May Days

I don't know why, but it seems there is something about May days in my life.

 "Mayday" is, of course, the widely recognized word for distress. Pilots, ship captains, and fishermen all use it to say "Help me!" or "I'm going down!" or "Oh shit!"

To my knowledge, "mayday" is not commonly used among journalists or teachers. Mostly, teachers just count down the days until the next vacation or the end of the school year.  Journalists, on the other hand, just say "oh shit" a lot. 

But as a former full-time journalist and, now, former full-time teacher, I've come to realize that there have been several May days in my life that have been "Maydays." (See what I did there?)

It was a balmy night in May of 2012 when I first learned that my employer of then-26 years, The Times-Picayune, which was owned by Advance Publications, was about to be sacrificed on the altar of digital technology and profit margins. The night Phillip Phillips was crowned the winner of that year's American Idol, I logged into what was then known as Twitter (now known as X, but I'll never call it that) to see the overall reaction. 

Some loved him, some didn't. But buried in between the comments was a blurb by the New York Times, reporting that Advance Publications was about to give up its print editions of several papers, including ours, to go all-digital. It would revolutionize the industry, they said. It would save them money -- at the cost of hundreds of hard-working newspaper people.

A few weeks later, I was one of the 200 employees who was handed a white envelope with my severance package. My services as a prep writer turned perp writer/news clerk in the River Parishes Bureau, would no longer be needed after September 30. It was a devastating blow. A punch in the gut that left me a crumpled heap in my pool with a bottle of Boone's Farm Blue Hawaiian. 

Now, every May, my Facebook memories are flooded with the hundreds of "-30-"s posted by each of us as we got our packets. 

Mayday.

Some of my colleagues recovered quickly, finding new jobs at new papers, launching their own enterprises or changing careers completely. Not all of us, though. Some of us -- I -- landed one toe at a time and had to hang on for dear life. In distress.

A few weeks after my last day, my mother-in-law, Jane, had to leave her assisted living apartment and moved into my spare bedroom. I became a full-time caretaker for the next 18 months. There are a whole bunch of blog posts in my archives about that if you care to read them. Search for "vodka."

I became a freelance writer for several publications and websites. I wrote features and covered high school games, sometimes writing four versions of one game for different outlets. 

Once Jane passed away in February of 2014, I could begin looking for a "real" job. I found one -- temporarily -- at my alma mater, Loyola University. I was hired to work in the Office of Public Affairs to fill in for a woman who was going out on maternity leave. 

I'm not going to lie. The money was fantastic but it was boring. Public relations people don't write the stories. They write the pitches to try to get other people to write the stories. My first assignment was to write a pitch about a rooftop greenhouse on campus. I was all ready to go take pictures and interview the people working on it when they stopped me. "You don't need to do all that," I was told. "Someone else will." Oh. And I had to week to not write it. Well OK then.

I did enjoy being back on campus, though, and seeing all the joggers Uptown in the springtime. And I got to earn my Master's degree in parallel parking. 

But one day in May, at a big staff meeting, I was praised for my skills and my contributions to the office but then I was told my services would no longer be needed. 

Mayday.

From there I got a nice little job at the local library, which I really enjoyed. But I was only there a few months when I got a call from the local bi-weekly paper offering me the job as the sports editor. It wasn't May, it was November of 2015. And I lasted until August of 2017 when too many promises were broken, too many hours weren't counted in my paycheck and my mama started fading. She was next to move into my spare bedroom, but only for a few months.

Unincumbered and in need of a real job, I turned to teaching. It was a Plan B, but one I had always wanted to pursue. In August of 2018 I was hired as a middle school English teacher. It was new and very different. I had a difficult time keeping up with the paperwork. I killed lots and lots of trees. I wasn't great at it but I sure tried my butt off and I got better as I went along. I loved (most of) the kids in my classes. 

But in May, when they told me they were not renewing my contract for the next year, I was punched in the gut again. I felt like a failure.

Mayday.

I went back to freelancing for food, but then circumstances sent me to a small private school that I had been covering on my beat for decades. They needed an English teacher and a multimedia teacher, a couple of things I knew a little bit about. I was learning on the fly trying to get a handle on what the students and my principal expected. Six weeks later, Covid hit and shut down everything and I was trying to reinvent the wheel I hadn't yet invented.

When that May brought the end of school, it was a relief -- but not yet the end of the journey.

Over the next few years, I figured it out. I taught creative writing to a bunch of eighth graders who would rather kill things on their computer screens than create a character. I started a school news website and found a couple of students who were proud to produce it. I taught multimedia and web design to some creative students (and a couple who should be ashamed of themselves for not getting an A in the easy A class). 

But then May came again. 

The Coach struggled with his baseball team and with a bad back but notched his 500th career win and a trip to the playoffs. Late, but better than never, they found a rhythm and made it to the third round. But the day after his team lost in the quarterfinals, he was told he was no longer to be the baseball coach. Too old. Not young enough. They wanted a "young face" on the program.

It was a sucker punch right out of left field. It hurt. Like hell. And it left both of us reeling and fretting over what our futures looked like. 

Mayday.

Ultimately, we both decided that this was no longer the place for us. I spent a few weeks packing up all my teal desk accessories and my various props that made the kids laugh and roll their eyes at me -- my skeleton hand pointer, my various stress squeezes, all of my beach-themed decor. And I tore down the paper palm tree I'd been sitting under for more than four years. Not one grown-up came to ask me why.

And on the last day of school, The Coach and I walked out together into yet another unknown future with our fingers crossed and our heads high. 

The origin of the word "mayday" is believed to have come from the French phrase "m'aidez," which means "help me." We could use a little of that right about now -- thoughts, prayers, good wishes, good mojo, a winning lottery ticket -- because I don't know exactly what comes next for either of us. We have hopes and dreams, some of which involve the beach. We have some plans. We hope to make the best of whatever time we have left, however many Mays there may be.

May days or Maydays. It seems they're all the same. 

Five Hundred

What do you think you have you done 500 times in your life?

I'm not talking about the mundane things like driving to work, brushing your teeth, or setting your alarm. Those are things you've probably done thousands of times. 

But do you think you've mowed your lawn 500 times? Gone for a run? Washed your car? Done 500 loads of laundry? I'm pretty sure I picked Barbie's shoes up off my floor 500 times. Maybe not.

It isn't easy, is it? Neither is doing something 500 times -- successfully.

Which is why what my husband, Riverside Academy baseball coach  Marty Luquet, did last week is so extraordinary.

