True Inklings

I believe in magic. Not abracadabra magic, but the real kind.

The kind that settles in the bones and guides the hearts of those willing to listen and surrender to its ancient wisdom.

True Inklings is a blend of dark, spicy gumbo, sweet potato pie, and homemade wine. A mixture of  the best of two worlds––the hypnotic appeal of living way down yonder in New Orleans and the joie-de-vivre of Southwest Louisiana.

Both cultures, though mutually exclusive,  afforded me the means to put off converting my inner maiden into the completion of womanhood. While suffering the consequences, I also enjoyed a ride I could never have imagined.

Yes, I do believe in magic––the magic that transformed me––a silent, indifferent, yet unrelenting sacred power.

Work in Progress by

     Connie Hebert


     Connie Hebert, BA, MSW               




True Inkling Memoirs

Fall Equinox 2019


Sitting in Grandpa's smoking chair near the large, opened window of Grandma's small kitchen, entailed some risk. Nobody dared take it without an excellent chance of receiving a hearty nose pinch. But, he wasn't home today on St. Philip Street in New Orleans’ French Quarter.

It was a lazy summer day, and the heat magnified the slow, easy pace of our lives. In the early 1950s, I was a six-year-old girl, prone to daydreaming. As I gazed aimlessly through the window screen, time passed unnoticed amid a laissez-faire outlook.

In the distance the lazy clip-clop of horses hooves on the pavement eased me back from my trance. Horse-drawn wagons crisscrossed the neighborhood selling vegetables, fruit, and, sometimes, sweet pralines. The closer the horse’s gait approached, the more excited I became until my face pressed up against the screen as I tried to catch sight of it.

The clippety-clops grew louder and louder. “He’s almost here, Grandma,” I squealed.