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Welcome to my Words!

A Daily Observational

365 X 543 = 198,195 by 2008

Preface:

Sherry, my wife’s dearest friend was standing in my home office in her pajamas this New Year’s morning (2007) trying to wrap words around an idea. Her arms were moving like a windmill experimenting with Tai Chi. She said, “Mike, I have this idea but I just can’t put it into words. You see Mike, you and Sheila really have a good life here in New Iberia (she’s right), it’s a neat town and you have some interesting friends. What if you kept a journal – you write well – you mix humor, the culture, your emotion, hyperbole, philosophy and other stuff in your work. It would be fun. Do it for a year.”

For me writing is therapy. I don’t have much time but I do need therapy so I became intrigued by Sherry’s idea. As I observed the animation that was Sherry I couldn’t help but think of Don Quixote “tipping at windmills.” I’ve never read the book but have been told that’s part of the story.

I have been gifted with the ability to not rely on facts. I can take partial information and assume I know what I’m doing. I also tend to be impulsive. As my friend Stormy says, “Often wrong but never in doubt.”

So with no forethought and only the breeze created by Sherry’s arms as my motivation I’ll commence on this grand adventure to capture my life – better yet the lives in my world in a page a day format.

This will explain the math above. The last item I wrote included 543 words on one page. This will be my limit. “So God willing and the water don’t rise,” next New Year’s Eve as a I sleep through the celebration, I will have completed my own Observational - a view into my world through my words – all 198,195 of them.

Thanks Sherry –

 

Enjoy!
Michael G. Manes

 

 

 

Disclaimer:

 

Please note – there are some intentional spelling, factual, grammar, and punctuation errors in this Observational. I’m sure there are some unintentional errors as well.

In 2002 I published a book entitled Gumbo Cooking Up the Organization of the Future it included the following disclaimer:

I write like I talk – with emotion, hyperbole, and enthusiasm. When I talk I use my hands, my eyes, my body, tone and inflection, etc. and when I write, I OVERUSE capitalization, punctuation, italics, bold print, repetition, etc.

I write to my taste and style. Your taste may differ. What you consider a grammatical error, I find a flavorful addition to the “dish”. Please enjoy what I have prepared. If you don’t like it as written adjust your reading to suit your tastes.

My Objective:

My objective in this process is to celebrate my community, friends, and life. I’ve been blessed – I’m blissfully happy inside of my own skin, circumstances and community. I don’t believe most people would share my enthusiasm for my life but hopefully this OBSERVATIONAL will help you discover and appreciate the wonders of your own life.

Enjoy!

Thanks:

Thanks to Sherry for the idea and Sheila for the encouragement and balance as I work through the process.

 

Dedication:

To my friends that are the cast of characters in this Observational and my life. I believe life is worth living and you individually and collectively are much the reason why!

 

Chapter 1

January 1, 2007

Happy New Year!

At 4:30 a.m. I’m in my office praying, reflecting, reading the newspaper and working. As a self employed consultant work is what I do. It is the price I must pay for the freedom I so enjoy.

I wake up early but am not sleep deprived since I follow the belief “early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” Although some might debate this I will claim 1 out of 3 of the benefits of my lifestyle. I’m not healthy and I’m not wise but wealth is mine not in monetary terms but based upon friends and lifestyle.

After the interruption from Sherry I cleaned up a few loose ends and then got ready for the day. Happy New Year!

Today a few lucky folks enjoy one of the rituals of our culture - New Year’s Day at Mary’s. Mary is a dear friend with a contagious smile, the patience of Job, and tolerance for her friends and their foibles. She’s married to Buster – a recovering personality.

As a young man Buster was a character – his unique persona may have been artificially created through “chemistry” but he was fun to be around. As he’s matured “dull” becomes the dominant adjective in any description of him. He’s a golf fanatic “who suffers” the game on a regular basis.

Food, football, friendship, alcohol, and sex dominate our focus on this holiday. The buffet includes all the Cajun food groups – alcohol, salt, fat, and sugar. We enjoy more food and calories on this one day than most 3 rd world countries produce in a year.

If you don’t relate football and New Year’s Day you are too out of touch with our reality to venture any further into this text. Go pick up a copy of National Geographic or Popular Mechanics and enjoy your life.

The friends assembled represent the best and worst of humanity – a diverse group. Tall ones, short ones, fat and skinny, young and old, believer and unbelievable, rich and poor, educated and not – the common theme is the “joi de vivre” that is the Cajun culture. There will be much talk and limited listening. We’ll cover thoroughly but maybe not accurately politics, sports, child rearing, religion, etc.

Alcohol is a stimulant to many and a depressant to some. Those talking are stimulated. Those listening are depressed. In terms of sex – the number of young children in the house are evidence there was sex sometimes and somewhere. Most of us now take Ginko Viagra merely to remember what sex was like.

 

January 2, 2007

About noon I endured a panic attack. Today was too ordinary to write about. Where were the 500 words needed to fill the single page? Work is work – I love what I do but work is also personal and what I do won’t intrigue most people.

I’ve been to Plaquemine, Baton Rouge, and New Orleans. I’m on Highway 90 near Franklin when I get a call from Sheila, my wife. She and Linda are bringing Momma to the hospital.

Momma is 87 and all 87 of her years are starting to “pile on.” She’s been relatively healthy throughout her life but the mileage and wear and tear of time are being to become obvious.

The first thing you notice about Momma is her size. She was 4’ 11” when she played in the WNBA. Now at 87 she stands proudly at 4’ 5 ½”. She moves slowly with her cane and never gets in a rush. Momma doesn’t stand out in a crowd – she leaves more room for one.

She is special yet typical of the “mommas” of my day. A woman who grew up during the depression, matured during the war, raised her children during the Ozzie and Harriet world of the 50s, educated and professional but chose to devote herself to her children rather than a self-fulfilling career path.

She and her contemporaries were raised on the bottom rungs of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs and then spent every working / waking hour doing all in their power to assure that their children would have a better life.

The choice, freedom, and independence that are available to women today were not options for our mothers. They didn’t scream unfair, seek government assistance, or vent their problems on the Jerry Springer show. They instead chose to play with dignity the cards that were dealt them. They did what needed to be done.

As my sister and brother and I became self sufficient momma did enter the work force as a school teacher and administrator. In that role she touched hundreds of girls who were students at Mt. Carmel Academy in New Iberia. Her compassionate but no-nonsense approach earned her the respect of these students.

Enough of the ramblings of a proud son - momma is doing better. In fact at her age and her condition she’s probably more likely to survive longer than the health care and health care financing systems that are allegedly serving her. Here’s reality – today medicine is more art, than science and more business than art. Marcus Welby is dead. If we don’t fix our health care systems (delivery and financing) we’ll be in a situation similar to Nikita Khrushchev’s comments about the world after a nuclear war – “the survivors will envy the dead.”

 

January 3, 2007

Momma’s doing better – thanks for asking. Today I retuned to the reality of a New Year and the work that consumes about 71% of our time. I’m fortunate in that I love what I do and have clients that allow me the freedom and flexibility that I so enjoy.

What is most interesting in organizations and in reality is the most challenging part of most jobs is the human element (Dow Chemical Advertisement) and how folks interact with each other. One of my basic beliefs is that there is a God and a heaven. In heaven there is a cloud and on that cloud there is a closet. Every once in awhile God steps into the closet and shakes his head and says to himself, “maybe this free will wasn’t such a good idea.”

New Iberia and Acadiana will serve as the context for much of the next 360+ pages. I was born here in 1947, left in 1965 and returned in 2004. Friends remind me (because I can’t remember on my own) that when I left I explained that living in New Iberia was like being in a rut and a rut is merely a grave with both ends kicked out. To increase the “upset” I allegedly stated that the longer you stay the deeper the rut gets.

When I returned I was reminded often and challenged aggressively on this earlier statement. I’m rarely at a loss for words but did find myself in such an awkward position until I was offered a response by another expatriate who also had recently returned to “God’s Country.” Boggie said “tell them the reason you left is the reason you returned.”

He was right. New Iberia hasn’t changed but after my 40 year absence – I HAVE. In my rearview mirror as I headed off to the big city of Lafayette I saw a sleepy little town of 30,000+ people. Main Street was quaint as were the main streets of most small rural towns. Life was simple.

40 years later our Main Street is still quaint and our population has remained constant (every time a baby is born a man leaves town) - the 2006 phone book is supposed to have fewer names than the 1962 book. The Chamber celebrates our growth but there has been very little. The good news I knew what I was getting when I returned and I’m happy I did.

As tomorrow sneaks up on this sleepy little place I hope that we can grow – a necessary evil – but manage that growth better than the boom towns that have grown up around us. Lafayette is a city – Broussard and Youngsville both little villages in my youth are now prosperous bedroom communities to Lafayette.

I’m not complaining. I can walk to downtown and drive across town in 3 minutes. Welcome to the Queen City of the Teche – oh, King Cakes are back in season! Life is good in the “Beri.”

 

January 4, 2007

In the last paragraph of the preface to this Daily Observational, I mentioned “God willing and the water don’t rise…” Well yesterday it did. South Louisiana endured a severe downpour. We received more rain yesterday than fell collectively during Hurricanes Rita and Katrina. Two people were killed by tornados.

Pray for the folks that suffered through this. In Louisiana everything is political but very few of us are politically correct so we pray for each other, thank God, and say “bless you.” With the folks down here “what you see is what you get.” I recently met with a restaurant owner named “Z” who moved to Louisiana from Afghanistan. His host had explained that if the people in Cajun Country like you it’s a great life, if they don’t you may want to leave. Z is right. He’s also lucky. They liked him.

