Bob Hamm

Between the red hills of North Louisiana and the blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, lives the Cajun. Among the marshes and the bayous, the tall oaks and the whispering moss, he carries on the traditions of his hardy Nova Scotian ancestors, les Acadiens, whose flight from persecution brought them to the lush South Louisiana soil over two centuries ago.

In other parts of the world, little girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice, while little boys are made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails. Little Cajun children, or Acadian, if you will -- are made of gumbo, boudin and sauce piquante... crawfish stew and Oreilles de Cochon.

A Cajun child is given bayous to fish in, marshes to trap in, room to grow in and churches to worship in.

A Cajun likes fiddles and accordions in his music, plenty of pepper in his courtbouillon, shrimp in his nets, speed in his horses, neighborliness in his neighbors and love in his home.

A Cajun dislikes: people who don't laugh enough, fish enough, or enjoy enough of all the good things God has given to the Cajun. He doesn't like to be hurried when he's resting or distracted when he's working. He doesn't like to see people unhappy, and he'll do all he can or give all he has to bring a smile to a face stricken with sadness.

A Cajun likes to dance and laugh and sing when his week of hard work has ended. And just as Saturday night at the fais-do-do replenishes his store of energy and his personal balance so he can meet the next week's chores with vigor, Sunday at Church refreshes his spiritual and moral values and keeps strong his always-sustaining faith.

A link with a proud past, a Cajun is a man of tolerance who will let the world go its way if the world will let him go his. He is a man of friendliness who will give you the crawfish off his table, the Sac-au-Lait off his hook or the shirt off his back.

But if you cross a Cajun, he'll give you the back of his hand or the toe of his boot. If he likes you, he'll give you his whole wide, wonderful world. If he doesn't, he'll give you a wide berth.

A Cajun is a complex person, with as many ingredients in his makeup as there are in the gumbo Mama makes for special company.

He has tolerance for those who earn it... charity for those who need it... a smile for those who will return it... and love for all who will share it.

BUT... a Cajun can be as stubborn as a mule and as ornery as an alligator. If he sets his head on something, he'll fight a circle saw before he'll yield to your opinions.

You'd as well argue with a fence post as try to change the mind of a Cajun.

And, as fun-loving as he is, a Cajun can work as long and hard as any man. He carved out "Acadiana" by hand, from the swamps and marshes and uncultivated prairies.

But when the work is done and the argument ended, a Cajun can sweep you right into a wonderful world of joie de vivre with an accordion chorus of "Jolie Blonde," and a handful of happy little words -- five little words to be exact:

"Laissez les bon temps rouller!"

Let the good times roll!

May there be crawfish in your nets
And gumbo in your pot.
May the Sac-au-Lait be biting
At your favorite fishing spot.

May God's sun be shining brightly
When you need its cheerful rays.
May the oak tree shade you gently
On those lazy bayou days.

May a Bourree game be waiting
When all your work is through.
May the fais-do-do bring pretty girls
To cast a wink at you.

And when your time is over
And your place on earth is gone,
May you waltz right into heaven
To the tune of Jolie Blonde.

Sun's coming up on the bayou, Lord.
So bright in the clean, cool air,
As I kneel in my Cajun Cabin, Lord,
To offer my morning prayer.

What can I ask of you, Bon Dieu?
What more can a Cajun wish?
I've got black coffee on my stove,
And this grand bayou to fish.

My nets are full and heavy, Lord.
My traps your bounty yield;
I harvest so many riches, Lord,
From your bayous, gulf and field.

When my exiled Cajun fathers, Lord,
Sought refuge in this land,
I know the force that led them on
Was le Bon Dieu's unseen hand.

So, Lord, what more can a Cajun ask
Than what I have today?
Bon sante, bons amis et ma famille,
And le Bon Dieu, who hears me pray?

Then this is my simple prayer, Lord,
A Cajun's humble plea:
May all of those who love you, Lord,
Have all you've given me.

"I've been having that same dream at least once a year for over 40 years now. I'm always a teenager again, standing in front of the Community Center in the small Central Louisiana town where I grew up. Jimmy Lee comes riding by on his battered old bicycle..."

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"Said to tell you to be at the mansion at 4:30 Saturday morning." "Did he say what for?" "Said it's time you went to visit your grandma." "Hokay," I said resignedly.

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"I never did work for The Governor. That is, I never was on his payroll, or the state's. While I was in journalism school at LSU, I did an interview with him for the school newspaper..."

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"Looking back on it, I realize now it never was nothing but me and old Tiger chasing cars. Or, more accurately, pickup trucks. That's about all that runs the lonely roads in the swamp during winter time."

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"I was sitting in Gaboon Arcenaux's Bar, Boat Landing and Bait Shop, Incorporated when three car-loads of sheriff's deputies pulled up to arrest Kahlil the Libyan..."

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"This is an interview with James D'Angelo, recorded at his home in Metairie, Louisiana on Friday, September 10, 1975." The Huey Long assassination — told through the eyes of people who were there.

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Dear Naomi,

You have lived a fairly long time without getting to know your great-uncle Bob, but all good things must end. Here I am.

