Louisiana Love Quotes

Sometimes you sucked it up and did stuff you didn’t like because the people you loved needed you to.

We don’t go hard and fast down here,” Ellie said. “Long and slow and laid-back is more our style.

Juliet laughed. “You all are crazy, you know that?” “Oh, for sure,” he said with a nod. “Does it rub off?” “If you’re lucky.

Tell me whom you love and I'll tell you who you are.

Hey, the only person I almost shot was Owen,” Maddie said, giving her boyfriend a huge smile. “And if that does end up happening, he’ll forgive me.” Owen grabbed her wrist and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head. “You’d nurse me back to health?” “I’d make you alligator gumbo out of the fucking lizard that tried to take a bite of you,” she said.

I’ai adore chaque minute.

I don’t know, Louisiana. I can’t see into the future. I do think that, more often than not, love has a way of finding us.

Moistening her lips, she asked, "That's what this is all about? Bringing me here?" His hesitation was so slight she almost missed it. "It could be. Probably is, after all." "You still want to seduce me." "I want whatever you can give me," he murmured against her ear. "Where we go from here may depend on what I can give you.

You people and your feelings always spilling out all over,” she said. “Yep, we’re real bastards that way. All loving and supportive and excited about shit all the time.

MiMi says she was tutored by the bayou, by the Mississippi itself. She says that river is the blood meandering through Louisiana’s veins, and it casts a spell on all who love it.

It wasn't fair to pull her into that vortex, because I couldn't be fixed. And Roxy was a fixer. She thought she could help me, I could see it in her eyes.

Roxy was my breath of fresh air. My soft place to land. She was home to me.

She was trying to hide it, the pain I had caused her again. Because she knew how much those tears destroyed me.

The longer we spent together, the more she discovered about me. The things I didn't want her to know. The darkness and the anger and the pain.

Being a serial killer who kills serial killers is a great hobby … Until you find yourself locked in a cage. For three days. With a dead body. In the Louisiana summer. With no air conditioning.

When night falls, I ache for you.You are like a fever that has entered my brain and though i try to escape you, though I tell myself I am mad, that nothing good can come from it, that you are like all the others, that you will betray and cause me nothing but pain, in the end I am left with only a gnawing desire to have you in my arms,to kiss you...to make love to you." -Brett Dangermond

Maybe it was that brokenness inside of Bentley that I recognized and drew me to him, I didn't know. I just remember thinkin' how I wanted to know more about him. And I wanted to make him smile. Cause' that boy never smiled.

Marcel was from Louisiana, so for four years Emily had been southern by association. She insisted on Lynchburg Lemonades. She scheduled interviews around the Gators. She championed gentility. Anyone at a dinner party who thought they could tell a joke making fun of the region encountered a faceful of Emily, quick and ferocious as a convert, as a woman who loved a man. Emily now had no claim to the South. The region and its interests would proceed without her.

My favorite quote in my first book is: "We will always make mistakes, turn left when we should have gone right, but Love (God) waits patiently for us at all the wrong turns.

My favorite quote in my second book "Louisiana Bound" is: "Where there is love, there are miracles.

He was fully anticipating her lips being bright red to go with her toenail polish. Damn, he loved red lipstick. But before he could get to those lips, she used them, to say, “Oh, dammit, it’s you.” Owen’s gaze bypassed her mouth to fly to her eyes. Because he’d know that voice anywhere. Madison Allain was home. A day early. Not that an extra day would have helped him prepare. He’d been thinking about her visit for a week and was still as wound tight about it as he’d been when Sawyer had told him that she was coming home. For a month. Owen stood just watching her, fighting back all of the first words that he was tempted to say. Like, “Damn, you’re even more gorgeous than the last time I saw you.” Or, “I haven’t put anyone in the hospital lately.” Or, “I’ve missed you so damned much.” Just for instance. He wiped his hands on his jeans. Okay, he was supposed to be nice to her. That meant treating her like she was one of the tourists who frequented this dock. Polite. Friendly, But not I’ve-known-you-my-whole-life-and-kissed-you-a-whole-bunch friendly. Just mildly hey-how’s-it-goin’ friendly. Nice. Polite. A little friendly—but not too much. He could do that. Though it probably meant not saying things like, “I still remember how your nipples taste.

He talking Louisiana, you speaking Tennessee. The music so different, the sound coming from a different part of the body. It must of been like hearing lyrics set to scores by two different composers. But when you made love he must of have said I love you and you understood that and it was true, too, because I have seen the desperation in his eyes ever since—no matter what business venture he thinks up.

He shook his head. "No, we do. I may be a little buzzed and really fucking horny, but I also need you to know that I love you. I should have said it the first time months ago, and I will keep saying it every damn day. I love you more than every single star in the Louisiana sky above us.