I don’t watch weather channel. I don’t spend hours obsessing about the weather and other things I can’t control but I know to many people this is a vocation and to most it is an avocation. For you I’ll provide the following less than scientific observations - water seeks its own level but rain accumulates where it wants.

The local forecasters can tell you exactly how much rain fell in each community, neighborhood, and parish. I can with a broad brush explain in more simple terms – a lot. It was all wet but thankfully not too cold. As a roving reporter driving from Baton Rouge to New Iberia the “back way” through Henderson, Breaux Bridge, Parks, and St. Martinville I saw diverse weather.

The only this more wet than the rain were the people out in it. In terms of volumes of rain in the rural areas, it varied from filled potholes, to covered ditches, too dangerous accumulations on the highways, to “oh s___ I’m hydroplaning.”

In town for the most part it was worse. On this afternoon there were more people straddling the center line of the road than there are at 3:00 a.m. leaving a honky-tonk. I thought I could dodge closed and dangerous streets.

Just to be on the safe side I called my former favorite cousin Jimmy (Winston Lite) to confirm my planned escape route. We agreed I’d come in on Highway 31 to Corrine Street, turn left onto Pershing at the railroad tracks, and then follow Pershing to Weeks Street and my home for a “dry” martini.

KANE radio left me amazed and amused as I learned of the trouble less informed and thoughtful drivers were having. One man in an SUV had water to his windshield (it must have rained about 5 feet there) and a little old lady’s car had been covered by the wake from an 18 wheeler – a new meaning of a wake up call.

Confidence bordering on arrogance consumed me as I traversed my planned escape route. However as I turned onto Pershing and looked into the eyes of a catfish trying to break into my car I realized – Jimmy’s not as smart as I thought. Be dry!

 

January 5, 2007

New Iberia doesn’t make the national news often but yesterday the weather motivated such coverage. Both Sheila and I received many phone calls from friends in Louisiana and beyond inquiring about our well being. “We saw the news are y’all (in New Jersey ‘y’all’ is short for ‘youse guys’) OK?” This concern was followed quickly by assurance that “When I saw what happened I prayed for y’all.”

I may never have my fifteen minutes of fame but it is great to be reminded that we have friends out there that care. The reality of our world (this region and our friends) is that we care and we prayer. Faith, religion, spiritual roots, God, Christ, church, etc. are important in our world. I won’t debate this and I won’t submit to the Politically Correct insurgents who want to impose their “belief” in nothing in fear of everything. I’ll simply share prayers that have a meaning in my life.

Momma’s favorite and an important prayer in my life is the prayer of St. Francis.

Lord make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love.

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is darkness, light;

Where there is sadness joy;

 

O Divine Master, grant that I may seek

not so much to be consoled as to console;

to be understood as to understand; to be loved

as to love. For it is in giving that we receive;

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and

it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

 

The Serenity Prayer is embraced by many – utilized by 12 step program devotees and can be used even in public forums (sometimes) because it requests what “committees” and other groups often need – WISDOM. This is sort of a stealth prayer that can fly beneath the radar of Political Correctness.

God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change;

The Courage to change the things I can;

And the Wisdom to know the difference.

 

Finally there is the “do it yourself” prayer that most of us have said in some form or another based upon our circumstances / fear at the moment. Fill in the blanks. God if you’ll get me through this ____________ (crisis), I promise to never again _______ (drink, lie, cheat, etc.) or if you will let me ____________ (win the lottery, pass this test, meet this person, etc.) I will ____________ (give more to charity, become a priest, go to church every day, etc.) Amen.

 

January 6, 2007

Friday evenings and Saturday mornings are my favorite times of the week. On most Friday’s we have a Porch Party at our house and on Saturday mornings we meet at Mary’s for Coffee. This is the same “Mary’s” where we meet ever New Year’s Day for food, drink, and football (see the January 1 Observational).

If you read through this entire journal before you’ll know more about our Porch and Mary’s for Coffee than you ever wanted to learn. This morning at Coffee I mentioned to Charlie that I haven’t worn a watch since I moved to New Iberia.

A week before I moved from Baton Rouge the wrist band on my watch broke and I didn’t take time to fix it. I’ve since learned that in New Iberia Louisiana a watch is an unnecessary accessory.

Charlie explained that calendars were an unnecessary luxury as well. He said, “Mike if you’ll just remember that the big paper comes on Sunday, you’ll be OK. The day you get the big paper go to church – everything else will follow in order.”

Charlie is wise beyond his years even though we tease him about not having much gray matter between his ears. After my first cup of coffee, my third link sausage, a fairly large slice of banana nut bread, two jokes and sorting through about 12% of the BS that makes up a morning of conversation at Mary’s I got a call to pick up Momma at the hospital. She was being released. (Prayer works – thanks.)

My consulting practice includes marketing and sales – change management and change architecture. I’m not detail-oriented nor classically trained in sociology but I do have a sixth sense about marketing and demographics. I believe the marketplace (people, culture, lifestyle, and life stage) defines a business more than the business defines the marketplace.

Driving to Dauterive Hospital I noticed how much our culture and lifestyle and population create what we sell. In this small town you find a disproportionate number of pharmacies (drug stores), doctor offices, bar rooms, restaurants, and other body repair shops. If a need is created by smoking, drinking, partying, obesity, sedentary lifestyle, it can be met on the streets of New Iberia.

One cardiologist who recently relocated his office to New Iberia from Dallas called his former partners to excitedly explain that “I’ve landed in a gold mine over here. These people eat fried fat!” What this doctor was so clumsily trying to explain was a cultural and culinary phenomenon we call hog cracklins. This is fried fat and it is wonderful especially hot.

Before you get your “vegan” back bowed or your panties in a wad remember if you eat right, exercise, and deny yourself many of the pleasures we enjoy down here – you’ll die healthy. The rest of us – when we go – will know that at least we lived!

 

January 7, 2007

Friday afternoon (5 th) the Chase Bank right around the corner from my house was robbed. The robber got away. The good news is that no one was hurt.

I’m not a fan of big national banks – particularly Chase and so I can also see some poetic justice in this event. I’ve dealt with Chase before and have often felt like I was threatened, abused, and in danger during the interaction. Once complete I’ve felt like I’ve been robbed. I could go on but I’m sure you get the picture.

When I saw several police searching the neighborhood I went out to investigate. As I was walking back towards my house one of the officers armed with an assault rifle followed me so he could check out under the building. My cousin Jimmy looked out of the window of his mother’s home to see me a few steps in front of this officer. He told my Aunt, “Sheila’s finally had enough of Mike’s ____________ the police are taking him off.” I feel like Rodney Dangerfield – “I get no respect.”

Today’s ramblings were interrupted at the 183 rd word. Sherry (the inspiration for this grand adventure – see the opening page) called to suggest that I write more on the “characters” in my life, New Iberia, and Acadiana and less on the events. This is a work in progress and this is another of Sherry’s good ideas – so why not. I’m sure she didn’t expect to be the first character to be exposed but such is life.

Sherry and Sheila taught together for many years at Our Lady of Mercy in Baton Rouge. Sherry is attractive, creative, disorganized, time-oblivious, and scattered. Sherry is the anti-thesis of Sheila. Sheila is organized, structured in thought and lifestyle, prompt, and focused. Sherry is my hero because she can be late, scattered and messy and Sheila thinks it cute – my identical behavior is a sin. Go figure.

At OLOM School they were called Thelma and Louise. They are inseparable. They are great teachers – and complementary / supplementary of each other. Sherry can’t work with a lesson plan and Sheila can’t work without one.

On their best days they remind me of Lavergne and Shirley – full of fun. I’m not comfortable with the Thelma and Louise metaphor because T & L aren’t man friendly – in fact they are killers. On their individual or collective worst days they are like “two crutches supporting each other.” Thank God for Sherry / Sheila.

Every summer and occasionally during the school year these two vagabonds will hop on a car, train, or plane and seek adventure. I’ve heard some of the stories and probably never will know or couldn’t handle other aspects of their escapades. Sherry is probably emblematic of each of us – a series of unique talents and experiences that create the best aspects of life and at other times a fistful of “issues” and problems that challenge our very existence. Now she is the first “character” to go under the microscope of this Observational. Don’t laugh – you might be next. If you like the story about you when it appears – thank Sherry, if you don’t blame me.

 

January 8, 2007

Paul Harvey often states (most correctly), “we are not one world.” His noon day commentary on the 6 th provided probably the best description and celebration of salespeople that I’ve ever heard. Salespeople are living and breathing examples of different. They make life move forward and drag the rest of the world along.

Sunday’s column by Dale Dauten (Corporate Curmudgeon) discusses the manager’s challenge including “herding cats” and metaphors about engineers and poets and reptiles and mammals. Psychologists, sociologists, psychiatrists, and grandmas can further refine the differences in the human animal – task or people focused, fast or slow paced, internal or external foci of control, thinking or feeling, etc.

Since as of yesterday this Observational will attempt to include more about some of the characters in my life and living, I wanted to create a context for my comments / observations. What follows is my perception of people that I touch or touch me. This is not their reality – it is merely how I see their reality.

In the name of full disclosure I need to explain I’m more poet than engineer, more mammal than reptile (for my critics a rat is as bad as a rattlesnake), and believe I can control more of the world than the world than control me. That’s me!

On many Sundays we bring my mother, Miss Peggy, and my mother-in-law, Lela, to our house for lunch, a visit, and an afternoon drink. These ladies are all in their 80s, grew up in the depression, and have raised their families. None grew up with privilege, all had by most standards tough lives, and all are independent. None complain about the past – they do however live today and see tomorrow differently.

