Oilfield Trash.

It’s a nickname for those that work in the oil business. It’s been around since I was a kid, and I’ve never heard it used in anger or to put down someone. For many in Louisiana, Texas and Mississippi, being called that is an honor. Some of the finest people I have ever known wore that moniker proudly.

Including my Daddy. I am the daughter of an oilman. One who took his engineering degree and developed (at the time) the world’s largest offshore oil rig. One who spent most of my life in the oil business. A man who was begged out of retirement after Hurricane Katrina cause the only rigs that made it through the storm were the ones he built. So yea, call me oilfield trash. I’m proud of it.

Eleven people are still missing and presumed dead after a rig explosion in the Gulf of Mexico earlier this week.

Please take a minute and keep them, their families and friends in your thoughts, your prayers, and your way of communicating with your higher power.

Oilfield Trash keeps this country moving.

Oilfield Trash makes it possible for you to go on vacation, to the grocery store, to take your kids to the ball field.

No matter your opinion on offshore drilling, the environment, the politics of oil or politics in general, it all boils down to the working man (and woman).

If you know someone who can wear the title of Oilfield Trash, hug their neck and thank them. They deserve it.

I went “back home” for a few days to visit friends in Mississippi and go to New Orleans for the NFC Championship game. I drove around my old home town, visited friends, left flowers at the cemetery, and just reconnected for a few days. Not much has changed in small town Mississippi, and even though I have, my friends there are like family and I always feel like “I’m home” when I get here. It’s a nice feeling to have. Sitting on the corner and looking across at my old house was tough, but I just thought of the memories I’ll always have and it made it a little easier to drive away. From there, I went to New Orleans. I have spent a large chunk of my life in and around that city, and to say that it’s soul and mine are intertwined would be an understatement. So many things I remember….. shopping with my Granny on Canal Street, my Papaw watching me ice skate at Lake Forest Mall, Christmas in The Oaks, Mardi Gras, Jazz Fest, Audubon Zoo, oysters and poboys with my parents at Acme, dinner at Galatoire’s …. My daddy was born there, his family before him, and he and I both spent our youth on it’s streets from the Vieux Carre to the Garden District, Gregory and I renewed our vows and spent so many happy times there…. it’s a beautiful city and so much more than what the tourists see. It fills my heart with joy each time I visit, and also with sadness at what is no longer because of Katrina. But this trip was different for me and the city, because the New Orleans Saints have finally made it to the Super Bowl. WWL’s Jim Henderson summed up the emotion of a city and her daughter’s and sons in this clip……

…and I was there to see it. It was a moment I will never forget, and one that I will cherish forever. In the city I love, surrounded by my close friends, and basking in the feeling of so many that feel the same way. Grown men crying, strangers hugging strangers, screaming so loud until our voices were hoarse, and cries of “Who Dat” filling the streets. It was one of the most emotional moments I think I’ve ever experienced. And it wasn’t just football. It was the city, the memories, the two men that shared those memories in that city with me. I was crying for my team, but I was crying for them. I was crying for my grandparents, my great aunt. All of the people who passed their love of the city onto me. I felt them with me. And it felt good.

Yes, I know what it means to miss New Orleans.

But I also know she lives within me. And I am never alone.

Who Dat.