad about being allowed to take the portrait of a fellow human being.

Most of the portraits were taken in our living room. The majority are quite good and a few are pure magic. I bet many of Dad's prints from those sessions are still hanging in homes in Shreveport and across the country, representing to the subjects a special, wonderful moment in their life when Jack Marshall took their portrait.

(To see more Jack Marshall portraits, please go to the Galleries page of The Jack Marshall Collection™ web site. I will continue to add additional images in the coming months.)

As times and styles evolved, so did his willingness to experiment with different cameras and settings. In work from his later years, I see more examples of what came to be known as "environmental portraits," where the subject was captured in a more natural setting, such as an office, or outdoors, or doing something other than merely posing for the photographer and looking into the camera. For me, though, Jack Marshall's enduring contribution to portraiture is best demonstrated by those simple, beautiful, black-and-white images he composed in those quiet, one-on-one sessions in our living room.

Now, more than 33 years after Dad took his last photograph, his subjects stare out at me, unblinking across the decades. As all people do, Jack Marshall finally reached the end of his time on earth. But he left for us hundreds of remarkable moments, images of pure humanity that will live forever.

– Tom Marshall, New York City

Images of New Orleans

In addition to Paris, Rome, Alaska and Hawaii on the list of places you must visit some day, you dare not forget New Orleans. Ever since its founding in 1718, New Orleans has held a special place among the great cities of America and the world.

After I graduated in 1976 from the University of Missouri journalism school, my first job was as a copy editor at New Orleans's afternoon newspaper, The States-Item. I got the job while visiting relatives in The Crescent City. The editor asked me if I would mind trying out – "sitting in" one morning at the copy desk. Having nothing to lose and intrigued at the possibility of living in New Orleans, I agreed. A few hours later, they offered me a job.

On my first day I walked straight into a newsroom that could have been the setting for a top-rated TV show. It was like Barney Miller meets Mary Tyler Moore. Back then, the team of people who wrote, photographed, and edited The States-Item was an eclectic cast of characters with whom every day was an adventure.

The newsroom itself was a riotous marketplace of sights, sounds, words and ideas. Teletype machines clacked incessantly in a glassed room at one end of the floor, and conveyor belts whizzed overhead, carrying articles and photographs from the newsroom to the composing room and eventually to the press room. Telephones rang constantly. People shouted to each other across the room. There were no computers or even electric typewriters. We still used carbon paper (youngsters, look it up). And in the middle of the newsroom was the copy desk, a big horseshoe-shaped counter surrounded by a microcosm of New Orleans: men and women, young and old, black and white, sometimes crazy but mostly sane, all smart, savvy and experienced.

I reported to work each day at 5 a.m. to edit articles and write headlines for that afternoon's editions. Among the denizens of the newsroom were:

• A hard-nosed editor who, not unlike Perry White at the fictional Daily Planet of Superman fame, delighted in throwing stories back on our desks and challenging us in very colorful and graphic terms to fix our mistakes or else. And the "or else" was usually even more graphic. He was always correct, of course, about the stories needing work, but still we trembled in our shoes when we fell victim to his wrath.
• A "rewrite man," originally from Mississippi, who delighted in telling everyone, "I've been all over the world and to parts of Arkansas too." But when there was an airplane crash, or a ferry loaded with commuters collided with a tanker in the Mississippi River fog, or a particularly gruesome murder was discovered, he could juggle three phones simultaneously from reporters covering different angles and bang out a coherent story at the same time.
  
• A zealous news photographer so competitive he once literally kicked a competitor out the open door of a chartered helicopter just as it was about to lift off, so that he'd be the only one to get a great aerial shot of a burning warehouse.
• And most memorably, a crime reporter named Jack Dempsey (may he rest in peace) who referred to himself as "The Writer Not the Fighter," dressed daily in a seersucker suit and straw hat, and signed the bottom of each of his stories from the police blotter with the acronym "A.L.I.H.O.T." which I came to learn stood for "A Legend In His Own Time."

It was so much fun I found it hard to believe I was actually paid to do my job.

Today, 33 years after I started work at the now defunct States-Item, I find myself transported back to New Orleans as I sift through Jack Marshall's photographs of the city where he met and married my mother. Among the thousands of photographs in The Jack Marshall Collection™, I find myself strangely drawn to my father's photographs of this beautiful old city.

