. . . everyone in Catahoula was getting ready for the vice presidential debate scheduled for live broadcast from Miss Gail's house. Street-sweepers had cleared the trash from the block party the night before, and flimsy white trash bags bulging with beer cans and beer bottles dotted St. Rita Highway. The pink brick church glittered. The elementary school sparkled. RE-ELECT JIMMY CARTER yard signs everywhere.
Nancy Reagan phoned me to say that her husband's limo was leaving New Orleans. I let out a sigh of relief. Everything was in place. Except for the large dog turds all over the back yard – hundreds of dark crusty dog turds. When did that happen? I panicked. We were out of trash bags, and there wasn't enough time to drive to St. Martinville for more. There was barely enough time to pick the dog turds up off the ground. We were screwed. Then I had an idea. I told everyone to run home and grab a big pot, the biggest pot they could find. I said, "Let's pretend we're making gumbo."
