airport

The Lost Cajun

I seem to happen onto some of the most interesting people on airplanes. Friday night embarking on a flight to Charlotte, NC, for a Saturday morning rehearsal in High Point for a Sunday Celebrating Grace Hymnal dedication, a friendly gentleman a little younger than I took the aisle seat on my row where I was seated next to the window. (I sleep better next to the window on the right side.) Waiting for the rest of the cabin to load, we made a bit of small talk and somehow it came up that he was originally from Louisiana though he now lives in Colorado. The colorful logo on his polo-type shirt read, "The Lost Cajun."

"What's The Lost Cajun?"

"It's a chain of restaurants a buddy and I started six years ago after my wife died. I've been here today checking on our Hendersonville store. My wife and I operated a fishing camp near New Orleans where I was raised until Katrina, Rita, Ike, Gustav, and then the oil spill. We had enough of that so we moved to Colorado, where she later died." 

"My wife also died a year and a half ago. No fun, is it!"

"No, I was paralyzed for months. Are you dating yet?"

"Naw, not even on my radar. You?"

"I'm almost there. But, when you've had the best for 32 years..."

"I know what you mean; Honey and I were married almost 45 years."

For the next hour, we -- mostly he -- talked about our common experience of losing our spouses to cancer, faith, do's and don't's of operating a restaurant, hymnody which we both prefer, etc. 

"Griff" is 61 years old and admits to only an 8th grade education. He has eleven stores in four states and is looking to have 100 within the next decade. 

"When we go to scout out a possible location, we don't force anything. If something doesn't feel right about a deal, we always walk away; perhaps it will work out later. If a prospective franchisee doesn't share our culture of high values, we don't do business. There are no shortcuts to the way we do business, treat customers, or fix food."

From there, he went into specifics of selecting a spot, demographics, traffic patterns, etc., etc. -- all very interesting even to me the musician. 

"How do you know all that stuff, where did you learn it?"

Leaning across the empty seat between us as if to tell me a secret, he said, "I'll tell you what, most of it is plain ol' common sense. People do some of the craziest things that get them into trouble simply because they don't use good common sense. Employees, for example -- they'll make or break you. I hire good, more qualified people who share my values to do most of the upper level work, and I mainly train local employees -- they call me the Culture Consultant. I spend a week training all of the locals to do their job our way, but in a wholesome environment where, 'please, thank you, and you're welcome' are expressed at every level all day long. We've been able to make a difference in young people's lives by insisting on high standards like that. Parents have come to me and thanked me for teaching their kids how to work, be responsible, courteous, and have high standards. I've made a fair amount of money, but I've always given half of it away."

Although I don't know much about him, I'm still impressed with Griff. In many ways, he reminds me of Boompa -- Honey's adoptive father -- who was about Griff's current age when I started showing up around the West house. (Boompa died three months shy of 104.) Boompa's education ended at the 7th grade, but he, too, was a hard worker, had and lived out high standards, without fanfare loved Jesus, made a fair amount of money in the grocery business, quietly gave a lot of it away -- money and groceries -- making people better in his daily life and routine. 

Griff and Boompa seem to be good agents of "peace on earth, good will to men" about which we sing and hopefully think this time of every year. Those guys -- both giants -- remind me most of Joseph in the Christmas story who I plan to talk about here next week. 

In the meantime, here are a couple of stanzas of rather new Advent hymn in the Celebrating Grace Hymnal that I doubt Griff or Boompa ever heard but certainly live(d) by. 

Christians, all, your Lord is coming, calling you to serve in deed.

See the ones who hurt and suffer, hear their cry and act with speed.

Set all selfish ways behind you, purge your heart of sinful greed.

Alleluia! Alleluia! Christ in you will meet their need.

 

Christians, all, your Lord is coming, hope for peace is now at hand. 

Let there be no hesitation, walk in faith where life demands. 

Bear the word that God has given; share the birth that stirs your soul.

Alleluia! Alleluia! Christ will come and make you whole.

