My Name Is Jacques

Sunrise March 19

2011-03-19T15:53:00.001-07:00

Within the dark Cow Island morning sky an energy source burned through the fog with a promise of a beautiful day and a brighter tomorrow.

Welcome to Icy Cow Island

2011-02-07T04:07:00.001-08:00

Welcome to icy Cow Island. Wait. When did that happen? Oh yeah. Friday, February 4th. A one day only event open to only Cow Island residents and their friends, family and neighbor. Mais, it's good to be from Vermilion parish, yeah.

Sunrise 1/7/11

2011-01-07T08:13:00.000-08:00

For those of you who missed the morning sunrise, here it is. Use its power for inspiration and strength.

Much love,

jacques

Strength for a New Mission

2010-12-19T04:46:00.000-08:00

The news was a blow from behind, a punch in the stomach, a left hook to the face. Just like that, I was told that my publisher didn’t want another novel from me, that there weren’t enough sales from the first, that my two book contract would be cancelled. Just like that, my mission in life was gone.

That second book had started out as a fresh idea. It was fueled by enthusiasm, creativity and high hopes. But through time it transformed into a monkey on my back that grew into a full fledge monster stomping on my mind, body and spirit.

The pressure was gone, and part of me was greatly relieved. But what the monster left behind was far worse than any condition of its presence. It was the fallout of failure, shame, guilt, confusion and debt.

The morning after my mission in life changed, I lay in bed unsure of what to do. For over three years I’d woken as a sophomore novelist with a goal to write a specific story. For over a thousand days, my mind had been occupied trying to find the perfect balance of plot, voice and characterization. But all of that had changed, and it was time to do something else.

I pulled that second book out anyway. I was determined to write it, to create something so amazing that publishers would be knocking down my door, to take the cancelled contract in stride and come back stronger than ever.

But I was weak. The second book had taken its toll on my confidence and filled me with fear. I needed courage, energy and inspiration. Most importantly, I needed strength.

Last year, shortly after my world changed, I went to the Abbeville Meridional newspaper with an idea for a column that would explore the ins and outs of life. At first I wasn’t sure how to pursue it. But then I saw the general manager, Kathy Cormier, and inspiration filled me.

Cormier was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2007. She went through chemotherapy, radiation, and a double mastectomy. The day I went to ask her for a job, she was in remission and looked stronger than ever. The breast cancer survivor gave me the strength to understand that the world does not stop over a cancelled book contract.

For the past year, I’ve explored previous self-experiences and interviewed people who faced goals, challenges and obstacles; an eighty-three year old woman continued dancing after breaking her hip, a teenage girl from Forked Island realized her dream of attending an Ivy League university, a soldier left his family to go overseas and fight for freedom. Hearing and sharing these stories has been my therapy, my medicine and my mission in life. They have guided me to next steps and given me strength.

I often wonder how my life would be different if that second novel had been published as planned. At this moment, I could be a best selling author in the ranks of Jeff Kinney, J.K. Rawling and Stephanie Meyer. The book could have been made into a blockbuster movie starring everyone from George Clooney to Faith Hill to Brangelina. My face could be on lunch boxes, my body in Calvin Klein underwear ads and my feet on the T.V. show, “Dancing with the Stars”. Oprah could have interviewed me, and I could have purchased Michael Jackson’s old house and lived in Never Land until I fulfilled the ultimate dream of winning the Pulitzer and becoming a game show host, preferably the “Price is Right”.

But the second book was never published, so this past year I spent my days digging through garbage with my mom to find aluminum cans to recycle. I shared experiences with my family, learning more about them and allowing them to learn about me. I traveled around Vermilion Parish and met people who amazed me with their stories of hope, passion and strength.

I am grateful that my publisher had the insight to see that a second book with them was not the right project for me at that moment. I am sorry for any trouble I may have caused them, but that was never my intention. My heart was fully invested in writing a great story, but the stars simply weren’t in line.

Through my failure, I learned valuable lessons. I learned that the world doesn’t revolve around me, that other people have problems far worse than my own and that through perseverance, support and love we can all find the strength we need.

It is now time for me to take the next step in my life. Although I am not exactly sure of what that is, there are several projects that have inspired me. But in order to be able to focus on these ideas, I will have to stop writing for the Abbeville Meridional.

I am very thankful that Kathy Cormier, Chris Rosa and the newspaper gave me an opportunity when I needed it most. Their faith and trust in my ideas allowed me to explore and educate myself on accomplishing goals, overcoming challenges and dusting off after being knocked down to the ground.

But it is you, the people of Vermilion Parish, who made me strong and understand the bigger picture in life. It is your positive encouragement and inspiring moments that motivates me to wake each morning as if it is the first day of my life. It is you who gives me strength.

Campbell Farms

2010-12-15T06:46:00.000-08:00

ABOVE: HAMPTON, KENT, CLAIRE, ALISON

Like many rice farmers in southwest Louisiana, Hampton Campbell of Gueydan wanted to make the most out of his career. After eight years of farming a commodity rice, he decided it was time to look for other opportunities.

“There is too large of an investment involved in farming to just leave it,” says Campbell. “I needed to diversify, so I began looking for a product to satisfy a niche market.”

Campbell planted twenty acres of an aromatic rice called Della, which also has the nickname of “popcorn rice.” It looks and cooks just like regular rice, except for its aromatic scent of popcorn. According to Campbell, it was developed by Louisiana State University in the 1970’s.

“I started selling it at arts and crafts shows,” says Campbell. “Many people aren’t familiar with popcorn rice. But after they taste it, they usually buy some.”

Campbell Farms is owned and operated by Hampton Campbell and his wife, Alison Campbell. In addition to gourmet rice in two and five pound bags, the specialty food company also sells hot sauce and packs of red beans and popcorn rice. Mrs. Campbell has also collaborated with skin care professionals to create a product line consisting of soap, lotion and bath formula made from goat milk and rice.

“I read in a magazine that rice was good for the skin,” says Mrs. Campbell. “So I tried some in my bath water and it made my skin feel so soft. That’s when I decided to produce my line.”

Mrs. Campbell mills her husband’s popcorn rice into flour and sends it to a skin care professional who mixes it with the goat milk soap and lotion. It is unscented, but filled with herbs and vitamins.

“The best part of running this business is that we get to do it as a family,” says Mrs. Campbell. “Our son and daughter work with us at the arts and crafts shows.”

Campbell Farms sells approximately 50,000 pounds of popcorn rice per year. The gourmet food products are sold on their website and in stores throughout the U.S. In Vermilion Parish, the rice is available at Robies in Abbeville, Larry’s in Kaplan, and Marceaux’s and G&H in Gueydan.

I drove out to Campbell Farms last week to find out more about the popcorn rice farm. I didn’t know what to expect, but imagined fields of golden grains slightly blowing in the wind until they burst into white buttered kernels creating a snow-like storm that came from the ground instead of the sky.

You can imagine my shock and disappointment when it wasn’t anything like that; partly because the rice had been cut several months before, and partly because my expectations were insane and probably the result of not sleeping enough and sometimes eating expired dairy products.

But Mr. and Mrs. Campbell were so much more welcoming than a snowstorm of buttered popcorn. They greeted me outside of their newly built office and facility that was beautifully decorated with miniature Christmas trees and a holiday wreath made with bags of rice. Just next to it was a giant bail of hay with the face of Santa Claus painted on it.

After getting a rundown of the business, I sat down with the Campbells for lunch. Mrs. Campbell prepared a pack of the company’s red beans and popcorn rice. The grains were white and tasted similar to regular rice, but were a little bit fluffier, and paired very nicely with the beans.

During lunch, Mrs. Campbell shared the story of a favorite customer, a woman who purchased some of the popcorn rice because her late husband had enjoyed it. The widow was very appreciative to the Campbells and said that when she ate the rice, it brought back pleasant memories with her husband.

“It’s rice that brings the family together,” said Mrs. Campbell. “We serve it for most meals, and we sit around the table to eat it as a family.”

To learn more about the gourmet food products and specialty skin line offered by Campbell Farms, call 337-536-7052 or visit their website at www.campbellfarms.com.
JACQUES BAGGING RICE

The Bond of Asphalt and Leadership

2010-12-07T15:49:00.000-08:00

Glenn Lege was a farmer for many years before he purchased a bulldozer and began doing land work in his spare time. After a while, the number of land work opportunities increased and he expanded his equipment inventory. Then in 1992, after several years of growing, he opened Glenn Lege Construction Incorporated.

“The people I have behind me is the reason I was able to grow,” says Lege. “My employees are determined to succeed, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.”

Glenn Lege Construction produces and lays asphalt for everything from driveways to interstates. Their customers are local and state government departments, developers and private citizens.

“The best part of this industry is when a customer calls and tells us that we did a good job,“ says Lege. “The most challenging part is managing all of the logistics and regulations.”

When Lege first opened his company, he relied on other sources for the asphalt he was using on projects. In 2006, he realized a need to have more control, and so he built his own asphalt plant on the outskirts of Abbeville on Sand Pit Road.

“There was a lot of hard work and financial risks involved in building the plant,” says Lege. “But after we made our first batch of asphalt, it felt like I’d been rewarded.”

Additional services of Glenn Lege Construction include developing land by clearing it of trees and shrubs, digging underground drainage, and building sidewalks, curbs and roads. The company also rents equipment such as bulldozers, excavators, graters, tractors, and dumps trucks, and sells dirt, sand and limestone by truckload or for entire jobs.

I recently visited Lege at the asphalt plant. A white ranch-style fence frames the front of the property, and right on the other side is a large pond with a bridge crossing over.

“I didn’t want the plant to be an eyesore,” said Lege. “We try to keep the area near the road mowed and free of trash.”

One of Lege’s associates, Brandon Neuville, gave me a short explanation and history of asphalt. He said the product we most often refer to as, “asphalt,” is a mixture of mineral aggregates like limestone, sandstone and granite, and a sticky, black petroleum based liquid which is also called, “asphalt.”

“Asphalt was used in ancient Egypt,” said Neuville. “They used it to make foot paths.”

According to Neuville, the composition of asphalt depends on its future use. For example, the mixture of minerals for a driveway would not be the same for an interstate.

Neuville and Lege gave me a tour of the plant, most of which is located outside. In addition to machinery and cylinder shaped storage facilities, there were pyramid-sized piles of aggregates.

On average, the plant produces 250 tons of asphalt per year. I was able to watch it being made from start to finish, which takes approximately three minutes. Although there is a tremendous amount of precision involved in the production, the easiest way for me to explain it is to compare it to making Christmas candy.

You start with a cup each of pecans and walnuts or limestone, sandstone and granite. Heat the mixture in an opened flame oven at about three hundred degrees. Then mix in something syrupy like caramel or liquid asphalt, and voila, you have ready to lay asphalt or a batch of holiday snicker doodles.

One part of the plant that is located inside is the control tower. Associates in this room have a good view of the surrounding area and are responsible for monitoring the production process.

I got to go up in the tower and sit in front of the control panel, which was a little larger than a writing desk and filled with brightly colored buttons. I’m like a kid on an elevator when it comes to buttons and it was killing me to not be able to push every last one of them. An associate, Buddy Cruse let me scratch my itch by pushing a yellow one. I’m not sure what it did, but I’d like to think it was something really cool.

I was also able to ride on a bulldozer with Casey Lege while he moved large loads of aggregate to the asphalt-mixing bowl. He told me that he wasn’t related to Glenn Lege, but that he loved his job and working for the company.

“You have to surround yourself with good and knowledgeable people who have determination and heart,” said Lege. “I’ve learned the most about this industry from the people who work for me.”

In less than two hours, the employees at Glenn Lege Construction educated me on the definition of aggregate, and the in-and-outs of the production process for ready to lay asphalt. Lege was right about the value and importance of surrounding yourself with knowledgeable and hardworking people. But what was even more apparent was that Lege’s pride and leadership was the liquid asphalt that bonded his team of aggregates together to produce a ready to work attitude that can be used everywhere from driveways to interstates.

For more information on the products and services of Glenn Lege Construction Incorporated, call 337-893-7398.

Strength to Lead a Journey

2010-12-05T05:54:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite past times in the world is traveling. I love eating foods from different regions, hearing interesting accents and getting my passport stamped at border control. My dream in life is to die while speaking a foreign language, preferably while ordering food or asking for the bathroom.

But I’ve been grounded the last few years due to low funds and a growing concern that I might step onto the wrong plane. Sometimes I feel like a part of me is missing, but where do I find the time, money and courage to pack my bags and head out on an adventure? Where does one find the strength?

The first trip I ever took out of the United States was to Italy. Stepping off of the plane onto foreign soil where they spoke a different language felt like a dream. It was neither good nor bad, just a feeling that I wasn’t really there.

My friend, Jay, met me at the airport in Rome, and for the next week and a half, he was my tour guide through Italy. We traveled by train throughout the country, and slept in hostels, sharing rooms with people from all over the world. We rode gondolas in Venice, ate pizza in Naples and learned Italian words and phrases as we walked on top of a stone wall only a few feet away from the leaning tower of Pisa. This was in 1994 before the book, “Eat, Pray, Love,” so our trip was NOT inspired by Elizabeth Gilbert or Julia Roberts.

The day we parted ways, Jay headed to Sicily, and I took the train back to Rome. I had a night in the city before I went back to the United States the next day, and planned to stay at a hostel that Jay and I slept at on the beginning of our trip.

But when I stepped out of the train station onto the street, I was lost. I had followed Jay around and relied on him to get us to our destinations. I hadn’t bothered to look at a map or even pay attention to street signs. The once warm and magical Rome where I’d feasted on pasta, cappuccinos and gelato, suddenly made me feel cold, hungry and vulnerable.

For three hours, I walked around looking for the hostel. For three hours, I cursed myself for being stupid enough to go to a country where I didn’t know the language. When I finally stumbled upon the hostel and my bed for the night, I collapsed exhausted from the ordeal. The week and a half of great memories was destroyed within only a few hours of fear and weakness.

However, after I returned back to the U.S. and told stories of my trip, my enthusiasm for adventure returned. Before Italy, I had a crush on traveling, but afterwards, the attraction turned into head over heels in love. Anytime I was able, I packed my bags and set off on excursions with high hopes of creating memories.

But the photographs, postcards and passport stamps weren’t the most valuable possessions I collected on my travels. It was the education I received.

Did you know that some people in The Netherlands believe that their Santa Claus lives in Spain and delivers gifts on a boat? Can you believe that in Connecticut they call a, “poboy,” a “grinder,” or that it’s almost impossible to find a homemade chocolate chip cookie in Switzerland? Learning this first hand, my friends, is way more interesting than sitting in an elementary school social studies class. (Unless, of course, my sister-in-law Rhonda is teaching it.)

My travels have led to job offers, better communication skills and lifelong friendships throughout the world. As a writer, I consider all of my excursions an investment well worth spent and more valuable than anything I’ve ever owned. I hope to have many more trips ahead of me and encourage each and every one to travel as often as they can.

But I also understand the roadblocks in traveling. There are commitments, and time and financial restrictions. These are all issues that I experienced myself. I was only able to overcome them by making travel a priority, and doing my research.

I subscribed to travel magazines, read guidebooks and regularly checked websites for airfare and hotel deals. I re-organized my budget so less was spent on clothing and movies, and more on trips. Most importantly, as learned from my trip to Italy, I always carried a map and was prepared with information to take charge of my journey.

There are thousands of books and websites on traveling for adventurers with only a dime and a dream. There are volunteer opportunities, educational courses and surprisingly affordable excursions.

For many, now might not be the right time to travel. myself included. However, in order to continue my education on what makes the earth tick, I have future plans of adventure. Preparing and taking charge of the trip will alleviate most fears and concerns. Leading our own journey while we learn about the world will help us understand it better and give us strength.

The Color of Passion and Camouflage

2010-12-01T17:43:00.000-08:00

The fall is here, and with it are the familiar colors of the season. There are red and green holiday decorations in every store window, and black and gold Saints’ jerseys as far as the eye can see.

But since hunting season has opened, another color scheme has also made a stronger than usual appearance in Vermilion Parish. It’s called, “camouflage” and if you haven’t noticed the sudden increase in earth tone patterns on everything from clothes to trucks to boats, it’s because you’re not supposed to.

“Having a camouflaged boat that blends in with the terrain is an advantage when hunting,” says David Hebert, owner of Cajun Camo in Abbeville. “I’ve painted a lot of guns in camouflage. Some of my customers told me that sometimes they couldn’t find it if they put it down on the ground.”

Located in Abbeville, Cajun Camo paints almost any and everything in a camouflage print. Hebert has painted boats, trucks, four-wheelers, guns, trailers, golf carts, guitars, laptops and furniture. There are twelve different stock patterns to choose from, but Hebert will also paint custom ones.

“You name it, we paint it,” says Hebert. “I’ve even painted a high chair for a customer’s grandson. She liked it so much that she wants me to paint another one in pink camouflage for her granddaughter.”

According to Hebert, most of his customers are hunters. Camouflaged guns are painted with a marine coat that prevents rusting and makes it easier to clean. Some customers bring Hebert pictures of their hunting terrain so he can paint their boats to blend in. His customers are from throughout Louisiana, as well as Texas and Mississippi.

“The best part of painting is seeing the reactions on a customer’s face,” says Hebert. “One customer brought in an orange truck to be painted. He freaked out when he saw it after I camouflaged it. He couldn’t believe it was the same truck.”

Hebert was fifteen years old when he was first inspired to paint camouflage. He was hunting with his brother-in-law and decided to paint their guns. It was the first of many that he would put his artist’s hand to, and the beginning of a passion.

“I always had an interest in art,” says Hebert. “I also love to hunt and fish. That’s what gave me the passion to paint camouflage.”

I recently visited Hebert at his office/studio. He showed me the different stock patterns of camouflage he paints, as well as a bumper from the orange truck he camouflaged. The before orange color was so bright that it made my mouth taste like citrus fruit. But the finished product was a truck with intricate patterns of earth-toned terrain.

Hebert showed me the tools he uses to paint and let me try them out myself. I got to put on a gas mask and hold a high-powered spray paint can that was attached to a compressor via a hose.

“The most challenging part of this business is trying to meet deadlines,” said Hebert. “Last few weeks have been hectic because of hunting season.”

What I found most interesting about Hebert is that he has received no formal training. Although he has some experience in graphic design, he learned his art by doing. It was this drive and determination that gave him the courage to open his business and pursue his passion, a color more vibrant than the former orange truck, and so powerful that it couldn’t be hidden with camouflage.

Cajun Camo is located at 3020 Donna Road in Abbeville. For more information about their services, call 337-230-0599 or email David Hebert at cajuncamo@hotmail.com.

Strength to Transition

2010-11-28T07:12:00.001-08:00

Despite our best efforts, it seems that the world is in a constant state of transition. At the moment, new leaders are preparing to take office, new screening guidelines are being instituted at airports and a princess-in-waiting is preparing to wear her new tiara.

Transitions are a part of life, and can often be the result of something positive. But even though we know that the new job is a promotion, or the new house is bigger or the new city has more to offer, there will be many great memories and safety associated with the old. So where do we find the courage and patience to battle the insecurities and fear of transitioning into something new? Where do we find the strength?

Several years ago, I worked for a uniform company in Chicago. I learned a tremendous amount from the company and had many great experiences in the city. But after two and a half years of driving to the same office everyday, to face the same challenges, I grew anxious and was ready for something completely new.

I was thirty years old when I quit my job without a clue about what to do next. My action was impulsive, but was sparked by an overwhelming concern that my youth and passions were being stolen by security and fear.

After literally beating my head against a doorframe, I made a decision to move to New York to study writing. I thought it would be easier to become the new me if I was far away from the old. I knew the transition would be painful, but hoped it would be short and quick.

For almost three months, I continued to work at the same job and live in Chicago while I planned my new life. Each day, I crossed a date off of the calendar with great anticipation of my future. The closer I got to my departure though, the more my old self tightened around me.

It wasn’t just a job and city I was leaving. There were relationships, favorite restaurants, Lake Michigan, architectural marvels and Mid-Western knowledge. I was not only departing a place that had captured my heart, but like a family, also made me feel safe and comfortable. Knowing that I was leaving it, made the desire to stay that much stronger.

I thought that once I unloaded the moving truck in Manhattan, all of my doubt and insecurities would be gone. I had physically transitioned, but was mentally stuck somewhere between the old and new, the familiar and strange, the safety and freedom.

While in New York, I never stopped changing. There were many different apartments, jobs and relationships, new doctors, barbers and favorite hangouts, experimental haircuts, clothes and shoes.

It took seven years before I felt like I had arrived in my New York life. Ironically, it was the day I decided to leave. This is when I stopped doubting myself for moving there. It was a long transition process, but it hadn’t completely changed the old me. It had only educated me.

As the end of the year gets closer, we will all be transitioning into something new; we’ll replace calendars, write resolutions, prepare 2011 budgets; we’ll adjust to new members of family and grieve the loss of others; we’ll move into new homes, open new businesses, and fight off the comfort and security of the old as we attempt to grow with the excitement but unknown nature of the new; in other words, we’ll live what’s known as, ‘life.’

There is nothing wrong with being completely happy and content with every aspect of your life. But as the world spins around, change arrives whether we’re ready for it or not. Using pass experiences, knowledge and faith will help us through transitions. Remembering that life is a constant state of learning through living will bring us strength.

Classic Designs- The Christmas Store

2010-11-24T05:41:00.000-08:00

Twas the month before Christmas
And all through my house
Not a decoration was found
Only a dead mouse

So I grabbed my wallet
And dashed through the door
To Classic Designs
The Christmas Store!!!

Located in Abbeville, Classic Designs-The Christmas Store, is owned by Keffer Delina and Brent Griffin. The retail space is opened from September to Mardi Gras every year and specializes in decorations and accessories for the holiday season.

“The most challenging part of this business is setting up every year,” says Delina. “The best part is seeing the reaction of the children to all of the decorations. They are in awe.”

In addition to holiday merchandise like wreaths, pre-lit Christmas trees and Santa Claus items, Classic Designs sells a variety of religious plaques and statues, and gifts such as Fitz and Floyd figurines. Ornaments come in every color, shape and style including angels, picture frames, candy canes, Mardi Gras masks, fleur de lis themed and animals such as dogs, pigs, bears, reindeer, butterflies, birds and fish. Additional decorations include garland, beaded fruit, glittered branches and peacock feathers, both real and artificial.

“We have thirteen different themed trees and over 1300 different styles of ornaments,” says Delina. “Our customers are from throughout Louisiana.”

Delina and Griffin are also the owners of Jim’s Flowers in Abbeville. They opened Classic Designs ten years ago because they wanted to offer a larger selection of seasonal merchandise. According to Delina, both men showed signs of artistic interests and talent at an early age.

“I always wanted to work at a nursery or with flowers,” says Delina. “People have told me that even when I was four or five year old, I was always touching flowers.”

Delina says that when decorating a tree, it is best to start with lights, then garland or ribbon. Next, hang your larger ornaments on the inside branches, then your medium sized and then your small. He suggests beginning from the inside of the tree first and gradually working out.

“I love spending time with our customers and offering them decorating tips,” says Delina. “When they buy branches, I show them how to cut them. When they buy feathers, I show them all of the different ways to use them.“

I recently visited
The Christmas Store
A statue of Santa
Stood by the door

The front window case
Was filled with reindeer
They were mirrored and shiny
Full of holiday cheer

The inside was brilliant
Shiny and bright
Decorated with Christmas
And packed with delight!

Classic Designs-The Christmas Store is located at 112 South State Street in Abbeville. For more information on their products, call 337-898-9350.

Strength to Give Thanks

2010-11-22T04:16:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is just around the corner. A day to spend with friends and family, and give thanks for all of life’s love, pleasures and accomplishments.

But sometimes our moods are not compatible with the joyous day. Sometimes when we search for something to be thankful for, we come up empty. So where do we find the smiles and insight to be gracious for the unseen, while simultaneously basting a turkey? Where do we find the strength?

A few months after I graduated from college, I moved to Atlanta and attained a job in retail management. I’d thought that having a degree would make the rest of my life fall into place, creating some sort of yellow brick road that led to happiness and strength.

But after the first few months of being a college graduate and having a “real job,” my mind and spirit were scattered and weak. I was uncertain about my career choice, my friends were all somewhere else, and I’d just come to the acceptance that my dad would be dead from cancer within a year.

I had to work the Wednesday before and the Friday after Thanksgiving, so I stayed in Atlanta rather than coming back to Louisiana for the holiday. I didn’t know anyone in the city, and therefore planned to spend the day of thanks alone watching television.

But the only programs playing were about people celebrating, and eating turkey. Even though I was alone, I had to the urge to be away from the holiday, but mostly away from the civilization that created it.

So I packed a knapsack with food, water and matches, jumped in my truck and drove to the North Georgia Mountains. I’d worked at a camp in Connecticut the summer before, and fallen in love with the outdoors. It seemed to be one of the few places quiet enough for me to think or let my mind go blank and not think at all.

I hiked about an hour up a trail into the forest, and then set up a fire ring on a small clearing. I made a campfire, and then cooked a hamburger and potatoes in aluminum foil. I said grace to give thanks for the food, but nothing else. My mind, spirit and sight were too blinded by reality and pity to see anything for which to be gracious.

During my meal, an older gentleman, who looked to be in his sixties, walked up the trail and stopped by my campfire. We talked a few minutes about the beautiful day, and he asked how my Thanksgiving was going.

“Okay, I guess,” I responded while trying to fake a smile.

It wasn’t the truth, but seemed to be a proper and polite answer for the stranger. But I could see on his slightly tensed face that he didn’t believe me or buy that I believed it myself.

“I was just about to hike up to a clearing with great views,” the stranger said. “Would you like to join me?’

My first thought was to say, “no,” because it seemed that the only thing worse than spending the holiday alone, was spending it with a stranger who felt sorry for me. But I also had the urge to move; to leave a spot of loneliness, and head somewhere, anywhere, regardless of the destination.

We walked for about an hour through the forest, slowly heading up the mountain that seemed to go on forever. The stranger asked me questions about my family, job and other details of my life along the way. I was hesitant at first to start a conversation, but the more and more we climbed, the more and more I spoke.

I was able to get out most of my frustrations about life, but when we finally reached the top, I stopped speaking. It was a flat clearing with a pond right in the center, and in every direction were peaks of mountains shooting up towards the heavens.

It was picturesque like a postcard, and I wanted to share it with someone I loved. The first person I thought about was my dad, and I imagined him standing right next to me holding my hand. But instead of being a twenty-something college graduate, I was five years old on my first day of school, and my dad was telling me that everything was going to be okay.

“Thanks,” I said to the stranger. “You’ve given me something to be thankful for.”

It has been almost twenty years since that day, but I think of it often. It reminds me that there will be many times when my world seems confusing, lonely and thankless. But if we face and accept the challenges of life, we will be blessed with beautiful moments. If we keep searching within ourselves and climbing upwards, we will find strength.

US K9 Unlimited

2010-11-17T03:54:00.000-08:00

ROCKY TRAHAN

JEN GARNER, ROCKY TRAHAN, DANIEL LAMBERT, DEBBIE FREMIN, DRAKE ABSHIRE, ROGER ABSHIRE

Roger Abshire was in fourth grade when he won a first place 4-H title in dog obedience. This sparked his interests in working with animals, and career and life aspirations for something much larger.

“I used to read every book I could find on dog training,” says Abshire. “I would knock on people’s doors and ask them if I could train their dogs. I’d read some more then apply the techniques. Every time I learned something new, I found another dog to train.”

Abshire is the owner and president of US K9 Unlimited located in Kaplan. The academy trains police dogs for personal protection, security patrol, arson investigation, and narcotics and explosives detection. Their customers are law enforcement agencies, corporate security, interdiction enterprises and the private sector.

“There is a national standard that this industry abides by,” says Abshire. “There are a lot of mandatory classes and licenses needed to run this business.”

In addition to training dogs and handlers at the local level, Abshire is a canine consultant for the government and law enforcement agencies worldwide. He is a regular contributor to 008 Magazine, offering expert advice on dog behavior problems. He has received specialized education throughout the world, including European police service canine training from both the Royal Dutch and German Police.

“It’s a joy for me to work with dogs,” says Abshire. “My most memorable moment in this career was when I was able to turn something I loved into my profession.”

