Pass a Good Time – Young Love and Cajun Life

 From a 1973 Chrysler Newport to a black-lab puppy named Fred, Jim Richmond takes you on his first road trip as a newlywed into the heart of Louisiana. In this episode of “How Did We Get Here?” you’ll hear about building a young family in Cajun Country, discovering the food and culture behind the phrase “Pass a Good Time,” and balancing those joys with the discipline of life on one of Strategic Air Command’s largest bases. A story of love, duty, and growing up fast — all in the deep South. 

Louisiana, Cajun Country,  Air Force Life,  Strategic Air Command,  Family, Fatherhood, Military Stories, Law Enforcement, Road Trips, Young Love, 1970s, Life Lessons, Growing Up, Southern Living.

How Did We Get Here? — real stories about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.

Transcript

Remember those road trips we talked about before?
 Well, this was the first—
 a 1973 Chrysler Newport, big enough to float down the highway like a living room on wheels.

We were newlyweds, back in the States, visiting family in New York,
 and about to make the first of many road trips together.

It was July, and for Northern New York the weather wasn’t that bad.
 We packed up the car — that huge trunk swallowed everything we owned,
 and still had the backseat empty for our newly acquired black lab puppy.

We were ready to start this new adventure together.

The drive was mostly uneventful.
 We gave ourselves plenty of time to see the sights,
 and on the way to Louisiana — with only one real hiccup —
 my wife, who had never seen the States before,
 wanted to experience a major U.S. city.

Thus, our brief and unplanned visit to Cleveland, Ohio.
Of all places.

The farther south we traveled, the heavier the air felt.
 By the time we hit northeastern Louisiana on July 3rd,
 the temperature was in the high 90s
 and the humidity was right there with it.

I was used to heat.
 But that humidity?
 That was a killer.

After checking in on base (while hiding Fred, the black lab),
 the next challenge was finding a place to live.

Apartments around the base filled up fast,
 and landlords weren’t thrilled about a black puppy tagging along.

Then we met our landlady.

Southerner as a person could be.
 Glasses perched down her nose.
 Eyebrows painted on higher than nature ever intended.
 But she was kind —
 and she didn’t mind Fred.

So we settled into… well, I’m not sure what you’d call it.
 Three rooms — including the kitchen and bathroom.
 Small.
 A little rough around the edges.
 But affordable.

And with Fred — that was good enough for us.

Two months in, we got news that changed everything again.

There would be
 another addition to the family.

The pregnancy wasn’t planned —
 but it was welcomed by both of us.

We weren’t just starting a new assignment anymore.
 We were starting a new family.

That’s when Cajun Country started to get under our skin.

The food — gumbo, jambalaya, po-boys —
 nothing like the meat and potatoes we were used to.
 Or the fish and chips my wife grew up with.

The accents rolled like music.
 People waved at you from their porches
 even if they’d never met you.

On weekends we’d load Fred into the car
 and just drive —
 under Spanish moss, past churches and shrimp boats,
 cypress knees poking out of the water.

It felt like another country —
 foreign, warm, alive.

But while we were exploring bayous
 and tasting our first crawfish boils,
 there was another side to our world.

One behind a fence
 under armed guard.

Strategic Air Command.

Most people driving past the fence probably thought it was just another Air Force base.
 But once you stepped through those gates,
 you could feel it.

A different kind of tension.

Round-the-clock readiness.
 Bombers on alert.
 Tankers on standby.
 Crews moving with purpose.

Our job as Security Police:
 keep it secure,
 and make sure no one got anywhere near the wrong thing
 at the wrong time.

The base was enormous —
 a city within a city.

Housing.
 Schools.
 Shops.

Three lakes —
 even alligators sunning themselves along the banks.

I remember the sign at one of the lakes:

NO SWIMMING — ALLIGATORS.

Made me laugh.
 (I stayed out of the water.)

On the job it was codes, badges, checkpoints.
 No nonsense.
 Everything timed.
 Everything logged.

We carried ourselves differently.
 Weapons clean.
 Uniforms crisp.
 Eyes scanning.

One minute you were eating boudin from a roadside stand —
 the next, you’re standing under floodlights beside an alert bomber.

I learned discipline.
 Responsibility.
 What it meant to be trusted.

But life didn’t stand still.

We moved into a slightly bigger apartment.
 Same landlady.
 Same painted-on eyebrows.

Then came the first real test of fatherhood:

The crib.

If you know…
 you know.

I was sweating more putting that thing together
 than I ever did on patrol.

Our baby girl arrived.
 Unexpected.
 Perfect.

Time didn’t slow down.

Before we could catch our breath,
 daughter number two was on the way.

Meanwhile, I had taken on more.
 Serving as a reserve police officer.
 Started a PI business on the side.

The money helped.
 But the time away was real.

My proudest moments weren’t medals or commendations.
 They were being in the delivery room,
 cutting both cords,
 and feeling myself grow up in real time.

The uniform taught me discipline.
 The little apartment taught me patience.

Cajun Country and SAC
 together
 were shaping me into the man, father, and husband I was becoming.

They taught me that you can stand watch over something bigger than yourself
 and still hold tight to the things that matter most.

This is How Did We Get Here?
A podcast about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.

I’m Jim Richmond.
 And I’m still here for a reason.
 Maybe you are too.