Chosen to be a Pastor

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

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

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

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

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

Strength for Diaper Changes and Dance Recitals

It still amazes me that my parents were able to raise eight children. There is a sixteen-year age difference between the youngest and the oldest, so at one time we were all under the same roof. One of us was in diapers, while another slept on rubber sheets. One waited for underarm hair to grow, while another shaved it off. One was using training wheels, and another was in a training bra.

I asked my mom recently, “Where did you find the strength to raise eight children?”

“I did what I had to do in order to survive,” she said. “It’s a whole lot easier to put up with y’all today, though. Now when my kids irritate me, I can just take the phone off of the hook and lock the front door.”

But what about a young mother who doesn’t have that option? How does she balance diaper changes, dance recitals and shopping for children who grow out of shoes and jeans every month? Where does she find the strength?

My sister-in-law, Jessica, is the mother of three children; Braxton, age 11, Brooke, age 10 and Brylee, age 3. To round out her children’s education, she spends a large part of her time driving them around to different activities like dancing, baseball, basketball, swimming lessons, catechism, karate, and roping lessons.

“The most challenging part of being a mom is not having enough time during the day to get things done,” says Jessica. “The best part is seeing the world through my children’s eyes and always having a house full of fun and laughs.”

Jessica believes in parenting by example. She gives all three of her children chores to do so they can learn how to be responsible.

“All you can do is teach them right from wrong,” says Jessica. “As they grow older, my role with them will change. I’m going to have to trust them more, and give them freedom and space.”

Jessica’s most memorable moments with her children are those of their birth. She says she can remember them like they were yesterday.

“There are too many special moments of being a mother to choose a favorite one,” says Jessica. “A new one is made every time I hear Brylee say, ‘I love you so much, Mom.’”

For about a week after Brylee was born, I picked up Brooke and Braxton from school and watched them for a few hours. One day, I decided to take them to Kaplan to get ice cream. My first indication that this would be an adventurous ride was while I was driving, and my nephew thought it would be hilarious if he put a magazine over my face.

We made it to the store safely, though, and when we did Brooke pushed her brother into a potato chip display, spreading Funyuns and Cheetos all over the floor of Piggly Wiggly. When I dropped the children off with their grandmother later that day, I never looked back and little bits of gravel and dirt shot out from beneath my back tires.

But Jessica takes a different approach in her parenting. She patiently practices baseball with Braxton, dances with Brooke, and does Sponge Bob imitations with Brylee. Her advice to a new mother is that being a parent is not easy, but worth every minute of it.

“There are difficult challenges,” says Jessica. “But that’s something all mom’s face. Knowing that I’m not alone helps me tremendously.”

I interviewed Jessica at her home a few hours before Brooke’s dance recital. The mom made time for me even though she had the responsibility to make her daughter look like a ballerina, and her other two children put on pants. When Braxton did put on jeans, the bottom of them reached somewhere between his knees and ankles.

“These are the only pants I could find,” Braxton said.

“That’s impossible,” Jessica replied. “I just bought those for you. How did you outgrow them already?”

The mom disappeared and returned a few seconds later with an appropriate sized pair of pants for her son. Then she brushed Brylee’s hair while simultaneously applying theatre make-up on Brooke.

My mother said that in order to be a mom, she had to do whatever it took to survive. When she told me this, I imagined a log cabin out in the wilderness. My mom was milking a cow while one child sat on her back, one on her knee, and one on top of the heifer named Betsy. Suddenly an intruder rode up on horseback and my mom locked her children in the cabin and grabbed a rifle.

“I’m a mom,” she said to the intruder. “Take one step closer and I’ll do what I have to do in order to survive.”

I realize now that there’s probably a good chance that this never happened. But it was my interpretation of a parent’s survival until my afternoon with Jessica. She took care of all of her children’s needs in stride, and never blinked an eye. She was surviving, and doing a great job.

“How do you handle the constant chaos of being a mom?” I asked. “Where do you get the strength?”

“From my own mom, and my husband, Jude,” she said. “I relieve stress by taking walks and cooking. There’s nothing like a good meal at the end of the day with my family. Being with them gives me strength.”

Portraits of Happiness

When I was a senior in high school, I had my portrait taken by the photographer, Jeff Nemetz. He was well known and had an excellent reputation, which made his name synonymous with the word, “photography”. In fact, anytime I pulled out a camera, my friends would make a joke.

“Who do you think you are? Jeff Nemetz?”

The real Nemetz began his photography career almost forty years ago in sales at a department store in Memphis, TN. Many of his customers were artists who wanted copies of their work.

“I would teach the sculptures and painters how to photograph the art,” says Nemetz. “After a while, they hired me to do it for them.”

Nemetz moved to Baton Rouge to study Broadcast Journalism at L.S.U. While in college, many of his friends hired him to photograph their weddings. He continued getting different photography jobs over the years and eventually decided to make it a career.

“The pull to go into photography was very strong,” says Nemetz. “So I opened my studio full time in 1984. It’s been a fun adventure.”

Nemetz’s credentials include over thirty years of studio work, as well as photography assignments with Evangeline Downs, the National Dance and Cheering Championship and the AAU Junior Olympics. His wedding and senior portraits have received awards, and his bridal work was honored with the National Fuji Masterpiece Award.