Abshire routinely flies to Europe to purchase dogs he feels have the qualities needed to go through his training program. Although he has trained many different breeds, most of the dogs he selects are German Shepherds and Belgium Malinois.

“The dogs are usually between one and three years old,” says Abshire. “Before one, a dog doesn’t have the focus needed to be trained for a team. It’s no harder to teach an old dog new tricks, but it’s not a great investment.”

According to Abshire, a person can begin informal training such as sitting and positive reinforcement with a puppy under six months of age. After six months, a dog can begin a formal training process.

“The biggest mistake people make with their dogs is trying to communicate with them in human terms,” says Abshire. “Dogs don’t learn like we do. They don’t have the same reasoning.”

I recently visited Abshire at US K9 Unlimited. The facility is approximately one and a half acres and is divided into different areas such as training stations, and an abandoned house used to create scenarios. It helps the dog being trained become accustomed to running through houses to tract someone, or to search for explosives and narcotics.

“We try to train the dogs in as many scenarios as possible,” says Abshire. “The community has been very helpful by offering up their property. We’re always looking for different locations to train.”

Abshire gave me a tour of his academy, and demonstrated some of his training devices. He invented many of them himself, and also has proprietor techniques deemed trade secrets by the U.S. Government.

When I asked Abshire if he’d ever been bitten, he smiled and responded, “Through my career, I’ve been bitten so many times that when I drink water, I leak.”

Abshire said this to me just before I was supposed to have a picture taken of a dog attacking me. Although he offered me a sleeve with a metal pipe inside to wear on my arm, I was more interested in a baseball cup to protect something else.

It was pretty intimidating to have a man shout attack words and then release a trained German Shepherd to bite me. My impulse was to run, but there was another man with a camera only a few feet away, and I didn’t want any pictures of me jumping over a fence to show up on Facebook.

So I braced my legs as the police dog latched onto my arm. We stared at each other as the man with the camera told us to hold still for the picture. It was probably the longest ten seconds of my life, but when the German Shepherd rested his claws on my knee, I knew it was just as uncomfortable for him.

Aside from a few tense moments, I thoroughly enjoyed my time at US K9 Unlimited. Not only because Abshire gave me free advice on training my own dogs, but because of his story. His specialized training and extraordinary experiences are very impressive, but it’s his love and passion for his career that makes him so dog gone good.

For more information on US K9 Unlimited call 337-316-0477 or check out their website www.USK9.com.

TOBY WALKER

Strength for Flying Birds

2010-11-14T04:00:00.000-08:00

At one point in our life, we’ve all probably had a friend and or family member who came to us for a listening ear. We waited patiently until we knew enough information to form an opinion and give advice. But what if the person talking was only looking to be heard?

So where do we get the patience to listen and hear instead of promoting our own thoughts and feelings? Where do we get the strength?

Several years ago, in a completely different life, I thought about becoming a therapist. I’d imagine sitting in a leather chair in my office while a patient lied on a sofa and told me his problems. Without hesitation, I’d tell the patient how to fix all of them, and then to please pay the secretary on the way out.

It seemed that easy to me, and I was ready to set up a practice and become the next Freud, only better looking and with nicer suits. But unfortunately, bureaucracy frowned at my idea. It said I had to get a degree first, and before I could do that, I had to do volunteer work that was related to mental health.

So I got a job at a suicide hotline, where I went through several weeks of training with other newly hired phone counselors. We were taught a process of listening called, “active listening.” It involved listening, but instead of giving advice, only repeating what the caller was saying. Below are some examples:

Caller: I feel hot and want to punch something.
Actively Listening Counselor: I hear that you’re angry

Caller: I don’t have a job, and owe more money on my house than it’s worth.
Counselor: I hear that you’re overwhelmed.

Caller: I don’t have any friends or family to care about.
Counselor: I hear that you’re lonely.

The concept of active listening is to give callers an opportunity to vocalize their issues without harsh interruptions like judgment or advice. When the counselor repeats what was said, the callers not only realize that someone is listening, but is also allowed to hear what they themselves are saying and feeling.

During the training, the newly hired phone counselors would role-play with each other to practice active listening. It took some time to block the impulse to give advice. But what was more difficult was truly hearing what the caller was saying so that I could repeat it to confirm that I had heard.

Active listening got easier with practice and time, and before long I was ready to answer phones and listen to real callers with real problems. The method worked with many of the callers, and at the end of our conversation, I felt like I’d really helped them. It amazed me that I was able to help by just listening and not giving advice.

One of my most unusual calls was from a man who was depressed because a bird flying through the air hit him in the head. To protect the privacy of this caller, I can’t share the details of our conversation. I can say however, that the experience traumatized him and he was near tears while talking.

I used active listening, and although the caller seemed grateful, I got the sense that he was still distraught after our phone call ended. Perhaps the reasoning is that I hadn’t truly heard what he’d said, and perhaps the reasoning for that is because I’d judged him.

It seemed so odd to me that a person could be depressed just because a bird had flown into his head. The situation sounded annoying, but also slightly amusing.

A few weeks after the call, I asked a friend what he thought about it. He was a French attorney, and always had interesting perspectives and opinions on situations.

“The man feels like he doesn’t exist,” said my friend. “Not even birds flying through the air know that he’s alive.”

The theory seemed farfetched, and I wondered if I should give my friend the phone number to speak to a phone counselor. But I soon realized that I was judging him, and that maybe he was right about my caller; maybe the man wanted to know that someone or something knew he was alive and cared about his existence; maybe he had questioned his self worth, something I myself had done and continue to do on many occasions.

As my time at the suicide hotline went by, I realized that the harsh reality of the mental health profession wasn’t a good fit for me. Instead of applying to graduate school and buying a sofa for potential patients to rest on, I dedicated my attention to writing.

But I will always value my education in active listening. I use the process often when speaking to family and friends who are only looking for an ear instead of advice. It has helped me to be less selfish during conversations, and built trust and stronger relationships. Listening to and commenting on people’s problems is instinctive. But blocking out our own agenda to truly hear what they are saying will bring us strength.

Starched and Pressed for Success

2010-11-14T03:55:00.000-08:00

VERLY LANGLINAIS, MARY ZELLAR, TRACY LANGLINAIS

Many people are in their careers as a result of actively pursuing them. Others are born into them, and others just happen to be at the right place at the right time. But Verly Langlinais started her career in 1989 at Acadiana Laundry and Dry Cleaing because her husband went on an errand.

“Noicy brought his suit to be cleaned and came back home and said he was buying a business,” says Mrs. Langlinais. “At the time, he didn’t even know how to turn on a washing machine.”

Mr. and Mrs. Langlinais’ son, Tracy Langlinais, joined Acadiana Laundry and Dry Cleaning and the three of them learned about the laundry industry from employees and chemical vendors. They also took classes and joined a dry cleaning association.

“The people who taught us the most were our competitors,” says Tracy Langlinais. “We’re a close knit industry and help each other out when we can.”

Acadiana Laundry and Dry Cleaning, located in Abbeville, launders, dry cleans, folds, steams, starches and presses clothing and other fabric products like drapes, curtains, sheets, comforters and rugs. Other services include alterations, shoe repair (Repaired by Musso’s in Lafayette) and heirlooming wedding dresses, a process that involves sealing the product in an acid free box to prevent fabric from yellowing.

“The best part of this business is meeting and talking to the customers,” says Mrs. Langlinais. “Some of them have been coming here since we opened for business. I know their names, family and even their clothes.”

Some of Acadiana Laundry and Dry Cleaning’s large volume customers include doctor’s clinics, and boating and offshore companies. According to Tracy Langlinais, one of the most interesting jobs was cleaning industrial laundry infested with bugs. The employees had to wear mask, gloves and protective clothing during the cleaning process.

“Our most memorable experience was a fire that burnt the business down to the ground in 1992,” says Mr. Langlinais. “We reopened because we felt we couldn’t let our customers down. They cried with us and then helped us rebuild. One of them even gave us a stuffed Dalmatian to protect us from any future fires.”

Acadiana Laundry and Dry Cleaning offers a fifty percent discount to police officers and fire personnel on their uniforms. Everyone can save five percent if they prepay, ten percent by picking up clothes on Tuesday or Thursday, and for the month of November, receive a twenty percent discount on all cleaning of sweaters and heavy coats. Limit one special per visit.

“We really try to make it affordable for the community,” says Mrs. Langlinais. “They’ve supported us all of these years, and we want to give back a little of what we received.”

Mrs. Langlinais was with a customer when I entered Acadiana Laundry and Dry Cleaning, but a sensor doorbell announced my arrival. She acknowledged me immediately and assured me that she’d assist me momentarily.

“The person who works the front counter is who makes or breaks your business,” said Mr. Langlinais. “They have to be able to please the customers. They can’t say, “no,” unless it’s, “no problem.”

Mr. Langlinais and his mother gave me a tour of the back of the building where all of the laundry is cleaned. I learned that there are different irons for laundered and dry cleaned items, and that a dry cleaning machine is very similar to a washing machine except that it uses chemicals instead of water, and also dries the fabric.

“One of the biggest mistakes people make when doing laundry is putting something stained into a dryer,” says Mr. Langlinais. “This sets the stain and ruins the fabric. It’s okay to hang dry it if you’re not sure if the stain is completely out.”

The Langlinais let me help do the laundry by feeding a sheet (with the assistance of employee, Mary Zeller) into a flat work ironer. It was a large machine that pulled wrinkled fabric into one end and produced a pressed product at the other.

Some careers are attained by pursuit, coincidence or when your husband goes out to get his suit cleaned. But as I learned at Acadiana Cleaners and Dry Cleaning, in order to be successful in any career, there are consistent practices that must be followed; believe in yourself, build relationships in the industry, give back to the community and always greet customers just as soon as the sensor doorbell announces their arrival.

Acadiana Laundry and Dry Cleaning is located at 213 Donald Frederick Boulevard. For more information on their services, call 337-893-2472. Tracy Langlinais is also the owner of Langlinais Computer Systems which specializes in virus removal and system restoration. For more info call 337-422-4801 or visit www.langlinais.net.

Strength to go Bald

2010-11-07T04:41:00.000-08:00

I was on a train from Denmark to Sweden when I first noticed it. To be exact, I was in the bathroom on a train. I was washing my hands and was thinking about the good times of the trip, and how much I was enjoying life at that moment.

Then my eyes caught the back of my head in the mirror above the sink that was reflecting into a mirror on the wall behind me. It was the first time I saw my halo of baldness.

I’d feared that moment since my teens when someone made a comment that I had a high forehead. In college, my hairline pushed back further and further increasing my chances of someone, somewhere, someday describing me as bald. Any reminder of this fact put me in a bad mood, and could easily ruin a day or weekend.

I fought as hard as I could against male pattern baldness. I tried the special sprays, shampoos and vitamins. I wasn’t even thirty-years old before I considered having surgery. Fortunately for my unhealthy vanity, at the time I didn’t have the money.

When I moved to New York, I met a barber named Dr. Mike, who referred to himself as a doctor of hairology. On my first visit, he scolded me because I’d been getting my hair cut wrong.

“You’re poor right here, and you’re rich right there,” he said pointing to my hair with a comb. “When the poor is right next to the rich, it looks even poorer. The only way to make the poor look richer is by making the rich look poorer. You have to own what you have, young man.”

Dr. Mike was basically telling me that I couldn’t compensate for thinning patches of my hair by letting other areas stay full and thick. It’s a concept that holds true for many situations in life, but seemed especially pertinent when hearing it from a doctor of hairology.

The doctor/barber gave me the best haircuts of my life (for under $20) and inspired a new strategy for my vanity. Instead of trying to grow lush rice crops in an obvious desert fit only for cacti and tumbleweeds, I focused on farming potatoes and pumpkins on my biceps and chest. My intention was to keep people focused on the richness of my body, instead of the poorness of my head.

In my imagination, this worked for several years. But in reality was only another example of unhealthy vanity. Instead of building real strength in my mind and spirit where it mattered, I was attempting to create an illusion of a strong being.

Not long after I moved back to Louisiana, I went to my twentieth high school class reunion. It was great to see friends from my past, some of whom I hadn’t seen since graduation night. But I was still nervous that people who hadn’t seen me in twenty years would notice the wrinkles on my almost forty-year-old face, and the small patches of thinning hair on my equally aged head.

I’d worked out hard before that night, running five miles daily and spending several days a week at the gym. I pushed my body to its limits, hoping to reveal strength, while simultaneously hiding weakness.

My plan seemed to work for the first hour of the class reunion, mostly because it was dark. But one of my biggest fears came to life when I least expected it.

I was speaking to a classmate’s husband, who I’d met for the first time that night. During our conversation, a different classmate walked up to us.

“Look, Jacques,” she said. “You have a bald spot.”

She said it like she wanted me to do something about it. But it wasn’t a crumb that could be brushed off, or a rip that could be sewn up or a stain that could be removed with Shout. It was missing hair that despite my best efforts had moved on to my brush and shower drain.

Not sure how to respond, I simply replied, “Thank you.”

The classmate hurried away as quickly as she’d arrived, as if she’d only approached me to deliver the bad news. It felt like I’d been in a drive-by shooting, and my impulse was to run and take care of my wounds. But the gentleman I’d been talking to laughed, and then passed his hand over his almost completely baldhead.

“It used to bother me a lot when people started making bald jokes about me,” he said. “But the way I look at it is this. If the worst thing I have going wrong for me is losing my hair, then I’m doing all right. There are a lot more people with much bigger problems.”

The man made a lot of sense, and within a few minutes of talking with him, the years of angst carried in my mind and body began to slowly drift away. I wasn’t ready to stand under a florescent light at the reunion so everyone could see my bald spots, but I wasn’t as upset as I thought I would be about someone noticing my imperfections.

I was in the bathroom on a train going from Denmark to Sweden when I noticed it; that my insecurities can creep from out of nowhere and ruin a wonderful moment. But through the years, I’ve accepted my flaws and learned a valuable lesson; it’s okay to try and look your best until it becomes obsessive and blinds you with weakness. Building your mind and spirit is what will make you stronger. Forgetting vanity to focus on the bigger picture of life will bring you strength.

The Dexterous Dentist

2010-11-07T04:19:00.000-08:00

There are many professions where a person’s physical abilities play a large role. Strength and endurance for example, are job requirements for most athletes, and dexterous hands are viable assets for musicians, sculptors and dentists.

“I’ve always loved working with my hands,” says Abbeville dentist, Jerry Baudin. “It’s very important to have control in this profession. Part of the application for dental school is a physical test that assesses the dexterity of hands.”

Baudin pursued dentistry not only because he enjoyed working with his hands, but also because he had an interest in the medical field. His father, Gerald Baudin, also played an influential role.

“Since my dad is a dentist, I had the opportunity to see what the profession involved,” says Baudin. “Getting to work with my dad now is very special. He’s taught me a lot of things that come with experience.”

Jerry Baudin received a bachelors of Science from University of Louisiana, and completed four years at the LSU School of Dentistry in New Orleans. He has been practicing general dentistry for six years, and his services include cleanings, teeth whitening, extractions, fillings, root canals, crowns, dentures and bridges.

“It means a lot to me if I can help someone reduce their pain and restore their ability to eat,” says Baudin. “The best part of being a dentist is working with people and helping them improve their quality of life.”

Baudin recommends brushing your teeth in the morning and evening. He also suggests flossing once a day and using mouthwash twice. He says that sipping on a sugary drink like a soda or juice for an extended period of time is very damaging is to the teeth.

“The bacteria in the mouth consumes the sugar and excretes it as an acid which can cause cavities in the teeth,” says Baudin. “Parents should avoid putting a baby with any teeth to bed with juice or milk because they both have sugar and can cause cavities.”

According to Baudin, poor dental hygiene can cause pain, gum disease, tooth loss, and inflammation in the mouth that can have a negative effect on diabetes and heart disease. He suggests using soft or extra soft toothbrushes because harder bristles can cause gum recession, remove tooth structure and notch the tooth along the gum line.

“Everyone should visit a dentist every six months to a year for a cleaning and check up,” says Baudin. “A lot of problems in the mouth can be found and fixed within a six month time period. Any longer, can be more difficult.”

I recently visited Baudin at his Abbeville office to find out more about the profession of dentistry. He introduced me to the different members of his team, whose roles range from office assistant/ receptionist to dental assistant to dental hygienist.

“I couldn’t run this business without our associates,” says Baudin. “They contribute to the success of this practice.”

Jyi Abshire, an expanded duty dental assistant, usually assists Baudin with the patients. But on the day of my visit, she played the patient and I took over her role. I got to put a small round mirror in her mouth and get a closer look at her teeth and gum line. The best part of that was that I got to sit on a really cool round stool with wheels on the bottom.

I learned a tremendous amount about the dental profession during my interview at Gerald A. Baudin II DDS. I am especially grateful for the reminder about the importance of good dental hygiene, and am thankful to all of them for staying after work to meet with me.

When I was taking the picture of Baudin and his associates, my hands kept shaking, causing the images on my camera to blur. I knew I could never be a dentist without a good lawyer. But fortunately my ten fingers are perfect for typing, which gave me the opportunity to write the story about a professional dental staff and a dexterous dentist.

Strength to be Named Cowboy

2010-10-31T03:31:00.000-07:00

From the moment that we are born, (usually before) we are given a name to label and identify ourselves. Through our entire lives, we are represented by this name, and at times guided by it. So how do we define what we call ourselves before it defines us? Where do we get the strength?

When I first moved to New York, I was invited to a party through a friend of a friend. Although there was something exciting about being surrounded by real New Yorkers, there was also something terrifying. These were the people spoken about on television and in magazines. I was an unemployed Cajun with a strange accent that former co-workers had described as sounding like Celine Dion with a head cold.

I stood by the food table, and used cheese, crackers and seafood to guard me from vulnerability. But I was only able to eat one shrimp and brie saltine sandwich before a man in his mid-twenties walked towards me. He was wearing sunglasses, (inside, at night) jeans, and a blue and white t-shirt that said, “Smooth move, Exlax.”

“Somebody told me that there was shrimp,” he said.

His t-shirt made me smile, but also made me self-conscious about the denim shirt and khaki pants I was wearing. It made me feel uptight, overdressed and square.

“They taste great with cheese,” I said. “I’m Jacques by the way.”

“Super Fly DJ Number Eight,” he responded.

It took me a few seconds to understand what he had said. I understood each word, but together they made no sense. It sounded like a different language.

“So you’re a D.J.?” I asked.

“No, I’m an accountant,” he said. “My name is Super Fly DJ Number Eight.”

When he didn’t laugh, I realized that he was being serious; dead serious; stone cold serious that his name was Super Fly DJ Number Eight.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before,” I said. “How did your parents come up with it?”

This time he smiled and said, “My parents didn’t come up with it. I did when I moved here. I just wanted a different name.”

For the next few days I thought about Super Fly DJ Number Eight and his bold move to wear sunglasses at night and give himself a name like no other. Years earlier, I might have made fun of it. But at that time, I wanted to be like him; to be so cool and confident about my choices that I could re-invent myself and wear t-shirts with clever sayings about laxatives.

I couldn’t help wondering though, why he hadn’t picked something a little less unusual like Kevin or Bruce. But I did understand why he wanted to be someone else. I had been Jacques for thirty years and was beginning to get tired of it. My move to New York was sparked by a need to figure out who I was on the inside. I’d never accomplish that by continuing to be the same person.

So for an entire weekend, I stared in a mirror and practiced introducing myself as general objects around my apartment like books, lamp and end table. But as much I wanted to sound as cool and confident as Super Fly DJ Number Eight, I couldn’t help but laugh.

Then one day a name popped into my head that didn’t make me laugh. It was short, confident and somewhat pertinent considering my Cow Island origin. From that moment on, I became Cowboy.

I got a charge out of that and began emailing friends and family to let them know about the name change. From then on, whenever I met people out and about, (except job interviews) I introduced them to the new me.

“What’s up?” I’d say. “I’m Cowboy.”

“Where’s your horse?” They’d ask. “Shouldn’t you be wearing chaps?”

“To be clear, I’m not a Cowboy,” I’d reply. “It’s just my name.”

Although there was plenty of laughter, the conversations were interesting and made me feel more relaxed about who I was and who I was becoming. But what I especially liked about the new me, was that I had created him.

But that all changed a couple of months later when a friend and I worked as bartenders at a party. We were required to wear nametags, and my friend wrote, “Cowboy,” on mine.

Throughout the night, when people came up to the bar for a drink, they’d comment on my nametag. Some would simply say that it was strange, while others would ask me the usual questions about my horse and chaps.

Unlike before, when I controlled what I revealed to people, that night I was labeled. Others had an opportunity to judge me before I’d even spoken, and I wanted to scream out that there was more to me than just a name.

The next day I went back to being, Jacques, because I didn’t have the time or money needed to be Cowboy (Horses and chaps are expensive). Instead, I spent my resources searching within to define my name. Through exploration, passions are revealed. With self-discovery, there is strength.

Gas Station for the Sky

2010-10-28T04:22:00.000-07:00

EMPLOYEES: Crystal Mouton, Mike Mouton, Stephan Hargrave, Kevin Gardner

Mike Mouton was in college when he began a part time job washing aircrafts at the Abbeville Chris Crusta Memorial Airport. He eventually acquired full time status, and has been working in the aviation industry for the past fifteen years.

“My excitement comes from the operations of the airport,” says Mouton. “It’s a community here. We all work with each other.”

Mouton is the manager of Vector Aviation, which is owned by Joey LeRouge. The fixed base operation sells quality fuel to individual aircraft owners and helicopter companies. Additional services include guidance with travel arrangements, the storage of aircrafts, parking spaces and a facility for travelers and pilots to coordinate trips.

“I guess you can say we’re a gas station for the sky,” says Mouton. “But our main purpose is to provide great customer service.”

Vector Aviation sells aviation gasoline, and Jet A fuel, which is aviation grade kerosene designed for use in gas-turbine engines. Although there are exceptions, the aviation gasoline is mostly used in fixed winged aircrafts and the Jet A is used in helicopters.

“It’s very important to use the right fuel in the right engine,” says Mouton. “You can tell them apart by their color. The Jet A fuel is clear, but the aviation gasoline is blue.”

Mouton’s responsibilities include having extensive knowledge of FAA regulations, and negotiating and managing the logistics of trips with helicopter companies and aircraft owners. Before working at the airport, Mouton was in the United States Marine Corp where he was an Aviation Ordnance Marine. His duties included mechanical troubleshooting on helicopter weapon systems.

I visited Mouton at the airport last week to find out more about his job at Vector Aviation. It was a foggy morning so the runway was quiet as pilots and travelers waited patiently for a clear sky.

“I tried to arrange a helicopter ride for you but it’s too foggy,” said Mouton. “But I can let you fuel one up.”

Although the technique is very similar to tanking up a car, (insert nozzle into fuel tank, squeeze handle, wait patiently) I was pretty excited to be fueling up a copter. It made me feel like a military pilot or an international crime-fighting playboy with a trust fund.

Mouton gave me a tour of the airport via a golf cart. We visited the heliport facility as well as the hangar where the fixed winged aircrafts are stored.

“Most people keep their airplanes inside a hangar,” says Mouton. “Aircrafts are very fragile and the outdoor elements can be damaging.”

As the morning progressed, the fog lifted and fixed winged aircrafts and helicopters began taking off. Mouton drove the golf cart to the side of the runway and we watched a single engine plane lift up into the clear sky above us.

“This is fun for me,” said Mouton. “I can’t say enough good things about working at the airport.”

Vector Aviation is located at 262 Jimmy C Vorhoff Street. For information on their services call 337-893-1128.

Strength to Make The Best of It

2010-10-24T05:40:00.000-07:00

There are many unexpected turns in life, sometimes changing the world we know forever. We have learned that despite the difficulties and challenges, we must make the best of the new situation. But how do we keep our head up and stay positive during the pain and suffering? Where do we find the strength?

Zelda Hebert of Abbeville is now eighty-eight years old. She was married to Lovelace Hebert, who passed away sixteen years ago. The couple had two children, Judy Hebert and Bonnie Hebert Broussard.

Five years ago, Zelda Hebert was leaning over to pick something up off of the ground when her hip shattered. Despite surgery and physical therapy, she has never been able to walk since then, and spends most of her time in a wheel chair or in bed.

“My daughter Judy has made so many sacrifices to take care of me,” says Hebert. “I never wanted to be a burden to anyone.”

Before breaking her hip, Hebert’s favorite things to do were visiting family and friends and going to church. She loved driving, and often drove her mother to run errands.

“My life wasn’t that exciting, but I enjoyed it,” says Hebert. “I was always glad to be able to go to different places and experience things for the first time.”

Now that Hebert isn’t as mobile, she spends most of her time watching television and reading. Her favorite part of the week is when Becky Moss, a Eucharistic Minister, brings her communion. Hebert also looks forward to visits from friends and family.

“It touches my heart that people stop by to see me,” says Hebert. “There are a lot of good people out there.”

Hebert’s advice to the younger generation is to not rush into life changing situations. She encourages them to be involved in their community and to travel to wherever they’d like to go.

Zelda Hebert is my mom’s sister, and therefore my aunt. I see her once a week when my mom and I stop by her home in Abbeville for a visit. Whenever we do, my Aunt Zelda is always pleasant and positive. She’ll ask me all about my life and usually jokes with me. I love her sense of humor and have grown close to her over these past couple of years.

“Where do you get the strength to remain so positive?” I asked her recently.

“From my faith,” she said. “I’ve learned that no matter what happens, I have to make the best of it.”

This is the lesson that I learned from my Aunt Zelda; that we must make the best of difficult and challenging situations. It is so easy to be negative and angry about certain parts of life, but at the end of the day, this changes nothing. But focusing on the good around us helps us to see things in a different light. Remembering the love and positive energy that you give to others, and that they have given to you, will bring you strength.

Abbeville RV Park

2010-10-23T12:25:00.000-07:00

The Abbeville RV Park, located just outside of downtown Abbeville on West Port Street, is more than just a place to park your camper for the night. It is a thick, shady forest with wooden bridges, curious critters and people from around the globe.

“When I saw the park, I thought it was a jewel,” says property manager Arlene White. “My ambition was to bring tourists here.”

The park, which is twenty-four acres, includes a clubhouse, fire rings and fifty-four RV sites, most of which have water, electric and sewage hook-ups. There is also a one-mile nature trail that is designated as one of the Great Gulf Cost birding trails. Animals that have been spotted include armadillos, raccoons, deer, bobcats and once, even a black bear.

“The trail makes a loop through the middle of a forest,” says White. “It’s amazing that it’s so close to downtown Abbeville.”

According to White, approximately half of the park’s visitors are local and the other half are from out of state. The locals usually stay a few days, but the tourists sometimes stay as long as four months. Visitors have come from as far as New Zealand.

“We have a lot of retired Northerners who come here for the winter,” says White. “The people who stay here become a big family.”

White’s responsibilities as property manager include book keeping, advertising, maintenance and general overseeing of the park. She also manages and works with host campers, who live at the park in an R.V. One couple lives there in the fall and winter months and the other in the spring and summer.
HOST CAMPERS: Gene and Cyndy Junker. Arlene White

“The best part of this job is meeting new people and sharing our culture,” says White. “My most memorable moment was when the Airstream caravan committed to coming here year after year.”

White also runs a full service travel agency called, Travel and Events. She enjoys the travel industry and showing tourists our culture.

On my recent visit to Abbeville R.V. Park, husband and wife, Dave and Linda Andrzejewski from New Hampshire drove into the park pulling their classic Airstream R.V. White recognized them as returning visitors, and greeted and welcomed them like they were old friends.

“We come to Abbeville every year because it’s the perfect place,” said Mr. Andrzejewski. “We have to get our Cajun fix.”

While I was talking to them, an armadillo scurried out of the forest onto a path coincidentally called, Armadillo Alley. I tried to get a picture of it, but it quickly ran away. I guess when you have an alley named after you, you’re too important to bother with the media.

My favorite part of the interview was walking on the nature trail that cuts through a thick forest filled with a variety of plants, trees and flowers. Every few hundred feet are little wooden bridges that cover small ditches and swampy areas. It was so picturesque that it made me want to take up residency with the armadillos. But only if I could one day get an alley named after me.

