Chapter 9
September 1, 2007
As a rookie consultant many years ago a friend and member of the consulting Fraternity warned me – “always manage expectations.” The unstated wisdom was to manage them “down” – “don’t build false expectations.” Put another way – “under promise and over deliver.” I’ve always adhered to that wisdom and since I’m still in business 14 years later I’m assuming it’s worked.
ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL? It’s that time of year again. On Thursday evening I watched the Tigers eek out a 45 – 0 win over the Bulldogs. If you are reading this and don’t know the teams you’re not “ready for some football.” If you’re in Louisiana and reading this and don’t know the teams – notify your next of kin because obviously you slipped into a coma on Wednesday and have since died.
My first paragraph comments are the basis for my only complaint about Les Miles – the LSU Tiger coach. He may be a great coach. He may finish the season as Coach of the Year – he may win the Pulitzer Prize – he may find a cure for cancer - regardless he’s terrible at managing expectations and he’s in trouble for it.
During the summer, Coach Miles mentioned or more correctly “popped off” that the Tigers need to meet the USC Trojans in the National Championship game so we can whip their butts. This wasn’t an exact quote but it was close. He went on to explain something like in the College Football Fraternity may of the conferences were more of sororities. Again not an exact quote but you get the picture.
The Tigers are picked # 2 in all the pre-season polls and a few players are predicted to be All Americans. Here’s the problem – fans down here are crazy to begin with and they – left to their own devices – can fantasize a National Championship every year even if the team looks like a group of Pop Warner All Stars. We may not read well down here but we can read. The combination of the National and Local press, delusions of the faithful, Coach Miles’ comments, and the conviction of the commoners has everyone convinced “this is the year!”
Coach – you’re in trouble. If you need proof other than the wisdom of this writer, consider the fact that LSU beat Mississippi State 45 – 0 on Thursday night and the media and the fans are “disappointed.” The closest the Bulldogs got to the end zone was one Zip Code away. The game was decided during the last 3 years recruiting campaigns. LSU has better talent and more depth than the Bulldogs will have in a decade. We won by a “safe margin.” The fans are furious.
When an LSU coach is near the end of their honeymoon experience and LSU career “cute” bumper stickers appear with a catchy rhyme including the soon to be departed Coach’s name. Coach Mac – the Dean of LSU Coaches in terms of wins over time was run off and it began with “Help Mac Pack” bumper stickers. Coach – if you’re reading this and it’s not too late – the solution to your problem of failing to manage expectations is easy – “Win Out” including the National Championship.
September 2, 2007
If your memory is sufficient to recall yesterday’s update, you now understand the importance of managing expectations or the risk inherent in failing to do so. Today’s Advocate provides evidence that some folks must have heeded my wise counsel and others didn’t get the message.
Coach Miles – to his credit – listened and learned. There was a brief write up indicating that Coach had encouraged the masses to slow down on the talk of a National Championship – he is now going to focus on building the best team he could and winning a few games. You’re wise, Coach - better late than never.
Another story mentioned the retirement of William Jenkins – President of the LSU System. He’s the only person in public office in Louisiana (the Leadership of LSU is the most public of all offices in Louisiana) to survive nearly 20 years and never have anyone talk bad about him. It’s amazing. He’s a modest and likable guy – but others with those traits have been skewered. I think Dr. Jenkins managed expectations. Enjoy your retirement Bill.
A book review was also written up in today’s paper – it was another biography on the Bear – Bear Bryant. He was the greatest of all expectation managers. The Bear could be facing the Girl’s Volleyball team at the Alabama School for the Feeble in a preseason scrimmage and he’d have you worrying about the safety of his players being forced to face such a formidable opponent. When he’d win a National Championship he’d simultaneously have you celebrating the good fortune of the Tide in beating such a superior opponent and praying for next year because we’ll be lucky to stay on the field with any of our competitors. He was a genius.
On the other side of the ledger is Roscoe – the soon to be Mike the Tiger VI. He hasn’t even taken the Christian name of Mike yet and he and his handlers are already building false expectations. Currently known by the name of Roscoe (Muslim name meaning big cat with lots of stripes) Mike is an above the fold, page 1 story in Today’s Advocate. He’s only 2 but he’s already obviously intoxicated with the power that comes from his new role as the Pagan God of Tiger Nation.
He had to have a big ego to qualify for consideration for this lofty position and once he spends a few days in the Taj Mahal that is his “DEN” he’ll be out of control with Power – another Putin or Castro. Down here people believe that many years ago Earl Woods chose the name Tiger for his son because of the majesty and power of the LSU Mascot. This Cat has had expectations built that he’ll never live to! Why do you think there have been V tigers before him – stress killed the others.
The biggest failure in this year’s world of managing expectations is Michigan’s Coach Carr. His team lost to Appalachian State on opening day. His team was ranked # 5 in pre-season polls - dumb move, Coach. This is equivalent to the Bear losing to the aforementioned Volleyball Team. Always lower expectations.
September 3, 2007
It’s Labor Day. Today’s update was going to include thoughts or experiences discovered as I walked the streets of New Iberia. Unfortunately – or fortunately – there was nothing happening on the streets of this city.
New Iberia is slow on a fast day and damn near stopped on a slow day. The good news is that the risk of workplace injuries is much lower today. If Main Street is an indication of the pulse of the city the only injuries will be caused by folks falling out of their chairs as they doze at their desks. The sounds you hear are not machinery – it’s snoring. This is my type of town. Boring – so boring.
I went home in hopes of finding Labor – to celebrate the holiday. Again nothing was happening. Sheila was in the sun room “working on” her jig saw puzzle. Her Momma was watching her. Watching someone work on a puzzle is not exciting even if it’s the International Jig Saw Puzzle Olympics. This wasn’t.
As I headed down the hall towards the sun room I noticed an 18” X 18” tile that has been signed by the former employees of Claude P. Gragnon Wholesale. At the center of the tile is a brass plaque acknowledging Wilbert Martin Landry or to me – Uncle Boozoo. He was my Momma’s brother. He worked here from 1935 until 1998 when the business was sold. He was Gragnon’s Wholesale.
I stopped briefly to celebrate the folks alive and dead that made Gragnon’s a success. The signatures for the most part are the folks that I never new. They worked here after I moved to Baton Rouge. My thoughts today were mostly about Percy, Hebert, Mr. Paul, Davis, Thibeaux, Bruce, etc. These were the guys that were Gragnon’s. They taught me how to work. Happy Labor Day!
Right after lunch Sheila and I picked up Slade for a little yard leave from Momma’s side. Claire and Lela agreed to sit with her so Slade could join us for a movie. We bought tickets to the Bourne Ultimatum and then invested about $20.00 in two very large drinks – about “kiddie pool size” and a garbage can of popcorn. To the popcorn we added about two sticks of melted butter – a great healthy snack.
I make about 2 movies a year and have never seen a movie to completion on TV because I fall asleep. Three things that impressed me in this movie were – no sex, no foul language, and finally and most significantly the pace. I grew up on Bond – James Bond Movies. Sean Connery was the only James Bond there ever was or ever should be in my book. He was the best and his movies were exciting and fast paced.
After watching Jason Bourne I think James Bond should be put in a Nursing Home. He must have been half dead when he made the movies and 40 years later – he probably is dead. I realize now I’m old – too old for today. I don’t play video games because they’re too intense. I don’t drink Red Bull because it makes me hyper and I couldn’t follow this movie. Bury me next to Bond – James Bond.
September 4, 2007
I’m a sissy. I go along to get along. In my mind it’s easier to cooperate than confront. I remember when we were wrapping up our renovations of Gragnon’s and Sheila was in the “indecision part” of the painting process, I made 11 trips to Lowe’s in one day. Carol came by that day as I was on my 9 th trip and she was amazed. She commented “George would never do that.” She’s right - George is a man. I repeat - I’m a wimp (Cajun for sissy.) Before you tell me to lighten up or there are others like me or I shouldn’t be so hard on myself, understand this works for me - go along to get along. Thing good be worse - sissies are people too.
What allowed me to “come out of the coward closet” today was a picture in the paper of President George W. Bush with a tear running down his cheek. It was included in an article about Bush, his “cowboy” persona, and the sensitive soul that rests inside. It talked about his faith and his use of God’s shoulders to shed his tears. It mentioned, he rarely cries in public but in private it is acceptable behavior.
I remember when the war in Iraq first started Don - a mentor of mine, told me that “he hurts for George Bush.” If you can lay politics aside and most people can’t I think Don is right. I don’t think any of us would want to live with the issues that confront President Bush or any other President of the U.S.
Last year I heard a world famous speaker discussing the War in Iraq. He prefaced his comments that he was a Democrat and a liberal - a far left liberal. He said that he hated George Bush for a lot of reasons but there is one thing that he did admire. This was his resolve. He reminded the mostly conservative audience that we were at War and in war you need a President with resolve. The mostly military audience applauded - they understood. They had resolve as well.
I think I’ve mentioned before that I write for me more than I do for others. For me writing is therapy and today I need therapy. Most of my most intimate friends who read this and many casual acquaintances who have been exposed to me are shaking their heads and saying “Just today - Mike you need therapy everyday?” Let me rephrase that statement - “especially today.” Today was tough - Sheila’is struggling with her Momma and my Momma. Her Momma’s struggling with breathing and my Momma’s struggling to wring the last of dignity and independence out of life.