On April 11, 2024, his young, inexperienced and injury-riddled baseball team defeated West St. John by the score of 16-0. That in and of itself would not be notable except that it was a much-needed win for this group of boys on a six-game losing streak. But it also happened to be Coach Luquet's 500th win in his long and illustrious career as a high school baseball coach.

Think about that for a second: 500 wins. That's 500 wins out of roughly 800 games in 27 seasons over 44 years at five different schools. 

Some were easy. Some were not. Some were really not. Some were thrillers. Some were somebody's first game; some were somebody's last. 

He went into this season knowing he needed only five wins to reach the milestone. He certainly didn't expect it to take until the middle of April, though. After going into the season with very high hopes and expectations, the Rebels have struggled to put it all together. The losses mounted quicker than the victories and Coach hit the 300 mark on the right a few weeks before the milestone on the left. 

His players tried. They really did. But a couple of games got away from them. A few were never meant to be. Slidell, not likely to lose on their senior day, one-hit them. But they were so ready to dunk the old man with the water cooler, they even lugged it on the road to Pointe Coupee, something they hardly ever did. 

And it's probably a good thing Newman rallied for two runs in the top of seventh inning to win that one because the cooler was filled with blue Powerade instead of water on that day. 

It would have been cool to do it in my hometown of Houma against Vandebilt Catholic. Instead, I left with a fresh dent in my car from a home run one of their players hit. 

Needless to say, it got pretty stressful in the Luquet household at times, with him tossing and turning through the night and me trying my hardest to find the bright spots in the dark. 

"This is like a bad joke," he said.

One parent suspected someone had a voodoo doll somewhere.

But thankfully, the milestone finally was reached in the second-to-last week of his 27th season.

Marty was a young, energetic, dark-haired man when he started his career at the now-defunct John F. Kennedy High School in New Orleans in 1980 (ahem -- the year I graduated from high school!). The Cougars weren't so good though. The next year he moved to O. Perry Walker High School (also now defunct), where he went 118-70 over 10 seasons.

He left in 1991 to become the coach at Hammond, but never made it to the baseball season. With a divorce from his first wife looming and split time with his children, Daniel and Courtney, he opted for a job as Assistant Director of the St. Charles Parish Recreation Department. That's what he was doing when I was introduced to him through a fellow sports reporter who used to cover his games at Walker. 

He still coached a little though -- the summer recreation All-Star teams, a 30-over Men's League team, and a lot from the bleachers.

Then came an election cycle and the guy he backed didn't win. The guy who did win was unforgiving and let a lot of people go, including my husband.

But it didn't take long for him to land. My old friend Rick Gaille, the football coach and athletic director at St. James High School, just happened to be looking for a baseball coach. The Wildcats were a gritty, hard-working and hungry bunch. They went 9-17, but one of those wins was against the team that went on to win the state title that year. It was their only loss.

Then he got an opportunity to coach at Destrehan, where his son was a senior and his daughter was about to be a sophomore. Our newly adopted baby girl was in daycare and I was covering Orleans Parish sports at the time. He went 286-125 in 14 seasons at Destrehan with two trips to the state championship -- but alas, no titles. He was still coaching when his mom moved in with us.

Then he gave it all up. Retired -- or tried to. He tried to like golf. He tried to relax. Lord knows he isn't handy. He discovered internet memes and World War II documentaries. Then he became an Uber driver -- something he really enjoyed until UberEats got into the mix. 

And he coached a very successful American Legion summer team that won two state championships and earned one trip to the World Series. He coached a game on ESPN. He also has coached a few very successful collegiate league teams to national titles. But none of those wins are included in his 500.

While he was driving me crazy showing me old videos and memes while I was trying to do my freelance work, another longtime coach pal asked me what he was doing. I all but begged him to get the man off my sofa. And that's how he became the coach at Riverside Academy. That has been an adventure in and of itself, with his first year as an assistant, then the season lost to Covid. 

According to the National Federation of High Schools record book, only 45 active coaches have reached the 500 mark in their careers. Roughly 200 men have won 500 or more games all-time. I'm certain a few are missing from the list because I'm told it's pretty hard to verify.

And you have to wonder how many more there might be. There aren't that many of the old-timers, the guys who now have bad backs from hours sitting on sunflower seed buckets and worn out dugout benches. Who walk with a slight limp when they go out to the mound to pull their struggling pitcher. Who no longer even try to make a play on a foul ball near third base. And all those young guys who don't believe in wearing a full uniform on game day will probably never coach long enough to win that many games. 

I don't know how many more years my husband will keep doing what he loves to do. Until he can't do it anymore, I suspect, or until our school decides they want someone else to do it. I don't know what the final numbers will be on the left or on the right when he finally hangs it up.

But more than all the wins and losses, the big games and the small, the trophies and the accolades, he will tell you, without a doubt, the more important number to him is the number of lives he has touched in one way or another. The countless men who blew up his phone sending him messages of congratuations -- and some of their parents. 

Just last week his former team, the 2003 Destrehan Wildcats, who were the school's first team ever to go to the State Tournament, had a little reunion. They were recognized on the field and got to throw out the first pitch to this year's Wildcats. One of the old Cats, in mid hug/handshake asked him about his current team. 

Marty truthfully told him that it was a tough season, that things haven't been going their way, they haven't had much luck.

With a shine in his eye, the former player looked at his former coach and said, "I hope they know how lucky they are to have you as their coach."

Retired tired

In the spring of 2014, my husband decided not to do the job he loves anymore.

He had spent 25 years coaching high school baseball at five different schools, the last 15 at Destrehan High School.

At the time, I had been laid off from my full time job as a sports writer for the big city daily newspaper and was spending nearly all my time as a caretaker for his elderly mom. If you're a regular reader of this little blog, you know what a full time job that was. He felt a little guilty about putting the lion's share of the work on me but, truthfully, he just wasn't enjoying himself very much. Too many coaches in his dugout, too many runners on the bases of his mind, you know.

But shortly after the Coach made his decision and his announcement, his mom passed away. Well, he couldn't very well go back and say, "Um. Never mind," could he? So he retired. Not from his "other job" of teaching, mind you, just the baseball part.

But for the past five years, everyone I bump into has asked me, "How's Marty enjoying his retirement?"

I patiently explained that he was, in fact, still working for a living, still teaching special education students, just not coaching.

Then he went and got himself a summer job coaching a very good American Legion team and that started a whole new bunch of conversations.

