Well! Todays picture was like the big box of crayons we played with as kids. Ya'll remember, Sea Green and Blue Grey. Last night the storm came just close enough to us to get the Grey Goose flowing and stories being retold of childhood beach vacations. My nephews could write a best selling book. Anyone that knows the Faucheaux boy's can understand. /b>

Every March in Iberia Parish there is a Festival of the Live Oaks that celebrates their beauty. It has inspired many authors to write stories about how deep their roots run. Recently while driving under the canopy of the live oaks that line the main street, I noticed a for sale sign next to the Teche Motel. I believe in the 1950’s era places like this were called Tourist Cabins. I noticed the old sign advertising their name. It was worn out with its neon lights half lit. I wondered if James Lee Burke slept here and maybe wrote a couple of chapters of the Dave Robicheaux novels. I read somewhere that great story tellers research the areas they write about. So, it could be possible that Mr. Burke knocked on the office door early one morning and the night clerk opening the hatch said what do you want, in her best aggravated tone. I drove away laughing but I really do wake up way too early.

The elegant camps that line the two lane highway headed to Vermillion Bay reminds me of a page out of Garden and Gun Magazine. The locals call this area The Point and I can just imagine all the summer coctails that are created on the verandas facing the gulf. With each camp given a unique name to describe it's zest for a bon tempt, one surely could be called Flip Flop Heaven.

 A cobblestone paved street leads to the old train station where the Sunset Limited still passes occasionally.  It’s very seldom, if at all, do you see a caboose following these vibrant colored engines today.  Of course I tell myself it's only a short car drive to New Orleans but imagine sitting on the Sunset limited sharing cocktails with childhood friends. Now that would be the perfect memory maker. 

  The old brick walls are covered in beautiful art.     Some created digitally and others created by Rachels own hands as only a true artist can.   Her business called A SALON is filled with a collection of quirky pieces. Two African carved masks are positioned on the wall.  A draped Western Cow hide shields an upstairs loft, and in a hidden corner a bronze Buddha.   Something for everyone.   As clients come and go, I watched her work her magic like a Voodoo Queen.     It’s easy to love this quaint salon.   Wasn’t Marie Laveaux a French Quarter beautician?

  As I drove down a side street in New Iberia I noticed how this home had seen better days. I then remembered a story told to me about a gifted silver tea set. It came to my mother from a woman whose family lived there. The woman’s family was raised in the Atchafalaya Basin and as often happened they move to town and lived a cultured life.   I don’t remember my mother ever making Tea. She was more of a cocktail in a crystal glass type of woman. C’est la vie.