Blog – Mostly From Memory

Old Men

I want to be an old man one day. I want to drive a squeaky clean pickup truck to meet my friends for breakfast at Jack’s at 5:30 in the morning. I’ll eat a steak biscuit unless the bologna biscuits are on sale. We’ll sit at the round table and laugh about the good old days when gas was only .89¢ when we started driving. When a stranger walks in we’ll ask if anybody knows him. And if they don’t, we’ll get to know him. We’ll have nicknames for all the little kids because we might not remember their real names. That will endear them to us. After breakfast we will piddle in our gardens, or go horse trade old guitars and guns.

I met a man yesterday who was 98 years old. He drove himself to the Council on Aging. I’m not sure if he came to hear me sing, or if he just came out of habit because old men have routines. But he stayed and talked to me in the atmosphere that lingers after the songs are over but everyone remains quiet, intently listening. He was still sharp in his mind. That’s the kind of old man I want to be.

I met another old man that cycled 100 miles when he turned 90. A spry old sinewy man, tough as woodpecker lips-that is the kind of thing that old men say. I hope to be a fit old man. Not the kind that wears shorts so everyone has to look their old nasty bird legs. There are some things in life a man ought not have to look at.

I want to be an old man that can tell a good story. Can’t nobody tell a story like an old man. And I might start carrying around little candies to hand out at church for children in case my eyebrows scare them.

I just lost one of my favorite old men, Bro. Boney. I wasn’t expecting it, and I’m still not over it. He was one the kind of old men that shook everyone’s hand at the church. He did that with purpose. He had a way of making people feel like they belonged there. He’d been coming to Thanksgiving with my family for the past few years. He’d sing snatches of those old hymns and I’d accompany on the guitar in the corner until our wives would calm us down. One year the power went out, so we couldn’t be ignored. Everyone joined in and sang along. It was a good night.

One year he brought a BB Gun to the church while we cooked a bunch of turkey breasts for Thanksgiving. It was something that you would expect an 8 year old boy to do, but there he was, the oldest man present, plinking away at cans. I just thought that was hilarious. I kept this picture as his contact picture on my phone. I always have the hardest time deleting contacts of friends that have died.

The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness. Proverbs 16:31

Old men are a blessing, otherwise God would not have cursed the house of Eli by denying them old men.

Wherefore the Lord God of Israel saith, I said indeed that thy house, and the house of thy father, should walk before me for ever: but now the Lord saith, Be it far from me; for them that honour me I will honour, and they that despise me shall be lightly esteemed. Behold, the days come, that I will cut off thine arm, and the arm of thy father’s house, that there shall not be an old man in thine house. And thou shalt see an enemy in my habitation, in all the wealth which God shall give Israel: and there shall not be an old man in thine house for ever. And the man of thine, whom I shall not cut off from mine altar, shall be to consume thine eyes, and to grieve thine heart: and all the increase of thine house shall die in the flower of their age. I Samuel 2:30-33

I want to be the kind of old man that young men want to get next to in the prayer room before church. The kind of old man that makes children laugh. That gives good gifts. That speaks the truth in love. That cares. That loves the same woman for decades and raises godly children.

I guess the best way to be the kind of old man you want to be is to be the kind of young man you ought to be.

Unpredictable Days

I enjoy a daily routine to an extent. I don’t necessarily want to do the exact same thing every single day for the rest of my life, but I enjoy a reliable structure otherwise I’d never get anything done. That is not to say that I always know what is going to happen through the day, I think most of us don’t. It is those nuances that make life interesting. These little encounters can crash into your routine, sometimes changing the course of things, sometimes in a big way. Sometimes they cause us to refocus and get back on track. Take the past Monday for instance.

The first encounter happened by phone before I even made it to work.

“Yes, Mr. Zane. We do a birthday party on the first Thursday of the month for all of the residents and the man who has been leading the band is retiring. Would you be interested in leading?”

This is the kind of thing that I do in my marketing role. It seems a bunch of assorted staff from the hospital get together and play music at the adjacent nursing and rehab facility. I have never met any of these people. I don’t even know how many musicians there are, but I am assuming there are no singers or they wouldn’t have asked the activities lady to give me a call.

When she asked me, I couldn’t help but laugh. I imagined a group guys in scrubs, moping like a teenage musicians because their lead singer up and quit on them. A band in existential crisis. I’ll keep y’all posted on how it goes.