Momma is stoic. She never gets in a rush but is steady as she goes. She believes that “you play the cards life deals you,” people are basically good or if they aren’t love them anyway. Momma is a teacher by profession but uses her actions more than a blackboard to explain how to live, love, and be. Momma can’t even spell complain.

Lela is a tortoise that makes my momma seem like a hare. She is not as Pollyanna as my momma in her view of people. Her view of reality is not seen through a lens of understanding. She tends to see and describe the “truth” as she sees it without regard to the audience that is listening. If she likes something you’ll know it – if she doesn’t like it – you’ll know it sooner and in more aggressive terms. She has suffered hurt in her life and it shows. Family is important and Sheila is her life.

Peggy is blind, a cancer survivor (currently enduring chemeaux), and a widow who raised 3 children alone. She lives alone, prepares her own meals, cooks for others, and gardens all through the darkness of her days. She chooses courage in lieu of complaints as her message for others. Peggy is an inspiration to Sheila / me.

A little wine is good for their soul – a little “whine” is not good for anybody’s soul.

 

January 9, 2007

At 4:30 a.m. I am in my driveway to pick up my newspapers. The Advertiser had arrived, the Advocate had not. I’m an early bird – getting up early is what I do. I think most of us are hard wired to the mornings or the evenings. I don’t use an alarm clock – I just get up early.

From a philosophical perspective wakeup times should be studied in terms of a “chicken or egg” process – do I get up at 4:00 because I fall asleep at 8:00 or do I fall asleep at 8:00 because I get up at 4:00? Which came first?

I love early morning – the house is mine – peace and quiet. I’m KING – I can do or say whatever (as long as I do or say it very, very quietly in the dark). I dare not wake up Sheila. If I do my quiet goes away and with it my peace + I get yelled at.

I pray, read the papers, eat breakfast, and enjoy life. It’s a ritual I enjoy. Webster defines ritual as the established form, system of rites, a customarily repeated act or series of acts. Don’t misread this – I’m not obsessed like Jack Nicholson’s obsessive compulsive character in As Good As it Gets but I am a creature of habit.

We started renovating an old warehouse building in June 2005 to use as our residence. We moved in on January 31, 2006. The house includes a large side porch that can accommodate quite a crowd. Before construction was complete friends would gather on the porch on Friday evenings to drink, eat, and exaggerate. Initially our only illumination was a string of Christmas lights tied to the construction pole. Our only facility was the port-o-let. Heat was generated by alcohol - a “heater” that created camaraderie and tradition – a ritual was born.

Now on most Friday nights friends stop in with their “eats and drinks” and the tradition continues. We’ve had as many as 40 “drop-ins” and as few as one. Twice we’ve struck out and Sheila and I have been forced to entertain ourselves.

On Saturday mornings a group of friends (many holdovers from the porch) gathers at “Mary’s” for coffee. The facilities are nicer and the food is better but there is no more structure or organization. We spend a few hours discussing politics, race, sex, animals, etc. We tell jokes and use language that would make a sailor blush. If you show up you’ll be insulted; if you don’t you’ll really be ridiculed.

About 35 years ago many of my contemporaries formed a men’s supper club which became named Pit and Pot. Many of the founders of this group were also charter members of the 200 pound club. Once a month this group of vagabonds meets at the Veterans Building in City Park for a gourmet meal. If you look around you’d think you were in a homeless shelter. If you only eat the food, you’d believe you were in a 5 star Restaurant.

Rituals are good (and fattening).

 

January 10, 2007

We have two sons, Slade and Seth. Both have olive complexion. Slade is black olive and Seth is pimento olive. Slade’s hand-picked and Seth is home grown. They are as different as night and day. Seth is conservative – to the right of Attila the Hun. Slade is a free spirit – liberal. He was meant to be a hippie and he is.

There is a picture on my dresser with Slade – a burly young man with long hair and a beard with his arm around an attractive woman. Her name is “Weezie.”

Sheila and I had decided to have children. Unfortunately we had forgotten to tell the Fertility God. Our attempts had failed. Despite our best efforts pregnancy did not appear to be in our future. After years of frustration we applied for adoption. We were told to be patient – some day our prayers would be answered. They explained, “One day when you least expect it, you’ll get a call…”

Fast forward about 2 years to Sunday January 13, 1980. I’m returning from K & B drug store. I see John walking away from my house with a real bewildered look on his face. I wave as I pass him and he shrugs his shoulders as if to say, “What the devil is going on?” I don’t realize at that moment how my life has already changed.

As I walk in the door Sheila is standing at the breakfast table crying uncontrollably and simultaneously smiling like the cat that ate the canary. Words aren’t necessary. I realize she’s gotten the call. Excitedly she tells me what I already know. Then the fun begins. We call the new grandmas and walk down to John and Deidre’s to announce our news to them. Now John understands.

The rest of the day is spent at the mall finishing the “getting ready” that we started years earlier. On Monday we go to the Catholic Life Center for a briefing and go home empty handed. On Tuesday – we get our baby (at least for a visit). On Wednesday we bring him home to stay.

A year later we dress him up and go to court. The judge smiles as he tells us – “Slade is now your child legally just as if he were born of you.” Sheila’s emotions that Sunday morning – tears and smiles / smiles and tears foreshadowed Slade in our world. He’s a wonderful child that has shared with us a roller coaster ride of parenting that I’ll never forget – I wouldn’t trade the experience for a million dollars but I wouldn’t pay a dime for a repeat ride.

Another Sunday 20 years later Slade shows up at the house and asks to talk to us together. I panic – what’s he done now? He and I walk to the bedroom to meet Sheila. He embraces her and says, “you’ll always be my momma.” I immediately know what will follow. He’s found his birth mom. He explains, “I’m going to meet her. I want her to meet y’all. Her name’s Louise.” We did. She’s great.

Thanks Weezie – we now share a soul and a son.

 

January 11, 2007

I can remember the world before TV. Life was simple – we were innocent. The day started with the Times Picayune on the front porch and concluded with evening delivery of the Daily Iberian. Radio, rumors, party lines and death notices posted on telephone poles on Main Street provided the balance of the news we needed to know.

I watched my first TV through the display window of Pecot’s Appliance Store. Reception was poor at best – with snow and the “rolling” picture that only horizontal hold could correct. We could barely see what was happening and I’m sure we couldn’t hear through the noise of the street and the insulation provided by the plate glass window. Still we stood there mesmerized. Life was good.

My first memories included the Life of Riley, Milton Berle, the Three Stooges, and the little Rascals. Superman, Roy Rogers, and Rin Tin Tin reassured us of the positives in life – real heroes and good stories. News broadcasts with John Cameron Swayze on the national scene and Brooks Read in Baton Rouge provided us with our first awareness that all was not well in the world.

As a teenager we watched people die in Vietnam on a daily basis and Richard Speck and Charles Whitman delivered our first exposure to mass murderers and the unspeakable nature of their acts. The world was good but we began to realize that some people were bad or at least did bad things.

Fast forward 50 years and we are inundated with the news. Broadcast news, radio, newspapers, the cable channels, the Internet, podcasts, and blogs literally bury us with more information than we need and more news than our psyches can handle.

Murder, rapes, global warming, terrorism, war, poverty, racism, famine, etc. permeate the airwaves providing a “muzak-type beat of negativity.” Ours is a world with innocence lost and a true understanding of the existence of evil. Bad news is…

Yet occasionally on the back page of a newspaper, as page 3 with Paul Harvey, or as a welcome and needed relief and release from the drumbeat of horror stories the media will provide us with a “good Samaritan” story or a lottery winner, or a Horatio Alger success that for a moment makes us think, feel, smile, and believe – life is good. There is hope. Sometimes the good news is even personal.

Today at 10:00 a.m. as I drove to Baton Rouge, Carol called from M. D. Anderson Hospital her voice ringing with enthusiasm and relief, George’s test results were in and there was no sign of cancer. For a minute, for a morning, for a day – despite the news of war, pestilence, murder, tornados and floods – I reflect on this most personal reality. George is doing well. Life is great. God is in charge. The good news is that all is not bad news. Thank God!

 

January 12, 2007

One of the most exciting adventures in this experience we call life (understand Sheila and I are very boring people) began in March of 2004. We had come into New Iberia for the weekend. On Friday we met Jim, Peggy, and Brenda at Gator Cove for Cajun Surf and Turf – boiled crawfish, beer, and lots of bull. We had fun.

On Saturday I went to “Mary’s for coffee” since Sheila usually sleeps late on weekends. For some reason on this Saturday she woke up early and went exploring in New Iberia. She walked Center Street and Main and made friends with the postman along the way. For lunch I met up with her at the Great Alligator Race – a fundraiser in downtown. We had fun.

That afternoon Sheila announced to Momma and me, “I want to move to New Iberia.” We were totally surprised. After some interrogation we realized she was serious. I procrastinate – Sheila doesn’t. In the summer Sheila got a job at Pesson Elementary as a first grade teacher and in August she moved in with Momma. We sold the house in Baton Rouge and I moved here in October.

Sheila wanted to buy an old place and fix it up. I was “fixin” to have an old warehouse building hauled off since no one wanted it. This was the Gragnon Wholesale building. It was owned by my Grandmother and housed my great uncle’s business. During my lifetime, my great grandmother, grandmother, great uncle, uncle and aunt, mother and father, my brother, sister, and 5 cousins all worked here. It was family. As children and adolescents we had fun here.

The building was 1,575 feet of solid construction. It was built in the “war” and in 2005 looked like the “war” and the “depression” had occurred inside. We moved it behind a two hundred year old Oak Tree and commenced renovations. Most of our friends feigned enthusiasm but whispered that we were crazy (or in the vernacular – “they’ve lost their ‘flippin’ minds.”) Now visitors say WOW! We had fun.