On sentry duty with Hazel, he would try to take his mind off it. He loved spending time with her. He asked her about growing up in New Orleans, but she got edgy at his questions, so they made small talk instead. Just for fun, they tried to speak French to each other. Hazel had some Creole blood on her mother’s side. Frank had taken French in school. Neither of them was very fluent, and Louisiana French was so different from Canadian French it was almost impossible to converse. When Frank asked Hazel how her beef was feeling today, and she replied that his shoe was green, they decided to give up. Then Percy Jackson had arrived. Sure, Frank had seen kids fight monsters before. He’d fought plenty of them himself on his journey from Vancouver. But he’d never seen gorgons. He’d never seen a goddess in person. And the way Percy had controlled the Little Tiber—wow. Frank wished he had powers like that.

I still dream of the taste of you, musty-sweet as a rare book, field smoke brushing a night train. Kisses mouth of pink oasis, fruitful and whiptorn, carved from rose stone. Quick and sure, like a thumbprint, your love for me. — Jan Richman, from “I Still Dream of the Taste of You,” Because the Brain Can Be Talked Into Anything (Louisiana State University Press, 1995)

It's kind of surprising, considering he spends most of his time in Vegas, playing poker (professionally, of all things), man-whoring, and tossing back his family's infamous Louisiana bourbon. That was his great-grandfather, Willard West's legacy. Hunter's father, Conrad West, after a long life in politics, is Secretary of State. He disapproves of Hunter’s lifestyle, or so I’ve heard.

He says he never did find a way to learn how to love himself. We sit with that for a time. What it means to not have the ability to love yourself. How do you honor something you do not love? That night we speak of prisons and the drug war and how it feels to not seem to matter as a person in the world. He has never been worth saving, never worth treatment. No intervention beyond prison for this Black man from Louisiana.

His mouth left her lips, traveling with a trail of fire down her neck to her breast, and breathlessly Nicole whispered, "Don't, please, Christopher, don't do this to me." He stopped and stared up at her, beguiled and enchanted by the beautiful features so near him. "Stop?" he muttered thickly. "I cannot. You say you do not want me. But you lie, Nicole, you have always lied. If you did not want me, this would not happen." - Nicole & Christopher

Amelia was instantly distracted when she heard one of her favorite songs: What a Wonderful World made famous by Louis Armstrong. The woman singing did the song justice as she sang: I see trees of gree, red roses, too. I see them bloom, for me and you. And I think to myself. What a wonderful world! Before she could blink an eye, Rick pulled her into his arms in a waltz position. He gave her a wink and said flirtatiously, “May I have this dance, my love?” As they danced to the rhythm of the music, Amelia said, “Don’t ever stop flirting with me, no matter how old we get.” “Never!

Owen felt his mouth curve into a grin as he heard the familiar clap, clap, clap behind him. That was one of his favorite sounds—high heels on the wooden dock of the Boys of the Bayou swamp boat tour company. He took his time turning and once he did, he started at the shoes. They were black and showed off bright red toenails. The straps wrapped sexily around trim ankles and led the eye right up to smooth, toned calves. The heels matched the black polka dots on the white skirt that thankfully didn’t start until mid-thigh, and showed off more tanned skin. He straightened from his kneeling position in one of the boats as his eyes kept moving up past the skirt to the bright red belt that accentuated a narrow waist and then to the silky black tank that molded to a pair of perfect breasts. He was fully anticipating her lips being bright red to go with that belt and her toenail polish. God, he loved red lipstick. And high heels. In any color. But before he could get to those lips, she used them, to say, “Oh, dammit, it’s you.” Owen’s gaze bypassed her mouth to fly to her eyes. Because he’d know that voice anywhere. Madison Allain was home. A day early. Not that an extra day would have helped him prepare. He’d been thinking about her visit for a week and was still as wound tight about it as he’d been when Sawyer, his business partner and cousin, had told him that she was coming home. For a month. Owen stood just watching her, fighting back all of the first words that he was tempted to say. Like, “Damn, you’re even more gorgeous than the last time I saw you.” Or, “I haven’t put anyone in the hospital lately.” Or, “I’ve missed you so fucking much.” Just for instance.

Jase and I asked Mia what she wanted to do before her surgery. “How about a family party?” she suggested. So the invitation went out. It’s interesting when you mention to family members that they are going to be on TV--schwoom, they are there. As Willie said, “I didn’t know we had this much family.” Mia had always heard the funny stories about Jase wrestling with his brothers and cousins growing up, particularly how cousin Amy beat up Willie, so that’s what she requested for the special entertainment. As Jase said, “It’s the ultimate redneck dinner theater.” A wrestling ring was delivered, and the warmup act was the Robertson boys clowning around, performing their best wrestling moves. Willie surprised everyone with guest professional wrestlers, including Jase’s favorite, “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan. I felt kind of bad for them, wearing only their little wrestling pants, while the rest of us were bundled up in winter coats. Yes, it was January, but it was unusually cold in Louisiana--about twenty degrees. The wrestlers had to keep moving fast; otherwise, they would have frozen to death! At the end of the party, Mia took the stage between Jase and Willie, thanking everyone for coming and then sharing from her heart: “My favorite verse is Psalm 46:10: ‘Be still, and know that I am God!’ God is bigger than all of us, and He is bigger than any of your struggles, too.” I think I can say that there was hardly a dry eye in the crowd. Going into her surgery, Mia was being brave for all of us. In the end, seeing the final version of the episode, I thought the network did a great job of including enough humor to make people laugh but also providing a tender glimpse into the love our family shares with one another and the love we all have for Mia. When Duck Dynasty fans saw it on March 26, 2014, they agreed completely!

