The theme for this trip seems to be ‘getting lost’. I took the long way around Washington that first night, became turned back on myself the next day on Norfolk’s ring road, thought I had blown by my exit in Myrtle Beach (in that case I was just impatient), and I even missed a turn while following my friend to her home in Orlando (as in she was two cars ahead!). That was just the first week. Savannah, San Antonio, Albuquerque and Shreveport, the list of wrong-ways and missed turns goes on and on. Heck, I even needed Google Maps to navigate my home town. I have been ‘not exactly aware of my current location’ more times since February than during the decade before. My next stop was no exception.
Opelousas, Louisiana is a mid-sized town ten or so miles north of Lafayette. Appalousa Territory when the French first established a trading post, it was next claimed by early Creole and Acadian arrivals, ceded to Spain in 1762, then acquired by the U.S during (you guessed it!) the Louisiana purchase. Confederate during ‘the War of Northern Aggression’, Opelousas was the state capitol during the interval Baton Rouge was held by Union troops. The area struggled during reconstruction, with severe restrictions placed on the movements of persons of color, and in 1868 it was the site of the largest reported massacre of Freedmen. The twentieth century brought a reputation as a corridor of ill repute. These days it is the home to the Creole Heritage Folklife Center and the hub of zydeco music.
Of course I knew none of this when I exited the highway. All I knew was turn right, turn right, and look for the hospital. In my defense, progress was stymied by orange cone-lined roads and detour signs. After many well-intentioned turns (including one that took me past the Old Federal Courthouse) I declared defeat in the parking lot of a large red-brick structure that I hoped would be a recognizable landmark. It turned out to be the Saint Landry Catholic Church, one of the oldest in this region of the country. My friend Minerva* arrived quickly to collect me. She lived just two streets away.
This visit was another of those unexpected and meaningful gifts that almost didn’t happen that I’ve received time and again during this voyage. I had met Minerva years before, in Vegas. Kenny, her youngest brother, had been killed in the same accident as Kevin. During the first year we had become close, and I had been the one she had called, raw with outrage and pain after an Air Force representative had cold called the family, informed them additional remains had been discovered, and asked where to have them delivered. But she’d had a little one to keep her busy, life goes on, and over time we had lost touch. At some point while driving through Texas I had the thought it would be nice to leave flowers at Kenny’s grave, to let the family know someone still remembered. Once in for the night I found his resting place on line (the internet is AMAZING) and came across her name in the obituary. I dashed off a Facebook** friend request, and within minutes we had arranged to meet.
Her home was filled with love: the accumulated possessions of her, her husband recently passed; her daughter now away at school; and her husband’s mother’s last years. Bouquets of silk flowers were tastefully placed on most lateral surfaces, and the shelves lining the dining room were covered with photos: her two older sons, her mother and father, her husband and daughter, and Kenny, his smiling portrait placed lovingly next to a plate commemorating President Obama’s inauguration. The next hour was spent in her well-appointed family room, feeling each other out and entertaining her dog before heading out for lunch.
I rode shotgun in her bright orange sedan, as the eclectic downtown architecture passed outside the window: multi-story red brick federal buildings, worn and discolored with age interspersed with low, swooping mid-century moderne buildings, titles still written in loopy cursive above their wide-paned glass storefronts. The narrow cement-block streets reminded me of my hometown as the seams cla-clunked under our tires. Over lunch we continued our conversation: catching up on those still with us, lovingly reminiscing about people long gone (but not forgotten), and sharing our experiences as surviving spouses (she was at the stage where the paperwork was complete and she had to begin making decisions).
After lunch we went to the Memorial Park. It was south of town, bordered by pine groves and equestrian farms. Minerva had not visited in a while; her father had become so upset the last time he’d been hospitalized, and she hadn’t wanted to visit alone. We cleared lawn debris from the marker, righted the fallen angels left to watch over him, and placed a new boquet of flowers, red, white and blue to commemorate the forth of July, in the vase. Minerva told me the stories of those resting alongside: two children killed in an car accident, a teen who had choked on a snack (her poor parents unaware in the next room), a mother who had succumbed to a long fight with cancer. We drove back to her home in near silence. Before I left, she confided how much she wished she could reconnect with the squadron members who had reached out to her after the accident. Another Facebook moment- over the next week we were able to do just that.
The next day another friend share the lighter side of Louisiana: Barbecue! One of the joys of this leg of the trip was that I was able to connect with folks I had missed on the drive west This friend had been a colleague in Connecticut, one of our customer liaisons now retired and working part time for an offshore air ambulance operator. Once the steaks (pork chops and burgers) were on the barbie he gave me a tour of he facility. It was the cleanest hangar I’ve ever seen, (seriously, it could give the Thunderbirds a run for their money), every tool in it’s place, every hazard clearly marked, and not only the floor but walls buffed to a shine. He also let me poke around their helicopters. It always fascinates me how work as envisioned by designers differs from work as performed by operators, and how end users accommodate products to suit their needs. My exploration, as always, was a rich learning experience.
Over lunch I met his colleagues: the Director of Maintenance, the Director of Safety, various Aircraft Maintainers and their Office Goddess. I was grateful for how quickly and warmly they welcomed me in; by the end of lunch we were joking and laughing as if we had known each other for years. (The Sikorsky tees in my truck may have helped.) During lunch I met their mascot Crackie, a mid-sized dog of indiscriminate (but likely Sheltie) origin who was more than happy to help with any stray (or not-so-stray) meats. It turns out she used to be one of a pair, the other a grey cat named Smokey who used to keep the hangar free of varmints. Apparently they used to be introduced to visitors (especially oil company executives) as ‘Smoke-n-Crack’. Gotta love that aviation humor!
Belly and heart full, I was back on the road by mid-afternoon, just in time to hit rush-hour traffic in New Orleans. (On the bright side, it is an excellent way to see what sights can be seen.) My next stop would be back in Florida with my friend Marigold.
More soon! (And sooner than last time, I hope!)
*Still changing names to protect the innocent.
** Some of you may have noticed I have shut down my Facebook account. I have mixed feelings about this. Yes, it was fabulous to reconnect with friends old and new, but I also found myself exposed to and mired in some nasty conversations. (In one case my then-home-address was shared as a trophy within a ‘patriot’ community, in another someone in the same community offered to come to said address and help IS ‘FGM’ me and any minor female relations.) I may reconsider this decision in the future, but for now am appreciating the break.
