Traveling the Boudin Trail

   "Traveling the Boudin Trail," sounds like an old west movie doesn't it?  This had been on my bucket list for a few years but I just kept putting it off.  I recently retired and when my husband, JC, asked me what I wanted as a gift I immediately responded; "I want to travel the Boudin Trail." JC didn't "bat an eye."  He has been married to me long enough to know that what may seem strange to others is typical "Shelley."  He has traveled six hours away with me to Hermann, MO to eat and buy German sausage so driving 10 hours to eat Cajun sausage didn't seem odd to him. 

   For those not familiar with boudin, it is Cajun sausage. There is Boudin blanc, crawfish boudin, shrimp boudin, alligator boudin, hot, mild and smoked boudin.  Every town or area has their own recipe for flavoring and preparation method.  It can be made into links like hot dogs, horseshoes, or balls.  It is most commonly made from ground pork with rice as a filler. Some is stuffed into casings and can be grilled, fried or steamed.  The boudin balls are typically coated and deep fried - my favorite. 

    I first learned about boudin a few years ago.  I was attending a science conference in New Orleans and picked up a Lousiana travel brochure.  I realized that I had never been to Southwest Louisana and as I was perusing the travel info on that area the Boudin Trail caught my eye.  I had never heard of boudin and had no idea what it tasted like but I'm a sausage lover (not Vienna - that stuff should be illegal) so I decided it must be good.  Now that I had become familiar with the term I began to notice it in the sausage section at my local grocery stores.  Upon looking at the packaging most wasn't made in Lousiana so I didn't buy any.  My first boudin experience was when dining at a Cajun restaurant in McKinney, TX while visiting family.  I saw "Dirty Balls" on the appetizer menu. As I read the description I saw that it was deep fried boudin!  It tasted just as heavenly as I thought it would so now my desire to travel the Boudin Trail became an obsession.

   I am, by nature, a planner.  I like orderly, well laid out plans in all areas of my life.  Before any trip I will thoroughly research the area; hotels, attractions, restaurants, etc.  Many times, upon arriving, I will feel as if I have already been there.  This idiosyncrasy drives my family nuts.  They encourage me (sometimes not too nicely) to just "fly by the seat of my pants" and look for those serendipitous moments.  I am trying hard to work on that so when JC asked me not to pre-plan this trip, I agreed (though I did tuck the Boudin Trail map in my purse when he wasn't looking).  And away we went!

   We had no particular route - just watch the compass and head southwest.  We could have driven to Lake Charles, LA in one day. It was only a 9 1/2 hour drive but we wanted to sight see and decided to drive until dinner time and stop for the night.  We had been to Shreveport and Bossier City several times so we decided to head south out of Magnolia, AR and cross into LA.  Once in LA we noticed that on both sides of the road there was nothing but pine trees - miles and miles of pine trees.  No stately homes or farms (which I had envisioned) to be seen.  Now - if I had done my research we would have known that the Kistachie National Forest is 604,000 acres, encompassing 7 LA parishes.

   We decided to stop for the night in Minden, LA.  Once again, had I researched we would NOT have stayed here.  Our accommodations were horrible and the recommended BBQ diner was not to my liking. JC said it was "OK" and finished off my food.  The next morning we happily left Minden behind and headed toward Natchitoches, where we stopped for breakfast.  As the old saying goes "hindsight is better than foresight."  Shoulda' driven the extra hour the night before and stayed in Natchitoches.  Following that we headed south once again with only trees, trees, and more trees as scenery.

   Upon arriving in Lake Charles, I pulled the Boudin Trail map out of my purse and we began to look for a restaurant.  Listed as the #2 favorite boudin eatery in Lake Charles was Billedeaux's Cajun Kitchen.  We easily found it and the smell of smoked meat made our mouths water!  We ordered a plain boudin ball and a spicy one along with a smoked meat sandwich.  Our waitress assured us that it was the best sandwich in town (and it was very good).  The boudin was as good as I had imagined it would be. 