 

Words – Jim Miller, 1993 © 1995 Chalice Press

 

Although Griff had run out of business cards to give me, I plan to try to track him down in the days ahead. But first, a bowl of real Cajun gumbo up in Hendersonville seems to be calling my name. 

-- Mark

An Update from Mark Edwards

Returning from a week in Texas a couple weeks ago last Sunday night, I mentioned having made a couple of unexpected connections during the week. Here's the first: 

Having led music at Second Baptist Church in Memphis July 17, my flight to Texas for the Baylor Alleluia Conference was out of Memphis rather than Nashville... but not until 6:50 p.m., Sunday evening. We were through with church before high noon and what does one do in near 100 degree Memphis for the next 5-6 hours when hotel check-out is 12 o'clock?

My cell phone had died, so I found a Verizon store who put a charge on my phone while I walked across the street for lunch. (Never mind that I had gone through those motions of charging the phone all night at the hotel.) I honestly can't remember what I did the first half of the afternoon other than find a place to change from my Sunday clothes and drive to the outskirts of the airport to watch a few FedEx planes take off. But apparently Sunday is not a busy cargo day, so that didn't last long. Oh well, I found the long-term parking spot, gathered up my gear, and headed to the airport. Thinking to myself, "It's already 3:30, so we'll be boarding in only three hours." WRONG! 

As is my custom, I check my luggage rather than carry it on so I use the wait time to get in a walk. Security lines almost nil and having a pre-pass, I walked right through security. Now, it's barely 4:00, so I strike out on my walk. I've seen every inch of every concourse at the Memphis terminal at least four times. About halfway through the third lap, I noticed the monitor that reports my 6:50 Southwest flight is now 7:25. Oh good, another 35 minutes to kill. 

Some two hours into the wait, and being somewhat of a wood-worker, a handsome wall display of finished slats of various kinds of wood caught my eye so I stopped to have a closer look. Having nothing better to do and plenty of time, I read the labels, compared grains, and was conducting a fairly thorough inspection when I became aware that someone had walked up beside me to do the same thing. After a bit, she said, "Hmmh, they don't have any madrone?"

"Did you say madrone? I've never heard of that."

"Yeah, we have it in Texas."

“Texas? I grew up in Texas and have never heard of madrone. Where in Texas?”

“Comfort. It’s in the Hill Country.”

“Comfort? I got married in Kerrville (19 miles away).”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. What is madrone?”

She began to describe madrone as her son, entering Baylor this fall, walked on toward our gate. 

“So do you live in Comfort?”

“No, we live in San Antonio.”

“I grew up just south of San Antonio. Have you lived there all your life?”

“No, I used to live here.”

It turns out that Karen is the daughter of the late Bob Troutman, once pastor of Prescott Memorial Baptist Church in Memphis in the 60s. He was one of only two white Baptist pastors who participated in the march of the sanitation workers during the height of the civil rights movement in Memphis that led to the death of Martin Luther King. The other white Baptist pastor was Brooks Ramsey, who was then pastor of Second Baptist Church where I had led music that morning. She and her son had been in Memphis that weekend for centennial celebration of Prescott Memorial Baptist Church which has now merged with Shady Grove Presbyterian Church. (Somewhere along the line, Prescott had called a woman – Nancy Sehested – as pastor at which time they were disfellowshipped by the Shelby Baptist Association.)

We ventured down toward our gate and arriving noticed that our 6:50, 7:25 flight was now 7:55. UGH. But, it did provide time for the three of us to eat a bite and for me to learn more about her father. Preparing for the anniversary trip that weekend, Karen had gone through a box of her father's papers, sermons, writings, et cetera, in her attic which blessed her again. I asked her if any of the history of those two pastors had been written and she didn't know. So if any history buffs out there know anything about that, I'd like to hear from you. Seems like it would make a wonderful doctoral project for someone.   

Karen said they sang the hymn below at their anniversary event that morning. It’s a civil rights hymn:

Lift every voice and sing, till earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise, high as the listening skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on till victory is won.

 

What a delight to have that kind of serendipitous experience along the way.  Stay tuned for another.

- Mark