The Times They Are A’ Changing
by Bill Delaune

Dear Randall,

Man, it’s hard to believe that it’s been 20 years since you got your tickets to see the Angels play.  Seems like just yesterday we were running down fly balls with Don and Howard as part of the “million-dollar outfield” or hustling some sucker in a nickel bouree game in the back of the Fish-N-Pic.

I don’t even know if you’d recognize the old place any more--there have been so many drastic changes in the past two decades.  But there are some things that--for better or worse--have remained stubbornly the same.

First the changes.  Remember when we could leave my house just a couple of miles from dear old Dutchtown High about five minutes before the first bell and still not be late for school? Well, if you’re trying to negotiate the same route these days, you’d better allow yourself an hour and some change to make the trip.  The morning traffic on Highway 73 looks more like rush hour in New Orleans than the country road we used to walk home on after football practice.

There was even a proposal to put an interstate loop right through the middle of our family’s Delaunederosa pasture land.  That’s right--on the same spot we perfected our broken-field running by dodging cow patties and gunned down unfortunate rabbits who had the misfortune of getting in the way of our shotgun pellets.

Fortunately, with the help of some new friends in Jefferson Crossing and some old friends back on Spanish Lake, we headed the bureaucrats off to a different route.

Speaking of Spanish Lake, remember the night “we”(okay, mainly you) backed down those rowdies at Alligator Bar when they claimed your famous Jed Clampett dance was interfering with their pool game.  Well the ride down that road has taken on quite a different look as well.

Half-million dollar homes are now the norm back there where Frank King used to run his coon dogs--just another example of subdivisions now occupying every nook and cranny of  North Prairieville.  And if you leave the Alligator Hilton--as we affectionately called it--and wanted directions to my house, you’d be surprised at what you’d hear.  It’s take a right on Airline Highway, go down four red lights to Highway 73 and turn at the second red light onto White Road.

Damn, Randall, didn’t we used to race Mike Bradley and Mike Switzer’s Volkswagens--at breakneck speeds approaching 70 miles per hour--from Broadmoor all the way to the Bantam Club in Prairieville without a light in between?

And don’t even get me started on this political correctness business.  Your famous wit and satire wouldn’t even be appreciated in this world of political correctness run amok.

Our 2008 Presidential candidates range from a black man who has a white grandparent--or is he a white man with a black grandparent--to a former first lady who can’t decide whether she is a sensitive, weeping, bleeding-heart or a hard-line b…. --I mean witch.

On the other side is an elderly Republican gentleman whom the conservatives think is too liberal and the liberals think is too conservative.

At any rate, whoever wins has got to be better than the current President--the greatest lobbyist for the oil companies ever elected.

And they wonder why me and Uncle Jim voted for a Libertarian candidate named Harry Browne a few years back.

“Y’all just wasted your vote,” we were chastised by our politically correct friends.  Jim begged to differ and saved the local paper when the parish’s results were broken down.  In our area, Clinton got around 10,000 votes, Dole received about 7,500 and Harry Browne got 2.

“There’s our votes,” crowed Jim and me.  “We really made ours count.  
Now show me where are your votes?”

On the musical scene, the great American composer Stephen Foster’s works cannot be heard anywhere as state songs in Virginia (“Carry Me Back to Old Virginia”) and Florida (“Way Down Upon Sewanee River…Old Folks at Home”) have been declared too offensive to the masses.

The lone survivor is “My Old Kentucky Home” despite the line that “It’s summer…the people are gay…”

Which brings us to the Some-Things-Which Have-Stayed-the-Same Category, because just like when you were around, my horse, Colonel John, just didn’t have his mind on racing in this year’s Kentucky Derby.

Yeah I know--that’s nothing new.  Remember the year we tried to make mint juleps and somebody put stinging nettles in the drinks thinking it was some kind of weird mint?

Everybody’s lips puffed up like
Mick Jagger and kissing games were definitely out of the question.

Fittingly, the horse that won that day was named Foolish Pleasure. We didn’t have him either.

Our beloved Yankees still suck in the early part of the season. And the owners these days would love to have players like Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, and Billy Martin drinking beer in New York clubs, instead of trying to police steroids and growth hormones that have become commonplace in every training room.

Many of us are still fighting the game that you can’t win--golf.  But man, I’d give anything to see you slash one around that tree on number 4 and still roll one up on the green to break some poor 2 dollar betttor’s heart.

Only problem is we’d have to find you a new golf course to show off your trick shot, because Gonzales Country Club is also a thing of the past.

Hey--on a bright note--we still make that spring pilgrimage to Florida for four days of torturing our bodies on some beautifully manicured--but devilishly difficult--golf courses.

I believe you might have been one of the charter members back in the day, but the group has swelled to 32 this year--33 if you count Bama who came along to cook and ended up finding a bazillion golf balls while riding along with us not-so-straight shooters.

Oh, I almost forgot.  Even our old ball parks are not immune to what some people call progress.

The Prairieville Park on the Airline is now overgrown with weeds or home to some heavy equipment, depending on what position you want to visit.

And LSU’s Alex Box Stadium is hosting its final three games this very weekend.

I still remember when about 10 of us went up there in the 70’s to see another Randall--Aldredge that is--play left field for the Tigers.

I believe our entourage brought the paid attendance that day to around 20.
Like Randall A, said in the paper this morning, “Back then, we knew everybody in the stands.”

Well that’s about it from down here, old buddy.  Sorry about the rambling “good old days” style, but sometimes nostalgia provides our only escape from the madness.

As my favorite draft dodger, Jesse Winchester, once put it, “Love is made mainly of memories--and everyone has them a few…”

But being born just three days apart and then joined at the hip for 39 years, we’ve got more than just a few memories don’t we?

Stop by and see us if you’re in the area.  There are still a couple of things that haven’t changed.

The music is still country and the beer is still cold.

    Miss you pards,
    Bill

Epilogue – Sgt. Randall P. LeBlanc, a Bronze Star recipient for heroism during the Viet Nam War, died on May 14, 1988, at the age of 39. His name does not appear on any wall, yet the chemicals of warfare may well have caused the cancer, which led to his demise.

Please remember the troops who are on active duty as well as those who return home with physical or mental disabilities.  Even after 20 years, Randall is sorely missed by his friends and family--especially his old Fish-N-Pic sidekicks Bill and Gordon.