CAJUN NO DUSTY ROADS JUST COOL BAYOUS THE CENSUS TAKER It was the first day of census, and all through the land each pollster was ready ... a black book in hand. He mounted his horse for a long dusty ride, his book and some quills were tucked close by his side. A long winding ride down a road barely there, toward the smell of fresh bread wafting, up through the air. The woman was tired, with lines on her face and wisps of brown hair she tucked back into place. She gave him some water ... as they sat at the table and she answered his questions ... the best she was able. He asked her of children. Yes, she had quite a few -- the oldest was twenty, the youngest not two. She held up a toddler with cheeks round and red; his sister, she whispered, was napping in bed. She noted each person who lived there with pride, and she felt the faint stirrings of the wee one inside. He noted the sex, the color, the age... the marks from the quill soon filled up the page. At the number of children, she nodded her head and saw her lips quiver for the three that were dead. The places of birth she "never forgot" was it Kansas? or Utah? or Oregon ... or not? They came from Scotland, of that she was clear, but she wasn't quite sure just how long they'd been here. They spoke of employment, of schooling and such, they could read some ... and write some ... though really not much. When the questions were answered, his job there was done so he mounted his horse and he rode toward the sun. We can almost imagine his voice loud and clear, "May God bless you all for another ten years." Now picture a time warp ... its' now you and me as we search for the people on our family tree. We squint at the census and scroll down so slow as we search for that entry from long, long ago. Could they only imagine on that long ago day that the entries they made would effect us this way? If they knew would they wonder at the yearning we feel and the searching that makes them so increasingly real. We can hear if we listen the words they impart through their blood in our veins and their voice in our heart. Author unknown. CAJUN~LYNX PASS A GOOD TIME CHER Boudreauxs in the sauce factory There was a factory in Eunice that produced the world's best cajun sauce. The factory was owned by a Yankee entrepreneur, but it employed a dozen local boys, all related, brothers, cousins, uncles, all of them Boudreauxs. Well, one day the owner came in and saw Claude Boudreaux standing on a chair with both arms arched above his head. He was hollering "I'm a lightbulb, me! I'm a lightbulb, me!" The owner was furious, but he calmly said, "Get off that chair and get back to work or you're fired." Claude didn't miss a beat, arms arched over his head started hollering again, "I'm a lightbulb, me! I'm a lightbulb, me!" So the owner had no choice. "Okay, Claude," he sighed, "you're fired." Claude got down from the chair, picked up his lunch box and started heading out the door. The other 11 Boudreauxs grabbed their lunch boxes and started to follow him. "Wait," the owner said to them, "I only fired HIM! I didn't fire the rest of you." But one Boudreaux turned around and said to the owner, "Well, Beb, we gotta quit. Can't be workin witout dat light, no!"