"I see Marty came out of retirement!"

Well, sorta.

Then, over the summer, he finally did retire. For real. As a teacher. He got the jacket and the certificate (but not the money yet) and everything.

So now I'm getting a whole new bunch of conversations beginning with "How's Marty enjoying his retirement?"

To which I reply: "We are going to be divorced any minute."

Seriously.

You see, for the past decade, while you and I were watching all those funny videos on Facebook and You Tube, my husband was teaching students and/or coaching baseball. Up at 5 a.m. (every damn day) and at school for 6:30 a.m. and not home sometimes until 8 or 9 p.m., he didn't have time to check his Twitter or his Instagram and see what was going on in the world.

But boy, he does now.

See, God didn't bless my husband with woodworking skills or car fixing skills or, really, any kind of fixin' skills. He likes his grass green and his pool blue and that's about it. He doesn't have a shop or a garage, just a room with a bunch of his awards.

He does sleep in a little more -- usually until 7 a.m. -- and then he goes downstairs to sit in his cozy chair next to his cozy fire (once he gets the poodle out of it), and he spends the next several hours catching up on all the fun stuff he has missed over the last decade.

Remember the whale that was caught in the fishing nets and the nice guy in the boat used his pocketknife to cut him loose? The goofy kids who turned the airport escalators into a bunch of sporting events? The evolution of dance?

He's just seeing them. And he wants to show me, too.

Frankly, I'm getting a little tired of saying, "I've seen it."

So, while he sits in his chair in the early morning hours, I stay upstairs. I have a nice, warm comfortable bed and a friendly little poodle to keep me company. I also have a little work-at-home office up here, where I can watch the newest viral videos and whatever else I want.

Once I'm done with my "work," I go downstairs to hang out with him for a few hours. Then, when 9 p.m. rolls around and he's ready to call it a night, he goes upstairs and I take over the living room.

Hey. It works.

He does get a little antsy at times, though. He misses the camaraderie of his fellow teachers and some of his students. So, when he's bored he goes out and Uber drives for a couple of hours, giving tips and advice to tourists and locals alike.

As for me, I'm still only partly employed as a freelancer for the newspaper I used to work for and the one that bought it. I also work as a substitute teacher at the local high school, which means I'm the one getting up at 5 a.m. and getting to school at 6:30. And the first thing everyone asks me is, "How is Marty enjoying his retirement?"

Life on the Other Side

"Life on the Other Side."

That is what my fellow scoliosis parents call life after surgery -- after the worrying, the waiting, the sleepless nights, the nightmares, the consultations with doctors and surgeons, the MRIs and the X-rays, and after the week in the hospital trying to get your kid and your life back to some semblance of normal.

nor·mal

  [nawr-muhl]  Show IPA

adjective

1.

conforming to the standard or the common type; usual; not abnormal; regular; natural.

Of course, most of them (probably ALL of them) didn't have their husband undergo just-as-major surgery 12 days later, so their "normal" and my "normal" probably aren't even close. To me, "normal" is not automatically waking up every two hours and being able to put Grandma's shower chair back in the garage.

This is Lora Leigh's fifth week after surgery and I can't even express in words how great she is doing. She was off all of her pain medicines after two weeks. She takes the occasional Ibuprofen or Aleve now. She bathes and dresses herself -- but does need help tying her shoes.

She is still figuring out how to do a lot of things -- how to sit in a chair, how to pick something up off the floor, how to tie her own shoes, how to give hugs and kisses when she is standing and we are sitting. But we have been to Barnes and Noble (her favorite place!), and Walmart (not her favorite place), and Rue 21 (her second favorite place). And Sunday she went with her friends to the New Orleans Mechacon for the first time and made it through the whole day. (She even showed them her gnarly scar!)

Well, she was a little bent over when she got home, but not in pain. I'm hoping this is a good harbinger for when she starts school next week.

The Coach, on the other hand, is a different story. His normal, I think, is a good ways off. He had his right knee replaced on July 15. After two grueling weeks of in-home physical therapy, lots of ice and two bottles of Demerol, he got his staples out on July 28, two weeks post op. His scar is nice and pretty, but he still can't straighten his leg. It's been two years since he has been able to straighten his leg. It's going to take a while.

He made it up the stairs to our bedroom in the second week, but still has a hard time getting comfortable anywhere -- the bed, the chair, his cave. He rolls around a lot. He can shower and dress himself without help, but isn't able to pitch in around the house as much. He can't put out the garbage or do the laundry or shop or cook, but he is managing to do the dishes again.

And he did drive himself to school today for the first day for teachers, taking the ribbing from his colleagues over his cane. His new normal also includes not being The Coach. He gave up the baseball team in the spring, remember. So, now he's just Mr. Luquet, not Coach. That may be harder for him to get used to than his new metal knee.

As for me, well, my new normal is taking some getting use to (besides doing more chores, I mean.) For the first time in nearly two years, since the fall of 2012 when my mother-in-law Jane moved in with us, I don't have anyone to take care of.  Marty's back at school and Lora doesn't really count since she sleeps until 3 p.m.  And there is no one to dress or feed or give pills to or water or take to dialysis treatments. It's  very strange. I'm free! I have no obligations, no schedules, no excuses.

Of course, I also have no job.

Now that I can, I'm going to jump into this freelancing thing with both feet though. The kind folks at The New Orleans Advocate have promised me as much work as I can handle through the fall football season. I'm also writing for SportsNola.com. If I can just make my car payment, I'll be happy. 

I'm also happy that our New Normal is so normal. It's just us, an over-stressed mom, a dad with a new knee and a teenager with a nice, straight spine, one poodle who likes to pee on furniture and one who likes to eat Kleenex. (And a kooky Mama who needs me to fix her iPhone for her every once in a while.) And we're all on the Other Side together.

Trouble in paradise

When my husband Marty and I first started dating some 22 years ago, there were those who said we'd never last.

He certainly wasn't what I was looking for in a husband -- the tall, dark, handsome guy with rock hard abs and a well-diversified 401K. No, Marty was short, kind of roundish, had more of a keg instead of a 6-pack, and he was paying child support to his ex-wife for his two kids.

But he was cute and funny and he liked to dance and he thought I was pretty cool, being a trailblazing female sports writer and all. He wasn't one of the guys who asked me how I could write about football when I never played it. And he thought it was cool that I got to go to really good baseball games. He even offered to go with me to one, then stood me up.