Has being on Duck Dynasty made you more comfortable in the public eye? Jess: I never thought I’d get up and speak in front of thousands of people. The show has made us braver. I’m willing to show the world who we are, to tell our story, and to use this opportunity God has given us to share His love and His Word with other people. Anyway, it’s all from Him, and we know we are blessed. Jep: I want to be a great role model, and so I’m willing to get up and tell my story, even the hard parts, if it will help others. I also want to help people get back to the old ways with hunting and how much joy it is to provide for your family. I don’t ever want to lose that and be some kind of a rich guy who has it made. Also, I never want to move away from Louisiana. I want my kids to grow up with their grandparents, cousins, and uncles and aunts. I learned so much from my granny, and I want my kids to have those relationships and teachable moments too. There’s something about being in a smaller town; the pace of life here is so different, but in a good way.

Jessica I first met the man I married at a hair salon. I was going out the door; Jep was going in--for a haircut. Seriously. Nowadays, most of the Robertson men don’t get haircuts, but Jep did back then. When our paths crossed that day, we said nothing more than “hi” to each other, just one word. Jep and I both grew up in West Monroe, Louisiana, and he is two years older than I am. We went to different high schools, but because we lived in a close community, we had heard about each other. He knew who I was, and I knew who he was--and I thought he had a cool name. I had heard good things about him, including, “He’s a dream.” When our paths crossed at the hair salon and we simply said hello, I had no way of knowing the hairdresser would tell Jep all about me as she cut his hair that day. Both of us had gone to her for years, so she knew us pretty well, and she said really nice things about me to Jep. In fact, she takes credit for getting us together! After we were married I found out that when he left the hair salon that day, he went home and told his best friend, “I just met the girl I’m going to marry.” “What’s her name?” his friend asked. “Jessica,” Jep responded. He only knew this because the hairdresser had told him. “Jessica who?” his friend asked. “What’s her last name?” “I don’t know,” Jep admitted. I love the fact that Jep knew he would marry me after only seeing me once. Maybe he did not know my last name, but the next time he saw me, he made sure to find out a little more about me.

A Lake Charles-based artist, Sally was a progressive Democrat who in 2016 primary favored Bernie Sanders. Sally's very dear friend and worl-traveling flight attendant from Opelousas, Louisiana, Shirley was an enthusiast for the Tea Party and Donald Trump. Both woman had joined sororities at LSU. Each had married, had three children, lived in homes walking distance apart in Lake Charles, and had keys to each other's houses. Each loved the other's children. Shirley knew Sally's parents and even consulted Sally's mother when the two go to "fussing to much." They exchanged birthday and Christmas gifts and jointly scoured the newspaper for notices of upcoming cultural events they had, when they were neighbors in Lake Charles, attended together. One day when I was staying as Shirley's overnight guest in Opelousas, I noticed a watercolor picture hanging on the guestroom wall, which Sally had painted as a gift for Shirley's eleven-year-old daughter, who aspired to become a ballerina. With one pointed toe on a pudgy, pastel cloud, the other lifted high, the ballerina's head was encircled by yellow star-like butterflies. It was a loving picture of a child's dream--one that came true. Both women followed the news on TV--Sally through MSNBC's Rachel Maddow, and Shirley via Fox News's Charles Krauthammer, and each talked these different reports over with a like-minded husband. The two women talk by phone two or three times a week, and their grown children keep in touch, partly across the same politcal divide. While this book is not about the personal lives of these two women, it couldn't have been written without them both, and I believe that their friendship models what our country itself needs to forge: the capacity to connect across difference.

After my dad started making duck calls, he’d leave town for a few days, driving all over Louisiana, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Texas trying to sell them. He left me in charge of the fishing operation. I was only a teenager, but it was my responsibility to check almost eighty hoop nets three times a week. Looking back now, it was pretty dangerous work for a teenager on the river, especially since I’d never done it alone. If you fell out of the boat and into the river, chances were you might drown if something went wrong and you were alone. But I was determined to prove to my father that I could do it, so I left the house one morning and spent all day on the river. I checked every one of our hoop nets and brought a mound of fish back to Kay to take to market. I was so proud of myself for pulling it off without anyone’s help! When Dad came home a couple of days later, Mom told him about the fish I’d caught and how much money we’d made. I could see the smile on his face. But then he went outside to check his boat and noticed that a paddle was missing. Instead of saying, “Good job, son,” he yelled at me for losing a paddle! I couldn’t believe he was scolding me over a stupid oar! I’d worked from daylight to dusk and earned enough money for my family to buy a dozen paddles! Where was the gratitude? I was so mad that I jumped in the boat and headed to the nets to see if I could find the missing paddle. After checking about seventy nets, I was resigned to the fact that it was probably gone. But when I finally reached the seventy-ninth net, I saw the paddle lying in a few bushes where I’d tied up a headliner, which is a rope leading to the net. It was almost like a religious experience for me. What were the odds of my finding a lost paddle floating in a current on a washed-out river? It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. I took the paddle back to my dad, but he was still mad at me for losing it in the first place. I have never liked the line “up a creek without a paddle” because of the trouble boat paddles caused me. I swore I would never lose another one, but lo and behold, the next year, I broke the same paddle I’d lost while trying to kill a cottonmouth water moccasin that almost bit me. My dad wasn’t very compassionate even after I told him his prized paddle perhaps saved my life. I finally concluded that everyone has quirks, and apparently my dad has some sort of weird love affair with boat paddles.

