Years ago, I was a freshman in college at Northeast Louisiana in Monroe. At the end of the hall was a cigarette machine, a soda machine and one that sold Honey Buns. One night while I was studying my roommate came running into the room in an animated state of excitement.
"The honey bun machine is broke. Help me, quick!"
The machine was broken. Every time you pulled the retrieve handle, several Honey Buns would pour out of it. My roomy and I cleaned out the machine.
Several weeks or so later, after consuming many Honey buns, I never wanted to see a Honey Bun again as long as I lived. It made me think of the first time I got inebriated. The same year, I think. My roommate - yes, the same culprit - and I were at a piano bar in downtown Monroe, Louisiana.
Chuck was very cosmopolitan and had been drinking alcohol for years. At least that's what he said. My parents were teetotalers and I had never ever sipped a beer.
"Try a sloe gin fizz, honey," the pretty, but old -at least to me at the time - singer suggested.
I took her advice and had several. I think we were finally thrown out of the place, or at least asked to leave. I woke up before morning, very sick. You don’t want to know the details. Anyway, a month or so ago, I ordered a sloe gin fizz at a bar I frequent. It was the first I'd had in more than thirty years. I didn't finish it.
Before my Mother died, we took a trip back to Vivian. Along the way we stopped to buy groceries in Atlanta, Texas. While there, my mother bought, of all things, a box of Honey Buns. On the last leg home we stopped at a liquor store and I bought a twenty-four ounce Evil Eye High Density 10 % alcohol lager. I'm not making this up. I drank the strong beer after my parents turned in for the night.
I'm not particularly proud of the fact but the brew weakened me to the extent that I opened a Honey Bun and ate it.Well, unlike the sloe gin fizz, my first Honey Bun in more than thirty years wasn't so bad. Truth is, I even opened a second and ate it too. I guess what they say is true - time heals all wounds. Well, except for sloe gin.
Gondwana
Showing posts with label louisiana. Show all posts
Showing posts with label louisiana. Show all posts
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Halloween Memories
Happy Halloween!
Halloween was my favorite holiday when I was young in Vivian, Louisiana. No one had yet heard of predators preying on unsuspecting kids, so my parents, and everyone else’s parents would let us go trick-or-treating as soon as it got dark. What’s more, no one expected us home anytime soon.
I couldn’t have been much more than five when I began staying out until the wee hours, dressed as a ghost or goblin, with my big brother Jack and close friend Wiley. Most people quit answering their doors at ten but that didn’t keep us from knocking, or turning over their trash cans if no one answered and rewarded us with candy.
The only thing I can remember that was slightly unsavory was that someone gave us weevil bread – cornbread with boll weevils cooked into it. We all decided that we had gotten the weevil bread from the mayor’s house.
I grew up in a different time, not better, just different, but I’ll never forget the feeling I had that I was somehow invisible, and that the darkness was where I was destined to be.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Halloween was my favorite holiday when I was young in Vivian, Louisiana. No one had yet heard of predators preying on unsuspecting kids, so my parents, and everyone else’s parents would let us go trick-or-treating as soon as it got dark. What’s more, no one expected us home anytime soon.
I couldn’t have been much more than five when I began staying out until the wee hours, dressed as a ghost or goblin, with my big brother Jack and close friend Wiley. Most people quit answering their doors at ten but that didn’t keep us from knocking, or turning over their trash cans if no one answered and rewarded us with candy.
The only thing I can remember that was slightly unsavory was that someone gave us weevil bread – cornbread with boll weevils cooked into it. We all decided that we had gotten the weevil bread from the mayor’s house.
I grew up in a different time, not better, just different, but I’ll never forget the feeling I had that I was somehow invisible, and that the darkness was where I was destined to be.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Eric Takes a Ride
My first wife Gail loved horses and had two, Lady, a very gentle mare and Rodan, a large stallion. Not very friendly, Rodan did not tolerate carrying fools around on his back, a fact I quickly learned during my first visit to Gail’s home in Chalmette.
During those years, sprawling Chalmette felt like a family town. Gail’s father Harvey had a small working ranch right in the middle of town and ran a few horses and some cows. He also bought fur from the many trappers that worked the swamps and marshes south of New Orleans.
Ripley’s Believe it or Not featured one of Harvey’s cows in their feature that many newspapers once carried. The cow had a tail growing out of its head. Harvey was very proud of the cow and never failed to show visitors his yellowed newspaper clipping.
I had not ridden a horse since my brother Jack and I fell off the back of my grandmother’s plow horse named Buck. Buck was so large no saddle would fit him. Although not as big, nor as friendly as Buck, Rodan was no small horse. His size did not really matter because I had maintained an aversion to riding horses ever since falling off Buck.
Gail and I met at college in Monroe. On my first trip to meet her parents, I strived to do everything I could to please her and to make a good impression on her family. Because of my desire to present myself in the best possible light, I rashly agreed to go for a ride on Rodan. It was a decision that almost ended our fledgling romance prematurely.
Horses are perceptive animals and Rodan knew the moment that I threw my leg over his back that I was a complete and utter novice. Still, I was okay until Gail handed me the reins. When she did, Rodan took off like a thoroughbred coming out of the gate at Pimlico.
The big red horse headed straight for the St. Bernard Highway, congested with traffic even in those day. I could do little except pull on the reins and yell “Whoa, Rodan,” at the top of my lungs. My life passed before my eyes as we approached the crowded highway at what felt to me like breakneck speed.
I contemplated jumping but never got the chance. Rodan skidded to an abrupt halt just before plowing into the two lanes heavy traffic. Gail reached us shortly, grabbing Rodan’s reins and allowing me to exit the saddle as quickly as I could. Neither of us spoke on the short walk back to Harvey’s ranch.
Years have passed since that visit and I wish that I could proclaim that it was my last frightening ride on a horse. Well it was not. Gail’s brother Larry goaded me into another horse ride some years later, much to the same result, even though Larry’s horse was supposedly a friendly and docile mare.
Between Marilyn and her three kids, they own at least six horses. None of them is as big or mean as Rodan was, but it makes no difference to me. Horses and I do not get along and it will be a cold day in Chalmette before I mount another.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
During those years, sprawling Chalmette felt like a family town. Gail’s father Harvey had a small working ranch right in the middle of town and ran a few horses and some cows. He also bought fur from the many trappers that worked the swamps and marshes south of New Orleans.
