THE LAWSON’S PEAK BOOKS

Born Too Late

One of my favorite outdoors authors once noted that sooner or later in a man’s life, he’ll either go fishing or do something worse.
Or, put another way: Give a man a fish or a quail and you feed him for a day; give a man a fly rod, a shotgun and a bird dog, and he won’t amount to a damn. (I don’t remember who said that one, but credit is hereby given!)
Those gentlemen lived in a world that was vastly different from this one. In our world, you shop for something on Amazon and an ad shows up on your Facebook page trying to sell it to you. Our world is a world where playing outside at the neighborhood park is a terrifying ordeal for parents; who can imagine setting loose a twelve-year-old boy with a shotgun and a bird dog? Or give him his first boat? Continue reading Born Too Late

October

“That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.” —Ray Bradbury, The October Country

As a child of October, it is my favorite time of year. I was born in October, in the wake of Hurricane Hilda.

More than that, though, is that October is usually the precipice of autumn. Spring is rebirth and renewal; autumn is the earth nodding off, dozing in fitful slumber. It is the foyer to winter, and the time of ghosts. Continue reading October

Mr. Bogart

I look at the dog I still call “puppy.” He’s grown white in his dignified face, though he was always very light-colored, a yellow Labrador retriever who received the name Bogie in honor of my favorite actor.

He’ll be nine in December, sometime between Christmas and New Year’s Day. It doesn’t seem possible. It seems only yesterday that we brought him home, a soft, pudgy pup then about the size his grown-up head is now. I can see him in my mind’s eye: Nibbling at Suze’s shoe laces, attacking the old throw pillows we gave him to sleep on, chasing leaves in the back yard. We accentuated his nickname to “Bogie-Butt” early on, since he had this uncanny knack for turning his behind to a camera the very instant the shutter snapped. I have more photos of Bogie’s butt than I do his face. Continue reading Mr. Bogart

The Soundtrack of Our Lives

Okay, so while celebrating my upcoming 36th anniversary in the news business and peppering said celebration with meaningful musical quotes, I attributed “What a long, strange trip it’s been” to the Beatles.

Of course, it was the Grateful Dead. Thank you, Eric Duplantis, for the keen eye!

Nevertheless, by next week it’ll be time for a celebration, which will consist of a loud “Whoopee!” and a toast of Blanton’s to whoever happens to be in the vicinity, followed by a binge of “Longmire” episodes. Continue reading The Soundtrack of Our Lives

Anniversary

It was October and just shy of my 16th birthday that I first stepped into these offices.

That’s coming up on 36 years ago.

I was a student at Franklin High School, and my then-Civics teacher Bob Wheeler found out I could string a coherent sentence together now and then. He put me in touch with then-publisher John Landry and made me an appointment. John hired me to write feature stories on Chitimacha.

To this day, I still kid Bob that he ruined my life!

But the truth is, it’s been a great ride. This job has more than its share—sometimes way more—of aggravations and frustrations, and there’s times when I wonder why I stay in this crummy business. But I have worked here, and at The Daily Review in Morgan City, the Slidell Daily Times, was a stringer for The Daily Iberian, news director at KFMV-KFRA and managing editor of the short-lived St. Mary Independent.

What a long, strange trip it’s been, as the Beatles said.

Sometimes, it’s just John Lennon’s way of putting it: Nobody told me there’d be days like these. I often like to paraphrase Three Dog Night, too: Mama told me I was dumb!

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