The hiking trail is opened to the public, but everyone must check in with the host campers. To reserve an R.V. site, call 898-4042. For more information on the park, visit www.abbevillervpark.com. For information about Arlene White’s travel agency, Travel and Events, call 893-0013.
JACQUES WRITING RESERVATION ON THE RESERVATION BOARD

Strength to Make a Gumbo

2010-10-23T12:16:00.000-07:00

There are certain skills that people associate with Cajuns. They include being able to cook a gumbo, dance the two-step and ask someone how they are doing in French (Comment ca va?).

This knowledge and ability can be gained from practice or simply from frequent exposure. But what about Cajuns who have been away from the culture for an extended period of time? How do they reconnect with their heritage? Where do they find the strength?

One of my friends (non-Cajun) recently asked me if I would mind cooking a gumbo for a little party at her house. It had been over ten years since I’d made one, but I said yes because I was sure it was one of those things, like riding a bike, that would easily come back to me.

“Would you like me to buy a roux for you?” my friend asked.

“I’m from Vermilion Parish,” I said. “I think it’s illegal for us to use roux from a jar.”

I knew that the secret to a good gumbo was time and patience, so I made sure that I got up early the day of the event. I chopped up my bell peppers and onions and seasoned my chicken. Then I started the roux.

During the process, a friend of mine from New York called. He asked what I was doing and I told him about the gumbo.

“That’s such a stereotype,” he laughed. “Are all Cajuns required to make weekly gumbos?”

“Only during the cold months,” I said. “It’s where we get our strength.”

During our conversation, I stirred the flour, oil, bell peppers and onions in a pot on the stove. The mixture resembled caramel colored Play Doh, but before it could get any darker, the chopped up vegetables started to burn.

I hung up with my friend and dropped my roux into a pot of boiling water. Once it started to dissolve and turned the color of chicken noodle soup, I sensed there was something wrong. Although it had been ten years since I’d cooked a gumbo, I was fairly sure it was supposed to be darker. I also realized that the reason the roux was like clay was because I hadn’t used enough oil.

So I started over again. I cut up more onions and bell peppers, and threw them in a pan of olive oil and flour. My Cajun confidence began to diminish, so I called one of my sister-in-laws for advice.

“Don’t let this get out to the public, but I’m cooking a gumbo and need some help with my roux,” I said.

“Why didn’t you just buy it from the store?” she asked. “That’s where I get mine.”

“Pride and stupidity kept me from buying the roux,” I answered. “Stubbornness is going to keep me from giving up now.”

My sister-in-law told me that my roux was supposed to be the color of a dark chocolate bar. When I explained that my cut up onions and bell peppers were starting to burn, she said that I was supposed to add those afterwards, and that I’d have to start over again.

I was out of flour and patience by that point. It had been almost two hours since I’d begun the process, and couldn’t start over. The party was that afternoon, so time was an issue.

“I’m just going to have to scoop out the onions and bell peppers later,” I explained. “What do I do after the roux is the color of a chocolate bar?’

My sister-in-law said that she liked her roux and water to be the same temperature. For example, if the roux was cold from the refrigerator, she put it in a pot of cold water. If it was freshly made and hot, she put it in boiling water.

“After a couple of hours, taste it,” she said. “If it tastes too much like roux, add a tablespoon of tomato paste. It kills the sharpness.”

It was a good tip to know for the future, but not practical at that point because I didn’t have any tomato paste. I planned to kill any sharpness in the gumbo with potatoes and hot sauce.

After my second roux was dark enough, per my sister in law’s suggestion, I put about three heaping tablespoons of the mixture into a pot of about one and half to two gallons of boiling water. Once it had dissolved, I poured it through a strainer several times to remove the burnt onions and bell peppers. Then I put it back on the stove and let it bubble for a couple of hours.

By this point, I was exhausted and irritated. I was about to call my friend and tell her that there would be no gumbo for her party, but that I’d drive through Popeyes and get a bucket of Cajun chicken.

Where do people get the time and patience to do this? I wondered. Where do they get the strength?

A memory of my dad in my parents’ kitchen popped into my head. He loved making gumbo, and would dance around to Cajun music during the process. To him, it was a fun-filled event, not an exhausting chore.

I took the memory as a message, and grabbed my dad’s old cowboy hat, put on some Cajun music and began dancing around the mess I’d made in the kitchen. I boiled smoke sausage in water to get some of the grease out, and then added it and the chicken to my bubbling roux. I occasionally stirred the concoction, and several hours later, I had myself a gumbo.

My first taste came nine hours after I began the whole process. While I’m sure there are gumbo snobs in Louisiana who would have given me the thumbs down, my first spoonful tasted like success.

No one at the party vomited or asked for heartburn medicine, which I took as a good sign.
But I was especially happy about the lessons I’d learned from the process.

Being able to cook a good gumbo isn’t what makes us Cajun. But spending nine or more hours in a kitchen reminds us of the struggles our ancestors endured in the journey to make a better life for themselves; that wonderful nourishment can be created with a little time and patience; that mistakes are a part of life, but learning from them gives us strength.

GUMBO RECIPE

1. Buy a dark roux
2. If you’re too stubborn or proud, then make your own. Put on Cajun music, then mix olive oil, butter and flour in a skillet on low to medium heat. Stir for about thirty minutes, making sure that it doesn’t burn. Use enough oil so the mixture is a little thicker than cake batter. Cook until the color of a dark chocolate bar.
3. Put about three heaping tablespoons of roux into pot of boiling water with about one to two gallons of water.
4. Season and add cut up onions, bell peppers and whatever else you want.
5. Let bubble for at least two hours. The longer, the better.
6. Add chicken, seafood or sausage and let cook on medium heat for about two hours. Stir every twenty minutes or so.
7. Enjoy.

Hebert's Meat Market and Slaughter House

2010-10-14T09:29:00.000-07:00

I was about eight years old the first time I realized how the cows in our back yard transformed into the best hamburgers in the world. My dad and I drove to a pasture of cattle and met a man driving a tow truck and carrying a rifle. I remember my dad pointing at a calf and a series of events that made me lose consciousness. I woke up at sixteen years old with a face full of pimples and a fear of tow trucks.

The process has changed since then, and is a lot more streamlined. I learned this first hand last week, when I took an in-depth tour of Herbert’s Meat Market and Slaughter House just outside of Abbeville.

Clement Hebert opened the market in 1955. He has since passed, but his business and legacy lives on thanks to the many generations of his family who followed in his footsteps.

“My great grandpa started his business by killing and processing a calf and bringing it into town to sell it,” says Blake Weaver. “I’ve been working here ever since I was a kid.”

Herbert passed the business down to his daughter, Marjorie Luquette and her family. Her husband, Albert Luquette Jr., and their three children, Shannon Luquette, Joetta Weaver, and Donna Faul are now the owners, and remain actively involved in the business.

“My most memorable times here were with my late wife, Marjorie.” says Albert Luquette Jr. “The part I enjoy the most about working here is being able to speak Cajun French to a lot of the customers,”

Hebert’s Meat Market and Slaughter House sells (but is not limited to) andouille and smoked sausage, cracklins, boudin, hog head cheese, debris, and stuffed chicken, pork chops, and beef tongue. Their deli, opened from 10:30-1:30, sells shrimp poboys, hamburgers, french fries and hot link sandwiches. On Sundays, they sell barbecue plate lunches.

“Next year we’re planning on building a new facility just next door,” says Blake Weaver. “We’re going to have a smoke house, expanded deli and tables for customers.”

Hebert’s also processes meat from animals that customers bring in. Most of their business is from calves and pigs, but they also work with deer, wild hogs, elk, buffalo, sheep and goats.

According to Weaver, a customer will receive approximately 55% of the weight of the animal in meat. For example, a five hundred pound calf might yield 280 to 300 pounds in product. He says that calves from six to eight months in age and 300 to 500 pounds usually provide tender cuts.

“One of the hardest parts of this job is lifting an animal because they can weigh up to 700 pounds,” says Weaver. “To be in this business you have to be willing to work, and be good with the public.”

Across the street from Hebert’s, there used to be a horse race track named Cajun Downs. Many local jockeys like Randy Romero, Calvin Borel, Ricky Faul, and Kent Desormeaux raced there. The location was used in the 1978, movie, Casey’s Shadow, and might make a future appearance in a film about Randy Romero’s life.

When I visited Hebert’s Meat Market and Slaughter House, Weaver gave me a tour of the facility. He was very explicit in describing the different areas and what happens on a daily basis. I got an up close look at the pen where the animals are stored, and learned about their journey to becoming boudin in a rice cooker.

The retail area of the building has display cases filled with a variety of meat specialties ranging from stuffed beef tongue to pan sausage laced with veil of stomach. Behind the counter, employees cut, season and package products for the many hungry customers visiting the store.

“My grandpa Luquette told me that to be successful, you always have to put the customer first,” says Weaver. “We appreciate everyone’s business and hope to have it for at least another fifty-five years.”

What impressed me the most about my time at Hebert’s Meat Market and Slaughter House was the dedication. The family and employees were dedicated to working hard and putting out a superior product in an efficient manner. They worked together with precision like a finely tuned machine. One that was built by Clement Hebert and continues to improve through the generations of his loved ones.

Hebert’s Meat Market and Slaughter House is located at 7630 West LA Hwy 338. They are currently looking for a butcher/ meat cutter. If interested in applying or to learn more about the products and services of the market, call 337-893-5688.

Strength to be Green

2010-10-10T05:16:00.001-07:00

It seems like everywhere we turn these days, there is information and publicity for green lifestyles and technology. We want to do our part for Mother Nature so we’ve broken routines and adjusted our lives.

But where do we find the motivation to recycle and conserve when it would be much easier to continue with the same everyday practices like throwing all of our disposables in one garbage can? Where do we find the strength?

In an effort to be green, I started composting at the beginning of this past summer. I put a big plastic bucket outside near the back door of our house and asked my mom to throw fruit and vegetable peelings in it, instead of in the nearby pasture.

“It’s going to break down into rich soil,” I said. “It’s like getting free dirt!”

In my fantasy, everything that went into the composter would magically turn into soil. In reality, the bucket filled up with rainwater and became a mosquito farm.

“I’m trying to save the earth,” I said to my mom as I sprayed myself with a can of Off, and grabbed a drill. “I just didn’t realize it would be this challenging.”

After I drilled holes in the sides and bottom of the bucket, the water drained out, the mosquitoes relocated, and the composting began again. That is until I realized the consequences of the next mistake I made, which was not regularly mixing the composted items. Instead of turning into dirt, they became a nesting ground for roaches, frogs and something that smelled like it had been kicked out of a toilet for stinking too much.

It occurred to me that composting was kind of a pain, and it would be much easier (and somewhat green) to just throw fruit and vegetable peelings in the pasture in the back of our house. So I gave up on my composting experiment, and poured old bags of mulch and dirt in the bucket to cover up the smell.

I decided that I would spend my green time focusing on recycling garbage. Although burdensome on occasion because I have to separate my disposables into different containers, (trash, aluminum cans to sell, and recyclables) the work is rewarding to me because I am reducing my carbon footprint.

But even my commitment to that was challenged a few weeks ago when my mom suggested that we increase our aluminum can business by digging through the trash across the street at the old F.I.E.B elementary school.

“But it’s filled with chewing tobacco, barbecue sauce and wasps,” I said. “I can get stung or start smelling like Skoal.”

“I thought you were trying to save the earth,” she said. “That means getting your hands a little dirty now and then.”

Later that day, after dropping my mom off at her sister’s house, and the recycling in the dumpster near the Abbeville Fire Station, I went to sell the cans that I’d retrieved from the garbage. I had avoided getting stung, and we were able to score a large bag of aluminum. But it hardly seemed worth it, because from previous experience, I estimated that my time, work and risks would only get a couple of dollars.

When I arrived at Abbeville Scrap and Recycling, the owner, Earl James Fritz, waved and smiled. He walked over to my car and then helped me unload the cans.

“It’s my favorite customer,” Fritz said. “It’s good to see you.”

After Fritz weighed the cans, he gave me more money than I’d expected. My mom and I usually made a game out of guessing how much we thought we’d get. The one who guessed farthest from the price had to buy the other one lunch. My mom was much better than me at estimating and usually won. But on that day, we both would have been way off.

“Tell your momma that I gave her a little extra this week,” Fritz said.

After I left, I assumed Fritz’s reasoning was that the price of aluminum had gone up. But then I wondered if this had something to do with being his favorite customer. Had Fritz given my mom and I Gold or Premier customer status the way some airlines and hotels do? Would we now receive extra benefits like frequent flier miles and emails on recycling specials?

For some reason, the thought of that put me in a very good mood. Part of it was that someone had shown true appreciation for my effort to be green. The other was that I’d get to tell my mom that we earned almost double for the cans than what we had expected.

When I got home that afternoon, I stepped into our back yard. It had been almost a month since I’d gone back there because of the heat and insects. I was pleasantly surprised to see that from my old composting bucket, there was a vine with yellow flowers growing. From it, were a couple of tiny cantaloupes.

I asked my mom if she had planted the fruit, but she said she hadn’t. We both assumed it was from seeds from the peelings we had thrown into the composter. Regardless, it was a sign that there is a reward in living a green lifestyle; food and unexpected riches.

I am very thankful that my mom has taught me how to protect and save our environment. She was green before it was cool, and has been my motivation to recycle, conserve and prevent littering. Her lessons on a green lifestyle have shown me the value of hard work, and how rewards can come in many forms. Her part in keeping the earth beautiful brings me strength.

For more information on the items Abbeville Scrap and Recycling purchases, call 337-523-9322. To learn where you can recycle glass, plastic and paper throughout the parish, call Solid Waste at 337-898-4338. For a list of items that can be recycled, visit www.obviously.com/recycle/guides/common.html.

Heavenly Bites 'N Delites

2010-10-06T04:53:00.000-07:00

When Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans five years ago, Louis and Cynthia D’arcourt left the city and their home for a hotel in Texarkana. For a few days, they waited out the devastation for news to determine their next move.

“We saw on the internet that our home and business were destroyed,” says Mr. D’arcourt. “We knew we weren’t going back, and that we needed to find another place to live.”

The D’arcourts’ daughter, who had also left New Orleans, was staying at her mother-in-law’s home in Crowley. She convinced her parents to come to Southwest Louisiana to settle so their family could be closer together.

After a few days of staying in a hotel in Crowley, Mr. and Mrs. D’arcourt drove down to Kaplan. They stopped off at the American Legion, where the Red Cross had set up to help evacuees. The couple met a man there named John Livings, who introduced them to James and Helen Meaux.

“The Meauxs had an unfurnished house for rent,” said Mrs. D’arcourt. “It was a Saturday and the utility companies were closed. But the mayor at the time, Levi Schexnider, was able to get the water and electricity turned on so we could move in the next day.”

The D’arcourts drove back to Crowley and spent that night in a hotel. The next morning, they headed back to Kaplan with the only possessions they had left. They had planned to spend the day shopping for a few items like beds and furniture for their new house, but when they entered it on that Sunday morning, they found a surprise waiting for them.

“The community of Kaplan cleaned and furnished the house for us,” says Mrs. D’arcourt. “We were so overwhelmed by their generosity, and making us feel like we were born in the town and part of the family.”

The D’arcourts eventually bought the house from Meaux siblings, James, Percy and Betty. As the new Kaplan residents re-established their lives, they began searching for a source of income. Mrs. D’arcourt had owned a flower shop in Arabie that was destroyed by the hurricane. But there were already two flower shops in town and she didn’t want to compete.

“Cynthia and I owned and operated two donut shops in New Orleans for twelve years,” says Mr. D’arcourt. “So in 2007, we started making and wholesaling donuts to sell to local grocery stores and businesses.”

In 2009, the D’arcourts opened up Heavenly Bites ‘N Delites on Cushing Avenue. The bakery sells donuts, cookies, brownies, pastries, cannolis, shoe soles, chocolate chip bites, petit fours, apple fritters, éclairs, twists, crème puffs, turnovers and custom cakes including wedding, birthday and anniversary. They also make king cakes year round, which they’ll ship throughout the continental United States.
“The hardest part of this business is that it’s a very physical, non-stop job,” says Mrs. D’arcourt. “The best part is the excitement and joy in people’s faces when they get their product. If you see that excitement, you know that all of the hard work paid off.”

The D’arcourts start baking at anywhere from ten P.M. to midnight. Then they begin making their donuts with the help of their son, Louis D’arcourt Jr. and Mrs. D’arcourt’s brother. The family works through the night, and then through most of the day at the bakery.

“You have to be married to this job to do it,” says Mr. D’arcourt. “If you’re not going to give your life to it, then there’s no reason to open it.”

The D’arcourts invited me to help them make the donuts one morning at 3:00 A.M. But since I have a strict policy of not sweating before sunrise, I declined their offer and asked them to take pictures for me.

I did however visit the D’arcourts at Heavenly Bites. The shop was festively decorated with orange leaves and pumpkins for autumn and Halloween. But my attention was captured by the cases holding freshly baked cookies and pastries. It’s very hard to interview someone when an apple fritter is calling your name.

“October to Mardi Gras is our busy season,” said Mrs. D’arcourt. “The cool weather seems to make people buy desserts.”

Heavenly Bites ‘N Delites bakes their king cakes as opposed to frying them. Mr. D’arcourt says he finds that the baked cakes stay fresh longer, which is important when shipping them.

The D’arcourts let me decorate one of the king cakes. They gave it to me afterwards, as well as another one to share with my friends, co-workers and family. The baking couple will be happy to know that I spread the wealth around Vermilion Parish, and I heard through the grapevine that Timmy Cheek of Kaplan got the piece with the baby.

I wish the D’arcourts the best in their new life and business. I visit the bakery a couple of times a month, and am a big fan of their apple fritters. They’ve always tasted great, but after hearing the story of how the pastries are baked with hard work, commitment, and community and family support, each bite I take in the future will be a heavenly delite.

Heavenly Bites ‘N Delites is located at 116 ½ Cushing Avenue. For products, services and store hours call 337-643-1066.

Strength to Build a Home

2010-10-03T04:56:00.000-07:00

Most of us have fantasized about building our dream home. But when it comes time to start, the reality of the project isn’t always as easy, glamorous or affordable as the fantasy. So when bringing a dream to life, where do we find the stamina and mindset to make it happen? Where do we find the strength?

Jacob and Regan Faulk, along with their three sons, currently live in a two bedroom, one bathroom house in Cow Island. The growing family felt it was time for something larger, and have begun building their dream home; a four-bedroom, two and a half bath Victorian inspired farmhouse complete with an L shaped front porch.

“When we had two boys in two years, we knew we needed something larger,” says Mrs. Faulk. “We have always loved the Villien house in Maurice. It was the inspiration for our new home.”

Mrs. Faulk, who grew up in the construction industry because her father is a general contractor, drew the first plans for the house. Mr. Faulk’s father, David Faulk, who is an experienced architectural draftsman, drew the final plans.

“Contractors are building the shell, but we’re doing a lot of work ourselves,” says Jacob Faulk. “Regan’s father is doing the plumbing and I’m doing the electricity. We’re very fortunate that we have a lot of help from our friends and family. Especially our mothers, who have been very helpful by taking care of the boys.”

Mrs. Faulk is a beautician and owns Petite Rouge hair salon. She says that one of the largest challenges in building a house is orchestrating all of the details, while continuing to work and tend to her family.

“There are a lot of technical decisions to make,” says Mrs. Faulk. “You need to educate yourself or you won’t know if you’re making the right choices.”

The advice Mrs. Faulk would give to someone building their own home is to build in the winter because construction costs seem to be lower. She also suggests being prepared for changes that may increase your costs up to twenty percent above your budget.

The Faulks are building their new home just behind their current one. It took the family about nine months to plan the project, and then will take approximately nine months to build, for a total of eighteen months from concept to completion. Once they have moved into their new home, hopefully by spring, they plan to sell their current two-bedroom home to be moved.

I visited the Faulks one early evening to learn more about where they found the strength to build a home. Most of the framing and exterior was complete, but the inside required a little more time. Mr. Faulk, who owns a lawn service, had worked a ten-hour day, but was ready to work four more on the new house.

“We’re willing to make the sacrifice for our life,” said Mr. Faulk. “It’s our goal to have a home for our family.”

It was the last day of summer and the sun was lowering itself in the sky. As we stood on the large porch, warm breezes passed us as if saying goodbye.

“You’re going to see a lot of great sunsets from this porch,” I said.

“I know,” Mr. Faulk answered. “I can hardly wait.”

The moment was both a foreshadowing and metaphor for the Faulk’s future. After a long, hard day, when all of the work is complete, they will sit down on that porch as a family to watch the sunset. Through their time together, they will grow, learn and love. From their patience, hard work and sacrifices, they will find strength.

For more details about the two-bedroom house (1125 sq ft) for sale, call 643-2497.

Duhon's Gun Shop

2010-09-29T05:56:00.000-07:00

Hunting season has arrived and camouflaged residents throughout Vermilion Parish have fled for the fields and blinds to bring home dinner. Before they headed out, many of them brought their guns to be cleaned and repaired by husband and wife, Elson and Becky Duhon at Duhon’s Gun Shop

“I got into this business because I liked collecting guns,” says Mr. Duhon. “The more you like something, the easier the job is going to be.”

Opened since 1985, Duhon’s Gun Shop buys, sells and trades guns. They sell new and used rifles, shotguns, handguns, pellet and BB guns. Accessories include (but are not limited to) holsters, ammunition, scopes and mounts, gun magazines and knives. Services include cleaning, repairing, sighting rifles, replacing butt stocks, and straightening barrels.

“The hardest part of this business is that it’s seasonal,” says Mrs. Duhon. “We get busy at the beginning of August, just before hunting season. After New Years, we slow down a lot.”

According to Mr. Duhon, automatic shotguns have a tendency of jamming and need to be regularly maintained. He says that any gun using steel shot should be cleaned after shooting around 300 shells. He also suggests cleaning all guns before putting them into storage.

“Duck hunters are famous for letting their guns get wet,” laughs Mr. Duhon. “They should dry them well after shooting them. It’s good to wipe the barrel down with 3 in 1 oil or Break Free oil. It helps prevent rusting.”

Mr. Duhon suggests a 12-gauge pump shotgun as a first gun for someone sixteen years old or older. But someone younger should consider a 20-gauge.

“You don’t want to start a young kid off with something too powerful,” says Mr. Duhon. “It might scare them, and it will be hard for them to regain their confidence and become a good shot.”

The Duhons are also the owners of Duhon’s Mudd Hole. Behind the gun shop are two large muddy fields, one for 4-wheel drive trucks and the other for 4-wheelers. For a fee per vehicle and person, interested attendees can drive around in one of the mud holes or sit on the side and watch others.

“People tailgate and watch the trucks playing in the mud like they’re watching a football game,” laughs Mr. Duhon. “It’s a lot of fun.”

Other amenities include a port-o-let, as well as a concession stand that sells hamburgers, hotdogs and drinks. The mud hole is closed for the season, but check out their website (www.duhonsmudhole.com) for info on its re-opening.

I recently visited Duhon’s Gun Shop, located in a metal building behind the owners’ home in Abbeville. The lobby is as authentic as a gun shop can be, with collector’s items like a stuffed mink, a box set of everything a child needs to be a real life cowboy (complete with bandana, cap-gun and holster), and a vintage poster that says, “Check your guns.”

During my visit, a gentleman came in with a military rifle from 1913 that was used in World War 1. He had traded it for another gun because he liked the history of the rifle. He was having problems with his bolt, but Mr. Duhon was able to fix it in a matter of minutes.

“A lot of guns have sentimental value,” said Mr. Duhon. “People will keep the barreled action, but change the butt stock of the gun.”

Mr. Duhon showed me his first ever gun hanging on the wall in the shop. It was a Daisy Red Rider BB gun that he received for Christmas when he was ten-years old.

“My favorite gun to shoot with now is a Remington 700 hunting rifle,” said Duhon. “I’m not left-handed, but I like to shoot my rifle that way.”

I had to get a picture of me doing something on the interview, and hoped that it could involve driving my momma’s car through one of the mud holes. But unfortunately both of them were closed, so Mr. Duhon made me clean a shotgun instead.

That was okay, but my favorite part was seeing Mr. Duhon’s first gun hanging on the wall of the shop. The fact that he held onto the BB gun for so long shows just how much he loves guns, and therefore his career. This lesson of loving what you do for a living was worth not being able to drive through the mud hole.

Duhon’s Gun Shop is located at 14136 South Hospital Road in Abbeville. For more information on their products and services, call 337-893-7907.

Strength from a Louisiana Summer

2010-09-26T07:20:00.001-07:00

Although I am not a physician or meteorologist, I am fairly certain that the climate can affect a person’s mood. I’ve heard that people in the Northwest suffer from depression because of the lack of sunny days, and I have experienced first hand the negative effects of extreme temperatures.

So where do we get the stamina to handle long, miserable seasons of weather? Where do we get the strength?

I have lived in many places with very cold winters. The first was Connecticut and I can still remember the first snowfall I ever experienced there. It was mid-October, and the white flakes falling from the sky mesmerized me. For the next few months, I was the star of my own Christmas special, only without red-nosed reindeer or elves handing out presents.

But when January came, my mood changed. It became colder and colder, until the temperature dropped so much that it was too cold to snow. Instead, sleet fell from the sky sideways and pelted me in the face and body. Freezing wind blew like hurricanes, turning the ground into a solid block of ice. It was like walking on a skating rink, which meant slipping and sliding and ultimately falling down on my rear-end, over and over and over again.

By the end of April, in all of the cold winter places I lived, my mind and body was angry, bruised and weak. Spring seemed like a destination on the other side of the world that couldn’t be reached. Depression set in until the sun made its appearance to melt the frozen ground so I could finally walk again without stumbling.

When I moved back to Louisiana, short, mild winters welcomed me. Even on the coldest days, it seemed like the sun was shining. I’d go for long walks in the fields behind my mom’s house and sit out there for hours. The crispness of the air energized me and made me strong.

But the Louisiana summer is another story. The sun’s rays are so intense to me that it feels like they’re shining through a giant magnifying glass directly onto my face. Combined with the humidity, insects, poison ivy and the deafening sound of lawn mowers and weed eaters, it feels like punishment for everything I’ve ever done wrong in my life.

This summer was especially hard for me because I came to the realization that I won’t be able to make a living as a writer. Although there are success stories like J.K. Rawling, Stephanie Meyer and Stephen King, there are millions of other writers who make little or nothing from their work. I am one of these, and now have to start over and figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

Through most of the summer I felt like a failure. It seemed that no matter where I turned, there was a mirror reflecting that image; the image of a selfish man who had wasted his youth chasing something that he didn’t deserve because he hadn’t worked hard enough and because he’d chosen wrong. Now he was too old and too far into a meaningless life to change.

I didn’t have the strength to block out the heat of the Louisiana summer to see the crispness of fall just a few months ahead. My mind was soaked with the humidity of depression. It wasn’t about self-pity. I was and am still aware of how fortunate I am for every thing I have, especially the support of my friends and family. This depression was about self-worth and the fear of my unknown future.

As my forty-first birthday approached on September 10th, the temperature felt like it was rising, and every day seemed like the hottest on record. The heat of the world was on my shoulders and I thought my body, mind and soul would burn up and drift away like ashes in the sky.

On my birthday, I woke up sadder and hotter than ever. It was like I’d reached an expiration date and it was official that I’d failed. All of the motivation and positive energy within me seemed to have melted away, which meant that I’d spend the rest of my life only going through the motions.

This past week was the beginning of fall and I can feel the changes in the temperature. There are cool breezes and the morning sunrises aren’t as intimidating. I can walk to the mailbox without sweating, and my mind has become clearer so I can see a positive future. I have made it through the Louisiana summer, and am now feeling stronger than ever.

It wasn’t only the first day of fall that ended my depression and gave me hope. It was the many stories of strength surrounding us that encouraged me to keep moving forward towards cooler and energizing breezes. It was the final capping of the leaking oil well in the Gulf of Mexico, the kick-off to a season with our amazing Saints, the sound of school children preparing for their future.

It is the way of the world for us to have seasonal dismay and moments of weakness. But if we continue to look forward, work hard and do onto others as we would have them do onto us, we will find the climate for love, happiness and success. If we believe that a new season of hope is only around the corner, we will find strength.

