Gibson: a Louisiana town with tigers on a gold leash

To me, this is Cajun country and pure beauty.

Did you know that Gibson in Terrebonne Parish used to be known as Tigerville because tigers once roamed the woods outside the bayou town?

A religious statue inside the former St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Gibson. The church was open on a recent weekend, allowing me to wallow in childhood memories. 

Actually, it's not at all true that tigers once roamed Gibson, Louisiana. The fact of the matter is that Cajuns can't tell the difference between a tiger and a bobcat. Sorry, but there were no tigers on a gold leash in early 1800s rural Louisiana.

This home had to have been gorgeous once upon a time. Now it's falling apart.

Still, there are two towns in Louisiana that once were named Tigerville: Gibson in Terrebonne Parish and the still-named Tigerville in St. John the Baptist Parish. Silly Cajuns. One Cajun says "Sha, there's a tiger in the woods; then another Cajun says "Sha, there's a tiger in the woods." Then the town is named after the "tiger" in the woods.

Up this 'hill' used to be a house that my mother was convinced was haunted. We were surprised on a recent visit to find the house gone. Where did it go?

The "Tigerville" that I know is the one in Terrebonne Parish, just down the road from Houma. It's been called Gibson for as long as I can remember. I have a fondness for Gibson that probably is a little strange given that I never lived there.

Granny's house in Gibson before the screened in porch was added. Here's Granny with one of her many, many dogs from over the years. Granny's house was bought and moved by another family.

Gibson was where my Granny lived in the bend of Mary Street. She lived in a three bedroom trailer with a screened in porch on the side and a yard big enough for a garden. The refrigerator - for decades, it seemed - was a brown, side-by-side model that always had popsicles in the freezer. The couch had pictures of the grandchildren in graduation gowns lined across the back. There were many, many grandchildren (let's see if I can get this right): Gerlinde, Greg, Helen, Mark, Anthony, Shannon, Mitzi, Rick, Scott, Sheila, Kim, Nick, Michelle, Linda, John and Jesse.

Uncle Albert and my cousin Mark in front of the built in cabinet that was in the corner of Granny's living room.

My mother once told me that Mary Street was never supposed to be Mary Street. It was supposed to be Carroll Street, which intersects with Mary Street. The sign got turned around, and no one thought to turn it back in the current direction. So the street with the church on it became Carroll Street, and the street with the homes on it became Mary Street. Given that the church was called St. Patrick, I'm not sure this story is true. But, trust me, it could absolutely be true.

This used to be the post office. It had an entire wall of postal boxes. No one had a mailbox by their house in Gibson. Later, after a new post office was built across the bridge, this became a beauty shop. Now it's someone's home. 

There isn't much to Gibson these days except for decaying houses and tons of trailers. My Nanny's house is neat and trim, but other houses just are falling down. Carroll Street used to be the main street of the town. It had a post office, grocery store, beauty parlor and church. Now only the church remains, and it's a Hispanic Catholic Church instead of the Catholic Church of yore.

Gibson Elementary School. I've always wondered how old this building is. 

When I say there isn't much to Gibson these days what I mean is there isn't much of the Gibson that I remember from my childhood. Most of the people that my Granny knew are dead. For the most part, their homes are abandoned. Some lovely homes remain. Gibson is a town in which people like to build piers along the bayou. Very often, an alligator will swim up to your pier.

The best house in Gibson! This is my Nanny's house. Nanny, by the way, is Cajun for godmother. Can you spot the dog in the window? My cousin's British twin lived underneath this house. Inside story.

The town itself is pretty country. For the longest time, you only had to dial four numbers to reach anyone else in Gibson. There was no need for the prefix.

The old bridge has been closed for years. It's owned by the parish which put it up for sale. It didn't draw a buyer. Because of its design and engineering, the bridge is considered eligible for the National Register of Historic Places. 