Next up we found a nice hotel and headed out to explore Lake Charles.  My first stop is always the visitor's center.  After the prior night's disappointment in Minden, JC didn't utter a word about my "planning."  The visitor's center was helpful in suggesting things to see and do in the area.  (you can only eat so much) We viewed amazing artwork there, checked out the gator pond, and took a long walk around the lake. 

One of the center's suggestions was visiting one of the two local breweries. Rikenjak's was located just down the street so we chose it.  I am not much of a drinker but am open to trying new things. I told the bartender that I wanted to try a drink that was a local favorite. I don't remember the name of it but it was a tasty drink made with 3 types of rum.  JC had a pale ale that he liked.

We checked out more of the town and soon it was dinner time.  We had been told that you must eat at Steamboat Bill's when visiting Lake Charles.  I was a little miffed because JC wanted seafood and I wanted to check out another boudin place - Steamboat Bill's was not on my list!  I gave in, hoping that there would be boudin on the menu and fortunately it was.  JC was in heaven eating jumbo gulf shrimp and I was in heaven with my boudin ball and red beans and rice.

As much as I hate to admit it, the boudin at Steamboat Bill's was my favorite of the trip.  It was spicy and crispy fried and the dipping sauce they brought was wonderful. While dining at Steamboat Bill's we noticed a very elderly lady sitting alone in the corner. She ordered a family sized portion of crawfish.  As she peeled them she would use another plate to create a wreath.  It was so cool.  I wanted to take her picture but I was afraid to ask. Our waitress told us that she comes in often, wears an apron and plastic gloves, orders the crawfish and creates the wreath. What a human interest story!

   We dragged our overly stuffed bodies back to our hotel and fell into a deep sleep (me dreaming of more boudin).  The next day we headed southwest to Cameron Parish.  It is the southern most parish and is home to many shrimping boats and fishing companies.  My much prized Boudin Trail map said to try the boudin at Brown's market.  Shoulda' planned again.  We couldn't locate Brown's and we just kept driving.  We came upon a ferry. If you have followed my blogs you know I love ferries.  It is my dream to ride every inland ferry in the US and write a book about them.  I was so excited to ride the ferry even though the ferryboat captain was cranky and the ride was short.  Upon reaching the other side we saw a sign for Holly Beach and headed there.  I learned that it is called the Cajun Riviera and while not pretty like Alabama and Florida beaches, it was nice.  It reminded me of Galveston. 

We left there and headed north toward Sulphur.  This was my favorite part of the trip.  The wetlands are beautiful.  There are wildlife drives open to the public, bird viewing areas, and in many of the bayous there are platforms for fishing.  Oh, and we did find Brown's market.  Not being familiar with some of the LA terms I had confused the town of Cameron with Cameron Parish.  We had already decided to eat lunch in Sulphur so we didn't stop and sample the boudin at Brown's.   Upon arriving in Sulphur we checked my map and it recommended Hollier's Cajun Diner.  When entering the restaurant there were freezers filled with all kinds of boudin to purchase and take home.  I decided to try some before buying.  (Good move).  This was my least favorite boudin.  I ordered a deep fried cheese and jalapeno stuffed boudin ball.  I don't know how to explain the taste other than to say it was "wet."  I was not impressed and ordered some jumbo shrimp.  (Shoulda' stopped at Brown's) 

We were both miserable after the jumbo shrimp and headed back to Lake Charles.  We checked out some gift shops and stores.  By dinner time we were still too full to eat again so we took in a movie and got a good night's rest before the trip home.

    For the trip home we chose to go through Alexandria, Rustin, El Dorado, AR and on up through central Arkansas.  The trip was beautiful.  Rustin is a picturesque old town and I would love to have spent more time there.

