Part 114 Journey to the old country


We head for my home town Shreveport over the weekend to attend my old friend Larry’s daughter’s wedding. I have driven the Houston to Shreveport trail more times than I could ever begin to count. It is usually fast and pleasant. This morning, though, my groin pain kicks in (out of nowhere as always) and I must down a few aspirin to try to reduce it. The dull ache lingers for miles, and the 80s CD does little to distract me. We stop for lunch at Chili’s in Nacogdoches, my old college town. The corn soup I order is tasty and goes down well. Of course, it is creamy soup after all – it should go down. The only discomfort was the $40 tab for which was supposed to be simply lunch.

We arrive at Shreveport at 2:00 in the afternoon and check into the hotel, after which a downpour (including hail ) unloads on the drought-stricken area. After a short time the skies clear. The wedding takes place at 6:00, coincidentally the same time that – according to the buzz on Facebook – a series of earthquakes are to begin that signify end times. Fortunately no moving of the earth takes place, at least not in Shreveport, or at least not until the honeymoon after the wedding.

My friend Larry is a deacon in the Catholic church, and he has decided to both conduct the service and to give his daughter away. He suppresses an urge to choke up very early on, then rebounds and does a terrific job speaking, managing to be poignant, concise, humorous, professional, and occasionally even folksy. It was simply perfect. I realize that in all these years I have never heard him speak before a crowd before. I look around and see few faces that I recognize, but there is his mother. She distracts me into reminiscing about many years ago, when she was like a second mom to me and Larry and I were teenagers with dreams ready to be lived out.

When we were teens, and in college days, I ate many lunches at his house, requesting always that his mother make sloppy Joes, which I called simply “things”. Every time an argument would start up, fueled by Larry and his older brother, with his mom equally ready to jump in, everyone grinning even as voices were raised because they were all having fun doing this (only his mild mannered dad would abstain, simply sitting in his seat wordlessly and smiling). Larry was one of the first high school kids to grow his dark hair out long, sometimes adding a moustache if he could get away with it. He smoked, played guitar, and enjoyed music by alternative, San Francisco bands (not like me, who preferred more British pop bands and r & b). Eventually I got Larry to teach me how to play songs on the guitar, even complex ones (I was bored with simply learning isolated chords). Larry is one year younger, and we got out of synch with going to college and colleges attended. We stayed in touch, though, and managed to take a memorable trip to Estes Park Colorado one summer, pulling along his parents’ pop-up trailer, and persevering despite altitude sickness, low funds, a wreck, and an overheated radiator. Larry left college at Louisiana Tech to attend LSU in Baton Rouge, majoring for a time in parapsychology and covering news stories as a reporter, until too many investigative stories about crooked politicians jaded him. That plus a lucrative offer to run his father’s clutch and drive shaft business (of which Larry knew nothing and which was contradictory to his lifestyle) led him back to Shreveport. He met Lynn, married her, and soon moved to Bryan Texas to run a branch office there. They had children and Larry ran the business. Other business opportunities and a prominent position with his church brought him back to Shreveport, and after many years he evolved from this counterculture figure to the choir-directing, prison-ministering, politically conservative, responsible citizen that he is today.

And now he is here, directing this show. It is all more than I can believe.

After the wedding, we walk next door to the Petroleum Club, riding the elevator to the 15th floor, where I feel a faint familiarity with this place that I haven’t entered in decades. The kids dash to the candy bar (literally a bar with rows of candies of all types). We enjoy a glass of wine before walking into the adjoining room for dinner. I eat a little spinach salad, then am struck by pain again in my groin. I have never had this attack twice in one day, and I am distraught. We attempt to crush up two aspirin (how could I possibly have forgot the pain pills?) which I tip back with some milk, but they get caught in my not-so-wide-after-all throat. I run to the bathroom and attempt to discretely throw up. I am now devastated that this has to occur on such a special event. I return to the table, but attempt no more food. The bride and groom step on the floor for “Tiny Dancer”, then Larry and his daughter dance to another number. Everyone crowds the floor for the inevitable “Macarena”, and at 10:00 we return to the hotel. A memorable evening, both beautiful and terrible.

We wake up early and after breakfast (where I tentatively eat some yoghurt but little else) we drive over to the assisted care facility to visit Uncle James, my dad’s twin brother. He breaks out in a big grin and is genuinely glad to see us. He is gets about on a motorized wheelchair, but mentally is sharp as can be and reminds me of how my dad was, almost a decade ago. He talks about how hard it is to find good food at these facilities and how unsafe this place is with only one elevator from which to exit. These factors notwithstanding, his spirits are good. We leave in about an hour and head home in the sunshine.