June 1

About 130 miles to Shreveport and Scotty, a good friend of Pat's and mine from law school.  We all attended night school because we all worked.  An interesting group it was, too.  A fair number of Chicago public school teachers who were looking for a career change because they couldn't stand it any more, at least one commodities trader, a senior VP at Commonwealth Edison - Dick ran all of CE's coal fired generating plants, 10, if I recall, and had 5000 people reporting to him.  Scotty worked as a photo editor at the Associated Press.  Still, she seemed maybe a little more tired than the rest of us.  She was working full time, OK we all were, and going to school three hours a night, four days a week, OK, we all were, but it seems she was also finishing up her master's degree in journalism and even going the the gym.  Oops!  We weren't all doing that.  When this became known, Scotty's legend began.  Add to that a ready smile and a soft Louisiana drawl and the legend only grew.  When Pat and I were married we wanted a small ceremony. We had only 18 people, including the priest.  But we had to sneak Scotty in somehow, so she was our wedding photographer.

She now regards her master's in journalism as equivalent to an advanced degree in buggy whip manufacturing.

After a fun time catching up, Scotty and her two sisters, who will be "Scotty's sisters" because they do not have normal names and I will surely misspell them.  I do not say their names are abnormal, mind you, just that they are unique and difficult to spell without extensive training.  If they were but named "Mary" and "Sally," I might deal with it.  But they are not and I can't.  By the way, Scotty's name is not "Scotty."  I can't spell it, either, but it begins with an 'R' and puts one in mind of a Rhododendron.  Anyway, we were joined by Don, husband of one of "Scotty's sisters" and their son and his girl friend.  I will not spell their names as they seem straightforward but likely are not.  I think it is a southern thing.  I'm not even sure I got "Don" right, but at a suspected three letters, I thought I'd give it a shot.  By the way, until I get farther north, I am "Carlbob."  Anyway, the first sentence of this paragraph is incomplete and mostly illiterate, but I was taken out for dinner by as delightful a group as I have run into for some time.

We went to Herby K's.  It is not in the best section of Shreveport.  In fact, Herbie K was murdered in his own restaurant, but the establishment soldiers on.  Scotty more or less instructed me to have the "Shrimp Buster."  It came with four shrimp, which I thought would be inadequate until the plate was delivered to the soundtrack from "Jaws."  These were man killers.  I suspect that bringing these onto a boat involved explosives.  We had an appetizer before dinner, too.  Fried pickles.  Surprisingly tasty, really.  But Herby K's demands pictures to begin to do it justice.

Fried pickle next to a man eater shrimp.

Self explanatory portion of the menu.

Where the beer is chilled.  We sat in a little private loft just above this and to the left.

Carl with wait staff.  "Hey, my friend is here from Idaho.  Could we take a picture of the two of you?"

Say, you don't think Scotty's IPhone makes me look fa. . . .  Nevermind.

Scotty snapped before I smiled.  I had a great smile right after this.  Really.

We were out having all sorts of fun for about 5 1/2 hours, including some time at Don's and "One of Scotty's Sisters'" very nice home.  It was great.

After dinner, Scotty's daughter, Claire, (going out on a limb here - probably has a silent 'S' in it) got in from Denton, Texas where she is about to begin a master's degree program.  She is 23.  When I last saw her, she was 8, and playing with Kat on the beach in Hilton Head, South Carolina.  That is the last time Pat and I saw Scotty, too.

Then Scotty's table lamp fell apart and we all retired.