Ripley’s Believe it or Not featured one of Harvey’s cows in their feature that many newspapers once carried. The cow had a tail growing out of its head. Harvey was very proud of the cow and never failed to show visitors his yellowed newspaper clipping.
I had not ridden a horse since my brother Jack and I fell off the back of my grandmother’s plow horse named Buck. Buck was so large no saddle would fit him. Although not as big, nor as friendly as Buck, Rodan was no small horse. His size did not really matter because I had maintained an aversion to riding horses ever since falling off Buck.
Gail and I met at college in Monroe. On my first trip to meet her parents, I strived to do everything I could to please her and to make a good impression on her family. Because of my desire to present myself in the best possible light, I rashly agreed to go for a ride on Rodan. It was a decision that almost ended our fledgling romance prematurely.
Horses are perceptive animals and Rodan knew the moment that I threw my leg over his back that I was a complete and utter novice. Still, I was okay until Gail handed me the reins. When she did, Rodan took off like a thoroughbred coming out of the gate at Pimlico.
The big red horse headed straight for the St. Bernard Highway, congested with traffic even in those day. I could do little except pull on the reins and yell “Whoa, Rodan,” at the top of my lungs. My life passed before my eyes as we approached the crowded highway at what felt to me like breakneck speed.
I contemplated jumping but never got the chance. Rodan skidded to an abrupt halt just before plowing into the two lanes heavy traffic. Gail reached us shortly, grabbing Rodan’s reins and allowing me to exit the saddle as quickly as I could. Neither of us spoke on the short walk back to Harvey’s ranch.
Years have passed since that visit and I wish that I could proclaim that it was my last frightening ride on a horse. Well it was not. Gail’s brother Larry goaded me into another horse ride some years later, much to the same result, even though Larry’s horse was supposedly a friendly and docile mare.
Between Marilyn and her three kids, they own at least six horses. None of them is as big or mean as Rodan was, but it makes no difference to me. Horses and I do not get along and it will be a cold day in Chalmette before I mount another.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Hot Dogs and Cold Beer
I graduated from college years ago and have been successful and become wealthy in the oil industry. I often meet other wealthy oil people and rarely a week goes by that someone does not look me square in the eye and palm my hand in some secret fraternal handshake.
My parents demanded that my brother and I attend college. Neither of us really wanted to go, but they would have it no other way. It cost very little to attend a Louisiana state college at that time - seventy-four dollars per month, as I recall, for room and board, tuition, and books another three-hundred dollars, or so. It did not matter because my Dad was a construction worker. He had barely enough to send us to college; little remained for much else.
Brother Jack and I had no money to join social fraternities. Neither, consequently, did most of our friends. The frat rats, as we called them, wore the most expensive clothes, drove the finest cars, and had the best pedigrees and prettiest girlfriends. We couldn’t even afford ugly girlfriends. The rest of us were just the street curs, and it did not matter much who possessed the largest brain.
We are all social animals so Jack and I joined a ROTC precision drill team called the Fusileers. Other nerds, misfits and social throwbacks populated the Fusileers’ ranks, but every one of us, down the line, was a smarter-than-average individual.
The campus of NLSC was several miles from downtown Monroe and none of us had a car. The downtown movie theatre was a converted opera house and I remember watching many a movie there. Often, after studying well into the night, we would catch a bus and go downtown to a little hole-in-the-wall café called Coney Island Hotdogs. The owner was Greek and sold us a hotdog and cold beer for about thirty cents. We each usually had enough money for a couple of both.
People grow up and they change. My business partner is a former frat rat and he is a good and caring person. Still, every time someone grasps my hand in a secret fraternity handshake, I wonder if that person is sincere, maybe a bigot, or worse.
Me, I have never been anything but a common street cur, and I still love hot dogs and cold beer.
Fiction South
My parents demanded that my brother and I attend college. Neither of us really wanted to go, but they would have it no other way. It cost very little to attend a Louisiana state college at that time - seventy-four dollars per month, as I recall, for room and board, tuition, and books another three-hundred dollars, or so. It did not matter because my Dad was a construction worker. He had barely enough to send us to college; little remained for much else.
Brother Jack and I had no money to join social fraternities. Neither, consequently, did most of our friends. The frat rats, as we called them, wore the most expensive clothes, drove the finest cars, and had the best pedigrees and prettiest girlfriends. We couldn’t even afford ugly girlfriends. The rest of us were just the street curs, and it did not matter much who possessed the largest brain.
We are all social animals so Jack and I joined a ROTC precision drill team called the Fusileers. Other nerds, misfits and social throwbacks populated the Fusileers’ ranks, but every one of us, down the line, was a smarter-than-average individual.
The campus of NLSC was several miles from downtown Monroe and none of us had a car. The downtown movie theatre was a converted opera house and I remember watching many a movie there. Often, after studying well into the night, we would catch a bus and go downtown to a little hole-in-the-wall café called Coney Island Hotdogs. The owner was Greek and sold us a hotdog and cold beer for about thirty cents. We each usually had enough money for a couple of both.
People grow up and they change. My business partner is a former frat rat and he is a good and caring person. Still, every time someone grasps my hand in a secret fraternity handshake, I wonder if that person is sincere, maybe a bigot, or worse.
Me, I have never been anything but a common street cur, and I still love hot dogs and cold beer.
Fiction South
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Tiny Yellow Louisiana Bird - a pic
A picture of a tiny yellow bird, species unknown, taken in Livingston, Louisiana by my friend Dave Beatty.
Saturday, September 05, 2009
King of Vivian
My mother had three sisters, Wardie, Marguerite and Dot, and a brother, Grady, and they would all usually congregate at my grandparent’s house for Thanksgiving. I loved it, playing outside with all my cousins and inhaling the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen.
No one loved it more than my grandfather did - the head of the family we all knew as Grandpa Pitt. On Thanksgiving Day, he held court, his arms folded and a smile on his face as all his children and grandchildren paid homage to him. On Thanksgiving Day, he was truly “King of Vivian.”
It was never very cold in northwest Louisiana. Still, by Thanksgiving Day tree leaves had all turned red and gold and there was usually a nip in the air that went well with the nip of excitement the holiday brought with it.