CSI Kaplan

2010-09-23T09:47:00.000-07:00

You can’t turn on the television these days without seeing some sort of police series. There are about four different versions of CSI and five Law and Orders. The actors and actresses usually look like models from a cologne ad, and are always in the latest fashions and high heels (the women, not the men.)

To tell the truth, it makes me want to become a policeman. Or at least play one on T.V. So this week, I decided to research the role of law enforcement by spending time with the Kaplan Police Department.

Boyd Adams was elected to Chief of the Kaplan Police Department on July 1, 2010. His duties are to protect and serve the city of Kaplan. He supervises twenty-six employees consisting of law enforcement officers, and administrative, clerical, dispatch and road personnel.

“The best part of my job is being able to serve the public,” says Chief Adams. “I also enjoy helping the law enforcement officers get the equipment they need to effectively do their job.”

Chief Adams began his career in law enforcement at seventeen as a Vermilion Parish Sheriff’s deputy for one year. He then went on to work with the Kaplan Police Department where he spent twelve years in various roles including reserve officer, dispatcher, patrol officer, patrol sergeant and detective sergeant. He also spent four and a half years with the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Department.

“I don’t think I could do anything else,” says Chief Adams. “I’ve done this all of my life. Once you get law enforcement in your blood, it’s hard to get out. It’s like an addiction.”

Chief Adams most memorable experience in law enforcement was when he met a troubled teen, who he would eventually adopt. The Chief’s son is now in college majoring in forensic science and ballistics.

If someone is interested in becoming a Kaplan city police officer, they should contact Chief Adams. If a position is available, he’ll arrange for the candidate to take a civil service test. If he/she passes the test, they’ll go through the hiring process, which involves a physical, psychological exam, drug test and background check. Upon completion, the candidate will attend the police academy for twelve weeks.

“The traits I look for in a candidate is professionalism and the ability to speak and work with the public,” says Chief Adams. “A potential officer should be eager to enforce the law and continuously train and learn.”

Academy education covers criminal and traffic laws, search and seizure, arresting and courtroom procedures, and training in pursuit driving, handcuffing techniques, and taser, firearm and pepper spray usage. After the academy, officers routinely attend seminars including domestic and elderly abuse investigation and interview interrogations.

“You have to stay up on the changing laws,” says Chief Adams. “If you don’t, liability starts to play a part.”

To give me an idea of what it’s like to be a Kaplan policeman, Chief Adams let me ride around with Officer Irvin Cates. Originally from the New Orleans area, Officer Cates has been with the Kaplan Police Department for seven years.

We rode all around Kaplan through areas I’d never been before in my life. People walking down the street or sitting on their front porches smiled and waved when they saw us.

“Most of them know me from all the years I’ve been patrolling,” said Officer Cates. “It’s important to have a presence in the community so they’ll feel safe.”

Officer Cates said he had many unusual experiences as a Kaplan police officer, but one of them stuck out more than the others. It was a call to handle an alligator that was in the middle of the street.

“I don’t know what I was thinking, but I just jumped on top of it and taped its mouth shut,” said Officer Cates. “Afterwards, I found out that it was seven feet long. I probably shouldn’t have been so brave.”

While we were riding around, the dispatcher called out some numbers over the radio. Officer Cates responded with some other numbers and then we sped towards Cushing Avenue.

My imagination went wild with me and I pictured Officer Cates handing me a gun and bulletproof vest. I thought about every cop show I’d ever seen to mentally train myself how to move and shoot.

But it was only a disturbance of the peace. So I just sat back in the police car and imagined a much more interesting scenario of me crashing through a plate glass window, rolling over and shooting down three bank robbers.

After my patrol ride, I realized that law enforcement isn’t always as it’s portrayed on television. Chief Adams and his team taught me that it’s about serving and protecting the community, continuous education and enforcing the law. I thank them for this knowledge, and also for the picture Officer Cates took of me in his patrol car. I plan to use it on my Facebook page, and am sure it will lead to my own T.V. series called, “CSI: Kaplan.”

Strength to Survive a Storm

2010-09-19T05:01:00.001-07:00

It’s been five years since Hurricane Rita hit Vermilion Parish and changed the lives of its residents. The storm educated us on the erosion of our coastline and just how powerful and dangerous the weather can be.

Most of you were strong enough to rebuild the bricks and mortar of your lives. But what if you were in the middle of the floodwaters while death and destruction surrounded you? How do you survive the storm within your memories? Where do you find the strength?

Vermilion Parish resident, Cindy Greene decided to stay in Forked Island as Hurricane Rita made its way towards Louisiana’s coastline. She’d grown up in the area and seen big storms before, and thought she would be safe. But when barking dogs woke her in the middle of the night, she became alarmed.

“When I put my feet on the floor, it was wet,” says Greene. “I looked outside and all I saw were waves of water every where.”

Greene was with Brenda Hebert and Chip Duhon in a house on Highway 82 between Forked Island and Esther. The three of them woke early in the morning to find themselves amidst a sea of drowning animals and floating trees.

“The wind and water were so strong we couldn’t even open the door to get out of the house,” says Greene. “But Brenda broke the door knob off with the butt of a rifle. When she did, the door flew open and the wind from the storm pushed me down on the ground.”

Greene, Hebert and Duhon walked through the waist deep water to a nearby tractor. They had hoped to drive away to higher ground, but unfortunately the water had already destroyed the battery.

“The rain and the waves hit my body so hard that they bruised me,” says Greene. “I couldn’t believe that we were in the middle of the hurricane.”

Greene was able to contact her family and the sheriff’s department with her cell phone. While waiting to be rescued, she used a flashlight to see what was happening around the tractor. The water was above the road, and animals were fighting to survive.

“I could see the fear in our horses’ eyes,” says Greene. “I knew we were in trouble. I didn’t want to die.”

Duhon swam back to the house and got some cowboy ropes. He tied them together and then tied one end to the house and brought the other back to the tractor. Greene and Hebert were able to use the rope to pull themselves through the water’s strong current to get back to the house.

“If we wouldn’t have had Chip with us, we probably wouldn’t have survived,” says Greene. “I’m so glad I was with friends to help me through it.”

Greene, Hebert and Duhon found refuge in the attic of the house. They waited with several pet dogs until a helicopter came to their rescue.

“A sheriff’s deputy had asked me not to stay during the storm but I didn’t listen,” says Greene. “I’m so thankful to the sheriff’s department. They stayed in constant contact with us and sent the helicopter to save us.”

For the next few days, Greene and several other local residents worked at an outpost in Forked Island that provided food and clothing to those who had lost everything during the storm. It was there that she met a man who survived Hurricane Audrey. His stories gave her the strength to survive the ordeal she’d been through.

“This is the first time I speak about it so much,” Greene said to me when I interviewed her. “It was a very difficult time for me. Two months after the storm, I lost my mom to cancer.”

According to Greene, she kept her silence for so long because she was ashamed of her mistake of not leaving Forked Island during the storm. But through prayer, friends and family, she found the strength to forgive herself.

“People have told me that they’re not going to leave their homes again during the next storm because it’s too hard to go back,” says Greene. “I tell them not to stay. They don’t want to see the horror of it all.”

It’s been five years since Hurricane Rita, and Greene has a different life now. In addition to moving from Forked Island to the North Vermilion area, she changed her career from raising horses to driving a dump truck. She says that she’s going to take more trips, and is even planning to go on a cruise with her sisters.

“The hurricane made me see things clearer,” says Greene. “It’s brought my family closer together and made me want to be more generous towards others. Surviving the storm, gave me strength.”

The Smell of Rice and Success

2010-09-15T04:39:00.000-07:00

The rice industry has always played a large part in Vermilion Parish’s livelihood. When Riviana closed its local operations in 2006, many people in the parish found themselves unemployed, and had to re-evaluate their careers. One such person was Jimmy Richard of Abbeville.

“I’m part of a family that worked in the rice industry for eighty years,” says Richard. “The rice business has provided for my well being my entire life.”

Richard began his career at Riviana in 1974 as a laborer. Through the years, he moved his way up to such jobs as dryer operator, rice buyer and then eventually regional manager for all commodity operations. When the company he’d worked for most of his life left Vermilion Parish, he formed Richard Independent Brokers.

“It was a scary time in my life because all I knew was the rice industry,” says Richard. “I didn’t want to leave Vermilion Parish, so I decided to start my own business.”

Richard Independent Brokers purchases rough rice from producers and sells to four mills in Southwest Louisiana. The company also runs a small trucking brokerage to haul rice from the farmers to the mill.

“Being on my own was difficult at first because there was no longer a guaranteed paycheck every two weeks,” says Richard. “But now I have freedom and opportunities that weren’t there before.”

According to Richard, global supply and demand is a deciding factor in the price of rice. He says that a disaster somewhere else in the world can affect the income of a farmer in Southwest Louisiana.

“The most challenging part of my job is not always being able to offer farmers a price for their rice that is profitable,” says Richard. “The best part is the contact with the public and the friendships I’ve made over the years.”

To stay knowledgeable about the market, Richard attends outlook conferences that give basic ideas of past and future years, technology, trends and new rice varieties. He says that anyone interested in entering this business should start on the ground level and work their way up.

“You have to gain knowledge through experience,” says Richard. “I learned how to drive a rice truck before I managed truck operations.”

Richard says that the most important trait to have in this business is honesty. When he manages the transaction between a farmer and a mill, he wants to ensure that both parties feel like they were treated fairly.

Planters Rice Mill leases the Riviana facility in Abbeville. Richard has an office there, and I recently visited him to learn more about his career.

I worked at that mill as a teenager and referred to myself as an “in case” worker. I would watch rice being moved from one location to another via an auger, and ensure that it didn’t get clogged up and spill rice everywhere. In case it did, I had to grab a shovel and work.

During my recent visit, Richard brought me to the office where rice is weighed and measured. I learned that South Louisiana measures its rice by barrels, Arkansas by bushels and almost everyone else by hundred weights. I also learned that brown rice is not a special variety, but regular rice with a layer of bran left on. If the layer is removed, it’s referred to as white rice.

As soon as I stepped onto the mill parking lot, a distinct aroma filled my nostrils. It was the smell of rice, which brought back many memories of working there, as well as of my childhood on my family’s rice farm.

“It definitely has a different smell,” said Richard. “But I’ve been around it all my life and don’t even notice it anymore.”

The reason I chose to interview Richard is because I found his situation very interesting. He had played it safe in his career decisions by staying with the same company and industry for thirty-two years. When that security was gone, he had to create his own opportunity based on his experience. Although difficult at the time, the circumstance turned out to be more beneficial for the rice veteran.

The most important lesson learned on this interview was that as the world progresses, careers become less secure. The landscape and environment we know can easily change overnight. It’s important to remember though, that through honesty, determination and knowledge, the smell of rice and success will always be the same.

For more information on the services offered by Richard Independent Brokers call 337-652-7183.

Strength to Sell Ties

2010-09-12T05:40:00.000-07:00

In order to achieve a goal, we must take steps forward to reach it. Sometimes we see it right in front of us, but other times have to believe and trust that it is really there. Like a finish line off in the distance, we find the strength to continue in its known direction.

But during the race towards accomplishment, factors like desire can change a course or the goal itself. So where do we find the confidence and direction to take several steps back in order to move forward towards something new? Where do we find the strength?

When I graduated from college, my first full-time job was in retail management in Atlanta. It didn’t take me long to realize that it wasn’t a good fit for me. There were some aspects I enjoyed like working with the public and discounts on the store’s merchandise, but others that grew tiresome, like running around nonstop during the Christmas season.

After a few years, I decided it was time to move forward, and so I went to graduate school to get my Masters in Business. I was very career driven at the time and wanted to be the next Donald Trump, only with a better haircut and less of a sour look on my face.

My first job out of graduate school was as a marketing manager for a uniform company in Chicago. I analyzed sales numbers, worked with designers on new products and created layouts for catalogs. My retail experience had definitely helped me in this new position, but I preferred my desk job.

Then one day I decided that what I really wanted to do was move to New York City and study writing. I couldn’t afford to go to school full time, and planned on continuing to work in a corporate environment while I went to classes at night.

The problem with that plan was that I hadn’t foreseen the competitive or volatile nature of New York’s job market. After a year of temporary positions as a caterer and administrative assistant, and watching my life savings dwindle down to nothing, I had to make a decision. My choices were to move and give up on the dream, or take any full-time job I could find to pay the rent.

I found myself selling ties at Ralph Lauren in the lowest part of the store known as, “the pit.” It was a humbling experience for me to move from a corporate desk job back to retail sales. My masters in business I’d worked so hard to attain meant nothing to customers, who were only interested in how fast I could ring up and gift wrap their purchases.

I constantly worried what my friends from graduate school would think of me. Did they see me as a failure for falling down a level on the career ladder? Would they understand that I was taking a step backwards to somewhere I’d been before because I wanted to move forward in another direction?

I shouldn’t have cared what other people thought. But at the time, I didn’t have the strength. My fears had gotten the best of me, and every day as I walked down the stairs into the tie pit, I counted the seconds until I could walk back up.

But those long, hard days eventually paid off. For one, selling ties in New York City was a lot more profitable than I’d expected. To this day, it is the largest annual salary I have ever drawn at any job, even my corporate one.

Another advantage was the hours. When I left the store at the end of the day, I left behind all of the worked involved with it. I wasn’t expected to stay until my boss departed, or asked to put in a fifty or sixty hour workweek. This made my evenings free to take writing classes, which is why I’d moved to New York City in the first place.

To be clear, I by no means felt that selling ties was beneath me. My inner conflict stemmed from thinking that I had gone back to somewhere I’d been before instead of moving forward. But through time, I realized that I was merely changing courses to head in the direction of new goals.

A career path for some might be very cut and dry. But for others, it is a long, bumpy ride with many detours. By using the experiences of our past, we will be better equipped to handle the future. By focusing on our new goals and direction, we will find strength.

While The Iron is Hot

2010-09-08T08:13:00.000-07:00

Trees are as much of a part of Vermilion Parish’s landscape as canals, pastures and crawfish ponds. Live Oaks shade us, Crepe Myrtles provide colorful scenery, and Cypress and Pine build furniture and homes.

But like any living being, trees need to be cared for and maintained. This week, I visited Jimmie Meaux Jr. of Jim’s Tree Service to find out what it’s like to be an arborist.

“When I look at a tree, I can tell if it’s diseased or has any root and insect issues,” says Meaux. “I love climbing old majestic Live Oaks and having an input on their health and shape.”

Jim’s Tree Service opened in 1995. Their services include crown reductions, canopy thinning, general pruning, complete removals, stump grinding, fertilization and administering insecticides.

“I saw the potential in this market one day when I cut down trees for my father-in-law,” says Meaux. “I started out slow and grew over the years.”

Meaux is a member of the International Society of Arborists and has a Bachelors of Science in Agronomy. He attends several informational seminars and conferences a year ranging from botany to safety issues to the latest technology in climbing and tree cutting.

“To be successful, it’s important that I know as much as possible about the industry,” says Meaux. “Safety is my main priority. In fact, I tell anyone working with me that I’ll give them ten dollars if they ever catch me cutting without a helmet. I’ve never had to pay it yet.”

According to Meaux, the biggest mistake that homeowners make when cutting their own trees is using a ladder. This is a safety hazard because a branch can easily swing down and knock the ladder out from beneath them.

I had never met Meaux before I visited him at one of his jobs. My first glimpse of the arborist was of him in a white bucket connected to a long pole that sprang out from the back of a truck about the size of a fire engine. He was cutting the branch off of a Live Oak with a chainsaw with the precision of a surgeon or sculpturer.

Meaux was wearing a hard hat as well as many harnesses and straps that crisscrossed around his legs and torso. When he saw me, he drove the bucket down from the air onto the back of the truck.

“It’s your turn to get in here,” Meaux said and smiled. “I’ll control it from the ground. All you have to do is enjoy the ride.”

I had never been up in a bucket truck and never really had the desire. But before I could object, Meaux had me strapped in and was sending me up in the air above telephone poles and pine trees. My heart sank and my knees buckled beneath me as I got higher and higher and could eventually see all of Abbeville, including several graveyards.

When Meaux decided that I’d had enough, he brought me back down. My legs were still shaking as I stepped onto the safe ground and grabbed my tablet to start the interview. But the arborist shook his head.

“We’re not done yet,” Meaux said.

He grabbed some rope and other harnesses, and led me over to a Live Oak. Then he illustrated the latest technology in climbing equipment and how to use it effectively and efficiently.

“It’s important to find the right branch when you throw a rope up into a tree,” said Meaux. “You want to make sure that it’s sturdy, at a good angle and not rotten. This will make it easier and safer to climb, and will also avoid harming the tree.”

Minutes later, I was in a harness and walking up the trunk of the Live Oak. Meaux comforted me by saying that I was the right body type for climbing. But he didn’t mentioned how my body would respond if I fell and slammed against the ground.

Except for a few heart palpitations, and blistered hands, I made it out of the tree without a scratch. I contribute my well being to Meaux’s expert knowledge of climbing and safety, and his instinct not to trust me with a chainsaw.

During my visit, the owner of the Live Oak walked up to Meaux and me. He said that he couldn’t believe how fast the job had been completed because he’d only called Jim’s Tree Service the night before.

“My grandpa was a cattleman, and he had a saying that I like to live by,” said Meaux. “You got to brand that cow when the iron is hot.”

I had the good fortune of meeting Meaux’s wife, Andrea. She is a member of the Jim’s Tree Service team, and also has her own business selling firewood.

I spent several hours with the couple later that evening at their home and business in Kaplan. Mr. Meaux showed me several pictures of some of the five thousand plus jobs he has completed, and shared his philosophy on work ethic and perseverance.

“You can be as smart as a whip and strong as an ox,” he said. “But if you don’t stick it out, it won’t work.”

The interview was very insightful not only on the in and outs of being an arborist, but also on the goals and challenges of careers and daily life. Meaux sent me high up in the air to face my fears and give me a glimpse of the surrounding environment. Then he brought me back down to use my newfound knowledge, and to brand that cow while the iron was still hot.

For more information on the services provided by Jim’s Tree Service call 337-207-6106. For Andrea’s Firewood, call 337-643-6106.

Strength to Realize a Dream

2010-09-05T05:54:00.000-07:00

We’ve all had at least one dream or desire at some point in our life. Maybe it was to get a new video game, become famous, win the lottery or stay on a bull for longer than eight seconds.

Dreams are supposed to make us happy and give us goals to achieve. But as wonderful as they are, it isn’t always easy to pursue them. Sometimes their grandeur makes them seem unreachable, and they dry up like an un-watered garden during a summer drought.

So how do we remember and realize what it is that we truly want out of life? Where do we get the strength?

Several years ago when I lived in Chicago, I did a lot of soul searching to determine what in the world it was that Jacques Couvillon was supposed to be doing. I had just completed my Masters in business, and had a job in marketing. Two goals I’d worked for many years to achieve, but upon reaching didn’t satisfy me.

So I took a few night classes to spice up my week of conservative boredom. One of these was an acting class that I hoped would make me a better public speaker or get me a gig playing opposite of Susan Lucci on the soap opera, All My Children.

One night in the class, the teacher made us sit on the floor in a circle in the middle of the room. She gave each of the students an ink pen and a small sheet of colored construction paper, and asked us to write down five things that we wanted out of life.

This was harder than it sounds because although I had often thought about things that I wanted, I had never dared to write them down. They were dreams that had called out to me, but also seemed so far fetched that they both frightened and saddened me.

But I was in the class to discover myself, so I dug deep down into my sub-conscious and pulled out past dreams. Some of them were no longer desirable, like a new video game or staying on a bull for eight seconds. Others were still bright and shiny, like becoming a writer and living in New York City.

When we were finished with our list, the teacher told us to tear up the little colored sheets of paper, and throw them into a pile in the middle of the room. She then put her hand in the dreams, and stirred them around until they mixed together like a bag of confetti.

“I want each of you to grab some paper,” she said. “You now have other people’s dreams in your hand. What are you going to do with them?”

I couldn’t understand what she was asking. All that was in my hand were little pieces of paper with torn up words and sentences like, “rich,” “movie deal,” and “hot wife”.

For a week, the pieces of paper sat on my desk, next to a family picture, a jar filled with change and an old brown bottle that had once held root beer. I didn’t know what to do with the dreams because I didn’t understand how I could really control anyone else’s destiny if I couldn’t control my own.

The next week in acting class, one of the students brought in a small piece of wood about the size of a shoebox lid. She’d glued all of her pieces of paper on the front of it and called it her, “Dream Plaque.”

“I’m going to hang it on my living room wall so I’ll always be able to see it,” she said. “It’s going to help me remember to always have dreams.”

Although the dream plaque didn’t really match my sofa or any of the furniture in my apartment, I had a lot of respect for the woman. Her action inspired me to not only let myself have dreams, but to also prevent them from disappearing from sight.

When I got home that evening, I looked for a secure place for my handful of dreams. I wasn’t sure what to do with them yet, but wanted to protect them. They were not only a part of me, but also of the other students.

The old brown root beer bottle on my desk seemed to be the best place for the pieces of paper until I could figure out how to help other people achieve their dreams. That day came months later when I started actively pursuing my own.

I’d decided to start writing, and began spending a lot of time at my desk. But getting the words from my head down onto a page was a painful process. I often found my mind and hands wandering to any and everything besides the story I was trying to tell.

So I’d pick up the bottle and shake the dreams around hoping that inspiration would magically appear and give me the strength to write hundreds, even thousands of beautiful stories. But the most that ever happened was that one night the light bulb on my desk lamp burnt out.

For a moment I sat there, irritated, tired and in the dark. It seemed to be a sign that writing wasn’t a dream to be pursued, and that I would never be able to help some poor guy find his rich, hot wife.

A few minutes later, I searched for a replacement bulb for my desk lamp, but found nothing but a long, thin red candle. I used the root beer bottle of dreams as a holder and then lit the wick. Wax dripped down slowly until it reached my desk, and inspiration began to light the room.

It has been over ten years since that night, but I still have the bottle of dreams, and still burn candles in it whenever I write. There are layers of multi-colored wax on the glass, but I can still see the little pieces of paper inside.

Although I don’t practice magic or witchcraft, burning the candle has made me a believer of positive thinking. It took several years, but each of the dreams I wrote down on that little piece of paper, came true. This happened because I actively pursued them, but most importantly, because I remembered and realized what it was that I wanted.

Despite our age, there are things we all desire in life. By taking the time to write them down and make them visible, we will find direction towards fulfillment. By remembering and realizing our dreams, we will find strength.

Trash to Treasure

2010-09-04T08:57:00.000-07:00

In a house in Cow Island, a married couple routinely stares at old and unusual objects they purchased at a flea market or found on the side of the road. The wife will pick something up like a porcelain doorknob or hammerhead and wonder how it can once again be functional. She’ll look through magazines for inspiration, sketch designs on paper or just close her eyes and think. When an idea comes to her, she explains it to her husband and the two of them bring it to life.

“We create trash to treasure items,” says Rita Faulk. “Most of them are made completely from recycled materials. We use a lot of knobs and wood from old doors.”

David and Rita Faulk’s company, My Favorite Things, produces original and functional artistic objects. Depending on available materials and the imagination of the husband and wife team, the product line changes on a daily basis. Sometimes a light fixture becomes a candleholder, chair backs are made into towel racks, and a rake is altered to display pictures and postcards.

“If I can’t make the item that I’m imagining in my head, then I ask David for help,” says Mrs. Faulk. “Sometimes what I visualize can’t be done, so we start over.”

Mrs. Faulk, who studied merchandising and decorative painting, has always had an interest in design. Mr. Faulk is a trained carpenter who studied architectural drafting and furniture making.

“I enjoy working with my hands and with wood,” says Mr. Faulk. “I love looking at something that I’ve made and knowing where it started.”

Both Mr. and Mrs. Faulk had careers in other industries for many years. Their interests in design grew however, and they began working on side projects together.

“We started making decorative trashcans,” says Mrs. Faulk. “After a while, we moved onto small pieces of furniture.”

According to Mrs. Faulk, the most challenging part of making recycled and functional art is finding the materials to create it. Her resources include the internet, flea markets and items she finds on the side of the road.

“I love the thrill of the hunt of finding rare objects,” says Mrs. Faulk. “The best part of bringing my design ideas to life is having someone else appreciate and enjoy them.”

The Faulks also own and operate the company, Cow Island Woodworks. They repair, design and manufacturer wood products like storm shutters, desks, cabinets, armoires, benches, beds, chest of drawers, nightstands, entertainment centers, gun cabinets, mantelpieces and dining room and end tables.

“Every job is different and has to be approached differently,” says Mr. Faulk. “The most challenging part is creating the best product possible, while staying in a budget.”

I first learned about the Faulks’ creations a few years ago when seeing a My Favorite Things booth at the Maurice Flea Market. I greatly appreciated their creative products, especially a hat rack made from old hammerheads, and a magazine rack made from bicycle baskets and a sawhorse (which I bought and still use).

When I recently interviewed the Faulks, they gave me a tour of their workshop as well as showed me a couple of projects they were currently working on. They even let me paint a piece of wood from an old door that would eventually become a coat rack.

What I found most interesting about the Faulks is that before joining forces, they both had separate and successful jobs in other fields. But together, their skills and interests in design and manufacturing enabled them to pursue other opportunities. Like the products this couple create from ideas, determination and recycled materials, they brought to life a truly original and functional career.

The Faulks’ creations are available at the Maurice Flea Market and T-Boy’s Flea Market in Abbeville. For more information on the services offered by Cow Island Woodworks, call 337-652-8334.

Strength For Back to School

2010-08-29T05:50:00.000-07:00

Regardless of if you’re a student, parent, teacher or principal, the transition from the leisurely hours of summer to the hectic schedule of a classroom can be a bumpy ride. With so many goals to accomplish, it can often be difficult to focus and manage time.

So where do we get the hours, patience and motivation for tests, homework and having to raise our hands to ask to go to the bathroom? Where do we get the strength?

Loren Meaux is a fifth grader at Mount Carmel Elementary in Abbeville. This summer she took a trip to the mountains in Tennessee and went white water rafting.

“My favorite part was going to Wonder Works,” says Meaux. “It’s an upside down building that’s really cool.”

During the rest of the summer, Loren usually woke around 11 A.M. She’d spend the day with her dad or at a friend’s house. Her favorite things to do were watch television, ride her bike and play outside.

“The best part of school starting is that I get to see my friends and favorite teachers,” says Meaux. “The hardest part is that this year we change classes, so I have to carry around a lot of heavy books.”

According to Meaux, the biggest difference between school and summer is that she now has to wake up early. She also will spend less time playing, and more time studying and doing homework.

“Where do you get the strength to wake up early and go back to school?” I asked.

“I don’t have another choice,” said Meaux. “Everybody has to go to school. It’s the law.”

Corey Bourque, the principal at Delcambre High School, has worked in education for over thirty-five years. He starts his school year two weeks earlier than the students and ends two weeks after they leave for summer.

“My wife and I took a trip to Montgomery this summer,” says Bourque. “We also went camping a lot.”

According to Bourque, the best part of school being back in session is all of the activities like sports, band and cheerleading. He jokes that it is also a sign that duck-hunting season is not far behind.

“We have a lot of exciting things happening this school year,” says Bourque. “The cheerleading squad is going to the Capital One Bowl in Orlando, there’s a new concession stand at the football field and we’re getting a new all weather track.”

Bourque says that the biggest challenge of the first day of school is ensuring that everyone has a schedule. He said this year was a little more challenging because of expanded class sizes.

“Where do you get the strength to get through the school year?” I asked.

“We have great faculty, staff, students and parents who help,” says Bourque. “Knowing that we have community involvement gives me strength.”

Tara Frick is a kindergarten teacher at Forked Island Ernest Broussard Elementary. She and her husband, Blaine Frick, are the parents of six children. Their ages are twelve, eleven, ten, nine, seven and three. Five of them are in school and are in grades, seventh, sixth, fifth, fourth and second.

“The best part of back to school as a teacher is going through the learning process with new students,” says Frick. “I love seeing where they are, and knowing where I’m going to bring them.”

Frick says the most challenging part of heading back to school is the lack of time. In addition to being a mother and teacher, she is also a student getting her Masters in Education via an online classroom.

