The Paradise Called Maurice

From the day I got my license to only a few hours ago, my mother told me not to speed when driving through Maurice. She said her sister had gotten a ticket there and she’d heard there had been others.

“It’s 40 miles per hour,” she said. “I like to set it on cruise at 37 just to make sure I don’t go over.”

I knew my mother was correct, because I’d often seen police cars patrolling the area when I drove through town. When I was a teenager, I used to dream about speeding through at 55 just to see if I would get caught. I would always chicken out about fifteen feet after I passed the 40 MPH sign, and was only able to reach a maximum speed of 43 and a half.
When I drove into Maurice this week, I saw a big flashing sign in front of G&H Tires that said, “Slow Down. 40 MPH.”

I immediately pressed on my brakes because I wasn’t feeling as rebellious as I did in my teen years, and I didn’t think the interview I’d hoped to have with Mayor Ferguson would go well if I got a speeding ticket. I wanted to speak to him because my editor told me that Maurice was doubling in size and was going to grow from a village to a town.

“According to a 2000 census, our population was 643 people,” said Mayor Ferguson. “It’s estimated that number will double by the 2010 census. Because of this growth, Senator Nick Gautreaux is helping us to find a way to build our own civic center.”

I asked Mayor Ferguson if he’d heard that Maurice was known for being tough on speeders. He said yes, and although he didn’t want the village to be known as a speed trap, the police would continue to enforce the law.

“Approximately forty thousand cars drive through Maurice each day,” said Mayor Ferguson. “We want to ensure they do it safely.”

It was getting near lunch, and so I thanked the Mayor for taking the time to speak with me and then I headed over to one of my favorite places to eat, Villager’s Café. I had my first experience with their fried shrimp po-boys about a year ago when I was driving through Maurice from Abbeville to Lafayette. I had planned on eating it at a later time, but it smelled so good that I had to take a bite. By the time I got to that traffic light where the McDonald’s is, I’d eaten the entire twelve inches. It was life changing because I realized that I could never eat a po-boy outside of Louisiana again.



The café was packed, but I managed to find a table. I’d eaten inside before, but on that day noticed for the first time that the tables were made from old wooden spools, which were once used to hold coils of steel wire. I looked around at the walls, which were decorated with items such as vintage hats, pictures of Lucille Ball and a sign that said, “Good Food, Good Friends, Good Times”. The room was filled with families, friends and a table of construction workers eating salad.

“Salad?” I thought. “I didn’t even know they had salad here.”

It looked really good, but I decided to stick with old faithful and ordered a fried shrimp po-boy, which I ate in about three minutes.

My next stop was the Maurice Flea Market. I was greeted by the owner, Cynthia Trahan, who told me that she represented thirteen different vendors who sold items such as Victorian furniture, depression glass and antique jewelry.

“Where are you from?” Ms. Trahan asked me.

I told her that I was from Cow Island and she asked me if I knew a couple named Rita and David Faulk. It was a strange coincidence because I had just seen them the night before. Ms. Trahan told me that the Faulks had a booth in the flea market, and showed me some of their original pieces, which they had designed and built together. My second favorite item was a hat rack made from recycled hammer heads. But my favorite was a magazine holder made from a wooden sawhorse, which I bought and plan to have Rita and David sign for me.



The last stop on my trip was the Vivian Alexander Gallery, which is a little outside the city limits in Milton. A gravel road led me up to an unpainted wooden building, which resembled some of the majestic old barns on the farms of Vermilion Parish. In front of, a green pasture surrounded a grand metal sculpture, which Alexander Caldwell (The Alexander in Vivian Alexander) had designed and built himself.

Vivian Alexander is the designer of objects such as time pieces, sculptures and purses, which are inspired by eggs, and are craved by art collectors around the world. Each piece is signed by the artist, and one of them was featured in the movie, Ocean’s 12.
I got a chance to sit down in the middle of the gallery and speak with Mr. Caldwell himself. He explained that his girlfriend was the Vivian in the gallery’s name, and then told me about when he’d first moved to Milton.

“I moved to Vermilion Parish from Baton Rouge because I was ready to live in paradise,” said Mr. Caldwell. “My girlfriend and I became farmers and we had geese and chickens and ducks. We had all these eggs and Vivian suggested that we decorate them. The rest is history.”

I imagined the two of them wearing aprons and dipping eggs into mugs filled with Easter Egg dye like my brothers and I did when we were children. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a beautifully decorated goose sized egg, which was also a clock. It was so brilliant, I pretended in my mind that he gave it to me because I wanted to imagine what it would be like to be able to see it everyday.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” I said. “How did designing these pieces of art get rid of your eggs?”

Mr. Caldwell explained that the objects in his gallery weren’t only inspired by eggs, but many of them were actually eggs, which had been covered in a thick enamel. Some of his first pieces hadn’t been covered though, which was amazing because the shell had been intricately carved into designs similar to the patterns in lace.

“How did you do that?” I asked. “Are you a witch?”

It was one of those moments when I wished my mouth had a rewind button. I was so nervous about interviewing this incredible gentleman and artist, that I wasn’t using my brain filter before I spoke. I couldn’t understand how he’d created some of the patterns in the shell without breaking it, and was trying to show how impressed I was. But I began to feel embarrassed, and wondered if Mr. Caldwell would ask me to get off of his property.

Luckily, in addition to the gift of talent, he also has the gift of humor and laughed and said, “No. I was an engineer by trade. I always had a creative side and one day decided to turn to it.”



Mr. Caldwell told me that the gallery teaches classes to those interested in creating their own decorated eggs. I told him that I would probably take one this fall and asked if it would be okay if I brought a picnic and sat out in the pasture near the metal sculpture. He said that he’d welcome anyone who wanted to walk around and enjoy the property, but that he’d appreciate it if they called first so he could make sure the lawn was cut.

I wondered if I should ask Mr. Caldwell if he’d ever gotten a ticket in Maurice, but remembered something Mayor Ferguson had told me. He’d said that speeding laws needed to be enforced in order to keep citizens safe, which I agreed with completely. But I also realized that another reason to slow down when driving through this huge village, which will soon be a small town, is to experience innovative art, life changing cuisine and the friendliness of the people who were ready to live in paradise.

For information on the Vivian Alexander Gallery, check out their website at www.vivianalexander.com or call 898-0803. .

Cajuns, Coffee and Hidden Treasure in Gueydan

I recently wrote an article about travel writers who visited Vermilion Parish, and their impressions of the area. After reading quotes about their adventures, it occurred to me that I didn’t know as much as I thought I did about where I lived. So I called up Alison Miller at the Vermilion Parish Tourist Commission, who provided me with information about the diverse towns that surround us, and told me that according to a 2000 census, I lived in the most Cajun place on earth.

I decided that since I wanted to learn more about what made us so Cajun, I should explore the towns of our parish. I hope to visit one town per week, and share my experiences with all of you.

This week I selected Gueydan, and since I prefer co-pilots on road trips, I told my mother, “Get dressed and grab your purse. I’m taking you on a trip to the Duck Capital of the World.”

“You’re not going to charge me for that?” she asked.

“No,” I told her. “But put on some lipstick, because I might need you to flirt with some men so they can tell me what makes us so Cajun.”

