Elbow Deep in Relatives and Crawfish in Hammond, Louisiana

There are some stories that take a long time to find their natural conclusion.

That is, you have a piece of a story, something interesting to work with, but you don't get the fitting end until some as-yet-undetermined time later.

The nutria story was kind of like that. I knew something odd had happened on that night back in '91, but I didn't know what to do with it until years later when I got married and realized that the nutria had led in some way to the marriage.

***

I feel like the trip to Louisiana we just took is similar. Still, I'm going to march out what I've got thus far.

***

My sister and I had meant to make this trip for quite some time. Our grandmother Babbi moved to Hammond a few years ago. She has had some substantial health issues since then, and we feared we might never see her again.

So we'd thrown the idea around here and there, but the stars hadn't aligned correctly until now.

***

The flight was one of the best I've ever had. I didn't know we were landing until the wheels hit the runway.

I met Sis there in the Louis Armstrong International Airport, and we were on our way. I'd secured a good rate on a compact rental car, but as we arrived at the Alamo lot, the guy in front of us took the last one in our category.

The Alamo rep told us to just take a PT Cruiser. An off-white one and a yellow one were available. Naturally, Sis wanted the yellow one.

***

I'm a good driver, but my navigational skills are suspect at best. We got turned around for the first of many times, but finally headed north across Lake Ponchartrain to the Ponchatoula/Hammond area.

We talked a bit about cultural identity, and tried to put a label on ours.

We're from a Texas town that's not too small, but not big (about 25,000 when I left in '90 if I recall). I'm not a redneck, but here in the DFW area I still feel like a yokel sometimes. I'm comfortable in my cowboy boots, but I don't wear a cowboy hat. I've always fished just a bit, but never did anything resembling serious hunting. My radio classes taught me to lose my
accent, and though I'm proud when people tell me I sound like a broadcaster, I can slip back into it quite easily, thank you. I've had people in Ft. Worth joke about my redneck ways, and people from where I grew up joke about my city ways.

What am I? What are we, Sis and I? Suburbanites? Rednecks? Suburbanecks?

***

I hadn't been to see this wing of the family since 1975, best I can recall. Sis went there in the mid-80s.

We were starving, and stopped at a Wendy's in Ponchatoula for lunch. That proved to be a bit of a bad call, as our family members were awaiting our arrival and wanted to get lunch.

So we called them, and it was quite an emotional scene there at the Wendy's as we saw them for the first time in years. Babbi's eyes filled up with tears. She was ready to hop out of the car right there, but we told her we were going to go somewhere else for the family to eat.

We hit a family-owned buffet place. Sis and I had desserts while the family had their meals.

There we were joined by second cousin Stephen. He and I simply could not remember whether we'd ever met, but as it turned out, it didn't matter. He's a warm, jovial, really easy-to-spend-time-with sort of guy.

We stayed at the buffet until mid-afternoon, then headed to the hotel to rest a bit.

***

I won't keep laying out the moment-by-moment details of the trip. We had a lot of highlights for sure, many of which included food. I thought we'd hit a high point Friday night when we ate at a classy, really tasty Chinese place in town with Stephen and his girlfriend of 24 years, Gwen.

But not 24 hours later we were all outdoors, elbows-deep in a genuine crawfish boil. There cousin Stephanie (whom I DO recall seeing in '75) joined us. It had been a while since I'd been to a crawfish boil. My lips burned, my stomach stretched, and I was in Heaven, really felt in my element.

Bad weather threatened all weekend, and though it never really hit us, the wind started getting strong and cold at the crawfish meal. And I've gotta say, I think I'll always have in my mind a snapshot of Sis trying to warm up Babbi, holding her for a long time, rocking back and forth with eyes closed.

It was really a weekend full of simple, wholesome pleasures. Heck, even when I took a wrong turn and almost put us on a 24-mile bridge back to New Orleans it seemed perfect in a way. Sis was full of coffee, and I gather the idea of heading into the swamp for relief didn't appeal to her. We turned around in Manchac though.

***

We also took a tour of the Destrehan Plantation, which was a good way to spend a couple hours. Some of the plant life is just starting to bloom, just starting to fill the air with nice aromas. We marveled at how those folks lived. We saw a painting of a Destrehan family member who had died from the lead in the makeup she'd used.

***

We spent some time wandering Ponchatoula and Hammond, semi-lost, but always willing to stop someplace to check it out. So there I was, the Suburbaneck in a bright yellow PT Cruiser, feeling about as un-cowboy as I could in that car. But eating all those crawfish balanced that out nicely.

***

Six hours after eating the crawfish my right hand burned like it was on fire. My guts did just fine.

So fine, in fact, that at 9pm I hit a Tex Mex joint for chiles rellenos.

***

Sunday we had a few hours before our flight, so we regrouped at Beverly's house. It was a gorgeous day, really a revelation after the two grey, threatening days we'd had. Everyone sat outside, mostly, and chatted about whatever. There were Babbi ("Peeny" to her Hammond kin) and Beverly (what was her nickname again, Sis?), the oldest and youngest of three sisters
who'd had polio decades and decades before. Beverly told us how the family had been told she'd never walk again, and indeed, she spent a year unable to do so.

But an uncle visited once, and she announced that she'd walk for him. She got up, and with some help, took four steps. She's been walking ever since.

She was four years old.

***

The middle sister, Marian, passed a couple years ago in Tampa, and we fell into a couple moments of silent remembrance.

But we were all there together, visiting, very much alive and celebrating the fact. We shared our love of Babbi in words and embraces and pecks on the cheek. I don't know if I could have scripted it any better.

***

Stephen and Gwen were gregarious, terrific hosts, and really went far above and beyond to see that we had a good time. They were never short on ideas or inspiration, yet managed to be understanding when travel fatigue set in and we had to stop down to rest here and there.

Now I've gotta get MOBB out there to meet all those crazy-ass Cajuns!

***

By the way, Stephen assures me that nutria are good eatin'. Well, as long as you don't get one that's TOO big, or it'll be tough.

I'm just sayin'.