Thank you for the joy you have brought into Sam's life. Your dad is not given to bursts of emotion, but when he called to tell me about you, he was barely able to contain all the things he was feeling. I've never known him to be quite so filled with wonder and excitement. His spirits were soaring somewhere above the highest buildings in Houston.

I suppose I should try to introduce myself. Hopefully it can be done again in person sometime soon. Meanwhile…

I'm Sam's uncle, the youngest sibling of your grandmother, Lillian. I have faithfully played the role of black sheep of the family, but age has relieved me of that responsibility. I'm 62 and married for the second time. My wife, Leora, is a lovely lady I knew in high school, but lost track of for 30 years before she came back into my life.

I have three sons, Kevin, 35; Kurt, 32; and Casey, 30 (your cousins, for better or worse). Kevin just moved to Kansas City to manage the Kansas and Missouri operations of Standard Register. His wife is Rhonda, who was an assistant vice president of a Houston bank before the Kansas move. They have a daughter, Jennifer, 13, who has wrapped me around her finger since she first discovered she has fingers. Kevin is a drummer. Jennifer plays concert flute and other instruments.

Kurt is assistant vice president of management information systems for an insurance company in South Carolina. He and Stacey have no children. Kurt is a computer genius. He is also an exceptionally good guitarist and vocalist but refuses to use either talent. (We're all weird) Stacey is from a very academic family. Full of Ph.D.s. Her dad holds a high position at the University of Missouri.

Casey is Casey. He has exceptional ability as a musician, actor and other things creative, but is currently pursuing, erratically, a degree in education. His wife, Tina, is a beautician. She has a son by a previous marriage, they have a daughter, Taylor Ann, who is not yet a year old, and there is a third on the way. The Casey Hamms live in a deliriously happy little world that may be a bit removed from reality, but they are delightful in their impracticality. They seem to bridge the gap between the flower children of the sixties and today's yuppie generation.

Leora has four children, but I'll let her tell you about them when we get together.

People ask me what I do for a living and I seldom give the same answer twice in succession. Basically, I'm a writer. I am retained by several fairly impressive companies to do that for them: news releases, sales and training videos, trade journal articles, speeches, annual reports, radio and television commercials, etc. Now and then I write something on my own for publication, but my creative output has dwindled over the years. I also am chief editorial writer for the daily newspaper in Lafayette, and do a weekly talk show on a Lafayette radio station.

In my gypsy-like career, I've been a disc jockey, radio and television news director, magazine editor, newspaper editor, professional public speaker, advertising executive, public relations practitioner, itinerant poet and probably some other things along the way.

My employers are all in Lafayette, but Leora and I live here on False River – one of Louisiana's loveliest waterways. I work out of my home office here, the newspaper, the radio station, client's offices or a little mobile home I keep in Lafayette.

I am 6'2", 175 lbs. with fading red hair and no features that stand out other than my nose, which stands pretty far out. Leora is small and pretty and sweet. She enjoys bridge and beating hell out of me at golf. You'll love her.

The two of us live in a three-story town house here on False River. There's plenty of room for you, Todd, Corey, Brandon and Alexxis to spend a weekend with us. (My computer says there's no such word as "Alexxis.") Your dad can come, too, but that's not as exciting. I've known him since he first came roaring into this world. Y'all are brand new, and I'm so very, very glad that he found you.

Meanwhile, send me a picture.

'Fore I close, some observations on your father. He is unique. He is uncommonly intelligent and quite talented. He is the first in the family to earn a Ph.D. He is bull-headed. His goals in life include besting me in any argument on any subject. Beneath an often smart-aleck exterior there is a warm, caring, family-oriented person who deserves your love and affection. There is no doubt that you have his.

Come see us.

"George F. Dupuis, Sr. died Wednesday. George was one of the best friends I've ever had. This isn't easy for me to do, but I need to do it...because I'd like some of you who knew only the old political warrior to remember George the way I'll always remember him."

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"May 3, 1993 will be the 47th anniversary of the first time Willie Francis went to the electric chair in St. Martinville. Coincidentally, May will also mark the 100th anniversary of the hanging of the Too Tall Man in that same serene and historical town."

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"The rescue assignment for John Chance & Associates involved 38-year-old data. They were looking for Gus Grissom's Mercury spacecraft, the Liberty Bell 7, which sank in the Atlantic when the capsule's hatch accidentally blew off after splashdown on July 21, 1961."

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"Early Ohio writers were, for the most part, priggish idealists with a style that was stiff, overly sentimental and prone to using lessons in morals. But Charles Farrar Browne, a tall, thin, red-haired scribe with a long Roman nose and a drooping moustache, was an exception."

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"See if that's your Uncle Elvie in that coffin. My topic is Acadian history and Cajun humor. I want to talk a little about the former and maybe share a little of the latter with you."

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"It appears that your committee, mislead and deceived by Kenny Bowen, is proceeding with action that will be harmful to Lafayette over the years. I know that you have approached the task of this committee in good faith, but you need to know that you are being used by Kenny..."

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"On these telephones you can hear the heartbeat of Acadiana. You can feel the pulse of the community as people turn to the Southwest Louisiana Education and Referral Center in times of need."

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