   My final thoughts on the Boudin Trail, and this is coming from Shelley the planner.  If I were to make this trip again I would drive straight through to Holly Beach, LA in one day (about 11 hours), rent a beach house there for a week.   All the Boudin eateries listed (there were at least 50) are within driving distance from the beach and you need at least a week to try just a few of them.  You could take advantage of the beach activities in between meals.  There are swamp tours, birding tours, fishing, boat excursions, playing in the water and just relaxing on the beach.  It would be a fun vacation.  Spontaneity is great but sometimes a little advance planning needs to be done to have the "joie de vivre" attitude.

"Laissez les bons temps rouler!"

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly; My Life as a Bereaved Mother

Today, May 7, 2017, is International Bereaved Mother’s Day. It’s certainly not a day of celebration but more a day of remembrance.  I wish no mother had to even be aware that this day existed.

This blog is based on only my experiences and feelings.  I cannot speak for any other bereaved mother.  All our situations are different.

 My journey as a bereaved mother began two years, 7 months and 2 days ago.  My life has not been nor will it ever be the same again.  Here are the good, the bad, and the ugly of my life as a grieving mother. 

Prior to Sept. 5, 2014, I had the world by the tail.  I had a job that I loved, a loving family, two successful and talented children, a wonderful life.  The year, 2014, started out great.  I had been chosen to be a presenter at the National Science Teacher’s Convention in Boston.  What an honor!  Seeing my name on the program with the likes of Bill Nye, Neil DeGrasse Tyson, and Mayim Bialik was a dream come true.  The school year went well and when the school term was over we went on vacation to the Texas Gulf Coast. It was a fun filled trip spent with family. Following vacation, I attended Honeywell’s Green Boot Camp for teachers in San Diego.  I was one of 70 teachers worldwide chosen to attend this prestigious camp.  I was on top of the world.  I am glad that I couldn’t see what was looming just a few short weeks in the future.  Ryan and my cousin, Wayne, came down to San Diego from Los Angeles to visit me while I was attending the camp.  This trip was the last time that I spent with Ryan and the last picture of us together was taken.  Looking back, I can see how ill Ryan looked.  He was gaunt and his color was bad.  I have beaten myself up so much for not insisting that he get some tests run right away.  But I didn’t and I can’t change the outcome.  In grief counseling the question typically comes up; “Do you feel guilty?” or “Would you have changed something?”  Yes to both.  I have to live with that.

When you lose a child you lose part of yourself physically, mentally, and emotionally.  Physically; I have read that part of a child’s DNA remains in the mother after she gives birth.  This is an explanation for why there is so much physical pain involved in child loss.  I’m not sure about the DNA research on this, but I do know that it physically ages you – and fast.  I no longer recognize the face in the mirror.

Mentally; I don’t even know where to start here.  Unless you have been through it, it’s hard to put into words.  You can’t think, you say the wrong things…you think you are losing your mind.

Emotionally; you can laugh but maybe a second later you cry.  You live with panic attacks.  Waking up every morning and realizing that your child is gone is a feeling of sheer terror.  Imagine the feeling that you get when you have a near miss car accident – that’s how losing a child feels – twenty-four seven.

 Even though grief is exhausting, there is no rest for me. I am always tired but sleep doesn’t come.  I wander around the house in the middle of the night.  I move from the bed to the couch to the computer desk and back again.  My body is programmed to wake at 3:48 A.M.  That is the time that I received the call that Ryan was critically ill and that I must come to Los Angeles right away.  From that instant on my life changed.  I dislike Fridays and I dislike the 5^th of each month. 

For the longest time, I could not bear to listen to music. Ryan was a musician and our life was always filled with music.  It was months before I could stand to hear music.  Ryan was a big fan of Sam Cook and many of The Voice contestants choose Sam Cook songs.  I can hit mute on a remote in a split second.  I have always been a fitness enthusiast – every day since my youth I have worked out. After Ryan passed away I just stopped and let myself go.  I just didn’t have the motivation to do it.  As time went by something inside me pushed me to put the workout videos back in but I muted the sound or I ran without listening to music.  I can listen to music now, but not in large doses.