“What I’ll miss most about the summer is the time we got to spend together as a family,” says Frick. “Many of my children have extracurricular activities, so during school we aren’t together as much.”

Frick prepared for back to school by changing her children’s summer sleep schedule a few weeks before their first day. She had them go to bed earlier and wake up earlier to get them into a new routine.

“Our children have locker spaces at our house to keep all of the things they need for school,” says Frick. “Organization keeps me sane.”

During the summer, Frick woke up at 6:30 A.M. But now she wakes up at 5:00 A.M. This is her time to pray and prepare for the day ahead.

“Where do you get the strength to teach and be a mother to six kids?” I asked.

“From the grace of God, my husband and my family” said Frick. “They give me strength.”

Back to school is about more than big yellow buses, homework and basketball jamborees. It’s about learning, developing friendships and accomplishing goals.

Although the classroom can be hectic and stressful, it will make us stronger and give us the tools needed to function in today’s world and society. Through organization, support and remembering to enjoy the learning process, we can survive an education. By focusing and enduring the hard work involved in going back to school, we will be rewarded with strength.

Perry Plantation Vines

2010-08-25T07:45:00.001-07:00

It’s obvious from the Vermilion Parish landscape that we are in the final days of summer. Golden rice fields are being harvested, wildflowers and annuals are drying up, and snake-like vines are covering any and every thing within their grasp.

My own garden is suffering now because of the intimidating heat, insects and weeds. The tomato and bell peppers stopped producing and have grown to the size of oak trees. Vines are smothering my palms and blue flocks.

But in a one-acre garden in Perry, Judy Choate has found peace with the vines. She allows them to flourish and decorate the other survivors of summer like brightly colored Christmas lights.

“I like my garden to be natural and wild,” says Choate. “I don’t plan anything.”

Cypress vines accessorize long thorny stems of roses, Wisteria weaves itself around a Holly tree, and Clematis and Confederate Jasmine create a wall on the back porch of a craft-style house.

“I love going outside every morning and seeing what’s new,” says Choate. “I call it, ‘surveying my plantation.’”

The Perry plantation is rectangular in shape. Its borders are lined with clusters of Crepe Myrtles and Mimosas, a fence covered in morning glory, and a Lantana and black-eye Susan flowerbed framing a wicker swing.

“I used to play in this yard when I was little because my grandmother lived right next door,” says Choate. “I sat in the swing before I ever dreamed of living here.”

The different flowerbeds spread throughout the property contain everything from Boston, Maidenhair and asparagus ferns to Zinnas, four’clocks and butterfly weeds to Mexican petunias, giant red salvia and razzle dazzle roses. Herbs like basil, rosemary, thyme, oregano, chives, parsley and bay leaf grow in nooks and crannies around Choate’s home.

“My yard is always changing and different every year,” says Choate. “Most of it i from seeds or cuttings.”

According to Choate, the hardest part of gardening is cleaning out the beds every year to start over. Her favorite moments in her garden are created while sitting on her front porch.

“I didn’t have a front porch when I first bought the house,” says Choate. “After several years, I finally built one. It’s been a wonderful gift.”

When I visited Choate, she gave me a tour of the different flowerbeds. There were many plants I’d never seen before like hidden ginger, a ponytail palm and candelabra tree.

“These are Mrs. B.R. Can’t roses,” said Choate. “I planted these by this window to keep my kids from sneaking out the house at night.”

That was the funniest thing said on my interview and I couldn’t stop laughing. I was one of those kids who used his bedroom window as a front door. I am very thankful that my parents hadn’t thought to use rose bushes as a security measure.

“I don’t know if anyone got caught in the bushes sneaking out,” laughed Choate. “But I know somebody got caught in them trying to sneak in.”

Out of all the different vines Choate had growing throughout her garden, my favorite was purple morning glory climbing a pipe on the side of the house. The heart shaped leaves seemed to float in the air while the flowers smiled.

My afternoon at the Perry plantation taught me that even though my summer garden might look hopeless and unattractive, I should still try to get some pleasure out of its wildness. In a few months, most of the trees will be bare, and the weather will become cold. But thanks to a gardener with a good sense of humor, I’ll have the warmth of a memory about security roses and thick, hearty vines.

Double Portion of Blessing-Fleuriet Automotive

2010-08-17T12:21:00.000-07:00

There are several milestones for every small business owner. They start with the decision to take a chance on the future, a grand opening and the first dollar ever earned. But if you’re John and Jeanne Fleuriet of Fleuriet Automotive, that would be the first two dollars.

“Our first customer was our Pastor Robert Wells,” says Mr. Fleuriet. “He came in for an oil change and paid with two-dollar bills. He said he was giving us a double portion of blessing.”

Fleuriet Automotive opened its door on September 1, 2000. In a few weeks, they will celebrate another milestone, their ten-year anniversary.

“We want to thank the whole city for its support,” says Mrs. Fleuriet. “We love it here and hope to stay here forever.”

Fleuriet Automotive services automobile brakes, air conditioners, front ends, engines and transmissions. They flush radiators, change oil, replace fans belts and provide tune-ups. They also run computer diagnosis to fully understand what is going on with a vehicle.

“The most important thing we do is service the customer,” says Mr. Fleuriet. “Our business is based on faith, honesty and integrity.”

Mr. Fleuriet studied automotive repair at the Southwest Louisiana Vocational School in Crowley. Before opening his own business, he worked as a helicopter mechanic in the military for six years, and an as automotive mechanic for over ten years.

“The biggest reason for vehicle breakdowns is heat, age and neglect,” says Mr. Fleuriet. “Any car will last many years if you maintain it.”

According to Mr. Fleuriet, the hardest part of his job is finding intermittent issues with an automobile that might not be detected by a computer diagnosis. The best part is providing a service to his community.

“There’s no bad day at work because I love what I do,” says Mr. Fleuriet. “I wake up wanting to go to work.”

Mr. Fleuriet is certified by Automotive Service Excellence (ASE) as a Master Automobile Technician. He routinely attends vehicle diagnostic classes to keep up with technology.

“My advice to someone interested in becoming a mechanic is to be patient and learn as much as you can,” says Mr. Fleuriet. “Technology is constantly changing so it’s important to know what’s out there.”

I recently visited Fleuriet Automotive, which is located on the corner of West Port Street and Highway 167 in Abbeville. I’d passed by it several times before and always noted how clean it was, but wondered why there never seemed to be any cars in the lot.

“I pride myself in helping customers get their vehicles back in one day,” says Mr. Fleuriet. “I like my parking lot to be empty before I go home at night.”

Mr. Fleuriet lifted his truck up on a hydraulic lift and showed me its skeleton. He described each part and its function, and although I tried to learn and retain as much as possible, I was more awed by the fact that I was actually standing underneath an automobile.

But in the end, I learned a great deal about what it takes to reach milestones in a business. It involves loving your job, taking a leap of faith and providing service fueled by pride. It also doesn’t hurt to have a double portion of blessing.

Fleuriet Automotive is located at 606 West Port Street in Abbeville. For more information on their hours and services call 337-893-1743. For other pictures of my time with them, visit www.mynameisjacques.blogspot.com

Vehicle Maintenance 101- Provided by Fleuriet Automotive

Change oil and filter every 3000 miles
Check all fluid levels with every oil change
Change air filter every 15,000 miles and fuel filter every 30,000 miles
Flush radiator and refill once a year
Tune-up every 60,000 to 75,000 miles
Rotate tires every other oil change

INTERESTING BATHROOM SIGNS

Strength to Save for the Future

2010-08-15T04:28:00.000-07:00

Washington, Lincoln and especially Benjamin are the life of the party when all dressed up in their green cash suits. They provide the foods we eat, the clothes we wear, and the pillows we lay our heads on at night. Their presence brings us great joy and their absence breaks our heart in times of rainy days, retirement and medical emergencies.

When the Presidents aren’t around, plastic dollar bills can be dream makers and lifesavers. But they can also seduce and drown us with things that are “cool” “a good deal” or “awesome!”

We know that money can’t buy happiness, but it can definitely rent a smile. So where do we find the guidance and self-control to manage our finances before they manage us? Where do we find the strength?

My brother, Joey Couvillon is an Executive Vice President at Vermilion Bank in Kaplan. His financial credentials include twenty-eight years of experience in the lending industry and a degree from the LSU Graduate School of Banking.

“The hardest part of my job is staying up with federal regulations and compliance issues,” says Joey. “The best part is being able to help people buy their first car or home.”

Joey says that the first place to start when managing money is to make a budget and set financial goals. Each year, he and his wife, Rhonda discuss what they want and need, and then save accordingly. They try to avoid the instant gratification of credit.

“One of the easiest ways to save money is to have it automatically transferred from your checking to savings account each month,” says Joey. “I suggest putting aside at least five percent of your salary for retirement or a child’s education. Rhonda and I have two kids in college now, and I’m so thankful that we started planning for it as soon as they were born.”

According to Joey, someone interested in purchasing a home should have at least ten percent of the total price for a down payment. When visiting the bank for the first time, a customer should bring proof of income, and information about the house they are interested in purchasing.

“The bank will get an appraisal on the home and pull a credit report on the customer,” says Joey. “If someone would like to buy a house but is unsure of what they can afford, I can help them figure it out.”

Managing money has never been my forte, so I’ve often turned to Joey for advice. He always explained my options in a way that made my choices and decisions clearer and less intimidating. More importantly, he gained my trust because he really wanted to help me accomplish my financial goals.

“Where do you get the strength to manage your finances so you can plan for the future but still enjoy the present?” I asked Joey on the night I interviewed him.

“Rhonda and I both disciplined ourselves at an early age,” said Joey. “Its something that was instilled in us by our parents. If I can’t afford a big truck, then I get a small truck.”

I’m currently re-evaluating my own financial situation and making adjustments to attain goals. I’ve paid the penalties for instant gratification, but have learned a priceless lesson from my brother.

Being aware of my finances and sticking to a budget is half the battle of keeping the green-suited Presidents by my side. Practicing self-control will ensure that they stay close and provide for me. Once again, Joey’s advice made planning my future clearer. Once again, his genuine desire to help me accomplish my goals, brought me strength.

Golden Fields of Grain and Tradition

2010-08-13T14:14:00.000-07:00

PAT AND DAVID HEBERT

A gardener finds inspiration from many different sources. It might be a desire for fresh flowers, fruits and vegetables or the love of creating life from soil and seeds. But for some, a garden is inspired by tradition.

“My father, grandfather and great grandfather were all farmers,” says gardener/farmer Patrick Hebert. “Growing food is a part of my heritage.”

In addition to crawfishing and raising cattle, Hebert also farms rice. This year he is growing approximately 1,000 acres in fields spread throughout Vermilion Parish.

“I used to farm about 1,500 acres,” says Hebert. “But because the recent hurricanes flooded the land with salt water, I had to cut back.”

According to Hebert, rice is usually planted around the end of April, or beginning of May. It can be done by a crop duster that drops seeds in a flooded field, or by a machine that drills seeds into the ground.

“They both have their advantages and disadvantages,” says Hebert. “For example, no till drill planting conserves soil and prevents water pollution.”

After the rice is planted, Hebert cares for his garden by fertilizing, and maintaining proper water levels. He also routinely monitors the crop to control the invasion of weeds, like red or black rice, and insects like army worms, root maggots and stink bugs.

“The growing cycle, from planting to harvest is about sixteen weeks,” says Hebert. “All of the grain has to be gold before the rice is ready to cut.”

Hebert says the biggest challenge of farming is being at the mercy of the weather and the market price of rice. A drought or storm can dramatically affect the profitability of a crop.

“The price of rice depends on what the rest of the world is producing,” says Hebert. “We don’t know what we’re going to get for our crop until the day we sell it.”

Hebert is on the Vermilion Soil and Water Conservation District. It’s made up of five supervisors on the local level who focus on soil and water conservation, and preventing air pollution.

“We promote farming practices that have less of a negative impact on the environment,” says Hebert. “I’m in the process of replacing our farm’s old diesel pumps to electric. They’re much more efficient and don’t pollute the air and water.”
OLD DIESEL PUMP ABOUT TO BE REPLACED BY ELECTRIC ONE

When I visited Hebert, we jumped in his pick-up truck and he drove me along some of his rice fields. To the left were golden fields of grain, and to the right were canals used to water them.

“Your field always needs a water source,” said Hebert. “It’s cheaper to pump it from a canal than from a ground well, but during droughts you run the risk of salt water intrusion.”

Hebert harvested a few acres of his rice the day before my visit, but had to wait a little longer for the rest of his crop to ripen. At least that’s what he told me, but I highly suspect he just said that because he was afraid I’d ask to drive a combine.

During the tour, we visited Hebert’s son, David who was bailing hay. He currently works with his father, and is continuing the tradition of farming in his family.

“I love being outside and working with my dad and grandpa,” said the younger Hebert. “There’s always something different happening on a farm, which is great because I like having flexible days.”

Although I grew up on a farm, I learned a tremendous amount from the Heberts. They enlightened me on new technology as well as the challenges a modern day farmer faces.

But most importantly, I learned that there are different types of gardens. They are all used to grow something, but need not be limited to only fruits, vegetables and flowers. Whatever is produced is up to the gardener, who may choose to use a plot of land to carry on a family tradition and create golden fields of pride, love and grain.
STRANGE BY BEAUTIFUL WILD FLOWER

Strength to Unpack the Boxes

2010-08-13T14:13:00.000-07:00

It is much easier to step over a pair of dirty jeans than to pick it up and put it in a hamper. As the pile of laundry grows, however, the opposite becomes true. Not washing the clothes will only make life more difficult in the future, but with a jammed packed schedule there’s no room to pencil in, “Wash out ring around the collar.”

So how do we quit procrastinating and find the time to remove the clutter before it becomes a problem? Where do we find the strength?

Several years ago when I moved out of New York City, my life was packed away in boxes. Big ones, small ones, rectangular ones, square ones, even round ones, filled with books, pictures, t-shirts, socks, fear and confusion.

Many of the boxes had been in storage for some time, because although my possessions and insecurities had grown larger over the years, my apartments had become smaller. The city was a great place to live while chasing the dream of becoming a writer, but once I caught it, goals, paths and situations changed. I would no longer be able to afford the luxury of a full time job while writing, because writing became my full time job.

The boxes and I found refuge in my childhood bedroom in my mom’s Cow Island farmhouse. I stacked my past in every corner to keep it from getting in the way of my future.

My plate was full. Pages to write, decisions to make, commitments to fulfill. It seemed that no matter how hard and long I worked, there was never enough time to accomplish everything. Smaller tasks would have to wait.

I built walls with the boxes, and used them as stepladders, end tables and shelves. I constantly moved them to get to other things, but there was no time to simply unpack them.

Then my schedule began to take its toll on me in other ways. My body was exhausted during the daylight hours, but couldn’t rest during the evening. I’d toss and turn throughout the night, until the alarm clock sitting on a stack of manuscripts would yell at me to get up and capture every second of the day.

One night I laid wide awake as my body and mind fought over the control of my eyelids. Everything had become too; too exhausting, too overwhelming, too cluttered. I felt tempted to jump in my truck and drive away, leaving the boxes and commitments behind. But there was too much writing, too little time.

I stood and moved towards my desk to turn on a lamp. My goal was to get a little work done, but my body ran into a stack of boxes. One of them fell over onto the floor with a thud, and then the sound of paper sliding across the hardwood floors whispered around me.

After turning on a lamp, my eyes focused in on the damage. An opened box laid on its side in the middle of the room. Journals, tablets and sheets of paper spilled out onto the floor, while pencils rolled under my bed.

I knelt down and picked up the pages and saw that they were old writing exercises and short stories from years before. Many of them had taught me tremendously and others had made me proud. They were scattered all over the floor and there was no way to step over or around them.

The unpacking began. Clothes were organized into closet and charity piles. Dried up ink pens and markers were thrown into the trash with confusion and ten year old packs of gum. Letters from friends, past writing exercises and important financial statements were filed accordingly. Language books, travel guides and writing manuals moved onto shelves with souvenirs like ashtrays and old coffee cans filled with coins.

After that night, I moved freely around my room and accomplished tasks quicker than before. My mind and body were clear and energetic during the day and ready to rest in the evening. My past was all unpacked and organized, and it was only then that I was able to enjoy my present, and see my future.

It seems like it’s a constant battle to find the time to do the laundry, clean the closets, and remove the clutter. But making it a priority can bring peace to our lives and create more efficient paths to our future. Unpacking the boxes will bring us strength.

The Story of a Pen at Piazza Office Supply

2010-08-03T08:08:00.000-07:00

ASSOCIATES: DUSTIN ROBERTSON, ED PIAZZA, LINDSEY MOODY, JACK HARRINGTON

I’ve always had a strong, but strange relationship with the ink pen. Its color and design, feel of the stem in my hands and smoothness of the ink as it paints words on the page all affect my writing. Sadly, there is nothing that excites me more than unopened box of ballpoints.

“Every pen has its own story,” says Ed Piazza, co-owner and manager of Piazza Office Supply in Abbeville. “The Frixion is an erasable pen that uses friction to erase instead of an eraser.”

Piazza is well familiar with the evolution of pens because he grew up in the office supply industry. His father, Paul Piazza, opened the first Piazza Office Supply store in 1949. There are now branches in Kaplan, Rayne, and Abbeville, where the family also owns a Radio Shack.

“I started pushing a broom around the store when I was ten,” says Ed Piazza. “So many things have changed over the years. We don’t sell little bottles of ink anymore because people stopped writing with quills.”

Piazza Office Supply sells office machinery like photocopiers, fax machines and printers, furniture like chairs, desks, bookcases and coffee tables, and office and school supplies like paper, pens, pencils, stencils, staplers, scissors, and everything else needed in an office or classroom.

“The hardest part of managing a business is maintaining your presence,” says
Piazza. “The best part is getting out and meeting people. I love visiting my customers.”

Services of Piazza Office Supply include bulk copying, and shipping via U.P.S. On-staff repairmen service photocopiers, fax machines and printers. Full-time sales representatives consult on the proper equipment and furniture needed to set up a new office.

“My advice to someone who wants to start their own business is to take it slow,” says Piazza. “You have to constantly juggle all aspects of the organization. You can’t let it overwhelm you.”

I visited Piazza Office Supply in Abbeville recently to find out about the industry. It was my first time meeting Ed Piazza, but it only took a few minutes for me to realize that he was a shrewd businessman. When I couldn’t find my mechanical pencil for the interview, the salesman generously offered to sell me a new one.

I have been in this branch many times and enjoy shopping there for several reasons. One is that there is usually a parking spot right out front. Two, they sell individual envelopes as well as boxed ones. Three, their photocopies are only five cents for single and small print runs.

Since my time was limited when previously visiting Piazza Office Supply, I never had a chance to look through their product line. They have many of the items you’d expect to find like office machines, furniture and supplies, but also carry gifts like cookbooks, paperweights, umbrellas and picture frames.

The section that fascinated me the most was the pen aisle. There are ballpoints, felt tips, gels, needle-points and calligraphy utensils. Dr. Grip describes itself as the prescription for writing fatigue, and The Uniball Gel Signa is considered the pen of bankers because its non-transferable ink helps prevent check fraud.

“The Bottle 2 Pen is made from recycled plastic bottles,” said Piazza. “Our best selling pen is the Pilot G2. It’s hard to keep it on the shelf.”

Piazza stood with me in the pen aisle as I gave many of them a test drive. He showed me the latest advancements in ballpoint technology, and even gave me a Jetstream pen. Black and silver in color, and not too thin or thick, it wrote smoothly and effortlessly.

The fourth and foremost reason that I often shop at Piazza Office Supply is because of their customer service. Whenever my body enters the store, someone always offers to help. The salesperson knows the product and spends time with me. Even if only to sell me a mechanical pencil, or share the story of a pen.

For more information on the products and services offered by Piazza Office Supply, call 337-893-0807.

ME HARD AT WORK PRICING MINI-STAPLERS

Strength to be Like Drew Brees

2010-08-01T05:32:00.000-07:00

We’ve all had our heroes or someone we looked up to in life. We’ve admired their actions and felt awed by their presence. They are our leaders who we cheer for and sometimes aspire to be. By when they seem so perfect, powerful and different from us, where do we get the nerve to try to be like one of them? Where do we get the strength?

Last week, on an extremely hot and humid day, I stood in line for an hour and a half at Octavia Books in New Orleans to buy a signed copy of Drew Brees’ memoir, “Coming Back Stronger”. The line was around two city blocks and included a diverse group of people ranging from lawyers to nurses to college students to a columnist for the Abbeville Meridional.

I had had my own book signing at Octavia Books in 2007 when my novel, “The Chicken Dance” was released. Everyone was welcomed, but the store only sold twelve copies. For Drew Brees’ signing, we had to pre-purchase tickets, and the store sold twelve hundred copies.

As I stood in line waiting to see the famous Saint’s quarterback, I couldn’t help but wonder why his book signing was so much more successful than mine. Granted, he led a team to a Super Bowl victory. But I wrote a book about a little boy whose life changed after winning a poultry-judging contest. Wasn’t that just as marketable, if not more so?

There is no argument that Drew Brees and I are very different people. But we also have many similarities.

We are both men. We’ve both written books and had signings at the same store, and although I have never dated or married a girl named, Brittany, I have most definitely danced to one’s music.

Drew Brees and I have even both torn our rotator cuff during a football game. His accident was from an attempt to save a fumbled ball during a game with the Denver Broncos. Mine was because I’d mistakenly gotten a massage right before playing flag football and the coco butter all over my body made me skid across the ground into a sideline post.

As the line moved up closer to Drew Brees and his memoir, I questioned why I was there. I rarely read autobiographies, let alone ones by athletes. I hadn’t even heard of this man until 2008 when my sister brought me to my first Saints’ game.

Was I buying the memoir to put on my coffee table to showcase to visitors? Were my intentions to give the signed book as a gift so I could take pleasure in watching the receiver open it to the famous quarterback’s signature? Would I even read it?

As my section of the crowded line made its way out of the heat into the same building as Drew Brees, we all nervously fidgeted like a child needing a bathroom or about to sit on Santa Claus’ lap. A lawyer hung up his cell phone in the middle of contract negotiations, a nurse put on lipstick and eyeliner, and the Abbeville Meridional columnist got his camera ready.

The man we were all there to see was sitting at a table quickly signing book after book. To his left were stacks of his memoir that store workers handed to customers as they redeemed their pre-purchased tickets.

I turned around to the lawyer behind me and asked if he could get a picture of me picking up my books. I stopped to hand him my camera, and a woman who worked at the store told us to keep the line moving.

When I reached the table, I faced the lawyer so he could photograph this split second moment for which I’d waited an hour and a half. The bookstore worker instructed me again to keep moving, and then made a face that couldn’t be described as friendly. So I moon walked as I handed in my ticket, grabbed my book and posed for the picture.

When the flash went off, the bookstore line cop rolled her eyes and said, “Men.”

The ruckus made Drew Brees pick his head up from the book he was signing. He looked around quickly and blinked his eyes. Then as if he had been caught doing something bad, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

With my prized book in my hand, I stepped outside and reviewed my photograph on my digital camera. I planned to put it on my web site and email it to my sister to make her jealous. But the joke was on me because the lawyer had only captured an image of my shoes.

I didn’t dare go and ask the line cop to take another picture, and instead opened my book to look at Drew Brees’ signature. It was big and bold and unreadable like a doctor’s or kindergartener. But it was art to me, and it was mine.

When I got home, I immediately started reading, “Coming Back Stronger.”

The quarterback talks about his childhood, relationships and pivotal moments in his life. In many of the stories, he expresses how he felt beaten down and lost. But in each of them, he brushed himself off and stood back up stronger than ever.

In his most powerful recollection, Drew Brees tells about his last game with the San Diego Chargers when he dislocated his shoulder and tore his rotator’s cuff. His career in the NFL was at risk and his confidence was tested. When I tore my rotator’s cuff, my biggest concern was that I’d still be able to pop and lock on the dance floor.

Yet, there have been many times when I felt beaten. Like it was me against the world, and that I didn’t have the strength for the battle. From, “Coming Back Stronger,” I learned that even heroes face challenges and defeat, but it’s their choice to never quit which gives them the power to rise to the top.

Drew Brees did more for the city of New Orleans and state of Louisiana than lead the Saints to a Super Bowl victory. He related to us at a time when we needed someone who understood what it felt like to be overwhelmed, scared and beaten down. That is why I stood in line for an hour and a half to get his memoir and signature, and why I’d do it again tomorrow and the next day and the next.

My black and gold hero and I probably have more differences than similarities, and chances are I’ll never lead a football team to a Super Bowl victory. But I still aspire to have the confidence and determination of this man who faced adversity and came back stronger. I still aspire to have his strength.

Sandra Theall's Fairy Tale Garden

2010-07-27T09:03:00.000-07:00

There are many fairy tales in which a character steps through a doorway and suddenly travels into a new world. Surreal elements like vibrantly colored singing birds, unusual trees and mystical beings makes the visitor wonder if he or she is dreaming.

For many, the images from picture books and movies are the only way to experience such magical places. But for Sandra Theall of Abbeville, all she has to do is walk outside of her home into her five-acre garden.

“I feel like I’m transported from the chaos of the real world into a fantasy every time I step into the yard,” says Theall. “I couldn’t live in a place where I couldn’t be outside every day.”

Trees and bamboo surround the property to provide both privacy and intimacy. Red-tipped Photena shield the yard from the noise of street traffic, Oak, Elm and Cypress create canopies of shade, and Japanese Magnolias, Crepe Myrtles and Red Buds decorate the scenery with bursts of color.

“I’m a big tree person,” says Theall. “Nothing else bothers me like the loss of my trees.”

A bubbling half-acre pond surrounded by Greek statues like Zeus and Persephone provides a refreshing swimming oasis for white geese and Muscovy and Peeking ducks. Multi-colored peacocks named Limpy, Peabody, Thelma and Louise dance around the property singing about the beauty surrounding them.

“My pets follow me all over the yard,” says Theall. “I’m never alone because there is always a cat, dog or bird peeking around the corner at me.”

Although Theall loves all the living things in her garden, her pride and joy are her many Hibiscus. She is president of the Acadiana Hibiscus club, and has seventy-five different varieties of the flower. Many of them, she hybridized herself.

“There is no greater thrill for me than having a seedling bloom for the first time,” says Theall. “You never know what you’re going to get.”

NANETTE PEACH
According to Theall, Hibiscus prefer morning sun and evening shade. Her many varieties have names like black dragon, godiva, silver memories, red snapper, sweet cheeks, Atlantis, elephant ears, nanette peach, pagan fire and Creole bell.

“A gardening secret is to keep mulch around your Hibiscus and trees,” says Theall. “To have a successful garden, you have to be committed and love working in the yard. There are days when nobody wants to go outside.”

A gravel road led me from the high-paced traffic of Highway 14 to the serene beauty and peacefulness of Theall’s garden. Thelma and Louise ran in front of my car to announce my arrival to Zeus and Persephone.

“I was a high school teacher and love ancient history,” said Theall. “That’s what inspired the statues around the pond.”

It had rained earlier that morning and the garden was thick with humidity, mist and drops of water slowly falling to the ground. Dark clouds occasionally blocked the sun, casting shadows on the Greeks, while one of the peacocks sang like the fat lady at an opera.

Limpy captivated me with his beauty while he posed for pictures on a small pasture of green grass. I was excited about his cooperation during the photo shoot, but became concerned as he got closer and closer to me. It made me wonder if his earlier song had been war music.

Luckily, Mrs. Theall’s gardener, Robert Castro was nearby cutting bushes. I asked him if Limpy had a history of violence, and if I should stand still or run for my car.

Castro laughed and said, “He’s attacked me a couple of times. But I think you’re safe.”

Castro comes to Theall’s garden once a week to help with the maintenance of the property. I’m glad he was there that day because Thelma and Louise snuck up behind Limpy and there were now three birds coming in my direction. Although a picture of a flock of peacocks pecking me to death seemed like a once in a lifetime opportunity, I cut my photo shoot short, and slowly backed away from the beautiful, yet fickle feathered gang.

Theall gave me a tour of the property in a small off-road vehicle that resembled a golf cart, but which she referred to as, “The Gator.” We rode through tunnels of rain soaked foliage to discover ju-ju be fruit trees and bamboo fields laced with orange trumpet vines.

