You never know when your personal history is going to come back and tap you on the shoulder. Sometimes, for all the wrong reasons.

Until a few days ago, I hadn't thought about Venice, La., for decades. Then the little town at the end of the road that runs from New Orleans to the Mississippi River delta was all over the news. And the news wasn't good.

Film crews and reporters had converged on Venice to document the efforts to deal with the oil spill that was spreading across the Gulf of Mexico.

As of this writing, none of the proposed remedies were working. The commercial fishing grounds were closed, and locals were holding their breath, waiting to see if the oil slick would move far enough north to cover the area around Venice with a slick sheen of goo that would destroy the lush tidal estuaries and all creatures great and small that call the area home.

As I watched the news, smiles were in short supply. It didn't look like the Venice I remembered.

I first saw Venice when my Cub Scout pack traveled down from New Orleans to gape at an oil well. My daddy was in the business and volunteered to tag along. We unloaded at a dock where a nice man with a small seaplane offered to fly us out to see an offshore rig. Daddy and I were on the first flight out.

A few months later Daddy suggested a family outing to Venice. But not to look at an oil operation. He thought we might enjoy the blessing of the fleet, an annual event where the local clergy kicked off the commercial fishing season by praying for stout ships, healthy crews, good weather and nets bursting with shrimp and fish.

In Cajun country, serious religious business is a good reason to throw a party, and after an opening ceremony that included a prayer and a shot of holy water, the good times started to roll. Or in this case, float.

Basically, it was Mardi Gras on the water. As priests stood on the dock and dispensed blessings, the boats sailed past with flags flying and nets waving proudly as visitors gawked.

The boats were festooned with fresh flowers and packed with baubles, bangles and papier-mâché creations that ranged from a giant-sized bright pink shrimp to an anatomically correct mermaid with oyster shell earrings.

After an hour or two afloat, the boats tied up, and on the docks, huge pots of boiling crawfish snuggled next to washtubs filled with iced beer. A Cajun band cranked up, people started dancing and the Fais do-do (Cajun for party) was still going strong when we left.

You've never seen a happier crowd of folks. Ever since, that's how I remembered Venice: as a carefree place filled with joy and innocence and hope and, most of all, fun.

That feeling may be gone for a while. This year the fleet may sit idle for all or part of the commercial fishing season. The oil business may slow or stop. Some locals will lose their livelihoods. The economy will suffer the kind of blow that would bring most places to their knees.

But Venice isn't most places. I'm betting the town and the people who call it home survive. Right now, the smiles are in short supply in Venice. That condition won't be permanent.

The times are tough, but those Cajuns are tougher. It will take a bigger calamity than this to put Venice down for the count.

Just ask Hurricane Katrina. (Send your e-mail comments to: alex@ newnan.com)