The second encounter happed as I walked past the council on aging. A BMW with out of state license plates passed me as I was walking on the sidewalk , then it backed up and rolled down the window. The man in the passenger seat leaned out and asked if I would be interested in painting a mural on the side of his restaurant. It smelled like they had a pet baby skunk riding in there with them.

“I noticed you were photographing that mural, you do that kind of work?”

I told him I was capable of doing that kind of work, and I have never actually painted a mural…but I always wanted to. He said he would do it himself, but he was color blind. I got caught up in the moment and we exchanged numbers. It would be a fun job. Something that you could drive your kids past and say, “See that giant alligator eating a bucket of fried chicken painted on the side of that restaurant? I painted that.”

I think I could design a nice mural. I would paint a big guitar on fire with a snake crawling out of the sound hole. And some firefighters spraying it down with Coca Cola. Or maybe some ducks wearing WWII fighter helmets and goggles, flying in formation as batteries of duck hunters sent up volleys of anti-aircraft flak. I think that would go over well in Louisiana.

I don’t really have time to do all the things I am trying to do right now, but the draw to do something creative has always had a heavy influence on me.

I’d been thinking about that all day when I had my third encounter. I held the door open for a Thai lady in a mobility scooter at the Dollar Tree. She thanked me and then immediately began to tell me about a 72 year old lady who was working on a zero-turn lawnmower when it fell on top of her.

“She laid their for three days and three nights. A thousand pounds. She died.”

I did not know why she felt compelled to tell me this story. It is a tragic story. I was reminded of my friend Cecil who died in a zero-turn mower accident. Life is so unpredictable and sometimes we get unpleasant surprises. I couldn’t have predicted any of these three encounters if you had paid me $50,000, but really I enjoyed my day.

Are You A Photographer? And Other Existential Questions

I don’t really want to be defined simply by what I like to do.

Strange things have been happening to me in Louisiana. I’ll introduce myself to people and then they’ll start speaking to me in French.

“Zane Wells.”

“Jean-Claude Villeramerette.”

People that speak French talk in italics.

Aside from that, I also get point blank existential questions like when the lady at the tamale stand in Zwolle glanced at my camera and asked if I was a photographer.

I said, “Well kind of, but I’m more of a writer.”

When she found out I was a writer the whole kitchen wanted me to take their picture with their blue ribbon. I obliged. I think it was a good enough picture. But I’m not sure I am a photographer. After all, I forgot to take off the lens cap twice while I was talking to these people. That’s not the kind of thing that photographer does.

I don’t really want to be defined simply by what I like to do.

I do like like taking photographs, but I’m not sure that makes me a photographer. And I haven’t made any money taking pictures, but does making money really have a bearing on your identity? I’ve done a lot of things for money that I did not enjoy. Maybe most of the things I have done for money I did not enjoy. Then there are some things I do whether I get paid or not.

A few years ago Sarah asked Miriam what she wanted to be when she grew up. She said, “A lady with pets.”

On occasion I forget my camera as I rush out the door and it bothers me nearly all day. Those are the days that I see the most interesting compositions. Like the man demolishing a water tower with an acetylene torch in Hodge, LA. It was one of those water towers with only one central column holding the whole thing up. The kind with clean flowing lines and no sharp edges, like one of those old enameled door knobs in an ancient house. The tank was halfway gone and a shower of sparks was raining down from the lift from which the man with the torch blazed away at the thick rusty metal. I would’ve liked to have had that picture. Another time recently I saw a freshly cut hayfield and about a thousand of those pure white cattle egrets swarming around the tractor which was still laying the hay down in a neat hearing-bone pattern. Oh it was glorious! I wish you could’ve seen it. The most recent composition that I missed was also in a pasture: A longhorn bull, a donkey, and a cattle egret in congress around an ancient live oak. I imagine that these were elected officials who had met together to discuss grazing rights and what to do about the interloping deer. But I missed it and I’m not sure a thousand words could let you see it.

What I really like is story telling. And photography allows you to tell a story without any words. I only really feel like a photographer when I don’t have my camera, but I feel like a writer all of the time.

Dementia

“Mr. Zane, that little old lady back there doesn’t even know her name. All she does is mumble, but she just sang I Saw The Light along with you.”