What I remember most are the post-dinner conversations that always took place outside on the back porch if the weather was warm, or in my grandparent’s bedroom if it was too cold outside. What I remember is the decibel level caused by four sisters and a brother, talking at once and not one of them seeming to notice, or care.
My Grandma Pitt would be lying on the bed, contentment showing on her otherwise stoic face. My Grandpa Pitt would sit on the edge of his old cane rocker, occasionally interjecting a comment into the raucous conversation. Whenever he raised his hand, the room would go ghostly quiet, waiting for his latest regal pronouncement.
My Aunt Artie, Uncle Grady’s wife, would usually join in the melee but not my Dad Jack and Uncles Frank, Henry and Bert. They would be standing together in the tiny kitchen, their arms folded and knowing expressions on their faces. They had all been there before.
Those days are long gone, as are my grandparents, all my uncles, my mother and one of my aunts. Dot, Marguerite and my Dad are still alive, all with their own grandchildren and great-grandchildren now. When I see a turkey emerging from the oven and smell the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen, I think of Grandpa Pitt, the first and the last “King of Vivian.”
Gondwana
No one loved it more than my grandfather did - the head of the family we all knew as Grandpa Pitt. On Thanksgiving Day, he held court, his arms folded and a smile on his face as all his children and grandchildren paid homage to him. On Thanksgiving Day, he was truly “King of Vivian.”
It was never very cold in northwest Louisiana. Still, by Thanksgiving Day tree leaves had all turned red and gold and there was usually a nip in the air that went well with the nip of excitement the holiday brought with it.
What I remember most are the post-dinner conversations that always took place outside on the back porch if the weather was warm, or in my grandparent’s bedroom if it was too cold outside. What I remember is the decibel level caused by four sisters and a brother, talking at once and not one of them seeming to notice, or care.
My Grandma Pitt would be lying on the bed, contentment showing on her otherwise stoic face. My Grandpa Pitt would sit on the edge of his old cane rocker, occasionally interjecting a comment into the raucous conversation. Whenever he raised his hand, the room would go ghostly quiet, waiting for his latest regal pronouncement.
My Aunt Artie, Uncle Grady’s wife, would usually join in the melee but not my Dad Jack and Uncles Frank, Henry and Bert. They would be standing together in the tiny kitchen, their arms folded and knowing expressions on their faces. They had all been there before.
Those days are long gone, as are my grandparents, all my uncles, my mother and one of my aunts. Dot, Marguerite and my Dad are still alive, all with their own grandchildren and great-grandchildren now. When I see a turkey emerging from the oven and smell the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen, I think of Grandpa Pitt, the first and the last “King of Vivian.”
Gondwana
Friday, September 04, 2009
Bowlers and Other Radicals
Bowlers are a strange bunch. I do not know another group of athletes – if you can call bowlers athletes – as dedicated to their sport as bowlers. Most would bowl 24-7, if they could., and their average is the most important single number in their lives, even more so than their IQs, and the number of times they have sex a week.
I know all about bowling because I had two roommates in college that were avid bowlers, and I worked for about a year in a bowling alley. I witnessed many strange events during that year, but the most traumatic occurred when I accidentally switched off the power to all the lanes.
League competition is the bread and butter of every bowling alley and most avid bowlers are members of at least two leagues. Bowlers establish an average in each league, the better bowlers handicapped so that all the teams are more-or-less equal. This is never the case, as the better bowlers always have the advantage.
At the Monroe, Louisiana bowling alley that I worked at, the biggest league bowled on Wednesday nights. The bowlers were not all as good as those that bowled on the Friday night scratch league, but many were. Unlike the Friday night scratch league, the Wednesday league included both men and women.
The bowlers on the Wednesday night league were all serious bowlers. Most came into the bowling alley and bowled a game or two every day. One of the couples that bowled on Wednesday night was particularly avid. Maybe I should say rabid. I will call them Sam and Bertha because I can’t remember their names. Sam was an older person, short and with bowed legs. Bertha was at least twice Sam’s size and everyone called her Big Bertha – at least behind her back.
Big Bertha maintained a one-eighty average and was proud of it. She and Sam were partners on a team, and they led the Wednesday night league by a small margin. The particular Wednesday I am thinking of was the last night of the league and she and Sam were playing Lou and Dave for the championship. The two teams were neck and neck going into the tenth frame. That is when I made my mistake.
Big Bertha had rolled nine pins. If she picked up the easy spare, she and Sam would be the league champions. Someone asked me to reset the pins on a nearby lane, just as she prepared her release. Hitting the wrong switch, my heart almost stopped when all the lights on the bowling alley lanes went dark. I flipped it back on immediately but this only had the effect of causing all the lanes to reset the pins. Bertha’s ball struck the ball block with a resounding thud.
I was stuck behind the alley’s circular control desk, or I would have run for my live. Instead, I awaiting my impending fate as Big Bertha locked her angry stare on me and charged in my direction.
“You stupid SOB!” she yelled, leaning over the cabinet top. “You ruined my game, you stupid SOB!”
My inadvertent mistake caused all activity in the noisy bowling alley to come to an abrupt halt. Joe, the manager of the bowling alley, came out of his office and rushed to the control desk. Bertha was big but Joe was bigger. An ex-college tackle, gone only slightly to pot, he stood six-foot-four. Bertha backed off when Joe got between her and me.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“I’m sorry,” I said in my contrite voice. “I hit the wrong switch.”
“The stupid SOB did it on purpose!” Bertha said, still shouting.
Joe raised a placating palm. “I’ll fix it. We will put everyone back as it was before the outage.”
Joe and my two roommates Trellis and Chuck – the alley engineers – begin restoring the lanes to where they were before my mistake. I waited, under orders, in Joe’s office. Once they restored order, Joe joined me in his office.
Joe was big and imposing, but he was also a pussycat. “Eric, I’m firing you,” he said. “At least for a couple of weeks. Big Bertha will have calmed down by then.”
Joe ushered me out the back door. Chuck and Trellis laughed their proverbial rear ends off when their shifts finally ended and they arrived back at our apartment.
“You dumb SOB!” Chuck said. “You’re lucky that old bitch didn’t kill you.”
Trellis went to the refrigerator and returned with three cold cans of Schlitz. “Here’s to you,” he said. “Seeing the look on that old bitch’s face was worth every bit of the extra work you put us through.”