Our first stop in Gueydan was Patti’s Book Nook (410 Second Street), where we were greeted by the Gayle family. Sean, the father, gave us each a cup of coffee (my mother loves FREE so she was very happy) and sat down and told us all about his shop.

“Patti’s Book Nook, which is named after my wife, is the only full service book store between Lafayette and Lake Charles,” said Sean. “We’re also an internet café, computer service and retail store, and outlet for the Rosary House in New Iberia.”

I learned from James Gayle (son) that there are three murals painted on buildings in Gueydan. Located all on Main Street, the first is on T’s Crawfish Trap (by Robert Baxter), the second is on The Gift Box (by Robert Dafford) and the third is on Thibodaux’s Pharmacy (by Theresa de Perrodil Trahan).



The next stop on our adventure was the Gueydan Museum (Main Street), where we were given big smiles and offered another cup of coffee, (my mother was elated). The curator, Jane Hair, showed us French antiques, art from local artists, a leather German officer uniform, paintings by a Polish prisoner held in a World War II POW camp located in Gueydan, and one of the only two albino nutrias in Louisiana.

“Right now we’re featuring art by local artist, Kathleen Simone Little,” said Ms. Hair. “But starting next month we’re going to have the Butterflies Galore exhibit, which will consists of paintings, glass sculptures and much more.”

My mother and I crossed the street to Cormier’s Creole Kitchen (current owner John Bertrand) where rumor has it, former owner Eugene Cormier serves up homemade biscuits for breakfast.

My mother and I were fortunate enough to visit while locals who call themselves the Knights of the Round Table were having their daily cup of coffee at a round shaped table.

“Some of us have been coming here for years since it was called The Pool Hall,” said one of its members. “We meet at 7 a.m. and 2 p.m. to discuss politics and solve the world’s problems.”

When I told them my name, one of them joked, “Couvillon. That sounds French. Mais, we don’t have any Cajuns here, us, no.”

Then they all laughed and started speaking French. I asked if I could take a picture and one of them said I would need to ask the leader of their group, King Arthritis, who smiled and nodded his head up and down.



I asked my mother if she wanted to sit on the king’s lap for the photo, but she shook her head and looked at the men and said, “I did the best I could.”

One of the knights laughed and replied, “C’est pas ta faute.” (It’s not your fault)

My mother and I took a detour on our way out of Gueydan to see the spectacular grounds of the Florence Club.

Although I’ve been surrounded by marsh and water for a good part of my life, I was still stunned by its beauty.

“It’s kind of weird,” I said to my mother. “I used to come to Gueydan for track meets when I was in high school. But I never realized that it was a such a wonderful treasure.”

“I know,” she said. “People are so friendly. And we got two free cups of coffee.”

The Parisian Side of Kaplan

A few years ago, I moved to Paris to study French. There was nothing I enjoyed more than sitting in cafés and listening to all of the stories being told around me. So when my brother, Joey, told me that he went to a café every morning, I thought I might be able to relive my time in France. But when he told me that I would have to meet him at 6:45 a.m. and that we’d be going to a feed store in Kaplan, I had the feeling that I was in for a whole other experience.

Joey led me passed sacks of bran and corn to a rectangular shaped table in the corner of Premier Farm and Ranch Supply. Surrounding it was a group of men who smiled and looked up when we walked in.

“Everybody,” Joey said. “I’d like to introduce you to my brother, Jacques.”

One of the gentlemen, Mr. Donald Greene, told me that he’d read an article I’d written about Gueydan, and wondered if I was going to write one about Kaplan.

“That’s why I’m here,” I said. “There’s a group of men over there that meets and drinks coffee and they call themselves the Knights of the Round Table. Do you guys have a name?”

“Yeah,” Owner, Scott Esthay said. “They’re the, “One Foot in the Grave,” club.”



I pulled a chair up to the table and drank coffee while the men spoke about everything from the price of bailing hay, to farm supplements, to the good old days when the train pulled into Kaplan and people gathered around to purchase and collect goods.

When I asked Mr. Esthay why he set up the coffee pot and table, he responded, “I just like having the company, and I learn a lot of things about the cattle and farming industry by listening to the people who have been around for years.”

Since I was wide-awake and began to feel hungry, I drove on over to the Donut Queen (Veterans Memorial Dr.) owned by the husband and wife team, Makay and Sophanna Akanhay. I tried the jalapeno kolache, which was delicious. Makay told me I should try their special boudin kolache, but I scrunched up my face and shook my head from side to side.

“A lot of people make that same face when I suggest it to them,” Mr. Akanhay said. “But once they have a bite, they order another one. Even the people who don’t like boudin.”

I told him I’d try one the next time (and I will be back) and then decided to head over to Comeaux’s French Market for some fresh fruits and vegetables. Decorated with hand painted signs, the little stand is reminiscent of ones I’ve seen along the French countryside. I was waited on by Ruby and Paula Hargrave, who have worked there for over thirty years.

“My husband and I opened the fruit stand in 1975,” said Mrs. Ruby Hargrave. “After he passed, I sold the business to Russell Comeaux and Joel Howard. I’m happy to still be able to work here.”



I wanted some fresh air, so I strolled through the rows of the market’s outdoor inventory of flowering plants and trees. I was enjoying my time outside, and so walked across the street to Backyard Pottery and Plants. Once Margaret Abbott’s private garden, it is now an opened aired space filled with fountains, outdoor art, and peach and pecan trees. I joked with Mrs. Abbott that I might come back with some lemonade and sit right in the middle of her store.

“Feel free,” she laughed. “I want people to enjoy their time here.”

I decided I wanted to see some great architecture, and so I headed to the home of Henri and Carol Ann Deshotels. The 4,000 square foot house is not only fascinating because of its grand porch and stairway, but because it was originally purchased out of a Sears, Roebuck and Co. catalog back in 1909.



“Most of it is original,” said Mr. Deshotels. “I still have a catalog with pictures of the houses you could buy.”

I knew a trip to Kaplan wouldn’t be complete without a visit to Le Musee de la Ville on Cushing. I was very excited to learn that although the Louvre may have Mona Lisa, the Kaplan museum has Gladys, a mannequin who sits in front of an antique telephone switchboard.

“She just looks like a Gladys,” said museum representative, Velma Touchet. “She and a lot of the antiques were donated by the late Lytle Turnley. He’s also the one who donated the building.”



Ms. Touchet showed me displays of beautifully crafted Mardi Gras gowns, paintings by local artists Beth Mouton and Dustin Schexneider, and a display honoring musicians like Klaby Meaux, Sammy Kershaw, Cedric Benoit and Shel Reaux.

“Music is a big part of Kaplan,” said museum representative, Betty Girouard. “In fact, the Smithsonian is having an exhibit here this fall.”

The exhibit entitled, “New Harmonies,” examines the roots of music and its tremendous affect on society. Kaplan is one of six Louisiana towns, which will host the event.

As I drove out of town, I realized that although I hadn’t exactly relived my time in Paris, I had experienced something special. I’d discovered innovative cuisine, historic architecture, beautiful gardens and a plastic woman named Gladys. But more importantly, I met some of the warm and friendly people who give Kaplan that certain, “Je ne sais quoi.”

For more information on Kaplan, you may call the Chamber of Commerce at 643-2400, City Hall at 643-7118, or the Vermilion Parish Tourist Commission at 898-6600. If you have any old pictures of Kaplan and would like to share them, please call Mr. Deshotels at 643-7100.

