Snowmageddon 2025

I have tried to count the number of times I have seen snow in my 62 3/4 years. I think it has been a half a dozen -- maybe more (the trip to Chicago doesn't count).

But never in my life have I seen snow like what we got last week all the way down here in south Louisiana. This was movie snow. Hallmark Channel snow. We actually were under a blizzard warning. 

Like, for real.

On Tuesday, January 21, 2025, shortly after I gave up and went to bed at 4 a.m. after trying in vain to wait up for it, it began to snow. Only two hours later, my husband woke me up to "come see." Yep. There were flakes in the air and a light dusting on the ground! I was so excited. I got to see snow!

Oh, I would see snow, all right. Lots of it. Because this little snow pressure system, combined with an artic cold front, would send a record-breaking snowfall to our little sub-tropic paradise. It snowed ALL DAY, not letting up until just about sunset when everything started to freeze over. By the time we were done, we guesstimated we had about 6-8 inches of the white fluffy stuff in our yard, on our cars, all over the patio furniture and covering Apple Street. That did not stop the couyons from driving up and down Apple Street, however.

The kept telling us it was coming, but even I had a hard time coming to grips with the forecast that predicted up to a foot of snow in some places. Here? Snowmageddon, they called it. It became the Bayou Blizzard.

The Coach,, who spent several years shovelling snow in Chicago, didn't believe it either. He thought they -- or I -- were exaggerating. Ha! Showed you!

While he was used to this kind of weather and moved to New Orleans to escape it, it was truly a once-in-a-lifetime kind of snow for me and many others. According to the record books and those who read them, it was the most snow since 1895 when Baton Rouge added up about 22 inches over two days. I am well aware of this story because of my grandmother, Evelyn Himel Cross French. Her grandfather was Oscar Himel, the owner of Himelaya Plantation in Labadieville. He and his wife Dorothee Bernard Himel were to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary on Feb. 15, 1895 -- the second day of the historic blizzard. The party had to be canceled. But the Himels were gifted a lovely silver tray engraved with the date, which I have in my possession.

You see, people down here don't quite know how to do snow. Folks up north made fun of us on social media because we canceled school, shut down businesses and the airport and told people to stay home.  Tourists who had come down for a few fun days in the French Quarter were stuck for days. People trying to get here were stuck out of luck. We quite literally closed the state and said, "Ccme back later."

And forget driving. Every major road was closed, iced over and bridges were turned into a nice ski ramp. 

But then, just a few days later, some of those same folks were finding our photos, videos, and TikToks showing little babies and elderly grandparents playing and marveling in the wonder before us. Some had never seen snow before. Most had never seen snow like this before. 

We made sleds out of cardboard and seafood trays to slide down the levees, which are the only "hills" we've got. Some pulled out their pool toys. Some got in their pools with them. We made snow angels and snowmen, women and others and decorated them with Mardi Gras beads and feather boas. There were giant snowball fights. Ladies I know made snow faces in the soft powder.

I did not do any of those things. I watched from my living room window and through my back door as my summer paradise turned into a scene from Frozen. I did take a bite or two and I threw one snowball at my husband. My poor little poodle was very confused. I ate bowls of homemade vegetable soup, chili and lots of Little Debbie snacks.

And it stayed this way for several days. Wednesday dawned bright and beautiful with clear skies and warmer temperatures, but the snow barely moved. Some of the roads began to thaw, but the bridges were still closed. This was the day lots of people made their snowmen out on the lawns -- or snowgators in some cases.

Thursday there was still a lot of snow around as Marty and I (and Lola) shook off our cabin fever to drive around the neighborhood. The levees were still iced but with deep ruts in them from the sledders. The snowmen and women were hanging in there. And we marveled at the science of snow and how one lawn would be completely thawed while the neighbor's was still a sheet of ice.

It was an experience we all reveled in and will all remember because of the millions of photos posted on the Internet.

