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Kellie Lartigue-Ndiaye was serving as the director of the Global AIDS Program in Mali when she passed away tragically in December of ’07. Her life was dedicated to helping others. I remember one of her most poignant sayings, “Give until it hurts.” She certainly led by example. I wrote more about that here.

The outpouring of support for her 3 sons and her husband has been amazing. The boys have been temporarily enrolled in school, Karim has had successful surgery and volunteers have chipped in to help feed, house and transport the family while they are in Atlanta. Giving is a good thing. If you would like to help the surviving family members while they are in Atlanta (through February and March), please contact Anna Brittain at abrittain@cdc.gov. These boys still love going to the skate park and eating pizza – every little bit helps.

On a greater scale, the Kellie Lartigue Memorial Fund has been setup to help support the many causes important to Kellie and to also provide for the education of her children. I can’t imagine a better cause. Checks can be made to:

Ndiaye/Lartigue Education Account
CDC Federal Credit Union
P.O. Box 49169
Atlanta, GA 30359
Attn: Executive Park Branch

Or you can call for more information 404-325-3270 ext. 5448

I could write volumes about Kellie Lartigue and still not scratch the surface of who she was. We were friends for over 21 years. She took me to places and showed me things that I would have never braved myself. She giggled in the face of danger and could disarm hostility in an instant. She will leave a lasting impression on all who knew her. And her work will continue to make the world a better place. The guest book here has some great memories of Kellie.

Blessed are the peace makers.

Last Friday, she was traveling with her family from Mali to Senegal when a tire blew, causing the car to roll. She was thrown from the car and killed instantly. Her husband and 3 little boys were unharmed, physically at least.

Hours after hearing the news, her parents in Memphis received a bouquet of flowers from Kellie herself. Two days later, her Christmas presents arrived as if to say, “I’m still here!” And she will keep showing up, as she always does, to make our lives a little bit brighter. Even if our vision is blurred by tears.

*Update* After some x-rays, it was found that Karim did suffer some spinal fractures and he and the boys will be sticking around in Atlanta for the next few weeks. The good news is that he can be treated here before heading back to Mali and many people have opened their homes to them. There are a lot of kind people here and it is heartwarming to see the depth of support.

Learn about the Kellie Lartigue Memorial Fund.

I have 2 brothers and none of us have tattoos. That’s not to say that we’re a bunch of prudes; quite the opposite, really. I have lots of friends with inked arms and ankles. And my brothers’ friends have an even greater propensity to paint their skin. But it’s not something that has even been a vague interest of mine, or my brothers. And that is likely because we all knew “Booger Bear”.

Booger Bear was a large man, about 6′ 2″ and weighing in the 240 lb. range. He worked down the street with Mr. Gardner at the pool table / juke box / pinball machine repair shop. He was illiterate and did most of the heavy lifting jobs as well as delivery. When Terry and Jerry weren’t available, Booger would be sent to my dad’s restaurant to pick up the coffee for their shop. He was the low man on the totem pole, so to speak. I didn’t know any other grown-ups that couldn’t read. He certainly inspired me to do well in school.

As with any regular customer at the restaurant, everyone knew Booger Bear. He was always friendly to my brothers and myself and liked to joke around and tease us. He wasn’t the quick wit and perpetual jokester like Mr. Gardner, but he tried. Typically, we poked fun at him behind his back. And my mom did not hide her disgust of Booger’s tattoos. She would often solicit his advisement. “See there, look at Booger Bear’s arms. You don’t want to have tattoos like that when you grow up. Ain’t that right, Booger?” The obvious answer was “no”. Mom had a definite sense of right and wrong. But what made the answer obvious was that Booger had crossed out a couple of his tattoos, a sure sign of regret.

Although there were several tattoos that were done professionally by someone during his Armed Forces tour of duty, Booger had a few that were obviously self inflicted. The name “Susan” was crossed out. Just below Susan was a crossed out “Nancy”. And while Donna was no longer a sweetheart, her name remained unscathed. All of them were in the handwriting of a small child. A man without penmanship really shouldn’t be trusted with the tattoo pen.

“Once you have a tattoo, you can’t take it away. It’s there forever.“, my mom would say. Her message stuck.

I was probably in high school when Booger Bear learned to read. A retired school teacher had taken an interest in helping Booger. And he was extremely motivated. I’ll never forget the day when he came in the restaurant, sat at the counter and proudly read me the menu as if I were still wondering what it said. His world had opened up and his smile was almost perpetual.

It’s been over 20 years since the owner of the game shop ran his Cadillac into a telephone pole and the business closed. I don’t know what happened to Booger Bear after that. Maybe he got a better job in another part of town. Wherever he is, I’m sure Booger Bear is still inspiring others to enjoy life, read well and stay away from the tattoo gun.

“Mister StandStill” appeared one day, across the street from my dad’s restaurant, right in front of the “Town & Country” grocery store. He wore an old fashioned, dark blue men’s hat and dressed a little nicer than the average person in the neighborhood. I never saw him arrive or leave. He was just there. Standing. And he stood there, every day, for years.

What was particularly eerie about Mr. StandStill was that he faced our restaurant when he stood. When I sat at table #6 and did my homework (when there were no customers), he was facing me. His face was not sad. It was blank, expressionless, checked-out. I would look down to do some Algebra and when I looked up, he would be there, across the street, standing and staring blankly. I tried to keep my focus on the Algebra.

“Look Slim, there go Mr. StandStill”, Charles would point out, gestering his arms toward the corner where Mr. Standstill was parked, motionless. Charles Anderson was the ‘cook’ I spent most of my evenings with during my teenage years at the restaurant. “What’s he thinking, Slim? ‘Here I am…standing…I’m gonna stand right here…all day’. What’s wrong with him, Slim?”

I wondered that myself. I felt sorry for him, especially when it rained. One summer when it was particularly hot, rain would have been a blessing. He was drenched with sweat and looked terrible. Nobody was standing in the sun that day, except Mr. Standstill.

As if he couldn’t bear to watch any longer, my dad finally walked across the street and handed Mr. StandStill a giant glass of iced tea. That was the only time anyone ever heard him speak. He looked at my dad and said, “Thank you.”

And one day, just like he had arrived, he was gone. No one really knew why Mr. Standstill stood at the corner of East Chester and Cartmell street. There were rumors, but we all assumed something bad had happened. Something made him drop his basket. My brother heard that he had walked into his house one day to discover his wife and daughter had been murdered. That would certainly cause someone to just stop, and stare. Peace be with you Mister Standstill.