Open Arms and Borders in Delcambre

Over the past couple of months, I’ve had the opportunity to visit many of the towns and communities of the area. I’ve learned that each posses an unusual quality which contributes to the wonderful and eclectic vibe of Vermilion Parish. This week, my mother and I headed to the community of Delcambre, whose friendliness and uniqueness overflows across its borders into another parish.

Although I knew I had to travel east on Highway 14 to get to the home of the Shrimp Festival, I wasn’t exactly sure of where the community started or ended. So I was thankful to see a sign welcoming me to Delcambre, but confused when a few minutes later, I saw a sign for Iberia Parish.

“I thought Iberia Parish started after Bayou Carlin,” I said to my mother. “The sign is on this side of the bridge.”

She didn’t have an explanation, but suggested that we find a place to grab a bite to eat, and ask a local. So I pulled into the parking lot of D & G Diner, and turned towards my mother to ask if it would be okay. She was looking at her compact mirror and putting on her lipstick.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “We’re just having lunch.”

“You never know whom you’re going to meet,” she said. “The pope could be in there.”

I turned and looked out of my windshield at the little red wooden framed building of the diner. Hanging above the front porch was a large sign with a painting of a hamburger. I told my mother that I doubted anyone from the Vatican was there, but that I was sure we could find a great meal and a local.



“We have people come from all over,” said owner Deanna Granger (The “G” in “D&G”). “Some are workers, and others are families from across the bridge.”

While my mother and I enjoyed our lunch, Mr. Carroll Dugas (Co-owner and the “D” in “D & G”) showed us pictures of the area and told us about his home, which he said was the oldest house and first schoolroom in Vermilion Parish.

“It’s a few miles away in Bayou Tigre,” said Mr. Dugas. “Just take 330 south and you’ll find it.”

The next stop on our journey was city hall to meet Mayor Carol Broussard. He told us about the challenges that Delcambre faced in recovering from Hurricane Rita.

“About five hundred people left after the storm,” said Mayor Broussard. “We’re rebuilding slowly, but a few businesses, such as our grocery store, are still closed.”

He said that Delcambre’s people have remained positive throughout the ordeal, and were constantly working to improve the community. He also showed us plans for waterfront development including boardwalks filled with commercial and residential buildings.

I asked Mayor Broussard about the sign welcoming me to Iberia Parish before the bridge crossing Bayou Carlin. He told me that was because Delcambre was located in Vermilion Parish (About 67%) and Iberia Parish (About 33%).

“Although there are a couple of maps out there identifying different borders,” said Mayor Broussard, “I consider Railroad Street the dividing line between the parishes.”

Mayor Broussard asked my mother her name again and she said Julia Couvillon. He asked if she was Mike’s mother, and she responded that no, he was HER son, and that she also had seven other children.

“I like you,” said Mayor Broussard. “Let’s go to Iberia Parish and get a snow cone.”

We walked across the street to the Lil Sandwich Shop, which was still in Delcambre, but in a different parish. After we got our snow cones, we thanked Mayor Broussard and then walked back across to Vermilion, and continued on our journey.

Our next stop was Our Lady of the Lake Church, which stands tall and proud and be can seen from Highway 14 regardless of the direction you’re coming from. I went inside the church to see its beautiful stain glass, historic ornamental alter, and the original Bancker Grotto statue.



It started to rain while I was inside, and so I got wet as I ran back to the car. My mother and I ate our snow cones as we stared out at the storm clouds and sun fighting for the air space, which surrounded the tower of the church. I told my mother that it was beautiful, and she told me to drive her to Bayou Tigre to see the oldest house and schoolroom in Vermilion Parish.

“But it’s not in Delcambre,” I said. “I can’t write about it for this article.”

“You can and you will,” my mother told me. “I get to decide because I nursed you and changed your filthy diapers, and believe me, neither was a pleasant experience.”

I couldn’t argue with her about that, so five minutes later we drove across a narrow iron covered bridge and were in the community of Bayou Tigre. Mr. Dugas’s grand white house stood about a quarter of a mile from the main road, and was framed by marsh, cattle and a body of water. As we drove down the long gravel driveway, I was reminded of the paintings depicting scenes of Acadian life, which hang in the Abbeville Court House.

Mr. Dugas was there with his great grandson Jody, and welcomed my mother and I to his home. He walked us through the house, and showed us the damage that Rita had done. He told me that an organization had offered to restore it, but wanted him to donate it to them.



“I want to pass this house on to someone in my family,” said Mr. Dugas. “Even if it takes twenty years for me to finish restoring it.”

I walked upstairs to where the schoolroom had once been, and found the highlight of my whole trip. It was an old black chalkboard, and I could make out words that had probably been written over a hundred years ago.



On my way out of Bayou Tigre, I realized that I had eaten lunch and had a snow cone at two businesses in Iberia Parish. So I decided to share the wealth, and headed to The Country Store, which is located about thirty feet from D & G Diner, but in Vermilion Parish.

People walked in and out of the store greeting each other like they were lifelong friends, and didn’t care that some of them were from different parishes or even different towns. When I got back in my car, I thanked my mother for using guilt to make me drive past the town line of Delcambre into Bayou Tigre. Otherwise I might not have realized and appreciated the value of a community with open arms and borders.

Lorraine and Harvey's Garden

Several years ago when it was time for me to head out into the world and find my place in life, one of the things I had trouble with was being true to myself. There were so many things I didn’t understand, and it terrified me and caused me to make major decisions without much thought. Over time, I suffered from the effects of sudden change, until I realized that I needed to set goals and not be afraid of hard work if it was something that I truly wanted. This week I visited Lorraine and Harvey Broussard of Forked Island, who have learned similar lessons, and taught me others by sharing their own version of a garden.

When I pulled into the driveway of the Broussard’s home, Mr. Harvey was mowing the yard and Ms. Lorraine was tidying up in the garage. She hugged me as soon as I got out of my car and told me it was good to see me again. I had spent many of my high school days at their home because of a great friendship I had with one of their daughters, Dana.

“Did you make Mr. Harvey mow the yard because you knew I was coming to interview you about your garden?” I asked.

“No,” she laughed. “You just happened to come on his mowing day.”

She invited me inside her home to sit down and then asked me why I wanted to interview her. I had gone to her house a few months before and noticed that in addition to several plants and flowers throughout the yard, she had a greenhouse. I had always loved walking through the structures because the plants seemed to be enjoying themselves like they were at a horticultural ho-down that was by invitation only.

“You have a greenhouse,” I told Ms. Lorraine. “That’s pretty unique and I’m trying to interview people with something a little special in their garden.”

Unfortunately Ms. Lorraine’s greenhouse was empty, because being that it’s summer, she moved everything out and planted it in the yard. However, she did show me some great pictures of flowers, plants and vegetables she had grown in the green house, which reminded me of another exclusive plant party which I hadn’t been invited to.

“About 95% of the plants in my vegetable garden and yard are from seeds and cuttings I grew this winter,” she said. “That’s what I enjoy most. Creating life.”

Mr. Harvey walked in and told me hello, and leaned against the back of a chair. I told him that I was there to interview Ms. Lorraine about her garden, and then wondered if I was mistaken about the true owner.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Whose garden is it?”

