I totally bought this for me. This was one of my very favorite toys growing up. My cousins and I played with this boat in the tub, in the yard, and in the kitchen for many years, way past the recommended “1-4 years” range.

When I was in Beaumont, Texas the other day, I stopped into a Toys R Us while on a “birthday date” with my nephews, a tradition we started a long time ago with the oldest. I love wandering the brightly-colored aisles with them, listening to their exclamations of discovery.

This time, though, they stood in somewhat awed confusion as their grown aunt squealed when she stepped into the Fisher Price section and saw a collection of nostalgic toys from her childhood. The boat, the farmhouse, the school – I had them all, and loved them dearly. And today, buy one get one free? Squeeeee!

Yesterday I sat in the bathroom while Monkey bathed until he was all pruney, watching him play with the boat, and hoping it becomes one of his favorites as well.

Have a seat, children, and I’ll tell you the legend of Captain B, a larger-than-life fellow who never came across an animal without wondering what it would taste like.

Captain B is a tugboat captain by trade, a survivalist by nature, a father, a husband, and a somewhat law-abiding citizen. He’s a gifted story-teller, a reluctant dog wrangler, and he grills a mean pork chop.

One old man who knew him as a youngster tells of a time when, while driving down a country road, Captain B brought his truck to a screeching halt, bailed out the door, went running into the woods and came back holding a small opossum by the tail. He tossed it into the toolbox in the back and continued on his way. 

No one is really sure what happened to the critter, but many would bet money it ended up underneath some kind of sauce, served next to a heaping piles of steak fries.

◊

There’s a police officer somewhere down south who walks with a limp on colder days, having had the misfortune of telling Captain B “no.”

In 2008, after a hurricane flooded his town, Captain B kayaked across a bayou in an effort to get to his home and assess the damage. Police spotted him walking down the road in the empty town, machete strapped to his chest, shotgun slung across his back, pistol holstered on his hip. 

Guns drawn, they stopped this Redneck Rambo before he could get to his home, loaded him in a cruiser, drove him over a bridge out of town, and told him not to come back, that it was too dangerous.

Captain B tried again, and again the police returned him to the safety of high, dry ground. They warned him that if he came back, he’d get arrested. Begrudgingly admitting defeat for the day, Captain B got in his truck and drove away, but not before “accidentally” running over an officer’s foot.

A few weeks later while the town began to clean up its mess, circumstances came about that led the police to Captain B’s door. After they had discerned the Captain’s honorable intentions concerning the surrounding events, B realized the polite officer that had pinned him up against the wall while disarming him looked awfully familiar.

“How’s your foot?” he asked.

“Got some toes that are a little shorter now,” the man replied.

◊

Captain B carries a survival pack wherever he goes, and although some may poke fun of him for it, those people would be the first to come clamoring at his door in the event of war, zombie apocalypse, or the secession of Texas.

The Captain will tell you, “A country boy can survive.”

◊

As if working long hours on a tugboat and wrangling a mess of kids and dogs isn’t enough, Captain B recently took on a new hobby – airboat tour guide.

Those who are lucky enough to end up on his tours are regaled with tales of a local cannibalistic indian tribe, educated about the diverse ecosystem and the history of a once-booming shipping hub, and thrilled with his lightning-quick maneuvers on the water craft as they are propelled through the waterways just off I-10 in Orange, Texas.

Passengers of the airboat strain to catch a glimpse of Red-Winged Blackbirds  and other colorful bird species as they glide effortlessly over bull tongue and lily pads, involuntarily ducking as Captain B steers the boat smoothly over objects that one would think would cause a jarring bump.

On this particular day, high winds have forced water from the Gulf of Mexico further inland, raising the water levels so that most of the wildlife has retreated elsewhere. Captain B isn’t fond of letting visitors to his beloved waters leave without a satisfying show, so he breaks the company rules a bit and heads for somewhat forbidden areas.

His boss catches him.