I have been blessed with a unique opportunity to sing at the nursing home as a part of my job. I have lost count of how many nursing homes I have visited. One of the most interesting and moving experiences I have had so far is singing in the memory care units. The memory care units I have visited have been in assisted living centers, not nursing homes, and are for residents who are dealing with memory loss due to Alzheimers or dementia. These units are usually locked down so the residents won’t wonder off and get lost. As I am being escorted through the halls, the workers always try to mentally prepare me for what I might expect as they punch in secret codes that take us deep into heart of the building. They don’t realize that that kind of stuff doesn’t bother me. I’ve probably been to more nursing homes than they have, and even preached at the Methodist church. I always keep my eyes closed while I’m singing anyway.

I’m not a licensed music therapist, but I have seen the power of music first hand. When the director of the unit walks up bawling after a concert and says things like, I’ve never seen that man talk before after the man just talked to me for three minutes. Or There is a little old lady back there that doesn’t even know her name. All she does is mumble, but she just sang I Saw The Light along with you. This kind of thing happens often. I cannot tell you what these people are diagnosed with, but I can tell you that there is a moment when the light comes on in their eyes. And it is a moving experience.

I often leave from these brief concerts thinking about those people, locked up in a wing of some multimillion dollar facility. Each person represents a heart wrenching story of children coming to grips with a parent whose mental state has deteriorated to an unrecognizable point. When did the children notice? Did their parent, who once possessed a sharp intellect and a profound pool of wisdom become foggy in their memory and erratic in judgment? Was there a sudden change in personality from a caring and compassionate nurturer to a mean and selfish miser, or was the change gradual? At what point did a brother call a sister and say, I think something is going on with Dad? And I wonder about perhaps the hardest conversation of all, Dad, we’re concerned about you, I think we need to get you some help.

I imagine a lot of that depends on the state of the relationship between children and parents. Disfunction, strained relationships, and estrangement is the sad reality for many families, and would make an already extremely difficult situation nearly impossible to navigate.

I have talked to quite a few people who have had this experience with a parent. They tell me that looking back they could remember odd changes in behavior from years before that now made sense. They talk about the parent leaving long before the body expired. And the sense of relief after their parents’ death, accompanied by a slight sense of guilt for being relieved. They also speak of the relief of knowing that the unkind words spoken to them were the disease and not the parent.

These are all the things I think about when I tune up my guitar in a memory care unit. I look for that light to come on. I try to sing a wide variety of hymns and gospel songs in hopes that one of them will resonate with a lingering memory behind a set of blank eyes. I also am painfully aware that I may not be able to reach someone if they have no memories of any of these spiritual songs. Or maybe the music has already died and there is no recalling them.

I sing anyway. I never know who is listening.

Available Music

“Give me a guitar lesson Dad.” Hollynn demanded earlier this week. So I sat her on my lap and showed her the difference between a downstroke and an upstroke. We then had to back up and learn how to hold the pick. I’m not sure if there is a right way or a wrong way to hold a pick. Maybe there is just a faster or slower way. Or a more accurate way.

I didn’t get into all of that, I just showed her how to hold the pick to make the strokes easier for her. I didn’t show her how to make guitar face though. That comes natural with concentration.

I had a student calling the pick a “chip” the other day. That was a first for me.

It was a nice to see her show interest in the guitar, although she does tell me this quite often, “Let’s look at guitars on your phone Dad.” Maybe she’ll end up playing, it is hard to know. I certainly won’t discourage it.

How do you know if your child is going to stick with an instrument? This is the kind of question that parents are really asking when they ask for guitar recommendations. It is an economic question, will I get a return on my investment, or will this be money blown? Do parents ask those questions when they are shopping for video game consoles?

Yo Yo Ma, one of the most recognizable classical musicians in the world and possibly the only cellist that many can even name, didn’t arrive at the cello until he sampled the violin and the piano. I have also witnessed parents force an instrument on a child and the child never fully embrace it.

Whether or not she will play guitar or not doesn’t really matter, but the important thing right now is she has access to the guitar. I think it is good to make a lot of things available to children: books, art supplies, and musical instruments.

When I was her age, the guitar was not available to me. I was allowed the occasional glimpse at my Dan Dan’s old guitar. It was like visiting a museum: look, but don’t touch. It was purchased for him very dearly by my Gram back in the 70s, and he babied it until he died. After that, the guitar transitioned from a musical instrument into an heirloom.