Gibson has a bridge across the bayou that you used to be able to drive across. As a child, that bridge was so cool to me because you could drive or ... (wait for it) ... walk across it. It had a pedestrian walkway right alongside the driving portion. How cool is that? You can still walk across the bridge (did so on a recent Saturday!), but you can't drive across it. The parish closed the bridge years ago and recently put it up for sale. Bye to another piece of Gibson history.

The Walther house. The Walthers came from France and owned a general store in Gibson (not the store on Carroll Street but a different store). Unlike most of the residents of Gibson, the Walthers were Methodist, which made them an exotic species. 

Speaking of the bridge, Gibson is largely an island. It is hemmed in by Bayou Black, Donner Canal and Tiger Bayou (tigers again!). I say "largely" because there are sections of Gibson that aren't on the island, including the cemetery.  Where the church is used to be a small island. Once upon a time, Carroll Street was a channel. The channel was filled in.

Beautiful St. Patrick's Church. I don't know what it's called now, but take a peek inside if you're ever in the area. There's an organ loft and an actual confessional. 

On a recent trip to visit Nanny, I asked my mother to take me around Gibson so I could take pictures and hear the town's history. "OK," she said. "This is going to take about two minutes." And it did.

I lit a candle for my Granny, but I didn't have the 50 cent offering on me so my aunt says it didn't count.

I loved Gibson as a kid because everything was so close. The church, store and post office were just down the street. The school, cemetery and the one really grand house were across the bridge. At some point, a library was built in the parking lot of the school. Granny and Nanny (my beloved aunt who lived across the street from Granny) were ecstatic. They no longer had to wait for the bookmobile to swing through town.

Stained glass windows inside St. Patrick's. 

The church has a long history. It was first built in 1876 only to be knocked down by a hurricane. A second church was built in 1889. It, too, was knocked down by a hurricane. A third church was built in 1892. Guess what happened to it? Yep, it was knocked down by a hurricane.

The organ loft inside St. Patrick's. This church was greatly loved.

A fourth church went up. It was knocked down ... by a fire (surprised you, huh?) in 1940. So the current church dates to 1940, and it's not really St. Patrick. It's actually St. Rita, which once stood in New Orleans only to be taken apart, stained glass, pews and all, and taken to Gibson, where it was rebuilt like a set of Lincoln Logs.

The Walthers' store. It's since been moved and no longer is in Gibson. 

There are other churches in Gibson, but the most distinct one is the Methodist church. This little squat building is on the National Register. I've never stepped foot in it. I always wanted to, but Granny was convinced it was the Walthers' church and that mere Catholics weren't allowed inside. Or so she said.

Gibson's Methodist church. 

The little church has a cemetery with a really odd brick structure. I don't know what that thing is. It could be a tomb, but it has trees growing on the roof.

What the heck is this thing? 

Nowadays, the post office and a much bigger library are across the bridge near the Methodist church. The old post office is someone's house. The store is closed and crumbling - no more grabbing an orange soda and gingerbread planks. Even the house at the top of the hill that my mother and my aunt thought was haunted is gone. The old Melancon house still is there, but it's deserted and surrounded by campers.

The old store sold gingerbread planks with pink icing. It is really deteriorating.

My favorite house in Gibson was always Miss Teen's house. I once had dreams of moving Miss Teen's house, fixing it up and turning it into a writer's cabin. How cool would that be? Now there's a tree growing through Miss Teen's house so it's probably not going to happen! Teen was short for Clementine. She was friends with my Granny. I don't know much about Miss Teen other than that she was a widow who missed her husband very much.

Miss Teen's house has definitely seen better days. 

Miss Teen's husband died in 1966. She died in 1992. She had a long wait to be reunited with him. Her house was a shotgun shack. If you fired a shotgun through the front door, the bullet would go through the house and right out the back door. One room flowed into the next room. There were three main rooms: Living room, bedroom and kitchen with a bathroom tacked on right off the kitchen. What was sweet about Miss Teen's house were the added touches. There was decorative woodwork in the kitchen and a nice little porch swinging out on the side of the house.