Slade has been the bright light in what has become a relatively “dark” year. He’s comforted Lela while he’s lived with Momma. He’s kept Momma out of a Nursing Home and has given her a safe and comfortable road to her inevitable decline. Mid morning Sheila called to tell me he threw his back out lifting her. I cried.
As I close this therapy session - I’ll try to tie together these loose ends. I made almost as many trips to the Medical Supply store today as I did to Lowe’s for paint. I cried a lot today. The good news is that I was liberated by President Bush knowing that cowboys cry. Maybe my friends see a cowboy and not a sissy.
September 5, 2007
Sheila’s been proofing the words that have been this observational and has offered a few loving comments. Some less enlightened husbands might even consider her stuff criticisms. She’s mentioned that she finds much repetition in my work, some of it is boring, and there is too little variety in my activities. One of her most specific critiques is that I write about Mary’s for Coffee too much.
Never one to complain without offering a “better way” she suggests that I write about more exciting people, events, and activities. I smile and say “you’re right dear.” You’re right dear is “husband speak” for “Your momma was right you were a fool for marrying me and you could have done so much better with Don or Mark or Tommy or Internet dating or a drive by pickup at the homeless shelter.”
What I’m thinking - wait thinking is too strong a word for a husband maybe I should substitute feeling - yes that’s it. What I’m feeling is - my life is repetitious, boring, and familiar. The good news - I’m with the majority. Those folks my age that live adventurous lives are more often than not - in prison, running from the law, perverts, or in their seventh marriage. Boring is good.
Now I’ve created a dilemma for myself. Every morning I read the current update for Sheila so that she can offer some immediate reinforcement on the work. Then I hand in the written copy which is graded for accuracy, style, and substance. I did mention that Sheila is a retired teacher, didn’t I? If necessary after my verbal presentation or after the review of the writing on occasion I must accept a few “whacks” of the ruler across my knuckles. I did mention that Sheila was a retired teacher from the Catholic School System - didn’t I?
The dilemma is that this is the first time I’ve ever talked back to Miss Manes (I mean Sheila) in one of these updates. I’m going to be in real trouble when I’m called in at 7:00 a.m. to present my homework. She’s not going to like this expose - this presentation on my life lived. I’ll try the excuse that her friend Sherry suggested I write this, that her friend Sherry told me to share all aspects of my life, that her friend Sherry told me to be truthful. It won’t matter. I’m up the creek.
I’m in deep trouble. I’m 7.3” into a page that only has 9.6” for script. I don’t have time to start anew. I’m going to be late if I don’t have this done. The weekend is coming and I don’t want to be punished. HELP! I had hoped to get recess or more properly named “Yard Leave” tonight. I guess that’s out. The best I can hope for at this stage is damage control. My dilemma is how am I going to type with 1 hand?
Honey, I was joking. You know how I sometimes am impulsive and get myself into trouble. Sweet lips - you know how sometimes I write without thinking or speak without knowing what I’m doing. You know darling maybe it would be wise in the future if I wrote this with you watching since you do this better than me. I love you darling, please understand. Did yesterday I mention that I’m a wimp? Pray for me.
September 6, 2007
Well I did it. I turned in yesterday’s update. I now sit at the keyboard with my fingers securely on the letters A - S - D - F. My other fingers are securely on my chest resting comfortably in a sling. The doctor didn’t believe my story that I had slammed the car door on them. He felt I probably was trying to lift my lawn mower while the engine was running and my fingers were injured. Did I mention that Sheila is very strong? He thinks I’m embarrassed to admit the truth - he’s right.
I’m committed to completing a full page today even if it will take twice as long to type with this one hand. Years ago this was called the hunt and peck method. I don’t know what it’s called today. Painful would be a good start. I wasn’t sure what I’d use to complete today’s observational so I thought I’d take a break from the routine, go to the kitchen for some pain medication, and pray for a topic.
As I headed down the hall I nearly tripped over my mother-in-law’s oxygen machine. Prayer is answered. Two days ago, Lela admitted the inevitable that she had serious lung problems and needed some help to extract oxygen from the environment. Voila - a new oxygen pump and several oxygen tubes (for travel) arrived a few hours later. Aging ain’t for sissies or folks without resources.
Last night, we ventured to Momma’s for supper. Slade had prepared Jambalaya in his spare time as care taker, cook, chief bottle washer, psychologist, and physical therapist for his grandma. He also provides similar services for Lynda. I’m not sure if Lynda has been mentioned before but for the past year she has lived with Momma as a care giver in residence.
Lynda grew up next door to us. She’s slightly older than me. Lynda and Momma have always been close. I remember Momma tutored her during her early years in school. Lynda has always been devoted to Momma. Lynda has lived a challenging life but through faith, endurance, and durability she’s a survivor. As Momma headed down the road of decline Lynda enthusiastically embraced the role of roommate, chauffer, and security guard. She was a Godsend.
Unfortunately actors sometimes deviate from the scripts that I write - Lynda became ill and was hospitalized for longer than Momma. She’s still a housemate but now more of an additional resident in my Hazy Memories Assisted Living Center than the staff she was before. Slade will get extra points on his road to heaven because he’s providing as much support for Lynda as he is for Momma.
Before the Jambalaya was served we received the new lift to go with Momma’s new hospital bed. This had been prescribed by the doctor since Momma’s immobility has become more challenging and Slade’s recent back injury makes it impossible for him to merely carry her as he has done in the past. The miracle of technology, Slade’s big heart and patient soul, and Momma’s fear of the Nursing Home are keeping her free. Did I mention that old age ain’t for sissies - neither is care giving.
September 7, 2007
Reviewing these exciting updates for the month I realize that maybe I haven’t provided insight into the dynamic, fun, and frivolity that is my life in New Iberia. I have overburdened the two of you that are reading this with issues of hurt, hardship, and horror that occasionally must befall each of our lives. Maybe also I have spent too much time “whining” about the challenges I face in my torrid, hot, love affair with Sheila. I mean it is true that she makes me walk the straight and narrow and on occasion must resort to physical discipline to correct me but the truth be known in sort of a sick way I enjoy it. So today I’ve decided - I’ll head back to the happy side of life. Besides - she said if I besmirched her reputation one more time there’d be hell to pay.
My dear wife in addition to her other duties has been reading through the past 249 pages of this update until today and inventorying who has been included - the amount and quality of coverage and the appropriateness of my comments. For the record, to date 71 individual friends / acquaintances have been mentioned by name and one by the absence of his name, ___________.
She has strongly encouraged me now to get back to my primary mission of celebrating her friends and slandering her enemies. In the next 116 days I must cover all those who think they deserve coverage and do it right. This is no small task. If I get it wrong I apologize - blame Sheila.
As I looked in the mirror this morning I realized that my full figure is returning a little bit (I had looked anorexic for a while) and that reminded me that I needed to provide proper acknowledgement to Carol. Carol is a fabulous cook - who still does. She in recent weeks and months has been a regular contributor to the food pantry at this halfway house for the physically, mentally, and morally infirm. She’s been the # 1 contributor of food to our freezer since we moved here in January of 2006.
Carol is the patient soul married to George. George and I go back to the 7 th grade and I believe Carol and George go back to the 8 th. Carol is the mother of Kevin and Tommy and now the grandmother of Isabelle Grace. These boys are her greatest accomplishment. She birthed the boys and better yet kept them alive when maybe the temptation of their stern father was to kill them as teenagers or at least administer more serious discipline than is normal today.
Carol is like all of the women mentioned in this update - beautiful and talented. She was a very good basketball player in her day, one of the Big 8 - a social group with more prestige than the Krewe of Andalusia, and a very friendly soul. Carol today is the “keeper” of George, the owner and operator of Gingerbread House day care, a political activist, and loving sister. All of this on top of the fact that as a very young woman she faced serious health challenges of her own. I don’t know if she taught George or George taught her but they’ve both beaten the odds of illness. I’m glad - they’re dear friends and Carol cooks GREAT. (George makes a great martini).
September 8, 2007
During the years I’ve brought many contributions to Mary’s for coffee. Coffee, donuts, biscuits, boudin, Will, strangers, etc. Others have brought more - cracklin (fried fat), chicken salad, fried fish, wine, whiskey, CDs, etc. Today I venture over with books - this is a first. I don’t think anyone has ever brought books into this group - that (with the exception of Mary, Sylvia, Marla, and a few other folks) would make the Barbarians at the Gate look civilized.
I didn’t buy books for Buster, Charlie, George, Johnny, the Judge, Rob, Butsy, etc. these were given to me for delivery by the author - Chris. Chris is the son of Phil. Phil was mentioned in May at the time of his permanent exit from the Coffee Club. Phil was a regular - a charter member of the group. He had been in declining health for years and entered the hospital at Labor Day of 2006. He changed hospitals several times but never left the hospital environment until his death in May of 2007.
Chris was Phil and Susan’s first son. Later they had twins - Jeff and John. If you live the good life in South Louisiana there is a fair chance that someday your paths may cross with these “boys.” Jeff is a very talented chef and John is the Greens Superintendent (greens as in Golf not mustard, turnip, etc.) at English Turn. Phil used to joke that he didn’t know what it was like to have 2 children - he had one and then he had three. Phil was a troubled soul but a devoted father. These boys loved their dad and respected him as he battled his demon - alcohol. He finally beat the devil and gave them a lesson in discipline / courage - “facing the Tiger and being free.” We celebrated Phil’s sobriety at his funeral.