This smaller structure fit our “downsizing plans” for a simpler life. Unfortunately our dreams exceeded our reason and we went from this 1,575 square foot modest dwelling to a modest dwelling + a big porch + a sunroom + a mother-in-law’s suite.

Clyde and Shaun were our carpenters and Charlie our “straw boss.” Sheila and I visited the site everyday. We had fun. On January 31, 2006 – Sheila’s birthday, we moved in and we had fun.

Gragnon’s sold to rural grocery stores, newly evolving convenience stores, schools, restaurants, etc. It was was well known by all of New Iberia’s “lifers” – not as a wholesale grocery but as the Candy Man. Candy was a key offering and Gragnon’s had all kinds. We left the original sign on the renovated building and sometimes folks still drop in looking for Candy. It’s fun.

When our eulogies are read, I hope they mention Gragnon’s – tell them we had fun.

 

January 12, 2007

If memory serves me correctly, there was once a movie called A River Runs Through It. I think it starred and may have been written or directed by Robert Redford (my body double).

When the story of New Iberia is told it could be titled A Bayou Runs Through It. New Iberia celebrates a nationally recognized Main Street and framing the north side of Main Street and running parallel to it is the Bayou Teche. It is the vehicle for our annual boat parade and the legend that is the Great Flood of 1927.

The Bayou connects much of Cajun Country and the Sugar Cane communities that have been our agricultural base for so long. It is on this bayou in St. Martinville about 10 miles from New Iberia where Evangeline pined away for her lover in Longfellow’s poem by the same name.

The bayou forms the south shore of the City Park and has been a defining line for the demographics between some of the halves and have nots. I grew up on the “wrong side of the bayou.” Take a pirogue, party barge, or jon boat up or down the bayou and you’ll see beautiful homes, plantations, cane fields, and communities.

To me however the bayou is personal – it is not about water or topography it is about memories. Growing up my best friend was Paul. Paul was the antithesis of me. I was salt and he was pepper (he was Caucasian but standing next to me his race was occasionally questioned). I was timid – Paul was bold. He could do what I wouldn’t try and I assumed couldn’t do. He was friendly, polite and mischievous.

As an adolescent I didn’t like school but I did well. Paul didn’t do well but he must have liked it because he repeated several grades. Today Paul would have been the poster boy for ADHD. Paul’s parents were “Miss Mickey” and “Mr. Louie.” They loved and spoiled Paul and are second parents to me. He had an older sister named Pat. Paul and I were 4 days apart in age but miles apart in style and inseparable in friendship. I could live vicariously through him.

Paul lived on the bayou and spent every free moment in it. He had a boat anchored behind his house and every day in the summer and every minute after school we’d run up and down the bayou from Loreauville to Jeanerette. We burned more gas in with a 25 horsepower Johnson motors than most SUVs can do today.

Paul lived fast and was very lucky. His friends and family knew he’d never make it to old age or death by natural causes. He went to boarding school after his best attempts at local school were exhausted. He joined the Navy, came home married and had a son – “T-Paul.” One night after hard drinking Paul and friends boarded the boat for a test run down the bayou in anticipation of a fishing trip. Finally Paul the cat exhausted his nine lives – he died on the bayou he loved - where he lived!

 

January 13, 2007

If you want to experience a microcosm of the Cajun Culture travel Highway 182 and turn south on Jefferson Terrace. If you’re coming from Highway 90 take a right on to Admiral Doyle Drive and then turn left onto Jefferson Terrace. At 410 Jefferson Terrace you’ll find Legnon’s Boucherie (most folks pronounce this “leg none” – if your Cajun roots are deeper you’ll say “law-yon”).

Traditionally, a boucherie was a communal butchering sponsored by a Cajun family and joined by neighboring families.  Cattle or swine were usually slaughtered, and the meat and by-products were shared among participants.  (Sources: Ancelet et al., Cajun Country; Brasseaux, Acadian to Cajun.)

To a first time visitor, it’s merely a butcher shop. To the Cajun aficionado this is a holy site – the supply house for a culinary “religious experience” or the starting point for a blessed event – a gumbo, barbeque, dinner party, or snack

On the display case you’ll find a “take a number” system to help organize the chaos of too many customers and too little time, Uncle Paul’s Barbeque Sauce, and numerous Cajun Seasonings available for sale.

A mini-pirogue holds bags of hog cracklin. Cracklin is “fried fat” – sort of a do it yourself heart attack if you eat too much or if you’re cursed with the wrong genes. Before you “roll your eyes” in disgust – try this stuff. “I bet you can’t eat just one.”

Hot boudin is in warming pans the back counter. Boudin is a rice and pork mixture stuffed into a sausage casing. It can be a snack, a meal, and appetizer or Cajun Banquet (a six pack of beer and a link of boudin). It’s great and addictive!

As I wait in line I’m joined by about 25 to 30 people – some socializing while others wait quietly like an addict in need of a fix. New Orleans Saints’ t-shirts are the fashion du jour and the Saints themselves are the # 1 topic of conversation.

A win tonight in the playoffs will result in the Saints playing for the conference championship and a trip to the Super Bowl. Could this be the year? It’s been 40 lean years for the “faithful” and now Post Katrina this could be a Cinderella story to equal the U.S. Hockey Team’s defeat of the Russians in the Olympics.

I ask if “Def” has been by. He’s a high school classmate and lifelong friend. You’ll notice right away he only has one hand (the other was lost in the oil patch). If you talk with him you’ll see his bigger than life personality – “Def” can be described in one word - “crazy.” He hangs out at Legnon’s. He is a unique character that knows everyone and more importantly everyone knows him. He’s a salesman and keeps many of his customers happy with Legnon’s boudin, sausage, steaks, etc.

Eat boudin, visit with “Def”, and watch the locals – welcome to Cajun Country!

 

January 14, 2008

New Orleans has always been the Crescent City – the Big Easy – The City that Care Forgot but in the 1960s it was also one of the “queens” of the South. New Orleans, Atlanta, and Dallas were the “happening places” – the future.

New Orleans had a great port, was the tourist center of the South, the home office of the oil and gas industry and a place like no other on this continent. In 1967 it also became a host city for an NFL franchise. The New Orleans Saints were formed. New Orleans, South Louisiana, and the Cajun / Creole folks had finally arrived.

The first training camps were held in the summer of 1967 in Covington at St. Paul High School. At that time Covington was a sleepy little community on the North Shore of Lake Ponchartrain. It looked more like Jeanerette than suburbia.

Corky and Cam were two guys that had taught and coached at Catholic High in New Iberia. They were now at St. Paul’s. They invited me to visit them and watch the Saints train. For a country boy whose only experience with pro athletes was watching the NI Pelicans play baseball or sitting ringside at the Pro Wrestling matches at the Sugar Cane Festival Building – this was the big time. I went.

The week before their opening game, my friend George called from Loyola. He had an extra ticket and wanted me to join him for this event. I went. We were in Tulane Stadium for the first game. John Gilliam returned the opening kickoff from the Los Angeles Rams for a touchdown. The crowds went wild. A love affair commenced not just for this one Cajun boy but for all the people there and the hundreds of thousands that we represented with our presence.

Unfortunately that game didn’t end as well as it began and I and all others newly declared Saints’ fans left Tulane Stadium a little dejected and thinking “wait till next game.” This soon evolved to “wait till next year,” then we discovered we’d have to wait till next decade and then next century and finally the next millennium.

Over the forty years since that day many things have happened in New Orleans and all too few were positive. Finally Hurricane Katrina broke our hearts, city and nearly our spirits. However dawn always follows darkness and a rainbow appears after the storm. So now after 40 years of heartbreak, bags on our heads, the Aints, and more lost opportunities than most franchise ever have – the Saints beat Philadephia 27 -24 to advance to the NFC Championship Game.

Our mistress who has caused us such hurt, such disappointment, such pain has made amends – she has rewarded our unconditional love.

Tonight two places are better for this silly game – New Orleans because all of us are “going to be in that number when the Saints go marching in” and hell because when we win the Super Bowl - it’s going to freeze over. Go Saints!

 

January 15, 2006

In a world obsessed with political correctness and diversity, today fit the mold. This Cajun boy, spent the Martin Luther King Day surrounded by Red Necks – it doesn’t get more diverse than that.

Sheila’s Aunt Elvie died on the 11 th. She was buried on the 15 th. Elvie was one of the ten children. She was born and lived in the richness of poverty in Oak Grove, Louisiana. She, like her brothers and sisters picked cotton, did chores, and went to school. Their universe was far more challenging then the “easy street” where most of their children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews now live.

These poor folks were raised in the depression and were marked by it. Though they possessed very limited resources their gifts were many – the Williams family is just that and they have a gift for music unmatched by most and a faith equal to any. My contact with Elvie was limited but my memories are fond – she was a spirited redhead, who enjoyed life, quick to laugh and capable of great emotion. Her last months were in a nursing home nearly comatose – her death a blessing.

The conversations and animation that accompanied the arrival of each person at the funeral home was interesting. The roles and styles and history of the senior members of the family were established. To those over age 40 this was all known. To the younger crowd who did not grow up with this cast of characters many in attendance were unknowns and required a formal introduction at best or a reminder at least. This was a class in oral history repeated all day with each arrival.

You could look into the eyes of each and see their character – these folks had grown up knowing right from wrong, working for their keep, and managed by a “switch” or a “belt” when they deviated from standards. The bible obviously was read more than the Wall Street Journal. Most of the older generation had gotten the education required but not the amount desired or deserved. They were survivors.

