Remembering

My grandfather passed away last night after a rather quick bout with leukemia.

J and I were lucky enough to have visited last spring before he knew he was sick. Our visit to Terrebonne Parish was highlighted by lots of food, laughter, and culture. J found a soul mate on that trip, someone who wore snap-down cowboy shirts nearly every day (a fashion statement that J wishes he could pull off at the office). It was an amazing trip for both of us, but for different reasons. J had never been to Louisiana, eaten a crawfish, or had hush puppies, but most importantly, he had never shared this part of my life. For me, it was a wonderful opportunity to explore the place that lingers as faint memories from my childhood, but holds such a rich history for the generations of my family that have settled no further than 20 or 30 minutes from their birthplace.

We took a bit of a driving tour down to Montegut where my mother was born and raised. It felt good to see that day the parts of Louisiana that were so important to my grandfather. We followed the road through Montegut literally to its end -- if you wanted to go any further, you'd need a boat. Paw-paw's eyes would light up whenever he talked about the water. He knew every inch of the bayous and could recall every storm and change over the years with brilliant clarity.

I regret that I never bothered to ask him how he made his rabbit stew. It's probably one of the most simple, yet delicious dishes I've tasted. I also wish that I sat down to talk to him sooner to hear all of his stories about life as a commercial fisherman, working on the giant oil rigs, or hell, how it felt to grow up in one of the weirdest yet, most incredible places in the country. (If only I had started my blog five years earlier, all of the history I could tell).

At the same time, some of my fondest memories are of me and him sitting in our back yard in Atlanta. One summer, I forced him to listen to one of my hideous Cabbage Patch Kids cassette tapes over and over and over while he whittled a bow and arrow out of some spare sticks. He was an amazing woodworker and I'd like to think some of Paw-paw's industriousness rubbed off on me a little -- his devilish streak certainly did. Even though he was moving slowly on that last visit, my grandmother still shielded her rear in family photos. He was constantly on the hunt for the best opportunity give her a goose. You can see by the cheer in his eyes (and the grimace on her face) that he found that opportunity just before we headed for the airport.

Goodbye, Paw-Paw. You will be missed.