Fiction South
I know all about bowling because I had two roommates in college that were avid bowlers, and I worked for about a year in a bowling alley. I witnessed many strange events during that year, but the most traumatic occurred when I accidentally switched off the power to all the lanes.
League competition is the bread and butter of every bowling alley and most avid bowlers are members of at least two leagues. Bowlers establish an average in each league, the better bowlers handicapped so that all the teams are more-or-less equal. This is never the case, as the better bowlers always have the advantage.
At the Monroe, Louisiana bowling alley that I worked at, the biggest league bowled on Wednesday nights. The bowlers were not all as good as those that bowled on the Friday night scratch league, but many were. Unlike the Friday night scratch league, the Wednesday league included both men and women.
The bowlers on the Wednesday night league were all serious bowlers. Most came into the bowling alley and bowled a game or two every day. One of the couples that bowled on Wednesday night was particularly avid. Maybe I should say rabid. I will call them Sam and Bertha because I can’t remember their names. Sam was an older person, short and with bowed legs. Bertha was at least twice Sam’s size and everyone called her Big Bertha – at least behind her back.
Big Bertha maintained a one-eighty average and was proud of it. She and Sam were partners on a team, and they led the Wednesday night league by a small margin. The particular Wednesday I am thinking of was the last night of the league and she and Sam were playing Lou and Dave for the championship. The two teams were neck and neck going into the tenth frame. That is when I made my mistake.
Big Bertha had rolled nine pins. If she picked up the easy spare, she and Sam would be the league champions. Someone asked me to reset the pins on a nearby lane, just as she prepared her release. Hitting the wrong switch, my heart almost stopped when all the lights on the bowling alley lanes went dark. I flipped it back on immediately but this only had the effect of causing all the lanes to reset the pins. Bertha’s ball struck the ball block with a resounding thud.
I was stuck behind the alley’s circular control desk, or I would have run for my live. Instead, I awaiting my impending fate as Big Bertha locked her angry stare on me and charged in my direction.
“You stupid SOB!” she yelled, leaning over the cabinet top. “You ruined my game, you stupid SOB!”
My inadvertent mistake caused all activity in the noisy bowling alley to come to an abrupt halt. Joe, the manager of the bowling alley, came out of his office and rushed to the control desk. Bertha was big but Joe was bigger. An ex-college tackle, gone only slightly to pot, he stood six-foot-four. Bertha backed off when Joe got between her and me.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“I’m sorry,” I said in my contrite voice. “I hit the wrong switch.”
“The stupid SOB did it on purpose!” Bertha said, still shouting.
Joe raised a placating palm. “I’ll fix it. We will put everyone back as it was before the outage.”
Joe and my two roommates Trellis and Chuck – the alley engineers – begin restoring the lanes to where they were before my mistake. I waited, under orders, in Joe’s office. Once they restored order, Joe joined me in his office.
Joe was big and imposing, but he was also a pussycat. “Eric, I’m firing you,” he said. “At least for a couple of weeks. Big Bertha will have calmed down by then.”
Joe ushered me out the back door. Chuck and Trellis laughed their proverbial rear ends off when their shifts finally ended and they arrived back at our apartment.
“You dumb SOB!” Chuck said. “You’re lucky that old bitch didn’t kill you.”
Trellis went to the refrigerator and returned with three cold cans of Schlitz. “Here’s to you,” he said. “Seeing the look on that old bitch’s face was worth every bit of the extra work you put us through.”
Fiction South
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Prince of Arabi
I worked in New Orleans during the summer of 1968 and had many adventures, and misadventures, during that time. I lived in Arabi, a community between Chalmette and the Lower 9th Ward. Known for its rampant organized gambling that continued until the 1950s, Arabi barely survived Hurricanes Rita and Katrina.
I resided in the bottom story of a two-storied wood-frame house, just across the street from a Catholic convent. Nuns that went into the convent never came out again, cloistered for life. My little apartment had no air conditioning and reeked of decades of mold and mildew. Oh, and did I mention the cockroaches?
I had a car, my green ’67 Ford Mustang, but usually took the bus to work. Gas was not expensive then, or the issue. New Orleans drivers were simply the worst I had ever encountered, at least on this side of the border from Mexico, that is. I usually walked the quarter-mile from my apartment to the bus stop where I would catch the bus to Canal.
I spent a lot of time that summer taking in the nightlife of one of the wildest cities in the world and often catnapped on my way to work, and on my way home. I awoke once at the bus terminal in Arabi to the sight of a young black man pointing a pistol directly at me, and the woman sitting beside me. Everyone else had already escaped through the side door. I grabbed the woman and pulled her down behind the seat, knowing that a ricochet would still get us if he fired the pistol.
He did not get the chance, two men tackling him from behind and wrestling the weapon from his grasp. I walked home that night never learning the reason for the pistol brandishing and too young to realize that I had likely narrowly escaped death.
My brother, also a geology student, got a job with the same company as me before the summer ended. He kept the shabby apartment after I left to return to college. He married a girl that worked with us. They are still married, have four kids and a few grandkids now.
No life remained in the little town when Marilyn and I visited shortly after Katrina’s devastation, only signs posted by construction companies offering to raze abandoned houses. The convent across the street where I once lived remained, and I have always wondered if the cloistered nuns had abandoned their posts, or stayed to face the wrath of an angry god.
I resided in the bottom story of a two-storied wood-frame house, just across the street from a Catholic convent. Nuns that went into the convent never came out again, cloistered for life. My little apartment had no air conditioning and reeked of decades of mold and mildew. Oh, and did I mention the cockroaches?
I had a car, my green ’67 Ford Mustang, but usually took the bus to work. Gas was not expensive then, or the issue. New Orleans drivers were simply the worst I had ever encountered, at least on this side of the border from Mexico, that is. I usually walked the quarter-mile from my apartment to the bus stop where I would catch the bus to Canal.
I spent a lot of time that summer taking in the nightlife of one of the wildest cities in the world and often catnapped on my way to work, and on my way home. I awoke once at the bus terminal in Arabi to the sight of a young black man pointing a pistol directly at me, and the woman sitting beside me. Everyone else had already escaped through the side door. I grabbed the woman and pulled her down behind the seat, knowing that a ricochet would still get us if he fired the pistol.
