“C’est bon?”

my paternal grandmother would ask after setting down our plates of food. 
“C’est bon!” we’d respond while scarfing down rice and gravy or another of her cajun meals. 

Ma Grace lived in the same house (above) for 50 years where she raised 4 sons, including my dad.
Forever the sweet, earthy smell of a fig tree reminds me of her.
She froze the figs from her yard and we ate the thawing, juicy fruit at the big table in her small kitchen.

“Teet crote!”

my maternal grandmother exclaimed when I was behaving bad. It means “little shit” in Cajun French.
She lived on a corner of her parent’s cattle farm (below) and raised four kids, including my mom.

Family Farm in Abbeville, LA with an inset photograph of my great-grandparents, pen and watercolor 18x24"

Granny always took an afternoon nap. The house would be dark and quiet.
I’d sneak into the pantry for a Little Debbie cake to eat while I watched Bob Ross in the playroom.
I now have a chair in my living room that was in that playroom. When I sit into it, the smell of her house wafts up. 
Even though I’ve had the chair for 10 years, her scent still persists.

The memories of my grandparents are what come up when I think of Louisiana.
Despite us moving to Texas when I was 5, we always stayed connected to this place.

Three Blue Silos in Louisiana, pen and watercolor 18x24"