Editor’s Note

My memory of Acadiana goes back to my early childhood when we’d visit family in Breaux Bridge. And my first concrete recollection was when I was around ten — old enough to go off on my own, book in hand, as I wandered out back of my Aunt Yvonne’s house to find a spot on the grassy slope by Bayou Teche to spend the afternoon reading. Leaning against the base of a weeping willow tree, I felt like I was in a magical place — much farther away from New Orleans than a mere two hours. The swampy land and cypress trees dripping with Spanish moss, the people speaking Cajun French over cups of black coffee and hot glazed donuts in Meche’s and the occasional alligator spotting were unlike anything I’d experienced at home.

We used to go on lots of daytrips to nearby towns like St. Martinville, Opelousas, Washington and New Iberia. One of my favorite parts of going there was listening to all the stories my family would tell. Sitting around a card table in my uncle’s carport, a mound of freshly boiled, bright red crawfish spread out in front of us, we kids would cut up and play with the empty crawfish heads on our fingertips, while the grown-ups’ stories floated around us. As I got older, I started to listen more.

All places have special stories, but I’ve traveled around a fair amount and have never quite heard stories quite like ours, which are part history, part lore, part hyperbole, part joke, part lesson, part recipe — a little bit of everything that represents Acadiana. Whether it was my uncle’s story of the Rougarou or my Mama Lou, sitting on the porch of her small wooden house, telling us in detail how she made hogshead cheese, I loved hearing their stories and am sorry I didn’t write them down.

Now I’m part of a new set of stories — yours and those found within the pages of this magazine. I’m excited and humbled to work with those who share the stories of Acadiana with all of us each issue.

Reine Dugas
Editor
Reine@AcadianaProfile.com