I understand that feeling of wanting to take care of an instrument, especially if it cost a lot of money. I once picked up my unlatched guitar case after youth service, and my Martin fell out onto the floor with a kerang and a sickening crack. I quickly surveyed the damage: a severe case of case bite—where the guitar finish is marred by the metal latches that protrude along the edge of the case. I was sick to my stomach for weeks every time I looked at the case that I was too afraid to open.

I don’t let the kids wail on a few of my more valuable guitars without supervision from me, but I do let them play on them. There are other guitars just laying around the house that anyone is free to pick up and plink around on. We keep an eye out for any used musical instruments at thrift stores and yard sales for this purpose and view it as an investment in our children’s music education. I believe that Hollynn’s request for a guitar lesson is a direct result of familiarity with the instrument. For her whole life guitars have been a part of the furniture in our home.

She just had another lesson. It only lasted about three minutes, but she did show some improvement in her fine motor skills. If that is the most she gets out of guitar lessons then I think buying that old guitar at the thrift store for $7 was money well spent.

I have a drum student who doesn’t even own a set of drums. Fortunately, he lives very close to the church, where drums are available. I think he’ll end up owning a set pretty soon at the rate that he is catching on. I am sure that his parents fully understand the risk of buying an expensive set of drums on the chance that he will learn, especially if neither one of them knows how to teach him. And that brings us back to the question, How do I know if my child is going to stick with an instrument? The answer is, you don’t. But they will have a much slimmer chance if you don’t make instruments available.

It is our goal to create an atmosphere of learning at home. Creative play and curiosity are some of the most natural ways to learn. So buy that old thrift store keyboard and don’t treat it too precious when the child explores on it.

Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it. Proverbs 22:6 KJV

Train up a child in the way he should go [teaching him to seek God’s wisdom and will for his abilities and talents], Even when he is old he will not depart from it. Proverbs 22:6 AMP

If you have a child showing interest in music lessons and are unsure where to start, contact me at zanewells@yahoo.com for a free consultation.

Fog

I had to drive in the fog this week. I’m not talking about the kind of patchy fog you drive through while you’re crossing a bridge and then you are back in the sunshine. No. I drove for two and a half hours through the kind of fog in which Edgar Allan Poe set all of his stories. At least that’s the thick fog that I imagine when I read him. So naturally, I decided to do some drive-by photography. I love a good foggy morning; it makes me feel like Sherlock Holmes. A damp haze like this gives me a craving for a good mystery. For whatever reason, fog pulls on my creative nature. I was feeling pretty inspired and artistic in this dreamy landscape until I passed a big chicken truck that had turned over in the ditch just outside of Natchitoches. That wreck halted my daydreaming and caused me to slow down and give my undivided attention to the road, at least for a little while. Then I began to wonder if any of those chickens made their escape into the mist. I hope they did. I love a good escape story as much as I love a foggy morning. Maybe they took up with the herons in the swamp.

As much as the fog tugs on my imagination, I’m glad that it isn’t foggy all of the time. It can be stressful when you cannot see very far ahead of you. I imagine that’s what happened to that poor truck driver. He probably had to take evasive action to avoid killing someone he only saw at the last split second. Who knows?

The wrecked truck reminded me of something I learned about as a teenager following the progress of Operation Iraqi Freedom in the newspaper; The Fog of War. Originally a German term, it describes how the chaos of battle brings confusion and situational uncertainty to soldiers—and even top brass—who often become disoriented and are unsure of what to do next. I have never been in combat, but I have been in a lot of fog, and I can appreciate the analogy. My cousin Mark got disoriented in the fog on the Coosa River once during a fishing tournament. He navigated his bass boat by GPS right up out of the river and into the woods. I think the problem with disorientation is you don’t know you are disoriented until it is too late.

The vicissitudes of life can put us in a fog. The beauty of that fog and the creativity that it inspires is hardly ever seen in the moment except by the rare longsighted optimists, or the visionaries who are gifts to humanity. The rest of us only see the beauty in hindsight-that is if we make it through. There have been a few-and thank God only a few-truly foggy patches in my life. Times when you can only see as far as the next step and you aren’t fully sure of that; when you have all but lost direction; and when the mist has nearly halted any progress you thought you were making. It may take a while, but eventually we can look back and see the beauty of those times. And, with a twinkle in our eye and compassion in our voice, even recall them with joy and hope, and tell about them to someone going through their own fog.