Another gorgeous old home in Gibson. 

Gibson was named for Randall Lee Gibson whose family had several sugar plantations in the area. Randall was born in Kentucky but grew up in Louisiana. He studied at Yale and became a U.S. senator. It was Randall who convinced the townspeople to stop calling the place Tigerville. Maybe he knew the "tigers" were actually bobcats.

A beautiful bayou scene in Gibson. 

While visiting Yale's hometown of New Haven, Conn., Randall envisioned great things for Tigerville. "What will be the condition of our government when Tigerville becomes as large as New Haven and its citizens as intelligent?" he wrote.

Another Gibson home. By the way, this house looks exactly like the home Great Aunt Ethel lived in a few miles away. Even the color is the same. This was Mrs. Porche's house. She was a schoolteacher at nearby Gibson Elementary. 

No worries. Tigerville/Gibson hasn't yet become the New Haven of the South.

Another abandoned home: This used to be the Authement house. 

It's just a beautiful bayou town whose history is becoming lost as buildings are allowed to deteriorate.

A birthday trip to a ghost town on very little gas

The ghost town of Rodney is absolutely magical.

I like to get off the beaten path. Mr. G. likes to stay on the beaten path. But he's gotten braver since discovering Google Maps (although he insists that the Google Maps on his phone is soooo much better than the Google Maps on my phone). Plus, it was my birthday weekend (and Bailey was with us) so I won the vote to get off the beaten path.

If this house wasn't choked by weeds, it almost looks like someone could live here.

I don't know when I stumbled across Rodney, Miss. It's a ghost town not far from Natchez. Ghost town probably isn't even the right phrase for it. There are somewhere between three and 13 people who live there (depends on who you ask). If I had to guess, the population swells and dwindles depending on deer season.

I love this picture of two women posing so elegantly together. It was taken in the town of Rodney in 1940. The Library of Congress has a number of historic photos of Rodney.

Rodney almost became the capitol of Mississippi. It lost by three votes. Rodney also used to be on the banks of the Mississippi River. Old Man River is fickle, though, and shifted two miles away from Rodney. Toss in a few yellow fever outbreaks, and Rodney just dwindled away.

As kids, we thought this church tower in Taylortown was haunted by a suicidal bride.  As you can see, it's not very tall so I don't know why we thought anyone could jump to their death from here.

Lots of small towns die. It seems to be the way of the world. I grew up not far from a town called Taylortown. There's not much to Taylortown these days except for a church tower that we were always told was haunted by the ghost of a bride who jumped to her death from that very tower after her bridegroom jilted her on their wedding day (or something like that). Turns out that whole story is hogwash. Who's surprised?

It's hard to believe that Rodney once had several newspapers.

Rodney, though, once was home to 4,000 people. It had newspapers, a jail, several churches, a park for band concerts, a drugstore and perhaps even an opera house.

Zachary Taylor loved the Rodney area. One of his daughters married Jefferson Davis only to die three months later outside St. Francisville, not far from Rodney.

Zachary Taylor's home was near Rodney until it tumbled into the river. Supposedly, Taylor was whiling away the evening in a Rodney home when he got the news that he had been elected president of the United States.

This map is based on a number of sources. It's an imagining of what Rodney looked like over the years and is not historically accurate. 

A map found on the town's Facebook remembrance page shows Rodney was a town of riverboat landings and people who could walk to work. The Alstons had a store in front of their home. Further down the road was the Old Alston House. The Shobers' bakery stood in front of their home. There was a drugstore and a saloon, warehouses, a bank and a school.

We saw no evidence of the "Church Street" that once existed alongside the Presbyterian church, but we did see the famous cannonball. During the Civil War, the church's minister was a Union sympathizer. He invited Union officers assigned to the USS Rattler steamship to Sunday services. The officers accepted the invitation and were sitting with the congregation listening to the sermon when Confederate soldiers stormed the church and started arresting them. Those left behind on the USS Rattler soon noticed the hubbub and fired a cannon at the church. A replica of the cannonball is there, in the church's masonwork, to this day.