He and his mama run swamp tours back in the bayou.” Roo flicked ashes into the trampled weeds. “Tourists really like that kind of thing, don’t ask me why. He works construction jobs, too. Mows lawns, cuts trees, takes fishermen out in his boat. Stuff like that.” “Quite a résumé.” “And not bad to look at either.” Roo arched an eyebrow. “Or haven’t you noticed?” “I don’t even know him.” “You don’t have to know him to notice.” Miranda hedged. “Well…sure. I guess he’s kind of cute.” “Cute? Kind of? I’d say that’s the understatement of the century.” “Does he have a girlfriend or something?” As Roo flicked her an inquisitive glance, she added quickly, “He keeps calling me Cher.” Clearly amused, Roo shook her head. “It’s not a name, it’s a…” She thought a minute. “It’s like a nickname…like what you call somebody when you like them. Like ‘hey, love’ or ‘hey, honey’ or ‘hey, darlin’. It’s sort of a Cajun thing.” Miranda felt like a total fool. No wonder Etienne had gotten that look on his face when she’d corrected him about her name. “His dad’s side is Cajun,” Roo explained. “That’s where Etienne gets that great accent.” Miranda’s curiosity was now bordering on fascination. She knew very little about Cajuns--only the few facts Aunt Teeta had given her. Something about the original Acadians being expelled from Novia Scotia in the eighteenth century, and how they’d finally ended up settling all over south Louisiana. And how they’d come to be so well known for their hardy French pioneer stock, tight family bonds, strong faith, and the best food this side of heaven. “Before?” Roo went on. “When he walked by? He was talking to you in French. Well…Cajun French, actually.” “He was?” Miranda wanted to let it go, but the temptation was just too great. “What’d he say?” “He said, ‘Let’s get to know each other.’” A hot flush crept up Miranda’s cheeks. It was the last thing she’d expected to hear, and she was totally flustered. Maybe Roo was making it up, just poking fun at her--after all, she didn’t quite know what to make of Roo. “Oh,” was the only response Miranda could think of.

Jefferson’s decision to acquire Louisiana without seeking a constitutional amendment expanded the powers of the executive in ways that would likely have driven Jefferson to distraction had another man been president. Much of his political life, though, had been devoted to the study and the wise exercise of power. He did what had to be done to preserve the possibility of republicanism and progress. Things were neat only in theory. And despite his love of ideas and image of himself, Thomas Jefferson was as much a man of action as he was of theory. Indian

Finding and keeping a lifelong partner is a common dream of all girls, everywhere. Women love men (well, most of us, anyway--Ellen DeGeneres is a Louisiana Grits, after all!), and Grits are no exceptions. We think about true love as much as the next girl--maybe more, thanks to that romantic Southern atmosphere. Finding a man is like eating a meal: it’s tasty, it’s tempting, and it keeps you alive. Sometimes it’s bad for you, sometimes it goes down wrong, but the most important thing is that you’ve tried everything on your plate. And once it’s gone, there is simply no use in worrying about it. Go ahead and try to exercise off the effects, but remember: there’s another one coming down the road, and it’s going to be better (or at least more tempting) than the last. So tie on that napkin, darlin’, and get ready to dig in!

Every day is an opportunity to be kinder, gentler, more loving, and more tolerant. Small kindnesses make big ripples in the pond of life.

I do think that, more often than not, love has a way of finding us.

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While Dad was a tough disciplinarian, I knew he loved me too. He isn’t much for hugs, but I hug him often. I’m the only one of my brothers to hug him and call him “Dad.” And even though he didn’t like to come to my school activities or my basketball games, he did take me hunting, starting when I was small. Mom would bundle me up to fight off the damp Louisiana cold that sinks deep into your bones, and Dad would take me along to the duck blind. He built a little step so I could see out, and as soon as I could, I started taking shots. I’ll never forget shooting my first duck. Unfortunately, it was illegal, and we ended up with a gun being pointed back at me.

Italians are compassionate people who love children and care for their poor and infirm. They watched the televised drowning of New Orleans in the fall of 2005 with horror and disgust. Most Europeans already have strong notions of American racism, implanted by years of televised imagery of police brutality, dogs set on civil rights marchers, the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., and the ugly fact of slavery at the nation’s core. As they watched the waters rise around the Louisiana Superdome, Italians’ native compassion was offended by the United States’ disregard for its poorest.

