Birthday cards from when I turned thirty. Cards from our wedding. Random letters and little notes from people I hadn’t thought about in years.
Apparently, my idea of cleaning has always been putting things in a box and letting my future self deal with them.
Well, my future self finally opened the boxes.
Among all those things I kept, I found a letter from Mrs. Virgie LeBleu, thanking me for helping honor her husband, Mr. Conway.
I had kept it all these years. Reading it again took me back home to Cameron Parish.
Back to Granny and Papa. Back to Mr. Conway and Mrs. Virgie. And back to a time when many people may not know or remember that leaving Cameron Parish required a little planning and a whole lot of patience.
If you were going to Lake Charles, you had better pack a lunch.
Maybe two.
Growing up in lower Cameron Parish, crossing water was part of going anywhere. We had to deal with rivers, canals, bridges, and ferries. You could have somewhere to be and leave the house on time, but that didn’t mean the ferry or draw bridges were going to cooperate with your plans.
Growing up in a rural parish, going to “Town,” as we called Lake Charles, meant getting to the Gibbstown Ferry and sitting in a line that sometimes seemed to stretch on forever.
Doctor’s appointment. Shopping. Going to the movies. It didn’t matter. You waited your turn.
Then, coming home, you got to do it all over again.
I guess those ferry lines were some of my first lessons in patience. I can’t say I always appreciated the education.
I remember going with Granny Audrey and Papa Berton to Monkey Island to visit Granny’s niece, Robbie Bourg, and Bennie. We waited for the ferry going over, then waited again to get back home.
Years later, when I worked for the Sheriff’s Department and patrolled western Cameron Parish, I was still crossing the ship channel on the Cameron Ferry.
By then, I had plenty of experience waiting. That didn’t necessarily mean I liked it any better.
As a child in the 1970s, I remember always having to take the Gibbstown Ferry to go to “Town" . Then, somewhere along the way, there was a bridge.
I don’t remember watching it being built. In my memory, one day we were waiting on a ferry, and the next we were driving across the Intracoastal Canal.
Of course, a bridge doesn’t just appear. Somebody has to recognize the need, push for it, and keep pushing until something gets done.
Mr. Conway was one of those people.
Conway LeBleu was a state representative who served Cameron Parish and parts of Calcasieu Parish from 1964 to 1988. But to me, growing up, he was Mr. Conway.
He and his wife, Mrs. Virgie, were good friends with my grandparents. I remember him being so nice and kind to me, and I remember feeling that he looked out for the people back home.
As I got older, I understood more about what that meant.
Those ferry crossings affected people’s everyday lives. They also mattered when a hurricane was coming and everybody needed to get out. In Cameron Parish, a dependable way across the water was something families had reason to care about.
Mr. Conway understood that. He helped advocate for getting the Gibbstown Bridge funded and built, along with the Ellender Bridge.
As a child, I enjoyed the convenience without knowing much about the work behind it. Years later, I could appreciate the people who had helped make it happen.
Mr. Conway passed away in 2007.
Several of us thought naming the Gibbstown Bridge after him would be a fitting way to honor his service. People would cross that bridge every day. His name belonged there, on something that had helped the community he cared about.
I learned early on that if you want something, sometimes you have to take the initiative and ask for it. So that's what I did. I asked for it.
So in 2008 I wrote a letter to my state representative, asking for help getting the bridge renamed in Mr. Conway’s honor.
In 2009, the Louisiana legislature approved the request and the Gibbstown Bridge officially became the Conway LeBleu Memorial Bridge.
I was glad I had helped. Mr. Conway had done something that mattered for the people of Cameron Parish, and now his name would remain part of the place he had served.
Not long after I received a letter in the mail. Mrs. Virgie wrote to thank me.
She had lost her husband. Helping preserve his name meant something to her, and she took the time to let me know.
That was the letter I found in the box.
When I first received her letter, I knew it was worth keeping. But reading it again years later gave me time to think about everything behind it.
I had written a letter because I wanted someone to be remembered.
Mrs. Virgie had written one because she wanted me to know she was grateful.
Neither of us could have known that, years later, I would be sitting among old birthday cards and wedding notes, reading her words again.
By then, her letter had become part of my own history. It brought back people I cared about and reminded me that something I had taken the time to do had mattered to someone else.
You don’t always get to know that.
Sometimes you help, do what you think is right, and move on. Life gets busy. Years pass. The memory settles somewhere in the back of your mind.
Then you open a box.
I started that weekend trying to decide what I could get rid of. Mrs. Virgie’s letter reminded me why I had held on to so many of those things in the first place.
There was a person behind that piece of paper. A friendship with my grandparents. A man who had been kind to me when I was little. A community he had worked to help. And a wife who wanted me to know that remembering him had made a difference to her.
Years ago, I helped put Mr. Conway’s name on a bridge.
This past weekend, Mrs. Virgie’s letter brought all those memories back to me.
When she wrote it, she wanted me to know that something I had done mattered to her. All these years later, her words mattered to me.
I don’t think she could have known how much I would appreciate that letter one day.
But I’m glad she wrote it.
And I’m glad I kept it.
So I kept it.
Again.