The book provided was one of several that Chris has written. All have had an LSU or Southeastern Conference and sports “twist.” This one was called A Tailgater’s Guide to LSU Football. It’s good - I read through it this morning. It’s one of the “mini-books” so popular today. Sort of a God’s Little Instruction Book for “sports addicts.” It’s fact filled - sort of an encyclopedia of sports trivia. Unfortunately it is not a totally accurate picture of the Tailgating Experience at LSU since if it was it would have to be Rated X - sort of sports porn.
By coincidence tonight LSU plays Virginia Tech at Tiger Stadium. Night games are one of the features that make LSU Tailgating and their games unique. The other uniqueness is the fact that LSU fans are crazy. I’m not talking in the hyperbole of sports - I’m talking in the science that is medicine - LSU fans are nuts. In fact a full page ad ran in the Advocate yesterday reminding fans to be sensitive because of the Hokies’ recent tragedy. (Sometimes Tiger fans can be obnoxious).
From Chris’ book - “It’s a magical setting, the excitement, the atmosphere, is unmatched anywhere - and I’ve been in stadiums from one end of America to the other. They ought to put up a statue to the guy who came up with night football at LSU.” (Mike Bynum, sports author). Mike’s right - the place is different - it’s not a game it’s an experience everyone should enjoy or endure one time. Geaux Tigers!
September 9, 2007
This morning I walked - lost in sweat and thought for about an hour. It took me maybe an hour and a half because I was also lost in conversation for part of that time. As I approached Victor’s I saw Jimmy and Aunt Mazie standing in front. My heart raced - if they were just going in I might be able to poor mouth a free breakfast - free to me. Unfortunately they had just finished. We visited briefly about the two residents in my chain of assisted living centers - Lela and Momma. Then we made small talk about the rest of the family. They went home and I headed across the bayou in search of good health.
As I turned from Indest Street on to Lawrence I knew my next stop would be a brief visit with Al. I could smell him as I approached. I don’t mean to suggest that Al is unclean - he’s actually a fairly meticulous guy - I can smell him since Al smokes cigars on his front porch. I’m guessing this is his wife’s house rule similar to Sheila’s prohibition on me bringing pole dancers into my bedroom - I digress.
I stopped and Al and I were quickly able to address the Tigers’ victory over Virginia Tech + the disappointment of Tiger Fans everywhere in that Les Miles let Virginia Tech score, the upcoming local elections, and the issues of Health Care in the state and the nation. If we had had more time I’m sure we could have answered the question of world peace as well. Once I noticed Al dozing off as I talked, I knew it was time to resume my search for excellence in personal fitness - I walked on.
Near the light at Marie and Duperier Street I heard a truck horn and looked up to see someone yelling at me. My eyes are bad and my hearing his worse so it took a second to open my eyes and squint my ears. I looked and listened - living in a Pentium world with a 286 memory chip is not easy so it took me awhile to realize this was Gene and Judette. Gene is an old friend (still younger than me) married to a young woman. They grew up here but have lived in Beaumont for years.
They pulled into the parking lot at the now closed Cecil’s Service Station so we could talk. I was hot, sweaty, and stinky - Gene reluctantly shook my hand. Despite providing a warning about my unclean nature - Judette gave me a big hug and a kiss. For the sake of comparison I went home and Sheila made me quit sweating before she’d kiss me. Did I mention that I’ve always loved Judette. In fairness Sheila knows me better, sleeps with me, and has seen this rose out of bloom.
Judette and Gene were in town to help clean up Judette’s mother’s home to be sold. They’ve just relocated her to be nearer family in Lafayette. In 5 minutes we caught up. We agreed that when things got back to “normal” we’d get together and once again enjoy the good times. Judette then reminded me that this is now “normal.”
Gene and Judette are great folks - who have had success in business and in child rearing. Their success hasn’t changed them. They’ve kept life in perspective and remain good friends except now we only get together at weddings and funerals.
September 10, 2007
I’m sure you saw or at least heard about the movie Back to the Future. Because of the chaos that has prevailed in my life recently I have once again fallen behind in these updates. Today is not really September 10, 2007 - it is actually September 28, 2007 and today when I inventoried this month’s writings I discovered that I had missed the 10 th, 21 st, 22 nd, and 26 th. Panic!
The problem with playing catch up is not the writing of 543 words - the problem is finding a topic to write about. When life is in chaos it is even more difficult because no one wants to hear about the chaos because it sounds like whining and in chaos the fun stuff kind of gets overlooked.
The good news is that I just completed an update for the 18 th and in it I wrote about Coach Bobby. This created a topic for me for the 10 th which was previously overlooked. So now instead of going back to the future - I’ll go from the future to the past. For the next 500 words - we’ll leave September 2007 and venture back to Catholic High School in New Iberia during the 1960s.
Today I want to celebrate, reminisce about, and thank the Coaches - Tom, Raymond, Bobby, and Cam. Understand as a 59 year old man it is still difficult to call them by their first names even though Tom is dead, the others have mellowed and I might be able even in my impaired condition outrun them if they are offended. As students they’re first names were not used by us. They were called Coach, Sir, or Coach _____________ (fill in the last name as needed). Because of my commitment to privacy and HIPAA laws I’ll reluctantly use their first names only.
Tom appeared when I was in 6 th grade, Raymond and Bobby came the next year and I think Cam was a year or two after that. This was in a different time and a different place. We were children of the greatest generation and physical parenting was the norm. Time out was reserved for football games and “because I said so” was the parenting philosophy used by all. Dr. Spock was a sissy.
In a day when there was very little disruption of class by students and when behavioral problems were about talking out of turn, missed homework, and chewing gum in class these guys had zero tolerance. As coaches they took a rag tag bunch of boys and through discipline, fear, and incredible work turned them into “to be men” much sooner then they would have. Now as men - the majority of us or in my opinion are better for the experience.
Some loved these guys, some hate them, and some maybe are less remembering than I am but I believe we are better today because of them and as a social critic of one - I think the world would be better served if every classroom and every school had teachers and coaches that could intimidate the system for good versus being intimidated by the system as it is. I don’t know what New Iberia would have been like without them but I believe we were and are better for them - Thanks Coach!
September 11, 2007
Seeing Gene and Judette and being close to Labor Day I was reminded of other friends that deserve 15 minutes of fame and celebrity in the pages of this Journal. Mickey and Jeanne, Morris and Margie, and Joey and Julie were New Iberia folks that escaped the gravitational pull of Bayou Teche to seek fame and fortune in the rest of the world that some folks believe is out there.
This group and a few others gathered every year at Labor Day to celebrate family, friendship, and the opening of school - getting our kids out from under foot for 9 months. Each year we’d gather for good food, more beer than most of us drank post our college years, exaggeration, updates, and memories.
This annual gathering was a lot like enjoying The Big Chill without having to lose a friend. Through the years this exercise in reminiscence has taken us to garden spots such as Morgan City, Gonzales, Cade, and of course New Iberia. There was always more “catch up” on our lives than Catsup on our hamburgers.
Morris and Margie were on the fast track in the oil patch. They lived / worked in New Orleans, Houston, and have retired in Mandeville. I think there were other stops along their path to retirement. In the past 30 years our paths have crossed only about 5 or 6 times - once or twice on Labor Day, at a wedding and a funeral and once at 5:00 in the morning in Wal-Mart. This was post Katrina and they were getting some supplies to return home to face the destruction of their home. They were philosophical about their loss - “Mike, we weren’t hurt and we have insurance. A lot of people had it much worst.” I told you they were good folks.
Mickey and Jeannie lived in Morgan City while raising their children and have recently moved to Lafayette. Jeannie recently retired and Mickey continues to take pictures of folks as skeletons (X-ray technician). They’re living the good life and spoiling their grandchildren. Mickey and I roomed together in college for a semester or two - including a brief period at Pilette Manor. This was sort of like being an outpatient in a hospital for the criminally insane. We fit in well.
Jeannie is an artist on the side - she can take blueberries, some sugar, cream cheese and a few other natural ingredients and create the “Mona Lisa” of Cheesecakes. It will make you slap your Momma. She’s promised when I go to my reward to slip one in the box with me. I hope it doesn’t melt.
Joe and Julie have been oil field nomads as well. They successfully raised their children in spite of living for many years in Lake Charles. Joey’s been the “boss” with his employer and Julie assumes that role at their home. Julie on the side has also taken time to earn a Ph.D. Obviously Joey is sufficiently trained that he doesn’t require much supervision. Growing up Joey was the “mentor / coach” for Buster - the aforementioned recovering personality. I wonder if Joey’s influence worked to create the “old” Buster or was the motivation for the “new” - we’ll never know!
September 12, 2007
Road Trip!
If you’re a parent with children this may evoke the best of fantasies and yet creates the worst of nightmare potential. Occasionally the idea of loading the kids and their stuff in the old station wagon (or in today’s world the van or SUV) and heading across the country, the state, or even the parish in search of fun and adventure is sometimes a high risk venture.
When you’re a teenage (sans parents) or a young adult still wrestling with your youthful sense of adventure and your acknowledged need for maturity - ROAD TRIP can get your heart beating fast.