As I was reading, I started thinking about Jessica and the idea of getting married. We could be doing this--reading our Bibles, cooking our own food, hanging out--at our own house. Suddenly, I was excited about the idea of leaving Mom and Dad’s house and starting my own family with Jessica. All my brothers had gotten married before they were twenty, and here I was twenty-two, and not married. I knew Jess was the one. I’m not going to look at any more girls, I thought, still reading through Scripture out loud. I just want to get married to the woman I love. There was a deep sense of knowing inside of me. I didn’t want to overthink it anymore; I just wanted to do it. If we knew we wanted to be married, why wait? So all of a sudden I just burst out, “We should get married.” Jessica looked up from her Bible, surprised. I wasn’t down on my knees, and I didn’t have champagne or a ring, so she wasn’t exactly expecting a marriage proposal. But that’s what it was. A random impulse of a marriage proposal. I looked in her eyes and said it again. “Let’s get married. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” There were hugs and tears, and then we ran out to tell Mom and Dad the news. More hugs, more tears. And wedding plans started right away. “We’ll just elope,” I said, “or get Dad to marry us.” We didn’t want to waste a second. Now that we knew, we wanted to get married as soon as possible and start our lives together. But Mom had a fit. “No,” she said in a loud voice. “We have to have a wedding. I’ve always dreamed about your wedding, Jep.” I didn’t want a big wedding, and I knew it would take time and cost a lot of money. “Mom, I just think it would be better this way.” “Look, just some family,” she argued back, “and maybe some of my best friends. I’ll help get everything together. It won’t be hard. You’ll see.” Then she tilted her head and smiled that big smile; how could I say no? We finally gave in because we could see how important it was for her, but we made it clear we wanted to get married as soon as possible, so we set a date for two weeks away. We don’t waste much time down here in Louisiana.

Doctors still aren’t sure if I have epilepsy or not. Time will tell. But probably the worst part about the whole experience is that in the state of Louisiana, you can’t drive for six months after you have a seizure. I do know I’m lucky to be alive. My story could very well have ended in a different way. I could have fallen out of the deer blind and broken my neck, wandered off into the woods, or never have woken up out of the seizure. But here I am. I’m alive. Jessica and I are together, and we have our four kids and our families and our remodeled house. I want it to be the last house we ever live in. It’s down the street from my brothers’ houses, and behind us is green grass going down to some water, where I can watch the ducks swimming by. Jessica and I have had a lot of hurt in our lives, and I’ve learned that you have to keep growing and learning how to love and respect each other and how to trust each other. There’s no such thing as instant healing, but the hurts get easier with time, and the healing is faster when you face the hurts together.

went by back roads, past pines, swamps, shacks, the small towns of Lorman and Fayette, a school flying a Confederate flag, and down one road on which for some miles there were large lettered signs with intimidating Bible quotations nailed to roadside trees: “Prepare to Meet Thy God—Amos 4:12” and “He who endures to the end shall be saved—Mark 13:13” and “REPENT”—Mark 6:12.” Finally I arrived at the lovely town of Natchez. Natchez is dramatically sited on the bluffs above the wide brown Mississippi, facing the cotton fields in flatter Louisiana and the transpontine town of Vidalia. It was my first glimpse of the river on this trip. Though the Mississippi is not the busy thoroughfare it once was, it is impossible for an American to see this great, muddy, slow-moving stream and not be moved, as an Indian is by the Ganges, a Chinese by the Yangtze, an Egyptian by the Nile, an African by the Zambezi, a New Guinean by the Sepik, a Brazilian by the Amazon, an English person by the Thames, a Quebecois by the St. Lawrence, or any citizen by a stream flowing past his feet. I mention these rivers because I’ve seen them myself, and written about them, but as an alien, a romantic voyeur. A river is history made visible, the lifeblood of a nation.

It wasn’t a horror movie, Mama,” said Jody adamantly. “It had zombies, didn’t it?” “Yes, ma’am, but it’s a love story.” Rick laughed. He was amused with the young girl’s defense. “Have you seen it?” asked Jody. “It’s called Warm Bodies.” Rick shook his head. “No, I haven’t. Is it good?” Jody’s eyes brightened. “Oh my gosh! You have to see it…

He strummed a few chords and then sang: You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away. Rick sang one more verse, and when he was done, he winked at Amelia and smiled.

Instead of taking all this information and using it as a window on the entire world, a big part of the media industry now exists in large part to confirm your beliefs. People have figured out that there’s a lot of money to be made telling you that you were right in the first place. It makes both sides more dug in.

road that ran through a mixed pine forest. “What are Steeev’s chances for, uh, surviving?” “I told Jill they were high,” I said without pulling my gaze from the monotonous scenery of pines. “But to be honest, I don’t know.” Sighing, I rubbed my eyes. “Theoretically, chances are decent the first time through the void. Not so much for a second death. He’s never died on Earth before, so that helps his odds.” The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Pellini clicked off the wipers, and within a quarter of a mile sunlight blazed down onto a bone dry road. Louisiana weather. Gotta love it. Pellini smacked the steering wheel. “Shit!” I jerked, startled. “What?!” “You! You died over there! In the demon realm!” His mouth widened into a pleased smile. “That’s why you appeared out of nowhere without a stitch on.” I couldn’t answer for several seconds. “You saw me naked?” His smile exploded into a grin. Groaning, I dropped my head back against the seat. “Yeah. It was after I found out the Symbol Man was Chief Morse. I started the whole dying process here on Earth, but Rhyzkahl brought me to the demon realm to finish dying so that I had a chance of surviving it.