I get angry at people.  I have no tolerance for people who complain about things that seem inconsequential.  I just want to shake them.  So, what if your (insert whatever you want here) isn’t working or going well.  My child is dead and I don’t have the patience to listen to your whining.  

I get frustrated at people thinking that I need to stay busy and giving me tasks and responsibilities.  I am getting good at saying no.  I have said no a few times that have gotten me into trouble at school.  At one time, I would have apologized profusely and completed the assigned task.  Now I don’t even care.  Because of I this I realized that the time has come for me to retire.  I can no longer feel excitement about fun lesson plans, field trips, dances, activities.  My work is not up to par and I know it. 

Then there is the constant worry.  I live in fear that something will happen to Misty and the grandkids.  How could I go on?  I don’t think I could.

I have endured the rumors and nosiness.  I can only speak for myself but I don’t like to be asked about Ryan’s death or cause of.  That is so personal and I am shocked when asked about it.  I understand that some are concerned but there are those who Misty refers to as the Lookie-Loos. They seem to thrive on other’s pain.  I try to steer clear of them but some find a way to corner you.

Then there are the platitudes.  Again, this is only my view point.  I don’t want to hear; “God needed another angel,” or “He’s in a better place now.”  I want my child here – where I can see him, touch him, smell him, hear his voice…those rainbows, clouds, feathers or cardinals are nice and make me temporarily feel better, but they are not him.

I have been through grief counseling and grief support – both faith based and non-faith based.  Everyone has their own idea about what follows death.  Counseling and support have saved me from insanity and I would encourage anyone, no matter how long it’s been since your loss to find and attend a support group.

I have given you the bad and the ugly.  “Where’s the good?” you ask.  In the months following Ryan’s death I have met so many kind moms that have lost children.  We are a battered and bruised group but we lean on each other and when one of us can’t walk the other moms carry us.  I have never met most of these moms face to face but thanks to social media we interact daily.  Just knowing they are there makes a big difference in my life. 

Ryan’s friends have reached out to Misty and me and allowed us into their lives.  They could have easily turned away but instead they have pulled us closer.  We’ve renewed old friendships from Ryan’s high school and college days and gotten to know Ryan’s friends from Los Angeles.  They treat us like family and we appreciate that.

I want to leave you with this; there is something that, I believe, most bereaved parents want – that their child is never forgotten.  You can talk to us about them, say their name, share a memory, or show us a picture of our child that we’ve never seen (or even if we have we will love seeing it again).  Please don’t not talk about them because you think it will upset us. It upsets us more if you don’t.  One of Ryan’s friends, Alxis, totally gets this.  She has done little things that mean so much to Misty and me.  She wore a Magic Trash (the name of her husband and Ryan’s band) pin to the Grammys to honor Ryan.  There on her beautiful dress was this tiny pin that maybe only Misty and I noticed but it was HUGE for us.  She and her husband traveled to Africa on their honeymoon and they took one of Ryan’s harmonicas to give to a young boy there.  I cried buckets of tears just knowing that the boy would make beautiful music with that harmonica.  These are the good things.

Wandering and Wondering

   I dream often and vividly - this appears to be a genetic trait.  My mom and my daughter dream often too.  In my dreams I can feel, taste, touch, smell and my dreams are always in color.  A  professor, from back in my college days, told our class that dreams are the body just running the circuits in our brain as we sleep.  He said the dreams are just little blips in the circuitry of our brain.  He explained that many of our dreams are things we have subconsciously seen or heard.  The logical side of my brain wants to believe that but the creative side of my brain tells me there is more to my dreams than circuitry.