“The best part of my job is that I get to share in the happiest moments of people’s lives,” says Nemetz. “I help preserve the first memories of a new-born child and the tears of joy at weddings.”

According to Nemetz, the most challenging part of photography is learning to read the emotions of the client. He says that finding out what’s important to them is key.

“Even though the same pose might look good on everyone, it doesn’t meant that it’s the best shot for everyone,” says Nemetz. “If you try to force photography, it will diminish its meaning. Making people feel comfortable with themselves is vital.”

Nemetz’s advice to someone interested in photography is to not be afraid to take pictures. He says to keep a notebook of the shots in order to keep track of how the image was exposed.

“Photography is about waiting for the right moment,” says Nemetz. “It involves painting with light and telling a story.”
Nemetz joined the Abbeville Meridional three years ago as a features writer. He’s contributed many memorable pictures of Vermilion Parish ranging from children playing outside on the first of day of Spring to sunrises over rivers and canals.

When I interviewed Nemetz, he updated me on some recent changes going on in his life. He will soon be leaving the Abbeville Meridional and closing the photography studio he runs with his daughter, Amy Nemetz.

“Last fall I reconnected with an old girlfriend from high school on Facebook,” said Nemetz. “We’re getting married and I’m moving to Fayetteville, Arkansas at the end of the month. I’m going to open a studio up there.”

I had already heard of Nemetz’s plans, which made me especially interested in interviewing him. I’m a big fan of his work and was hoping for a little insight on photography and art.

Nemetz smiled the entire time he spoke and I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to capture it on film. But perhaps with my words, I can preserve this time in Nemetz’s life the way he did for me with my senior portrait.

Jeff, you look like a love struck teenager (Literally and physically). Your hair is more thick and full than mine was at twenty-five. (This bothers me). Your cheeks are red with the anticipation of a new life and adventure. You are smiling. Not because you have to but because you want to. This is one of the happiest moments of your life. I wish you the best.

Strength to Laugh at Yourself

They say that many people are more afraid of public speaking than of dying. Although I don’t know for sure, I assume it’s because of the fear of embarrassment. It prevents some of us from ever attempting new challenges or accomplishing goals. So where do we find the courage to stand up to sweaty palms and a red face? Where do we find the strength?

A few years ago, I was asked to speak at the home of a woman who helped organize a book festival. My speech’s goal was to encourage people to attend the event, as well as offer financial assistance to the program.

It was about a month before my book, The Chicken Dance, was published and I was still nervous about speaking in front of groups. But I was more concerned about the impact my speech could have on my career as a young adult writer.

So I wrote down exactly what I wanted to say and memorized it. Then I practiced in front of a mirror, making sure that my hands didn’t gesture too much, and that I didn’t make any funny faces.

On the night of the event, I drove to the house early and parked my car nearby. I watched people walking in to ensure that I wasn’t under or over dressed. I was wearing khaki pants, a blue and white shirt, and a navy striped tie that I hoped made me look like a writer, and not like I was attending a first communion or going on an Easter egg hunt.

After I rehearsed my speech in my rearview mirror about four times, and I was sure that my clothes were appropriate, I got out of my car and walked towards the house. But as I stepped up to the front door, my reflection in the glass told me to re-tuck my shirt.

So as soon as I was inside of the house, I went to the bathroom and unfastened my pants to neatly re-tuck my shirt into a crisp fold. Then I stepped out into the party, introduced myself to a few people and found refuge by the food table. It was a beautiful spread complete with sandwiches, sweets and shrimp. I have a weakness for free food, (If it’s free, it’s me) but restrained myself because I didn’t want to risk staining my clothes.

When it came time for me to speak in front of the group, the hostess introduced me and I had the floor. It was not my reflection in a mirror staring at me anymore, but instead about thirty adults only a few feet away. At that moment, their opinions were all that mattered to me, and little beads of embarrassment rolled down my torso.

But I faced my fear and gave my speech exactly as I’d rehearsed it. The group laughed in the right places, and seemed to relax themselves as if hearing a longtime friend making a toast at a wedding.

When I was through, I stepped a few feet to the side so the hostess could have the floor again to talk about the book festival and to hand out souvenir posters. I had calmed down tremendously, and was glad that I hadn’t let my fear of embarrassment control me.

But right before I was just about to sneak away to the food table, I noticed a napkin on the ground. When I bent over to pick it up, something else grabbed my attention. It was an innocent, yet vulgar detail like a red wine stain on a carpet or a poison ivy rash making its way towards the crevice of my buttocks.

It needed to be resolved immediately, and because I was so interested in taking care of the matter at hand, I forgot where I was standing. I didn’t hear the party hostess speaking about how the book festival was going to encourage young readers and help writers promote their work. Nor did I see the group of guests gazing in my direction. These two facts were oblivious to me when I zipped up my pants and readjusted myself as if slipping on a warm pair of jeans pulled from the drier.

The sound of the zipper on its treads awoken me, and I realized what was happening. I had exposed and unexposed one part of myself, but another part was about to be projected like a movie on a screen. Would it be the courage of a writer who found the humor in it all? Or would it be the embarrassment of a young man who’d given a speech with the lid off of his jack-in-the-box?