My favorite is "Boy In A Bookshop," the inset at the beginning of this entry. This photograph and the other two shown here are found on a precious few rolls of film Jack Marshall shot over several weeks in the summer of 1959. These three are the best – but by no means the only – memorable images my father made that summer. Looking at the contact sheets now, it seems he was in one of those brief but highly creative periods of work so many artists enjoy. Studying each frame is like finding a new treasure.

In my New York City apartment, I have hung an enlargement of "Boy In A Bookshop," always imagining I am the little boy in the window. The nighttime picture of Canal Street (top), with the illuminated streetcar and other remarkable details ("Essso Standard Oil Company" to the right, "Saenger" theatre on the left) was shot looking riverward from near Rampart Street. To me it is an iconic image of New Orleans. I also admire my father's unusual vision of Audubon Park (bottom), depicting not only the expected imagery of mighty oak trees draped in Spanish moss, but also the added drama of the tower of Holy Name of Jesus Catholic Church, where he and my mother had been married 14 years earlier.

For our family, New Orleans has been home to lives both long and short. A place for births and marriages, careers and celebrations, growing up and growing old. Even for sorrows and deaths.

For Jack Marshall, New Orleans also served as the breathtaking inspiration for many beautiful, memorable photographs, as timeless and unique as the great city itself.

– Tom Marshall, New York City

The Fishing Trip

For my 10th birthday, I had just one request. I wanted my father to take me fishing.

I had it all planned. This was not going to be fishing with a cane pole from the bank of the bayou a block or two from our house. Heck, that would've been too easy. My best friend Patrick Grant and I – along with almost every other kid in the neighborhood – fished by ourselves in that bayou all the time. We didn't consider that "real" fishing though.

For real fishing you needed a real rod and reel. And a real tackle box. And a real lure, not a worm or cricket or scrap of bacon on a hook. Most of all, you needed a boat.

The rod and reel were easy. For months, I had pored over the slick color advertisements in Boys' Life Magazine and I had found the perfect gift. The ad promised that, in exchange for $10 plus a small amount for shipping and handling, you would receive a 100% genuine grown-up "fishing kit" that virtually guaranteed huge fish would be jumping into your arms. The kit featured a rod and reel, a collection of lures, and a hunter green tackle box.

I must've done a pretty good sales job that year, because on my birthday, February 10, 1964, my father proudly presented me with the fishing kit I had seen in the magazine ad. The rod was tiny – it looked like it was made for a 3-year-old – and the lures were poor imitations of the shiny, multicolored "H&H" lures we kids had spent hours examining near the check-out counter of our local Pak-A-Sak convenience store. Worst of all, the tackle box was a cheap-looking, diminutive plastic case not much larger than a size 3 shoebox.

I tried to hide my disappointment. Still, it was exactly what I had requested, and I remembered the smiling boy in the ads. We could make this work. My father had spent ten whole dollars on this gift, and I was not about to appear ungrateful.

Since my birthday occurred in what passed for mid-winter in Louisiana, the actual fishing trip was scheduled for a time when the weather turned warmer.

Finally, the day arrived. May 17, 1964. It was a Sunday morning, 3 days after Dad's own birthday, his 43rd.

The night before, as I was carefully preparing my clothing and gear for what was sure to be the greatest triumph of my young career as an outdoorsman, my father asked me what time people were supposed to leave for a real fishing trip. I had heard that fish were hungriest when they just woke up, so I guessed 4:30 a.m. Dad grimaced and suggested 7 o'clock. We compromised, as I recall, on 6:00. The next morning, we were up early. As we quickly ate breakfast, Giffy packed tuna salad sandwiches and fresh fruit for our lunches.

And then we were off on our grand adventure.

Dad drove north from Shreveport on Louisiana Highway 1. We passed through the barely awake towns of Blanchard and Mooringsport. We crossed a low bridge on the edge of our destination, Caddo Lake – a huge body of water which straddles the border between Louisiana and Texas. Caddo Lake, named for the Native Americans who lived in the area beginning in the 16th century, is reportedly the largest freshwater lake in the South and home to the largest cypress forest in the world. Of course Jack Marshall had his camera, and when we arrived at the small marina in Oil City, he took a moment to frame the photograph at the top of this entry, just as the sun began to peak through the huge old cypress trees.