“Well,” Ms. Lorraine said. “It’s his yard, my greenhouse and our garden.”

We walked around outside so I could take a few pictures, and I realized that the Broussard’s garden wasn’t limited to a small square patch of cucumbers, okra and bell peppers. It was their entire fenced in yard, which seemed to be around four acres in size. The property was landscaped with an assortment of trees consisting of Cypress, Magnolias, Pecan and Sycamores.

“Do you get a lot of birds?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” Ms. Lorraine said. “Look above the trees at what Harvey built.”

I looked around the skyline and noticed several anti-bellum style bird houses with scenic views of the surrounding landscape. Ms. Lorraine told me that hundreds of Purple Martins lived in them, and she enjoyed hearing them chirp and sing while she was working outside. But many of the birds seemed to prefer the lower lying amenities of the Broussard’s yard, which were flowers, fountains and statues spread throughout the property.

Ms. Lorraine said the greenhouse had just been built in Fall of 2007, and I asked her what she’d learned from the experience of working in one. She told me that people had warned her of how hard it would be to maintain, and that they were right.

“It’s important that you set goals and love what you’re doing if you want to succeed,” said Ms. Lorraine. “I told myself that I would donate the vegetables I grew to the church for its annual fete. Every time I felt tired or discouraged, I thought about my goal and continued to work.”

But Ms. Lorraine told me that she enjoyed every minute of being in her greenhouse. She liked to turn on her radio and travel to her own world, which in her opinion was the best medicine to cure a bad day and to lead a happy and healthy life. Ms. Lorraine said she’d learned from her mistakes like one she’d made with her Bleeding Heart, which she’d put inside the greenhouse during the winter.

“This Spring it didn’t bloom as full as it usually does,” she said. “I think it needed to grow dormant and rest before it could come back to its fullest potential. Not all plants are the same, and you can’t make them something that they’re not.”

I asked Ms. Lorraine if she had any technical advice for someone with a garden. She said that her Grandma Des had told her to throw soapy dishwater on roses to help get rid of insects and disease.

Although I had gone to the Broussard’s home to interview Ms. Lorraine about her greenhouse, I realized that I had stumbled up on something much more. I had found a place where a couple worked together to create their own version of garden, and used it as a guide to help them live the life they imagined.

Being on the Broussard’s property reiterated many of the tough lessons I’d learned out in the world, (Except for throwing soapy dishwater on roses) and taught me a few others. I learned the importance of being independent, but also of appreciating the value of help from those you trust and love in order to create something much larger than a four acre yard with vegetation and a greenhouse. Lorraine and Harvey had created a haven, which illustrated the beauty of learning from mistakes, having goals, and being true to one’s self when pursuing a life of happiness.

Cool and Fresh in Henry

A few days ago I decided to try and beat the heat we’ve been having by packing an ice chest, and driving my mother and nephew, to the community of Henry. They were both familiar with the area and helped me navigate through the bayous and green sugar cane fields to the Circle V Market. I was in the mood for a hamburger, and I figured they had the freshest.

“We grind and season the beef and pork for the hamburgers and boudin right here,” said owner, Jonathon Le Blanc. “And we offer a couple of different poboys at lunch with sausage we make ourselves, like the chicken, and the mixed beef and bacon.”

I had never heard of a beef and bacon sausage poboy, but it sounded genius and I wondered if others were aware of Jonathon’s creation. I had my answer a few minutes later when trucks began driving up both entrances to the Circle V. Before I knew it, the market was filled with workers from the surrounding area, and some from as far as Abbeville.

I decided that we would take our lunch to go instead of eating along the bar or at one of the tables, because I knew my brothers and sisters would never forgive me if I let my mother find a boyfriend at an actual meat market. So we told Jonathon and his staff Britlyn, Claire and Charlie good bye and drove a couple of miles down the road to the peaceful and serene Bancker Grotto.

After reading a plaque at the entrance of the shrine, we walked up a stone path lined with large crosses, and sat on a bench underneath a cool and shady oak tree. The grounds were surrounded by lush palmetto filled forests, cemeteries and the banks of the Vermilion river. The water looked clean and refreshing and I suggested to my mother and nephew that I might take a dip.

“Don’t swim in there,” my mother said. “You might get bitten by an alligator.”

“Yes ma’am,” I said. “But I have a feeling it might do more than just bite me.”

I wanted to know more about the grotto, and so the three of us loaded up and drove over to the Henry Church to speak with a young lady named Linda Choate.

“The shrine was been built in 1935 by Father De Vos to honor Our Lady of Lourdes,” said Ms. Choate. “It’s been through a lot of bad weather over the years, and was restored by Father Stemman and Barbara and Teddy Le Maire in 1996.”

I had never been to the Henry church and was glad we’d stopped by, because I found it architecturally interesting due to its brick bell tower and three separate roofs which create a stairway effect leading up to the sky. On the interior, sun poured through the large stained glass windows creating walls of green illuminated crosses.

We had one more stop on our trip and so we thanked Ms. Choate for her help and drove about mile up to Don’s Boat Landing, located on the Boston (not pronounced like the city is Massachusetts) canal. I was greeted by the smile of Flo Romero, the mother of Tony Romero who along with his wife Norma, own Don’s. Ms. Romero told me that many people who hang out at the landing didn’t even own a boat.

“Some people just come to play pool or cards or listen to music,” she said. “A lot of people wait for the shrimp boats so that they have the first and freshest choice of the catch.”

Ms. Romero said her son could tell me a little bit more about the place, and called him up. He told me that sometimes he has live musicians play, and hosts different fishing rodeos, like the Don’s Boat Landing Fishing Tournament this September 5th, 6th, and 7th.

“I love meeting the different people who come to the landing,” said Mr. Romero. “I’ve met people from all over and even a guy from England.”

While I was on the phone, a gentleman walked in who looked very familiar to me. I recognized him to be Cowboy, someone I had met at the Museum Café when I’d gone to Erath a couple of weeks before. I told him hello and asked him what he was doing there.

“I like to make my rounds around the area,” said Cowboy. “I want to make sure I share my company with everybody.”

When my mother, nephew and I stepped out into the parking lot to walk back to our car, I felt a cool breeze from the Boston canal. It occurred to me that although I had gone to Henry with hopes of spending time with my family and learning new and interesting things, I experienced something much more. I had found a community filled with natural landscaping, friendly and familiar faces, and places to buy the freshest food around.

Sandy's Garden

Summer is obviously here, because I not only have mosquito bites covering my arms and legs, but I also break a large sweat just from walking from my front door to get the morning paper. I’ll admit, it’s not my favorite time of year, but one good thing about it, (besides snow cones and pool parties), is that all across Vermilion Parish, people are enjoying their outdoor space.

A few months ago, I threw together what I thought could be considered a garden by planting some flower seeds, hanging a few ferns, and asking my brothers and sisters to chip in for a cypress swing. I’d spent most of my childhood in that backyard and decided it was time I reconnected with it. I wanted to create a place where I could read, or my mother and I could sit and watch the cows and horses graze in the pasture behind our house.

Our yard is wide open, and so I decided to build a fence to make it feel a little more private. When I buried the last post, my mother walked up to me and asked what I was doing.

“I’m making a garden for us,” I said. “I think it would be nice for us to sit out here sometimes and talk.”