In my mind, I’d destroyed my career and given all young adult writers a bad name. My actions would end up on Youtube, and I’d receive hate mail from J.K. Rawling and Judy Blume.

Every embarrassing moment I’d ever experienced flashed through my mind and pushed me towards the door to escape from humiliation. But as horrible as some of them seem, it occurred to me that they’d never killed me. I’d even recovered enough to write a book and be asked to promote a festival. I knew I had worked too hard to give up on my dream because of a zipper mistake. Plus, if I had left the party then, I would have missed out on the souvenir poster and free jumbo shrimp.

So I found the strength that night to ask the hostess for the floor again. Then I joked about my unzipped pants, and begged the group for their forgiveness. They roared with laughter, which dissolved the threats of embarrassment.

My momma often tells me, “If you don’t laugh, you cry. If you cry all of the time, you die. And nobody is in a state of grace to go anyway.”

I often find guidance in her words. They help me to accept mistakes, and to see the humor in life. Through them and the treads of a zipper, I find the courage to stand up to embarrassment, and the strength to laugh at myself.

The Concierge of Vermilion Parish

I once worked at a New York hotel as a concierge/bellboy/front-desk attendant/go stand out in the rain and whistle for a cab person. My job required me to be flexible and knowledgeable because I was the customer’s go to person when they needed information on everything from Broadway plays to carriage rides through Central Park to where to find a falafel at three in the morning.

Lynn Guillory, Executive Director of The Greater Abbeville-Vermilion Chamber of Commerce must be flexible and knowledgeable about everything offered in Vermilion Parish. Her job is to promote business members of the chamber by producing marketing materials, planning networking events and organizing informational seminars.

“I look at the chamber as if we’re the concierge of the parish,” says Guillory. “We get so many calls from people in other parts of the country asking about our economy and attractions.”

The Greater Abbeville-Vermilion Chamber of Commerce’s mission is to create a positive business and community environment. Their roots date back to the 1920’s, and they currently have 240 members.

“Last year we partnered with the Abbeville Tourism Center and produced our first ever Community Profile,” says Guillory. “It’s a magazine with information about resources, attractions and businesses in Vermilion Parish. It’s not only for local residents, but for tourists and people who are interested in re-locating.”

Guillory has thirty-three years of experience as a business teacher. She taught accounting and computer software courses at Lafayette Technical School and the Gulf Area Campus Technical School.

“The best part of my job is working with the business community and meeting out-of-town visitors,’ says Guillory. “So many guests to our parish comment on our hospitality.”

The Greater Abbeville-Vermilion Chamber of Commerce membership benefits include access to monthly networking meetings, marketing guidance and materials, bulk mailing discounts, and seminars on technology, advertising and basic principals of operating a business. The organization also offers a scholarship to students in Vermilion Parish affiliated with the chamber.

The chamber shares office space with the Abbeville Tourist Center in a long Acadian style house located at 1907 Veterans Memorial Drive. Both places offer a variety of information including evacuation guides, maps of the parish and brochures on local attractions. Other resources for chamber members include a small office with a computer, as well as a conference table for meetings.

During my interview at the office, I was fortunate to meet the chamber president, Ray Dugal. When he introduced himself, I thought he said, ‘Dugas’ and then told him a corny story about another Dugas I knew. He was very polite, and laughed even though my story had no relevance or made any sense.

“I really want to stress that we’re here for our community and the development of the parish,” says Dugal. “We want to help businesses grow.”

I was also fortunate to meet Guillory’s assistant, Shelly Choate. She asked me my mother’s favorite color in order to make a special surprise that would take six months to create. I was a bit hurt at that point because all I’d gotten was a glass of water and a hurricane evacuation guide.

But Choate made it up to me by giving me a Prescription Drug Card, which when used at participating businesses could provide discounts. All parish residents interested in receiving a card should call the chamber to request one.

It’s these types of resources that make the Greater Abbeville-Vermilion Chamber of Commerce beneficial not only to shoppers, but also to local businesses. Guillory’s passion towards promoting our parish and stimulating our economy is obvious not only in her enthusiasm, but by the programs she helps organize. She might not be able to get you front row seats to Mamma Mia, but she can help you advertise your business or guide you to the products and services you seek. Now that’s a concierge worth tipping!

For more information on the services offered by the chamber, call 337-893-2491 or visit www.abbevillechamber.com.

Strength to Maintain a Garden

Vermilion Parish is in the middle of spring, and as you drive around you’ll see newly pruned trees and bushes, farmers plowing their fields, and citizens working in their gardens. It’s a time of preparing the ground and planting seeds in anticipation of a large harvest. For some, the reward will be as small as a few ceramic pots filled with Marigolds, and for others as large as fields blanketed in golden grains of rice.

It’s so easy this time of year to plant for the future because the weather and landscape are as beautiful as a postcard. The thought of our fruits of labor motivates us to spend money on potting soil and seeds, and to grab a shovel and dig. But as the days get longer and warmer, and the air gets thicker and wetter, and the insects start partying like it’s 1999, where will you get the motivation to maintain what you’ve planted? Where will you get the strength?

When I first moved back to Cow Island from New York, I became fascinated with my mom’s backyard and some property behind it. Even though I’d grown up back there, I’d forgotten about it and what it offered. I went from an apartment with a potted plant in Manhattan to an entire house with sixty acres of landscape, and a canal filled with snapping turtles and alligators.