We are often tossed and driven on the restless seas of time

Somber skies and howling tempests oft succeed the bright sunshine

But in that land of perfect day, when the mist has rolled away

We will understand it better by and by

This fog the other day covered a large swath of Louisiana. A friend who was working on the other side of the State that morning was telling me how foggy it was for him too. I’m glad I wasn’t in it alone. Eventually the fog “burnt off” as he put it, and it turned out to be a bright sunny day. But I’m glad I got these pictures. I didn’t want you to think I was exaggerating.

All Quiet on Pew Number Five

There was a wedding at church on Saturday.

There was a wedding at church on Saturday. The kind without all the fuss of rehearsal dinners. Or rehearsals. Or the hassle of getting a hotel room. No frivolity, just a simple wedding like I remembered when I was a kid, with cake and punch in the church foyer. I really like these kind of weddings.

As my family sat in the pew on the Bride’s side waiting for the wedding to start, I noticed that it was uncommonly quiet for our church. Even the children were whispering. At least some of them. You can almost hear what your neighbors are thinking when it is that quiet. But that is what the Bride wanted, no filler music that didn’t mean anything. Just one song to walk in with.

Silence makes some people uncomfortable. And uncomfortable people make the rest of us uncomfortable. But I like quiet places. A lot more than I like canned mosquito music that nobody asked to listen to, or TV noise. I like to be able to hear the ticking of my watch. I like to hear the birds singing outside. Most of all I like being able to hear myself think.

“Quiet as a church? If had a car that sounded like my church, I wouldn’t drive it out of the driveway.”

-Tom Trimble

As I sat there on the pew, hardly daring to whisper, I thought about how much racket I normally make at church. I have blown three speakers while playing guitar at church. Now I’m not proud of that, because it was expensive, but probably some of the loudest moments in my life were at church. But there we were, sitting on the pew trying not breath too heavily so as not to disturb the quiet. It was so peaceful. I think I’ll slip up there again soon when no one is there and just listen to the silence.

Some Thoughts on Truth

Resisting the truth is what keeps many conflicts alive.

While I was working my way through college I noticed a phenomenon that happened with alarming frequency. Things that I had been taught in high school as fact were now being challenged and subjected to heavy source criticism.

Post-truth: relating to or denoting circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief.

It was the Oxford Dictionaries word of the year in 2016.

“Never have human societies known so much…but agreed so little about what they collectively know.”
Dan Kahan, psychology and law professor

It is safe to say that we live in a post-truth society. What does this mean for the Church? As Christians we are people who are very concerned with truth and how we view truth is a matter of grave importance. This is in no way an exhaustive work, but a mere peering into mirrored surface of the profound pool of truth.

Truth can be known.

Jesus said in John 8:31 “…And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

You cannot know a lie. Neither do lies bring freedom. You can only believe a lie.

But truth is knowable. It is stable foundation that can built upon. When everything is falling apart in your life you can cling to something that you know is true.

You can know this today: There is a God who loves you.

Truth must be purchased.

While there is some truth that can be immediately transmitted into our knowledge, truth must be purchased; sought out. You have to get it for yourself, not just because some body told you.

Buy the truth, and sell it not; also wisdom, and instruction, and understanding. Proverbs 23:23

In order to be purchased, truth must be valued. You will not purchase something that you do not think is valuable. Lies can also be purchased. What people value determines the market. Truth is precious. It is rare. Lies have no value. Unfortunately, many unsuspecting-or rather undiscerning-people have been sold so many lies at immense costs.

What you value matters to God. The highest level of value is love. If you do not love truth, God will hide it from you.

II Thessalonians 2:8-12 And then shall that Wicked be revealed, whom the Lord shall consume with the spirit of his mouth, and shall destroy with the brightness of his coming: Even him, whose coming is after the working of Satan with all power and signs and lying wonders, And with all deceivableness of unrighteousness in them that perish; because they received not the love of the truth, that they might be saved. And for this cause God shall send them strong delusion, that they should believe a lie: That they all might be damned who believed not the truth, but had pleasure in unrighteousness.