Now it was time for some serious fishing. Dad paid our rental fee, and I clambered down into the little aluminum row boat. He snapped one more photo, the one of me smiling through my thick glasses (my 10th year may have been the absolute peak of my geekiness, as you can see in the photo at the beginning of the article). When I found this photo recently, I shouted out loud, "Oh boy!" There was no one to hear my shout, but I was overwhelmed because I did not know this photograph even existed. Looking into my own face, eyes and smile from a time more than 45 years ago recreated in me the very same feeling I had at that very moment: absolute, pure, boundless, giddy joy.

And then, we shoved off into the still, black waters of Caddo Lake. The intrepid fisherman in me entertained visions of huge fish, mounted forever on the wall of my bedroom. Dad allowed me to select the first fishing spot. Miraculously, the little fishing kit functioned perfectly, and soon my lure was in the water. Dad had a rod and reel too, and he tried his hand. Alas, this spot held no luck for either of us. We moved on to another quiet corner of the lake, and then another. Not even a nibble. By 9:30, we were eating the sandwiches, and talking quietly. Man to man (sort of). Like fishing from a boat, this too was a new experience for me. By 11, with no fish in the boat and running low on food, we headed back to the marina. We were home by noon.

Rather than being disappointed, though, I was satisfied. We had given real fishing a try. We had bonded as father and son. Looking back, I realize now Jack Marshall had given me the most valuable gift of all, his time. In the process, he taught me some important truths about parenting – that a child's dream is important to follow, even if the reality doesn't quite live up to the hope. That sometimes just being there is truly the best gift. And that you can say "I love you" in actions as well as in words.

It was, without any doubt, the greatest day in my young life.

– Tom Marshall, New York City

Forever Mary

Whenever a new acquaintance asks me if I have any brothers or sisters, I always tell the same story. I say, yes, I am from a good Catholic family. I have two older brothers – John and David – and then me, Thomas, and then I always say, "Followed by a little sister named ... " And then I pause and raise my eyebrows in question and wait.

About 99% of the time, the following then happens. I watch the wheels turn in the brain of this person to whom I've presented this fun little challenge. Then after a few seconds, they inevitably brighten and triumphantly announce to me:

"Mary!"

And I smile and say, "YES!" And then I tell them that Mary was, is and always will be "The Princess" of Jack Marshall's family. And usually they chuckle agreeably and say they understand how that certainly must be true.

Mary Louise Marshall arrived on the scene on October 29, in a year I dare not mention, when I was about 2½ years old. At that very moment, the balance of power in what had been decidedly a male dominated household (with my father and his three sons easily holding the gender advantage over the lone woman in the house, Giffy) changed forever.

Gone were closets full of blue baby and toddler clothes, passed down from one brother to another. Gone were jeans with multiple knee patches. Gone were trips to the emergency room for one injury or another. Gone were boys who smelled like ... well ... BOYS!

In their place were all new clothes. Pretty pink things with satin ribbons. Sweet smelling baby powders and lotions. Lacy dresses, knee socks, patent leather shoes. Bangs and baby dolls.

And one more thing. More pictures of Mary than of all of the rest of us put together.

Jack Marshall, the father of three sons, was a great documentarian of our young lives. When little Mary came along, Jack Marshall, father of three boys and one precious little girl, was smitten. Jack Marshall was overcome by the desire to capture and preserve for all time every cute little expression, smile, giggle, flirt and characteristic of his only daughter.

The pictures you see with this post – a portrait (top), taken when Mary was not quite 3, the picture of her splashing in the puddled rain in the back yard of our then brand new house on Audubon Place (bottom) taken on June 29, 1963, and the self-portrait of Mary and Jack together (at the beginning of the post) – are three of what are literally dozens (or perhaps hundreds, I can't say for sure) of photographs of Mary that I have encountered since I began the project of compiling Dad's photographs for The Jack Marshall Collection™.

Sometimes I think, this all makes me sick!

And if Mary weren't such a wonderful person, and a great sister, and a loving wife to Larry Cobb and the super mom to some fantastic nieces and nephews of mine, it probably WOULD make me sick. But she is all of those things, so I can't really begrudge my father for wanting to immortalize seemingly every moment of her young life.

