My grandmother is a wise woman. Her birthday is next month, and although I’m not allowed to say the O-L-D word around her, I’ll just say that she was born during WWI and has been collecting Social Security longer than I’ve been alive. So she is the one to blame if we run out of money in that particular pot. 

She’s been having a rather bad year this year, complicated by the fact that her driver’s license needs to be renewed next month. But she is always cheerful and was especially glad to see us when we visited in May.

On one of our recent trips back to the motherland that is Houma, she taught us a new Cajun word — envie (awn-V). She describes it as a want, a need, a desire. It’s more of a longing for then an envy for. It’s more of a pregnant woman’s desire for pickles and ice cream than my want of Bill Gates’ bank account.

Like any grandmother that wants to spoil her grandchild, she insisted that we indulge in our envie during our first trip back home after being gone for a year.

As usual, our cravings, our envies, included staples that, living in Louisiana, one would take for granted. We indulged in what was left of the gulf shrimp, crawfish, and other meals.

We brought back sacks of red beans, and I can honestly say we now possess the largest supply of stockpiled Community Coffee north of Louisiana. If the entire state of Louisiana is wiped out by a storm or global warming, we have enough Community Coffee to rebuild the state here in south Colorado. Just bring beignets and boudin balls.

What I ended up longing for, craving for, was to be more like my grandmother in my relationships in my life.

We came to visit her in late May and visited my grandfather, who was in the last stages of Alzheimer’s. But she went every day she could to see him. She even went so far as to bring his favorite candy to bribe him for kisses if he was having a forgetful day.

The most heart-wrenching moment came when it was time for her to leave, and my grandfather would ask, like a little kid off to his first day to school, if he could go home with her. I can’t imagine the inner strength it takes to tell your lifelong partner that he has to stay in the nursing home and go home without him. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy, or even family members.

I guess it wasn’t the long, happy life of 91 years that I longed for, but a wife of 60-something years that would visit me even if I didn’t know who she was. 

Don’t get me wrong; a long, happy life of 91 years would be nice. I would get to find out, thanks to the Warren Commission, who really killed JFK. I’m still betting on aliens.

I would get to see if Al Gore and his cronies are right about global warming. I would get to see (maybe) this current bailout by the government finally paid off. I might even get to see all the oil cleaned out of the gulf.

But I would trade all of that for a good wife, like my grandmother, who spent her life making my grandfather feel like the most important guy in the world. My wife has some big shoes to fill.

Father Time finally caught up with my grandfather on June 12. But I’ve been told his envie was to gather his family, which had scattered like roaches when you turn the lights on, for one last time. He got his wish, although he wasn’t there to see us all.

My grandmother would want you to know that he was an avid LSU fanatic. We all miss him tremendously, but not as much as my grandmother misses him. 

Hug a family member, for you do not know the next time you might see him; eat seafood like it’s the last you’ll ever taste; and flip off that moron cutting you off, because you never know if you’ll get the chance to piss him off again (unless you drive home via the interstate every afternoon, in which case you will see him most weekdays, again and again). 

Life’s way, way too short to not satiate a craving, because before you know it, you will be gone, or that opportunity might have passed you by.

But don’t fret, Houma and Thibodaux; she did get her eyes corrected so she can get that coveted driver’s license renewal. Your sidewalks are once again safe. Although, at that age, the expiration date on your license is less of a reminder and more of a goal. One I certainly hope she makes.