Truth Demands a Response.

Response to truth is reflected in behavior. When truth is resisted corrupt behavior is manifested.

II Timothy 3:1 This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come. For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good, traitors, heady, highminded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God; Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away. For of this sort are they which creep into houses, and lead captive silly women laden with sins, led away with divers lusts, Ever learning, and never able to come to the knowledge of the truth. Now as Jannes and Jambres withstood Moses, so do these also resist the truth: men of corrupt minds, reprobate concerning the faith.

Truth will always be resisted, and as time draws near to the end, it will be resisted more. People will always try to hide the truth, and it will be reflected in their fruit.

Truth is Liberating.

John 8:31 “…And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

With truth comes a freedom that nothing else can bring. Hiding the truth breeds fear. There is nothing to fear when you can tell the truth.

If you tell the truth, you won’t have to worry about someone else telling it.

New Beginnings

I burnt off half of my yard earlier this year. Because I did not want to mow it, I allowed the brush to grow up to the point where I could not mow it. While it is not the only way to tidy up a yard, burning is perhaps the best way to begin a clean start. It is a conflicting feeling to watch the fire take over the yard. The flames will not selectively burn just the overgrown, stubborn weeds that have begun to harden into pithy stalks, it also consumes the tender grass. And then there is the waiting. And in the waiting the questions. How long will this lay waste in ashes? Will it come back?

It does come back. And better.

This is a follow up to Controlled Burn.

Gas Station Food

“I hope this the one that got them free boudins today.” The man holding the door for me said as I stepped into the gas station. You say boudin just like it’s spelled boo-dan. I didn’t know him from Adam’s house cat, and I wasn’t planning to even go inside but the pump didn’t print my receipt, but he had me asking the same question: what about them free boudins? I like gas station food. I’m not talking about Funyons and a Grapico, or anything you get off the shelves-I like that too-I’m talking about the food that they have by the counter. That rotating pizza in that little glass display case always always makes me stop and have an internal dialogue: To eat or not to eat, that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous hunger, or to take arms against the sea of cravings and and by opposing end them…To eat, perchance to snack-ay there’s the rub…

Here is the man finding out that this was not the day for free boudins.

One of the reasons I started cycling is I got into the habit of getting a pork tenderloin biscuit at the gas station on the way to work.

I’m used to gas station pizza, biscuits, and the crockpot full of boiled peanuts, but since I have relocated to Louisiana I realize that many people here take gas station food seriously. They even have jargon for it: “Hotbox.” Maybe that’s what it is called everywhere, but I also know another definition for that term.

Admittedly, the gas station food I grew up around often tasted a little like compromise with an aftertaste of regret. That is not the case in the Central Louisiana region. I will not go so far as to say it is healthy, but how often do healthy and good really coexist, especially in the context of food? We could probably square up with one another on deciding whether the food is good-there is no accounting for taste- but I think would all have to agree that the food is consistently hot, which is more than I can say about many fast food restaurants.

My brother has lived in Louisiana so long that he prefers the gas station fried chicken over Popeye’s and KFC. I’m not sure if he has gone native enough to believe that it is better than Cane’s or Chick-Fil-A, but we don’t have a Cane’s or a Chick-Fil-A within 30 minutes of where we live. I tried that gas station chicken the other day for the first time-Krispy Krunchy Chicken-and it is hard to argue with how good it is. They are in gas stations all around this area.

Did you know that Louisiana is in the Diabetes Belt?

“I had one of the best fried pork chops I’ve ever had in my life the other day at a gas station in the ghetto in Delhi.”-Joe Bowen

I’m not really sure if we’re supposed to say ghetto in 2024, but the next time I’m in Delhi I’ll look for that gas station.

These Hotboxes have caused me to ask some serious questions about fast food: Why should I pay a premium for cold food and poor service? I don’t mind waiting on hot fries, but why would I pay to wait for cold fries? Most of the gas stations will whip you up a fresh batch of fries, boudin balls, chicken, or whatever you want if you don’t mind waiting. I think the biggest question is whether fast food is worth the money in today’s economy. That is a serious question when you are feeding a family of five.

I understand that people don’t make Central Louisiana a vacation destination. But the next time you are “passing through”, don’t be afraid to try some gas station food. It’s going to be a lot better than you think.