The Captain doesn’t appear the least bit flustered and continues his tour. He’ll deal with the repercussions later. Right now, he’s loving the enthralled looks upon his passengers’ faces as they study brilliantly-hued waterfowl that has landed nearby.

All too soon, the tour is over, and the passengers climb ashore. I wonder if they’ve been affected at all by what they’ve seen, and if they understand even a modicum of the Captain’s love for this area.

I glance at my husband who is suddenly and visibly reluctant to be headed north again soon. I see he shares B’s love for the culture that exists here.

I realize again what a treasure my family is, and although I look forward to telling my son the legend of his cousin, I hope instead that he gets to experience it for himself.

We got a late start this morning, thanks to a baby who slept so hard he ended up with some epic bed head.

We were so late, in fact, that I didn’t even bother to fix his hair before we went to take photos down by the bayou. It wouldn’t have mattered if I did, because the perma-scowl on his face would have messed up the photos anyway.

He was happy as long as long as someone held him, so we gave up the idea of cute matching baby photos and just threw everyone in together.

Then we tried to get one of my mom’s kids and grandkids as an Easter gift. After ten minutes of trying to get everyone to look at the camera at the same time (Birds! Butterflies! Grass! What the hell is that noise?) we just quit. I think it turned out cuter that way.

After lunch, we loaded my two biggest nephews up with Monkey and headed a couple hours north to see the latest progress on the lake house.

My uncle has been working on this house for nearly four years. He’s nearly finished with the massive lakefront property, and although the tall windows facing the water are impressive, I think it’s the little touches that are the most beautiful. He and his wife have chosen handsome woods and stones, exquisite tiles, and nifty accents with which to decorate their home.

I can’t wait until everything is done and we get to spend our first holiday together here. I’ve always loved holidays at my grandparents’ house, but we’ve more than outgrown the space, and children are beginning to run rampant over conversing adults. It’s definitely time to move the insanity to a larger venue.

Tomorrow is our last day in Texas, and I think we’ll spend it laying around, lamenting all the food we’ve eaten and trying to psych ourselves up for the long drive back home.

We sure love our family, and miss them when we’re apart, but we’re ready for the peace and quiet of home again.

I inherited a little bit of Cajun blood from my grandmother, evident mostly in the spice I put in my food and the short fuse on my temper. I can’t stop tapping my feet when I hear some Zydeco, and I could listen to someone with a Cajun French accent talk for hours.

So you could imagine that I was thrilled Saturday evening to head over to Lake Charles with my family to eat some seriously spicy crawfish at a fun little place called Steamboat Bill’s.

Monkey was equally thrilled when MawMaw gave him his first french fry. (See how smug she is, having finally been granted permission to give my kid junk food? Grandmas. Sheesh.)

The mudbugs were good, but the impromptu alligator show afterward was truly thrilling. Cajuns are tough as nails, survivors in every sense of the word, but I think they also might be a little bit crazy.

I’m in Houston. There are many things here I cannot get back home, one of which is this Monster Burrito from Freebirds.

Hi, I’m Julie, and I almost ate the whole damn thing.

Om. Nommy. Nom.

I grew up with an awesome set of cousins. There were twelve of us altogether with an age span of seven years, so there was never a shortage of playmates. Over the years we’ve kept in touch pretty well and we always have a blast when we get together.

Now that we have our own kiddos, finding time to “play” can be difficult. Lucky for me, last night after Monkey was in bed I got to learn a new technique for dyeing eggs from oldest of the bunch (neener neener!), a vivacious blonde with a wicked sense of humor and a penchant for all things punny.

She’s very creative, never forgets to send a birthday card, plans weekly menus and cooks nightly meals, and chases around five children ages fourteen to one. I’d hate her, but she’s too damn nice.

Anyway, her latest project was coloring eggs using silk ties, and I was lucky enough to be around with a camera to learn how.

First, head to a thrift shop and pick out some seriously ugly ties. Make sure they’re silk. Rip out the seams.