As a young single man two Road Trips stick in my memory. One was a true adventure - the other was a fairly conservative event that resulted in adventurous tales that still haunt be today because on the second trip I was haunted by some tagalongs - Bud, Jack, and Jim. Since these folks are something of celebrities, I’ll include their last names - Bud Weiser, Jack Daniels, and Jim Beam.
All these guys didn’t ride with us as we headed to Mike and Ceci’s wedding in Biloxi. I think Bud was in the car going up. Jim and Jack were waiting for us at our destination. None made the trip home. On the way back the more conservative cousins - Pepto and Tums were with us. This Road Trip and the cheap attempt by _______________ to blackmail me about it is why his name is permanently barred from this journal.
As coincidence would have it the same three celebrities - Bud, Jack, and Jim were instigators of the other Road Trip. In about 1969 or 1970, I was sitting in the Keg with the aforementioned dignitaries and Johnny and D. L. - my roommates. We debated heading to New Orleans for Mardi Gras (it was the Friday before). On a whim we loaded into D. L.’s car - about a 1954 Plymouth and headed to Houston or so I thought. As we made the loop - Johnny hollered something in Spanish and we drove on to Nuevo Laredo.
Hours later we woke up or better yet sobered up in the Presidential Suite at the American Hotel. In an additional moment of weakness we headed to Boys Town for some additional entertainment. Without the direct intervention of Bud, Jack, and Jim (and I no longer drink at 6:00 in the morning) my story will end here. Suffice it to say - we made it home safely. God takes care of old women and drunks.
What triggered this trip down memory lane was a Road Trip yesterday morning that commenced for Slade and Seth. Seth was going to a Paintball Retailer’s Convention and he needed someone to ride shotgun. Slade needed a break from his role as caretaker. Until late Friday - I’ll relish their time together - the fun they’ll have. I’ll pray for their safe return and I’ll quietly reflect on my own Road Trips!
September 13, 2007
I stopped by Noel’s (not his real name) office to get some papers notarized. He dispatched my request quickly and professionally and then he invited me to visit since his next client was late. We caught up on family and friends and then as we often do took a trip down memory lane. I realize now this lane is getting longer.
We reminisced about our college years, some of our adventures, and one or two dreams of wealth and fame. I suspect all of us at one time or another fantasize on “get rich quick” schemes that never are - either because we fail to try them or the premise was flawed so we try and fail. I reflect on the Pet Rock and realize that my mind could have conceived that gimmick but some other guy “cashed in.”
As younger men - all too often our fantasies consolidated physical pleasures with hope for fiscal gain. We had once considered as college students a house of ill repute. This is probably as normal a fantasy for young men as is hitting the winning home run (a grand slam) in the bottom of the 9 th of the World Series - of course there would be two outs and full count.
To our credit we were visionaries - we saw the sexual revolution - we anticipated women’s rights - we were planning a place that would reach out to liberated women and provide them a safe, clean release for their unmet needs. We were going to call this ___________ a Go Go! This is a more family oriented journal.
As we aged we acknowledged that time and practicality probably required us to better focus our fantasies - we converted the aforementioned service to a self service massage parlor or a local “Cajun Chippendales” type dance group - we’d stripped to Zydeco and Swamp Pop. These great ideas never got off the ground either.
I walked out of Noel’s office grinning like the cat that ate the canary. Sex sells - sins sells and even in little old New Iberia there has been such places in the past. In our youth there was a drug culture. We heard of Hattie’s and occasionally as underage drinkers in search of a beer and an adventure we’d stop by Electa’s.
The Golden Pheasant was an old time “speakeasy” managed by Miss Dolly. We spent much of our misspent youth in search of excitement at the Pheasant. Although the most excitement I saw there was created by Johnny, Johnny, Bob, and Billy - it was rumored to offer much more than drunk college kids. Hello Dolly!
Lost in my fantasies - I pulled into a big old house. There I saw a beautiful Madam - trying to herd in her crew. OC was there - she was the one in charge for the day - she’s black! Around her were two platinum blondes (Sugar and Snowflake) and two red heads (Cinnamon and Spice). A horn honked - I left my fantasy to realize that I had pulled into my own driveway. The old house was Gragnon’s Wholesale and the Madam was my beautiful wife Sheila. OC was the mother - her kittens surrounded her. At last my I had my own CAT HOUSE! Fantasies are GREAT.
September 14, 2007
Slade was coming home or as we’d say in the military many years ago reporting back to duty. In his absence Sheila and I volunteered to help and we had to hire “Miss Willie,” draft the services of Sarah, Johnny, and Claire and beg help from Aunt Mazie and her granddaughter Bridget, her son Paul, and his son Scott. I love Slade buy I never realized the contribution he was making. Thanks Slade!
Slade and Seth were returning from their Road Trip to Shreveport, Dallas, and Austin. At about 5:00 p.m. they called to say they’d be in by 9:00. At 10:00 their called pushed ETA back to midnight. I was half asleep all evening on Momma’s couch. She was half asleep tying to get to sleep - I was half asleep praying for her to get to sleep. She was fighting her sheets, gown, pillow, and bed rail. She’d grunt and stir in apparent pain. When I’d whisper, “Are you hurting, she’d quickly respond, NO!
Momma could have been Cleopatra - she spent so much time in denial! She’s has pain and hurt in her life but she never acknowledged it. Her philosophy is simple - “play the cards life deals you” and “mind your own business.” If more people in America believed as Momma does - “whining” would not be a word and Jerry Springer would still be a politician and not a celebrity. When I could stand the pain no longer - hers not mind - I forced two Tylenol on her. Earlier we had used a home remedy - a shot of bourbon seasoned with a little water. It helped some.
About midnight I heard Seth’s truck - then two doors slammed. I hurried to the porch to greet them. They were unloading much of the stuff that Slade had brought back from Austin. I helped. If I realized how much work was involved I probably would have feigned sleep longer. Slade rushed in to see his grandmother in her semi-conscious state. I offered to waive visiting hours / restrictions for Seth but he declined - he’s not comfortable around sickness and aging.
Seth followed me home to grab a night’s sleep before he returned to his store on Saturday a.m. Slade stayed at Momma’s to resume his role as orderly, administrator, doctor, nurse, and physical therapist for Momma. I learned this week that I’m better suited to manage a Paintball Store than I am a nursing home.
Slade the more sensitive of the two souls that I share and call my sons had brought presents for Sheila, Lela, and me. We opened these on Saturday. Slade is thoughtful in his giving and so I sought for the subtler meaning of his gifts. There was a picture / message for me, a leaded glass cross for his mother and his Mimi (Lela) received a small humming bird constructed similarly to the cross.
My picture included the crown of a bald headed man with a crew of miniature men planting grass. The single word message was OPTIMISTIC. Obviously Slade was celebrating my optimistic personality and could not find a better picture. I wondered - is he suggesting that his momma’s “cross” or Mimi is “for the birds?”
September 15, 2007
Floyd is a guy who understands my world. He’s a fellow Circus worker. Of all my friends he’s one of the few that “walks the high wire” everyday - everyday without a net. Some of our friends think we’re crazy - others think we’re clowns. They may be right. Floyd is a guy who’d rather be free to fail than to work in structured job and succeed. He’s not self employed but he could be because he works on commission - he only eats what he kills.
This past month Floyd and I bonded deeper or closer. His mother who is a spry eighty something has turned the corner on the aging process and is not starting to lose some of the independence and dignity that accompanies a youthful old timer. In the past few weeks she’s lost her driving privileges and is now limited in caring for herself. Floyd now can empathize with my at risk and care taker worlds.
Earlier in the week she had to have a surgery which if done on you, you would consider Major. It went well. That’s the good news. The bad news is that all too often when such things occur we - the patient and the family become too concerned, too cautious, and too conservative. We start discouraging instead of encouraging. We see the worst instead of hoping for the best. We, with our good intentions, may delay death but we certainly don’t extend life.
On the morning after the surgery - Floyd got his Momma up in a chair before the doctor so ordered. He walked in with his bold cheer of Good Morning versus the softer or more cautious - “Momma are you OK?” When we talked today she was heading home with him. I’m sure even with the most stringent of HMOs she could have another day or two of hospitalization. Floyd said - “It’s beautiful outside, let’s go home!” Floyd doesn’t allow himself to get depressed - on the high wire you can’t look down. He’s one place I can go for positive light on the darkest of days!
Hilda is Floyd’s better half. Considering Floyd I don’t know if Hilda is as good as I make her out to be or if being positioned next to Floyd makes her appear better than she is. Hilda is the Mayor of New Iberia. She’s been mentioned before in this journal but has never enjoyed the personal spotlight she deserves.
She and Floyd raised 3 children. All turned out well or as we say down here - made their momma proud. Today they spoil their Grandchildren, children, and each other - all though they don’t see it in their spouse.
Hilda is one of my heroes. Running for public office is something that I’m not up to. At one time in my life I thought it would be fun to be an elected official. Today I can think of few things more painful. Hilda ran for mayor, won, and has served better than I even thought she would. She is a Democrat that grew up with the privilege of a Republican. She is patient, caring - sincerely caring for all people, and she works through the process of people and politics that would make me crazy. She loves what she does and it shows! Lead on, Hilda. Lead on!