I have only about three photos from the first time I saw snow in 1973 in Houma.  I have one black and white photo of my brother holding a snowball and one of my grandpa and me throwing snowballs. That's it. But I still remember that day clearly. School was canceled or let out early so we could be home. We scraped it off of cars and the trampoline and threw snowballs at each other. My brother got me good when he went inside for a bit and I, wondering what took him so long, went to look for him. As soon as I opened the door he nailed me with a snowball to the face.  

I remember thinking -- snow! Snow is wet!

I wouldn't see any considerable snow again until 1989. It was Christmas Eve and I was working at The Times-Picayune in downtown New Orleans at the time. The snow started in late morning -- after I got to work -- and continued for several hours. It was big news!

We spent most of the day watching through the giant windows as policemen directed traffic and tried to push people over the Broad Street overpass. The sports staff was, for the most part, the night shift. By early afternoon they were beginning to call in to say they would not be able to get to work because all the roads were closed. My boss was asking me how much agate and pasting did I remember. Finally, in frustration, he had me tell the guys that if they couldn't drive, they should give me their address because they were going to send the big orange delivery trucks to get them.

A few trickled in on their own after that. But oldtimer Waddell Summers, who used to be one of New Orleans' best boxing writers until he was "desked" as an editor, just walked right in, right on time as if nothing was going on.

I finally started to drive myself home after dark, which normally took 10 to 15 minutes. It took me an hour. I hit the first patch of black ice on a quiet, frozen residential street. My little Nissan 200 did a complete spin to the other direction. So, I drove to the corner, turned left, made another left and hit another patch of ice, which turned me back in my original direction. I repeated the maneuver until I got to the next street.

When I finally arrived at my little apartment on Willow Street, I let my standard poodle Laycee out. She was very happy but wiped out on the ice and snow.

After I moved to LaPlace in 1991, there was a snowfall in March of 1992 or 93. I remember because it was on my birthday. But there wasn't enough to stick.

There were a few snowflakes visible in the streetlights that one year we took Marty's parents and a couple of their friends to see the bonfires in Lutcher. But they, having lived in Chicago for many years, assured me that it wasn't "real" snow. 

In 2004 we got a real White Christmas. Lora was almost four and cute as can be. Daniel and Courtney came over and we all watched it snow and tried to scoop some up. 

We got another snow dusting in 2008. They didn't even cancel school for that one! But it made for a nice Christmas card!

Then, in 2017, the day my mama was cremated, it snowed once more.

So that adds up to about seven. Seven snows in 62 3/4 years. And I remember each magical one. 

This is my favorite clip of the day... Best Day

Cheers to 30 Years

 

1994 - 2024

When I first brought my boyfriend home to my parent's house in Houma, circa 1992, they were not thrilled.

It wasn't that I brought home some weird rando I had just picked up off the street. He was a nice guy I met through a co-worker. His name was Marty. He was well-known in the New Orleans area as a baseball coach. He had a job. A car. An apartment. 

But he also had an ex-wife and two young children, and my mama was not happy about it.

"She'll be in your life forever," Mama warned.

"You'll be raising someone else's children."

As Marty and I continued to date, fall in love, and start to plan a future, my mama's angst only continued to grow.

Finally, as the wedding date drew near, Mama accepted the inevitable.

"Go ahead and marry him. You'll be divorced in a year."

True story.

Although my Mama was a very successful and popular Tarot Card reader in the French Quarter of New Orleans in her later life, she was not much of a psychic.

We were married on a cold, rainy December 17, 1994 at Laura Plantation in Vacherie, Louisiana -- back when plantation weddings were still in vogue. And on Tuesday, December 17, 2024, Marty and I celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary.

 He came to me with an ex-wife who is indeed still in my life, as a friend. He also came with two children, Daniel, 8, and Courtney, 6. We received our daughter Lora Leigh in 2001. Now we have a daughter-in-law, two grandchildren, Robi and Laken, an angel, Parker, in heaven; and a soon-to-be son-in-law. Plus a few in-law/out-laws.