I can see the property from the window in my room. When I sit at my writing desk, I often stare through the glass like it’s a television. Some days my mom will walk into my view to throw old fruit over the fence. Other days, my brothers and nephews will make guest appearances on horseback. Sometimes I’m blessed with a memory of my father.

My first spring back in Cow Island, I wanted to be in that picture. I wanted to plant things in the land and watch them grow like a thick enchanted forest. I was motivated by a desire to be part of something, and to build a gift for my family as a thank you for all the support they’d shown me over the years.

For three weeks, building the garden became my number one priority. I tilled soil, planted seeds and trees, hung birdhouses and ferns, installed a fountain, and built a fence out of large fallen branches and rope. I even laid down concrete blocks to create a sitting area where I hoped to be inspired to write.

The result was a colorful outdoor space that made me proud. My family even celebrated Mother’s Day there that year, and contributed to the garden by donating plants, and chipping in for a cypress swing. It was a success in my book, and a symbol for all that I could accomplish if I put my mind to it.

But then summer arrived, and the vision of my potential became blurred by the heat and insects. As I watched the garden from my bedroom window, weeds and poison ivy overtook areas of clear direct lines and mulch. My homemade fence built to create intimacy crumbled apart due to rotten wood and improperly fastened rope.

The hardest slap from reality though, was that by building the garden, I’d created an obstacle for a vital process in maintaining a yard; mowing. The fence, fountain and flowerbeds had made the area inaccessible for a riding mowing machine. So I had to go old school, and begin pushing a Snapper amidst heat, mosquitoes and failure.

I’d built too much, too soon. The result was something pretty, but not practical. Interesting, but not real. Bold, but not strong.

I hadn’t taken the time to get truly re-acquainted with Louisiana’s climate before I began the project. I had worked so hard to build this garden, but didn’t have the strength to maintain it or tear it apart. Instead, I watched it deteriorate from the safety and climate controlled temperature behind a window.

This year I’ve committed myself to cleaning up the obvious mess I made. I moved pots, and tore down flowerbeds so the area can be mowed again. I dusted off the cypress swing, pruned dead branches off of plants, and dropped a few seeds in places that won’t cause obstacles.

Although in some ways the first garden I built failed, I don’t regret the work. I enjoyed watching an idea come to life, and learned from my mistakes. I have cut back on my different growing areas so I am better able to focus on what’s important to me, and what will yield the highest harvest.

So in my opinion, the best way to maintain a garden is to learn about its landscape before you even plant it. Don’t let it scare you, or you’ll never reap the joyous rewards of watching something grow. Instead, arm yourself with knowledge and you will find the strength to build and maintain the chosen garden of your life.

The Concrete Foundation of Meaux Lumber

BOYD MEAUX, CARROLL FONTENOT, CHUCK MEAUX

I’ve never been very skillful with tools except for hammering nails or making funny sounds with a hand saw. So when I had to install a rail on some steps at my mom’s house, I asked my brother Joey for help. I volunteered to purchase all of the supplies in hopes that he’d take charge of the project, and all I’d have to do was hold screwdrivers and make snacks.

Unfortunately, buying the materials for a homemade handrail proved to be more challenging than I had initially thought. Aside from the many different sized pipes, I also needed screws that could be drilled into concrete.

Do those really exist? I wondered. Couldn’t we just super glue it?

The inside of most hardware stores usually intimidated me because of my lack of knowledge as well as the lack of available help. But luckily I did my shopping where customer service is one of the many values drilled into a concrete foundation.

Located at 402 East 11th Street in Kaplan, Meaux Lumber was opened over sixty years ago by the late Harry Meaux. His sons, Ronnie and Gene eventually joined the business and now his grandsons, Chuck and Boyd have a stake in the ownership.

“My grandpa helped a lot of Kaplan residents during World War II when lumber was in short supply,” said Chuck. “He developed a good reputation, so after the war, people hired him to build their houses.”

Meaux Lumber’s product line includes (but is not limited to) doors, windows, plumbing and electrical supplies, hand, gardening and power tools and cabinetry grade hard woods such as oak, maple and poplar. They are licensed residential building contractors, but also fix roofs and do minor home repairs.

“The core of our business is residential building,” says Chuck. “Although I like working in the store, I prefer working on the house projects because they’re more challenging.”

According to Chuck, the toughest part of the construction business is orchestrating the various details involved in the process. This proves to be even more difficult when uncontrollable factors such as weather play a role.

“I learned from my grandpa that the most important aspect of this business is to make sure the customer is happy at all costs,” says Chuck. “When we do a good job, our reputation will help us get another house to build. But if the customer isn’t happy, we might lose two or three.”

First cousins, Boyd and Chuck, started loading trucks and making deliveries at the family business when they were fifteen. Over time, they both left for college and to pursue other interests. But as Meaux Lumber grew, the two men returned to take more active roles.

“Anytime you have a business with family, it’s hard to separate the two,” says Boyd. Consciously knowing is the first step in keeping everything running smoothly.”