“Thanks,” she said. “You know it’s going to be harder to mow now.”

I convinced my mother to let me build it anyway by telling her that I’d name it Julia’s Garden, and promising that I would push mow. Over the past couple of months, we’ve spent many good times sitting out there and talking about everything from whose getting married to how much money my mother made by selling aluminum cans she’d collected.

The other evening, we sat down in the section of the garden near the wooden fence I built. On one of the post, I hung a sign that had Café Julia written on it in blue and green paint. I sat on a bench, and she sat down on a cast-iron chair and told me a story about my father, which brought tears to my eyes and reminded me of how much I missed him.

“You know, Son,” my mother said. “I’m really glad you put these chairs here. It’s nice out this time of day.”

Then she looked around the yard and back at me, and said, “Just don’t plant anything else or you might have to pass the weed eater too.”

My mother was right about that one, and I’ve discovered that the gardening part of the garden is a lot harder to keep up than I’d realized. I’ve made many mistakes, but am eager to learn. So for the next few weeks, I’ve decided to seek out faithful and committed gardeners who are willing to share their advice. I’ll be visiting different types of outdoor space, and many of them won’t grow a single vegetable but will provide us with food for thought.

This week I’m visiting the home of my beautiful sister, Sandra Richard. I chose her because not only does she have one of the most natural and mysterious gardens I’ve seen, but she’s complained to me for the past thirty three years that when I was five, I broke her wedding china, and so I figured if I wrote an article about her we’d be even.

When I walked into her house to interview her, I saw an aluminum can poking out of the top of a trash bag. I took it out and then dug for others to bring to my mother.

“Oh, goodness,” Sandy said. “You and Momma have a problem.”

I told her that we’d made $12.50 in the last month but she didn’t seem impressed. Instead she told me that I should put the money towards therapy.

“Where do you go for yours?” I asked.

She brought me out to her backyard and turned around and said, “Here.”

In the center of Sandy’s garden stands a tall and mighty oak, whose limbs allow a shadowy draping of Spanish moss. A wooden fence, lined with hibiscus and rose bushes, surrounds the yard to create a sense of intimacy. Beyond the pickets of the fence is a fully-grown forest complete with cypress trees, which protects the space and makes its visitors feel closer to nature.

Sandy and I sat down at a table out in the garden, where I looked at the list of questions I’d prepared for her. I realized that I’d never interviewed someone who’d given me bottles and changed my dirty diapers, and wondered if I was being too formal. I wasn’t sure what story I was looking for, though. I knew I wanted to know more than just the technical elements of gardening, but I didn’t know where to start. So I just read the first question off of my list.

“What’s your favorite plant and why?” I asked.

“Hibiscus,” she said. “Because each one is unique and there are so many different varieties.”

I asked Sandy for a piece of advice when taking care of hibiscus. She said that a gentleman named Red Bernard had taught her to pour one gallon of water mixed with a tablespoon of Epson salt around the roots of the plant once a week.

“It makes the colors of the flower more vibrant,” she said.

I barely have time to water my plants as it is, so I doubt seriously that I will ever utilize the technique. However, I could see the positive results from the bright reds and yellows of Sandy’s hibiscus.

It occurred to me that my sister and I not only had different gardens, but different motives for them. I just wanted a place to read and visit with people, and would actually prefer it if someone else planted and watered for me. For Sandy, that is what she enjoys most about her outdoor space.

“Sometimes when I know it’s going to be a long day,” she said. “I get up a little earlier and come out here and work. It relaxes me and allows me to organize my day.”

That’s when I realized what story I wanted to tell. My time in Sandy’s garden made me understand that in a way, people are unique like hibiscus. We have a similar need to get closer to ourselves and understand the world around us, but we all approach it differently. We all have our own version of a garden, and in order to help it grow to its fullest, it’s important we create the right one for who we are, and encourage others to do the same.

About Being a Writer

One of the best parts about being a writer is having the opportunity to discover new places like the quaint and historic town of Jefferson, TX. But it’s not the cobblestone streets, antique shops and charming bed and breakfasts like the fantastic McKay House (www.mckayhouse.com) that makes Jefferson so great. It’s the people. If southern hospitality was a fast food, then the citizens of this town, super sized it. They smile and joke while they offer you assistance, and you can feel their warmth like a quilted blanket on a cold winter’s day.

I was there for a book signing at Beauty and The Book, the world’s only beauty shop and bookstore. Kathy Patrick created this little literary oasis because she wanted the opportunity to enjoy her two great loves in life; reading and doing hair. Someone had given Kathy my book while she was promoting her book, The Pulpwood Queen’s Tiara-Wearing, Book-Sharing Guide to Life. Kathy wrote to me and said she loved The Chicken Dance and asked if I’d consider going up to Jefferson to meet her book club. I checked out her website and was intrigued, and decided it sounded like a great idea.

My sister Kay was my co-pilot on this journey, and as we pulled into the driveway of Beauty and the Book, we were greeted by a woman with hair so blonde and beautiful, she would make Charlene Tilton jealous. She was wearing a black t-shirt with the words, “Got Wood?” written on the front in pink letters. (I’m wearing one just like hers as I type this.)

I recognized Kathy from her book cover and knew immediately that I loved her, and I just wanted to hug and squeeze her to make sure that she was real. But I felt timid like a dog and only shook her hand.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” she told me. “I’ve organized a chicken and egg themed potluck dinner for tonight in honor of your book.”

Although I draw the line at eating a chicken omelet, eggs and chicken separately are my two favorite foods. I felt really excited like I had won $15 on one of those little scratch off lottery tickets, and then felt a little ashamed that I was so excited.

So I put my head down and walked quietly into the world’s only beauty shop and bookstore. I looked around and noticed stacks of books in every corner and on every surface of the room. Some of the stacks had shampoo bottles on them, and others were leaning against hair dryers. And in one of the corners hung a leopard skin jacket covered in sequin and glitter.

“So this is what a beauty shop and book store looks like,” I said. “I don’t know why but I thought it would be different.”

Moments later, the rest of the book club showed up, all of them carrying some sort of chicken or egg themed dish. They were all women, and most of them were wearing pink t-shirts and tiaras, and some sort of accessory in a leopard print, like a purse or pair of flip-flops. I started thinking to myself, What is going on?

But then later that night while we were sitting in a circle, some of us on the seats of hair dryers, Kathy explained the history of the Pulpwood Queens to me.

“I wanted a place where we could talk about books, and just be ourselves,” Kathy said. “So we all wear tiaras, pink t-shirts and some sort of leopard skin accessory. That way everyone feels safe and is allowed to speak freely.”

I began to feel relaxed, and leaned back on the seat of the hair dryer. I watched the women laugh and share stories of their life, and felt so lucky to be a part of their evening.

This, I thought, is what I love about being a writer.

Finished Garden

Well, after a couple of months, I've finally gotten to a stage in the garden in the back of my momma's house that I think is close to finished. But, like life, I don't think this garden will ever be finished. I need to continue to maintain it and protect it against the elements. I hope you enjoy.

Take Care,

Jacques Couvillon from the back of his momma's house.