Remember, the uglier, the better.

Grab a couple dozen eggs. (These are store bought, but my cousin is in the process of raising her own chickens and growing her own vegetables. Of course she is. No word yet as to when the Jersey cow will arrive.)

Wrap each egg carefully in a section of tie. Try to get as few wrinkles as possible.

Wrap a rubber band around the end.

Boil the eggs for ten minutes.

Cool.

Carefully unwrap the eggs. It’s best to banish all teenagers from the room during this part, or you’ll end up with cracked eggs. What? They just wanted to help.

Enjoy pretty eggs without dye that rubs off all over everything!

When you have sushi for the first time, it’s either going to be a near-religious experience that compels you to witness its greatness to all your friends and family, leaving menus as tracts to persuade them that yes, happiness and fulfillment can be found in a plate of sashimi, or it’s going to end up referred to as that time a fish shat in your mouth.

For my poor grandparents, it was most definitely the latter.

Yesterday evening, my uncle came by to visit, and during the course of the conversation shared with us his new love of this thing called a “Super Obe roll” down at “that new Japanese place where Weiner’s used to be.”

(Do you remember Weiner’s? Bet you’re older than 30 and from the deep, dirty south!)

Anyway, being a total sushi convert and a regular patron of local sushi bars back home, I jumped at the chance to share a meal with my uncle at his new favorite restaurant. I even talked my grandparents into coming, luring them with tales of smoked salmon and promising to only feed them cooked rolls.

When we arrived at the joint this evening, we chose several rolls, mostly made up of fried seafood and veggies, with maybe a little spice. My uncle made a huge to-do of rubbing his chopsticks together and making wasabi-soy sauce soup to dip his rolls in. (You’re shuddering right now, sushi-etiquette snob. I know, I know. I wasn’t going to say anything.)

Our orders were delivered and we passed around the plates, taking a bit here and there to sample. Monkey sat patiently and consumed massive handfuls of animal crackers.

This is a poorly shot photo of my grandmothers first sushi bite. She’d've rather had the animal crackers.

Then my grandfather got into the “wasabi.” This man has eaten whole jalapenos as a snack, grown habaneros, and pretty much scoffs at anything under 100,000 on the Scoville scale. He won’t admit it, but his eyes were watering after a few bites.

“It’s not as bad as some I’ve tasted,” he claimed.

My favorite part of the evening was when I ordered a slightly more traditional spicy tuna, made with nori instead of the soy paper my uncle is so fond of. I offered a piece to anyone at the table brave enough to venture away from crab sticks.

My uncle, not to be outdone by some girl, popped a piece in his mouth, then lamented how he was going to burp that up the rest of the evening.

Then my cousin got ahold of a piece of smoked salmon sashimi, and nearly died trying to force herself to swallow it.

As we were all laughing at the faces and photos, my uncle shared a story about food and how different people’s tastes can be.

He had a duck hunting buddy with a fondness for two things – cold Dr. Pepper and warm vienna sausages. On frigid mornings on the frozen water, keeping the Dr. Pepper cold was no problem, but warming the little cans of sausages presented a challenge.

Hunters are resourceful beings, at least, the good ones are, so my uncle’s buddy figured he could just stick the cans in his pants. His balls didn’t appreciate being forced to defrost a frozen tin can, and to make it even worse, when he pulled the toasty-warm can out of his waders, popped the top and drained the juice, he then offered my uncle a teensy phallic meat snack!

Needless to say, we were all finished eating at that point.

When we got back to the house, my grandfather inquired as to the whereabouts of my little wiener dog, Frank.

“Why, ” I asked. “Did you bring leftovers or something?”

“No,” he grimaced. “I want to kiss his butt and see if I can get this taste out of my mouth.”

My hometown is also home to a large petrochemical industry. Flares light up the night sky along the waterways, and the plants look like little cities when you drive past them in the dark.

This industry is responsible for much of the smell here – some say it smells like money, others joke about the smell of benzene in the morning.