When I went to Meaux Lumber for my interview, I couldn’t help but joyfully notice the extra-wide parking spots. Although this may be a minor detail to some, I found it particularly comforting that I could open my car door all the way and didn’t have to suck in my gut to exit.

At first glance, the inside of the building was very similar to most hardware stores. Multi-colored boxes of nails and screws were neatly stacked on shelves, and paintbrushes, duct tape and various tools hung from pegs on a wall.

But a closer look revealed a product that not all stores carry. Mementos like taxidermy mounts, family pictures and old newspaper advertisements hung throughout the building. None of these were for sale, but instead represented values Harry Meaux worked hard to achieve; experience, quality, trust and family pride.


I learned this from personal experience when I purchased the supplies for my mom’s handrail from Chuck. He took the time to explain how the concrete screws worked, and told me to call if I had any problems. He probably spent fifteen minutes helping me even though my total purchase only came out to a few dollars.

Although I had to work harder than I’d initially planned, my brother, Joey and I successfully installed the handrail. I look at it daily, and am reminded of what family members can build when they work together. This is all thanks to the Meaux family, and their concrete foundation.

For more information on the products and services offered by Meaux Lumber, call 643-7465.

ME PRETENDING TO DRIVE A FORKLIFT

Strength to Climb a Mountain

Several years ago, I lived in Lausanne, Switzerland at the bottom of what the Swiss called, “a large hill”. Geologists would probably call it the same, but to a Louisiana boy like me, who got winded when walking up a flight of stairs, it was a full-fledge mountain.

Most of the businesses of the town were located at the top, where there were breath-taking views of the Alps, Lake Leman (Geneva), and Evian, France. It was a magical place, where I spent most of my days and longed to live forever.

To get to the top, my options were a ten-minute bus ride or a twenty-five minute uphill walk. For my first few weeks in Lausanne, I opted for the public transportation because it was faster and easier, and the thought of climbing the mountain without sherpas and oxygen tanks made my head hurt.

I didn’t have the strength to walk to the top of Lausanne, because I thought I’d just climbed up my own mountain in New York. I’d written a book, and planted my flag in the ground in hopes of claiming the territory known as Success. But after almost two years from the date I typed, “The End,” on my story, no publisher wanted to hear it. I felt like I was still at base camp in the land of Failure.

I was mentally and financially broke, and had severely damaged my business career by taking the time off to focus on writing. So my friend, Heather, swooped in like a super hero and took me into her Swiss home. I was there to rest, and decide if I would try to continue my climb towards my dreams, or instead find another flatter course.

So I had no interest in climbing to the new mountain to get to the center of Lausanne. Even though I missed the scenery along the way, the bus was fine for me. Walking wasn’t worth the work and sweat, when I could simply relax and be lifted to the top.

But one cold afternoon while I sat at the bus stop, I began to have a change of heart. I was obsessing about my failure as a writer, and had to move before I died creatively right there on that bench. I needed to walk, but to where? I was already at the bottom, and the only place was up.

Then I began to take note of the people passing by me on their way to the top. There were school children riding on bicycles, a mother pushing a stroller and a senior citizen rolling her wheelchair up the steep incline.

Am I that weak? I thought. Is it really better to sit here at the bottom and die rather than sweat a little to get to the top?

“No,” I said standing up. “I can do this. I have to do this.”

So I climbed. Immediately my heart and lungs began pumping like I was jogging, but my steps were only taking me about ten feet every two minutes. I continued though, to prove that I was not defeated, and was stronger than children and an old lady in a wheelchair.

But then the sky turned dark, and snow began to fall to the ground. Not pretty little flakes that children in fairytales wake up to on Christmas morning. But big hard balls of ice that pelted my face like giant spitballs shot through cannons.

I was in a blizzard, and the course of my journey became more confusing and challenging. My feet slipped with each step, and I soon lost hope in reaching the top. My new goal had become to get to the next bus stop.

But then a flash of revolving color appeared like a light at the end of a tunnel. It looked liked a giant candy cane spinning around, but when I got closer, saw that it was a barber’s pole. I was only halfway up the mountain and didn’t really need a haircut, but the thought of sitting in a nice warm room while someone snipped away my ice filled locks, seemed my only reasonable option.

So I entered the barber’s shop with a hope of being saved while the heavy storm covered the town in a blanket of snow. But I hadn’t taken more than a few steps when a new obstacle in the form of a cow-sized poodle ran out from behind a large velvet curtain and barked and growled at me.

A heavy-set man wearing a bizarre smile appeared a few seconds later. The blizzard began to seem more appealing, but before I could step away, the barber sat me down in a chair and lowered the back until my head leaned into a sink. Without any explanation, he disappeared behind the curtain for a minute. When he returned, classical music filled the air and slowly warmed my body like an electric blanket.

He washed my hair with Mozart, but cut it with Beethoven. His hands danced across my locks like those of a conductor leading an orchestra, and on staccato notes, he cut one strand at a time.

I had feared the outcome, but a look in the mirror reflected one of the best haircuts I’d ever received. Then as if on cue, the blizzard stopped and the sun shone down on beautiful Lausanne, and through the barbershop window.

I made my way to the top of the mountain that day, and enjoyed my prize of the picturesque land below me. A week later, I was rewarded again when I received an email from my agent stating that not one, but two publishers wanted to buy my book.