Eudora Welty had a fascination with rural Mississippi. Here she is in front of Windsor Ruins. 

Eudora Welty wrote about Rodney. It pops up again and again in her writings.

So I was determined to find Rodney during a recent trip to Natchez. I was determined to find it even though I'm scared of rattlesnakes and the woods around Rodney supposedly are thick with them (and alligators when it floods). I also brought my dog with me, figuring I'd leave her in the safety of the car (because God knows where the nearest vet would be if she got bitten by a snake). Naturally, Mr. G. kept taking her out of the car far too close to the high grass until I insisted that he pick her up. It was my birthday after all!

Astonishing Windsor Ruins.

On the way to Rodney, we stopped at Windsor Ruins, where a houseguest flicked cigar ashes into a pile of debris in 1890 and burned the entire house down. And what a house it was! Today only the columns remain.

You can take Rodney Road or the other Rodney Road to get to Rodney. What's the confusion? Actually, I believe Rodney Road takes a very sharp turn and continues on as Rodney Road. 

I had printed out the scant Internet directions to Rodney before leaving Baton Rouge. I also plugged it into the Google Maps. Surprisingly, Google Maps seemed to know where Rodney is.

Here's the thing about driving with Mr. G. He never slows down. So the entrances to interstates, restaurants, hotels, shops, etc. whiz on past. Even screaming "There, there, turn there" before he whizzes past the second entrance doesn't help.

We were supposed to get onto the Natchez Trace from the Windsor Ruins and kiss our last bit of civilization fondly before making the turn onto the back roads. Mr. G. whizzed right past the Natchez Trace and blamed my phone for not telling him soon enough that he needed to turn. Like he would've been listening or going slow enough for that to matter. But I digress.

Next time, country store!

Finally, we got turned around and onto the Natchez Trace in the correct direction and then into Lorman, where apparently there is a famous country store that anyone who is anyone eats at. I didn't know what it was, but I suggested stopping there and making sure we had the correct directions before heading into the woods. Mr. G. was having none of it.

"I thought you printed out directions," he said, whizzing past the country store at a clip.

Even when you're lost, nothing beats a dirt, country road. 

Then we promptly got lost. I don't know if Google Maps was having a disagreement with itself or what. The program seemed to change its mind about how to get to Rodney, leading us on a wild goose chase before setting us in the right direction.

Finally, somehow, we were whizzing down the right road when Mr. G. made an announcement.

Mr. G.: We're running low on gas.

Me: How low?

Mr. G.: We can go about 20 miles.

Me: TWENTY MILES?

Mr. G.: Yeah, but I'm sure there's a gas station around here somewhere.

Me: Freaking city boys.

OK, I didn't say that. I just thought it. Sure, there's a gas station out in the middle of nowhere. It's rush hour in the woods. Who wouldn't put a gas station out there for the 2 or 3 cars that pass once a month?

The old Presbyterian church. Once I saw it, I knew we were in Rodney. Above the middle window on the second floor is the replica of a Civil War-era cannonball that once was lodged there until it mysteriously disappeared. 

When we pulled into Rodney, both of us were a little cranky. Bailey was bouncy, eager to jump out of the car and frolic in the tall grass that was no doubt full of snakes and ticks.

And we'll have fun, fun, fun until Mom sees Bailey's in the tall grass. 

There is not much to Rodney these days. The first semi-presentable building we saw was the old brick church. Behind it, up a hill, apparently is the cemetery. There was no way that I was venturing up that hill in tall grass. I wanted to try to get into the church itself, but it was roped off. So I admired it from afar, looking at the cannonball embedded in the brickwork.

The old Masonic Hall. It's seen better days.