ones who had never met us but confidently

I’ll stand by you, no matter what happens.” To her surprise and hurt, Steven shook his head. “No. You’re going to Whitneyville, not Louisiana. Until I’ve cleared my name, I won’t have anything to offer you. Besides, what if I’m convicted, and I’m not there to protect you from Macon?” A chill travelled down Emma’s spine, for she knew Steven could just as easily hang as be acquitted, given the fact that his adversary was Macon, a determined man bent on revenge. “If you don’t take me with you,” she said, “I will follow you to New Orleans, and if you don’t believe me, just wait and see. I won’t be left behind, Steven.” A muscle in his jaw bunched in suppressed anger; Steven knew Emma meant what she said. “All right, then, we’ll compromise. We’ll be married when we get to Spokane. That’ll give you some protection against Macon, but remember this, Emma—if they hang me, don’t wait around for the funeral. Macon wasn’t bluffing—the minute the life goes out of me, he’ll take you to bed, whether you want to go or not.” Emma was bruised inside. She was in love, really and truly in love, for the first time in her life. And her marriage might last no longer than a murder trial. Her eyes filled with tears. She embraced Steven even more tightly and looked up into his face. “There’ll be no funeral, Mr. Fairfax,” she said fiercely. “At least, not for forty or fifty years.” He kissed her forehead. “Promise me you’ll leave New Orleans the same day, if the verdict goes against us. I have to know that you won’t even go back to Fairhaven for your things, Emma. Do I have your word?” She nodded, albeit grudgingly. “We’re going to win,” she insisted. “I’m staking everything on that,” Steven replied. And then he kissed Emma thoroughly, and she wanted him to make love to her, right there where they stood.

The banker isn’t good enough for you,” he said, carefully inspecting one of Chloe’s china shepherdesses as he spoke. His blithe confidence nettled Emma, and so did the tantalizing scent of bay rum he’d brought with him. He was completely disrupting the sanctity of that parlor where Emma had always felt so safe. “But you are?” she inquired, raising one eyebrow. “Yes.” “You’re a drifter—an outlaw!” Steven’s gaze never left hers. “Until now I didn’t have a reason to stay in one place. And I’m not an outlaw.” “You’re wanted—you admitted yourself that someone is looking to kill you.” He gave a ragged sigh. “All right, it’s true—I’m wanted in the state of Louisiana. But I’m innocent.” “Criminals always declare their innocence,” Emma said stubbornly, even though, deep inside, she knew Steven would not have deliberately broken the law. Still, she longed to know what he’d been accused of. That maddening grin was back. “You’re wasting your breath trying to discourage me, Miss Emma. Once I decide I want something, I don’t ever give up on it. If it takes from now till the crack of doom, I’ll bed you properly, and I’ll prove you were born to love me.” Emma’s hands flew to her hips. “If you aren’t the most arrogant and impossible man I’ve ever met—” Before Emma could finish the sentence, Chloe arrived home.

Before Antoine could absorb this shock, he heard a rumor that Purcell planned to sell him and his wife to Manuel Lacey, a slave trader from St. Louis. The rumor hardened into fact. Lacey took Antoine and his wife straight to the slave market in New Orleans and sold them as slaves for life. Antoine managed to obtain an audience with Manuel Juan de Salcedo, the last Spanish governor of Louisiana, who served until the territory was transferred to France on November 30, 1803. After Antoine showed the governor his freedom papers from Cuba, the governor, usually portrayed as a corrupt official who tried to squeeze profits from his post, did the right thing. He released Joseph Antoine and his wife from the sale. However, they feared that, under the law, Antoine’s wife would remain a slave until the two of them had served out the full fifteen-year terms of their indenture.

We had finished the set when a lovely young woman wandered into our dressing room. She had bleached-blond hair and fire-engine-red lips and giant eyelashes that made her look like a reincarnated southern version of Marilyn Monroe. As I was prone to do at that time, I made my move before anyone else could even talk to her. I grabbed her hand and pulled her into the bathroom and asked her if she could keep me company while I took a shower. Once I got into the shower, she went into an impeccable rendition of Marilyn singing "Happy Birthday" to JFK. I got out of that shower ready to go. She immediately threw off her clothes and we made love on the floor. I had known the girl for five minutes, but I was certain of my affection for her. We spent the night together, and I found out more about her, including the fact that she went to Catholic school. (She would be the inspiration for a later song, "Catholic School Girls Rule.") The next day we drove to Baton Rouge, and of course, she came with us. After we got offstage, she came up to me and said, "I have something to tell you. My father's the chief of police and the entire state of Louisiana is looking for me because I've gone missing. Oh, and besides that, I'm only fourteen." I wasn't incredibly scared, because in my somewhat deluded mind, I knew that if she told the chief of police she was in love with me, he wasn't going to have me taken out to a field and shot, but I did want to get her the hell back home right away. So we had sex one more time, and she gave me an interesting compliment that I never forgot. She said, "When you make love to me, it's like you're a professional." I told her that she should give herself a little time and she'd realize that it was because she didn't have much to compare it to. And I put her on a bus and sent her back to New Orleans.