Work in Progress

Just wanted to give you a work in progress of my momma's back yard. When I started this project, I didn't really think it would be all that hard. Between the poison ivy, snakes, my momma asking me why I keep putting all that junk in her back yard and my brothers and sisters looking into committing me, it's been quite a challenge. I did get them to chip in for a cypress glider (kind of like a swing)for Mother's Day, so even though they think I'm crazy, they're being supportive. I know the garden still needs some work but I feel like I'm getting closer. It's a garden after all, which takes time to grow and flourish. (spelling?) Which I guess is kind of like life. You don't just wake up one day happy and fulfilled. You need to keep working at it and plant new things and experiment. And just like my momma's garden, even when you think it's finished, there's always going to be something else to do to maintain it. Enjoy the process and one day, it will pay off. I'm learning that all those years of struggling and torment and hating who I was, were part of the process of creating the garden that was right for me. I think that's what I'm learning while I'm building this garden. That and to always wear long sleeves when pulling poison ivy off of the oak tree in the back of my momma's house.



In this next video, I realized that I said, "These cats aren't adorable when you have to wipe their chicken crap off the bottom of your shoes." Don't know why I thought cats produced chicken crap but didn't have time to re-shoot.




In this next clip, I noticed I caught a shot of our dog, Buster, treating himself. Didn't mean to do that.

My Momma's Pump House

The Word

I just got back from the Arkansas Book Festival where I said the word, “prostitute” in front of Kimberly Willis Holt (National Book Award winner) and 9-year old children and their parents. Enough said.

I didn’t mean to say the word, “prostitute”. It’s not like I was taking notes on my presentation and said, “I should try to work the word, “prostitute,” into this. Especially if there are women and children present.”

It just happened, like when you’re trying to release a little gas and something else comes out. There is no easy way to clean that up. It’s there and you just have to be conscientious of it and try to move around as little as possible. That’s what it felt like when the word, “prostitute” came out of my mouth.

You see what happened was, I was trying to come up with a funny profession. I was explaining to the audience that my father was a farmer. When I first left Louisiana and told people my father’s profession, they usually asked, “A former what?” At first I thought they were making a pun and so I laughed. But then I realized that they thought I had said the word, “former” instead of “farmer”.

I still don’t hear the difference between the two but for some reason when I said my, “father was a farmer” when I was speaking at the Arkansas Book Festival on Saturday, I decided to explain that I was not saying the word, “former.” I thought I could turn it into a little joke and so I said, “He was a farmer like a cattle farmer. Not like a former something. I mean he wasn’t a former prostitute or anything.”

Again, I wasn’t trying to work the word, “prostitute” into my presentation. I was just trying to come up with a funny profession. Only I couldn’t think fast enough and so I said the first thing that came into my mind. And that word was, “prostitute”.

Now, Freud might say I have issues. Others might say I’m an idiot. And some may call me a pervert and dirty birdy. The truth is, I am none of these. I am a victim of watching, “Pretty Woman,” on TBS earlier that morning.

That being said, my trip to Little Rock was awesome. The people are so nice and the city itself is beautiful. And the design of the Clinton Museum is great. If you’re looking for a little driving getaway, I’d say definitely visit Little Rock during the spring. I don’t know what it’s like in the summer, fall or winter. I also stopped off in Hot Springs, which was another cool surprise. (Picture above next to Julia Roberts and Richard Gere.) It used to be a resort town and so there are some beautiful old hotels and baths. I used to go to thermal baths in Switzerland and they’re amazing. It’s just nice to be in water without chlorine or salt and it makes your skin feel great. I didn’t go to the baths in Hot Springs because I didn’t have time but I plan to visit again. I did make the mistake of trying to take a sip from one of the fountains of hot springs. I didn’t realize that the water temperature was 120 degrees and so I scalded my mouth and had big red mark all around my lips for the rest of the afternoon.

While at the festival, I met Kimberly Willis Holt. She’s a young adult writer and won The National Book Award for “When Zachary Beaver Came to Town”. It was so weird because she walked up to me when I was at the buffet line filling my plate up with some mini quiches.

She said, “Excuse me. I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Kimberly. Would you mind signing your book for me?”

I looked down at her name-tag and saw, “Kimberly Willis Holt.”

I had heard her name numerous times before. Every time I walked into a bookstore, the owner handed me one of her books and told me that I should definitely read her books because she’s one of the best writers in all of Louisiana.

When I saw her name tag, I put down my plate of mini quiches and pointed at her and said, “But you’re Kimberly Will Holt.”

She smiled and said, “Yes.”

“Why do you have my book?” I asked her.

She presented it to me and said, “I’d like you to sign it.”

So I pointed at her again and said, “But you’re Kimberly Willis Holt.”

I couldn’t believe I was talking to her and that she wanted me to sign her book. It was surreal like when I went to see The Jacksons on their Victory tour. I couldn’t believe I was hearing the king of pop with my own ears.

But Kimberly is much cooler than M.J. She is the nicest woman in the world and was the highlight of a great weekend. Hope all of you are doing well.

Jacques

T-Bones

This is just video footage of my momma's back yard. I'm trying to fix it up a little so she'll use it more. The only time my momma every goes back there is to feed her cats or throw away pieces of fat that she cut away from packages of T-Bones.

She cooks T-Bones for me 7 times a week. I've never seen so many T-Bones in my life. We have our own cattle and I think my momma thinks she needs to eat every last one before she dies. There's two of us in that house but we have two refrigerators and three deep freezers. They are all packed with cheese, butter, packages of bacon, gallons upon gallons of ice cream, pork sausage, pizza rolls, pizza pockets, pizza snacks and pizza. Then stuffed in every crevice available are packs of beef, including T-Bones.

You remember that story in the bible about two brothers. And one of the brothers was very faithful to his father and the business. The other brother was a big partier and liked to hang out with the Paris Hiltons of biblical times. Anyway, that brother took his inheritance early and left town for Vegas. Then when he ran out of money, he went back to the farm and said, "Daddy! Give me some money." And then the daddy said, "Sure son, I'm so happy to see you. Let's kill our fattest calf to celebrate your return."

And then the faithful son said, "What is up with that? I've been kissing your backside for the last 10 years and you've never thrown me so much as a strip of bacon! And now this loser shows up and you're throwing barbecues?"

Then the daddy says something about I don't know what. I never got the moral of that story. I kind of agreed with the faithful son at the time. But now, I'm beginning to think I'm the other brother. The one that spent the inheritance. So I've changed my opinion of which brother was right. A calf shall be killed. And my momma seems to agree.

She kills an entire calf about every month. Do you know how big a calf is? It could probably feed an elementary school for three months. I know she doesn't eat it all because I know she gives our neighbor a couple of packs of rump roast to mow our yard. And I've seen my momma leave our house several times with big bags of meat. So I think she's decided to use beef as currency. I think the whole situation is adorable. And so I want to fix up my momma's back yard so I can sit there with her and talk to her and listen to what makes her tick. I have a good feeling that it's T-Bones.

my first thoughts

I know you're busy so I'll keep this short. I took pictures and I wrote down my first thoughts of them. I took the one with the rooster and the Starbuck's sign in Miami last week. The rooster's crow was what brought my attention to him. My first thought was, "Am I drunk?"

But then I saw a guy pick the rooster up and put in the front basket of a bicycle so then I thought, "Yeah, I'm drunk."