But we ended up together somehow, and we've shot down all those naysayers.  This December we will celebrate 20 years of wedded bliss. And it has been mostly bliss. When I tell you that I can remember exactly two arguments between us, I am not exaggerating. Two. I can't tell you what they were about, though. I just know that one time I stormed out and, with no place really to go, I drove myself to Walmart and refused to answer my cell phone for a couple of hours.

This is why we do not have a reality show

We have been this perfect little sports couple, he the coach, me the sports writer, both of us going to games, watching games, talking about games, reliving games planning our lives around games -- both his and mine.

Until now.

As you probably know by now, my husband decided that the 2014 high school baseball season was going to be his 25th and final one. He announced this big decision last year, rather innocuously on his own little blog, but then it blew up into 5, 6, 10 and front page news. And then he got to turn the final season into his very own Farewell Tour, which also garnered 5, 6, 10 and front page news.

Yeah, well now it's over. The season and the career. And, if things keep going the way they are, our marriage soon will be over too. It's only been two months and the man is driving me crazy. He is coach without a team, a man without a mission, a retiree without a hobby. He doesn't play golf, or cook, or garden, or clean the house, he doesn't have a girlfriend and he isn't handy. That means he's just IN MY WAY.

You see,  I have a routine. I get up every morning at 7 a.m. At 7:30, I go walk. At 8:30 ish I come back all hot and sweaty and all I want to do is sit down and cool off. I usually do that by sitting at my computer and seeing what's going on in the world. But since he's RETIRED, The Coach has taken over MY computer. I come home and he's in my chair, all cool and collected and relaxed, sipping coffee and cruising the Internets. Not only that, he's watching some stupid YouTube video that you and I and the rest of the world watched and enjoyed some two years ago, while he was playing baseball. And he wants me to watch it now.

Coach: Come see this cool video of this whale being rescued by fishermen!
Me: I've seen it.
Coach: Really? When?
Me: Oh.. a few years ago. Want me to tell you how it ends?
Coach: %*#(%*^

Later in the day he watches baseball, non-stop, on the MLB Network. But now that he's a coach without a team, a manager without men, he has no one to talk baseball with except me. I don't really mind. I do love baseball. It's the film sessions I can do without.

Coach: (remote in hand) Watch this play. (Rewinds the game)
Me: 0_0
Coach: See where the third baseman is? (Rewinds again.) He's playing the lines! (Rewinds again.) Why is he guarding the lines in this situation? (Rewinds again) He just cost his team the game!!
Me: 0_0

OK. Truth be told, things did get a little better last week. My husband is coaching a group of college-age boys in a local summer league. Many of the players are his own former players who went on to star at LSU, UNO, ULL and other places. They're some good ones. Being a coach again put a little extra hitch in his giddyup - bum knee and all.  He's back to making lineups and talking pitching and running off to games. Unfortunately, there are no practices to run off to, but it's enough to get him out of the house a few times and out of my way. He's happy. I'm happy. And we're not tripping over each other as much.

Our marriage is saved! (Maybe.)

Game over

The final out had been called. The final post game speech had been given. The balls and bats had been stored away.

The opposing team had retrieved the gloves and hats they had thrown into the air in celebration, but were still hooting and hollering into the air.

But on the other side, the tears were still falling.

Inside the fence, the Destrehan Wildcats were taking their sweet time putting away their gear before they had to walk off the baseball field -- some for the last time. Some had a harder time than others, wishing for one more chance, one more at bat, one more inning, one more game.

Outside the fence, their parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins were waiting to hug, to kiss and to share their tears. Flashbacks to that first hectic t-ball game and the hundreds backyard pitch-and-catches overwhelmed some as they waited for their sons to come through the gate.

And off to the side, a small family hugged and consoled and shared tears with The Coach.

It was a tough loss, yes. But for him, this was it.  There will be no more next time. No more next year.

After 25 years of coaching high school baseball, my husband Marty Luquet, decided that this was to be his last season on the Destrehan baseball field. He had his reasons, some he has shared, some he has not. I know that he's not having as much fun as he was the day he started back in 1981 at a now-closed New Orleans high school. I know that he's not as happy as he was the day he got his first team after a 10-year hiatus to work in recreation. That day, he bounded into my house and shouted, "I got my first name back!"

"Coach."

And he can't move the way he used to.

So I guess it was time.

And what a 25 years it has been.

• 447 wins, 251 losses
• Two state runner-up finishes
• Class 5A All-State Coach of the Year in 2002, 2003 and 2005
• All-Metro New Orleans Coach of the Year in 2002 and 2010
• All-River Parishes Coach of the Year in 2002, 2004 and 2010
• 14 consecutive playoff appearances
• A 33-1 finish in 2004, with a 30-game win streak and a No. 2 national ranking

And that's all fine and dandy.

But to him, his proudest moments have been off the field.  

The guy in the grocery store who shouts "Coach!" and leaves his basket unattended for 20 minutes after he runs across the store for a reunion.

The guys at the local minor league and college ballparks who come shake his hand.

The 30-plus former players who showed up at the first Saturday home game of the season to honor him and stand with him for the National Anthem one more time.

The hundreds of texts, Facebook messages, tweets and emails he has received since announcing his decision, and the flood since losing his final game on Saturday.

The many compliments from the opposing teams on the way his team plays and acts and conducts itself at all times.

And this ...

As our family hugged and cried and did our best to console one another in that final moment, as the parents waited outside the fence, a young man dressed in the opposing team's yellow waited at third base. And he waited.

He waited a long time. 

Finally, the Luquets broke free from one another and The Coach. Still fighting tears, he spotted the boy and made his way over.

"Coach," he said. "I didn't know this was your last game. My coach just told us you were an icon in baseball. I just wanted to shake your hand."

And he did. And made The Coach cry some more.

Oh, who are we kidding? There will be more baseball games, both as a spectator and as a coach. He's not done with the third base box just yet. He's already signed up to coach an American Legion team that will combine his now-former team with his former arch-rival Hahnville. There's talk of an All-American League team to coach too. And he can't wait. 

I guess that Honey-Do list will have to, though.

Click here to read an outstanding tribute to The Coach

Bases loaded

                                                    

My husband, The Coach, and I have had a couple of sleepless nights here under the flare.

Most of it was caused by this wonky old window unit we had in our upstairs bedroom that started sounding like a pair of maracas on Saturday. Annoyed by the sound, The Snarky Teen, who was hanging out in my bedroom with her BFF, decided just to turn it off. By the time Coach and I turned in for the night at 11 o'clock or so (yeah, we're so exciting that way), it was 85 degrees in our room.