You could listen to the stories and feel the positive aspects of their youth. They prayed for their soul and sang and joked and story told for heartfelt pleasure. They have grown apart but their roots are intertwined and an occasional wedding or funeral is all that’s needed to reconnect their past and present. My only regret is that somebody didn’t bring a guitar or two because these folks can sing and when they sing you can touch and see and feel their souls. They are unique.

The service was family gathering with God and each other. There were probably 50 or more family members and friends gathered on a miserable (cold and rainy) day in the Eudora Baptist Church. There were more Amens shouted from the gathering than I hear in a year at my Church. I was probably the only one there with only one name – rednecks are famous for their dual handles. The preacher was John Carroll – a Jerry Clower looking character with the faith of Billy Graham. It was apparent he and his audience had three loves – God, family, and Elvie - Rest in peace, Elvie.

January 16, 2007

Riding home through the poverty that is South Arkansas and much of Louisiana I had time to reflect on the unique cultures of the Cajun, Black, and Red Neck Communities – so different and yet so alike. This creates the Gumbo that is Louisiana. Growing up these groups did not mix and yet in many instances members of each group lived with and were embraced by the other.

My youth was spent in New Iberia – a small town so unique and yet so similar to all other small towns in Louisiana and the South. It was a segregated world. I can remember “colored” and “white” waiting rooms, water fountains, and entrances. I went to an all white high school and did not attend an integrated class until college.

My momma did not allow the “N word” in our house. I lived through the evolution of titles from “negro,” to “colored,” to “African-American,” to “Black.” I know that slavery is wrong, and the indignities that many black folks have suffered. I was raised in the lower middle class and was blessed with a good family (less dysfunctional than most) and educational opportunities that many did not enjoy.

Sociology and Psychology books often speak of the formative years and the influence of women during these times. In my limited world two of the most significant women in my life - in my formative years were black ladies – Zenobia and Sadie.

Zenobia worked with our family for all of my life and Sadie worked with my Mamam (Grandmother) from when she was five until she moved to California in her seventies. I do not remember life with out Sadie or Zenobia (Bea). They cared for me, helped my family, and loved me. If they told me to do something – I did it. They exercised the same authority as Momma. They were a little less demanding.

Zenobia was a soft-spoken, thoughtful, and steady lady that cared for her disabled husband, and raised her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren with limited resources and without complaint. She never accepted welfare. She played the cards life dealt here with dignity and grace. Today she’d embrace the philosophy of Bill Cosby and Oprah and would have little use for of Jesse or Al. I cried more at Bea’s funeral than at my Daddy’s. Bea was family.

She once said that “in the North the people love the race and hate the individual and in the South they hate the race and love the individual.” Bea was thoughtful.

Sadie was fun filled. She was born “under the veil.” She could predict the future – if Sadie had a dream about you – you were going to face adversity or death. Sadie was full of fun. She and Mamam loved each other more than they loved to argue. Sadie loved life – she was more in the stereotype of Florida or Chris Rock. She was solid and had lived a very tough life – yet she enjoyed the life she lived. Sadie would laugh and tell me, “Mike, if you could ever be black on a Saturday Night, you’d never want to be white again.” She was my black Aunt. I miss her.

 

January 17, 2007

They’re back… This isn’t the spirits from the Poltergeist movie but something much more dangerous – King Cakes. Every year in advance of Mardi Gras, signs appear at Bakeries, Grocery Stores, Doughnut Shops and any other place with food preparation capabilities indicating King Cakes for sale.

Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday is the day before Ash Wednesday or the beginning of Lent. The Mardi Gras celebration is the last “party” in advance of the Lenten season where sacrifice, prayer, and fasting are the norm. King Cakes are merely one of the many aspects of this unique season.

Dr. Kaplan was a college professor, internationally respected authority on the Jewish family, and a very wise man. He would often express his envy of Catholics. He’d say, “Y’all have it made. You live in sin all week and then Saturday night you go to confession and are ready to start sinning again on Sunday morning.”

Did I mention that Dr. Kaplan was a very wise man? His observation captured much of the spirit of the Cajun people. We work hard, pray hard, and live hard - eat and drink hard. The essences of our culture can be reduced to three phrases – Joie de vivre or the joy of life, Laissez les bons temps rouler or let the good times roll, and Lagniappe or a little something extra. The King Cake is a sweet reminder of this culture, life, and spirit we call Cajun Land.

In terms of history – the wise men visiting the Christ Child is recognized 12 days after Christmas and called the Epiphany. The event is celebrated in European countries with the exchange of gifts and feasting. Often a cake is baked to honor the 3 kings – “A King’s Cake.” Each culture prepares and presents the cake slightly differently. In Europe a bean is placed inside the cake and the person receiving the bean must portray one of the kings. Latin American people put a small figure in the cake representing the Christ Child – this is said to bring good luck to the recipient.

In Louisiana we like to perpetuate the celebration (“let the good times roll”) so the recipient of the piece of cake including the baby is to buy the next cake and have the next party. This brief history was paraphrased from an explanation sheet included in the cake that is sold by Meche’s Doughnut Shop. If you are a health nut eat this information sheet – it’s high in fiber and includes no fat. The cake is the devil.

In terms of the product, the Cake in its simplest form is merely a ring of dough baked and then decorated with purple, gold, and green icing – the Mardi Gras Colors. What has happened in practice is competition and capitalism has taken over and now there is an unspoken effort by all “cake pushers” to create the most addictive product. Now cakes are filled with flavorful creams, chocolate, or other decadent ingredients. Some of the locals even fry the cake (doughnut style) versus the traditional baking. In today’s health conscious world, most know and all need to know, King Cakes are bad for you. Eat it anyway – it’s a heavenly experience!

January 18, 2007

Profiles in Courage was an award winning book by John Kennedy in the 1950s. It was a great read and when played out by ordinary “folks” it is a great example.

On Thursday I called a friend named Roger who recently was diagnosed with colon cancer. To explain this as delicately as possible Roger had his “innards” removed and his piping reworked. There are more details but I’ll spare you the specifics.

When we spoke I reluctantly asked – “how are you doing?” he responded “great.”

In September a dear friend Steve was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He was sent home to die. He called me the day after he received the diagnosis and explained his new reality. I visited him 5 or 6 times during his brief illness (he died about 60 days after diagnosis) and he was always positive and upbeat. He never complained.

Will had brain tumor. He lived 15 ½ “relatively” good months after his diagnosis and endured about 3 weeks of hell right before he died. He never quit smiling.

George discovered he had cancer best defined as “real bad.” He’s now in remission. He’s been through a bone marrow recycling that challenged his spirit. When we struggled with his condition – he’d comfort us saying “I’m going to be alright.”

The Greatest Generation as described by Tom Brockaw lived through the depression, World War II, and Korea. They faced challenges that we can’t understand and probably couldn’t handle. What amazes me is not what they did or how they did it but it’s how they handled these experiences. The vast majority of these folks never bemoan the life they had but celebrate the life they were given.

Now I must admit I’m prejudice. I’m not a racist or a sexist. There is a group, however, that I dislike – maybe even hate. I hate them not for the color of their skin, beliefs, sexual orientation, or their gender. When I see them individually or worse yet in a group, I tense up. I’ll cross the street to avoid being near them. They scare me. I feel threatened by them. I’m concerned that if I engage in dialogue with them I may become like them. I will now admit that I am an “attitudeist” and “whinerphobe.” I hate these folks because of their attitudes. It is always negative.

In our politically correct moments we call them – Mr. or Mrs. / Mother or Father / Brother or Sister / Friend or Colleague. In our heart we are being phony. What they really are is whiners, complainers, and drama queens. They are the ones who threaten not our bodies but our souls. With a facial expression, a remark, a sound, or a roll of their eyes they can cast the darkest of clouds over the brightest of sunshine. They poison the air we breathe and take the energy from our today.

None of us is perfect. Some even suffer with clinical depression. We may have a bad day, week, year, or moment. My hope is that when you are “challenged” you respond like Roger, George, Will or Steve and not like some Drama Queen. Smile!

January 19, 2007

Since you’ve followed this process for nearly 3 weeks and if you persist we’ll be together for another 49 weeks, it’s probably appropriate to introduce myself. My name is Michael Gerard Manes. I’m a proud American, son of the south, and Cajun who grew up before Cajun was cool. I’m 59 and grew up “less than rich.”

In today’s color sensitive world, I would probably best be descried as a “pink-American.” From a physical appearance standpoint I like to consider myself a tall Robert Redford. I’m about 6’2” and at my best have weighed 180 pounds and at my worst I was over 240. Today I look OK. I have strawberry blonde hair. What appears to be gray is actually mold on the strawberries. I have zero athletic ability.

I “married up” to a redneck from North Louisiana. As mentioned before I have two sons Slade and Seth. I’m a Catholic / Christian and a Republican. I’m a veteran of the Vietnam era. I fought that war in Fort Polk Louisiana and Heidelberg Germany. I hate to brag but while on active duty I was a “Remington Raider” (clerk typist) who qualified with my stapler and could type “kill” faster than anyone else in my unit. While on duty in Europe none of the enemy made it to Munich.

I’m a recovering insurance agent who now consults for a living. I work primarily in the insurance, banking, and Health Care industries. I taught Risk and Insurance for 10 years at LSU in Baton Rouge.

I grew up as one of the most insecure and shy people ever. I used to worry about what people thought about me until I learned how little they thought about me. Being drafted was probably the most significant event in my life in that it forced me out of my comfort zone and into a world that I did not know existed. It grew me up.

I’m reasonably well networked and my business (Square One Consulting) is based primarily on my personal contacts. When I’m around most of my friends will not talk good about me but the blessing is when I’m not there they won’t talk bad.