If you want to see more of my father's photographs of his precious little daughter, click here for the "Mary" gallery on The Jack Marshall Collection™ website. (Come back often to this gallery because I promise I will be adding more photos.) And if you want to see what she and her brothers and mother look like now, this photo was taken last Thanksgiving.

Today, Mary still has traces of that same impish smile, and she unfortunately has passed on to all of her children the subconscious need to stick out their tongues to "get it just

right" when trying to accomplish a difficult task. I still can see that little girl in her every day. The pictures that Jack Marshall took of his little Princess are a wonderful legacy, to be treasured forever.

(By the way, I'm totally fine with all of this. I have no problem whatsoever with the fact that Dad liked her best. Or that my older brothers beat up on me but I never was allowed to lay a finger on Mary. Over the years, I've come to terms with all of it. The therapy and medication haven't been too expensive, and the doctors say that some day I'll be 100% cured. Really. I'm good.)

– Tom Marshall, New York City

Life at St. Joe's

When I was a rookie altar boy in the early 1960s at St. Joseph's Catholic Church in Shreveport, I often would be assigned to serve at the 6:15 a.m. weekday Mass. My father, Jack Marshall, would shake me awake at about 6, and I would dress quickly and then hop on my bicycle and begin pedaling through the early morning mist toward St. Joe's.

Down the block, as I passed my best friend Patrick Grant's house, he'd often be coasting down the driveway on his bicycle and the two of us would ride together the half-block or so from Atlantic Street to the church, entering the side door to the sacristy by 6:10. By 6:14, we were dressed in our altar boy robes and had lit the few candles in front of the sparse but faithful group of daily Mass-goers scattered throughout the church.

Then, no more than 30 seconds before the scheduled beginning of Mass, a young Irish priest, Father Richard Lombard, would blow through the sacristy door and don his robes with a practiced speed that I believe surely would have beaten even Superman's best time for a wardrobe change. And then, at precisely 6:15, we'd ring the little bells and start our quick procession to the altar. Mass was under way, and if you were an altar boy for Father Lombard, you had to be on your toes.

That's because Father Lombard – especially in the days of the Latin Mass, with the priest's back to the congregation and prayers and responses mumbled in a rote script that was barely understood – was the all-time champion of speed-Mass and, as a result, the altar boys' favorite at St. Joe's. Mass with Father Lombard was a precision ballet of perfectly timed Latin prayers, rituals of water and wine, the ringing of bells, and the distribution of communion. If you served at Father Lombard's 6:15 a.m. Mass, you could finish your duty and be at home eating Giffy Marshall's hearty breakfast by 6:30 or so.

It was, most certainly, a modern miracle of religious brevity.

But serving at early Mass was only one aspect of life at St. Joe's. Beginning with its founding in 1949 by some 250 families (the young family of Jack and Giffy Marshall included), St. Joe's has been the center of life for thousands of Catholic families in Shreveport for more than a half century. Most live in the Broadmoor area of town where the church always has been located. For these families, St. Joseph's remains the religious, educational and social heart of the community.

On November 28, 1962, Jack Marshall took the photograph at the end of this entry. It shows me (third from left) and some of my third grade classmates at St. Joseph's giving a presentation in Newman Hall, the school's multipurpose cafeteria. My fellow 6:15 a.m. altar boy, Patrick Grant, is at the far left.

To me, this photograph illustrates what St. Joseph's was – and is – all about. Young people learning and growing in a happy, safe, and caring place. I know there are adults today whose recollections of their early Catholic educations are not the same as mine. But my own childhood memories of those years are filled with nothing but goodness, feelings of always being cared for, a strong dose of needed discipline, and a happy, loving environment.

To be sure, we at the same time feared and adored the priests, nuns and teachers who were always there for us. We had favorite teachers – the names McCollough, Touchstone, Searcy, Slette, Vermaellen and Sister Leonita come to mind – and we had ones we dared not cross, whose names shall remain anonymous.

One nun among the many provided to St. Joseph's by the Sisters of Divine Providence was a woman who inspired our greatest combination of fear and affection. She was our principal, Sister Bernard Marie, a compact bundle of energy with a powerhouse personality and a stronger force of will than even the most determined sixth grader. Nicknamed "The Little Tank" by a generation of St. Joseph's schoolchildren, we all walked the halls in trepidation, lest we break one of the many rules necessary to keep chaos at bay in a school teeming with kids from toddlers to preteens. Because if you broke the rules, you had to answer to Sister Bernard Marie.