He did not get the chance, two men tackling him from behind and wrestling the weapon from his grasp. I walked home that night never learning the reason for the pistol brandishing and too young to realize that I had likely narrowly escaped death.
My brother, also a geology student, got a job with the same company as me before the summer ended. He kept the shabby apartment after I left to return to college. He married a girl that worked with us. They are still married, have four kids and a few grandkids now.
No life remained in the little town when Marilyn and I visited shortly after Katrina’s devastation, only signs posted by construction companies offering to raze abandoned houses. The convent across the street where I once lived remained, and I have always wondered if the cloistered nuns had abandoned their posts, or stayed to face the wrath of an angry god.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
A Dip in the Lake
I was only four when I took my first dip in Caddo Lake. Both of my parents loved to fish and they did most of their fishing with worms on a hook dangling from cane poles. This they did while sitting on a boat dock jutting out into the lake.
The sport was far too passive for Brother Jack and me, and we often wound up playing cowboys and Indians instead. Jack and I were usually cowboys, as movies in the fifties most often portrayed Indians as villains - Tonto and Little Beaver noted exceptions. We both had felt cowboy hats, boots, and holsters complete with cap pistols. Because of our noisiness, the parents were happy to have us wander off to some other place and play.
It was one those hot Louisiana summer days, with not enough wind blowing to ripple the Spanish moss draping from the bloated cypress trees that grew in the shallow water near the bank. Mom and Dad were concentrating on their red bobbers floating in the coffee-colored water, at the ends of their lines. Realizing that no one was paying any attention to us, Jack and I went looking for a little shade, and a little fun.
There were boat docks every hundred feet or so, all extending well out into the shallow water. No one minded much if someone fished, or used them to play cowboys and Indians. Jack is two years older than I am and we were very close while growing up. That did not mean that we never had any disagreements.
Jack was always bigger and constantly used his strength to bully or taunt me, whenever he could get away with it. He was having a grand time snatching my cowboy hat and sailing it into the air. Jack loved to see my face turn red. The madder I became, the more he would torment me. My felt cowboy hat was my prized possession, and I was less than happy seeing it landing in the dirt.
When I finally retrieved my hat, I ran away from Jack, my hands clamped on the brim to keep him from yanking it off again. I made a strategic error by running onto a ramp extending into the lake; I quickly realized big brother would have me cornered once I reached the end of the dock.
He was almost on me when I spotted an old paddle propped up against the railing. Grabbing it as I reached the end of the dock, I twirled around to face my brother. When I took a swing at him with the paddle, he grabbed the other end. When I yanked, he pushed.
I was at the end of the dock. Losing my footing, I sailed backwards into the tepid water. I could not yet swim but it didn’t matter. Water barely came up to my chest, but I was frightened because Jack started yelling, “Look out, there’s an alligator behind you.”
Jack stopped laughing when I started screaming bloody murder as I attempted in vain to crawl up the algae-slick posts that supported the dock. My desperate wailing soon got the attention of my Mom and Dad who dropped their poles and came running.
“What in cornbread hell are you two into now?” my Dad yelled as he rushed toward me, just ahead of my Mother. He quickly reached down and pulled me out of the water.
Jack did not stick around to see the action. Expecting a whipping, he ran toward the car and hid. Dad did not bother. He had a fish on the line, handing me, wet and flopping, to my Mother and then hurrying back to his fishing pole.
Mom fished my hat out of the lake and then took me to the car, stripped off my wet clothes and draped them on the hood of the car to dry. With only a frown and shake of her head, and not a single word of reprimand, she hurried back to the fishing dock to see what my Dad had caught.
Brother Jack finally came out of the bushes, still laughing but more subdued because of his fear of a whipping. He also had the good sense to realize how upset that I was, my favorite cowboy hat lying in a misshapen lump on the hood of the brown and white Ford sedan.
My parents never punished Jack for pushing me into the lake and I was not too upset because my Mom somehow managed to reshape my cowboy hat and dry out my boots. That hot summer day, long ago, was not my first fight with Brother Jack, but it was my first dip in Caddo Lake.
Fiction South
The sport was far too passive for Brother Jack and me, and we often wound up playing cowboys and Indians instead. Jack and I were usually cowboys, as movies in the fifties most often portrayed Indians as villains - Tonto and Little Beaver noted exceptions. We both had felt cowboy hats, boots, and holsters complete with cap pistols. Because of our noisiness, the parents were happy to have us wander off to some other place and play.
It was one those hot Louisiana summer days, with not enough wind blowing to ripple the Spanish moss draping from the bloated cypress trees that grew in the shallow water near the bank. Mom and Dad were concentrating on their red bobbers floating in the coffee-colored water, at the ends of their lines. Realizing that no one was paying any attention to us, Jack and I went looking for a little shade, and a little fun.
There were boat docks every hundred feet or so, all extending well out into the shallow water. No one minded much if someone fished, or used them to play cowboys and Indians. Jack is two years older than I am and we were very close while growing up. That did not mean that we never had any disagreements.
Jack was always bigger and constantly used his strength to bully or taunt me, whenever he could get away with it. He was having a grand time snatching my cowboy hat and sailing it into the air. Jack loved to see my face turn red. The madder I became, the more he would torment me. My felt cowboy hat was my prized possession, and I was less than happy seeing it landing in the dirt.
When I finally retrieved my hat, I ran away from Jack, my hands clamped on the brim to keep him from yanking it off again. I made a strategic error by running onto a ramp extending into the lake; I quickly realized big brother would have me cornered once I reached the end of the dock.
He was almost on me when I spotted an old paddle propped up against the railing. Grabbing it as I reached the end of the dock, I twirled around to face my brother. When I took a swing at him with the paddle, he grabbed the other end. When I yanked, he pushed.
I was at the end of the dock. Losing my footing, I sailed backwards into the tepid water. I could not yet swim but it didn’t matter. Water barely came up to my chest, but I was frightened because Jack started yelling, “Look out, there’s an alligator behind you.”
Jack stopped laughing when I started screaming bloody murder as I attempted in vain to crawl up the algae-slick posts that supported the dock. My desperate wailing soon got the attention of my Mom and Dad who dropped their poles and came running.