The beauty of the scenery made me wonder if I was a character who had stepped through a doorway into an enchanted forest. Music, vibrant colors and exotic plants all supported the existence of the fantasy world before me. But the real magic of Theall’s garden, is the fairy Godmother who dreamed it to life.

The Hibiscus club meets every first Tuesday of the month. If interested in attending, call Sandra Theall at 337-893-0064 for details.

Nutrition Plus Knowledge

2010-07-20T14:59:00.000-07:00

One of the easiest ways to increase the life of your automobile is by changing the oil regularly. This simple maintenance can prevent many engine problems before they start. The same logic can also be applied to the human body.

“If you take care of yourself before you have health issues, your body will respond,” says Brenda Shelvin, wellness enthusiast. “The human engine is the colon. If you keep it clean, you’ll be healthier.”

Brenda and her husband Barry Shelvin are the owners of Nutrition-Plus at 1105 Veterans Memorial Drive in Abbeville. The couple opened their doors in 1994 and offer wellness items ranging from vitamins, minerals and omega 3 fish oils to weight loss, weight gain and body building products to herbal teas, organic juices and gluten free foods.

“People want to be healthier and try more natural products, but they don’t know where to start,” says Mrs. Shelvin. “You can’t always follow what others are doing. The best place to start is to look at what is going on with yourself.”

Mrs. Shelvin has previous work experience in sales, and the healthcare industry as a Registered Medical Assistant. Mr. Shelvin, who worked in the oilfield, was an avid bodybuilder and the first runner up in the Mr. Acadiana bodybuilding contest.

“I’ve always had an interest in fitness,” says Mr. Shelvin. “I love working with people and helping them feel their best. This is why I started Nutrition-Plus.”

According to the Shelvins, in order to be successful in this industry, one must be knowledgeable about the wellness products. Equally important is being able to listen.

“The best part of this job is the people,” says Mrs. Shelvin. “I’ve grown with them over the years like they’re family. In order to help them, I need to hear what they’re saying. If their stories are important to them, they’re important to me.”

Mrs. Shelvin’s most memorable moment at Nutrition-Plus was when a mysterious woman showed up and said that she was going to pray for the business. The same woman was spotted playing the organ at Mrs. Shelvin’s church days later. No one ever saw the organist again, but witnesses say that she was extremely talented and played beautifully.

“We’ve had a lot of ministers who come here and say they’re going to pray for us,” says Mr. Shelvin. “It must be working because we’ve been open for sixteen years and have a lot of loyal customers. We’re very appreciative of all the support the people of Vermilion Parish have given us.”

Mrs. Shelvin’s son, Blaine Turner runs World Class Smoothies in the back of Nutrition- Plus. Drive-thru customers have their choice of refreshing energetic drinks that can either help them lose or gain weight. Flavors include (but are not limited to) strawberry, raspberry, wild berry, banana, cappuccino and pina colada. Mr. Turner also sells barbecue dinners on Sundays.

During my interview with the Shelvins at Nutrition-Plus, many customers came in with different needs. One man bought something called Brewers Yeast and claimed it helped keep fleas, ticks and mosquitoes off of his dog.

“I need something like that,” laughed Mrs. Shelvin. “Mosquitoes are always biting me.”

Since I’m required to work a job at my interviews, Mr. Turner instructed me on how to make a Big Kahuna smoothie. After spilling every ingredient that I touched, the finished product was a delicious treat that was supposed to help me gain weight.

“You need to start eating more stuff that sticks to your bones,” Mrs. Shelvin said. “Tell Blaine how you like your red beans and rice and he’ll make up a batch for you.”

At first I thought there was a red beans and rice flavored smoothie, which didn’t really sound too appetizing. But then I smelled a pot of home cooking on the stove, and realized not only my mistake, but how lucky I was to get an offer for a custom made dish from a man with the skills of Mr. Turner.

The most valuable lesson I learned from my visit was how everything that you put in or on your body can affect your health and mood. The Shelvins taught me that the equation to wellness and feeling good is nutrition plus knowledge.

For more information on the products offered by Nutrition-Plus and World Class Smoothie, call 337-893-6005.

Strength to Satisfy the Hunger

2010-07-17T18:53:00.000-07:00

I was recently having lunch with a friend who had just graduated from college and was planning the next phase of his life. He shared with me that the process of reaching his personal American dream overwhelmed him.

“I’m just ready to be there,” he said. “I want to start living and be happy.”

His frustrations were not new to me because I’d experienced the hunger to get to a destination where a buffet of happiness was waiting. But after twenty years, I still haven’t reached this magical place. So where do we get the nourishment to satisfy our appetite for the perfect life? Where do we get the strength?

When I graduated from college, my goal was to find a job that would not only support me financially, but would fulfill all of my career aspirations. In my mind, everything would fall into place after that. I’d find somewhere to settle down and buy a house and start a family, all protected by a white picket fence.

But to my dismay, my first job as a manager at a J.C. Penny in an Atlanta mall didn’t fulfill my hopes and dreams. Except of course for the access to large discounts on socks and underwear.

So I went to graduate school in Connecticut (with many pairs of multi-colored boxer shorts), and received a Masters in Business Administration. This brought me to a job as a marketing manager at a uniform company in Chicago. I had a great two and a half years there, but was starving for something else. Something heartier.

Then one night as I searched the Internet for a take-out menu for the pursuit of happiness, (which I hoped could be delivered in twenty minutes or less like a pizza) I believed that I had figured out how to satisfy my hunger.

“A book,” I thought. “All I have to do is publish a book, and like Scarlett O’Hara, I will never be hungry again!”

Shortly after my realization, I moved to New York City to study writing. Finding a tolerable job that supported me proved to be difficult, but I focused on the day a book with my name would sit in a library. I thought this would also be the day that I’d reach this wonderful, perfect life where I could feast and satisfy my hunger pangs forever and ever.

After eight long years, I published a novel. Seeing it on bookstore shelves gave me a feeling I’d never experienced before. For a short time, I thought I had arrived at my life’s destination. For a short time, I thought everything would fall into place and I could finally start living happily ever after. For a short time, I tricked myself into believing that I wasn’t hungry anymore.

But then, my stomach started growling again. My body and mind were exhausted and couldn’t find the strength to continue the journey for food. Instead, I sat and starved.

For several months, I thought about and analyzed the past twenty years. Where, when and how had I gotten off of the path to this perfect life? Why did I have to keep traveling instead of just arriving?

As I thought about everything I’d been through on the journey, my mood began to change. Memories of my first fall in Connecticut, a summer of beach volleyball on Lake Michigan in Chicago, walks through Central Park in springtime, all made me smile.

Why had I expected to reach a place where I would live happily ever after like an animated movie? Even Shrek had parts two, three and four.

I’m not saying that I’m unhappy with my current situation. It satisfies many of my needs and wants. I love writing this column to you, and becoming reacquainted with my family and the place where I grew up. Living in my childhood home brings me great pleasure, even if there are challenges like hunger pangs or being forced to cut my mother’s toenails.

What I am trying to say is that if I ignore the hunger out of fear that there is a time limit on reaching the ultimate destination, I won’t be living my life. There is a lot more I want to accomplish. Other places I want to live. Different jobs I want to work.

I think it is wonderful for those who have arrived at the perfect life that satisfies all of their needs and hunger. Although I can never know for sure, I assume that it was a long and hard journey.

For those of us still traveling, we must keep our heads up and enjoy the ride. Although the destination might seem like Utopia, most of its value comes from the experiences it takes to get there. Through determination, hard work and faith we will reach it. By standing up to the fear and believing in ourselves, we will satisfy the hunger and find our strength.

The Garden that the Broussards and sheep Built

2010-07-13T08:16:00.000-07:00

A crystal clear swimming pool shaped like a mountain valley stream greets visitors when they step into the backyard of Kenneth and Myra Broussard in Kaplan. The water reflects light onto a garden filled with ceramic frogs, multi-colored glass globes, roman statues and exotic plants and flowers. It’s hard to believe that the quarter acre oasis was once a pasture that sheep used as their own personal port-o-let.

“My friends with gardens get jealous because the manure makes everything grow so well here,” laughs Mr. Broussard. “I can’t fertilize anything or it would take over.”

Mr. Broussard grew up on his parents’ farm in a house that still stands next door to his current home. When he and his wife Myra moved to the location in 1975, the couple was inspired to begin building their garden.

“My dad was a farmer and my uncle, Paul Broussard was an agriculture teacher,” says Mr. Broussard. “I got my love of gardening from them.”

Potted periwinkles dance around an assortment of ferns such as Sword, Boston, Bird’s Nest, Maidenhair and Holly. Sago and Cardboard palms reflect off the pool’s water while hydrangeas, hibiscus and ginger provide variegated leaves for lizards to sunbathe, and flowers for bees to pollinate. A large Oak tree, with the help of bamboo, River Birch and Crepe Myrtles provide shady areas decorated with Bleeding Hearts, Nandinas and Fake Birds of Paradise.

“Every spring I have an urge to buy plants even though I don’t have place to put them,” says Mr. Broussard. “Fortunately, I help my son-in-law who has Romero’s Quality Lawn Service and Landscaping, and I can buy plants for his customers. That way, I don’t have to buy as many for myself.”

In addition to the many plants, flowers and trees, the Broussard’s garden also includes a small greenhouse and an Acadian Style Cottage with a sign that says, “The House That Pop Built”. Three fountains provide the calming sound of water, stain glass ornaments reflect bursts of color, and a statue of Saint Francis watches and guards the area.

“There are a lot of caterpillars eating my plants,” says Mr. Broussard. “But I don’t kill them because they turn into butterflies.”

Mr. Broussard’s advice to a gardener is to water in the morning to avoid insects and disease. He says it’s also very important to build up beds and ensure they have good soil.

“It’s like building a house,” says Mr. Broussard. “You need a good foundation to hold up the walls. You also have to maintain the garden because beautiful plants and flowers don’t happen on their own.”

Mr. Broussard, a retired public school principal says he gardens to relax. He tried painting, but it didn’t have the same calming affect as being outside in nature.

“Kenneth used to say that he liked to garden because the plants didn’t talk back like the students did,” laughed Mrs. Broussard. “We have so many wonderful memories from the garden because we’ve hosted gatherings of friends and family. We even had a wedding here.”

When I visited the Broussard’s garden, I immediately became jealous because of the swimming pool, and a variegated hibiscus that I’d been looking for but couldn’t find.
But I became even greener with envy when my eyes saw the Fake Bird of Paradise. The beautiful ornate red and yellow flower resembled the interior of a lava lamp or what I imagined the tongue of an outer space alien to look like.

But I forgave the Broussards for having better plants than me when I found out that they are members of the Kaplan Beautification Committee. Mr. Broussard and fellow member Joel Howard are responsible for the roses on Cushing Boulevard that always make me smile when I drive by them.

My visit to the garden was very rewarding because I left with a potato vine, small Rain tree, clippings of hydrangeas and the recipe to a secret gardening concoction to keep plants well fed and healthy. But the greatest gift of all was the knowledge I gained from spending time in the inspirational garden that the Broussards and sheep built.

Gardening concoction passed on to the Broussards by Marcia Greene:

Can of Coke
Can of beer
Cup of apple juice
Cup of ammonia
Cup of dishwashing liquid
Dilute with water and spray on plants in early morning.

For more information on the services of Romero’s Quality Lawn Service and Landscaping, call 337-652-3916.

Strength to be Old and Cool

2010-07-10T07:10:00.000-07:00

I was recently looking through the Abbeville Meridional and saw an advertisement wishing a young man named, Chad, a happy birthday. There were two pictures of him, one as a Little League baseball player and the other as a high school graduate. The caption above his youthful images read, “Lordy, Lordy. Look who’s 40!”

I was a teenager the first time I heard that expression, and remember thinking, “Wow. That is so old that it’s funny. Why would anyone let that happen?”

Now that I am forty, the age doesn’t seem that old or funny. But with teenagers looking younger and younger everyday, and my lower back feeling older and older, I sometimes forget that half of my life has yet to be lived. So where do we find the energy and youth to handle arthritis, hair loss and a new generation who thinks they’re cooler than us? Where do we find the strength?

Being the youngest of eight children, I always thought I was cooler than my siblings. I listened to CD’s instead of 8-track tapes, watched MTV instead of American Bandstand and wore parachute pants instead of bell-bottoms.

I thought I would always be the youngest in my family. But then my brothers and sisters started having children. At first I reveled in the fact that I was no longer the baby, and might be promoted from the kids’ table to the grown up one. After a while, however, this new generation alarmed me because they had cooler clothes, better skin and more energy and confidence than me.

I was able to prevent the new mavericks of cool from affecting me too much by avoiding being within five feet of more than three of them at a time. But a couple of months ago at a high school graduation party for a niece and nephew, an army of youth surrounded me.

The new graduates and their friends had the confidence of an astronaut who had not only walked on the moon, but also lunched weekly with Drew Brees, Johnny Depp and Lady Ga Ga. Rightly so, because they’d just completed a huge phase in their lives and had a bright and prosperous future ahead of them. I admired their ambition and positive outlook on life, but also feared that they’d discover I wasn’t as cool as them.

At several points in the evening, I found myself surrounded by more than three of them, and took a step away because I had no idea what to talk to them about. They were the young in-crowd, and I was a forty-year old who knew none of the songs from the movie, “High School Musical.” I would have looked like an idiot if a sing-a-long had broken out.

To make myself feel better, I stood by the oldest person I could find, (my mom) and gave her a lecture on why orthopedic shoes were NOT cool. Every now and then, I shot the graduates a dirty look to ensure they kept their youthful skin, hairlines and perspectives away from my insecurities.

A few days later, my niece pleasantly surprised me by asking my opinion about certain aspects of college. I told her about my experiences not only during my collegiate years, but how my decisions affected me later on in life.

I don’t know if my niece will follow my advice, but it did mean a lot to me that she asked for it. For those few moments we spoke, I wasn’t someone old and un-cool. Instead, I was an elder with wisdom who had learned from mistakes and knew things that couldn’t be taught from books or by young Hollywood stars like Zac Efron.

As each day passes, I find larger piles of hair in the shower drain and it’s a little bit harder to get up from a sitting position. The newest and coolest sneakers make my feet hurt and my eyes require brighter light in order to read. Technology confuses me more and more, and the music of the hottest and most popular singer gives me a headache and somehow makes me constipated.

But as each day passes, I add more experiences under my belt. They help me live the next day, and the next and the next. We are all getting older, but a few gray hairs don’t mean that we have to stop enjoying life. With our wisdom, there is coolness. With our age, there is strength.

Jacques Couvillon Journal Write

2010-07-06T04:27:00.001-07:00

THE JACQUES COUVILLON JOURNAL WRITE

Through a series of writing exercises we'll journal the adventures of our lives. Discover the "I" in WRITE.

When: Thursdays, July 8,15,22,29
Where: Abbeville Meridional
Time: 6:30 to 8:00 p.m.
Cost: $40 for four weeks
Info: Call 646-387-2558 to reserve your write

Frozen Treat to Beat the Heat

2010-07-06T04:15:00.000-07:00

My first ever business venture was when I was about eight years old, and my cousin Gretchen and I set up a snoball stand in my front yard. Our two flavors were grape and cherry Kool Aid, and our secret recipe for making ice was to put cubes in a washrag and beat it with a hammer.

“Ice is the number one key in making a good snoball,” says Toby Gaspard, professional snoball maker. “You want it to be like snow.”

Husband and wife, Toby and Kayla Gaspard own and manage Southern Snoball (next to the car wash) in Kaplan. Customers can drive up to the white building and order ice cream, nachos, chilidogs, and of course, snoballs. For the health conscious, sugar-free flavors are available, and for the un-health conscious, stuffing your frozen treat with chocolate or vanilla ice cream is a fantastic option.
THE GASPARDS: AIDEN, TOBY, ALEX AND KAYLA

“I’d suggest rainbow flavor to a new comer because it has strawberry, bubble gum and banana,” says Mrs. Gaspard. “A lot of kids also love having their snoball covered with Gummy Bears.”

According to Mr. Gaspard, the hardest part of running a snoball business is being on your feet all the time. The best part is serving the public.

“It’s a very physical job,” says Mr. Gaspard. “You have to be quick and keep the line moving. You also have to be friendly and have a lot of personality.”

The most popular flavors at Southern Snoball are the stuffed cotton candy, pink lady, and rainbow. Mr. Gaspard’s favorite is cotton candy stuffed with vanilla ice cream, but his wife prefers pink lady and their two-year old son, Aiden is a banana man.

“Snoballs are a part of summer,” says Mr. Gaspard. “I love seeing the excited looks on kids’ faces when I hand them the cup.”

Southern Snoball is opened Monday through Friday from 3 P.M. to 6 P.M. and Saturday and Sunday from 12 P.M. to 6 P.M. But this fall the Gaspards plan to increase their hours when they start offering daily plate lunches.

I recently visited the snoball stand to find out more about this frozen treat industry. When I arrived, employee Alicia Gaspard, with the assistance of her two daughters, Shelbi and Alyssa, were servicing the customers. I had never been on the other side of a drive-thru before, which was kind of cool because looking through the window was like watching 3D television without having to wear the strange glasses.

When the owners arrived with their two sons, Mr. Gaspard showed me how to make a snoball. Instead of using my creative washrag and hammer method to make crushed ice, he used a large metal machine that lightly scraped a rectangular block of ice about the size of a loaf of bread. The result was homemade snow.

What the Gaspards didn’t know was that I was a serious snoball connoisseur who visited several stands throughout Louisiana, and then ranked them on different criteria. Speed, texture of ice, flavor options and price were all factors that determined my rating.

Considering that I had carte blanche when making my own snoball, (and they didn’t charge me) I gave Southern Snoball a ten out of ten. But I must advise those who are ever given the opportunity to be a kid in a candy store to stop at five flavors. Otherwise, your frozen treat to beat the heat will give you a sugar rush.

Southern Snoballs is located at 1214 Veterans Memorial Drive in Kaplan. To join my journal writing class beginning July 8th, please call 646-387-2558.

Jacques Couvillon Journal Write

2010-07-03T08:56:00.000-07:00

Strength to Kill a Chicken

2010-07-03T08:54:00.000-07:00

After graduating from business school several years ago, I was more confused about what to do with my life than before starting. My diploma was supposed to answer all of my questions and guide me to the right path to follow. But I didn’t have the courage to choose a direction. I didn’t have the strength.

I needed a distraction, and so flew down to Bolivia to visit my best friend, Jay who was in the Peace Corps. We’d traveled together before, and always had fun and memorable adventures on our trips. But this one’s purpose was to escape decisions.

All I knew about Bolivia was that it was in South America and that Spanish was the national language. But what I didn’t know about this third world country was that many of its residents didn’t have television or electricity, most of the mountain roads were unpaved, and some bathrooms were nothing more than a hole in the ground.

I’d worked at summer camps before and didn’t mind roughing it when necessary. But there was one thing that was excruciating to me the first few days in Bolivia. It was the silence.

Jay’s house was in a small rural community where no one except for us, spoke English. When my friend would leave for work during the day, I was alone. With no television or anyone to speak to, silence attacked me from every angle, like a swarm of Malaria infected mosquitoes.

I’d been alone plenty of times before, but had always had something to occupy my time and thoughts. Be it driving, or eating or watching television, I could always concentrate on the task at hand to avoid letting my mind escape to thinking territory.

So I’d read anything and everything written in English that I could find. But after several days, fighting off the silence became challenging and exhausting.

When Jay would return home from work, he wasn’t in the mood to speak. He’d grown accustomed to his quiet life in Bolivia, and preferred to spend the entire afternoon and evening in silence.

“Are we monks?” I asked Jay. “Are you going to make me wear a robe and take a vow of celibacy?”

“Why do you have a problem with being quiet?” Jay asked back. “It gives you time to think and make decisions.”

I didn’t let on to my friend that he’d hit the nail on the head. That he’d discovered my greatest fear at the time. That I was jealous that he seemed to make perfect decisions so effortlessly.

The day I couldn’t take the silence any longer, Jay told me to pack up because we were going on a trip. He had to visit a native village deep in the wilderness of the Andes Mountains, and it would take us two days of bus rides, walking and hitch hiking to get there.

When we arrived, we set up camp in a one-room cinder block building that was used as a school. The rest of the structures were deep in the woods and made of adobe or tree branches tied together. There was only one store, which sold a few staple items like corn, coffee and kerosene.

“We have forty pieces of bread for four days,” Jay said during our first meal in the village. “That’s ten pieces per day, five per person.”

I had never had to ration food in my life, nor had my diet restricted to only bread and water. It didn’t alarm me, but I became aware that living in Bolivia was not at all like summer camp.

After a couple of days, Jay and I went to visit the village chief, who lived about an hour’s walk in the forest. On the way, we’d occasionally run into a donkey carrying a child, who was wearing brightly colored clothes donated from other countries. It wasn’t unusual to see t-shirts advertising Coca-cola or promoting Reagan for president.

When we arrived at the home of the village chief and his family, I saw that they too had received some of these donated clothes. The leader’s wife wore a burgundy polo shirt and navy pleated skirt, and he wore light blue ski pants, a navy hooded Puma sweatshirt and a bolero hat.

“It’s 85 degrees,” I said to Jay. “Why is he wearing that?”

“It’s probably the only clothes he has,” Jay said. “Not everyone has a choice about what to wear.”

We all sat down on logs arranged in a square. While Jay spoke to the chief in Spanish, I silently took in the new world surrounding us. The children were shoeless and the house was made of sticks, mud and straw. A few skinny chickens, pigs and donkeys slowly moved around us looking for food.

The wife disappeared for a few minutes and then returned with a burlap sack and handed it to me. The contents moved around, which caused me to drop it immediately and jump up from the log and step back.

“What are you doing?” Jay asked. “Pick it up. You’re being rude.”

“I’m being rude?” I asked. “The woman hands me a moving sack and I’m the one being rude?”

Jay explained that there was a live chicken in the sack, and that the chief and his family were giving it to us as a gift. I told my friend that it was a nice gesture and all, but that I doubted American Airlines would let me count it as a carry-on when I went back to the United States.

“It’s for us to eat here,” Jay said. “Didn’t you grow up on a farm? You can kill it and we’ll eat it later.”

“My family got our chickens dead and featherless from Piggly Wiggly,” I explained. “My grandma knew how to wring their necks to kill them, but she never shared her technique.”

“You can either kill it, or we’ll starve,” Jay said. “It’s your choice.”

I excused myself and walked to a small creek and sat down on the bank. The chief’s children were washing their clothes in the water, and then beating them on rocks. This was the richest family in the village.

At that moment, my guard was let down. Silence and thoughts filled my body and mind to capacity and then erupted into tears through my eyes. Perhaps it was the diet of bread and water, the humiliation of not having the strength to kill a chicken, or the impact of seeing lives without choice.

It was time to think and make decisions about my future. This choice was a gift that I couldn’t let rot like a piece of fruit in the hot sun. Not choosing my path would be weak.

One of the villagers killed the chicken for us, but before we could eat, we got word through a hand radio that Jay’s father died. On our journey out of the Bolivian wilderness, my friend asked me for some quiet time alone.

“Not a problem at all,” I said. “I understand.”

Silence is now a part of my daily routine. It helps me think about all of the choices I’ve been given, and guides me on my journey. With thoughts, there is clarity. With decisions, there is strength.

For more information on the Jacques Couvillon Journal Write, starting this Thursday, July 8th, call 646-387-2558.

Jacques Couvillon Journal Write

2010-06-30T06:23:00.001-07:00

Brother of Johnny Appleseed Resides in Abbeville

2010-06-30T06:12:00.000-07:00

Some of our most valuable assets in Vermilion Parish are our trees. The Spanish moss covered oaks have books written about them, our cypress have built homes and barns, and our pecans are eaten all over the world.

But there are certain trees like apple and eucalyptus that you don’t see too often along our roadsides. That is unless of course, you’re visiting the Abbeville home of gardener, Todd Travasos.

“I planted around three hundred trees on the property,” says Travasos. “I want my house to feel like it’s in the woods.”

Travasos moved to the 6.3 acres in 2001 and began planting his garden. Initially, it was a small forest filled with a variety of oaks and other wild-growing trees. But many of them were knocked over during a hurricane, and Travasos suddenly had more light and freedom to create his own vision.

“I’ve been gardening since I was a kid,” says Travasos. “After a hard day’s work, I relax by going outside and being in nature.”

The garden consists of trees, bushes and plants that provide fruits, vegetables, flowers and shade. There are cypress, oak, crepe myrtle, river birch, hackberry, red maple, eucalyptus, avocado, sweet olive, fig, apple, orange, lemon, lime, grapefruit, kumquat, Japanese plum, pomegranate, persimmon, pear and palm trees. Blueberry, blackberry and raspberry bushes thrive in sunny spots throughout the yard, and muscadine grapes, cucumbers, cantaloupe and sugar baby watermelons cling onto fences.

“The hardest part of maintaining the yard is providing proper irrigation during a drought,” says Travasos. “My favorite part is seeing the expression on people’s faces when I give them the excess produce.”

The advice Travasos would give to a new gardener is to provide proper drainage to trees, especially fruit bearing ones. He also suggests buying your trees, bushes and plants from someone who knows about their product and can provide information on growing conditions, fertilizing and watering.

“There are a lot of fruits like apples and blueberries that need cross pollinators to grow,” says Travasos. “If you plant one without the other, it won’t bear fruit.”

My mom and I recently visited the garden of Todd Travasos. The long driveway to his home in the woods is lined with sago palms, Jane magnolias and colorful crepe myrtles. In the front of the house, a large scented eucalyptus shimmers its mint green leaves, and a four-tiered fountain cries with tears of joy when visitors arrive.

Travasos had given me a summary of his garden prior to my arrival. It all sounded interesting, but what peaked my interest the most were the apples trees. When I stopped the car, I told my mom how excited I was about photographing them.

“My maiden name is Apple,” my mom said. “There’s only one living male Apple in Vermilion Parish.”

“I know,” I said. “But we’re here to learn about apple seeds. Not the Apple seed.”

Travasos ran out to meet my mom and I as we were walking up the drive. He welcomed us into his home where we met his wife, Brigette, and several colorful Persian cats.

“Did your son tell you I grow apple trees?” Travasos asked my mom. “Just like your maiden name, Apple.”

“There’s only one living male Apple in all of Vermilion Parish,” my mom replied.

After hearing a twenty-minute history review of the Apple seed, (complete with charts, graphs, and a Power Point presentation) Travasos led me outside to discuss seeds of a less uncomfortable nature. We started with citrus.

“I have a story and reason for every tree in the yard,” said Travasos. “For example, I plant my lemons and limes on the south side of the house because they don’t like the cold.”

Then Travasos showed me something called a trifolia tree, which didn’t bare fruit and resembled a large shrub. He said he was growing it for its root system and that he would graph different citrus trees like lemons, limes and oranges to it.

It took several minutes of questions and answers for me to understand that one tree was going to grow three different fruit. I wondered what would happen if I ate an orange from this miraculous tree. Would I become the super hero, Citrus Man, and begin fighting crime by squirting villains in the eyes with acidic juices.

I thought that could be interesting, so I asked Travasos to see more of his creations. Next stop was the apple orchard.

“My Golden Dorsett apples cross pollinate with my Annas,” said Travasos. “I don’t spray them with any chemicals, because I want all of my produce to be organic.”

When it came time for my mom and I to leave, Travasos handed her a bag filled with cucumbers and one apple. He told her that it was for her in honor of her maiden name.

It seemed ironic that just as one Apple was beginning to disappear in Vermilion Parish, a different kind was just starting to be grown. Not for monetary reasons, but simply to produce a gift for others.

“I thought that was a very nice gesture of Mr. Travasos to give you an apple because of your name,” I said to my mom on the car ride home. “Maybe you met him for a reason. Now you can have peace in the fact that apples will be in Vermilion Parish for a long time.”

“That’s a beautiful way to look at it,” my mom responded. “But I’ll just get one of my grandsons to change his name to Apple.”