We turned the thing back on and forced ourselves to tough out the noise in favor of the cool air. But neither of us got much sleep.

On Sunday we headed off to Walmart to get a nice, shiny, QUIET new one. But we still haven't figured out all the modes and stuff, so last night I think it was on fan most of the time. Yeah, I need to find and read that manual soon.

Then there is the impending surgery The Snarky Teen will have to undergo in a few weeks to straighten out her oh-so-crooked spine. If that doesn't keep you awake nothing will.

But tonight we're awake for different reasons.

The Louisiana High School baseball playoffs began this week. Tomorrow, my husband's team, the Destrehan Fighting Wildcats will take on the Byrd Yellow Jackets in a bi-district round game. So, right now, I'm upstairs ready for bed. He is still downstairs.

And I can picture him right now. He's sitting at the computer with the Class 5A bracket on the screen. He's chewing on his thumbnail, spinning back in forth in the desk chair, half watching the MLB channel as he imagines every possible scenario that can play out over the next two weeks. He's figuring out who will pitch tomorrow, then the next day, then the next. In his mind, he's playing it all out, right up to the moment when he gets to hoist that golden trophy.

We have this running joke between us about our mental bases being loaded. There was this one time when I was stewing with the weight of the world on my shoulders and he wanted my attention. "Listen, Bud," I said. "What would you do if, in the middle of a game, when you're down by 2 and have the bases loaded with two outs, I marched right up to you in the third base coach's box and demanded your attention? What would you do?"

He got the message. So, if I say, "My bases are loaded," he knows to back off.

Well, tonight, his bases are definitely loaded.

It's not that we haven't been here before. This is his 14th season at Destrehan. His teams have made the playoffs every year. Twice his teams have played for a state title. In 2004, his team won 30 games in a row.

But this year is different.

While, right now, there is a tomorrow (and a 60 percent chance of rain), tomorrow there may not be one.

This is his last season as The Coach. He wants to do other things, he says. He wants to live a life without baseball, he says. He wants to travel and have fun, he says.

Right.

I'm thinking he's going to take one look at my Honey-Do list and go volunteer to coach somewhere.

But what this means is, if he loses tomorrow (knock wood), he's done. There will be no next game. There is no Next Year. It's all over.

Now, if he wins tomorrow, he gets to play a best-two-out-of-three series next weekend, likely on the road. If he wins that, he gets to play another three-game series closer to home. And if he wins that, he gets a golden ticket to the big State Tournament.

Yep. More sleepless nights.

Lots of people are hoping he does. The state championship is the one thing that has eluded my husband in his storied 25-year career.  Well, that and a winning lottery ticket.

So, from our nice, cool, quiet bedroom where I'm about to go to sleep, I'm sending my husband a message:

Win, baby.

The Coach's Wife

I don't often write about my husband.

Oh, if you're a regular follower of this little blog you know that he's a high school teacher/baseball coach and once was a short-lived volleyball coach, that he has a really bad memory, doesn't do birthdays very well, or DIY projects around the house. That he can remember virtually every pitch of that big win against E.D. White 14 years ago, but can't remember to put his cell phone in his pocket before he leaves the house. That he used to get thrown out of baseball games -- a lot.  That he loves baseball, his convertible, me, his children, his new grand baby, his sofa, his pool, his dogs (probably in that order) and that he always took my side when his mother and I would fight.

In large part because of that last phrase is why he and I have been married 20 years come December, and together two more than that. Yes, we did meet at a bar. We DO live in (the suburbs of) New Orleans, you know.

But I don't often get to write about The Coach. For one thing, I am a sports writer, he is a coach. In journalism circles,  it is extremely frowned upon for a journalist spouse to write about a public persona spouse, whether he/she is an athlete, a coach, a politician or a crime victim. It's just not done. So it made some folks nervous when he went from being the local assistant recreation director to my boyfriend, to my fiance, to my husband, to a coach (again) in the area I was assigned to cover for the then-daily newspaper.

In an effort to thwart that -- and my new stepson's senior season as quarterback at one of the schools in my area --  the Men In Ties moved me from my beat in the River Parishes Bureau to downtown New Orleans. Yeah. That was fun. Not.

Eventually, they saw the error of their ways and moved me back to where I belonged, with the mandate that I could not cover my husband's baseball team. That was fine by me. And we all got along splendidly until 2010 when I was moved from sports to crime (prep writer to perp writer), then 2012 when I was let go in the then-daily's move to "Digital First."

But now I'm a free lancer and the journalism landscape in New Orleans has changed dramatically. Now, the New Orleans paper I used to work for and the Baton Rouge-based paper I now write a lot for are in an all-out newspaper war over territory. I just happen to live in the suburbs between the two (a.k.a., "No Man's Land"). And, suddenly, some folks think it's OK for reporters to write about their husband's team. And sometimes, it just can't be helped.

Take last year, for instance. Mother Nature, who apparently dislikes the high school baseball playoff season immensely, decided to drop buckets of rain on the New Orleans area last spring. But my husband's team's playoff game had to be played. So it was moved -- from one day to the next, from one time to a later one, then to three different potential sites before it finally began at nearly 9 p.m. on a Thursday at a field no one ever heard of, and finished at nearly midnight. There was no way the Baton Rouge-ish paper would get a reporter there. They knew I was there as The Wife, so they asked me to write it up as The Reporter. And while, normally, I would never interview my husband after the game, the circumstances surrounding it were so unique that I was pretty much obligated to get a comment from The Coach about how his team handled all the adversity.

It was weird. We both hated it. And people took pictures.

So, we both decided it's just best to separate. No, not like that. But we do try to keep The Coach's Wife separate from the The Reporter. That's how we like it. That's how the world likes it.

Then his happened.

My darling husband, The Coach, decided he was going to give up being The Coach. He says he's ready, he's old, he's tired, he needs a new knee (that's true), he's ready to do other things. That all may be true, but I'm sure that does not include building me a gazebo in the backyard. He does want to take me to California and Chicago (why not Hawaii???) and spend some time with our fast-growing daughter and his new grand baby.

Whatever his reasons, the news created a stir in local sports circles. His announcement -- which initially came on his own little blog Coach Speak, became Front Page and 5, 6 and 10 o'clock news. (And the local newspaper is put in the unusual predicament of writing about one of it's former sports writers, married to the headliner. So many blurred lines...)

Then this happened.