“What in cornbread hell are you two into now?” my Dad yelled as he rushed toward me, just ahead of my Mother. He quickly reached down and pulled me out of the water.
Jack did not stick around to see the action. Expecting a whipping, he ran toward the car and hid. Dad did not bother. He had a fish on the line, handing me, wet and flopping, to my Mother and then hurrying back to his fishing pole.
Mom fished my hat out of the lake and then took me to the car, stripped off my wet clothes and draped them on the hood of the car to dry. With only a frown and shake of her head, and not a single word of reprimand, she hurried back to the fishing dock to see what my Dad had caught.
Brother Jack finally came out of the bushes, still laughing but more subdued because of his fear of a whipping. He also had the good sense to realize how upset that I was, my favorite cowboy hat lying in a misshapen lump on the hood of the brown and white Ford sedan.
My parents never punished Jack for pushing me into the lake and I was not too upset because my Mom somehow managed to reshape my cowboy hat and dry out my boots. That hot summer day, long ago, was not my first fight with Brother Jack, but it was my first dip in Caddo Lake.
Fiction South
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Marching in the Venus Parade
As a freshman in college during the 60s I joined a precision marching group called the Fusileers. The college I attended required two years of ROTC and the national paranoia concerning Vietnam hadn’t yet begun to set in. Besides, we got to do some neat things like take trips to Mardi Gras and march in parades.
In 1965 I went with the Fusileers to New Orleans to march in the Venus Parade. Although I did not know it at the time, Venus is one of the older Krewes, or carnival clubs. Our group spent the night at Jackson Barracks, an old army post on the Mississippi River named after Andy Jackson.
The night before the parade most of us left the barracks on foot in groups of five or six and made our way toward Bourbon Street. My group stopped at a neighborhood bar and drank Regal Beer for twelve cents a glass and sampled the gumbo. We made it to Bourbon Street around dark.
Much time has passed since then and even the best memories fade. As I remember it, open containers of alcohol were legal. I bought a fifth of Early Times at a drug store a block or so from Bourbon Street. Most of us got separated in the throngs of people crowding the French Quarter. John T, the last member of the Fusileers that I’d arrived in the Quarter with disappeared down Conti, towing a college girl he’d just met.
I found my own college girl but we were separated in the massive crowd pushing shoulder-to-shoulder in two directions, up and down Bourbon Street — though not before a jealous suitor sucker-punched me and broke my only pair of glasses. Somehow I made it back to Jackson Barracks before the midnight curfew and stayed up all night reading the Terry Southern classic Candy.
Mardi Gras that year was my first taste of Carnival, crazy and surreal, and I lapped it up, maybe because I viewed it through tired, near-sighted, hung-over eyes. Even though my feet hurt like hell after the seven mile parade that lasted six hours or so I would gladly have done it again. Soon after the trip, things got worse in Vietnam.
John T dropped out of school, was drafted, sent to Vietnam and dead within the year - one of the war’s many victims. I didn’t sign up for a third year of ROTC and quickly forgot my childhood dreams of becoming a soldier. I had my face rubbed in my childhood dreams when I was drafted shortly after graduation and I quickly learned the truth about the old saying, “don’t wish too hard for anything. It might come true.”
Gondwana
In 1965 I went with the Fusileers to New Orleans to march in the Venus Parade. Although I did not know it at the time, Venus is one of the older Krewes, or carnival clubs. Our group spent the night at Jackson Barracks, an old army post on the Mississippi River named after Andy Jackson.
The night before the parade most of us left the barracks on foot in groups of five or six and made our way toward Bourbon Street. My group stopped at a neighborhood bar and drank Regal Beer for twelve cents a glass and sampled the gumbo. We made it to Bourbon Street around dark.
Much time has passed since then and even the best memories fade. As I remember it, open containers of alcohol were legal. I bought a fifth of Early Times at a drug store a block or so from Bourbon Street. Most of us got separated in the throngs of people crowding the French Quarter. John T, the last member of the Fusileers that I’d arrived in the Quarter with disappeared down Conti, towing a college girl he’d just met.
I found my own college girl but we were separated in the massive crowd pushing shoulder-to-shoulder in two directions, up and down Bourbon Street — though not before a jealous suitor sucker-punched me and broke my only pair of glasses. Somehow I made it back to Jackson Barracks before the midnight curfew and stayed up all night reading the Terry Southern classic Candy.
Mardi Gras that year was my first taste of Carnival, crazy and surreal, and I lapped it up, maybe because I viewed it through tired, near-sighted, hung-over eyes. Even though my feet hurt like hell after the seven mile parade that lasted six hours or so I would gladly have done it again. Soon after the trip, things got worse in Vietnam.
John T dropped out of school, was drafted, sent to Vietnam and dead within the year - one of the war’s many victims. I didn’t sign up for a third year of ROTC and quickly forgot my childhood dreams of becoming a soldier. I had my face rubbed in my childhood dreams when I was drafted shortly after graduation and I quickly learned the truth about the old saying, “don’t wish too hard for anything. It might come true.”
Gondwana
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Old Jeems Bayou Oil Well
Here is a picture of an old oil well once located just north of the Jeems Bayou bridge, on the way to Trees City, Louisiana. The area is now cleared and the site of a dock where small fishing boats can access the bayou.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Pinball Geologist
I never had much money when I was pursuing my undergraduate degree. You didn’t really need a lot because the cost of an advanced education in the 60s was far less than it is today. As I remember, tuition, room and board at what was then Northeast Louisiana State College was only seventy-four dollars a month.
We had a wonderful student center complete with snack bar, pool tables and pinball machines. I was never very good at pool but I was a wizard when it came to pinball. The games in those days were all mechanical (as opposed to digital - either not yet invented or else too expensive for common use) and cost only a nickel to play (five games for a quarter).
Every college student had an angle and when it came to pinball the angle was this: a skilled and lucky player might win a hundred games. Four players could play at a time so he would charge his three challengers a total of fifteen cents to punch off four games. If one of the players also won games then he (mostly always a he) would split the take until all the games were played. A skilled pinball player could support his pinball habit while making a few extra spending bucks every day. And yes, pinball was an addiction.
I was a great pinball player but a horrible business man and even worse con man (you had to be a little of both to really make money at pinball). I usually ended up sharing my free games with buddies, and my brother Jack who was a needy (and I use the word kindly) pinball player.