Across from the church is the old Masonic Hall. The door was wide open. Knowing it had flooded recently, I didn't go inside. Then we wandered down the road a bit and discovered newish looking trailers on very tall pilings. Apparently Rodney isn't a ghost town.

This house looks like the front of it was shaved off. A collection of old glassware remains. 

In the opposite direction is an old store that still has a gas pump. Turning around, I saw a wooden church down a dusty lane. In that moment, the grid of the old town came into focus for me. A road still runs in front of the wooden church. Next to the church is a house that looks like it almost could be habitable if you could hack through the weeds. It's all very "Fried Green Tomatoes" (and I mean that with no disrespect; it's so sad to me that towns shrivel up. The Gibson, Louisiana, I knew as a child is gone - post office, country store, church. One day soon, no one will remember that my Granny and Miss Teen liked to take evening walks and talk in Cajun French or that Midnight Mass used to be held on Christmas Eve in the little white church with the priest receiving a gift-wrapped microwave from the congregation one year).

Only later did I read that this church is infested with rats. Still, someone needs to save this building! It can't hold on for much longer. 

I did walk inside the wooden church (apparently the old Baptist church). I knew it had flooded badly earlier this year so I didn't venture far in. I didn't want to fall through rotten floorboards. Later I read that the wooden church is infested with rats. I like rats about as much as I like poisonous snakes so I'm glad that I just peeked into the sanctuary from the hallway.

This was a pretty screened-in porch at one time. 

Despite the few residents still holding on, Rodney is a town that is slowly crumbling in the wilds of the Mississippi woods. It can't last much longer. Time and the floods have made the old buildings unstable. One building looked like the front had been sheared off, leaving it much like a dilapidated dollhouse. Other buildings were tucked too far off the road for us to get a good look, but given that they were heavily obscured by tall grass, their condition probably isn't good.

If the buildings could be moved, they would make a heck of an attraction much like LSU's Rural Life Museum. Keep in mind that the Baptist church dates to 1850. The Presbyterian church is even older. I'm not sure how old the store is, but it's not falling down. Yet.

This was the way of life for so many in the rural south. There were no Wal-Marts or fast food restaurants. My grandmother didn't drive a car. She walked to the store, the post office and church. Everything was within walking distance because it needed to be. When you could catch a ride, you'd go into the city and buy your groceries more cheaply, but for the most part you didn't venture far from home.

Bye, Rodney!

Mr. G. was getting restless - and tired of holding Bailey - so we moved along. We weren't going back to Windsor Ruins. We were going to Natchez. We plugged the hotel into the GPS and - surprise, surprise - it took us a very different way than the way we came.

Now the sane way to get from Rodney to Natchez would have been to just backtrack. We'd have gone down the Rodney Road that turns into Firetower Road. But Google Maps was feeling like Gertrude and wanted the scenic route.

The scenic route did include this interesting building! It kind of looks like an old jail.

So off we went down a different Rodney Road toward Noble Swamp Road. We passed more abandoned buildings, a nice farmhouse and a community of mobile homes that looked suspiciously like a deer camp. We were deep in the country, whizzing past fields of crops. It was spectacularly beautiful except it felt like we were actually in the fields.

Absolute beauty!

We continued on until we could no longer recognize a road. We came to a fork. In one direction was a muddy dip that we couldn't possibly cross. In the other direction were fields. We really didn't have enough gas to backtrack, but we decided that we were backtracking. If worse came to worse, we'd let Triple A - or law enforcement - figure out how to find us.

Then Glenn decided to drive into the deer camp and beg for help. Softly, in the background, came the sound of banjos playing.

Just kidding! Mr. G. drove into the camp and came across two men backing a four wheeler off a truck. He threw himself on their mercy while I clutched my dog to me like she was a string of pearls.

It turns out that they were the nicest people ever. One of the guys came over and looked at the gas gauge. He assured us that we had enough to make it into "town." Hoisting a shovel onto his shoulder, he said he had to go dig a hole but would let us follow him into town in 10 minutes.