On Thursday, my husband's team traveled across the Mississippi River to face its biggest rival, the Hahnville Tigers. They're pretty good, now, and just came off a glorious weekend in which they went 4-0 against some of the top teams in the area. They started it with a HUGE win against the then No. 2 team in the state, Brother Martin, which was then-undefeated. Hahnville scored in extra innings to win. I know, because I was there. I covered it. I wrote about it Here and Here.

And while I was there, The Other Coach, whom I've known for a long time and like very much, told me he had a plan. He decided he was going to give my husband, The (Retiring) Coach, a rocking chair to send him off into the sunset.

"Will he get mad?" he asked me.

"Hell no," I replied.

Now, ever being the journalist, I knew this was news worthy. So, I set about letting my friends in the news media know about this event. It also was coming on the heels of a day organized by my stepson (with my assistance), in which we invited all of The Coach's former players over the past 25 years to come to the game and line up with him for the National Anthem as a surprise. Nearly 30 of them showed up. That also made the news.

So after  I let friends and family and a few news media types know what was going down on Thursday, I set off to take care of me, cashing in the FREE King Cake body scrub I won from the local salon. Yay me!

Just as I was about to strip down to my skivvies, I get a text from The Other Coach:

Him: Can't find rocking chair anywhere.

Me: Want me to help?

Him: Yes. You can get to more places. Just bring me the receipt.

Me: I'm on it. Right after my massage

I then spent the next two hours smelling like a cinnamon bun, getting scrubbed and rubbed, and trying to think of a place in our neck in the woods that has a rocking chair for sale.

Then it hit me.

The local thrift shop! It's just a few doors down from my house, it's rarely if ever open, and it now contains a whole bunch of my belongings which we have put curbside for trash. The owner just picks it up and puts it in his shop to sell when he feels like it. I used to own a Bentwood rocker. I hoped I wasn't about to buy it back from him.

Nope. But I found this beat up old one, loaded it in my car and went back to relaxing.

Then, just before game time, I drove into the parking lot, texted The Other Coach, who sent two of his players to my car to get the rocking chair for his team to give to my husband as a gag.

Really.

And it went off without a hitch. With cameras and reporters from both newspapers there to document it, The Coach was surprised, humbled and honored. And I got a lovely bouquet of red roses -- from The Coach. No, The Other Coach.

I then spent the next two hours munching sunflower seeds and trying not to watch the action on the field in what turned out to be a very tight, nail-biter of a game. I try very hard to maintain my reporter face while watching these games. I don't want to be hollering and cheering against a team one day, then have to interview them the next. So I watch. I don't root. I don't cheer or clap or yell. I watch the crowd, the game, my husband, wonder when he's going to bunt and hope he doesn't try to steal home again.

He didn't. And his team won, 1-0, with the lone run scoring on a bases-loaded balk in the third inning.

After the game, I made a big production of running up to The Other Coach to hug him and thank him for my flowers. After I kissed The Coach, The Other Coach and I filled him in on the rather unusual events of the day. He laughed hysterically.

Then I put my husband's new rocking chair in my car and took it back home.

Later, we laughed about the whole thing. I made sure he wasn't mad, not that The Other Coach had given him a rocking chair, but also my part in in. He wasn't. He took it in the spirit in which it was intended and thought it was great fun.

"I thought it was great," he said. "But my team wanted to know why they got me such an ugly old chair."

Really?

Click Here to see a terrific video about The Coach and The Game.

This just in ...

The Coach actually broke his own story, you know.

 In his little blog post that I shared a few days ago, he wrote that next year will be his last.

Then this happened.

Marty Luquet decides 2014 to be final season as Destrehan baseball coach

And this... Destrehan's Marty Luquet to retire after 2014 season

And he made the 6 o'clock news.

"I didn't know this was going to be such big news," he said.

Right.

Meanwhile, I'm working on his honeydo list.

A word from The Coach

I am The Writer. The Blogger.

He is The Coach.

But sometimes he writes (and I correct his punctuation).

And he can make me cry.

Not when he writes about me, although his words are so sweet. But when he writes that next year is his last.

What the hell am I going to do with him then?

Check him out:    Coach Speak 

50 + 1

"If you want something done right, do it yourself."

Right?

Women?

As some of you may know, I turned the ripe old age of 50 last year. A lot of you people do know this because I wrote this cute little poem to myself, which has gotten, like, A TON of hits.  OK, most of them are from women who were really trying to Google "50 Shades of Grey" and found me instead.  I wonder how disappointed they were.

Anyway.

As some of you also may know, I did not have a big 50th birthday celebration last year. I went to lunch with my dear friend Danielle. I bought myself an hour-long massage. And, after a good nap, I took myself to dinner with family and friends at my favorite Mexican restaurant in my hometown. Of course, I had to drive my 11-year-old home and it was a school night, so I couldn't even drink... More than one.

 It's not that I didn't want to have a big, fancy, blowout party to celebrate this milestone birthday you only see once in your lifetime.  It's that I trusted my husband, The Baseball Coach, to put it together.

"Stupid is as stupid does."

He didn't. He had a baseball game. He claims he tried. That he and the gang were working on a nice little surprise party for me, but that the Louisiana Department of Transportation and Development decided to close the big bridge which connects our community that weekend. So he canceled. And there was no other weekend in February or March that they could have had it. Or April. Or even May. Go figure.

So I was left disappointed. Again.

I told this story to a complete stranger the other day. First she tried to take up for my hapless hubby. "Well, he at least gave you a really good gift right? Like some jewelry or something?"

After I laughed hysterically I gave her some shade and said, "No."

She gave me some right back and said. "And you're still married to him?"


Yes. Yes indeed I am. You see, this isn't the first time he's let me down. There was the whole 40th birthday fiasco, in which he remembered it was my birthday but not which one. And he just doesn't get the whole birthday thing like I do. Never has. I do love my birthday. I love looking forward to it, I love celebrating it, I love the 256 "Happy Birthday" messages I will get on my Facebook wall. AND I love birthday cake!

I know. I should be used to my husband's lack of skills by now. But it still stung. OK, a lot. And the pain got worse as so many of my friends from high school hit the milestone and shared their fabulous celebrations on Facebook. Leslie got a surprise party. Donelle got 50 roses. Margot got a spa vacation. Me? I got tacos.

But this year, I'm not waiting around for my husband to make it happen. I'm giving myself my own damn party. I'm calling it "The First Anniversary of my 50th Birthday, Which My Husband Screwed Up Royally."  I invited my own damn friends.  Bought my own damn napkins and plates.  Ordered my own damn cake with my own damn name on it. Bought my own candles -- a 50 and a 1.