   
    I had a dream a couple of nights ago that I can't stop thinking about.  I was lost in an airport - inside of a huge warehouse in the airport.  This warehouse held racks and racks of  luggage.  I was confused. "Were this many pieces of luggage left behind by travelers?"  There were fork lift drivers hauling pallets of luggage but they didn't seem to be going out to the tarmac to load the luggage on the plane.  I was lost.  I needed to find the ticket counter so I would stop the fork lift drivers to ask directions but none of them spoke English.  No one could understand me.  Finally a man pointed and I went in that direction.  When I got to the "ticket counter" it looked like a bank teller counter.  It was made of marble and there was only one woman behind the counter.  She asked for my ticket and then tried to take my carry on.  I told her I wasn't checking the bag (there was no visible scale or tags anyway).  She said that I had to give her my bag and tried to physically take it from me. We began a tug of war that ended only when I woke up.

    Having spent the past couple of days mulling this over I have "analyzed" this dream.  I believe that the luggage in the warehouse represents the children that have passed away.  The fork lift drivers were taking more "children" to Heaven.  The fact that no one spoke my language represents those who have distanced themselves from me because they don't know what to say or how to help me in my grief.  My carry on bag was Ryan and the ticket agent was trying to take him from me. I knew if she won that he would wind up in the warehouse of  "luggage."

   I am a science major but I am also a human and a grieving mother.  Since losing Ryan I have learned that sometimes I can't always mesh Science and human emotion.  One or the other is going to win out.  In this case I think my human emotion wins.....

Grandma Thelma

Curtis Clough

   Every family has a story. I think if you knocked on every door in your neighborhood and asked the family who lived there to tell your their story, it would make a great book.  I grew up in a family of story tellers.  I didn't think much about it until I was older and would be talking with my friends. I was shocked to learn that many of my friends didn't know their lineage - couldn't even tell me their grandmother's maiden names.  I realized how lucky I was to know my family's history.  I want to share a few of our stories.  

   My family has had it's share of tragedy and heartache.  Having grown up in a family that has endured great suffering, but persevered, has shaped me into the person that I am. I was brought up to accept and never question.   Some might perceive us as being cold or aloof but that is not the case.  We are survivors.

Thelma Elizabeth Brantley

   I will begin this series of stories with my maternal grandmother.  This is a hard story to tell.  My maternal grandmother, Thelma Elizabeth Brantley and her twin brother, Elmer, were born Feb. 23, 1913  in the Brantley Bend community which is located on the Buffalo River in north Arkansas. Besides, Elmer, she had six brothers and sisters.  Their family was poor and they would be what we now call "a highly mobile family“ or "migrant workers.”  They would travel to Oklahoma or Washington to make a little money then return to the Buffalo River area until the money ran out.  When Grandma was 18 the family was living in Okmulgee, Oklahoma.  My grandmother met Curtis Clough.  He lived a few miles away in Wanette, Oklahoma. He was the son of a Baptist preacher, and by all accounts, they were a good family.  Grandpa Curtis had learned to play the fiddle and unbeknownst to his parents, Brother Mel and Mattie Clough, he would play the fiddle at local dances to make a little extra money.  We believe that is how he met Grandma Thelma.  He and my grandma got married and she became pregnant with her first child.  They traveled to Overton, Texas because his brother lived there and he could provide work for my Grandpa Curtis.  The baby, Maxine, was born but failed to thrive and she died at age two weeks. Grandma Thelma told me that the baby wouldn't nurse.  She is buried in Overton, Texas and I don’t believe her grave is marked. They eventually came back to Wanette and three years later my mom, Lou Ann, was born.  When Mom was four months old my grandfather got appendicitis.  He was taken to the hospital in Shawnee but gangrene had set in and he died.  My grandmother was in her early twenties, had a baby, no job and no money.  A family member brought her and Mom to Rush, Arkansas so that they could live with Grandma Thelma's parents.  She got a job in town.  Back then poor people didn’t have cars so she would ride the mail car to town and board there and come home when she could – usually on the mail car again.  She met a young man named Paul Brown.  He was working for the CCC and they decided to marry.  Mom was about four.  After the CCC work on Buffalo Park was completed Paul went to work at the local sawmills.  They had a little boy named James Earl. When he was three months old he died of pneumonia.  He is buried in what is now the Buffalo River National Park.  Next came Jimmy.  All was well until he was 18 months old and he got, what was then called infantile paralysis (polio).  He was hospitalized in Little Rock for many weeks.  They were told that he would probably die there.  Paul and Grandma moved to Picher, Oklahoma so he could work in the mines.  Jimmy was still in Little Rock. Grandma was pregnant again and had a little girl name Pauline.  Mom never saw Pauline.  She had stayed in Arkansas with her grandparents.  Jimmy made it and someone went to get him and took him to Grandma and Paul.  When Pauline was six months old she hemorrhaged to death.  No autopsy was done back then so the cause of the hemorrhaging was never known.  Pauline is buried in the GAR cemetery in Miami, Oklahoma.  Grandma had another baby, Paul Roy, who was stillborn and shortly afterward Paul was killed in a mine cave in.  They are both buried in GAR cemetery in Miami, OK.  Grandma now had just Mom and Jimmy, who was crippled.  How did she go on?  I don’t know.  She was in her early thirties and had lost four children and two husbands.  What was it inside her mind that kept her from going insane?  You would never have known what she endured if you were around her.  She later married again to a very bad man. Mom has asked me not to tell the story of this part of her life. It is too painful for her to talk about.  Jimmy lived until he was 18.  He is buried in Cowan Barrens cemetery in north Arkansas next to his grandparents.  Grandma and her third husband moved to the West Coast and stayed there until he died. Grandma then came to live with us.  She had never learned to drive and so she relied on Mom and Dad to help her.  She began corresponding with a man she had known in California and she soon returned there to marry him. I think this is probably the only time in her life that things were easy.  They retired to Arkansas and a few years later, this last husband passed away.  Grandma lived alone for a while.  Mom, Dad, and my sister would take Grandma to shop and run errands.  One Christmas we were at Mom and Dad’s and Grandma said that she had a knot on her neck.  Mom took her to the doctor and she was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.  She passed away on March 26, 1997 and is buried next to Jimmy and her last husband.

