Senior Daze

by Katie Bourg

About Katie: Having arrived in time for the Great (?) Depression, WWII, and all other 20th century problems, I am endowed with long and varied memories. Writing classes have long been my home away from home. Other people's stories are fascinating, and sharing is growth at its best. Hope you seniors will join me with your stories. Try it. You'll like it.

I'm feeling rather sad right now. It's not depression. It's the news.

In 1985, my husband was ready to realize a long-held dream. He was not from this area. He came from the bayous and cane fields of Louisiana. Like so many other boys, his lifestyle altered with WWII. The draft took him out of his original background and led him north. A Cajun boy who had never seen a snowflake ended up driving convoys through Michigan blizzards. His brother went to sea and on a stateside leave, met a girl in Seattle. When the war was over, Gus chose to visit the Northwest. Except for visits, neither man ever returned to the bayous of their youth. They never forgot them either.

Retirement led to the acquisition of a nice little motorhome. Comfortable, but small enough to make travel easy. Very shortly we were on the road, ready for new adventures. I should have expected it, I suppose, but it was still a shock when we started passing everything I wanted to see. I had spent fifty years thinking about the Alamo. We drove right by it. Had to get to Baton Rouge. So much for leisurely sightseeing.



After several weeks in my sister-in-law's back yard, we traveled on to Florida. Now I would get to see what I came for. We visited the many antebellums. We left the freeway and followed a secondary highway with stately old homes on one side and the Gulf of Mexico on the other. It was lovely. We could pull over anywhere, fix lunch, sit by the blue water while eating. And talk as we never had before.



Our young son flew down to enjoy Epcot with us. We traveled to Saint Augustine and walked all over town, including the old fort. Finally we were saturated with history and ready to start home. We headed back to Baton Rouge, or the little town near it, New Roads. By now, the other Seattle couple was planning to fly down.

Mildred, my sister-in-law, made plans. We would all go to Grand Isle, a long sand spit that extends off the end of land out into the Gulf. A friend generously offered a cabin where everyone could sleep and cook.

With eight people packed into our motorhome, we followed Highway One from Donaldsonville to the Gulf, passing the shrimp boats docked along the Atchafalaya River. We arrived late afternoon, in time to meet one returning with its daily catch. Mildred is a wonderful Cajun cook, and knew what she wanted. We bought 40 pounds of shrimp right off the boat. The rest of the weekend was a gourmet orgy I have never forgotten. I lost track of the many ways Mildred turned shrimp into ambrosia. But I didn't miss a meal.



Gus and I were walkers, and we sure needed to walk off Mildred's gumbo. The beach was a blessing. The soft waves rolled in as we waded in their warmth. The water was a brilliant blue as far as we could see. Way out, we saw some structures floating in the water. We were told they were oil rigs, which looked insignificant then. Everything was so beautiful, and peaceful.

That last morning, I made one last walk on the beach before leaving. I wanted to plant the miles of clean sand, blue water and fresh warm breezes in my mind forever.



For the last month I have been watching television, hoping this latest tragedy would not move west. No such luck. Recent news has shown the beach I loved. I am thinking of the little Cajun man that sold us the shrimp, and that gorgeous beach that never seemed to end. And Mildred's gumbo, crammed full of those sweet, succulent shrimp.

And I just want to cry. Will it ever be the same? I don't think so.



I know we need the oil. But, oh, how high the price.