It's going to be epic.

And The Coach won't even be here. He has a game to play that day.

Maybe I should have hired my own damn stripper.

Opening Day

We interrupt this marriage for this important message:

Dear Coach,

It's the opening day of the Louisiana prep baseball season. But you knew that already. That's why you were pacing the floor last night like a caged Wildcat, why you were pretty snippy and grumpy, and why you couldn't pay attention to a thing I was saying.

It's also why you were awake at 1 a.m. Well, one reason.

And today you got up out of our bed and left me for your "other love," which, for the next five months will get more of your time, more of your attention and, yes, more of your love than either me or your daughter.

While I stay home with the bills, your snarky tween daughter, the neurotic poodles and your mother.

After nearly 19 years of marriage, I have come to accept the fact that you have this other love. It's actually a love we share. Sometimes, we swing.

I know you always will come home to me, though. Eventually. With the evidence all over you. I have come to accept that too.

So as you head out today for your first game of your 24th season (and the 13th since you made me a baseball widow) I just want to say:

I wish you many wins, fewer losses, dry days, short rain delays, no lightning,  good umpires, wide strike zones, level fields, good hops, wicked curves, solid pitching, comfortable bus rides and happy parents.

I hope this is Next Year. The year. Your year. And that you finally get that golden trophy.

I may not always be there in the stands, eating hot dogs and sunflower seeds and ruining my back even more. But I'll always be rooting for you. Mostly from the pool.

I will cheer for you when you get home, though, and pat your heinie when you lose. And offer you a cold beer and a warm heart.


So go out and do what you do. I'll see you in June, my love.  Don't dawdle.

Your Baseball Widowed Wife,

Lo

The Coach is a keeper

Wordless Wednesday -- My life in one picture

By Me.

My dream Christmas Card...

I'm working on it ......

The Fight

It was only a matter of time.

Everyone knew it. Everyone said it. Everyone was expecting it.

The only question was, how soon would it happen? Or rather, how long would my mother-in-law and  and I play nice before blowing up at each other?

The answer: four weeks. To the day.

We were no strangers to the harsh word from the first time she lived with us. Back then we had fights about my parenting, my housekeeping, my cooking, my shopping. You name it. Some good ones, too.

She: "What'd you do? Buy everything in the store?"

Me: "Yes. Yes I did. There's nothing left. Don't ever go to PayLess again."

This go-round we had been having little snits, minor raising of voices over her incessant demands and her overuse of the beeper we bought her to summon us. We all became increasingly frustrated with one another. Being awakened five or six times a night and summoned 18 times in a day will do that to you.

"You can't wake us up every hour on the hour and expect us to be all happy and in a good mood the next day," I said. More than once.

And she had been making snide little comments about my daughter's hair, which is frizzy,  and her face, which is broken out, and her clothes, which are often wrinkled.

Then the day before, she had raised her voice to my child after asking her to find a bag of chocolates on the dresser.  My daughter couldn't find them quickly enough, apparently. So, they had their own little blow out.

"Just pick your battles," I told my 11-year-old. "Walk away when you can."

But I did not heed my own advice.

It started simply enough. It was shortly after 8 a.m., and I was putting away the $78 worth of liquor I had just bought on my way home from dropping the dogs off at the groomer. Inspired by the bottle of Crystal Skull vodka still on display from our little Halloween party, I decided to turn one shelf of my barrister bookcase into a liquor cabinet. Plus, it made for easy access.

To give her credit, she never ashed me why I bought $78 worth of liquor, and actually complimented me on the new boozy display.

"It looks nice," she said.

But a few minutes later, she made a comment about how all her stuff was missing. All the stuff from her apartment, which was packed in seven big plastic bins and stacked in my garage until the next day, when my stepdaughter planned to come over and go through it all with her.

Frustrated, angry and ready to show her that we had not thrown her things away (as she accused), I stormed out to the garage and took a picture of them all with my cell phone, came back inside and showed it to her.

"Look," I shouted. "It's all there. If you want, I'll go get them all and stack them in your room for you. To the ceiling. Then we can call the TV show 'Hoarders.'"

That set her off:

"YOU'RE the one who needs to go on Hoarders!" she shouted. "Look at all this stuff. Why don't you ever throw anything away?"

Me: "Oh. You mean like the two bookshelves full of books I JUST threw away to make room for you? Or the bookshelf?"

Her: "Yeah. You keep saying you have a little house. It's not a little house. You just have too much stuff in it."

Me: "You're right. I do. I now have two wheelchairs, a toilet seat, a toilet chair, a bath chair and a walker."

And we went from there. About the 18 beeps. About my daughter's rudeness. About the constant wake-ups. About how stupid it is that everyone in my family's name begins with an "L."  She even said the only reason I married my husband is because his last name starts with an 'L."

If I were a lesser person, I might have told her the real reason I married him...

The truth is, she hurt me. I'm sure I hurt her too. Neither of us cared.

But my husband did when he happened to come home for a forgotten briefcase in the middle of this mess.

I wasn't going to let her see me cry, though. I went upstairs, put on my walking shoes, grabbed my iPhone and left, slamming doors in my wake.

I was on my second lap around the park, with tears pouring down my face, when he drove up in his hot little convertible, got out and leaned against the fender to wait for me.  He opened his arms as I approached and pulled me in.

"If you tell me I can't fight with your mother, I'm divorcing you," I said through my tears.

"No. I told her she can't fight with you," he replied.

And THAT's why I married him.

Just beep me

Well, I thought I was doing us a favor.

Just days after my mother-in-law, Hurricane Jane, moved in with us from her assisted living center (she needed too much assistance, they said), The Coach and I discovered that baby monitors are, indeed, meant for babies. They are meant to keep a watchful ear (or eye, if you dole out the extra money) on cute, sweet little babies who make soft, sweet cooing noises at night. NOT 82-year-old grandmothers who moan, and groan, and snore, and fart, and have to get up to pee every hour and a half.

We learned this after about the second night of no sleep. For any of us. And after about the third day of her calling into midair for my husband, "Mawty" or simply, "Help!" and expecting us to come running. Let's just say it got real old, real quick.

So, Internet junkie that I am, I scoured the webs for an alternative. I quickly found one at this web site called Activeforever.com.   Think of it as a BabiesRUs for old people. Seriously. It has everything you could possibly think of to make life a little easier for senior citizens and those who end up taking care of them. Including this handy dandy little gadget.