September 16, 2007
It’s Sunday - not just any Sunday but rather a perfect Sunday. About 4:30 I venture to the street to pick up my two papers - The Advocate and the Daily Iberian. I’ll spend the next hour reading through these two paragons of journalism excellence. If you believe this then I suspect you’ve believe this journal is non-fiction. Wake up America - there’s been a lot of BS in the past and hopefully there will be more in the future pages of this Observational.
Today is perfect for a number of reasons. I’m alive. Sheila is treating me with the proper amount of respect. Momma and Lela are holding on. The Tiger won and won big. Finally on a Sunday morning in early September the temperature in New Iberia Louisiana is about 65 degrees with a relative humidity of less than that. It is great. Two are three days ago you couldn’t walk outside without breaking a sweat and sneeze without risking a heat stroke. Now it’s like fall in New England.
As I walk to the street I fully expect to see tour buses loaded with foreigners gleefully observing the changing of the colors in South Louisiana. Usually our fall is one day in late October or early November but it has already arrived and it is today. Even better is the fact that if this weather can be sustained for a while HURRICANES will not visit our homeland. It’s wonderful.
Then at this perfect time, on this perfect day, in this perfect place I make a big mistake. I open up the papers to the good news - LSU, the weather, the cartoons, etc. but I also discover that hidden behind the happy face that I see is the ugliness of life - ULL, my alma mater lost, storms my be forming in the Gulf, the war continues, etc. Well - so much for euphoria. I put on my optimistic hat again and realize that Life is good.
Since reading of these papers took over an hour I realize it must be Sunday. Sheila and I agree to accommodate Lela today and go to the Methodist Church versus our usual trip to the one, holy, universal Catholic Church that we attend. At the last minute Lela backs out of the invite and we are faced with the dilemma of where to go. Since I’ve already written the check for the collection plate and it’s made out to the First United Methodist Church of New Iberia we decide to continue with our plans and do some Missionary work among our Protestant friends.
We head to Jefferson Street versus our usual Sunday trip to the Old Jeanerette Road and park in the back. This way there is less chance that some of our Catholic friends see us in this alternative place of worship. We enjoy the service (as we do every time we attend). Reverend Scott is a great guy, a fine pastor and a better speaker. The Catholic Church has never been know for an accumulation of great orators. I’m sure if Billy Graham had been a priest he’d deliver stuttering and stammering monologues. After the service - we head home with lunch for Lela. I turn on the TV with hopes for the finish of a great day. Suddenly the Saints are losing to Tampa Bay - we should have gone to the Catholic Church.
September 17, 2007
In Louisiana - Football is king. I know that in every small Louisiana town and every city on ten or more Friday nights between September and November you can visit a stadium and watch the locals go after some group of lesser beings on a 100 yard long field of valor. The Mommas and Daddies and families and friends cheer rabidly as their sons grow into men right before their eyes. I’ve never watched it but I believe there was a TV program called Friday Night Lights.
Move forward to Saturday night and the ritual is magnified. The stadium is larger, ticket prices multiplied, the boys are men and more talented and like the stadiums much larger. The bands are bigger - the events longer and the passion greater or at least the alcohol snuck into the stadiums creates an appearance of greater passion.
If you want to take the experience to a “best of class” or “best practices level” then head to Tiger Stadium on a Saturday night. For the novice, the ordinary folks, or the working poor this means arriving mid or late morning on Saturday and beginning the ritual called “tailgating.” For the true devotee - the rich - the radical - the professional and self-employed or the unemployed this might actually involve arriving sometime on Thursday or Friday and beginning more of a marathon Tailgating process versus the sprint that the amateurs enjoy. The diehards have tents, RV, reserved spots, and creature comforts that many don’t enjoy at home.
Even if you don’t like football - it’s an experience that you should at least try once in your lifetime. You’ll gain weight, have the opportunity to get drunk, get caught up in the enthusiasm of berating the children of a lesser God who are the fans of your opposition and be turned off by mans in humanity to man in the name of sportsmanship. Your adrenaline level will rise and your heart will beat faster. This is like an old time tent revival with God pulling for only your side. Like the Tent Revival - the season is announced by posting of Football schedules throughout the town, parish, and state. It is as consistent as the sparrows returning to Capistrano.
Yesterday I saw a truly unique Louisiana poster with the schedule for a sport less ubiquitous than football but to it’s devotees a greater religious experience. It is one reason Tiger fans will miss a game or one reason folks vote absentee. The poster announced hunting season in South Louisiana. The only problem with this poster / service is that it’s on a camouflage background - so it’s hard to see.
A novice hunter is walking out of the wood without a kill to see Boudreaux leaving the woods wearing a bee keepers hat and veil, with his limit of dead squirrels and NO gun. Amazed the rookie asks Boudreaux how he kills the squirrel if he has no gun. Boudreaux explains that he is so ugly he can kill by merely looking at the squirrels. The disbelieving novice asks for a demonstration. Boudreaux pulls back his mask and another animal dies. The new hunter is awe struck and asks if Boudreaux is married. He responds yes. He then asks if his wife joins him on these hunts. No Boudreaux explains - she “busts ‘em up too much! Happy Hunting!
September 18, 2007
I don’t do chain letters. The good news is that I never was asked to participate in chain letters when they had to be mailed to someone. The bad news is now that the Internet and E-mail have made chain letter ubiquitous (I always thought this was a great sounding word - so I finally looked it up. It means ever-present, everywhere, or omnipresent. Now that I understand it - I’m going to start using it more. Soon my use of ubiquitous will be ubiquitous!) I digress.
On a nearly daily basis I receive an e-mail that challenges, encourages, or threatens me to pass on to at least 5 or 7 or 22 or my entire E-mail list and if I don’t I will die, face financial hardship, burn in hell or on the positive side I’ll make the world better, gain my greatest wish, sleep with Angelina Jolie (I hope Sheila doesn’t read today’s update but it wasn’t true away - I tried but Angelina and I could never find a convenient time to meet), etc.
I’ve made a hard and fast rule - that if it’s a chain E-mail I will not pass it on. With the exception of my hoped for rendezvous with Angelina I have never violated this absolute rule I haven’t violated my personal standards. I don’t care if it’s funny, patriotic, spiritual, noble, or goofy. On rare occasion I have bent this personal standard - if something is real touching (either funny, sad, or supernatural) I may send it on to a few friends but I’ll delete the promise or threat about passing it on.
Last night I again bent the rule - I didn’t break it but I did accommodate the request. Charlene sent us a recipe chain E-mail asking for our favorite recipe to be passed on the first person on the list and in exchange for this act of kindness over time we’d receive 112 recipes + a new car + true happiness, etc.
Charlene is married to Bobby and Bobby was a teacher and Coach in my youth. He arrived at Catholic High School when I was in about 7 th grade and stayed there until I finished high school. He and Raymond, Tom, and Cam were a crew - a tough crew. I was an innocent, impressionable kid - no athletic ability but a love for the game and I still admire these guys. Did I say they were tough?
Every year at Christmas and other times during the year, Momma would make her famous Chocolate Chip cookies and send some to the coaches and teachers. To this day one of these folks will comment about how much they loved those cookies. So for Coach Bobby I bent the rule and sent the recipe.
If you’ve read all or part of this journal for this 250+ days - you too deserve a bonus so here it is - Momma’s famous Chocolate Chip recipe. Consider this lagniappe!
Ingredients: 1 cup oleo (2 sticks) / ¾ cups granulated sugar / ¾ cups brown sugar / 2 eggs / 3 cups flour / 14 oz. semi -sweet chocolate / 1 cup nuts / 1 tsp. soda / pinch of salt / heavy on vanilla - Cream sugars and butter. Add eggs, flour, baking soda, salt, and vanilla. Add chocolate and nuts. Bake at 350 degrees for 12 minutes. Enjoy!
September 19, 2007
I heard a speaker on NPR recently comment that he was “Too lazy to work to scared to steal.” I liked the line. I don’t know why but it made me think of many of our elected officials and almost all of our politicians.
I tried to paraphrase the saying to fit it into our political process. “Too lazy to work so I’d rather steal” fits some of the candidates. Others might say “I’m not lazy and I will work hard but I do steal” or at least in their own mind “take an appropriate commission.” Some of the more honest might say, “Stealing is hard work - I’m working hard and so what I steal is fair play.
Probably another line of thought would take us to the true aphrodisiac that is Politics - POWER, real or perceived. This might be defined as “I’m not good at anything but if I get elected the power will make folks act like I am.” As you might be able to notice - I am a cynic when it comes to politics.
On the good news side of elected and political figures there are some talented folks. I know during the height of the disaster recovery many Edwin Edwards critics were seriously reflecting on the way he would have handled the recovery. Most, if not all believe, it would have gone much better than it did. This accepted as fact while acknowledging that he would have taken a significant commission for his efforts. In retrospect I think we would have been wise to pay it.
Watch Bill Clinton or Edwin Edwards work a crowd and you’ll see genius - artists at work. You may not believe in their philosophy, you may be enraged by their behavior, but he you can observe objectively their gifts - you will see masters at the art of people. John Breaux and Billy Tauzin possess similar skills. Locally we have a few others with exceptional gifts - I won’t acknowledge them because I believe they are not as good as their ego tells them and will ultimately follow Edwin Edwards to the “big house” and I’m not talking about the Governor’s Mansion.