I haven’t climbed my own personal mountain yet, but I’ve made progress. I now know that I am meant to be a writer, and have a clearer idea of my journey. There are times when I encounter other blizzards, and am not sure if I’ll ever reach the top of where I’m heading. But at least now, I know that I am capable of getting somewhere. At least now, I have the strength to enjoy the scenery along the way.

The Simplest of Sounds

Whenever I drive my mom anywhere, she searches the side of the road for aluminum cans. She’ll tell me explicit details about them, and share her thoughts on re-sale value.

“A red smashed Coke can wrapped in a paper bag!” she’ll exclaim. “Five cents and we can recycle the paper.”

I admire my mom’s instincts to want to keep Vermilion Parish clean, and her ability to spot a nickel a mile down the road. But when I’m focusing on driving or listening to the radio or trying to explain to her that I do indeed have a job, her CAN-nouncements aren’t as endearing.

“Two Dr. Peppers! That’s ten cents!”

“I was in the middle of a sentence, Mom,” I’ll say louder than needed. “Please don’t yell out can thoughts while I’m speaking.”

“I’m sorry,” she’ll say.

Then I’ll feel like the worst son in the world. Guilt punches me in the stomach, and I search for the words to apologize. But my mom speaks first.

“A twenty-ounce Arizona ice tea! Oh wait, that’s a paper cup. Why do people litter?’

Hearing my mom’s can thoughts is something I took for granted until I interviewed Lindsay Aguilar Levier, owner and Dispensing Audiologist of Louisiana Hearing Specialists, LLC. Opened in Abbeville in 2009, the business administers hearing tests and sells a variety of hearing aids, earphones and other audio devices.

“I decided to become an audiologist after working with children at The Baton Rouge Speech and Hearing Foundation,” said Levier. “It was amazing to see them communicate in a non-traditional way. Missing your child say, ‘I love you’ is heartbreaking. I wanted to help.”

Levier has a Masters of Arts with a concentration in Communication Science and Disorders from LSU. With over ten years of experience in audiology, Levier has worked for Miracle Ear, various Ear, Nose and Throat specialists, and the Louisiana School for the Deaf.

“The most challenging part of my job is trying to find a hearing aid for someone with monetary restraints,” says Levier. “It’s very disappointing when I can’t help someone feel and hear better.”

According to Levier, the best part of her job is helping people hear the simplest of sounds that they hadn’t heard in a long time. She had one customer who had forgotten the sound of a buzzing wasp.

“My most memorable experience was with a woman whose husband was dying in the nursing home,” says Levier. “When she put the hearing aid on, she broke down in tears. Her husband died a few days later, but she was so thankful that they had those few moments together.”

Levier suggests having your hearing checked once a year. She says that you should never put anything in your ear smaller than an elbow, and that the largest threat to our hearing is noise exposure.

“The biggest complaint I get is that people can hear, but they can’t understand,” says Levier. “So I find out about their day-to-day activities in order to select the best hearing device for them. I listen to them so they can hear.”

Levier attempted to give me a hearing test by use of a Video Otoscope. A monitor displayed the inside of my ear, which looked like an underwater cave filled with mountains of gold.

“That’s ear wax,” Levier said. “We can’t continue with the hearing test because it interferes with the results.”

I was extremely embarrassed of my improper ear hygiene, but Levier said that she’s seen her share of waxy lobes. She refers customers with gold in their ears to their General Practitioner or Ear, Nose and Throat physician.

Later that day when my mom and I were headed home, I thought about the man who had forgotten the simplest of sounds like a buzzing wasp. Although I wasn’t always in the mood to hear flying insects or about how many cans were in a ditch, the thought of never hearing them again scared me.

My mom had been quiet even though we’d past at least six cans. I missed her voice, and for some reason did something very strange.

“A Pepsi and a Red Bull!” I shouted. “That’s five cents.”

Although my mom’s can thoughts were distracting at times, I didn’t want to ever stop hearing them. But at that moment, the simplest of sounds was on a break.

“Good job spotting the cans,” my mom said. “But if you don’t mind, I’m trying to listen to the radio.”

For more information on the services offered by Louisiana Hearing, call 337-706-8176.

Strength to Dance in the Rain

In most intimate relationships there are daily challenges. Some are mildly inconvenient, but others collect like thick fog in the air, and eventually form into black clouds. Then one day they thunder and burst open into a full-fledge storm, all because of an incident as simple as a dirty pair of underwear left on a bathroom floor.

Many of my relationships ended over trivial issues because I was too weak to handle the stress of a significant other. Sometimes I’d burst the black clouds myself by consciously waving my Fruit of the Looms in the air before letting them fall to the ground like an ax on a chicken’s neck.

But there are those couples who open an umbrella for the storm, or mop up the excess run-off of life so their relationship can flourish. There are those who find the strength.

My brother Mike married his high school sweetheart, Tina Simon when they were both teenagers. In their thirty-five years as husband and wife, they’ve faced many challenges, but have managed to stay together. Their reward has been four beautiful children, and strength for another thirty-five years.

“We began our lives together as best friends, and over the years we have become soul mates,” says Tina. “I am so proud of the life we’ve made together and I thank God for blessing me with such an amazing man.”