As mentioned earlier Sheila and I relocated to my hometown in 2004 and have refurbished a family wholesale building for our residence. We love it here. We live a simple life with family and friends. Most might find us boring but we’re happy as “pigs in poo poo.”

I’m at a point in life when I’m completely comfortable in my own skin and Sheila tolerates the person I am. The most positive compliment I may have ever received was to be called “genuine” and the most accurate and hurtful criticism was “dreamer.” My mother is the most significant influence in my life.

I’ve been blessed with a good family, many friends, and the opportunity to be my own boss and do my own thing. I value independence above most else. I have limited financial resources but am very rich in other ways. I’ve been blessed.

January 20, 2007

On Thursday January 18 th I arrived at the Boca Raton Resort and Club in Boca Raton Florida. I was to open as the keynote speaker at the Professional Insurance Marketers Association (PIMA) meeting on the 19 th.

I had heard this place was upscale – I was not prepared for what I had found. To supplement the description provided on yesterday’s journal and to give you a context for the cultural shock that awaited me let me explain that I don’t travel that much personally and only a limited amount on business.

Most families when we were growing up might have taken an overnight trip to New Orleans once a year, or a few days in Biloxi at the old Edgewater Gulf Hotel. In those days Pensacola and Destin were fishing villages that more closely resembled Grand Isle than the beach side resorts they are today. For the unaware Grand Isle is the Cajun Riviera.

In my misspent youth I’ve stayed at some fairly sleazy motels and even spent a night in the Presidential Suite in the American Hotel in Nuevo Laredo Mexico. Sheila and I spent our honeymoon at the Bel Aire Motel in Broussard Louisiana. (As a side bar - on the third morning of our honeymoon the manager called to advise us that the hotel had burned down two nights earlier! Talk about embarrassing.)

Since I’ve been in business I‘ve been able to travel on other peoples money and so my tastes have improved. I’ve been to some great resorts and luxury hotels but nothing prepared me for this place. It includes over a thousand rooms in all sorts of facilities – the tower, the beach club, bungalows, condominiums, etc. It includes hundred of acres of land manicured to perfection.

The hundred dollar limo ride from the airport tipped me off that I was out of my element. As I entered the building I was greeted by name (it took me about an hour to figure out how they knew that). People at this hotel don’t point – they walk you to where you are going. Since I have zero sense of direction visiting such a complex provides me many challenges such as finding my way to my room. Walking around the grounds can be a day long adventure.

The pool was nice – the beach and water gorgeous. While the rest of the country was frozen over the temperature was 79 degrees. I stopped at a shop to buy a snack and ate my first $2.00 apple (including tip). I’m sure my old conservative Daddy is doing back flips in his grave.) I watch the rich and famous wander the halls or sit in the lobby and play cards and dominoes. I’m glad I’m not rich or famous.

Having grown up poor I’ve never been comfortable around wealth and ostentatious ness. I felt more at home with the workers than the guests. I was so intimidated by the pretense at breakfast I caught myself spitting in my own food. (Just kidding - its nice and if you want to spend thousands in a weekend – this is the place.)

 

January 21, 2007

Leave Louisiana for a day, a week or a year and more often than not when you meet someone new they’ll ask, “How’d you survive the Hurricane?” The question is sincere – their curiosity is overwhelming. They are interested in my well being, the storm damage I may have suffered but what they are also signaling is really a more sensitive and politically incorrect questions of, “What the hell went on in New Orleans and what’s wrong with you people down there? Why can’t y’all get it back together again? Is it safe for me to go back to the French Quarter?

543 words do not provide sufficient space to fully answer these questions. I have written a substantial piece on my perceptions of the storm and if you’ll e-mail me at squareoneconsulting@cox.net, I’ll send you a copy. With the words remaining today + two more days I’ll attempt to capture the essence of Louisiana pre and post Katrina and Rita. There were two storms – but most have only focused on one.

I was 126 miles from the eye of Katrina and a similar difference from the eye of Rita. I had to rake up about 6 bags of leaves from my yard and dry out a mattress that got wet when Rita’s wind blew a piece of tin off of the roof of my apartment.

A few miles from my home the small towns of Delcambre and Erath were destroyed (80% of homes flooded). Two days after the storms the folks in these towns were picking up, cleaning up and looking up. This doesn’t make the news. Today these towns struggle as much with the age of their population as with the damage caused. These are rural communities with many older folks on limited incomes - they (not government) will pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and start all over again.

In Lake Charles and the surrounding area there was substantial wind and water damage. Towns on the edge of the gulf were totally destroyed. Damage to the community of Cameron (south of Lake Charles) was described in the newspaper (The Advocate – 9 / 30 / 2005) as 100 Percent Destruction. For these poor folks it was déjà vu all over again.

Almost 50 years earlier Hurricane Audrey snuck up on this community before it could be evacuated and a wall of water 12+ feet high devastated the place and drowned hundreds of locals. Following that storm many locals – bruised, battered, and beaten physical and destroyed financially returned with the only assets remaining their resiliency and spirit and rebuilt their lives as best they could.

In my opinion, the difference between Rita (the unknown storm) and Katrina the “worst natural disaster ever” in the U. S. is simply media, topography, and failed government. Some believe the media tilts right, others see it to the left. I think they live for the negative. Those impacted by Rita know they are survivors and they acted accordingly. In New Orleans (not on the Gulf Coast) the media labeled those impacted as victims and too many involved embraced the label and are now living to the definition. Victims don’t come back – survivors do.

 

January 22, 2007

To understand New Orleans and Katrina (and what you saw on television) you must understand the demographics and the politics of the state and city. New Orleans is one of the most diverse and interesting cities in the country. It is a gumbo of majority black + brown, red, white, and yellow folks that have lived together for years. In the 60s it was one of the queen cities of the south but has been in decline because of failed education systems, political corruption, and consolidation of the oil and gas industry (and the job losses that accompany such problems).

For decades patronage, nepotism, and largess from the oil and gas industry allowed the white leadership to control the city. In the past two decades black leaders taught by the white power structure have continued these traditions. Congressmen Billy Tauzin said it best when he explained that “50% of Louisiana is under water and the other half is under indictment.”

New Orleans is below sea level and is kept dry by a circle of levees and pumps that empty the bowl created. Katrina did little wind damage to the city but when the levees broke the bowl filled. The devastation was total in the impacted areas. The French Quarter, the Central Business District and the Garden District suffered very little wind and water loss. Lower areas in the city were flooded for weeks and in some cases months. St. Bernard and Plaquemine parishes were leveled.

As stated in the novel – “these were the best of times and the worst of times.” The Coast Guard / military, individuals, churches, student groups and the American and other peoples provided care, money, supplies, and sweat (and continue to do so). This is the silver lining.

The Government (federal, state, and local), the Red Cross, the media, and some individuals – looters, price gougers, etc. were (and remain) the cloud. Here’s the reality of storms in New Orleans. They are! People with resources try to peacefully co-exist with them. When need be – we leave and then return. Unfortunately some can’t because of lack of transportation, others won’t because its home and they need to protect it, and still others won’t because they are government addicts created by the Great Society. They do not do for themselves; it must be done for them.

There is a permanent underclass of people in New Orleans (and most other urban areas) that have become totally dependent upon government for education, food, income, and decision making. They have traded freedom for security and I fear unless we intervene “one on one” they will never mainstream back into society nor will they ever have the “opportunity” for life, liberty or the pursuit of happiness.”

In these pockets of despair drugs and gangs are rampant. When the floods came the drugs were cut off and the gangs roamed the city. What we saw but cannot fathom is the lack of education, leadership, jobs, and transportation and the surrender of the human spirit and the opportunity in self-reliance.

 

January 23, 2007

I promised only 543 words on each topic and now I’m into my 3 rd day and could go on forever but I won’t. The consultant in me wants to determine what needs to be done and plan the strategies - the how to accomplish this. My philosophical side says WHY? Why did it happen and why can’t we make it right? The cynic says quit worrying about it and get on with your life. Louisiana was corrupt long before Huey Long refined the “populist” model that made government our lord and master by “providing for us” stuff that we should do for ourselves. I’ll close this three day tirade with a few simple ideas.

Here’s the reality of the future of New Orleans and to a certain extent the future of Louisiana. We are where we are – we face great challenges but also have the greatest opportunity that has ever been given to any city. To quote Mayor Nagin, “we have been given a giant restart button.”

Left to its own devices, the city and the state will revert back to its comfort zone – doling out the incredible resources provided to us to those politically connected or for sale for a government handout and then begging for more when what we have has been squandered.

We can default to politics and bureaucracy and spread the worst of what we saw during the storm or we can demand leadership and the pioneering and entrepreneurial spirit that built this country and move forward from here.

If someone will accept the leadership role they can save a great city, redirect a state, and create hope for the hopeless and a model for all of our country. The Vision needs to be bold and focused. We can build consensus in the process but not in the Vision. We must step forward – implement, monitor, and adjust as we go.

We must stand our Vision on a foundation of INTEGRITY AND TRANSPARENCY. We must be able to build a system that works and trust the system we build. We must trade “political correctness” for “honest analysis.” We cannot solve problems we can’t clearly identify and define.

We must regain the trust of the citizens with the wherewithal to contribute immediately and invite back in to productive society those citizens that have been stripped of their dignity, drive, and sense of personal responsibility by the government programs that gutted them and their neighborhoods.

We assure the survival of the city and its citizens by making the city and its institutions secure – safe from violence. We must create an education system that reaches each student where they are and grows them to fit in a newly evolving school system. We need to build transportation systems so people can go where the jobs are and simultaneously create jobs for the people where they are. Our challenge is great and the world is watching. Are we to be victims or SURVIVORS?