Paul Harvey has a quote that I like to use to describe too many of our elected and political leadership. He says simply, “when little men cast long shadows the sun is soon to set.” This is the group I would like to expose today. I wish I could mention them by name but I’d rather stay out of court and just because I’m “agin” you doesn’t mean that you won’t get elected.
John Kennedy wrote a book Profiles in Courage - it was an award winning book by a man who became a popular president who didn’t have time to be measured by history but is recognized today as a flawed character with charismatic charm. Watch Bill Clinton and Edwin Edwards and you’ll see the power of personality.
I may someday write a book called Profiles in Cowardice, Corruption, and Ego. It would be longer than War and Peace and would only include candidates from the upcoming local elections. It’s Louisiana the State we’re in!
September 20, 2007
I love the warehouse - our home. This is the old building called Gragnon’s on Weeks Street in New Iberia. I’ve been in and out of this building since I was no taller than a case of Hershey Bars. I’ve been in it as a resident since January 31, 2006. This place is Sheila and I - it reflects who we are, what we do, like, and feel.
In 2004 after we purchased the building and lot - I invited our friend Jairo, a very talented architect to share some ideas with us. He was quite agreeable. After some delays we found time to drive to New Iberia on a Saturday morning so he could get some sense of the building and it’s potential. Jairo’s animated - he’s an artist - he’s won awards for his work. I was positive - he is proud. Two minutes into his perimeter search of the old warehouse building I knew this wasn’t going anywhere. He tried to be positive in a negative sort of way, “this is unique.” Then when that didn’t discourage me - he tried to be negative in a positive sort of way, “Mike for equivalent dollars you could build a new house.”
After the Jairo experiment went bad. I suggested a designer. Sheila met with her. It didn’t go well. She insulted Sheila’s extensive Christmas and Santa Claus collection - she suggested Sheila display them in the bathroom. Sheila did just that. It looks good except for occasional reindeer poo in the bathtub.
When we started the grand adventure of refurbishing this place many friends without the experience, training, or expertise of Jairo shared with us feelings similar to his. Many were merely polite - “this is going to be quite a challenge.” With more hope than common sense and with less money than either hope or common sense we undertook the project and successfully completed our dream home in about 8 months. Most if not all visitors are amazed when they visit the end product.
The most surprised are those that were familiar with the old building - those that had come with their parents or grandparents to buy candy and cigarettes - those that knew Uncle Claude and Uncle Booz. We have a winner. I’m a guy that believes you don’t mess with success. I could move into a home and if I get positive feedback on the structure, décor, and arrangement I’ll leave well enough alone for my entire future there. Nothing would ever change.
Sheila on the other hand is a “tinkerer” - she can’t leave well enough alone. She rearranges the furniture daily. If I ever go blind, I’ll have to chain her up or divorce her because I would never be able to learn a pattern to maneuver around the place. Each day I awaken in a new world. Today I walk in to the house and I panic - obviously Sheila has hired Daisy Duke to do an extreme makeover. There are purple patterned sheets, blue afghans, and Scottish plaid throws covering our furniture. I have very poor taste and this gags me. You can take the redneck out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the redneck. Fortunately mine was a false alarm - the dog was sick and these new covering were merely protection from dog poo. I wonder if we can cover the tub to keep the reindeer out.
September 21, 2007
I’m directionally challenged. I can get lost anytime or anywhere. I’ve been lost in Malls, I’ve lost my car in parking lots, I’ve been lost in office buildings, and occasionally lost in homes. I have gone into public restrooms and opened a closet door instead of the exit. I once believed that maybe I just was not observant or preoccupied but then I thought about other folks worse off then me in the observant or preoccupied category that can find their way out of a maze even if there is not a cheese offering at the end of the test.
If you can remember the scene from National Lampoon’s Vacation when Chevy Chase takes a wrong turn and ends up in a dangerous neighborhood - that’s me. It’s happened often. I remember once when I was driving to Shreveport from somewhere in South Louisiana. It was late, I was lost, and getting more and more frustrated. I was way back in the middle of nowhere and I saw a road sign that said Dallas - 7 miles. I panicked. The good news is there is a Dallas in Louisiana. To save you a trip - it’s not a place you want to visit. It’s a lot like “Plumnelly” - “plum” in the country and “nelly” in the woods.
Another time I was heading from my home in Sherwood Forest in Baton Rouge to the Baton Rouge airport. I was daydreaming as I often do. I looked up to discover that I was in Port Allen versus Scotlandville. I had taken the bridge instead of heading north onto I-110. I did the same thing in New Orleans once - crossed the GNO Bridge instead of getting off on St. Charles Avenue.
I used to worry about this limitation and suffer through the humiliation of this condition but then I read an article about a missing “gene” in certain exceptionally bright folks (read - geniuses) that limits their directional skills. Remember Einstein couldn’t remember his own address. I can’t find mine. Who do you think is smarter. Understand when I smile as someone brags about their flawless sense of direction I’m really thinking “Boy, you must be some sort of stupid - you have two of the genes that I’m lacking to make me so smart.”
In addition to the brilliance that this handicap provides there is one more advantage. I have an absolute excuse. My body could be found anywhere in the world and enemies would try to pin heinous crimes on me, friends might whisper in concern was I out to make a drug buy or did I have a girlfriend in some isolated point in the world while my dear wife would rest comfortably knowing that I was merely lost. It’s a safe alibi.
Now I must tell you the humiliation that accompanies the brilliance provided by the missing directional gene. On a recent Sunday morning - Sheila and I had spent the night at Seth’s home outside of Prairieville. I wanted to go get breakfast. I told Sheila I’d be right back. Before I could obtain permission to venture out for the carbohydrates needed to feed my diabetes - I was told to take my phone so I could call when I got lost and then I had to in detail describe how I’d get back. I did it!
September 22, 2007
Ryan called a few weeks ago. He needed to apologize. He also wanted to share some exciting news. He is getting married. That was his exciting news. The reason he wanted to apologize was that he was getting married. Confused - you should be?
Ryan was one of the several “kids” that grew up in our neighborhood with Slade and Seth. They and about a handful of other young, impressionable boys - someday to be men were always hanging around our house. As appropriate I would share with them the wisdom of my years. I was sort of a Mr. Wizard that knew the social sciences as well as the original Mr. Wizard knew the physical sciences. If you’re in your 50s you may remember Mr. Wizard - if you’re younger look him up on the Internet. Suffice it to say he was an icon of our youth.
One of the many lessons I shared with these young men wannabes was “stay single.” It was a lesson Uncle Booz tried to teach me. Since I’ve been married nearly 33 years obviously he was no more successful than was I. My admonition was maybe a little more politically correct and polished than Uncle Booz’s words of “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free.”
I can also remember his comments as a couple of newlyweds drove down the street in their car marked with “Graffiti” and dragging cans - he’d state sadly, “another fool broke his neck.” I was impressionable - I heard his warnings. I was single until I was 27. Unfortunately like millions before me - ultimately I too fell victim to some young beauty’s beguiling ways.
I guess in my heart I knew my lessons in life would not stick. Ryan had waited until he was older than I was when I got married to “break his neck.” Also he had called to admit his decision - so I knew he had heard me and had followed my instructions longer than most but he too was weak - falling to the ways of the flesh.
Ryan was a likeable, gangly kid. He was always smiling. He was one of the “Gang” in our neighborhood. Like the others you didn’t know where he would end up. I felt that he’d do / be OK but I never had aspirations of greatness. In his teen years I got a new perspective on Ryan. He had back / neck surgery and had to wear a halo for months. This was a ring screwed into his head and supported by braces that immobilized it. It looked painful. It had to be uncomfortable. Ryan wore this with a smile. Forget puberty or his 21 st birthday - in my mind that’s when he became a man. I’ll always respect Ryan for this - even if he didn’t listen to my advice.
Wes, Ryan’s older brother also chose not to follow my advice. He’s been married for years. He came to see me at the reception and I guess to reinforce his respect for me as a teacher and to assure me that he now understood my wisdom - he mentioned his recent counsel to Ryan, he told him, “Remember the first 20 years of your marriage because when you serve this time it will seem like just 20 minutes… underwater.” Wisdom was reinforced - they hadn’t listened but they had learned.
September 23, 2007
I’ve mentioned before the Mardi Gras masks of joy and sadness - the twin figures one smiling the other sad. These were the forerunners I’m assuming of today’s “smiley face.” I hadn’t thought of it but this might be the ideal logo for life. Life is some combination of funny and sad - joy and hurt - pain and gain.
I spent last night at Momma’s. I was the sitter in residence. The good news is that Momma is a low maintenance person. Her demands are very few. When she was independent - her demands were virtually non-existent and now that she’s lost her dignity and dependence her demands aren’t much greater.
We talked a little, watched TV a lot - even though I’m not certain she could see the screen or knew what was on. She was never much of an Alabama fan anyway. She’d sleep. I’d doze. Except for two Tylenols - she didn’t want anything to eat.
I spent the night next to her hospital bed on her 6 foot sofa. The only problem is I’m 6’ 2” - I normally sleep like a log - last night I felt more like a limb rushing down an overflowing stream. I never could get settled - deep sleep never overtook me. I woke up early - about 3:30. Normally I sleep later - 4:30. I walked about 15 feet into the front room of Momma’s small house and back 50 years into my youth.
