There is Southern, and there is Louisiana....

I grew up on Caddo Lake in Shreveport. We did not have much money so we rented somebody's fishing cabin. I was not very fond of the cabin because there were lizards on the screens, and frogs on the ground, and probably a few water moccasins lurking around. Mother loved being there. She went out every morning after we got on the school bus, and she put a fishing line in the water. She did her housework and then went out and pulled in her line, which usually had a fish on it. There was an old boat close to our pier so she got in that also and paddled around. We ate a lot of red beans and rice, salad with the mayonnaise already in it when served, hush puppies, sweet tea, and catfish.

We had to move to Houston when I was about 15, because Daddy got transferred with Gulf Oil. I hated coming to Houston. I missed all the pine trees, the lake, the moss in the trees, even the lizards and frogs that I finally got used to. If we were tall enough to put our hand with money in it over the bar top in Shreveport, we could get alcohol. We could play cajun music and go to the Louisiana Hayride and see Elvis, and Johnny Cash, and whoever else was too outrageous for the Grand Old Opry. What I like most of all were Race Records or the black artists like Little Richard (are we both still alive?), Fats Domino, Sarah Vaughn, Dinah Washington, the Drifters. Daddy and I even went to the old Auditorium there to hear Ray Charles when he was starting out, and we were relegated to the White Section. Served us right, I thought. Daddy also took me to the black churches where we parked outside and listened to the music being piped out to the parking lot. There were also other white folks in their cars listening to the black gospel music. Mother loved Mahalia Jackson especially, as much as I love Shirley Caesar and Yolanda Adams now. I did not mind being a poor Episcopalian in Shreveport, because that had some cache to it, but I missed the beat and emotion of the black gospel music we heard in that parking lot.

Over time, I miss Louisiana like a member of my family that is off somewhere. When I cross the border between Texas and Louisiana going to Coushatta to gamble, I get a whiff of the pine trees, and start to see the water and the moss, and feel like I am home again. When Katrina came through and tore up that beautiful state, I felt like a knife was sticking out of my heart for weeks. I thought of all those outrageous times I spent in New Orleans at Miss Kitty's bar and other nefarious places, all in ruins now. We certainly can't go back and relive any of that now. It's all different, cleaner, scarier, has more crime, and is in ruins.

So, I guess I'll eat some crawfish at Mardi Gras Restaurant in Houston with Jessica Newman from Ponchatoula, Clara Sandel from Florien in mid-state , Marsha Mabry from Ruston, Kit Cutrone, the mad Italian Coonass from all over Louisiana, and the rest of you who know exactly what I mean when I say there just isn't any other place in the States like Our Home State.
When I have time, I think I'll go visit Madame LeVeaux's grave in New Orleans; she was the voodoo queen who ruled that area for some time. Or I'll drive to Avery Island and see the Tabasco Company again, and the wild life. I know once again that I am a displaced person with Golden Handicuffs whose head and money is in one place, and heart is in another. Story of my life.

Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez!, y'all.

The Blue Dog Story

I am from Shreveport, Louisiana, and ate often at the original Landry's (before King Fertitta got the restaurants away from the family). There were usually on the walls some rather odd art of people in the swamps, usually dressed in turn of the century clothes, sometimes an alligator, lots of moss, and unappealing to me. I never thought much about the art or the artist, but I knew I didn't want any of it.
I was at a garage sale in Houston some time later, and the seller had some reproductions of the Mardi Gras or Jazz Fest poster, featuring a weird looking blue dog, sometimes more than one, and it had an instant impact on me. I thought, "I have to have one of these blue dogs in my house." Then I found out that the paintings started at $5,000, and the signed prints started at $300. This was certainly out of my league. In my neighborhood, I could see into one house that had some framed prints on the walls and I was even thinking of how I could steal their prints. When I found out a K9 cop lived there, I gave up the idea.
Maria Resendez Hughes, my artist friend, and I went to New Orleans as part of her time-share deal, and stopped in Lafayette. We saw signs saying, "Blue Dog Gallery," so we stopped by. The signed prints were still pricey at $285, so we ate at that downtown famous cafe and went on to New Orleans. When we got there, there was another Blue Dog Gallery in the French Quarter. Everything was about double of what the Lafayette gallery had. So, on the way back, I got my Blue Dog print, had it framed in Houston, and it has been hanging in my house since then.
George Rodrigue is the artist. When he was divorcing wife #1, he gave her some prints and paintings as part of the deal. And cutie pie wife #2, blonde and young, is in the newer paintings and prints. Need I say more?
I thought about buying another print from his company and the signed prints start at $850. Think about this, the dog always looks exactly the same in each print, even if the print background is somewhat different. And people like me just fall all over themselves buying these things. Sometimes I wonder about myself. But ain't nobody going to get my Blue Dog.