At the same time, I remember her compassion, creativity and obvious commitment to the students of St. Joseph's. Sister Bernard Marie most of all clung to a fervent desire that every child at our school should succeed and excel. And a belief that every child could do just that. I treasure the photo at the top of this entry that Jack Marshall took of me with her on what must have been my First Communion day on March 30, 1961. You can see not only my ill-fitting suit, dubious fashion choice in shoes, and slicked down hair, but also my excitement. And most of all, the look of pure joy on the angelic face of Sister Bernard Marie.

A few years ago, my mother sent me a newspaper clipping about the death of this great lady. It brought back a flood of memories of a very special time in my life. I'm so glad Jack Marshall was there, as he almost always was, camera in hand, to capture many of those moments, so I can share them with you now.

While I was finalizing my research for this entry, I called the office at St. Joseph's. There are almost 500 children enrolled there now, I was told – an all-time high. And guess what else? On the church's website, I saw the smiling face of Father Richard J. Lombard, still serving the parish 50-some years later. I was told that Father Lombard has served other churches since my long-ago early morning altar boy times, but is now back at St. Joe's and going strong at a time when lesser men would have slowed. But apparently "slow" is not in Father Lombard's vocabulary. When I mentioned that he was a speedy Mass celebrant way back then, the woman on the other end of the line chuckled fondly and said, "He still is!"

Nice to know some things never change. Like the importance of family, teachers, and taking care of our children. And maybe even the speedy celebration of daily Mass in a wonderful old church.

–Tom Marshall, New York City

Giffy Marshall

Ask anyone in Shreveport, Louisiana, if they know Giffy Marshall, and chances are, you'll get a positive answer.

Although she was born in Jacksonville, Florida, and lived in places such as Baltimore, Atlanta, and even at the St. Mary of the Pines School in Chatawa, Mississippi, Yvonne Louise Adele Gifford Marshall originally was a New Orleans girl through and through.

As a youngster, she was known as "Yvonnette," since her mother was also named Yvonne (see the "Mère" entry from August 26, below). Then, in 1944, she met Jack Marshall, a young naval officer back from two years service in the Pacific. They met at a dinner party -- each as someone else's date -- but then their own romance blossomed at New Orleans' old Naval Supply Depot, where they both worked in the closing days of World War II.

I don't know all the details of their courtship and early life together, but a few things are ingrained in family lore. Their first official date was dinner in the Caribbean Room at The Pontchartrain Hotel in New Orleans. Another memorable evening was spent enjoying oysters at the still thriving Casamento's restaurant on Magazine Street. They were joyously married on March 2, 1945, just a few short months before the end of the war, at Holy Name of Jesus Church on St. Charles Avenue across from Audubon Park (see photo below) and honeymooned at the ritzy Broadwater Beach Hotel in Biloxi, Mississippi. They suffered together the unspeakable tragedy of the death of their firstborn, little Mary Dale Marshall, who lived only three days after her birth in December 1945.

Soon, they moved to Jack's hometown of Shreveport, where Yvonne Gifford Marshall soon became known to her friends as "Giffy." And for the past 60-plus years, the love affair between Giffy Marshall and Shreveport, and between Shreveport and Giffy, has grown exponentially. You've heard of "Six Degrees of Separation," the theory that any two people in the world are probably no more than six people away from knowing someone in common. For years, if you gave Giffy five minutes of your time, those six degrees often could be reduced to one.

It was on June 28, 1959, in the yard of our little white house on Atlantic Street, that Jack Marshall created the above portrait of his bride, by now the mother of me and my three siblings -- John, David and Mary. It is obvious to me that he was proud of Giffy and of that picture, for he signed it, in ink, at the bottom right, an unusual gesture for a man who was just discovering his gift for photography.

The legend of Giffy Marshall grew over the years. Like many women of her day, she hosted dinner parties and scout troop meetings with equal aplomb. She made friends everywhere she went. No one has ever worked a room better than Giffy in her heyday. And every weekday, my father left work and came to her kitchen for a homemade lunch, even if it was only a tuna salad sandwich, so that they could spend an extra few minutes together.