But then I stopped the guy in overalls, (see second picture) and found out that he was the rooster's agent, whose name was Mr. Clucky. Then he gave me a business card with Mr. Clucky's website, (Mrclucky.com) and told me that he also had a MySpace Page. At first it didn't surprise me when he told me. But then I was a little surprised that I wasn't surprised. You have to admit. A rooster with a Myspace page and an agent is pretty surprising. But I guess after living in New York, nothing is surprising anymore. Surprising. I just wanted to say the word, "surprising" again. Anyway, I guess I just thought it was weird because it's like I'm starting to see the difference between living in New York where nothing is surprising and living back in Cow Island with my momma who thinks it's surprising that Carla Montgomery (An African American newscaster) has straight hair.

She told me one day, "I have so much respect for that woman. She has white people's hair. How do you think she gets it so straight?"

I looked at her because that surprised me.

Then she asked me again, "How do you think she does it?"

I told her, "I think they sell chemicals that will straighten people's hair (I've used them myself and some are pretty impressive.)"

Then she raised her hand and said, "Well, it's none of my business."

She said the same exact thing the next night. I'm going to have to go and buy her a box of Dark and Lovely and do a demonstration on the few hairs I have left.



Now the other picture is of a Brinks truck that was in front of me at the ATM today. My first thought was, "That's weird. In the movies, they always back up to the bank and load the money in big bags. That's pretty inconvenient if they have to take it out through an ATM at a $300 limit each time. They'll never be able to fill up that truck. Oh, and I'm in a hurry. This shrimp poboy I just bought is starting to stink up my blazer (Chevy, not navy) and I want to make sure that I eat it while it's still hot because there's nothing better than a hot poboy."

So I got out of my blazer (Again, Chevy, not navy) and walked up to the truck and some guy jumped out with a bag and a key. He unlocked something on the ATM with the key and looked at me.

I asked him if he was going to be long and he said, "Probably. But there's another one in the bank."

I felt like asking him if I could just show him my ATM card and he could write my name down and give me $300. But he didn't look like he rolled that way.

Anyway, that's it. I would love to hear what your first thoughts of the pictures.

Peace, laughter and love,

Jacques

Thank You Crissy

I recently spoke at the Carrollton School of Sacred Heart in Miami, Florida. The girls welcomed me with warmth and made me feel like a movie star. The event was arranged by one of their teachers, and my good friend, Crissy Fano. I want to thank Crissy for everything she did for me this past week. Not only did she chauffer me around the city, but she also fed me, gave me a place to sleep and provided an opportunity to spend time with our best friend Heather and her two great children. So thank you, Crissy. You helped create a memory that I will never forget. You are an amazing person and your kindness and generosity contribute to making the world a better place.

The Picture

I called my mom yesterday to ask her to look through my mail and tell me if there were any checks. There weren’t any, but I did find out that I had the chance to win 10 million dollars, and all I had to do was fill out 72 forms over the next 2 years and somehow try to maneuver around getting roped into a magazine subscription for something called, “Pictures of Cats who Knit”. No thank you, Publisher’s Clearing House. I’m still paying for my subscription to, “How to Look Good in Shorts at any Age.” My 79 year-old mother read it the other day and is trying out some of the looks. Since I’ve moved back in with her, I’ve had to cut her toenails, pluck the hairs out of her chin, and sit in on her gynecology examination. I do not need to see her in a pair of cut off jean shorts and red cowboy boots.

Anyway, there was also a UL Alumni magazine that had an article about me in it.

My mom told me, “You want me to read it to you? There’s a horrible picture of you. You look so serious and old.”

I’m not exactly sure what picture she’s talking about, but I think it's the one above. I know I my expression is of a person trying to decide between paper and plastic at the grocery store check out line, but I ask you, what’s so bad about that? Are we supposed to take every picture like we did as kids? Like there’s some moron holding up a sock puppet and singing some song about Old McDonald and his goat?

And maybe I was thinking about something really insightful? Maybe I was solving some of the world’s biggest problems, like media coverage of Brittany Spears and Paris Hilton. And so what if I looked old. You know what mom, I am old. I’m 38 years old. At that age, you’d had seven children and an obvious lack of self-control. So it’s okay if my pictures don’t involve me sitting on Santa’s lap or laying naked on a fluffy pillow. And to tell you the truth, I’m not crazy about my smile. I have a big wide nose that I inherited from your mother, who I loved dearly. And I’m proud of that big wide nose. I just don’t want it photographed.

I love you mom, but when you look at that picture, you need to stop seeing your baby. You need to look deeper and see someone who considers himself the luckiest person in the world to have you as a mother. And this makes him so happy, that he becomes a little sad, because he doesn’t know how to express it.

By the way mom, some woman emailed me about that picture and said she found me very attractive. Granted, she was 75 years old, but she had all of teeth. I guess that’s it. Happy Easter Everybody.

Much Love,

Jacques

Planting Trees Behind my Mama's House

I've been crazy busy so I'm going to video blog a little here and there. Hope you enjoy.

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The Little Towns of Michigan

I’m sitting in a hotel room in a little town in Michigan as I write this. It’s 16 degrees outside and the ground is covered with a blanket of snow. However, the sun is shining and the landscape resembles a Norman Rockwell painting.

The reason I am here is because I spoke to students from Freeland, Bullock Creek and Vasser high schools. Speaking to people and having them ask questions about writing and my life is still all new and baffling to me. I can’t believe I just used the word, “baffling.” I guess that “Word a Day,” calendar is really paying off.

Anyway, this whole experience has made me think about what my life used to be like and what it might be in the future. I’m reminded of my days as a tie salesman and running up and down stairs at Ralph Lauren while wearing a three piece suit and carrying a pile of top coats in one hand and a silver tray with a glass of sparkling water in the other. The water was for an impatient customer who couldn’t understand why I wasn’t able to make it up four flights of stairs in three minutes without breaking a sweat or forgetting to put a lemon wedge on the rim of the glass. We weren’t allowed to sweat at Ralph Lauren, because we were supposed to look like we’d just stepped out of a magazine or the “After” picture on one of those make over shows. And after I would manage to do all of this in three minutes and fifteen seconds, without perspiring, the customer would usually down the glass of water and look at me like I was some mangy dog and say, “Let me know when these coats go on sale.”

Those were rough times for me and I spent almost every minute of the day wondering why I was putting myself through that torture. I thought taking a chance and trying to become a writer would never pay off, or that the reward just wouldn’t be worth it. But here in Michigan, I’m reminded that those days of sweat (or trying not to), and tears have paid off.

You see, the teachers at these schools took a genuine interest in their students’ future. They are not rich schools, but somehow found the money and time to have me speak. As I looked out at those students yesterday, who had hopes and dreams of their own, and whose innocence and desire to learn inspired me, I realized that running up and down stairs was a small price to pay. I applaud the teachers of these schools for their determination to make the intimidating and confusing world that teenagers live in, more enjoyable and rewarding.

So to writers, artists, musicians, teachers, philanthropists, environmentalists or anyone struggling to reach their dreams and to make the world a more tolerable and creative place, I am here to tell you that your fight will pay off in the long run. If you don’t believe me, just visit the schools, students and teachers amongst the blanket of snow covering the little towns of Michigan.

What's Funnier Than a Chicken Farm?