THE JACQUES COUVILLON JOURNAL WRITE

2010-06-27T05:49:00.000-07:00

Strength to Forgive the Pain

2010-06-27T05:40:00.000-07:00

An elementary schoolyard wouldn’t be a schoolyard without the occasional skinned knee, argument over a ball or bully causing pain. These unpleasant situations of our past are fortunately in a place where they can’t harm us anymore. But how do we stop their memories from hitting us in the face like an oversized dodge ball? Where do we find the strength?

I recently ran into an old acquaintance from elementary school. To say we were friends would be inaccurate, but to say we were enemies would be to go too far. I didn’t care for this person back in the day because he tormented me, but that was when we were children who didn’t know any better.

I’d had many fantasies about my revenge on my once childhood nemesis. They ranged from a simple fistfight to re-enacting the drag race scene from the movie, Grease. I’d spend hours a day thinking about our cars racing through the twists and turns of large cement coulees. I would always speed across the finish line first, and win Olivia Newton John as my prize. The only problem with my fantasy was that neither my opponent nor I was old enough to drive.

The recent encounter with my schoolmate was very pleasant, but something about the situation was unsettling. I was uncertain if it was confusion from the change in our relationship, or a feeling of accomplishment from finally being able to have a conversation that didn’t involve having a, “Kick me,” sign attached to my back.

When we parted ways, I began thinking about the days of elementary school. There were memories of monkey bars, softball games and cafeteria food. But then, a faded and blurred image of the pain my schoolmate had caused me began to rejuvenate until it became clear and damp with newness.

The pain didn’t make me angry or depressed, but I was aware of its presence. For days, I cautiously carried it around like an un-potted cactus filled with sharp thorns capable of drawing blood. I kept it at arm’s length, but observed its growth.

It made no sense to me that there was still pain from over twenty-five years ago. I thought I had grown, become more secure with myself and learned that the past is the past. But even though I tried to block out the memories, the insecurity, and the hurt, drops of each kept seeping back into my conscience the same way rain does through a small crack in a ceiling.

My obsession with the past absorbed all of my energy to the point that I couldn’t find the strength to communicate with others. My mom even pointed out my mind’s absence during breakfast one day.

“Why are you so quiet?” she asked. “You’re usually giving me orders this time of day.”

“You’re the one who is usually giving orders,” I responded. “And I just have a lot on my mind.”

I told my mom about everything; the encounter with my past, the pain and the confusion of its re-emergence. She listened attentively and nodded her head up and down like she fully understood. When I was finished, she stood and looked straight ahead.

“When I feel pain, I take two aspirin,” she said. “But you’re talking about a different kind. You might want to try Aleve.”

I will give my mom the benefit of the doubt and assume that she was being insightful, because her words did give me the strength to realize that there are different types of pain. I hadn’t been thinking about the pain that someone else had caused me. It was the pain that I had caused or ever wanted to cause others.

A fight broke out in my head. Reasoning argued with Fear, while Shame punched Ego in the stomach. Remorse was the final victor.

I have forgiven the pain from my past, but am aware of its power. My knowledge will hopefully prevent me from ever using it to hurt someone else. If my judgment and memory ever lapses, the sharpness of weakness will stab me. But for now I look positively forward, and know that in our past there are lessons. In our future, there is strength.

The Jacques Couvillon Journal Write

2010-06-23T04:49:00.001-07:00

The Moving Business of JB Duhon Carpentry

2010-06-23T04:36:00.000-07:00

Most businesses that I visit for this column have a storefront or building where they are located. But this week, I interviewed a couple of entrepreneurs whose office address is a trailer on four wheels and is constantly moving.

J.B. Duhon Carpentry is owned and operated by husband and wife team, Jan and James (J.B.) Duhon. The business has been opened for ten years, and is licensed and insured. Services range from installing vinyl siding to building fences to remodeling entire homes.

“We take on the headache of a project so the client doesn’t have to,” says Mr. Duhon. “We’ll purchase all of the materials needed, and manage the work from start to finish.”

The Duhons initially started the company to supplement their family income. Although they both worked full time at other jobs, their carpentry business consistently grew. While Mr. Duhon handles the manual labor, Mrs. Duhon manages finances.

“When we first started, all J.B. had were a few tools,” says Mrs. Duhon. “But I kept saving money, and eventually we were able to buy a trailer and hire employees. We never had to borrow a dime.”

According to Mr. Duhon, running a carpentry business involves a lot of capital. But he says the hardest part is orchestrating every detail of a project and being on call 24/7.

“The best part is that we can do it together,” says Mrs. Duhon. “Also, working with people. We bond with many of our customers and they become like family. If I could, I’d do it for free.”

The Duhons’ most memorable experience was when they were renovating a married couple’s house after Hurricane Rita. The husband was dying of cancer and wanted his wife back in the home before he passed.

“We became good friends with the couple and were able to get them back in their home before he died,” says Mrs. Duhon. “I’d often sit with the husband so his wife could run errands.”

It was hot and humid (as are most days here now) when I visited the Duhons and their moving business at a home just outside of Abbeville in Rice Cove. They were renovating a bathroom from top to bottom including cabinets and fixtures.

The room’s colors were warm earth tones, and the shower had a beautiful floor made of concrete and polished multi-colored stones. I would have loved to use it to rinse the drenching sweat off of my body, but I figured it might be weird to undress during the interview.
THE FLOOR OF THE SHOWER

Mr. Duhon gave me a tour of his trailer and showed me some of the different equipment he uses. He said that the one tool every carpenter should carry around is a tape measure.

“I really enjoy being on the site and working with my hands,” said Mr. Duhon. “Helping people improve their homes and lives is what I love about this job.”

Kenneth Boggs, one of the employees of J.B. Duhon Carpentry, showed me how to cut a baseboard plank on a saw. Although cutting wood is somewhat empowering to most men, I have to say my favorite part of that experience was wearing these cool goggles that made me feel like Bono from the band U2.

It’s no wonder that J.B. Duhon Carpentry was able to grow from a few tools to a full- sized trailer packed with equipment and memorable stories. Although the couple’s initial goal was to support their family, they’ve built a life that allows them to work and grow together. Their eye for craftsmanship, dedication to service, and relationships with their customers is what keeps the four wheels on their constantly moving business.

For more information on the services offered by J.B. Duhon Carpentry, call (337) 288-4786. To learn more about the journal writing class I’m teaching, call 646-387-2558.
KENNETH BOGGS PUTTING UP TILE IN THE BATHROOM

THE BACK OF JB DUHON CARPENTRY'S MOVING BUSINESS AND TRAILER

2010-06-20T04:44:00.000-07:00

Strength From a Dad's Sunrise

2010-06-20T04:37:00.000-07:00

For the past year, I’ve been waking before the sun rises. Sometimes I take early eastward walks to see its rays of light just as they begin warming the sky. Other times I sit in my room in darkness and wait until beams of energy slowly illuminate the walls like several high-powered flashlights being turned on with dimmer switches.

Sunrise has become my favorite time of day, but it’s not always easy to wake before the rooster crows. Sometimes there is a late night, insomnia or an interruption by life. So where do we get the motivation to wake up early enough to watch Passe Partout? Where do we get the strength?

I grew up on a farm in Cow Island, where waking up before the sun rises is as much a part of life as shovels, tractors and animal manure on the bottom of boots. My dad, Andrew Couvillon, also grew up on a farm and loved to wake up early. Sometimes he’d get up at 3:00 a.m. or would be awake before I’d even gone to bed.

In my early teenage years, my dad would enthusiastically ask me to join him in his ritual of waking early by walking into my room, turning on the lights and leaning over my bed so our faces were only inches apart. Then he’d loudly sing a song he’d made up about crawfishing.

Good Morning! Good Morning!
The sun is shining so you can stop wishing.
It’s time to wake up and go crawfishing!.

My eyes would pop open and see my dad’s smiling face inches away from mine. Still half asleep and thinking I was being attacked by a giant Cajun, I’d scream until I’d wake myself up.

“Get dressed,” my dad would tell me. “It’s time to start the day.”

“It’s still dark outside,” I’d tell him. “Even the crawfish are sleeping.”

Despite my best arguments, my dad never changed his mind and I’d find myself bouncing around the cab of his truck as it headed to the crawfish pond out in the middle of the Louisiana wilderness. My eyes would be closed the entire way, as my head rested on a home made pillow constructed from a rubber boot covered by a pair of gloves and an emergency roll of toilet paper.

Sometimes the sun would rise on the way to the crawfish pond, but other times we’d have to park the truck and wait for the earth’s headlight to flicker on. I’d keep my eyes shut tight until my dad would tell me to start working. Then I’d become more concerned with the hours ahead of me instead of the lighting of a brand new day.

If I had known then how beautiful it was to watch the first few moments of morning, if I had known then that my dad was sharing his favorite part of the day with me, if I had known then that he’d leave me early and we’d never have another sunrise together, I would have opened my eyes.

On one of the mornings I worked on this column, I found the strength to get up early enough to drive out to the crawfish pond. I felt lost amongst the darkness of the curvy gravel roads covered by arches of trees. Herons and egrets flew in front of my car as if guiding me into another world or time.

When I reached our property, I parked and walked to the crawfish pond just in time to see the sky light up in shades of blue and pink. I spoke out loud to my dad and apologized for never opening my eyes before to see what he was trying to show me. He answered me with a memory of the two of us from my childhood.

My dad was sitting on the porch of a camp that used to stand a few hundred feet from the crawfish pond. He was barefoot and wearing a white t-shirt and boxer shorts. I was barefoot as well, but shirtless and holding a tree branch with an attached string over the water of a nearby canal.

“I wonder what the poor people are doing?” My dad asked and smiled.

“This,” I said. “Exactly what we’re doing now.”

We both laughed, and then communicated without words. I told him that I loved him but was a confused child who wasn’t sure which way was which. He answered back that he loved me as well, and not to worry because he would teach me.

My dad taught me to praise every morning I wake up because I’ve been blessed with life. He taught me that a family has to work together to overcome obstacles and to survive. He taught me that through the sweat of a brow and an early sunrise there is strength.

2010-06-15T08:46:00.000-07:00

THE JACQUES COUVILLON JOURNAL WRITE

Together we'll journal the adventures of our lives. Discover the "I" in WRITE.

When: Thursdays, July 8,15,22,29
Where: Abbeville Meridional
Time: 6:30 to 8:00 p.m.
Cost: $40 for four weeks
Info: Call 646-387-2558 to reserve your write

GOING GARDEN: Armadillo Trouble in Kaplan

2010-06-15T08:20:00.000-07:00

Just outside of Kaplan is a Swiss themed cottage surrounded by flowers, lily padded goldfish ponds, and thirteen multi-colored kittens playing a game of hide and seek. During the daylight hours a lion fountain, stone soldiers, and a straw woven fence crowned with curly willow arches protect the garden. But at night, while all the inhabitants of the tranquil beauty rest, a hard-shelled, pointy nosed, un-invited guest wreaks havoc.

“Armadillos are my number one worst enemy,” says garden owner, Greg Meaux. “I tried to catch one with a gentle-catch trap, but the kittens kept getting caught.”

Meaux’s garden is 102’ by 180’ in size. Invited guests can meander through the grounds via stone and gravel paths lined with nature’s royalty like Society Garlic, Twelve Apostles and Lily of the Nile. The songs of birds and fountains are heard throughout the beds of daises, roses and black-stemmed elephant ears.

“I grew up on a farm,” says Meaux. “I love watching things grow from a seed into fruit or a bloom.”

Ivy climbs two sides of the Swiss themed cottage. It was once a regular tool shed, but Meaux transformed it with small personal touches like wooden shutters, a copper colored sun ornament and a painting of lavender wisteria climbing up a brick wall of a villa.

“I’m a very visual person,” says Meaux. “I want my garden to look like a photograph or painting.”

Meaux is a supervisor with the Vermilion Parish School Board. He also teaches art classes and is a licensed florist. He grows plants and trees like leather ferns and curly willows to use in many of his arrangements.

“My favorite time of year in the garden is the spring,” says Meaux. “The wisteria, azaleas and bridal wreath are in bloom at the same time, and the colors are so vibrant.”

According to Meaux, the hardest part of having a garden is maintenance. In addition to fighting off armadillos, he also spends a lot of time picking up pine needles (His second worst enemy). But he says that the best part of gardening is the therapeutic qualities it provides.

“Being outside in nature gives me spiritual inspiration,” says Meaux. “Everybody needs a hobby. We all need something to love.”

Meaux’s advice to other gardeners is to be sure that the plants they purchase are tolerant of growing conditions. He also suggests defining your garden with a barrier or fence.

“If you’re working with an area that is too large, you’ll feel defeated before you even begin,” says Meaux. “You should also make sure that everything is easy to water.”

Other plants, trees and flowers in Meaux’s garden are bromeliads, blackberry vines, Chinese orchids, cast iron leaves, hydrangeas, cana and calla lilies, and orange, kumquat, pine, oak, pecan, river birch, and red maple trees. There are also vegetables like tomatoes, peppers and parsley.

When I went to visit Meaux’s garden, I spent most of my time trying to photograph the best view of the Swiss themed cottage. Almost every angle provided an interesting feature.

“Take all the pictures you want of the front and sides of the shed,” said Meaux. “But don’t take any behind it.”

Since I have the maturity of a second grader, I suddenly wanted to go behind the shed more than ever. I fantasized about what could be back there including a fence made of armadillo heads or a plant that produced kittens.

“That’s my plant hospital,” said Meaux. “I bring plants back to life there.”

I interviewed Meaux in a back room of his home, which overlooked his garden. The wall was filled with windows that looked like flat screen televisions. In one was a view of kittens chasing each other around a bubbling blue goldfish pond. Through another was the copper-colored sun smiling from the ivy-covered walls of the Swiss cottage.

“I like to create little scenes or stories in every setting,” said Meaux. “I’m constantly moving things around to make it all pleasing to the eye.”

“Pleasing to the eye,” is an understatement of the beauty and art that Meaux created in his garden. With so many wonderful stories being told through the flowers, fountains and kittens, it’s no wonder that the armadillos keep breaking in.

If you would like to adopt one of Meaux’s kittens, call him at 337-643-8469.

Your Write

2010-06-14T13:48:00.000-07:00

The Jacques Couvillon Journal Write

Together we'll journal the adventures of our lives. Discover the "I" in WRITE.

When: Thursdays, July 8,15,22,29
Where: Abbeville Meridional
Time: 6:30 to 8:00 p.m.
Cost: $40 for four weeks
Info: Call 646-387-2558 to reserve your write

Strength For Destination Happiness

2010-06-13T04:22:00.000-07:00

Everyone in the world has his or her own personal vision of happiness. For some it’s monetary riches, others successful careers and others a large family. These images of how life is supposed to be are what keep us studying, working and dreaming.

Sometimes the path to being happy is smooth and clear as day. But other times, it’s not as obvious and we slowly move down a bumpy dirt road that leads nowhere. So where do we turn to get on the expressway to Destination Happiness? Where do we find the strength?

When I turned thirty-years old back in 1999, I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t happy. Many of my goals meant nothing to me, but for one reason or another, I chose them in order to get to that one place where I thought my frown would turn upside down.

The problem with my logic at the time was thinking that happiness was a place I could reach by following others. But it’s really more of a feeling that can only be designed by a fearful and powerful organ that has caused many of us pain before; the heart.

So I made several changes in my life including quitting my job and moving to New York City to study writing. But the biggest decision I made was to start communicating with a person I didn’t really trust or know, but who was key in my decision making process if I was ever going to find happiness. That person was myself.

I began keeping a journal. First, I wrote down goals to give me some sort of direction. Then I described how I would reach these goals and what accomplishing them would bring me.

I carried my journal with me everywhere and took time to write in parks, cafes and on the subway. The pages became filled with descriptions of people and places and notes on moments when I smiled and laughed. Anytime loneliness or fear came knocking at my door, I grabbed my best friend and found a spot where we could socialize and solve the world’s problems. The clouds smothering happiness began to float away.

Every January since the year 2000, I’ve bought a new journal. In a wooden box in my closet are big ones, small ones and medium sized ones. Some are red, brown, black and blue and have leather, wooden or cardboard covers. But they all serve the same purpose; to show me where I am at a moment in time and to tell me where to go next.

I pulled the journals out recently to find the date of a past event. As I was flipping through the pages of one from my first year in New York, a sentence spoke to me.

“Please give me the strength.”

I ended up reading over half the journal, and then only stopped to pick up a different one. I turned page after page amazed by how different my life was in Manhattan compared to now living on a farm with my mom in Cow Island. Phrases leaped from the page and held me captive for several minutes.

“It scares me when I don’t know what’s going to happen next. But it bores me when I do.”

“I just sold my book!!! I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I’m so tired of being sad. I want to be happy.”

“I sold George Hamilton a tie at Ralph Lauren today. He really is as tanned as he is on television.”

All of my worst and best moments were laid out on paper right in front of me. I could drop all the journals off at a therapist’s office and ask him/her to read through them and get back to me with what I needed to be happy for the rest of my life. But as I flipped through more and more of the pages, I realized that maybe that wasn’t possible.

“I’m moving to Paris to study French! I’m so happy.”

“Just got laid off. Again. Will I ever get to be happy?”

“My family is coming to visit me!”

“I feel like someone punched me in the gut with a fistful of depression. Is happiness a place someone made up to sell greeting cards and fried chicken?”

Reading through the last decade of my life in a few hours was an emotional roller coaster for me. The ups and downs, the twists and turns, the detours, road blocks and potholes, all to find a place that only existed for a limited time.

I needed a break from my past, and went to the present day kitchen, where my mom was just putting a bowl of cantaloupe down on the table. She told me to sit and that lunch would be ready soon.

Then she asked, “What are you writing about?”

It was a loaded question, because every time I answered it, she quickly asked me how I knew about that subject.

“What do you know about careers?”

“What do you know about gardening?”

“What do you know about growing up on a farm?”

I had to tell her something or it would appear like I was keeping a secret from her. If I told her about the journals, she’d demand to read them. As punishment for not showing them to her before, she’d make me cut her toenails while she flipped through the pages of my most private moments.

“Happiness,” I responded.

“Happiness?” she asked. “What do you know about happiness?”

It was a tough question to answer, and could change in a few seconds both before or after I vocalized it. Destination Happiness was more like a Grey Hound bus than an actual place. It traveled as much as I did and the moments our paths crossed had an undefined time limit. My journals had taught me that, and their lesson was still fresh in my memory.

“Apparently I know nothing about happiness,” I laughed. “But I know I’m happy now. And I could be even happier if you stopped harassing me and hurried up with lunch.”

It doesn’t upset me that the feeling of happiness can depart at any time. Through my journals, I will be able to track it so we can be together again. With the power of my mom’s chicken stew, and pages mapping out who I am and where I’m headed, I’ll always be able to find the emotion of happy. I will always be able to find the strength.

Communication is Decor at Sellers' Custom Decorating

2010-06-10T06:50:00.000-07:00

I once worked as a driver/personal assistant for an interior decorator who wore big sunglasses and made me wear a suit. My responsibilities included being by her side at all times, (except for the restroom, of course) and driving her to places like furniture stores, restaurants and movie theatres. The job was fairly easy, and I sometimes wonder if I was working for her or dating her.

Regardless, I always had the feeling that my experience in this industry was not a typical one. So this week, I interviewed interior decorator, Christene Constantin, to get a real look inside the world of drapery and design.

“It’s a very physical job,” says Mrs. Constantin. “People think it’s so glamorous, but it involves knowing how to use a drill.”

Mrs. Constantin and her husband, Richard, are the owners of Sellers’ Custom Decorating in Kaplan. The business produces custom bedding accessories and window treatments, and has a storefront with a bridal registry. Merchandise includes artwork, lamps, jewelry, rugs, handbags, candles, glassware, books and other products for the home.

“When we purchased the business in 1997, we only offered custom drapery and interior decorating,” says Mrs. Constantin. “But after a while I decided that it would be more beneficial for the customer if I stocked a few items to help them accessorize their home.”

In addition to providing direction on paint color, and picture and furniture placement, Sellers’ Custom Decorating (SCD) can design and produce the window treatment of your dreams. They offer shades, blinds, curtains, valances, side panels, tiebacks and other drapery products.

“Not all of our customers want drapery,” says Mrs. Constantin. “Some just want direction on decorating techniques.”

Mrs. Constantin has a degree in Interior Merchandising from the University of Louisiana. While in college, she did an internship at Sellers’, which at the time was owned by the David family. She began a full time position with them as an interior decorator shortly after graduating, and eventually purchased the business in 1997.

“Sellers’ was originally opened by Lorena Sellers in 1953,” says Mrs. Constantin. “I decided to keep the name when Richard and I purchased the business because of its excellent reputation.”

SCD has two on-site seamstresses, Stella Meaux and Joanne Breaux. They work out of both their home, and the store in order to keep the channels of communication open with Constantin and customers.

“Custom drapery and bedding is very personal for the client,” says Mrs. Constantin. “In order to maintain quality, its important that I have a close relationship with the seamstresses. Stella and Joanne have many years of experience and are very skillful.”

According to Mrs. Constantin, the most challenging part of her business is the economy because decorating and custom products are luxuries. The best part of her job is working with the public.

“I’ve become friends with so many of my customers,” says Constantin. “When I go to their home for work, most of our time is spent visiting.”

I interviewed Constantin at a round table filled with handled books of fabric swatches, wallpaper and trim. She educated me on the different window treatments, like shades. There are roller shades, roman shades, pleated shades, and bamboo and grass cloth shades.

I learned that a valance is the treatment over the window and that a drape can be a curtain, but a curtain isn’t always a drape. At least that’s what I understood at the time, which puzzled me and sent me into brain nap mode. So by the time Constantin started talking about the universe of trim, I was thinking about my first job in decorating when all I did was chauffer (or maybe date) my boss.

“Before I visit a home, I speak to the customer to get a sense of their needs and taste,” said Constantin. “Then I select some of these books of fabric swatches and trim based on color and design.”

I try to work a small job at each interview, and was fortunate to be able to sew a line of thread across some fabric on a classic Singer. It’s the vintage Harley Davidson of sewing machines, and using it made me feel like Martha Stewart on a road trip with a biker gang.

But truth be told, the best part of my interview was speaking with Constantin, Meaux and Breaux. Meaux had been stung by a wasp and received remedy advice from her colleagues (baking soda paste or tobacco). During their conversation, they updated each other on projects and the store.

Communication is vital in running a successful business, which is why the small tight knit community of Sellers’ Custom Decorating is a model for quality control, customer service and teamwork. My short time there was way more educational on the world of design than my job chauffeuring (or dating) a decorator who wore big sunglasses.

Strength to Fight Off a Bull

2010-06-06T03:53:00.001-07:00

We all have more than one story to tell. They collect in our minds, begging to be vocalized at dinner parties or whispered during a private discussion. Maybe it’s about an experience or a stage in our life or about the people we admire and respect the most.

Selecting which story to share at a given moment is usually enjoyable and not a stressful situation. But what if you only had a short time left on this earth? How do you choose from hundreds of thousands of memories that make up your life? Where will you find the strength?

My dad’s sister, Mae Couvillon Bouillion, passed away last week at the age of ninety-four. A few days before, just after she was moved from a nursing home to a hospital, she requested time with all of her nieces and nephews. Although she and I didn’t have a close relationship, she specifically asked to speak to me.

When I entered the hospital room, my Aunt Mae’s daughter, Priscilla, and granddaughter, Stephanie, greeted me. We hadn’t seen each other in years, and took a moment for hugs and smiles.

“She’s been asking for you all day,” Priscilla said. “I don’t know why.”

I saw my Aunt Mae three times in the last five years. The first two meetings, she told me that I didn’t look at all like a Couvillon. But at the hospital a couple of weeks ago, she pointed directly at my face as soon as she saw me.

“Now I see it,” she said. “Now I see your father.”

I sat down on her bed, and she grabbed my hand and squeezed it. Then she took deep breaths as if searching for the perfect one to give her the strength to speak.

“I’m so weak,” she said. “But I want you to know about your grandparents.”

Aunt Mae began her story with a woman named Lucy Toups, who married my great, great grandfather Ernest Broussard back in the Nineteenth Century. The woman convinced her husband that Cow Island needed a school. He used his influence with the school board, who in turn sent my grandpa, Raoul Couvillon from New Iberia to help start an education system. This is when he met my grandma, Lucy Broussard.

“Your grandpa was an intellectual,” Aunt Mae said. “Your grandma’s brothers gave him a hard time because he wore a suit.”

Aunt Mae told stories of my grandparents that spanned from World War I through the Great Depression to World War II. Since I’d only known my Grandma and Grandpa Couvillon during the last few years of their lives, this new information introduced me to a whole other side of them.

“Grandpa taught me to do the right thing,” Aunt Mae said. “Grandma taught me to work hard, and made me scrub the kitchen floors.”

Aunt Mae laughed and then asked for some water. She continued talking about how my grandpa rode around Cow Island on horseback to collect money to start the first school. Then she suddenly stopped, and looked me in the eyes.

“If anybody asks where you heard this, it wasn’t from me,” Aunt Mae said. “Tell them, my sister, Corine told you.”

It didn’t make sense to me that my Aunt Mae wanted her sister to have the credit for passing along these wonderful stories. Yes, some of them were of tough times and vulnerable moments, but shared the value of integrity and strength.

When it was time for me to leave, Priscilla and Stephanie walked me out of the room. I asked them if they had any idea why Aunt Mae had specifically asked to speak to me.

“I guess she wanted everyone to know about how much she respected her parents,” Stephanie said. “She probably figured that you would be the one to write a story about them.”

I wasn’t sure what that story was until the morning after Aunt Mae’s funeral, when I stepped into our garage and looked across the pasture at my grandparents’ home. There was a thick rain falling from the sky, which made the house look like a gray and white painting from a time long ago.

Memories floated through my head until one outshined the others. I was seven-year’s old and my grandpa rescued me from a charging bull by hitting it with his walking stick. He hugged me afterwards, and then brought me inside of his house and gave me a glass of water.

My grandpa was always a hero to me, and for the longest time, I thought he was born all knowing and powerful without having to work at it. But Aunt Mae’s stories of the vulnerable moments in his life made me realize I was wrong. He was a good man, who grew wise and strong over time through education, hard work and doing the right thing.

My realization sparked a connection that I’d never felt before with my grandpa. I understood that he touched the hardness of rock bottom. He felt the pain of humiliating moments. He thought he was alone at times. He was human. Just like me. Just like all of us.

Knowing that my Grandpa Couvillon died understanding every challenging moment in my life makes me love him even more, and gives me strength. Aunt Mae gave me a gift with her stories, which is why she wanted me to give her sister, Corine credit.

“Mae was like a mother to me,” my Aunt Corine said at her sister’s funeral. “Now, I’m the only one left.”

I will make a more conscious effort to spend time with my Aunt Corine. I’m hoping she will tell me more about my grandparents, but also about my dad. Through her words, I will be graced with wisdom that can only be experienced from age.

My Aunt Mae used her last few breaths to share stories of her parents. Through them I found a connection with my Grandma and Grandpa Couvillon, which is now one of my most valuable possessions. It warms my heart, fills me with courage and brings me strength like a big walking stick to fight off a bull.

The Birds and Bees of Erath

2010-06-03T03:28:00.000-07:00

This Saturday, Magdalene Square in Abbeville will be in full bloom for the Daylily Festival. Garden enthusiasts will be able to shop at over fifty vendors offering everything from daylilies to orchids to fruit trees to blueberry bushes to outdoor furniture to mosaic and copper yard art.

Husband and wife team, Donald and Lucy Menard, have been a vendor at the festival since its start in 2002. The couple has been growing daylilies for over twenty years, and will be selling fifty-eight different varieties of the famed flower this Saturday.

“Over half of our daylilies originally come from a wonderful gardener named, Mrs. Lucille Guidry,” says Mrs. Menard. “She gave me one of every variety she had because I helped her maintain her garden.”

The Menards’ garden is on approximately half an acre of land at their home in Erath. Plants and flowers greet visitors in the driveway. Behind a shed in the backyard are rows of cucumbers, tomatoes, eggplants, strawberries and peppers. Underneath a pear tree are begonias, ferns and cactuses. In an open field are canna lilies, bleeding hearts, angel trumpets, Jobe’s tears, bougainvilleas, and of course, daylilies; beds and beds of daylilies.

“I garden to relax,” says Mrs. Menard. “I raised seven children and after they were grown, I started on my flowers.”