He dug the hole (I have no idea why he needed a hole), climbed into his truck and led us out of the camp and - thankfully - back toward Rodney Road. We were following strangers on the back roads of Mississippi. I didn't say a word to them, and I feel bad about that now. I was nervous about being lost and running out of gas.

All turned out well. They dropped us in Fayette, where we coasted on fumes into a gas station. Jesse James, by the way, once robbed Fayette. Maybe next year we'll visit Fayette. There's so much to discover when you get off the beaten path!

Just call us Mr. and Mrs. Snow White

A few years ago, I called Mr. G. from my cellphone. I was in my car. He was at home manning the barbecue pit.

"I need you to come to the front of the subdivision," I told him. "And bring a shovel, some heavy gloves and a garbage bag."

Mr. G. sighed.

"I just lit the charcoal," he said. "I can't come."

He didn't blink. He didn't ask why I needed a shovel, heavy gloves and a garbage bag. He didn't even ask if I needed a lawyer ... or a priest.

Now I could take this one of two ways.

Either Mr. G. figured, eh, he'd let the police handle it or he's completely unflappable. Or he didn't feel like driving to the LSU Vet School.

So that's actually one of three ways.

I hit a rabbit: a huge jackrabbit with dill pickle-sized back feet and gray fur. His back feet really were the size of dill pickles - not those puny pickles you get in a regular-sized jar but the abnormally huge pickles that come in the jars they sell at Sam's.

I clipped the rabbit despite swerving to try and avoid it. He laid in the roadway quivering while I frantically tried to find something that would help me get him into the car and on our way to the Vet School.

Coming up empty (and not wanting to touch a wild, injured animal with my bare hands), I called Mr. G. He eventually grudgingly arrived at the front of the neighborhood with the shovel, heavy gloves and garbage bag (and never once asked ahead of time why I needed them). The rabbit took one look at our supplies and bounced himself to his feet before bounding across someone's yard and away into the Louisiana night.

We kind of, sort of prefer animals to people in my family. It's not personal!

The vet school is my depository for sick, wild animals. In my mind, they nurse them back to health and release them into Snow White's wooded kingdom where they spend the rest of their days frolicking and singing. For all I know, they euthanize them after solemnly promising me that everything will be OK and that I can go home. It's probably better that I not know.

Years ago, I was at the vet school late one night with my old dog when someone brought in a hurt animal. The person handed the hurt animal over, and the attendant asked if she was relinquishing it to the vet school's care and refusing all financial responsibility. A lightbulb went off in my head. Any hurt animal I find can be brought to the vet school and nursed back to health for free! The only catch is that I can't come and try to reclaim my giant, wild, feral jackrabbit. No problem!

Mostly, I bring them baby squirrels that Bailey finds. She never hurts them, which is amazing considering she's iffy on most other dogs. She gently picks them up by the neck and drops them at my feet. I've learned how to pick up baby squirrels so they don't bite me (thus far).

My love of animals even extends to this nutcase who cracked the squirrel-proof birdfeeder.

Mr. G. thinks I'm crazy. He has an everlasting belief in the power of motherhood. He firmly believes that the squirrel mother is lurking nearby, waiting to whisk her baby away to safety at the Squirrel Hospital in the Great Tree Beyond the Meadow once we've left the scene. I more firmly believe that a cat is lurking nearby.

So I told him the story about the baby bird.

A few months back, I was in the back yard when I noticed Bailey playfully charging something. It's her favorite game: she charges, retreats and then charges again in the hope that the ball, stuffed animal, cat will play chase. Just knowing she'd found a rat - and forcing myself to walk over there anyway because it could be diseased and bite her (Motherhood!) - I found a baby bird that had fallen out of his nest.

I sped walked Bailey into the house and returned with a shoebox only to see a cat darting out of the yard from the corner of my eye. Looking over at the spot where the bird had been, I saw it was empty. Then I looked up into the tree, and I swear, a mother bird was glaring at me.