Southern Louisiana is heaven, as long as you keep one eye closed and don’t dwell on the corruption that’s a way of life here. Louisiana is a state of mind, more like the Baths of Caracalla without the moral restraint. One of our politicians said we should put the Exxon flag on the capitol building. I don’t know one person who thought that unreasonable. Our politicians are modeled more on the leaders of Guatemala than on Thomas Jefferson. Dave Robicheaux said a love affair with Louisiana is like falling in love with the Great Whore of Babylon. I said, yeah, but what a party.

love spring for all the obvious reasons. I love the flowers blooming (which happens early here in Louisiana); I love the birds twittering; I love the squirrels scampering across my yard. I love the sound of werewolves howling in the distance. No, just kidding. But the late, lamented Tray Dawson had once told me that spring is the favorite season of werewolves.

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Both the Redds and Bleus have pets, since Americans of all political stripes love animals. But it turns out there is a dog/cat divide that breaks down along partisan lines. Euromonitor has tracked pet ownership in the United States and around the world. Its state-by-state map of dog versus cat preferences doesn’t look much different from the electoral college map. Cats outnumber dogs in the Northeast, Upper Midwest, and the Pacific Coast. The South and Southwest are dog country. Including the District of Columbia, of the ten states with the largest cat-to-dog ratios, nine regularly vote Democratic for president—Massachusetts, Maryland, Maine, Vermont, Connecticut, DC, New Hampshire, Pennsylvania, and New York. Only Ohio fails to fit the pattern. Of the ten states with the largest dog-to-cat ratios, eight regularly vote Republican—Arkansas, Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, Mississippi, Arizona, Tennessee, and Missouri. New Mexico is the outlier here. Other studies have also revealed a relationship between ideology and pet preferences, with conservatives more dog-friendly and liberals more cat-friendly.

I want you to know something, Louisiana. We all, at some point, have to decide who we want to be in this world. It is a decision we make for ourselves. You are being forced to make this decision at an early age, but that does not mean that you cannot do it well and wisely. I believe you can. I have great faith in you. You decide. You decide who you are, Louisiana. Do you understand?" I told him that I did understand. Even though I wasn't certain that I did. "And another thing," he said. "You will never understand why your parents left you in that alley. It is impossible to understand. But it may be necessary for you to forgive them, for your own sake, without ever truly understanding what they did. OK?" His face was so serious and sad that I said, "Yes, Reverend Obertask. I understand." But I didn't understand. How could I forgive people who had never shown me any kindness? How could I forgive people who had left me behind without loving me at all? And so it came to pass that I found myself sitting at the end of a long driveway in front of a pink house that smelled like cake, thinking about forgiveness and who I wanted to be in this world.

Give me a choice between a great football team and a bad mayor versus a bad football team and a great mayor, and I’ll take the great mayor any day. Because in the end, what I’ve really come to learn—and this applies all over the world—is that it really matters who’s running the show. If you’re a company, a city, a country, a newspaper, a university—I don’t care. It just matters.

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Here was both a very American personal success story and a glimpse of what post-democracy strongman rule might look like in the United States, signaled not by a uniformed march on Rome or a Reichstag fire but by a governor who became senator while simultaneously keeping the governor’s job, breaking the spine of democracy in his state with the help of a cadre of brass-knuckled bodyguards, engineering kidnappings of his enemies, and defeating or sidestepping multiple impeachments and indictments and investigations, all while soaking up adoration at a muddy rural rally with farmers or in a roaring ballroom full of tuxedoed and gowned admirers, his vast and disparate audiences too in love with his charm to much care what he actually meant. Somehow simultaneously cherubic and menacing in appearance, Huey Long was a populist, a rule breaker, a shockingly gifted orator, and a thug. He once commanded National Guard troops to mount an actual true-blue armed military assault on the municipal government of the largest city in his state. The man launched an armed invasion of New Orleans!—and got away with it. The best contemporaneous biography of Long in Louisiana was subtitled “The American Rehearsal for Dictatorship.

