My grandmother once said she didn't like the hills where we live because she couldn't see anything. I thought that odd because even though she'd spent her adult life on the Great Plains she was born in the hills of Tennessee, territory very similar to the Ozarks here.
I feel the same way, albeit in reverse, about New Orleans. I feel at home in the Crescent City, at least down in the French Quarter, almost as much as I feel at home in the desert—and more than I feel at home here in the Ozarks.
We've been down to the Quarter three times in recent years, and the last time we were there I saw multiple bumper stickers with Laissez le bon temps rouler. We'd gotten as far as toward home as Memphis on that trip before I thought, "That would make a good replacement for the bumper sticker I had on the battery case of my previous wheelchair." It was Live to Ride, Ride to Live.
When we journeyed down there earlier this month, I told the woman I sleep with, "Don't let me for get to buy a let the good times roll bumper sticker!"
But there weren't any for sale. In fact, the only Cajun anthem, Laissez le bon temps rouler we saw was on a shot glass, or maybe it was a coffee cup. I wanted neither. I did finally discover a refrigerator magnet with C'est la vie on it, only to discover there are not many metal places on my wheelchair where it can be attached and still be visible. The girls are off to a craft store tomorrow, and I'm adding velcro to their list.
I really would like to have a Laissez le bon temps rouler bumper sticker, though. Live to Ride, Ride to Live was appropriate to my outlook those many years ago, but now—although still entranced with irony—my philosophy is evolving from stoicism to hedonism.
But of course, C'est la vie fits either, doesn't it?