It’s the first time I really sat still in Momma’s house, dusted off my memory, and rearranged the life as I know it. The front room is probably 12 or 14 feet wide by maybe 18 - 20 long. Growing up this was our living room and dining room. When I was 8 or 10 years old, Daddy and Uncle Booz took down the wall between the two rooms and closed in the door from the front bedroom that opened into the then living room. I remember Claire and me wrote a note and stuck it between the walls of the now enclosed doorway. I’d love to know what we wrote!
I stepped onto the porch - once screened and now open. The neighborhood was quiet - a sort of the back to the 50s moment. The Napoli and Brown homes looked the same as they did in my youth - Pessons’ Furniture sign still illuminated the corner and a vacant lot now stands where Puny and Harold once lived. Their house burned recently - it was an improvement since it was being used as a crack house.
I sat at the table in the dining room. I looked squarely at the set of Encyclopedia that Momma and Daddy bought for us in the 50s. It was one of the few purchases they probably made on time / credit. It was that important. On the side of the sofa was the broken processing unit for Slade’s computer. In that hard drive is much more information than existed in those books including the many years of annuals that followed the original purchase. Today life is more but maybe not better.
The memories - the change - I was nearly overwhelmed and then I arrived at home to find an e-mail video - titled “Back to the Sixties.” It was another trip down memory lane. We’ve come along way, Baby! Or then again - have we?
September 24, 2007
As I finished yesterday’s update - as hard as I tried I couldn’t capture all of my thoughts and memories from the brief tour of my childhood. So I’ll continue.
I walked back into the Den and saw Momma’s little frame buried in the new hospital bed she’s called home for the past month. Momma has become Namam. I was going to offer a phonetic pronunciation for the name but I don’t know how. This was our name for my Great Grandmother. She and Momma shared the same body style. Both lived life under 5 feet tall and both at death will be much shorter.
Like Momma - Namam’s end came in a hospital bed. Her’s was the old mechanical bed that was to Momma’s new electric version what a 1968 Oldsmobile 98 is to a Mini Cooper. Things then were bigger - heavier - real steel - much like our world - more stable. Today stuff is fast, hot, and cheap - and everything is global. My world in the 50s was two blocks large with an occasional 1 mile walk to Main Street and a daily 1 mile walk to school. Good years included 2 - 3 visits to New Orleans and a long weekend in Biloxi at the old but then grand Edgewater Gulf Hotel.
I’ve driven over 30,000 miles already this year and have been out of state 6 - 8 times. I just received some Spam from someone somewhere internationally in a language I didn’t understand. Let me escape the global economy and go back to the 50s again.
In the living room I passed Momma’s newly abandoned wheel chair. Again Namam had the big old steel chair that could not have made it through the door to Momma’s house. Mobility was not needed in her day since the doctor came to the house and if you went to the hospital - the ambulance came to get you.
Momma’s chair is portable, narrow and light. At the time she got it I thought it was tragic that she needed a chair. Now I think it’s tragic that she hasn’t been able to use it. Today her mobility is so limited and her body so broken there aren’t any places she wants to go and are only a few more where she needs to be. In another 4 months she goes back to her doctor - I dread the trip.
Last night - Johnny and I had to “pull” Momma up in her bed - hourly she slides down the back rest like a kid in a playground. For her comfort every so often we have to move her up closer to the head of the bed. As we lifted her up I couldn’t help but see Uncle Booz and me lifting Namam up the same way. He’d call her “oldie” and with him as my role model so would I. She’s been gone nearly 50 years now and only recently do I reflect on her - only now because in the mirror of life her reflection is Momma. Momma would be pleased with that mirror image.
I just wiped away a few tears and must look from the storm clouds to the rainbow that is life as we live it and choose it. Slade’s note on the refrigerator for the care and feeding of Momma caught my eye - it said, “Smile, the light shines on you today. Be honest. Be kind. Be patient. Be understanding.” I say - “Slade, Be back!”
September 25, 2007
A few weeks ago I commented on Jason Bourne the new James Bond. The most significant trait in the action thriller - the Bourne Ultimatum was the action. The pace was fast - real fast - too fast. I couldn’t finish my popcorn because thing were moving too quickly. I convinced myself that in order to be comfortable in watching such a movie one was required to be under age 30, have spent at least 46% of their waking hours playing video games, and have ingested 3 or 4 speed tablets washed down with several cans of Red Bull immediately in advance of entering the theater.
Last night I ordered supper for Momma, Lela, Lynda, Sheila and me. I agreed to pick up burgers at Duffy’s Diner. Duffy’s is a place to eat but more importantly a place to reminisce. It’s a low slung wide silver building on Center Street. Walk in and you’re greeted by you wait staff in poodle skirts and the appropriate background music to support these costumes. In fact the source of the music was a traditional juke box - with neon lights flowing around its perimeter.
If we could drive back in time as easily as we drive to Duffy’s - I could have been walking into the old “Yellow Jackets’ Nest” on the other end of Center Street. Back in the 50s when NISH (NI Senior High) was NIHS (NI High School) - you would have heard the same music and seen similar characters. If you’re over 55 when you read this - you’ll understand. If you’re under 25 - quit reading, you won’t get it. In between - just humor us as we venture back into the good old days.
Let me explain. Growing up - New Iberia High School or NIHS was one block behind my home. Lloyd Porter stadium was next door to the school. On the corner next to the school was a two story building that became a teenage hang out. It was called the Yellow Jackets Nest. It was owned and operated by “Miss Ruby” and “Mr. Wyatt.” These were the grandparents and part-time guardians of my good friend Kenny and his brothers - Ralph, Steve, and Tim.
To make the explanation a little easier - consider this place - Arnold’s in Happy Days. There were a few differences. In Happy Days there was only one Fonz. In New Iberia in the 50s many - if not most of the guys - looked like Fonz. There were more “duck tails” in this place then there were in all of Kaplan and Gueydan during the entire duck hunting season. (To understand this - think of Fonz’s haircut.)
The language in Arnold’s was different than at the Yellow Jackets’ Nest - there English was the exclusive language. At the Yellow Jackets’ Nest - English was optional, Cajun French was known by most, and Cajun English was the norm. I guess it’s ironic that Arnold’s was filled with WASPs and the Nest was filled with Yellow Jackets. Now let me explain the connection to Mr. Bourne.
Duffy’s is a production machine. There is more activity at the counter and more money exchanged in an hour than all day at McDonald’s. If you work at Duffy’s for a week you’ll be comfortable with the pace of Bourne - this place is action packed.
September 26, 2007
Hi Sugar!
The Sugar Cane like the corn in Iowa his to the elephant’s eye. In fact this year with unusually heavy rains and global warming the cane may actually top out at the giraffe’s esophagus. Save a late hurricane or an early freeze this may be a record crop. Regardless of the fickleness of Mother Nature - the good news - no the great news is that it’s Sugar Cane Festival weekend.
As far back as I can remember the last weekend in September is the Fair + the formal commencement of grinding (converting cane to sugar - not converting sugar to pleasure) + on Friday a day off from school, sort of New Iberia’s Mardi Gras. I remember with enthusiasm the week of the festival and the even itself. The street fair might set up in City Park on Wednesday or Thursday but the real deal was Friday. As kids - we were dependent upon Momma and Daddy to bring us to the “midway.” As teens we were able to hang out on our own.
Our only obligation on Friday was the Mass and the blessing of the crops - then we were free. It was sort of ironic that free was never heard again during the weekend. On Friday nights there was a fais do do or street dance. There were rides to ride, games to play, and cotton candy to eat. Parades included - the farmers (I think on Friday), the Children’s parade on Saturday morning, and the Queen’s parade and the Brown Sugar Parade on Sunday. Main Street was packed with people, the light post were wrapped in Sugar Cane stalks and the Main Street merchants honored the even in their display windows.
In the 50s the “style” was for boyfriends and girl friend to wear their best jeans, creased and starched, cowboy boots, matching cowboy shirts, and spray and glitter in their hair. It was sort of like Fonz and one of his “chicks” going to Key West - not pretty but “cool.” I can remember way back when at the Queen’s Parade one of the local celebrities rode in a new Edsel - the car of the future. The Edsel didn’t even get a full fifteen minutes of fame - as an innovation it was dead on arrival but we got to ooh and ahh before the death certificate was signed.
Tomorrow - we’ll venture to Johnny and Cathy’s new home to enjoy their backyard as our personal viewing stand for the boat parade. The “normal” porch group has received an invitation to this event so our first porch gathering in weeks will be more of a yard party than a porch party - such is life. As I read over my comments I realized there is nothing normal about the group or any individual members of the group. I guess regular group might be a better use of words but them most of us are at an age where we’re no longer regular either.
I won’t go to the Fair this weekend. I will go to Johnny and Cathy’s. I won’t make any parades. I will enjoy the excitement that you can feel in the air and see on the faces of the youth about town. I will say Hi Sugar if we meet! Enjoy.
September 27, 2007
Down here we often don’t do things directly - we often are “planning” to do something or are “fixing” to do something long before it gets done. I guess in more sophisticated circles this inaction would be called “procrastination” - here it’s merely the pace of the South.
On occasion the “fixing” or “planning” procrastination has a negative result - sometimes the consequences are positive and often it doesn’t really matter. Opportunities have been lost because of delay - occasionally success is achieved because the “time was right” after the “putting off” occurred and if you had been prompt you would have also been premature.