We've been through infertility, adoption failures, the adoption process, job changes, career changes, wins and losses, a pandemic, three high school and college graduations, a Hall of Fame induction, a wedding, a lost grandchild, lost parents and siblings, hurricanes, parents moving in, parents moving out, live-in nephews, live-in mamas, an empty nest, working together, and retirement. We are lucky that only in the last year have we faced any kind of medical issues -- his back and my eyes.

And we have handled it all together, with love and with grace for one another. We are a team. 

My mama knew she had blown this prediction pretty early on, after we made 10 then 20 years, and especially after she had to spend several of her last months living in our spare room. 

Every morning, Marty would make coffee and deliver it to her in bed -- just as he has done for me for the last 30 years. He also sat patiently and listened to her stories, some of which she had never even told me!

And towards the end, she started paying him small compliments.

"Marty's a good man."

And my favorite: "If you died, I would have a hard time believing Marty killed you." Because, you know, they always suspect the husband first.

Honestly, over the last 30 years of marriage and the two years leading up to it, Marty and I have gotten into exactly two of what anyone would call "fights." We just don't do it. For one thing, my husband is extremely non-confrontational. He doesn't like to fight so he won't. And the only person I ever really fought with was my mother, so that has made for a pretty perfect union if you ask me.

Also, my husband is a wonderful man. 

Yes, he brings me coffee every single morning.

He also does most of the grocery shopping.

He does the laundry because he found me one day nearly upside down in the washing machine trying to get the clothes out.  I put it all away, though, because I'm pretty persnickety about the closet we share. It's organized by color.

Dish soap used to really mess with my hands so he did most of the dishes. (We do not have a dishwasher!)

He can cook! He is in charge of the turkey on Thanksgiving. He makes a better roast than I do and we both love a good medium-rare steak.

He got us a pool and a walk-in shower, both of which I love.

Plus, every year since we've gotten married, he has taken me somewhere on our anniversary. 

For many years, it was The Grand Hotel in Point Clear, Alabama. That's where we went for our honeymoon because I read in one of my bridal magazines that you should choose a spot that you can return to often, and The Grand was listed as one of America's most romantic hotels. So, we went back again and again and again -- except the years it was closed by hurricanes or a pandemic.... And until they priced themselves right out of our budget. We just can't swing $300 a night plus food and gas.

But we loved all the lights and decorations, the Christmas trees in the lobby, the burning fireplaces and the tea and cookies in the afternoon. We loved staying in the main building because it was so rustic -- then they went and remodeled it. In 2022, we went to Fairhope, just up the road. We stayed in a normally priced hotel and drove to The Grand for a visit. 

We found a nice replacement for a while, though -- Margaritaville in Pensacola Beach. It was just  a little cheaper, especially in the middle of the week in December. We went there several times. It sold a few years ago and became the Pensacola Beach Resort. We haven't been back yet.

Of course, with work and life and live-in mamas and children, a trip wasn't always in the cards. Sometimes we just went to dinner -- Copeland's, Outback, Saltgrass. If money was tight, we occasionally just cooked our own damn steaks.

We spent one anniversary at a lovely hotel in New Orleans. Went to The Carousel Bar and Port-O-Call for dinner.

For our 25th Marty asked me: Do you want a party or a trip? Now, I love a good party! But I knew damn good and well that if we were to have a 25th anniversary party, I would be the one doing all the planning and all the work. We went to Disney World, just the two of us. It was wonderful.

We always try to do something special to mark the occasion and it almost always involves food. Sometimes drinking. Sometimes shopping. A lot of hand-holding and kissing.

This year, we were going to go to Pensacola to The Paradise Inn, which is very much within our budget! But, it's still Christmas. Then we decided to just drive to Biloxi. But then we just said screw it. 

This year for our 30th, we went to the mall. I got a Chik Fil A peppermint shake, Marty got an ice cream cone, and we sat and watched people walk -- something Marty is having a little trouble doing these days. I have eye troubles, but on this day, I could see pretty clearly. Then we drove to LaPlace for dinner at a local restaurant we often overlook but will no longer! It was fabulous! 