 

January 24, 2007

Fielder called last week to tell me that Miss Arthe had died. She and her late husband, Mr. Donald, were some of Momma and Daddy’s closest friends. They had lived two doors down from us during my formative years. My momma is the most significant influence in my life. Her friends were most important in and to my formative years and in some instances for my entire life. I don’t know how accurate the mind and eyes of a child are but here’s what I remember.

Miss Arthe was a big woman with a bold presence. She was bigger than life. She’d holler “knucklehead” to get my attention. She was a lot like E. F. Hutton – when she spoke people listened. I can still picture her unwinding out of her little Datsun (Nissan) in our driveway. Her’s was the first foreign car I ever saw and may have been one of the first in town. Miss Arthe’s faith was as big as her body and she was always caring for others. Her sons were Patterson and Bill.

Mr. Donald was a tall, handsome man. He had played college football and been in the war. He taught me to punt. He also had guns and on an occasional Sunday afternoon we’d ride out to a lake or bayou and shoot snakes. He taught me that dead snakes’ tails don’t quit moving till sundown.

Mr. Emerson and Miss Fran were another couple in the circle of friends. Their children were Carolyn and Johnny. Claire (my sister) and Carolyn and Johnny and I were best friends until they moved to New Orleans in the 1950s. Mr. Emerson was a big man who became a “muckity muck” with Texaco gas. Miss Fran was my first exposure to a redhead. I learned from Miss Fran that redheads had fire.

Miss Mickey and Mr. Louie were parents of Pat (Claire’s friend) and Paul, my best friend. They lived on the bayou in the biggest house I had ever seen. Miss Mickey had and has more enthusiasm than an LSU fan in Tiger Stadium on Saturday night. Every time she sees you she greets you like you’re the only person in the world – her favorite and you haven’t seen each other in years. To walk into her house and have her throw her arms up like a referee signaling a touchdown while she screams – “Michael good to see you” is a treat to enjoy. She took care of us and Mr. Louie.

Mr. Louie taught me to shake hands – “Boy, when you shake a man’s hand – shake his hand.” I hit my first golf ball in his front yard, jumped in my first high jump pit, and learned to fish and hunt with him. He “played” his entire life in pain because of a broken neck as a child. He never complained and you’d only know because of the “stoop” in his back and the way he shuffled along.

Mr. Louie was a practical joker of monstrous proportions. He raised bantam chickens and would let us fight them. He helped us build kites as tall as he was and would hold us down as we flew them or they dragged us. He and Miss Mickey showed how to spoil (and raise children) and how to “hurt” when one of them died. I hope someday Sheila and I are fond memories to Slade and Seth’s contemporaries!

 

January 25, 2007

This grand experiment or journal has lasted longer than most of the others great ideas I’ve impulsively embraced.  A psychologist once told me it takes 21 days to establish a habit – it has now been 25 so it’s done.  I’m a creature of habit.

(I don’t know why but psychologists tend to search me out.  When they do the first thing they typically do is take any sharp object out of my hand and then ask me to sit down and relax.   I guess I’m off on a tangent that is better left for another day.) 

That’s the good news.  The bad news is that for the next 340 days I need to find content for this venture.  People will be the critical part, our culture will play a role, and the events we participate in complete this “Bermuda triangle” of literature.  My challenge is that I don’t like conflict.  Writing this creates none.  But if I ever publish it; the potential is huge that I will forget or offend someone. 

Put yourself in my shoes, “Why did you say that about me?”   “Why didn’t you mention me?”  “You had two paragraphs about Johnny but only one sentence about me?”  “I thought you liked me.”  “Do you really think I’m unique?”  DO YOU REALLY THINK I’M UNIQUE!”  “Why didn’t you…”  “Why did you…” 

Paul Harvey says, “we’re not one world.”  Look around, read the newspaper, watch – Jerry Springer, the View, the Daily Show, the Evangelist du jour, Southpark, Donald Trump and Rosie, etc.  I say tomato; you say tomato. 

I once applied for law school and at times I think I may have made a “damn good” lawyer (this is usually in my moments of self-loathing – since I’m not a fan of the legal community).  What follows is my disclaimer for this journal. 

If you’re happy with what I wrote - “Thank you very much.  I think your critical skills are exceptional and that you should be a professional critic.  You could probably work for The New York Times or the Daily Iberian.  I have friends connected to both.  I’ll mention your name to Will or David.  Oh and by the way you’re really beautiful (or handsome if it’s a male) when you smile.”

If you’re unhappy with what I wrote – “I’m so sorry.  I never intended to hurt your feelings.  It’s very difficult to define in only 543 words all the unique aspects of your personality that make you so exceptional.  I tried.”  

If you’re unhappy that I didn’t mention you – “I’m sorry - I struggled on a daily basis to find words to capture your unique spirit and I couldn’t without offending some of my lesser friends or making them feel inadequate.  I know you understand.”

If you’re furious – “I’ve moved to Boise, Idaho.  This is a recording…”  (If you run into me on the street – “Oh no, you’re mistaking me for my brother Mike, I’m John.  Mike’s a lot better looking then me.  He recently moved to Boise, Idaho.”)

 

January 26, 2007

Now that my disclaimers and excuses have been prepared, I’ll start exposing some of the characters in my world. Since ours is a celebrity obsessed world I’ll start with some of the celebrities from New Iberia and Cajun Country. I know of them all but I don’t know most of them so what you’ll hear is legend more than facts.

New Iberia is the Queen City on the Teche. Its most famous landmark is the Shadows on the Teche. It is beautiful home that backs on to the Bayou and faces Main Street. It was the home of a man named Weeks Hall. Legend has it that he asked to be buried at 6:00 a.m. so he could see who is real friend were.

Bunk Johnson was the man credited with teaching Louie Armstrong to play the coronet. I’m white – he was black but there must be some tie because all of my life people have told me I’m full of bunk.

George Rodriguez -Cajun Artist is a homeboy. He’s a few years older than me. I’m not qualified to judge art but I can guarantee George is a marketing great. Anyone who can get educated folks to pay tens of thousands of dollars for pictures of a blue dog is a flippin’ genius. My Godmother was kin to George. When I was very young at family gatherings George would draw monsters on my T- shirt. If I had saved these, my underwear would be more valuable than Madonna’s.

James Lee Burke the author famous for his David Robichaux novels is a New Iberia native. I don’t know James Lee but I recognize many of the characters and most of the places that he describes. He’s not exaggerating – his characters are real.

The Governor is from New Iberia. Her husband taught me in high school. Kathleen is a nice lady. Raymond or Coach (her husband) is different – people either like him or hate him. Kathleen came from a huge family. For her inauguration her family was rumored to have reserved over 500 rooms at the Hilton. Kathleen was an honest politician who met her match with Katrina. Let’s leave it at that and let history provide her legacy.

Evangeline was the lead character in the poem by Longfellow. She was separated from her lover – Gabriel. I learned tonight while researching for this piece (2 minutes on the Internet) that she wasn’t actually on the banks of the Teche waiting for him but rather we just claimed her into our history. Her statute is in St. Martinville at the Bayou’s edge. This spot may be the loneliest place in Louisiana – Bayou Self!

My favorite celebrity in New Iberia is the Mayor – Hilda. I’ve known her forever. She’s married to Floyd another dear friend. Hilda’s dad, and grandpa were mayors before her. Her family was politically connected. Floyd fancies himself her Karl Rove. She’s the best looking Mayor in Louisiana, a hard worker, honest, and committed. Floyd should be committed. Their friends will agree with me on this.

 

January 27, 2007

“We’re not one world” – Paul Harvey

If you’ve ever listened to Paul Harvey you’ve probably heard him make the above statement. He’s right. Often I quote Mr. Harvey when I meet, read about or hear about someone or “someones” who I don’t like, can’t understand, or don’t trust.

Four times a year I go to Portland Oregon for a Board Meeting for the National College of Naturopathic Medicine (www.ncnm.edu). On these trips I really realize how different we are. Portland is a beautiful city but it is to liberal what Vidor Texas and Bogalusa Louisiana are to conservative. I’ve been on the Board for 8 years and really enjoy the place. It’s beautiful - they have great food, a diverse culture, great activities, and so much rain that I don’t miss Louisiana.

I’ve met some very interesting, dynamic, successful folks through the years and have established some great relationships and lifelong friends. Among the Board members there is a mutual respect. If you look at our Board roster now and in the past it typically has about 30% liberals, 30% real liberals, 10% way out in left field, 20% closet and / or practicing conservatives, and me – the token redneck.

Once when the Board had to make a very difficult decision in extremely trying times, I suggested that we cut staff benefits because of economic necessity. A staff member sitting behind me whispered in anger so that I but no one else could hear his comments. He used language that should never be used in polite company in Portland. He called me (make your children leave the room) a … “DAMN REPUBLICAN.” If that’s not hate speech I don’t know what is.

Another time I was presenting to the student body, I told a Boudreaux Joke or two. Two years later the Board Chair explained to me that it took her six months to “calm down” the students. They were so offended that I had made fun of an ethnic group. This in spite of the fact that I had explained on the front and back ends of the presentation that I was a Cajun and the beauty of the Cajun People is that we are the only ethnic group that still laughs at ourselves.

I’ll now admit to some of my dark side experiences when in Portland. On occasion I’ve done Tai Chi, experimented with acupuncture, considered Hydrotherapy, and discussed the ACLU and PETA. I’ve eaten “vegetarian meals” and even once tried the “hard stuff” – Vegan (this means no meat, eggs, dairy products, or vegetables that include the letters M-E-A-T in the spelling of their names.

Don’t panic – I have not compromised my values entirely. I’ve referenced George W. Bush in a comment, brought King Cake and Mardi Gras beads for their benefit and even have moved the “center” of our group maybe a fraction to the right. “We’re not one world.” I’ve learned to live in and enjoy theirs for about 15 days a year and they now have modest respect for ours! They love Bourdreaux jokes.