For the past several weeks I had been “planning to” go see Mr. Louie. This is the other half of Miss Mickey and Mr. Louie and a second set of parents to me. They’ve enjoyed their 15 minutes of celebrity on the pages of this journal a few times before - they may have by now aggregated an hour of fame.
I learned recently that Pat had moved Miss Mickey to Shreveport so she could take better care of her. My Louie has been house and bed bound for years and his ability to move even to the Den is virtually non-existent. Today I acted - I’m glad I did - sort of. I had to deposit a check, mail some letters and run a few errands. I drove to their home on the Loreauville Road and met Laurie their care giver under the carport. She explained that tomorrow Mr. Louie was going by ambulance to Shreveport for one last date with his wife.
She walked me into his bedroom and the hospital bed that has been his condominium for the past several months. He looked every bit of his 90+ years. With much encouragement he woke and recognized me with a great big smile. We talked - I think he understood what I was saying - I didn’t have a clue about his comments. Laurie translated. I did tell him to kiss Miss Mickey for me - he smiled.
I often joked that Paul had died at 23 years old but with an odometer that had rolled over a few times. He had wrung every bit of life out of his very few years. His daddy’s odometer had more miles, harder miles and the model of his vehicle of life is obviously outdated - his chassis and frame are spent. Laurie escorted me out - I tried to talk and to quote the old country song, “A little bit of tear let me down.”
As I was fixing to leave I decided to take one last trip down the memory lane that is the beautiful backyard of their home. To others it is a well manicured lawn backing up to the bayou’s bank - you’ll see trees, lawn ornaments, and a flower box. To me there was more than landscape - there was a childhood and teen years - memories, my greatest hopes and worst fears. I walked to the water and rode in my mind’s boat one last time, walked to the Bantam Rooster pen, and the tent. I saw Paul - w e talked - being 10 years old again was fun if only for a minute. Then I remembered Mr. Louie, Miss Mickey, and Momma. Being 59 is not as much fun - smile anyway.
September 28, 2007
Our now famous porch parties have been suspended for about the last two months. Now that Sheila and I are operating our chain of assisted living centers here in New Iberia it’s not possible to fit a social life into to our Fridays anymore or for that matter into our Thursdays or Mondays or any other day. If the priest wouldn’t acknowledge us after Mass on Sunday - I’d might think we had become hermits.
The good news - no, the great news is that on Tuesday, Johnny and Cathy encouraged us to invite the Porch Group to their house on Friday evening for a viewing of the Sugar Cane Festival’s Boat Parade. Johnny and Cathy a year or so ago bought a beautiful old home on the Bayou and spent a lot of money converting it into a beautiful new home on the Bayou. To give you foreigners some perspective it looks like Tara in Gone from the Wind after going through an extreme makeover. I had been in the house before and it was great. I knew that a deck, porch, and pool were being added and so I was anxious to see this addition. It was worth the wait.
Sheila and I promised Slade a disproportionate share of our estate in exchange for agreeing to care take both of his Grandmas on Friday evening. This freed up our calendar and then we took naps intermittently during the day to restore our personal batteries to be sure that we could see the party to its conclusion. We’re talking at least till 8:30 or 9:00 p.m. We’re hard rollers here. We and about 40 more dull (or maybe duller) people were there as well.
For first time visitors the house was the draw. For those of us blessed enough to have been to the open house or the Christmas Party we were there to see the new addition, to some of the cheapskates that we hang out with they were there merely for the free food and to be seen by the folks on the Boat Floats. It’s fun to watch folks packed into a jon boat, party barge, Boston Whaler, or Crew Boat - it’s more fun to be able to do this for about 10 minutes then walk into an air conditioned house, use the bathroom, get fresh snacks, drink, relax and then go out for another 10 minutes of spectator entertainment.
To paraphrase the famous quote - “We came, we saw, we conquered.” I can’t remember the Latin words or the source (maybe Napoleon) but we came, we saw and we drank some wine. We also ate, exaggerated and quietly envied Johnny and Cathy’s new pool and patio. It was about 90% complete but I can sure you don’t need an imagination to understand how nice it is going to be.
To even make the evening better we were able to provide Corporal Works of Mercy to a needy couple. John and Rose were visiting New Iberia from Madisonville. We were able through the federally funded “adopt a foreigner” program take custody of them and let them enjoy the ambiance that is Bayou Teche on Friday night. We had a drink at LeRosier to start the evening- exaggerated to each other about our lives, kids, and future and had another drink to end the evening. Life is good for us and the Mayor made John an Admiral of the Teche so life for him and Rose is great.
September 29, 2007
Our visit to Ryan’s wedding discussed here a week ago provided memories of the old neighborhoods. Sheila and I met in March of 1973 and married on March 8, 1975. In the two years before we were married I moved once. Sheila moved 6 or 7 times. After we were married we had three homes in Baton Rouge and now have moved for what we hope is the last time to the “warehouse.”
I don’t know if Sheila was running from old boy friends, the IRS, or the law, of if she just like to move or was testing my devotion but she almost killed me by choosing to change apartments every 104 days. If truck rental places gave “frequent flyer” miles I could have taken a truck on my honeymoon. I got so good at packing stuff that I’d stop by Mayflower just to talk to my fellow professionals.
When I reached the point in life that I was ready to trade celibacy for poverty we decided to buy a home. Our first house was in a “starter” neighborhood. It cost $28,900.00. Our monthly note was $232.00 including principle, interest, escrow for tax and insurance. I put a dollar down - I was a veteran and sign the purchase agreement. I was scared to death. It got scarier before it got better - I got fired, we bought the home, and got married in the same week. We made almost a full year in this house.
Our next adventure was a home on a lake. The lake was beautiful - the home wasn’t. On November 17, 1977 we bought the home where we and the boy spent 27 years of our life. In all likelihood this will be the home that we live in the longest (unless Sheila and I make it here to age 85).
There were about 135 homes in our subdivision. We were probably one of the first 10 couples to move in. Most of the neighbors that were there when we arrived became close friends. Many remained there as long as we did. Next door to us were Johnny and Yvonne. They raised a son, Brent and a daughter, Cindy. Brent tried to lead my sons astray since he was a few years older. Cindy as their occasional babysitter tried to teach them right.
On the other side were Bill and Edna. Although they were older than us they became great friends. Curtis and Tonya lived around the corner with their son Chris. Curtis was the handyman that I could never be. He saved me a ton of money in repairs and probably saved my marriage because if my procrastination had gone unchecked, Sheila might have moved one more time.
John and Deidre, our closest friends lived within the next block. They were there during the early years of our parenting and were often a safety valve for our parental angst. Wes, Ryan, their two sisters, and their parents Danny and Kathy were near the end of the block. In between we had a variety of other good folks that bonded with us through the escapades of our children. The day before we moved for the last time - I walked the block with tears in my eyes - these were good years.
September 30, 2007
It was late morning and I got a call from ____________. The Queen’s parade was this p.m. and Sheila and I were invited to join ______________ and Vicki at their beautiful home on Man Street for viewing. To put such an invitation in perspective, this is like being invited to the viewing stand for the Rex Parade at Mardi Gras or being given the honor of being one of the folks holding the Bullwinkle Balloon at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. It just don’t get no better.
Sheila decided that working in her yard was more fun (shows how little sophistication rednecks actually have). I told _____________ I’d think about it. Since my refrigerator was empty and ______________ had mentioned Jambalaya I decided I’d love to see the parade. The skies were threatening but I decided to walk the 10 blocks to Vicki’s house.
As I passed an duplex on Weeks Street I saw a young man walking what appeared to be his two sons toward Main Street. I had to laugh and he talked enthusiastically about how much fun they were going to have and simultaneously yelled at them about walking too fast, getting to far ahead, picking up stuff off the street, etc. I’m to the point of believing we need to test and license folks before they can reproduce. I’m not a fan of government intervention but sometimes it ALMOST makes sense.
As I headed up Main Street I saw Ken and Janice. Janice was Paul’s widow. She married Ken a few years after Paul’s death. They had two daughters and Ken helped raise T-Paul, my godchild. I can only imagine what a challenge that must have been. They were on the parade route and ready to relax. The street was crowded and the crowd enthusiastic.
As I turned into Vicki’s I saw a few friends and a number of strangers sitting comfortably in lawn chairs awaiting the parade. Understand it is difficult to find folks stranger than my friends. I headed into the house for lunch. The Jambalaya was moist and spicy. There was a great salad and sandwiches and then I snuck into the dining area where the sweets were on display. Although I’m supposed to avoid sugar - THIS IS THE SUGAR CANE FESTIVAL. I grabbed a cookie and a crème puff and said a prayer to the patron Saint of Sugar Cane. I ate quickly and headed to the street to watch the excitement.
The parade included floats, local bands, dance clubs, convertibles with local queens riding proudly and waving at their minions. The theme of this parade appeared to be VOTE FOR ME - I’M HONEST, GOOD, AND CARING. It’s election year and I believe every candidate had rented a tractor, 18 wheeler, and a sound system to promote their good name to the folks. The horses followed - they left their manure to mix in with the BS left by the political candidates. One idiot boy who thought he was John Wayne was trying to ride a horse - he had the reins too tight, was whipping and spurring the poor animal. Where’s PETA when you need them?
My Cajun Life Journal
Journal Chapters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
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