Mom and Jimmy

   I often wonder how she managed to keep going.  Life had treated her so cruelly but she kept going.  In her later years she enjoyed being with her great-grandchildren. I would watch her holding them and wonder if she was thinking of her own lost children.  She didn't talk about it and if you asked she would say, "That was so long ago."   Many women would have given up.  Many would have lost their minds.  There was something unbreakable in Grandma.  Was it genetic?  Was it some primal survival instinct?  Was it that she was taught to accept and not question?  It is my hope that she is now in a place of peace where there is no pain or sorrow.

An Open Letter to Christine Leinonen

An Open Letter to Christine Leinonen

   As I sat in my living room watching your tearful pleas for help in finding your beautiful son, Christopher, I wanted to reach though the TV screen, wrap my arms around you and comfort you.  I prayed that Christopher would be found alive and my heart broke for you when I learned that was not the case.

   Christine, I write this as one grieving mother to another. My son died 21 months ago and I won't say that I completely understand and feel the same pain that you are feeling because of the different circumstances surrounding their deaths, but I do know the grief of losing an adult child.

   I don't know your and Christopher's story but I sense that you are a mother who loves her child more than anything and you would gladly have exchanged your life for Christopher's.  I wish I could have gotten in my son's hospital bed and died so that he could live.  I begged God to take me instead, but it wasn't meant to be.  Our sons were beautiful and had so much life left and so much to contribute to society.

   I saw you tell Lester Holt that if you had known that Christopher was lying on the floor in that club you would have gone in and carried him out on your back.  Christine, I would have gone in there with you and helped you carry him out.

   As you begin your journey as a "sister in lost" I hope you can find comfort.  Please do not let bitterness overtake you.  Try to find a way to do good works in Christopher's name, so that it will never be forgotten. 

   I hope you know that this is written out of love and compassion and I pray for strength, comfort, and healing for you.

With deepest love and compassion.

Shelley Ledbetter