January 28, 2007

More on Boudreaux in Portland – since my first day on the Board I’ve been able to introduce these sophisticated folks who are Cajun Culturally deprived to the mysteries of Louisiana and Cajun Country.

Early on we would periodically stop the program to have a Boudreaux Joke break. All laughed – some openly and some in a restrained fashion. Wally was our Chair for a number of years. He probably more than anyone else enjoyed the stories about Boudreaux and friends.

Wally was a very interesting character. He was retired from an oil company where he had been head of community relationships and worked a lot in governmental affairs. Wally at the height of his career had served simultaneously on 43 Boards. He loved life, his wife – Vida and family, and NCNM. Unfortunately early in his term he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He resigned immediately and spent the next eighteen months valiantly fighting cancer with the best of allopathic and naturopathic medicines. I miss him.

One meeting Wally was there with broken ribs. He was “ace bandaged” up. We went to dinner (translation – supper for us Cajuns) that evening and he’d ask for jokes. I’d tell him a story he’d react with a deep belly laugh that forced him to grab his ribs and wipe away tears. He’d yell “Stop Mike you’re killing me.” As soon as the pain subsided, he’d say, “Tell me another one.” I miss Wally – a great guy.

When Wally took sick I sent him a recording of Boudreaux Jokes. I found my last copy of this tape recently and converted these to CDs. I brought some of these to the Board meeting – the only thing to disappear quicker at a meeting was King Cake.

On Saturday morning David (the new president) and his wife Sussanna, Clyde (a past president) and John a Board member had breakfast. This was David and Sussanna’s first exposure to Boudreaux. They loved him. Part of their positive reaction was caused by Canadian guilt – they kicked the Cajuns out 250 years ago. I’m glad – it’s too cold up there and there’s crawfish here and none in Canada.

I’ll close this page as I close presentations I make in other parts of the country. Boudreaux is flying for the first time and he’s nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof with 7 kittens. The man sitting next to him identifies himself as a Harvard professor and offers to play a game with Boudreaux to relax him and make the trip go faster. The game includes the professor questioning Boudreaux and if Boudreaux can’t answer he must pay $5.00. If Boudreaux stumps the professor he’ll receive $10 since the professor is so much smarter, better educated and more sophisticated.

Because Boudreaux is “limited” he gets to go first. He asks, “What’s red, blue, has two wings but can’t fly?” Stumped the professor hands over $10 and asks, “What is it?” Boudreaux smiles and says “I don’t know, here’s your $5!” Who’s stupid?

 

January 29, 2007

The big paper came today so I know its Sunday (read January 6 th if you don’t understand what this means). Sheila, Lela, Sherry and I went to Church today at Sacred Heart. Father Steve dispensed with the usual sermon so that members of the choir could tell us about their visit to Our Lady of Prompt Succor Church in St. Bernard Parish.

St. Bernard Parish was leveled by Hurricane Katrina. It’s been 19 months and the folks are still trying to rebuild, recover, and return to some semblance of normal. The choir from Sacred Heart had gone to St. Bernard yesterday for a concert to help the folks down there raise funds and raise spirits. Each speaker described the mass destruction, the courage of the survivors, and the challenges that remain ahead. All cried – even Benny a banker. Normally crying banker is an oxymoron.

After mass we drove to St. Martinville. We had lunch at Le Petit Paris Café on the main drag in St. Martinville. This is directly across the street from St. Martin of Tours Catholic Church.

I don’t understand French or Church History but I’m guessing this church was so named to attract Tour Busses to town to help the economy. The Café is a fabulous little place with very good and reasonably priced food, Cajun music and the culture.

When you walk in you think you’re in a Waffle House in France because the waitress and others greet you with “bon jour.” The menu is limited – the calories aren’t. While you eat you’re serenaded in French and English by Helen Boudreaux a Cajun Lady trucker, writer, and singer. Later during our meal a “red headed stranger” named Paul joined her with his guitar. Paul’s a young guy who just shows up to play some Sundays. I watch him bless his food before he played. You could see his soul and the spirit of the people.

I had a plate of Crawfish Etouffee and red beans and rice. Sheila had a sandwich, Lela Etouffe, and Sherry had quiche. The dessert would make you slap your momma it was so good.

Lisa was our waitress. She’s a friendly gal who was very accommodating. She provides service like the “good old days.” The restaurant has about 8 tables and a little courtyard. It’s quaint. Locals come and local go. Tourist come and by the time they leave, they’re like the locals.

Sherry’s meal reminded me of the time Boudreaux and Comeaux stopped for lunch. The waitress asked for their order. Boudreaux said, “I want a quickie.” The waitress was shocked and asked him again. He said, “I want a quickie.” Getting more upset, she asked Boudreaux one last time. Again he said, “a quickie.” Frustrated the waitress quit. Comeaux explained – “I think it’s called quiche.” You’ve got to love this culture – laissez les bons temps rouler!

 

January 30, 2007

It was in late October 1992 when Rod Olps visited my office at Citizens Bank in Baton Rouge. We went to Coffee Call for a cup of coffee and to visit. Rod had worked for a TPA before venturing out into the great unknown called “consulting.”

I had been an insurance agent for 20 years. The last 5 of these years had been at Citizens Bank. My job at Citizens had been to blend the insurance agency and the bank into a cohesive single source of Full Financial Services. I had done a great job on paper but had failed to understand the difference in the cultures of banking and insurance. The process was going as well as the War in Iraq is today and for the same reason the differences in culture. At the time however I didn’t know it.

I was burned out – totally and completely. As we sat down for coffee I blurted out to Rod, “I’m going to quit the bank and go into business for myself. I’m going to be a consultant.” Rod smiled and said “that’s the ultimate act of faith.” I said, “What do you mean?” He smiled and said “someday you’ll understand.”

On November 19 th I woke up and asked Sheila’s support for my decision. She agreed and I resigned from the bank that day to pursue my dream – now called Square One Consulting. For these 14+ years I’ve been working with banks, agencies and carriers, small businesses, etc. on issues of change – its management and architecture. I’ve not gotten rich financially but I’ve been blessed innumerable times. I get paid by friends to work with them. It’s exhilarating.

Every time I hit a crisis in the business and I don’t think I can make it, the good Lord visibly intervenes with a bailout package that to me rivals the government’s help for Chrysler many years ago. Before you confuse these interventions with luck or timing, let me explain.

In about 1995 I had one employee named Shaun (you’ll learn more about him later). The quarterly payroll tax was due. I was totally tapped out of cash. I had some work on the horizon but cash was not available. My credit cards and lines of credit were maxed out. This $600 tax was due on Friday. I couldn’t pay it and delaying it wasn’t an option. On Wednesday I was searching for a white flag to wave in surrender. I was going to close down my beloved Square One.

In Wednesday’s mail I received a check for $700. This was a commission check I earned on two policies I had sold years earlier. It had never been paid. I was shocked, pleased, and awakened. Rod was right – “faith rules.”

Since that time, I’ve survived slow and shut downs of Square One because of 9/11, a hip replacement, heart problems, Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, etc. I’ve been bent but never broken. Every time it gets the darkest – a little heavenly light assures me that dawn is near. To this day, I thank God, Sheila, Rod, and my clients for letting me do what I do and love. Rod was right! Thank God.

 

January 31, 2007

Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Sheila, happy birthday to you! Today is Sheila’s birthday. In about an hour I’ll be bellowing the aforementioned song. She’ll smile, demand a present – which I will provide, and then feign enthusiasm regardless of her feelings about the present. She and others often question my taste or wisdom in gift buying. So – who’s perfect?

We’ve been married for almost 31+ years. It will be 32 years on March 8, 2007. I’ve made many good decisions in my life, some really bad ones, but marrying Sheila was the best choice I ever made. I make this statement without qualification now that we’ve survived this many years and have reached this point in our lives.

I’m sure during the process I might have debated the statement I’ve just made. I know Sheila must have had second thoughts and is still entitled to second thoughts of her decision. I married up. She didn’t.

Today she is ___ (I could never tell her age). I will give you a hint – next year she’ll hit a benchmark age – one of the decade markers that folks remember. You guess which one. She’s well preserved so you might be surprised.

I’ve often described Sheila as a fabulous teacher (which she is) and mean as a snake as a wife (which she isn’t). She’s a redneck gal who grew up in Monroe Louisiana. I guess redneck and Monroe in the same sentence are redundant.

She is an only child. Her father abandoned the family right after her birth. Her momma worked very hard all her life to support Sheila. As the old Cajuns like to say “Sheila is her momma’s eyes.” Her mother’s family was large and so lots of aunts, uncles, and cousins helped shape her. She comes from a very musically talented family but claims to have no gift for music. I’ve heard her play the piano and realize there is talent there maybe it just hasn’t been fully developed.

When we first started dating I would introduce her and joke that I met her as a dancer at the Sho-Bar on Airline Highway in Baton Rouge. She loves to dance but has never done so professionally. Let me qualify this statement – she loves to dance with qualified partners and occasionally will allow me to simultaneously embarrass and “mug” (at least her feet) her on the dance floor.

Sheila often accuses me of being a dreamer. When we were first married she wanted have 13 children – that’s not a dream. To me that’s a nightmare. Once she engaged in the process of raising our two sons, we quickly agreed to go for quality rather than quantity. She did great with the “boys.”

Sherry is her closest friend – together they are often compared to Thelma and Louise. Her passions are travel, friends, gardening, slot machines, her children, and Cajun country. If you see her today, wish her a Happy Birthday. I love you Sheila!