In addition to caring for the many varieties of daylilies in the garden, Mrs. Menard cross-pollinates the flowers to create her own. One of her favorites, with yellow petals and a red heart in the center, is called, “Lucy’s Pride.”

“I should have been a farmer,” says Mrs. Menard. “My garden and flowers are my pride and joy.”

Mr. Menard, who worked for several years at the National Resource Conservation Service, is in charge of preparing the beds for the garden. He tills the ground, maintains a compost pile, and mixes the soil with sand to create a porous growing environment.

“If I can’t find Lucy in the house, I know she’s in the garden,” says Mr. Menard. “Sometimes she just sits underneath the pear tree and stares out at the daylilies.”

Mr. Menard also contributes to the garden by constantly searching for new varieties of plants and flowers. One of his best finds was a deep red daylily named Cupid Calling, which he appropriately gave to his wife for Valentine’s Day.

“We have so many different kinds that I have to stay well organized,” says Mrs. Menard. “I mark all of my rows so I know exactly what’s growing where.”

According to the Menards, daylilies love full sun, (approximately six hours per day), but will tolerate part-shade conditions. The flowers will grow in a wide range of soils, but ultimately prefer a mixture of porous and water retentive elements such as sand, humus or peat moss. It is best to grow them in raised beds to avoid root rot.

“Plant one fan now and by October you’ll have three or four,” says Mrs. Menard. “The hardest part about growing daylilies is having to dig them up and replant them.”

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I went to the Menards’ Erath home to interview the couple about their famous daylilies. At first I imagined fields and fields of brightly colored flowers like on a postcard from a tulip farm in The Netherlands. I fantasized about Mrs. Menard carving me a pair of new wooden shoes while a windmill cooled me off like a super sized air conditioner.

Although I suspected that this wasn’t the scenario I’d find, (Menard doesn’t sound like a Dutch name), I was very surprised that the garden was growing right in the middle of town. The beds of plants and flowers were tucked in every nook and cranny of the yard, which made turning a corner an adventure and new discovery.

There is even what I like to call a, “flying garden.” Inside of a small coop are colorful and exotic birds like sun conures, cockatiels, English parakeets, finches, diamond doves and an African gray congo Parrot (This one talks and lives in the main house).

I interviewed the Menards while we sat underneath the shade of a pear tree. The couple’s gray furry cat chased a butterfly while Maddie, a black Pug, rested in the sun. I learned first hand how peaceful and relaxing it was to sit amongst the flowers, and at one time my eyes felt so heavy, I almost excused myself to go nap with the dog.

As the morning moved along, Mrs. Menard broke off the blooms of different varieties of daylilies and placed them in the sun for me to photograph them. I told her not to destroy her flowers for me, but she continued.

“The bloom only last a day,” she said. “That’s why they’re called daylilies.”

Maybe I did fall asleep underneath that pear tree, because every thing seemed like a dream. While Mrs. Menard cross-pollinated flowers with the skill and instinct of a bumblebee, her husband selected plants and cucumbers as a parting gift for me.

“Working together with pride to plant and cross-pollinate life so the different varieties of the earth’s treasures can live in complete harmony.” I thought. “So THAT’S the famous story about the birds and the bees.”

Visit the Menards and other garden vendors this Saturday at the Daylily Festival from 8:30 A.M. to 3 P.M. For more information about Lucy’s Daylily Garden, call 337-937-5113.

Strength From a Dog Story

2010-05-29T18:26:00.000-07:00

It’s hard for me to argue with the statement, “A dog is a man’s best friend.” I’m convinced every time one lets me rub its stomach or unexpectedly kisses my cheek.

But if you’ve ever taken care of a dog, you know that it’s not all fun and games. Aside from their instincts to chew and urinate on everything you own, they also bake homemade chocolate pies that often end up on the bottom of your shoes and on someone else’s white carpet. So where do we get the patience for a four-legged diaper-less being with a full set of sharpen teeth? Where do we get the strength?

Several years ago, when I first came back home to Cow Island, my mom had a little collie, named Buster. Although his fenced-in yard was bigger than my apartment in Manhattan, I felt bad for the dog and begin walking him on a leash around the family farm. We bonded over our walks, and often sat underneath a big oak tree where I’d write, and he would patrol the area. I loved my best friend because he trusted me, was easy to care for, and reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

But due to an unfortunate incident, Buster and our walks were taken from me. I buried him in the backyard while fighting off the tears with each shovelful of dirt thrown on his body.

About a month later, a friend gave me a stray dog, named Redd. Her short fur is the color of her name, and although I don’t know her exact breed, she resembles a Rhodesian Ridgeback, (without the ridge). She is much younger than Buster, but the biggest difference between them is that while the little collie trusted me from the beginning, his replacement treated me like I was an enemy who badly needed a shower.

I understood that it would take time to bond with Redd, and so I patiently tried to gain her trust. First, by giving her treats and bowls of food. But not just any food. A family recipe combining the crunchy bits of puppy chow with the savory sensation of my mom’s world famous chicken stew. The tail started wagging.

Redd continued to keep her distance for several days, but joyfully ran towards me anytime I approached. Then, as if remembering pain, she’d stop and back away.

Summer was approaching, and with it, insects the size of humming birds, snakes as far as the eye could see, and sunlight that felt like it was shining through a magnified glass. Unless Redd and I bonded quicker, my dream of long mosquito-less walks through pastures with my new best friend wouldn’t come true.

So I began carrying a folding chair into the fenced-in yard, tiptoeing around landmines of dog manure, and sitting patiently. Redd seemed happy to see me, but still required a ten foot distance between us.

“You’re harder to read than a text message from a teenager!” I shouted at her on day four of Operation Sitting Dog. “I don’t know what happened to you, but you have to believe me that I’m not going to hurt you.”

A mosquito landed on my sweating nose, reminding that the clock was ticking. So I resorted to my most valuable asset once again, and heated up some of my mom’s chicken stew. This time I wore one of my dad’s old cowboy hats to block the sun, and brought along a copy of Reader’s Digest to prevent boredom. With the bowl of bribery at my side, I sat and read an article about male menopause.

By day seven, when Redd hadn’t gotten any closer to me, I began pretending that I was eating the delicious meal at my feet. She would raise her ears as if alarmed or concerned about my behavior. But the invisible wall separating us remained. So I started actually eating the stew (out of a plate, and minus the puppy chow) and would let the gravy drip down my chin.

“It’s soooo good,” I’d tell Redd as I’d clean up my face with my tongue. “You should really try some.”

Aside from a raw chin, this strategy accomplished nothing. Summer arrived, and I lost patience and interest in bonding with a dog like Redd. Her fear of something unknown pushed me away, and my fear of never having another best friend turned into anger.

On the day all of my strength was lost, I scraped some of the uneaten food on the ground. I stomped on the grains of stew soaked rice and failure, and then fed my tormenting friend a six-year old frozen Lean Cuisine.

It was over. I no longer sat in Redd’s yard, and her special meals were replaced with hard bits of Gravy Train and resentment.

After a few months, Redd ran up to the fence when I approached. She still kept her distance when I opened the gate to bring her food, but sometimes got as close as a couple of feet away.

One of these times, I noticed a scratch on her eye and some discoloration. It didn’t look good and I knew I had to get her to a vet.

So I brought a leash, cage and bowl of chicken stew into the fenced-in yard. I placed the bait inside the trap and then pretended to leave. I hoped that Redd would follow her nose, and I could close the door of the kennel behind her. But she followed her instincts instead, and went to the opposite side of the yard, let out a yawn and lied down.

I walked towards her with the leash, and she quickly jumped up and ran into a corner. Again, I went after her until we were running in circles like horses around a track. After several minutes, anger exploded from me in the form of choice words that had gotten me put on my knees during my childhood.

As if a Morse code message was sent to my mom, she appeared. While her eyes looked me over, mine lowered themselves to the ground, seeing sweat and anguish drop into the center of a freshly baked chocolate pie.

“Is there a problem?” my mom asked. “You seem a little upset.”

My sanity slowly came back to me. Shouting at Redd was not going to gain her trust. I needed to be brave and take control of the situation, regardless of the fear surrounding both of us. I had to find the strength.

Redd was in a corner as this point, so I placed the open kennel to the left of her, and her dog house to the right. I walked through the center of the triangle trap with strap of the leash formed into a lasso. The terrified dog let out a yelp that pierced my body like the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. But I continued, fighting through fear until I captured what I hoped was trust, but felt like betrayal.

Redd’s eye healed quickly after her visit to the vet. But more importantly, so did our relationship. She began letting me pet her stomach and take her on long walks. She still has a mind of her own, and sometimes can’t be bothered with me. But I am grateful for what she does give me, and when possible, respect her need for distance.

I’m not sure what the moral of this story is except that maybe trusting relationships need patience and distance. Or perhaps it’s about how difficult it is at times to be accountable for another living being. It could even be about how two dogs positively affected my life and gave me a story to tell. Regardless, I enjoyed writing it, and hope it will bring you strength.

Chosen to be a Pastor

2010-05-25T09:19:00.000-07:00

The stark white wooden sanctuary of St. Mary Congregational Church sits quietly on South Louisiana Street in Abbeville. Signs outside give the history of the property and structure, which was built in 1905 and is on the National Register of Historic places. It is also believed to be the first school in Vermilion Parish to educate freed southern slaves.

“The first pastor of St. Mary’s Congregational Church was James A. Herod,” says Reverend Kevin Williams, current Pastor of the church. “He is considered the father of African American education in Vermilion Parish.”

Reverend Williams has been the Pastor at St. Mary Congregational Church for sixteen years, but began preaching when he was only five years old. He has taken seminary courses, but says that one becomes a Pastor by calling, not by education.

“You don’t choose to be a Pastor,” says Reverend Williams. “You’re chosen.”

Reverend William’s duties as a Pastor include, by are not limited to, managing church finances, organizing and overseeing charitable events, and ministry. When necessary, he will also roll up his sleeves and pull out the vacuum cleaner.

“You have to remind yourself that you’re a servant,” says Reverend Williams. “One of the greatest attributes a leader must possess is the strength to stay in a position and disposition of selflessness. You mustn’t build yourself up so high that the fall will kill you.”

St. Mary gives back to its community by sponsoring drives for school supplies, collecting donations for those affected by hurricanes, and hosting dinners for the less fortunate. One of the church’s most successful creations is called, “Boys to Men.” For the past eleven summers, males aged nine to fifteen participate in a four-week long program involving military exercises and community service.

“The participants get paid at the end of August after they’ve been through the program,” says Reverend Williams. “It teaches them how to handle money and to be accountable.”

When I walk into any interview for this column, I carry a list of questions written on a white tablet. My hope is that they guide me to the story needing to be told. But when I began asking them to Reverend Williams, he said he had a few questions of his own.

“What do you hope to get out of this interview?” he asked. “Would you be willing to trust me so that we can take it to the next level?”

My initial intention for starting this column was to find out a little bit about different careers (and to get my mom off of my case about getting a job). However, I did hope to truly experience what it would be like to work in these professions.

“Um. I guess I just want people to know what it’s like to be a Pastor,” I responded. “And sure. I’ll trust you.”

Reverend Williams disappeared from the office where I was interviewing him and then returned with a long blue and orange robe. He handed it to me and then told me to put it on and follow him. When we got inside of the sanctuary, he asked me to step up to the altar and face the empty church pews.

“You can’t find out what it’s like to be a Pastor from a list of questions,” Reverend Williams said. “You’ll need to stand up there and let the people facing you know how much you love and care about them.”

Reverend Williams informed me that he was not going to make it easy for me. I was already beginning to perspire in the long robe, but my body temperature rose even more as the Pastor walked to different church pews and revealed characters and challenges.

“This gentleman doesn’t want to be here today,” said Reverend Williams. “He lost his job and family this week. He doesn’t believe that you care about him.”

There was a single mother, victims of domestic violence and others who didn’t believe that I practiced what I preached. With each new face, my goal of sending a message about hope and love became more difficult.

But I started enthusiastically as if I were writing a column for the paper. I hoped to dazzle the well-spoken Reverend Williams with my words, and imagined him asking me to preach with him one Sunday. But within a few minutes of my sermon, he began to snore, and then walked out of the church.

Reverend Williams came back moments later, and told me that I was boring him. That he didn’t believe that I cared about him. That a person who cared wouldn’t stand frozen behind an altar.

I tried to have a conversation with him, but one of the rules of my lesson was that I couldn’t speak back. People could only hear me through my sermon.

“You can’t just stand up there and tell them that you care,” said Reverend Williams. “You have to allow the Lord to use you to give people hope.”

I started over, but this time walked around the front of the church. New characters with new challenges evolved in the pews and told me that they didn’t believe me. They didn’t think I could be trusted.

This went on for over an hour. I was drenched in sweat, frustrated and ready to give up.

Why is he putting me through this military-like exercise? I wondered. Did he enroll me in the Boys to Men program? Surely, he doesn’t think I’m fifteen.

Then I got it. Reverend Williams wanted to give me a close-up look at some of the challenges a leader faces. But to also show me that I can’t become a Pastor just by putting on a robe and preaching. I can only become one by being chosen.

Even though I will never be known as Reverend Couvillon, I am grateful for my lesson on leadership from Reverend Williams. He helped me feel more grounded, and to not only think about the message I want to communicate, but its vehicle. I was not chosen to be a Pastor, but I was blessed by time with a leader.

St Mary Congregational Church is located at 213 South Louisiana Street. For service information, call 337-319-2846.

Strength for Douches and Communication

2010-05-23T04:33:00.000-07:00

Some of my favorite childhood memories are from the days when stormy weather would knock off the electricity in our house. Since there was no television for entertainment, my brothers and I would play games to pass the time. There were card games, guessing games and games like punching each other to see who could leave the biggest bruise.

For those few hours, my brothers and I were at our closest because we shut off all of life’s distractions and communicated. But in a world with television, computers and awkward situations, where do you find the time to talk? Where do you find the strength?

Several years ago I decided to expand my communication skills by learning French. I moved to Paris and rented a mattress on the floor of an apartment. The owner’s name was Philippe, whom I’d met through a friend.

I didn’t speak French when I arrived in Paris, and Philippe barely spoke English. So our conversations were limited to one word or short phrases like, “Bonjour,” “Au revoir,” and “Ou est la toilette?”

My first week in Paris, I stayed out of the apartment all day and most of the night to avoid having to talk to Philippe. He seemed very nice, but there were only so many times I could tell him hello, goodbye or ask for the toilet.

But then one day, due to a bad rainstorm, I had to go back to the apartment in the afternoon and face my French-speaking roommate. He was sitting in a velvet high back chair in what I called a “living room,” but what he called a “salon”. His feet rested on a bearskin rug, and in one of his hands was a cigarette on the end of a very long filter like the ones Hollywood starlets used back in the 1940’s.

‘Bonjour,” Philippe said when he saw me.

“Bonjour,” I replied. “Comment ca va?”

My French had improved and I was able to ask questions like, “How are you doing?” “What time is it?” and “Do you know a restaurant that sells good snails?”

“Voulez-vous un the’?” Philippe asked.

I surprisingly understood that my roommate was offering me some tea. I had a choice to go back to my room and lie on my mattress on the floor, or sit down in the salon and awkwardly try to communicate in a language I didn’t know while avoiding getting burnt by a three-foot long cigarette.

I knew that if I were ever going to learn French, I would have to try to speak it regardless of an uncomfortable situation. So I said, “Oui,” and took a seat on a sofa on the other side of the bearskin rug. Philippe disappeared into the kitchen and then returned moments later with a silver tray holding a small porcelain tea kettle, a couple of cups and saucers, and a stack of cookies.

We didn’t talk for several minutes. We’d only sip our tea and take small bites of cookies. The silence between us was painful like a high-pitched siren that makes you want to scream. I wondered if I should suggest a game, and then punch him to see if he bruised.

But then Philippe pulled a book off of a shelf behind him, and opened it. He smiled at one of the pages and held it up to me and pointed at a picture of a dining room.

“J’adore cette chaise,” he said.

I didn’t see a door in the picture, and realized that he must be telling me that he adored the chair. It seemed odd to me that someone would adore furniture, but no more odd than drinking tea with the skin of a very large bear.

“Moi, aussi,” I agreed. “J’adore cette chaise.”

Our small communication seemed to unlock something in Philippe and he began speaking non-stop in French. I would occasionally understand a word like, couchon (pig), chien (dog) and champagne (champagne).

But then my roommate spoke of something I understood, but couldn’t believe he’d said. It was the same word in America, but there was no need for two men to ever talk about it.

“La douche est cassee’,” he said.

Douche? I thought. Is this conversation really about feminine hygiene products? How do the pig and champagne fit in?

I couldn’t just smile and pretend like I understood. I had to respond to this, so I used a phrase that had become my best friend in Paris.

“Je ne comprends pas,” I answered. “I don’t understand.”

Philippe took a sip of tea and them smiled. He took a drag off of his cigarette while I ducked to avoid getting burnt.

“The shower is broken,” he said.

After a few weird minutes, I got my French English dictionary and looked up the word, “shower.” This is where I found an explanation for my friend saying the word, “douche.”

I began laughing so hard that I could barely catch my breath. When I did, I was able to communicate to Philippe my misunderstanding. This was difficult because he had never heard of a product such as an American douche and didn’t know the French word for it. Then he began laughing and we finished off the tea and cookies, and looked at pictures of furniture we both adored.

Every afternoon for the rest of my stay in Paris, Philippe and I would sit in the salon and drink tea. We butchered both the French and English language, but learned so much from one another. We are still great friends, and he has given me an open invitation to Paris.

Although my first few weeks in France were difficult, I would never trade them for anything in the world. It made me understand the importance of being able to speak to others despite differences or challenges.

It is so easy to turn on a television or computer to avoid conversations. But communication is a major component of survival. So the next time you find yourself in an awkward situation with someone, block out life’s distractions and try to talk. You will not only build a healthy relationship, but you will also find strength.

Love at a Distance

2010-05-18T13:41:00.001-07:00

There’s nothing quite like eating fresh fruits and vegetables you grow yourself, cutting flowers from boxes hanging from your kitchen window or sitting under the shade of a tree you planted to celebrate a new home, or birth or just because you wanted to block out that nosy neighbor’s view of your driveway.

I believe there is a lot to learn from the earth’s gardens and the people who create and care for them. So for the next few months, I’ll explore different yards and outdoor areas of Vermilion Parish. We’ll hopefully learn gardening tips, gain insight on the world and enjoy some nice moments with the landscape surrounding us.

Our first stop is a hidden garden behind St. Theresa Church in Abbeville. Although the red bricked-in courtyard that leads to the Perpetual Adoration Chapel isn’t a secret, both are only visible to the adorers of a Eucharistic devotion.

“St. Theresa began its Perpetual Adoration Chapel in 2005,” says Becky Moss. “Maxine Scalisi and I coordinate the Eucharistic devotion. We try to have at least two adorers in the chapel at all times.”

According to Moss, about fifty or more people pass through the courtyard garden each day. One of these adorers is Mary Castille, who designs and maintains the space.

“I was walking through the courtyard one day and it felt so peaceful,” says Castille. “I asked Father for permission to start taking care of the garden because I wanted to give back to my church community. Two of the parishioners, Amy and Bill help out a lot and several others donate plants.”

Although Castille isn’t sure of the exact size of the courtyard, we both estimated it to be about the same area as half of a basketball court. The garden contains plants like Christmas Cactus, Easter Lilies, Angel Face Roses and Hearts of Jesus. English Ivy climbs a brick wall behind a large statue of St. Joseph. Holly and Japanese Magnolia trees decorated with wind chimes and Boston ferns provide shady seating areas for reflection.

“Some people come into the garden with a lot of problems,” says Castille. “The smell and beauty can wake them up and make them feel better.”

Small statues and plaques with inspirational quotes are sprinkled throughout the courtyard to provide hope and smiles. There is even a goldfish pond with a fountain that fills the air with the calming sound of water.

“You can’t give everyone flowers,” says Castille. “But you can plant a garden and give people love from a distance.”

According to Castille, the hardest part of taking care of the garden is during the fall when all of the leaves from the trees drop into the courtyard. Her favorite statue in the garden is one of an angel holding a bird up into the sky.

“She’s releasing love to all who are having a bad day,” says Castille. “This garden is a healing place and brings me peace, joy and happiness.”

During my interview with Castille, some of the adorers from the chapel came into the courtyard. But they didn’t walk straight to the wrought iron gate that would bring them back outside. Instead, they walked around the garden asking questions about certain flowers or taking moments to read the inspirational plaques.

I don’t know the adorers’ names or anything else about their lives. But I can tell you that they benefited from the few moments they spent in the garden, Be it a smile as they leaned over and smelled Confederate Jasmine, or the gentle touch of their hands against the leaves of Hearts of Jesus, they all felt love from a distance.

“When you’re planting a garden, put your heart into it,” says Castille. “Your heart won’t lead you wrong.”

To become an adorer, contact the office at St. Theresa Church.

Strength to Believe in Yourself

2010-05-16T08:08:00.000-07:00

When I graduated from high school and it was time for me to go to college, I decided to attend the University of Louisiana in Lafayette. To me, a little farm boy from Cow Island, it was the biggest and most intimidating city in the world. The people there spoke differently, drove convertibles on three lane roads, and had wonderments like bowling allies, super stores and a 24-hour pancake house.

The level of difficulty involved in the transition from one phase of life to the next varies depending on the person and the difference between the two phases. When I was eighteen, Lafayette and U.L. were the perfect places for me because of size, location, and culture.

But what if I had gone to college in the largest city in the U.S.? Where would someone who grew up in the country find the courage to handle so much change? Where would they find the strength?

When Prophet Gaspard, a senior at St. Thomas Moore High School, took her first swing at a tee-ball at five years old, she probably didn’t realize how much of a large part the game would play in her life. Chances are the Forked Island resident wasn’t fantasizing about becoming a pitcher or being on teams that would win national and state championships. But the sport fit her, and eventually helped to guide the young lady towards an ivy-league education.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to play softball in college because of my size,” says Gaspard. “I’m only five feet two inches tall, and most division one universities want taller pitchers.”

But the young lady didn’t let size stop her when she applied to Columbia University in New York City for this fall. She chose this school because of its location and because of its world-renowned engineering college.

“I’m going to study environmental engineering because I’ve always been interested in earth science and math,” says Gaspard. “I want to experience the Northeast and the culture of New York.”

Gaspard received guidance from her St. Thomas Moore softball coach, Joy Weber LeBlanc. Coach LeBlanc contacted Coach Kayla Noonan at Columbia University to see if they had an interest in new players.

“It just so happened that Columbia was looking for a pitcher,” said Gaspard. “So Coach LeBlanc sent a tape of me playing softball to Coach Noonan. After several weeks, they both encouraged me to apply to the university.”

Although Gaspard’s pitching speed of approximately fifty-seven mph was an asset, it was her academic profile that helped her gain admittance to Columbia’s engineering college. In addition to having a high grade point average and SAT score, the young lady was active in Beta Club, and is a member of the National Honor Society.

Gaspard’s most memorable moment playing softball was during a semi-final game last year when she was pitching for St. Thomas Moore. Towards the end of the game, when the score was very close and the players were exhausted, hope and motivation emerged like a homerun hit with bases loaded.

“One of the school’s teachers has a son named Eli who has a spine disorder,” recalled Gaspard. “The team dedicated the entire season to him. During the last inning of the game, one of my teammates shouted out, ‘Let’s do this for Eli!’ It gave us strength and we won. But the moment was about something so much larger than winning.”

I had never met Prophet Gaspard before our interview, but had gone to high school with her parents, Patricia and Sindol Gaspard. When I heard about the young lady’s acceptance to Columbia, I was excited and jealous. She accomplished something that I hadn’t even fantasized about until many years later.

When Gaspard and I sat down for the interview, it was during the time period of her high school softball playoffs. Days later, St. Thomas Moore went on to win the state championship for the second year in a row. I don’t usually follow girl’s high school softball, but when I heard the news, I became as excited as I was about the young lady attending Columbia.

“Where are you going to get the strength to handle all of those people and so much change?” I asked Gaspard during our interview.

“I’m used to change and meeting new people,” she responded. “When you play sports, it’s a new team every year.”

I realized that there wasn’t much that scared this five-foot two-inch tall young lady. Then again, I guess not much would scare me if I could throw a ball at fifty-seven miles per hour.

But it’s not Gaspard’s remarkable physical capabilities that impress me the most. It’s that she possesses the most powerful strength possible; the strength to believe in herself.

If she had given up on the season dedicated to Eli, she wouldn’t have felt the power of something larger than winning. If she had let her size stop her from attempting to play softball at Columbia, she wouldn’t be preparing herself for future phases of her life. If she’d let change scare her, she wouldn’t be following her dreams.

I wish this young lady the best of luck as she transitions from the Intra-coastal canal breezes of Forked Island to the pulsating beat of New York City. I applaud and thank her parents for supporting their daughter as she pursues her educational and life goals. The Gaspard family’s lesson on the power of believing in oneself gives me strength.

Wellness in a Thrifty Way

2010-05-16T08:02:00.000-07:00

One of the things that baffle me is how a pharmacist can read what a doctor scribbles on a prescription pad. It doesn’t resemble English, but instead a secret language that only a chosen few can translate.

“It’s not always easy to understand,” laughs pharmacist, Brady Gaspard. “But after a while, you learn a doctor’s handwriting.”

Gaspard and his wife, Tara, are the owners of Thrifty Way Pharmacy located at 100 North Cushing Avenue in Kaplan. The couple purchased the business in 2007 from Kerney and Gayle Bourque.

“I worked at Thrifty Way for seven years under Mr. Kerney,” says Mr. Gaspard. “I’ve known him for a long time because he and his wife were friends with my parents. When I was trying to decide what to study in college, Mr. Kerney suggested pharmacy because he knew I had an interest in the medical field.”

Mr. Gaspard has a bachelors of Science in Pharmacy from the University of Louisiana in Monroe. Before his career began with Thrifty Way, he worked several years at other pharmacies.

“The best part of my job is helping people with their everyday health needs,” says Mr. Gaspard. “The most challenging is all of the paper work involved. Healthcare is changing constantly, and there are so many policies and procedures to follow.”

Gaspard’s most memorable moment at Thrifty Way was the day Mr. Kerney retired. They had a party to celebrate the changes in both of their lives.

For the past couple of years, I stopped by the pharmacy on a weekly basis for various items. Each trip, I noticed something a little different about the place. Either shelves were moved around or there were new gift products available. But the most noticeable change was the outside of the building.

“We put shutters over some of the windows, and painted the building,” says Mrs. Gaspard. “We also re-planned the floor and changed up the merchandise mix to include more gifts.”

In addition to Thrifty Way’s health products like cough drops, pain relievers and allergy medicine, the store also has a gift section. The merchandise ranges from home décor to jewelry to baby items to graduation presents. Free wrapping is available for all gift purchases, and I’m sure if you ask nicely they’ll tie a pretty bow around any laxatives or Pepto Bismol.

Although Mr. Gaspard doesn’t know the exact age of the building, he does have pharmacy records dating back to 1929. Other reminders of the store’s long history are the beautiful antique wood display cases against the walls.

When I went to Thrifty Way for my interview, I was also able to visit with Mrs. Gaspard, an old friend from high school. She caught me up on her life and shared that she and Brady had three children and one on the way. Since I know this is personal, I asked her if I could mention it in the article.

“Please write that I’m pregnant,” she laughed. “I don’t want everybody to think I’m just getting fat.”

I knew Mr. Gaspard from my frequent visits to Thrifty Way. He and the other pharmacist, Jeremy Lartigue, were always available to answer any questions I had, even if I called. I learned about several healthcare policies from both of them, which is what made me interested in the career.

I was a little disappointed, however, that Mr. Gaspard didn’t reveal to me that, “Yes. The scribbling on the prescription pad is a secret language that only doctors and pharmacists know. We were chosen. It is our destiny.”

Regardless of my disappointment, I did learn that there were two forces destined to be together. That is Brady and Tara, or in their power couple name, “Brara.”

It was destiny that the two of them joined together to give us a place that makes us feel better. Be it with Aspirin, aromatherapy candles or a laugh, Brara and their friendly associates bring us wellness in a Thrifty Way!

BRADY GASPARD SHOWING ME HOW TO COUNT PILLS