During the last oil boom I was lucky enough to own a couple of analog pinball machines, including Aztec, possibly the greatest pinball machine ever created. Like the oil bust my machines went the way of my money – gone and might as well forgotten. Oh well! It was fun while it lasted.
I somehow managed to graduate from Northeast after four or so years but to this day I know more about pinball than geology (my college major). What a career move! They don’t even have analog pinball machines now and any self respecting ten year old (male or female) can whip my butt on Wii. Let ‘em try it on Aztec though and I’ll teach the young pups a lesson they’ll never forget.
Fiction South
We had a wonderful student center complete with snack bar, pool tables and pinball machines. I was never very good at pool but I was a wizard when it came to pinball. The games in those days were all mechanical (as opposed to digital - either not yet invented or else too expensive for common use) and cost only a nickel to play (five games for a quarter).
Every college student had an angle and when it came to pinball the angle was this: a skilled and lucky player might win a hundred games. Four players could play at a time so he would charge his three challengers a total of fifteen cents to punch off four games. If one of the players also won games then he (mostly always a he) would split the take until all the games were played. A skilled pinball player could support his pinball habit while making a few extra spending bucks every day. And yes, pinball was an addiction.
I was a great pinball player but a horrible business man and even worse con man (you had to be a little of both to really make money at pinball). I usually ended up sharing my free games with buddies, and my brother Jack who was a needy (and I use the word kindly) pinball player.
During the last oil boom I was lucky enough to own a couple of analog pinball machines, including Aztec, possibly the greatest pinball machine ever created. Like the oil bust my machines went the way of my money – gone and might as well forgotten. Oh well! It was fun while it lasted.
I somehow managed to graduate from Northeast after four or so years but to this day I know more about pinball than geology (my college major). What a career move! They don’t even have analog pinball machines now and any self respecting ten year old (male or female) can whip my butt on Wii. Let ‘em try it on Aztec though and I’ll teach the young pups a lesson they’ll never forget.
Fiction South
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
French Hunter's Meal - a weekend recipe
Here is an incredibly easy meal to prepare that is often eaten on Louisiana hunting trips in front of an open fire. It is hearty and very tasty.
1 can Lima beans
1 pkg. Spaghetti
1 large can tomatoes
1 lb. cubed beef or pork, cooked
1 can whole corn
Cook spaghetti, drain and rinse. Add other ingredients and salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot over toast or biscuits, using part of juice of meat for liquid. Serves six.
Eric'sWeb
1 can Lima beans
1 pkg. Spaghetti
1 large can tomatoes
1 lb. cubed beef or pork, cooked
1 can whole corn
Cook spaghetti, drain and rinse. Add other ingredients and salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot over toast or biscuits, using part of juice of meat for liquid. Serves six.
Eric'sWeb
Friday, July 10, 2009
Tim and Eric Go Camping
Ida is a village of less than three-hundred people that is located in Louisiana a few miles south of Miller County, Arkansas. It is about seven kilometers from an attraction known to locals as the Ida Hills. The Hills are a destination for campers and picnickers because of the scenic and distant vista from their steep bluffs. The bluffs rise more than one-hundred-forty feet above the ancient peneplaned course of the Red River.
Years ago my friend Tim and I camped out one night at the top of one of the bluffs. The area is heavily forested, the hills no exception. Tim’s large German shepherd, whose name escapes me, but I’ll call him Shep, accompanied us. Before it grew dark we could see all the way to the Red River and hear the horns of semis as they crossed the high bridge over the river.
Interminable forest in the valley below us nestled a small wooden church rumored to host voodoo ceremonies on occasion. There were also rumors of a crazed logger that wandered the hills, murdering anyone he encountered. We knew it was only a contrived story told around campfires, but it still caused us some apprehension when we finally turned off the lantern and darkness draped the spooky forest around us.
“No one will surprise us with ol’ Shep here protecting us,” Tim said. “Shepherds have the best hearing and sense of smell of any dog.”
The presence of Shep did give me lots of comfort as night sounds quickly engulfed us and I petted his big head before closing my eyes. I awoke sometime later, disturbed by movement in the vegetation surrounding us. I wasn’t the only one that heard it.
“What’s that?” Tim asked.
“I don’t know but it’s coming toward us.”
Shep apparently didn’t hear what Tim and I were hearing, or smell it. He remained asleep, breathing blissfully in the throes of some doggy dream. It didn’t matter because something was making lots of racket as it bulled its way through the underbrush towards us.
Oh shit! I thought. It’s the deranged logger and it must be a ghost or something or else the dog would hear it too. The only weapons either of us remotely had were our geologic pick hammers. We wielded them, shaking with fright – at least I was - and waiting for whatever was moving toward us to show itself in the tiny clearing where we had pitched camp. Finally it did.
The ugly marsupial head of an opossum suddenly appeared and the beast lumbered right up to us before Tim switched on his flashlight and shined it into the fiery red of his beady eyes. The startled creature took a step backward, then turned and hurried away through the pine forest.
Tim and I were relieved that we hadn’t had to defend ourselves against a ghost logger or voodoo deity. Shep never woke up. So much for the honed senses of German shepherds. Needless to say neither of us got much sleep the remainder of the night after realizing that we were protecting the dog rather than the other way around.
Fiction South
Years ago my friend Tim and I camped out one night at the top of one of the bluffs. The area is heavily forested, the hills no exception. Tim’s large German shepherd, whose name escapes me, but I’ll call him Shep, accompanied us. Before it grew dark we could see all the way to the Red River and hear the horns of semis as they crossed the high bridge over the river.
Interminable forest in the valley below us nestled a small wooden church rumored to host voodoo ceremonies on occasion. There were also rumors of a crazed logger that wandered the hills, murdering anyone he encountered. We knew it was only a contrived story told around campfires, but it still caused us some apprehension when we finally turned off the lantern and darkness draped the spooky forest around us.
“No one will surprise us with ol’ Shep here protecting us,” Tim said. “Shepherds have the best hearing and sense of smell of any dog.”
The presence of Shep did give me lots of comfort as night sounds quickly engulfed us and I petted his big head before closing my eyes. I awoke sometime later, disturbed by movement in the vegetation surrounding us. I wasn’t the only one that heard it.
“What’s that?” Tim asked.