Well, I was sure this handsome buck would follow us both out, but when I got back to the kitchen, there he still was picking at some leftover Cajun popcorn in a bowl on the counter. "Oh, don't eat that!" I almost screamed. "It's awful cold. And, besides, you need to dip it in garlic mayonnaise for it to be really good." "I think it's pretty good as is," he said, and suddenly I began to wonder if maybe I looked too heavy in the loose harlequin pants and metallic gold shirt I was wearing. "What's it called?" "Cajun popcorn." "But it's fried shrimp, isn't it?" "Yeah, though over in Louisiana they usually use crawfish." "Why's it called popcorn?" "I have no earthly idea. Maybe 'cause people it fast as popcorn." "What all's in it?" I was now rinsing and drying some platters with a dishcloth and in a hurry to put out some more nutty fingers. "You do ask a lot of questions, Mr. Webster," I kidded him. "Sure you're not some hotshot chef out looking to steal recipes?" He laughed and said, "Jerry. Call me Jerry. And no, I'm no recipe thief. I simply love good food and am always looking for new ideas." "Okay, Jerry, there's everything in that battered popcorn except the kitchen stove." "Like what?" he kept on. "Like garlic and onion and a few hundred herbs and spices- and lots of love." He smiled and asked, "Deep fried?" "Yep, in peanut oil, but not too long- no more than about two minutes. Gotta be crisp on the outside but not overcooked.

It’s politics. This is Louisiana.” “I remember many situations when I said it was just Vietnam.” Jimmy pulled the cork from a green half-empty bottle of wine. “Here’s to neocolonialism everywhere.” I wasn’t up to his cynicism. I looked at the oaks, the moss lifting in the wind, purple dust rising from a cane field, Bayou Teche glinting in the sun like a Byzantine shield. La Louisiane, the love of my life, the home of Jolie Blon and Evangeline and the Great Whore of Babylon, the place for which I would die, the place for which there was no answer or cure.

Looking into his eyes instead of where she was stepping, she put her foot too far to the edge of the step and as she shifted her weight forward to get onto the boat, her foot slid and she ended up falling into Chase. He caught her—also like some stupid romantic movie—but the bag she was holding whacked him in the leg and he winced. She looked down. It didn’t just hold strands of lights. There was also a big, hard plastic, gold-glitter covered star. With very sharp points. One of which was poking into his leg. Bailey quickly shifted to move the bag away from his leg but that only managed to press her hips into his. And the big, hard shape behind his fly. Her eyes flew to his face. He was looking down at her. His expression held pain, amusement, heat, and exasperation all at once. Impressively. “Sorry I’m poking you,” she said, her voice breathless. “I was going to say the same.” His grin registered before his words did.

Slowly and tortuously, loved ones found each other again, crossing oceans and continents to gather in villages that resembled, save for a few environmental variations, those they had left behind in Nova Scotia—especially in southwestern Louisiana, where hundreds of Acadians settled beginning in the mid-1760s,

You're not actually wise?" Bennett asked, with a shake of his head. He grinned at them. "Damn, I've been bamboozled." "Let's put it this way," Ellie said. "We pay attention and we love everyone who hangs out around here. You put those together and you notice a lot. When you notice a lot, you can come off as pretty insightful.

Every few years, a teacher from Monroe Colored High loaded a band of students onto the flat bed of a pickup truck and rattled across the Missouri Pacific Railway tracks. They passed the rich people’s porticos and pulled up to the back entrance of the white high school in town. The boys jumped out and began stacking the truck bed with the books the white school was throwing away. That is how Monroe Colored High School got its books. The boys loaded the truck with old geography and English texts, some without covers and with pages torn out and love notes scrawled in the margins, and headed back to their side of town. By the time he was old enough to understand where the books came from, Pershing was fast putting together the pieces of the world he lived in. He knew there was a dividing line, but it was hitting him in the face now. He was showing a talent for science and was getting to the point that he needed reference books to do his lesson. But it was against the law for colored people to go to the public library. “And the library at the Colored High School did not live up to its name,” he said years later. He was in the eighth grade when word filtered to his side of the tracks that Monroe was getting a new high school. It wouldn’t replace the old building that Monroe Colored High was in. It was for the white students, who already had a big school. It would be called Neville High. The colored people could see it going up when they ventured to the other side of the tracks. It rose up like a castle, four stories of brick and concrete with separate wings and a central tower, looking as if it belonged at Princeton or Yale. It opened in 1931 on twenty-two acres of land. The city fathers made a fuss over the state-of-the-art laboratories for physics and chemistry, the 2,200-seat balconied auditorium, the expanded library, and the fact it was costing $664,000 to build. As the new high school took shape across town, Pershing watched his father rise in the black of morning to milk the cows and walk the mile and a half to open his building the size of a grade school. His father, his mother, and the other teachers at Monroe Colored High School were working long hours with hand-me-down supplies for a fraction of the pay their white counterparts were getting. In Louisiana in the 1930s, white teachers and principals were making an average salary of $1,165 a year. Colored teachers and principals were making $499 a year, forty-three percent of what the white ones were.

It was the kind of timeless evening in Louisiana when spring and fall and winter and summer come together in a perfect equinox, so exquisite and lovely that the dying of the light seems a violation of a divine ordinance. It was an evening that was wonderful in every way possible.

I thought being in love was talking someone down a bad trip. And it’s true. Now we never step into each other’s metaphors, wring out the safety, bear witness to all the deities under the skin, and emerge plainly poisoned, but poisonous too. — Jan Richman, from “Drug Stories,” Because the Brain Can Be Talked into Anything (Louisiana State University Press, 1995)