It's a pager. Grandma wears the button part around her neck. When she needs "Help!" she can just push the button and the pager will beep or buzz. We were so excited.

For about a minute.

After insisting, "I'm not using that," Grandma got the hang of the button really quickly. And it was cute. We turned the monitors off and got a GREAT night's sleep on Friday.

Then came the weekend. While I was off covering volleyball, and the person we hired to help us during the week had the weekend off, The Coach was on Grandma Duty.

He spent the day Saturday answering her every "Beep."

"I want ice cream."

"I'm finished with my ice cream."

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"I'm hot."

"I'm cold."

"My butt hurts."

At one point, she beeped him from across the room.

"I didn't think you'd hear me," she said.

By the time I got home Saturday evening, half the Bourbon in the house was gone and The Coach was ready to smash that pager to smithereens.

Then came Sunday.

While The Coach and I sat in our living room watching the New Orleans Saints destroy the Atlanta Falcons (WHO DAT!) and my fantasy football team, The Lyons Lions, score mucho points, Grandma sat in her room with her button.

Which she pressed 18 times. Between the hours of 10 a.m. and 11 p.m.

18 times.

I know because he kept track. He kept score is more like it.

She wanted toast.

She wanted in her chair.

She wanted out of the chair.

She wanted to go to the bathroom.

She wanted bologna.

She was done with the bologna.

She wanted socks.

She wanted back in the chair.

She needed to go to the bathroom.

18 times.


By the end of the day, The Coach was ready to stick that button where the sun never shines and I think he was ready to kill me for finding it in the first place.

"I thought I had done good," I said.

He just shook his head in wonder.

At least we slept good. But we need more Bourbon.

Hurricane lessons

Having lived in south Louisiana my entire life, I'm pretty used to hurricanes. Yeah, I know the drill.

I know all about battening down the hatches. I know I'm supposed to buy batteries, and bread, and peanut butter, and canned goods, and bleach. I know I'm supposed to have a battery-operated radio and a flashlight. I know I'm supposed to fill my car with gas. And, if necessary, have an evacuation route planned. And, for the most part, we do have all those things.

But over the years, the hurricanes have taught us lessons.

Hurricane Camille taught us the meaning of storm surge and recovery.

Hurricane Andrew taught me that Baton Rouge is not all that much safer than New Orleans just because it's a few miles north.

Hurricane Georges taught me not to go to my sister's house with my entire family and four dogs for a hurricane, and that stop-and-go traffic will make a standard poodle throw up.

Hurricane Ivan taught me that that it takes 12 hours instead of six to get from LaPlace to Houston, and 11 hours to get back. And that a Jeep Grand Cherokee is not the most comfortable car for four adults and a potty training toddler on said trip, especially when you're the one sitting over the drive shaft for most of that trip.

Hurricane Katrina taught us that some engineers cheated their way through engineering class and that a Category 5 storm is nothing to play with. And that even the best in-laws are better when they live somewhere other than your house because two women cannot play nice in one kitchen.

Then came Isaac. And there were more lessons to be learned.

I learned that my husband is a hunter-gatherer. While I made sure our house is safe and secure and orderly for the invasion of his mother and my mother and anyone else who might find themselves in need of a safe haven, my husband bought bread. Lots and lots of bread.

We have wheat bread and raisin bread and hot dog buns and three loaves of white bread. And, as if that weren't enough, he bought little pistolet buns -- but nothing to put on them. But he didn't buy hamburger buns, even though we planned to have Sloppy Joes for dinner.

And as of right now, any hungry person dropping in for a bite to eat can have his or her choice of leftover Sloppy Joes (but no hamburger buns), lasagna (but we ate all the garlic bread), hot dogs with chili, hot dogs without chili, fried chicken, steak, or, if that's not appetizing, The Coach can cook you up some ribs.

I also learned during this little adventure that my husband, The Coach, is the worst Pictionary partner in the world.

Sometime Tuesday night, we suffered our one and only extended power outage caused by Isaac. Left without television or Internet, our daughter emerged from her room, bleary eyed and annoyed. But we were ready. Anticipating just such an event, I had her gather a stack of board games for us to wile away the hours.

We started with Pictionary. The Boss, the 11-year-old, decided she and my mama were going to be partners because they were both artists. That left me and The Coach. (Grandma Jane had already gone to bed and had no idea that the power was out or that there was even a storm going on at all, for that matter. God bless her.)

The Artists got an easy one. "Unicorn." Nana, just a few days shy of her 80th birthday, got it right away.

Then it was our turn. I would draw. I picked: "One Armed Man." Easy, I thought. I drew a stick figure with one arm.

"Right hand," Coach said.

Really?

I drew the international symbol for "No" -- the circle with a line through it.

"No hand," he said.

Seriously?

I even cheated a little and drew a No. 1. Nothing.

Finally, in desperation, I drew the only thing I could think of to make a man recognize one of his own kind. A penis. Yes. I drew a stick figure penis.

"MOOOOOOMMMM!" my 11-year old screamed. She got it. The Coach? Not so much.

When our outage ended -- oh, about 30 minutes later -- I decided to shame my husband my posting the photo on Facebook.

What is this?

Kevin: "It means: I have no right arm and I throw a stick in your general direction!!"
Gwen: "It's a man driving a car. Jeez, Lori."
Dennis: "Whatever it is, it appears quite happy to see you."
Kevin: "Ah, ARMLESS and happy to see you!! Yeah, that'd work."
James: "I would've guessed "pants on the ground"
James: "No pants on the ground? Or, "a one armed man should not attempt to wear baggy ass pants because ummm" IDK."   


OK. So maybe the coach isn't so bad. He didn't get "bike pants" either.

Later we moved on to a goofy game called Headbanz, during which we shamed the dog.

He didn't get it either.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In all seriousness, while I and my family remained safe and sound in our 80-year old house in St. Charles Parish, many, many of my friends just a few miles to our west in St. John the Baptist Parish have been devastated by flood waters caused by Isaac. This is where I work -- or will for the rest of this month. This is where I used to live. In fact, the two apartments I once rented are now under water. The fine folks of LaPlace and Reserve, some in Garyville and Lutcher and Paulina and even as far as Gonzales are suffering in misery right now.

 The recovery will take years. And I and my fellow reporters in the River Parishes Bureau of the newspaper, also located there, only have 19 days to tell their stories. It's heart-breaking.

I pray for them. I hope you will too.