Okay, I'm cheating. I'm putting an interview I did with an online magazine because I've been crazy busy trying to figure out where my next meal is coming from and so I haven't had time to sit down and write. Now I realize why writers are so skinny. They don't have any money to eat. But that's another story. For now, enjoy the interview and I'll try to have some fresh material for you next week.


Jacques Couvillon: What’s funnier than a chicken farm?
by Nicole Haddad | 9 Dec 2007

In a moment of clarity, Jacques Couvillon quit his day job with the dream of becoming a writer and no clue how he would get there. Seven years later he is celebrating the publication of his first novel, The Chicken Dance, the story of a boy who finds overnight celebrity when he wins the chicken judging contest in his hometown of Horse Island, Louisiana. Couvillon took time out from writing the book’s sequel to answer some questions for That Other Paper writer Nicole Haddad.

That Other Paper:

When and how did you realize that you wanted to become a writer?

Jacques Couvillon:

I’ve known that I wanted to be a writer since I was 10 years old. I started writing stories, and in journals, up until I graduated from high school. By this time, I’d kind of given up the dream of becoming a writer, because I never thought that anyone would want to hear what a farm boy had to say. When I turned 30, I decided that I wasn’t happy, and since I didn’t appear to be getting any younger, I figured I should take action and change my life. And that is when I pursued writing seriously.

TOP:

You say on your website that the greatest lesson you learned from studying writing was not how to write, but what kind of writer you are. What kind of writer are you?

JC:

I’ve realized that I will never pour out beautiful prose like some of the greats. But I’ve also realized that it’s okay. I think some people like to read a story that feels like a conversation with a good friend. That’s how I feel most comfortable writing. I want the reader to feel like I’ve dropped all of the barriers, and I’m telling them my secrets in good old fashion, plain English.

TOP:

What are the best and worst parts of the writing process?

JC:

The best is getting started. The worst is getting started.

I love the thought of where a writing project can take me. But it is also very intimidating, because sometimes I feel like I might end up in a place that I don’t want to be.

TOP:

Describe your book, The Chicken Dance, in one sentence.

JC:

A zany, madcap, out-of-control, dark comedy about an 11-year-old boy whose life is turned upside down when he becomes the youngest person in history to win the chicken-judging contest at the Dairy Festival in Horse Island, Louisiana.

TOP:

Where does the title of the book come from?

JC:

It’s kind of a long story but I’ll give you the abbreviated version.

The book was the result of a two-page writing assignment in a class I was taking. The original story was called 'Dance' and was about a little boy whose mom made him dance in the middle of a grocery store. I put him living on a chicken farm simply because I thought, “What’s funnier than living on a chicken farm?” But once I began working on the book, I realized how much flavor — no pun intended — the chickens added.

Then it was just a process of thinking and trying new things. For a couple of months, it was called The Dancing Chickens. But as I wrote, I realized that the real story I wanted to tell was about how everyone has their own chicken dance.

TOP:

Where did you get your inspiration for the book’s main character, Don?

JC:

Don is the combination of the kid I sometimes feel like, and the person I always wanted to be.

TOP:

The Chicken Dance is marketed toward young adult readers. What do you think an adult reader can get out of reading a young adult book?

JC:

It’s funny you should ask that. I originally wrote the manuscript for adults but because I had an 11-year-old narrator, I sold it as a young adult novel. So I started reading young adult novels to scope out the competition. I was really surprised by the many adult themes that these books have.

I think most of them were written to help young adults deal with the many issues that surround them. But I realized that adults also deal with many of these same issues. I also benefited from remembering what it’s like to be that age. This helps tremendously when I’m trying to communicate with young adults.

TOP:

Who are some of the authors that have inspired you, not just in the writing of this book, but as a writer in general?

JC:

Well, of course, Judy Bloom. Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret helped me get through my teenage years.

I try to read a variety of different authors to learn about different styles. I think my three favorite have been Jose Saramago, Hans Ulrich Treichel, and Alessandro Bariccio. I find that they tell great stories in a non-traditional way.

TOP:

What is your favorite punctuation mark and why?

JC:

I would have to say a question mark, because every time a question is asked, there is potential for a new story to begin.

TOP:

You’ve lived all over the country, but you’ve said you hope one day to become a permanent Austinite. What draws you to Austin?

JC:

There are so many things I love about the city like the architecture, the nature, and those amazing oak trees with the spiral-like branches. But what I love most about Austin are the people. They have their own sense of style and encourage you to have yours. There doesn’t seem to be fear in people’s eyes of being judged because they don’t judge others. Everyone seems so confident and at peace. The city is an example of diversity living in unity. It is truly an oasis, where people respect each other, themselves, and the environment that surrounds them.

TOP:

Tell me about your next book.

JC:

I just finished the second manuscript and sent it to my editor. So this may change, but I’ll tell you what I’ve written so far. I send Don to summer camp. I wanted to get rid of all of his securities including his chickens, KC and the Sunshine Band, his best friend, his blue ribbon, his parents, and his pretend twin brother. While at camp, Don falls in love with an older woman. And for the first time in his life he speaks to African-American kids. They take him into their group and teach him how to rap.

The book is called Strut, and it is about listening to what our body is telling us. Again, all of this may change once my editor gets a hold of it.

Not Alone in The World

First off, Happy New Year everybody! Every year I buy a journal and make new resolutions. In addition to trying to exercise more and save money, I’ve also resolved to write more on this blog.

I apologize that I’ve been absent for a while. I’ve been crazy busy cleaning my room because my brother came down for Christmas with his girlfriend and her two kids. During all of this, I was trying to finish up my second manuscript. I had already had my agent look at it and we both decided that it needed a lot of work before I sent it off to my editor.

But I did finished the second manuscript, which is entitled, Strut,. I sent it off to my editor a couple of days ago, which is scary because I know she’s going to have a lot of criticism about it. I want her to be honest because I want to release the best book possible, but it’s still difficult when she marks it up with a red pen, because it was such a huge part of my life for the last year and a half. With every suggestion she makes, I feel like an idiot for not thinking of it first. And I feel like she’s going to start to wonder if she made the right decision by buying my book. I worry that she’s going to see me as some country boy who got lucky the first go round, and who doesn’t really know anything about writing.

And that’s kind of ironic considering when I was growing up in Cow Island, I never felt like a country boy. It’s no secret that I wasn’t as rough and tough as my brothers or the other boys I grew up with. I didn’t enjoy being outside in the rice fields and crawfish ponds and felt like an outcast because of it. Which is why I moved away to the city as fast as I could. But when I got there, I felt like a country boy because people made fun of my accent and the way I spoke, and there was so much I didn’t know about the world. Being back in Louisiana now makes me feel like I’m stuck somewhere in between. And I’m not sure how to handle it. It’s kind of tough not knowing where you belong in this world.

When I started writing this blog entry, I planned on writing a story about my momma’s dog, Buster. But somehow it turned into a journal entry. Which is okay because if you good people are willing to give up your time to read something that I wrote, then I want you to know who I really am.

I don’t mean to come off sounding like a crazy, ungrateful, depressed person. I am very happy and grateful for everything that is happening. I guess I’m just a little scared and overwhelmed about everything going on. But thankfully, my family and friends have been very supportive and encouraging. And there have been great people like you who want to know what I have to say and what I’m going through. Hopefully some of you can relate and now know that you are not alone in this world.

jacques