I had a cocktail, a steak, the most delicious potatoes, and they gave us a delectable chocolate cake. Soooo worth the drive and the climb up the stairs. Then we came home and watched "White Christmas" for at least the 30th time. 

We believe staying married for 30 years is an accomplishment worth celebrating -- especially since we both retired this year and are spending a lot more time together. It's not always a smooth ride, but we each have our hobbies and interests to give us our own space. We launched a little podcast to talk about sports -- which is one thing we do have in common. I'm still doing a little bit of writing and he loves to Uber drive. 

As a lifelong journalist, the 30 is a meaningful number.  We use it, along with what used to be called the pound sign  or the number sign but is now known as a hastag -- # -- to signify the end of copy. It was used to let editors know that there was no more to the story. 

So in this case, instead of #30 I am going to use <30 because this is not the end of our story! 

<30

Click to watch us grow old together.... December 17 slideshow

Sweet Pepper

 

Pepper, aka Peppersroni, aka Wouldn't You Like to Be a Pepper Too Lyons-Luquet crossed over the Rainbow Bridge on Thursday, Nov. 7 at about 7:30 p.m. He went gently, quietly, without making a sound. Thankfully, he was in no pain, but it was definitely his time to go.

Pepper came to live with us on October 11, 2020, after a somewhat sketchy first decade or so. I don't know much about his previous life other than that he was left alone a lot by his owners. He ended up in the care of the Creole Poodle Rescue Group, who previously let us adopt Leigheaux, and he found his way to us not long after Leigheaux passed away. I didn't want Lola to be an only dog. Yes, I did get my dog a dog. 

He was the sweetest thing when he came to us with jet black fur. I can only imagine how scared and confused he must have been to be just dropped off at a strange house with strange people. He already had cataracts in his eyes and his foster mom said he could still see out of only one. After a day or so we thought he might be deaf as well, but I think he had very selective hearing. 

He slept. A lot. And very soundly. But as soon as he heard my voice he was up and wagging his tail, knowing he was about to get treats. If I went in the kitchen to fill my metal cup with ice, he was there, fully expecting a treat. I think he could smell me too because, sometimes I tried to sneak past him.

And wherever I went, he went -- bathroom, kitchen, sofa, even upstairs for quite some time.

But he waned quickly. Before long he could no longer make it up the stairs. He had way too many accidents inside, even with a doggie door that was open all the time. He was incontinent a lot.

In recent months, Pepper lost his remaining sight. He was completely blind. But I'll be damned if that dog didn't map this whole house in his little brain. He knew where everything is and how to get from Point A to Point B. He would follow the walls all the way around if he had to. It was pretty amazing to watch. He even could get through the doggie door at times, but started to have a hard time getting back in. He got lost in the yard a lot so he would bark until one of us went to rescue him.

But he only fell in the pool once. Marty found him swimming. It never happened again. But he did enjoy the float!

Lately, he would sleep in his little bed in the laundry room and bark when he needed to go outside. We would pick him up and take him out and wait for him to bark to come back in. Until the last few days. He also would bark sometimes just to get us to answer him to let him know where we were. If we were in the living room watching TV, he would painstakingly make his way there to his little bed under the TV. 

His slide was quick and heart-breaking. He was skin and bones with an arthritic backside and a weird claw that grew extra long and extra thick. We had to take him to the vet to let them cut it every few weeks, but he slid on the wood floors a lot.

The last few days he just slept. Stopped eating and drinking. Today he refused treats. And I knew.

I wrapped him in a soft towel and sat outside with him, holding him like a little baby, thinking it would be a short time before he left. But I guess he enjoyed it too much to go. He was there, but his breathing was soft and shallow. Every once in a while he would try to bark. On the first Thursday of the month in the River Parishes, all the plants test their warning sirens for several minutes at noon. We were outside and it was quite loud. He seemed to be trying to howl with the sirens for a moment.

And the whole time we were out there, there were two giant dragonflies that hovered near us. If you know me, you know dragonflies were a sign from my late brother. I now have them all over my house. It's a thing for my whole family now. I know it was a sign -- and it doesn't matter who it was from.