They joke, but there does seem to be an alarmingly high rate of cancer found among residents of the “Golden Triangle.”

Two years ago, we watched and prayed as my grandfather underwent surgery to remove a tumor in his lungs. The road to recovery has been a hard one for him, having lost an entire lobe of one lung and suffering physical as well as mental setbacks as a result of the surgery. We’re strong, stubborn stock for a reason, I guess, and my grandfather is doing very well these days.

We hoped that might be our only run-in with the C-word, but then I got the phone call last week . My grandmother was headed to MD Anderson.

This lady is the mama of our whole family. She feeds us, clothes us, ferries us around, and does whatever it takes for her family’s well being. She refuses to take sides when we squabble with one another, turns everything over to God in prayer, and is the most loving, humble, generous person I know. There are people all over this state, and even country, who have called her some form of the name mom, honoring her commitment to looking after all the children of her Lord that might cross her path in need.

It would have been understandable for us to freak out, but there was no dramatic family gathering where my grandmother held court and announced she might have cancer. It was simply, “I have iffy test results. We’ll see.”

So we prayed, we researched, we organized ourselves to cover her commitments for the time she would be in the hospital. We learned words like myeloproliferative disorder, chronic myelogenous leukemia, polycythemia.

On Monday she went in for what was supposed to be a week of testing, and emerged exhausted at the end of the day with a diagnosis and an outline for treatment, released to go home.

Right now, she doesn’t have leukemia. Her disease is chronic and incurable, but it is treatable, although it carries a risk of transformation to acute myeloid leukemia.

We’ll continue to pray but not worry, monitor but not obsess, help but not hover. My grandmother is right back at her usual activities today, chasing around her infant great-grandsons, scheduling appointments for family members on her clipboard calendar, wondering about what to feed everyone for dinner, asking nosy questions.

We are grateful for answered prayers and the amazing staff at MD Anderson, whose praises she has been loudly singing since she came home. We are relieved that her ailment can be treated. And we are reminded again how blessed we are to have such an amazing model for what a mama can be.

There are some undoubtedly awful things about Southeast Texas, like mosquitoes that knock you over as they drain your blood and tree roaches as big as your feet that jump out of the cabinet at you at 2 a.m. when you’re looking for a cookie.

It’s too hot, it’s too humid, hurricanes suck, it smells funny, there are 2.7 Mexican restaurants per person and zero decent Italian joints…the list of reasons why a person would want to avoid this area is long and still growing. But for every reason I could think of to leave, there’s one to bring me back.

A few are a little silly.

Snow cones. With cream. This cup of pure sugar will blow your mind, stain your teeth, and keep you from melting from April to August.

Football and four-wheelers.

Everything is coke. It’s not soda. It’s not pop. It’s coke, and what flavor would you like? Great, I’ll get it from the fridge outside. Keeps ‘em colder when they have all that room to themselves.

Then of course, there’s my family. My funny, loud, intense family, made up of the most frustrating and generous people I know.

This week it’s my nephew’s turn to feel the love – members of the family chipped in and bought him his first acoustic guitar. As if the blue eyes and mischievous grin weren’t enough to drive the girls crazy.

The hub of my family, why we’re all around to begin with, the force that keeps us together and the reason why I’m here right now – my grandparents – have lived in their home for more than 50 years. The house where we spent our summer vacations and ate our holiday meals has changed right along with the family, and is a reflection of the beautiful combination of old and new that we are so very, very blessed to have.

The old – the kiln my grandmother used for her ceramics and porcelain dolls and the loft where my grandfather still raises homing pigeons, although he no longer races them.

And the new – Brutus, a three-month-old puppy of questionable origin, a mutt like the rest of us, loud-mouthed, a bit too aggressive, and entirely lovable.

It warms and breaks my heart at the same time to watch my family change. With each new season, I’m always just a little sad that things will never be the same as they were. But the foundation of our family is strong and well built, and there is indescribable delight in each new story.