Mike has worked in law enforcement since 1982, and is currently the Vermilion Parish Sheriff. According to Tina, as her husband moved through the ranks of his career, there were many bumps along the way. But the roughest were the fifteen and a half years when he worked as a narcotics agent. During this period, he spent a lot of time away from home and was exposed to dangerous situations.

“I found the strength to deal with his absence through prayer and my children,” Tina said. “God kept me sane, and the kids kept me busy.”

Tina channeled her energy towards her children’s education and development. She substituted at school, taught catechism, and took an active role in the Beta Club.

“I not only wanted to be part of our children’s home life,” said Tina. “I wanted to be part of their educational years, spiritual growth and extra-curriculum activities.”

Another great challenge for the couple was during Mike’s campaign for Sheriff. They worked together for sixty hours a week during an eighteen-month period. Their four children joined the crusade, and through moments of sadness, joy, excitement and exhaustion, they found the strength for a victory.

“There were times when we had to give each other pep talks,” said Tina. “But we were so in touch with one another that we found ourselves finishing each other’s sentences and silently thinking the same things.”

I initially wanted to write this story about Tina to hear where she found the strength to be married to a man in both law enforcement and politics. But during our interview, I was surprised to see how well my sister-in-law took the situation in stride.

“It’s hard to view Mike being Sheriff as a challenge after what we went through when he worked in narcotics,” said Tina. “Now he comes home at night so we have more time together. The rough patches made us stronger today.”

I sat on this story for two weeks, a bit irritated that Tina wasn’t having a hard time being married to a Sheriff. Didn’t she know I had an agenda? Was I going to have to make something up to give the column a little spice? But then, as if the universe heard me, inspiration rode up to me on horseback.

It was the late afternoon before my deadline for the column, and as I sat at my desk staring at a blank page, I heard noises coming from outside. I opened my window blinds and saw Mike and Tina on horseback working cattle in the pasture. My first look at the couple was the two of them riding side by side. Their backs were to me, and as they got further away, it was as if someone was standing beside me whispering the story that needed to be written.

Since I am much, much, (much) younger than Mike and Tina, I’ve always known them as a couple. I would often sleep at their home, and catch intimate glimpses of their relationship. There were tough moments, but there were many more filled with happiness, trust and love.

But the recent moment I watched of Mike and Tina on horseback was the most powerful. It was a story of best friends who are human like the rest of us. They’ve been through storms, but stood strong as the black clouds thundered above them.

Both my brother and sister-in-law have been a large part of my life. I believe in them, and their lasting relationship has proven to me that I am capable of having my own. I know that neither of them would ever hurt the other or their family. It is the trust they’ve built over the years that will give them the strength for any storms in the future.

“Mike is the one I can count on to be there for me, to believe in me and to care about me,” says Tina. “Together, we have given one another the strength to conquer all of the challenges that have come our way. We have learned to dance in the rain.”

Training to be a Hero

I had many different jobs in my life, and each one required some sort of training. I’ve gone to archery school, taken computer courses and sat through seminars on how to perfectly fold jeans. Most of the information was necessary, but I often found my attention wandering to other places, unconcerned with the consequences of an improperly folded pair of Levis.

But there are those jobs where being focused during training can be a matter of life and death. Take for example the fire fighter, who trains by getting in a trailer, which is then ignited.

“It’s called a Flash Over Trailer,” says Matt Suire, Assistant Fire Chief of the Abbeville Fire Department. “It trains fire fighters to read how a fire’s gases travel. This way they can prevent the flames from spreading.”

Every new rookie fire fighter trains for fourteen weeks at the LSU Fire Fighting School. In addition to being set on fire, they take classes on climbing ladders, handling hoses and using breathing apparatuses.

“The most important subject the instructors teach is personal safety,” says Suire. “When you go into a fire, you have to watch out for your partner and yourself.”

Suire started his career as a fire fighter back in 1980, and is no stranger to dangerous situations. About five years into his job, the second floor of a burning building collapsed beneath his feet. He fell to the ground floor and broke his ankle.

“Luckily there were other fire fighters inside who pulled me out,” says Suire. “Toxic gases and structures collapsing are two of the biggest dangers when fighting fire.”

According to Suire, every fire fighter is required to have twenty hours of training per month. In addition to controlling fires, the department also responds to medical emergencies. Other responsibilities include inspecting hydrants, public education and pre-fire planning with businesses.

“We keep a file on all of the commercial buildings in Abbeville,” says Suire. “Every business in town has an information sheet with a diagram of the structure. It has who to contact, and lets us know if there are any hazardous materials on the premise.”

Suire was named Abbeville Fire Fighter of the Year as a rookie, and again in 2009. He says the best part of his job is helping the public.

“I have many memorable moments with the fire department,” says Suire. “People are so grateful when we help them. It’s what I love about my job.”

I recently interviewed Suire at the Abbeville Fire Station on West Vermilion Street. While there, I met other members of the team including Fire Chief Elvin Michaud, Captain Jack Harrington, Fire Fighter First Class Brady Barras and Secretary to the Chief, Charlie Romero.

I was given a tour of the facility, which included fire proof uniforms neatly hanging on pegs, coiled up hoses and a variety of different fire trucks. One, called a Tender, holds three thousand gallons of water, and another one is equipped with the Jaws of Life.

