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