I spent a few hours outside with Pepper until I needed to go inside. I put him in his other little bed in the living room. He was in a doggie coma though, not very responsive but still breathing. I checked on him every few minutes, watching to see if the towel was still moving up and down with his little breaths.

After dinner, I had to go do some work covering a football game in north Louisiana, so I headed to our little office while Marty stayed in the living room.

 At halftime, I went to check on him. The blanket wasn't moving. He was still warm and soft. But he was gone.

I wanted so badly to be holding him when he left us, but I just missed it. I tried.

Daniel had come over during the day to help Marty dig a spot in our little pet cemetery in the front yard. Laycee, Lucy, Lyon and Shelley are there already. Lollee and Leigheaux were cremated and their ashes were sprinkled at the nearby park where we walked every day for many years.

While we were in my swing today, I kept telling Pepper he needed to go and that he would be met by Laycee and Lucy and Lollee and Lyon and Leigheaux -- but he might have to convince them he was really mine because his name didn't start with an "L."

"Just tell them your mom sang a bunch of silly songs to you all the time and they'll know," I said.

I hope they are all together, running free, hearing, seeing, chasing dragonflies. And I hope they are all waiting for me.

I'll miss you, Peps.

All dressed in white

                                             

On Lora Leigh's third birthday, we gave her as magical a princess-themed birthday party as we could without traveling to Florida.

All her invited friends were asked to wear their favorite princess dresses for the occasion. We served them all a fancy princess dinner with little flower-shaped finger sandwiches and magical macaroni and cheese. The cake was a gorgeous castle-shaped concoction that broke my heart just to cut into. And we rented a castle-shaped bounce house.

Lora already had dozens of dress-up costumes, including several princess gowns that she loved to wear to the grocery store. But on the morning of her birthday, I surprised my perpetually pink princess with a brand new pink Sleeping Beauty gown -- the nicer one.

As I tucked her into it and closed up the back,  she stared at herself in the mirror in wonder. "Is that really me?" she seemed to say.

I saw that look again just the other day when my now grown, no longer pink princess of a daughter walked out of the dressing room at Pearl's, the same bridal salon where I purchased my own wedding dress 30 years ago.

For a long time, Lora has insisted that she wanted to wear that long, straight beaded gown that I absolutely adored and that has been tucked away in a sealed box since January of 1995. The problem is, my sweet baby girl who was adopted at birth has none of my genes. 

 I was and still am 5-feet-2 inches tall. She is 5-feet-7. And we have very different body types.

So my dress, which is in perfect shape after we carefully peeled it from the sealed box, does not fit.

Originally, we thought we might be able to alter the dress. I have the 6-foot train of satin and beaded lace to go with it, so perhaps an adept seamstress could use it to add some girth to the dress to make it fit -- plus some length to the bottom. Can it be done?

We took my dress back to Pearl's to ask -- but the indifferent bridal specialist (hmph) told us they don't do alterations. Haven't in a long time. Well, it has been 30 years since I've been there, so...

... but here's a rack of dresses in your size.

We carefully combed through the gigantic poufs of white and ivory tulle, satin, and lace to see if there was something she could try on. 

There was....

She took the first one into the dressing room while I waited in the chairs.

"Do you need help?"

"No. I got it."

And then she came out, all white lace and promises, to stand on the little podium.

And I'll never forget the look on her face as she looked in wonderment at herself in the mirror.

"Is that really me?" she seemed to say.

And so did I.

"Is that really her? Is that my little princess all grown up? Is she really about to be a bride, all dressed in white (or champagne)?"

Yes.

She did not say yes to the dress that day -- although the wild bridal party in the other half of the salon apparently did, judging by the screams, yells and cheers.

On our side, my daughter and I just shared a smile and a memory.

Childless

 

How it started... 

I've never really used this space for politics before. If you know me, if you're friends with me on Facebook, Twitter (nobody calls it "X"), or in real life, you know there is NO doubt about which way I lean.

