Growing up I was lucky to have a good friend, aside from sister Gordon (it
was a small town, remember), and I’m still able to depend on him for a
smile or a tear after all these years. Today “friend” is way overused, and
most of our so-called friends are just the people that we meet who are always
having a “good day” and care little or nothing about ours. But, not so, with
Petey Boudreaux, my friend. If Petey’s dog has worms, I’d better be ready
to hear about it. If I have worms, Petey will be all ears!

 Petey called the other night to check on me and to pass on the news
from New Iberia. There are still plenty of folks that think I’m sort of
a fool for venturing and staying so far north for so long a time. I’ve
tried to tell everyone that the two places might be separated by
distance, but except for the family names, I might as well be sitting
on a front porch in New Iberia. Petey places these calls so that I
don’t lose my past by forgetting names, or by not knowing about last
weekend’s fire call to the big barn at the Piney crossroads. I’m still
doing my part, I still give directions talking about landmarks long since
missing, like where Roy L’s car was run over by a deer (the deer walked
away, the car didn’t).

 My hope is to always be there for Petey (he’s needed me on far too few
occasions) so as to repay his many kindnesses, not the least being his total
devotion to my Aunt Phaedra (on Mama’s side). She, on her deathbed,
would see only Petey, me and Sister Mary Margaret (a sister of the Catholic
variety).

 Auntie was a far from feeble 94 year old when she died, and to the end, she  
had a slashing tongue feared by all. But, Pib (no one could pronounce “Phaedra”
to her satisfaction) was like butter in a warm hand with Petey. It was true love
to the end.

Roy B.