THE LAWSON’S PEAK BOOKS

Better Times

Things are looking brighter this week.

Last weekend I motored to Lafayette for a screening of the LPB documentary “Native Waters: A Chitimacha Recollection” at the Southern Regional Library.

My cohort in this crime, Charles Richard of UL-Lafayette joined me. I noted to Charles as the film began that I didn’t notice any tomatoes in audience members’ hands, so we should be all right.

It went very well. Far better than getting there. I didn’t know that University was being resurfaced, and I nearly had a nervous break down getting to Johnston Street. This lil’ reservation Injun absolutely, positively hates city driving with ever fiber of my being. Through construction work, and you have all the makings of a mental collapse. I don’t like cities in general, feel the world would be a far better place without them, and my life would be greatly enhanced if I never had to enter one ever again.

Also this week, I was invited to a Fortnightly group meeting where the show was presented again, and to great reception.

The show has been nominated for a regional Emmy Award, called the Suncoast Emmy, and the winner will be announced Dec. 3 in Miami. . . . → Read More: Better Times

Between the Ice and the Sky

(Originally published September, 2006)

My father talked about buying a big camper and heading west, to the Black Hills, and in his pupils I could see Cheyenne and Lakota on horseback dashing over windswept foothills.

Those were the things my father dreamed of. He never lived them. The illness and the age and the years of hard work set in too quickly. But in his eyes, I saw what he saw. I could see him standing there, looking up at the unfinished sculpture of Crazy Horse, his hands in the khaki pockets of his Dickies work pants, a breeze tugging at tufts of gray.

More likely, more steadfastly, I can see him at dusk. After the age set in some, he would put his little bateau in the water behind our house, and tie the bowline off to a tree to fish deep in the bowels of Bayou Teche. Three rods propped up on the gun’ls, his straw Panama hat on his head, but he had adorned it with silver and turquoise and abalone, an Indian man’s hat and he’d watch orange and red and yellow fire span over the sunset, an Indian man’s sunset. Far there to the . . . → Read More: Between the Ice and the Sky

Teddy

I don’t know the workings of my own mind well enough to glean insight into others. But if I could, perhaps I might make sense of tragedy.

You see, I lost a friend last week. Tragically, suddenly and with complete astonishment.

We met some 31 years ago, when I first began my voyage in this sordid business at the tender age of 15. It was a few months after I started writing for the Banner that I met Ted, who had not been very long at the Daily Review in Morgan City, either.

People used to mistake us for each other. Judge Bill Hunter and I shared several laughs over the years because he couldn’t tell Ted and I apart, and at first greeted me as Ted when he saw me. Later, he just looked quizzical for a time until I identified myself. I couldn’t quite figure it, because Ted was taller and far better looking than me.

Even when his photo was published on the front page of the newspaper, along with the circumstances of his untimely death, some people thought, at first, the photo was of me.

We made friends easily. We ended up at many of . . . → Read More: Teddy

November

Winter is upon us, I guess. The weatherman says it’s going to be drier and warmer than last. I like the warmer part; the drier, not so much.

The cold spell we’re in now wouldn’t be bad if it weren’t for the wind. But it’s a fitting way to wind down a dismal year, I guess.

Sycamore and fig leaves are the biggest ones flitting across my yard these days; fleshy and withered they tumble with the wind, and sometimes I mistake them for squirrels. I am aggravated with my red oak trees. Three years after planting, they are only a bit more than waist-high. My sycamores, planted the same time, are 16-foot or more. I will give them one more year; if they don’t take improve, they’re coming out. We need shade around the shack in the worst way!

Gosh, hard to believe it’s November already. The years, unfairly, are flying by. There’s good to that, and bad. On the one hand, years like this with little to show for itself are mercifully short; on the other, good years are pitifully short.

There’s still no water in the creeks; it’s getting too late in the year anyway. My . . . → Read More: November

More Than An Archangel

I was on vacation last week.

Didn’t go anywhere. Last week seems distant already. A lifetime ago. Half forgotten, almost dreamlike.

Except one thing.

We lost our old dog last week. Continue reading More Than An Archangel