I told Mr. G. this story, and he renewed his hatred of all cats that don't reside at our house. A short time later, a bird slammed into the picture window in the den. I was at work, but Mr. G. grabbed a shoebox and the bird and sped to the vet school. The bird couldn't be saved.

But isn't it nice that now both of us are bringing the Animal Kingdom to the vet school?

It takes a village to spoil a dog

Cute but bratty

When we first got Bailey, the vet suggested sending her to daycare in order to socialize her. Bailey had been in the pound for a long time and she was very shy around people.

So off to daycare Bailey went with a doggie bag of toys, snacks and lunch. To be honest, she seemed a bit relieved to be dropped off every day once she got over the traumatic experience that continues to be the car ride. She was back among the canines and away from the strange people who took her from her home.

At some point, though, things changed. Bailey became a people dog. She didn't like most other dogs. She still liked going to daycare but only because she liked the daycare workers. She'd bestow kisses on them each morning before being taken to her solo quarters for a day of napping.

I consulted the vet who suggested a behavior specialist. I called the behavior specialist, got the hourly rate and decided Bailey was just going to be a people dog.

Mr. G. was devastated. No more taking Bailey to the dog park to romp with the other dogs. No more taking Bailey to daycare to romp with the other dogs. No more taking Bailey on walks and inviting people back to our house with their dogs to romp in the back yard (although, really, I told him that other people thought that was weird and were pegging him a serial killer; so few people took him up on that offer).

A few days ago, Bailey snapped at her visiting dog cousin in front of my sweet neighbor who has showered Bailey with T-bone scraps since she arrived in the neighborhood. My neighbor apparently thinks I've been beside myself ever since about my obviously poor parenting skills.

The neighbor called yesterday to console me.

Neighbor: Well, Bailey's just a little bit spoiled.

Me: Yes, she is.

Neighbor: And I've helped spoil her so don't just blame yourself.

Me: OK, I won't.

And I don't. I blame Mr. G.

Baker and Carmen

Baker and Carmen Guilbeau

I was trying to remember the first time I met Glenn's parents, and I'll just own up to it: I have the worst long-term memory in the world. I have no idea when I met them for the first time. I don't have a cute story about it.

All I know is that I got very fond of Baker and Carmen over the years.

Glenn's dad was a World War II vet who loved good food and good people. You couldn't help but like him.

Not long before he died, he decided to read "Gone With The Wind" and then watch the movie. That was his project, and he completed it. Then he put in an order for "Doctor Zhivago."

His short-term memory waned a little as he got into his 90s. Whenever I went by the house, I'd ask if he'd eaten. He'd pause, look thoughtful and then say: "Well, I can't remember, but I'm always ready to eat." Then I'd fix him a sandwich. He was a joy.

Baker, who wanted to live to 100 (and nearly did)

He doted on his caregiver, Barbara, and they'd go to the movies, go get coffee and dye Easter eggs. He was game for anything.

His death a few years ago left a huge void, but we thought we'd have Glenn's mom for awhile since she was 10 years younger than him. Life, though, makes its own plans.

My mother-in-law with her dear friend Miss Ellen

My mother-in-law was a very proper lady who dressed to the nines and spoke very precisely. She would've been home at Buckingham Palace even though she grew up on a farm outside Fenton.

She played basketball in her youth and traveled to the big city of Baton Rouge for a high school tournament. Years later, she'd remember hearing a ship's whistle on the Mississippi River and thinking what a lonely sound it was.

Despite her rural roots, she and Baker ended up in the New Orleans area, where they lived until Hurricane Katrina.

My mother-in-law was a woman who liked the color blue, books, the song "Stardust," Christmas, roses, Snickers bars and brownies. She loved ice cream. I mean she LOVED ice cream. My father-in-law used to joke that all of his pension went to Blue Bell.