But when I became a teacher at a small private school, I was asktold to tone down my rhetoric. I had pretty much blocked and deleted everyone who called me a "Libtard" by then anyway, and it was about the time there was a change in office, so there were fewer arguments to be had. 

But now we're in another election cycle. I still haven't missed some of those rude people, but, sadly, there are new rude ones to take their place. And more politicians who are being stupid out loud.

And they really pissed me off this time.

According to them, I am a childless woman.

More than that, I am a hopeless childless woman destined to be a weird, lonely old cat lady with no stake in the future of America. And I don't count as much as women who actually gave birth.

If you're a regular reader of this blog, or know me in real life, you know that I have poodles. I also have two awesome stepchildren. In 1994, I became a Bonus Mom, Semi Mom, Extra Mom, Stepmom -- whatever you want to call me -- to Daniel and Courtney when they were 8 and 6, respectively.

Then, in 2001, Marty and I were extraordinarily blessed to be asked to adopt a baby girl, Lora Leigh. She came to us after six years of trying, bouncing from doctor to doctor in search of answers, and a couple of science experiments. We stopped short of IVF because it is an outrageously expensive procedure that our insurances did not cover. I wrote a book about the whole experience, too.

We also had more than one heartbreak when we were not the chosen couple, and another in which we were chosen but had to say no. It's a long story for another blog post.

Thanks to those three human beings and my husband, I have spent the last 29 3/4 years doing all the things parents do:

• diapers, burps, and bottles 
• nightmares and ghosts in the closet
• stomach aches and sore throats (both real and fake ones)
• trying to get the car seat in and out of the damn back seat of the car
• carrying all the baby gear like a pack mule 
• plays, practices, concerts, games, birthday parties and school Parent Nights
• one season as a Brownie leader
• homework and last-minute science and social studies projects
• nearly 1,000 mornings and afternoons waiting for the bus
• 12 epic Pinterest-worthy birthday parties
• Halloween costumes, an annual Boofets for family and friends, and hundreds of miles walked while Trick-or-Treating
• thousands of hours watching Pocahontas, The Wizard of Oz, The Little Mermaid and Grease
• countless pediatrician visits with nice doctors, mean nurses and all those shots
• one terrifying 7 1/2-hour surgery
• one nasty case of head lice
• countless hours of rocking, reading and Linda Ronstadt 
• a small fortune spent at Disney World (not including the anniversary one just for us)
• SIX graduations
• I don't know how many dorm move-ins and outs
• so many tears ... and laughs .. and memorable moments... 
• one daughter-in-law
• one future son-in-law
• two beautiful granddaughters
• one grandbaby born sleeping

But, according to the man who is trying to be the next Vice President of the United States and the woman governor of the state just north of Louisiana, none of that matters. They say I'm not a "real" mother. The Governor of Arkansas even said I have nothing to keep me "humble."

Well, Sarah, I do have children. And I want you to know, that my children do not keep me humble. My body humbled me by failing at its major biological function and I have no idea why. Being a stepparent humbled me. Praying for and asking another woman to allow me to raise the baby in her arms humbled me, as did understanding the enormity of it all. 

My children, Mrs. Sanders, have made me incredibly proud. They are good, kind, nice people who care about their family, each other and me. They have a wonderful mother, whom I consider a friend, and a terrific father, whom I love dearly. They are smart and successful, make more money than I do on Social Security and are wonderful humans with successful lives and careers.

And I would die before I let anything happen to them. That makes me a parent -- and a real mom.

Because they are mine. They belong to me even though all three have another mother. They are the people I root for, cheer for, cry for, and brag about on my Facebook and Twitter pages. And even though they are now grown and on their own and don't need me like they used to, they are still and always will be my children. And they have brought me their in-laws and their siblings and stepbrothers, and we all are a great big happily blended family. And I absolutely am invested in the futures of my children and my grandchildren -- especially my granddaughters. And I will fight for their rights, not sit idly by while they lose them.