MATT SUIRE AND BRADY BARRAS WITH JAWS OF LIFE

Suire and Barras even showed me a public education trailer the department uses to teach school children about fire safety. Don’t worry parents and teachers because this trailer, unlike the Flash Over Trailer, isn’t set on fire. It does however produce smoke, and kids learn how to crawl out safely.

One of the most interesting parts of my tour was the bunkroom. Since fire fighters work in twenty-four hour shifts, they are required to sleep at the station. I love my job at the newspaper, but I’m not sure I’d be wiling to spend the night at the Abbeville Meridional.


But writing is a solo profession, whereas the career of a fire fighter requires cohesiveness. Individually they are human beings with the spirit and courage to help others. It is through teamwork and their continuous training that they become most powerful and transform into heroes.

Anyone interested in becoming a fire fighter will need to take the Civil Service test. For information on dates, call 337-893-1831.

Strength for the First Day of the Rest of Your Life

One of my life’s pleasures when I was a child was chewing gum. I loved its taste, and the way I could maneuver it through every crevice of my mouth. I blew bubble after bubble, and entertained myself with one stick for hours on end. Big Red, Juicy Fruit, Bubalicious, Hubba Bubba, and Trident. Those were my childhood friends who stood by me thick and thin, or at least until their flavor dissolved.

Then on the Mardi Gras when I was six-years-old, my relationship with gum took a new turn. I was sitting on my bed and taking inventory of all I’d caught at the Kaplan parade. There were peppermints, Mary Janes, Chicklets and lollipops that melted into gum. I felt thankful for my treasures, and lined them up in the order I was going to devour them.

But my dad walked into my room, interrupting my plans for domination over the sweets. He was there to recommend that I forgo one of my life’s pleasures as my penitence for Lent. He said that through self-denial for forty days, I’d be re-born on Easter Sunday and would be filled with strength.

“If I can’t chew gum, the only thing that’s going to be stronger is my breath,” I said.

I think I might have burped and then tried to give my dad a high five. But unfortunately, he didn’t always find me as hilarious as I found myself. So his recommendation for penitence suddenly became a punishment, and my pile of Mardi Gras treasures was taken from me like candy from a baby.

Gone were the Mary Janes and magic lollipops that melted into gum. Gone were the chocolate doubloons and candy that I couldn’t identify, but was sure was delicious. Even gum related products were confiscated, leaving me alone to drown in a pool of tears as my dad carried away my baseball cards, Booza Joe jokes, and a Hubba Bubba t-shirt.

My first week of Lent consisted of basic childhood tantrums. These included, but were not limited to, a hunger strike, kicks and screams, and threats to either go blind or run away and live in the forest with my imaginary pet alligator.

The second and third weeks, the tears stopped. But my fight continued on as I walked around our house shirtless in political protest against having my Hubba Bubba t-shirt ripped from my body.

By week four, I knew I had lost the argument. So for the rest of Lent, I changed my focus from protesting, to finding anything in our house that resembled gum. My brothers had eaten all of their Mardi Gras stash, so I searched desk drawers, in-between sofa cushions and through my momma’s old purses. I was finally successful when I found an old cough drop on the floor of the family car. For ten whole minutes, I sat in the back seat sucking on the Halls and pretending it was a Chicklet. A dirt flavored Chicklet.

Then Easter morning came, and before the sun rose, my eyes popped opened like someone had scared me or sprayed me in the face with vinegar. It was still dark, but imagines of Dentyne and Bubalicious danced before me and led me down our hallway to our living room.

To avoid waking anyone in our house, I carried a flashlight and shone its beam underneath our front picture window. There stood a row of baskets filled with chocolate covered rabbits, marshmallow chickens and gum that looked like robin’s eggs.

I stepped towards my prize, fantasizing about pouring the candy all over me. It would be a rain of life’s pleasures, softly kissing my skin before it floated down to my feet.

But before my hand could touch the Easter basket, before I could rip open the cellophane, before I could even smell the sweetness of my reward, my conquest was interrupted. A glow of light seemed to evolve from thin air as if conjured up by a mystical force. But after I caught my breath, I realized it was only my dad turning on a table lamp.

“Happy Easter,” he said. “Right after mass, I’ll give you back your Mardi Gras candy and you’ll be able to open up your basket.”

Regardless of how much I cried or begged or even reasoned, there was no changing my dad’s mind. The few hours I had to wait for my Easter basket were the toughest of the forty days of Lent. Every inch of my body pulsated in pain, and I seriously wondered if I would die before ever blowing a bubble from the robin’s eggs made of gum.

But several years later, I realized that it wasn’t death I was experiencing. It was re-birth. My dad’s promise had been kept, and I was no longer the freewheeling gum chewer who let the likes of Juicy Fruit and Big Red control him.

To honor my late dad, I continue to give up gum for Lent. It’s not as difficult anymore because I’ve outgrown it. But it reminds me of what I can accomplish, and that I have the power to be born again whenever I wish.

To many Christians, this Easter Sunday is about the resurrection of Jesus Christ. To others, it has different religious significance. But regardless of how you celebrate, or what you believe, this day is the first day of the rest of your life. Like spring flowers fertilized with strength as they sprout through the dead leaves of winter, it is our time to blossom.