She taught school and eventually became a librarian. She traveled the world, picking up Christmas ornaments in the various ports along the way. She wrote beautiful thank you notes. She was a lovely lady.

Her home was always warm and comfortable, from the piano in one corner to the blue and white dishes in the kitchen to the shelves overflowing with books.

At her old house in Metairie, she had an entire room set up as a playroom for her grandchildren. Once she moved to Baton Rouge, a child's tea table graced the guest room and stuffed animals perched on a bench in the living room. Every Christmas, photos of her grandchildren as babies decorated her tree.

An outing to the pet adoption event at PetSmart. Alas, I couldn't convince her to adopt a dog.

As she got older, she developed dementia. This is the cruelest disease in the world. It dimmed her mind even if it didn't dim her beautiful smile.

One night a few months ago, I stopped by and found her more confused than normal. She insisted that the neighbor's car across the street was hers and that she'd gone over to peer into the windows and put a key in the door lock. I tried to reason with her by pointing out that she had a Volvo and the other car was a Chevy (or whatever it was). "Yes," she said, with a knowing smile. "They put that Chevy sign on it, but it's my car."

Rattled, I decided to stay awhile and watch a movie with her. "Gone With the Wind" was on - always a good choice.

We watched in silence while I sat there, scared and sad for her. Suddenly, she piped up with an observation.

"I never understood why Scarlet chased after Ashley. Rhett was much better looking," she said.

And, like a ball bounced against a wall, a little bit of her came back. She was spot on. What did Scarlet see in Ashley?

Visiting with friends

Lately, though, she was sad. She missed her husband. She was scared at night. She was lonely.

Mind you: We tried to take her on outings. Barbara would make popcorn and proclaim it movie night. My mother-in-law would go into her room and shut the door. I took her to the zoo. We fed ducks, but I don't think she was really into it. The brightest moments were when her grandchildren - and eventually the grandchildren's children - stopped by for a visit. She could often be found in the kitchen sneaking cookies to the great-grandchildren who had refused to eat their dinner. She was never fond of dinner herself and preferred to move right to dessert. But, lately, even those favorite faces didn't do much for her.

Then she stopped eating entirely and couldn't even be tempted with ice cream. Glenn took her to the doctor who ordered her to the emergency room. Less than two weeks later, she was gone.

I remember when my father-in-law got the news that he was dying. He didn't want to die. He fought death. Even at 96, he fought death. He wanted to live to 100.

We took her to a pizza joint a few years ago and demanded that she show us her basketball skills. Here she is, lobbing basketballs into a net to win points. 

The day of his funeral, it didn't just rain; it stormed. Making the two-hour trek to the cemetery on what used to be my mother-in-law's family land in rural Jefferson Davis Parish, we worried that someone would die on the way there because you could barely see to drive. It was almost as if my father-in-law was shaking his fist at his own funeral.

Two years later, we got the news that my mother-in-law was dying. I walked into the emergency room after getting that phone call and found her in bed. She was lucid and talking. I don't remember what she said because I was thinking that maybe the doctors had gotten it wrong and that she would rally.

The doctors had it right. She didn't rally. She died three days later, and she almost seemed to welcome death. Not long before she died, she asked why her husband hadn't been to see her in the hospital. Reminded that he was dead, she said, "Oh, that must be why I dreamed last night that I got to Heaven and Baker said, 'Carmen, why are you here? It's not your time.'"

I have to agree with my father-in-law on that point. I don't think it was her time.

My mother-in-law was a strong-minded woman. She made up her mind that she was dying, and she died. She decided it was her time.

The day of her funeral, we once again made the trek to the LeBleu land. This time, it was sunny without a cloud in sight. As the religious person talked about how she was in Heaven, a bird landed on the ground near me and started singing loudly.

My mother-in-law was a devout woman who always had her rosary near at hand.

I have no doubt that she is in Heaven, and that she's as happy as a chirping bird on a beautiful spring day.