In her role as devoted wife and mother, Giffy didn't surprise us very often. Once, though, I remember her bursting into a string of expletives (well, not the WORST ones) after burning herself on the kitchen stove. Mary and I looked at each other in total shock. Appalled, Giffy explained to us that she had discussed swearing with our parish priest and he had assured her it was OK. "He said that in cases like this, it's almost like a prayer," she said proudly. Mary and I were not convinced.

Even though she never had the opportunity to attend college (which she always regretted), she was well read and a whiz at English grammar. We turned to Dad for help in math but Giffy always was the one who knew how to diagram a sentence.

It is her traditional values of kindness and charity for which she is best known. Even in the tense racial separation era of 1960s Louisiana, I remember her taking me aside when I wondered aloud why people seemed to be treated differently. "It's not right," Giffy said. "We are all God's children." It wasn't until I was a teenager that I realized a person could become overweight simply by eating too much or not exercising enough. She quickly silenced any snickers about a particularly heavy person we might see in the grocery store with one of her most memorable pronouncements: "Shhh, don't say that, she might have a glandular problem."

When Jack Marshall died in 1976, we thought Giffy would be lost. But somehow, she was not. She was strong, healthy and happy, living in the dream house they built together and surviving financially because of the great insurance my father left for her. She took college courses, tried weight training, enjoyed an endless variety of pets who found their way to her door, went to Mass almost daily, joined social clubs and went to the theater, traveled to visit her children and grandchildren, and attended more graduations, weddings and funerals than just about anyone in Shreveport. She never remarried.

My most telling memory of the bond between my mother and father happened on a long-ago family vacation. It was the early 1960s, driving somewhere across the great American countryside. Oklahoma, I think. Giffy always loved history, and made a point of sharing it with her husband and children, whether we were interested or not.

And, driving on two-lane roads of old, there always were historical markers to be seen, to add to her body of knowledge. My father tolerated her passion for these highway stopping points, no matter how much he wanted to get to the next town, campground or motel. He enjoyed teasing her about this, too, calling them "hysterical markers." But still, he always stopped, and we gathered 'round to listen to her solemn reading of the marker, perhaps even to take a family picture in front of the spot where this or that happened long ago.

Until this one time. Giffy, riding shotgun, had noticed the sign. "Historical marker 5 miles ahead kids," she said, tapping the window. My brothers at the windows of the back seat, and me between them, ignored her with practiced indifference. Mary, sitting in the middle front, had her head on Mom's shoulder. "Three miles to the marker, Jack," Giffy said. But now she was fighting to stay awake against the mesmerizing rhythm of the wheels of our old Chevrolet.

Before I knew it, Dad and I were the only two still awake. I saw the signs building dramatically outside the car window. "Historical Marker One Mile"..."Historical Marker 1000 Feet"..."Historical Marker HERE." I caught my Dad's eye in the rear view mirror as we sped past. I was horrified. I opened my mouth to speak, and -- with a look of what only can be described as male conspiracy -- he shook his head at me, almost imperceptibly.

We never did see that little piece of Oklahoma history. But I learned something that day, about my Dad's love for my mother, which, though strong and true, did not require him to wake an entire car, making good time, for one more historical marker.

Now, at 85, Giffy is living with her sister, Elise, in the house that Jack Marshall built. Just a year or two ago, Mom -- always sharp and with a memory for every detail of our lives -- started to become forgetful. Now we know she has Alzheimer's disease, and the fog is descending upon her mind, albeit at a thus-far mercifully slow pace. She no longer drives her old red Buick. But if there is a "good" stage of Alzheimer's, that's where Giffy is now, for she still knows her siblings and her children and, on good days, most of her grandchildren too. She hasn't the capacity to remember the sorrows of yesterday, nor to worry about tomorrow. She seems happy and content.

However many years she has left (and we all certainly hope it is many), Giffy Marshall already has lived a long, wonderful, happy life. Her sister, brother, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren have been blessed by her unfailingly sweet nature and the unceasing, lifelong, unconditional love she has bestowed upon us.

I know there never will be a Giffy Marshall hysterical marker at her Audubon Place home in Shreveport. Maybe, though, there should be.

- Tom Marshall, New York City