I dream of Catahoula.
Deep in the deep south, still keeping to old customs. Still clinging to old beliefs. Old traditions. Old ways of hunting, eating and thinking. Old beauty in an old swamp where the loup-garou and voodoo magic holds still. There’s little houses lining the streets filled with families all related to one another. Doors aren’t locked. The church down the street is the place to be. The TV is your only tie to civilization for many, many miles around. And even in winter the vegetation has an oppressive presence. It’s that kind of place you wish you could go when you need a quiet moment away from everything. A breath, new eyes. Some place to look that doesn’t speed along at a million miles an hour, but instead moves forward at a pace half that of the rest of the country.
It was gorgeous, Catahoula. I want to go back someday with an easel in tow.
(Cajun Country, where The Cat's original family was from though him and his immediate family lived in Jefferson Parish/New Orleans)