So, whether you like it or not, J.D. and Sarah, I am not a childless woman. And I don't have a cat.

Our BIG blended family. 

My children

Two Peas in a Pod

 What do you do when you're officially retired, have a husband who is bored out of his mind and you're a blogger with a blog that only a handful of people read and you're game to try something new?

You start a podcast of course!

Yes, The Coach and I have started our very own podcast -- That Sports Couple Podcast, a weekly show about high school sports in the River Parishes and other things. 

Each week we'll talk about the previous week's games and the players that stood out, then we'll preview that week's upcoming slate of games. I can tell you all about the history of the games, the rivalries, what it's like to cover The Big Game. Marty will talk more X's and O's because he likes to talk about that stuff.

We also hope to have other cute sports couples like us on the show -- coaches and wives, coaches and husbands, former players, etc. 

We hope you'll check us out! Like, share and subscribe please! We also are on Spotify!

Read The St. Charles Herald-Guide story about us! 

Retirement training

 

Does anyone know if there is a support group for retirees?

If there isn't, there should be. Maybe I'll start one.

I think I need help.

My name is Lori and I don't know what to do with myself.

It's been more than three months since I tore down my paper palm tree and packed up all my beach gear from my classroom.  On the last day of school, The No-Longer-A-Coach (not by choice) and I walked out of Riverside Academy hand-in-hand with no idea what would come next. We just kind of threw "retirement" out there in case nothing else came along.

And I spent the summer months like most teachers do -- relaxing in my pool, reading, staying up too late, and watching TV. 

I also had a fun little summer gig covering a collegiate league baseball team called the Baton Rouge Rougarou. I didn't have to go to the games. Every night I'd watch them on a livestream then write a little account of how they won or lost. Once a week the owner suggested a player to do a feature on. I got to dust off my rusty sportswriting gears and earned a little extra paycheck to help pay for my upcoming cataract surgery.

I made my annual summer vacation trek to Natchitoches, Louisiana, home of the Louisiana Sports Hall of Fame for this year's induction ceremony.  The first thing I did was check to make sure my name was still on the wall from my induction last year. It was.

We were all very excited that former Saints quarterback Drew Brees would be joining us for his induction, but alas, he punted at the last moment to go to Japan. Or Alaska. Or wherever he went that wasn't Natchitoches. We had fun without him and he'll never know what cool people he missed out on.

I still had fun because one of my local coaches, Frank Monica, was inducted for his extraordinary career. He showed up and had a blast. 

And we've found out that just about any opportunity to get out of the house is worth taking.

We went to the grand opening of the new funeral home that just opened across the street from our house. 

Sadly, we also went to two funerals for people who left us much much too soon. 

And I've done my 6,482 hours of online training to become a substitute teacher again. 

But sometimes I don't know what day it is. I barely can keep track of the time. It doesn't really matter anymore. Fridays mean nothing anymore and I no longer dread Mondays on Sundays. Hump days are just another day after Tuesday.

But I can't shake this overwhelming feeling of guilt! I always feel like I'm playing hooky from something, like there's something I should be doing instead of whatever it is I am doing. 

I need someone to tell me that it's OK to not have anything to do or any place to go for days at a time.

I need someone to tell me that I've earned this right to not have to get up, get dressed and go to work -- like I've done for most of my life.

I need someone to tell me that it's OK to stay up until 4 a.m. watching all the old movies I've never seen and reading all the books I've been meaning to read. And it's OK to stay up all night if the inspiration hits me to work on that book I always said I would write.

That it's OK if I want or need to take a nap in the afternoon because I stayed up too late the night before.

I need someone to tell me that all these things are OK because I'm having a really hard time believing it, even though there are a lot of t-shirts telling me otherwise.

"Retirement is wonderful. It's doing nothing without worrying about getting caught at it."

Yep.

"Retirement sounds like fun until you realize you're too old, too broke and too tired to leave the couch."

This is true too.

But after only two weeks, I'm getting kind of antsy. 

"The trouble with retirement is that you never get a day off."

Maybe I need one.