“I don’t know but it’s coming toward us.”
Shep apparently didn’t hear what Tim and I were hearing, or smell it. He remained asleep, breathing blissfully in the throes of some doggy dream. It didn’t matter because something was making lots of racket as it bulled its way through the underbrush towards us.
Oh shit! I thought. It’s the deranged logger and it must be a ghost or something or else the dog would hear it too. The only weapons either of us remotely had were our geologic pick hammers. We wielded them, shaking with fright – at least I was - and waiting for whatever was moving toward us to show itself in the tiny clearing where we had pitched camp. Finally it did.
The ugly marsupial head of an opossum suddenly appeared and the beast lumbered right up to us before Tim switched on his flashlight and shined it into the fiery red of his beady eyes. The startled creature took a step backward, then turned and hurried away through the pine forest.
Tim and I were relieved that we hadn’t had to defend ourselves against a ghost logger or voodoo deity. Shep never woke up. So much for the honed senses of German shepherds. Needless to say neither of us got much sleep the remainder of the night after realizing that we were protecting the dog rather than the other way around.
Fiction South
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Winning the Lottery
In 1969 I won the lottery but it wasn’t a prize anyone would want to win. In the first draft lottery conducted in this country since World War II, 366 numbers were drawn, one for each day of the year. The number coinciding with your birthday became your lottery number. While I wasn’t first my number thirty-eight was good enough to get me drafted in the first round.
I was in my first semester of graduate school and had lost my student deferment after earning my bachelor’s degree the previous term. My first wife Gail and I were in our fifth month of marriage when I got my orders to report for a physical examination in Shreveport, Louisiana. It was the one and only physical I’ve ever taken that I was hoping to fail. I didn’t and less than two months later I was standing with a group of several hundred young men being sworn into the U.S. Army as a draftee.
Shortly after lowering our arms we were informed that we were now the property of the U.S. Army and expected to follow orders, like them or not. Within the hour I was on a bus loaded with draftees on our way to Fort Polk, Louisiana.
Louisiana has a large black population and I was the only white person on the bus, except for the driver. Because I had a college degree and not because I was white, I was told by an unfriendly sergeant that I was the squad leader for the busload of men.
“Wilder, you’re responsible for getting these men to Fort Polk. If you stop for a potty break and one of those boys wants to take a crap, you go with him into the shitter. Every last person that gets on the bus better damn well get off of it at Fort Polk or I guarantee it’ll be your ass and not theirs.”
Yes, we all made it to Fort Polk but not because of my exemplary leadership abilities. I was the oldest and most out of shape person on the bus and realized there was little I could do if someone decided to go AWOL. It was well after dark when we unloaded and we got little sleep that night, spending most of it being poked, prodded, injected and questioned. It was my first day in the Army and I felt more like an unwilling participant in a waking nightmare than a lottery winner.
Fiction South
I was in my first semester of graduate school and had lost my student deferment after earning my bachelor’s degree the previous term. My first wife Gail and I were in our fifth month of marriage when I got my orders to report for a physical examination in Shreveport, Louisiana. It was the one and only physical I’ve ever taken that I was hoping to fail. I didn’t and less than two months later I was standing with a group of several hundred young men being sworn into the U.S. Army as a draftee.
Shortly after lowering our arms we were informed that we were now the property of the U.S. Army and expected to follow orders, like them or not. Within the hour I was on a bus loaded with draftees on our way to Fort Polk, Louisiana.
Louisiana has a large black population and I was the only white person on the bus, except for the driver. Because I had a college degree and not because I was white, I was told by an unfriendly sergeant that I was the squad leader for the busload of men.
“Wilder, you’re responsible for getting these men to Fort Polk. If you stop for a potty break and one of those boys wants to take a crap, you go with him into the shitter. Every last person that gets on the bus better damn well get off of it at Fort Polk or I guarantee it’ll be your ass and not theirs.”
Yes, we all made it to Fort Polk but not because of my exemplary leadership abilities. I was the oldest and most out of shape person on the bus and realized there was little I could do if someone decided to go AWOL. It was well after dark when we unloaded and we got little sleep that night, spending most of it being poked, prodded, injected and questioned. It was my first day in the Army and I felt more like an unwilling participant in a waking nightmare than a lottery winner.
Fiction South
Saturday, July 04, 2009
My Favorite 4th
My Brother Jack was born on July the Third and he and I loved fireworks. We both wanted to be soldiers and we practiced war our entire childhood. Because of our obsession my favorite holiday, and my Brother Jack’s, was and is the Fourth of July and the one I remember best is the first one that I can remember.
While growing up in small town Vivian, there were no City ordinances barring the use of fireworks. Every manner of explosives was sold including M-80s and Two-Inchers. Jack and I are both lucky to have all our digits as we later experimented with everything we could strike a match too.
My buddy Timmy Jon and I even mixed our own batch of gunpowder and almost burned up the house with it. The first Fourth that I can remember, however, we made do with firecrackers, bottle rockets, sparklers and Roman candles.
On the Fourth of July my Mom and Dad would buy us about ten dollars worth of fireworks. Ten bucks doesn’t sound like much but you could pop lots of firecrackers for that amount in the sixties. We always began the fireworks as soon as it was dark enough.
I don’t remember my age but I was old enough to feel the excitement of impending danger. With our Dad’s help we began lighting sparklers, popping firecrackers and launching one bottle rocket after another. We soon got down to the good stuff.
‘Hold it in the air and shake it,” My Dad directed as he lit my first-ever Roman candle.
I can still remember the percussion and slight recoil as incandescent flame burst from the coiled-paper barrel of the explosive device. I couldn’t count at the time but I had a seat-of-the-pants feel for how many fiery rounds the candle contained. When it was over I held the warm rod in my hand, inhaling acrid smoke and burned powder. It was an odor I will never forget.
My red-headed Brother Jack was next at bat and he had mischief in mind before my Dad ever lit the candle’s fuse. My Mother was standing behind us in the open door of our house. Soon as the candle started spitting fire, Jack began pointing it at anything that caught his fancy - a tree, the family car, me, and finally toward the open door of the house.
Dodging the oncoming fireball, my Mom screamed and jumped off the porch. Jack put at least three fireballs through the house, luckily catching nothing on fire. When he finally threw down the spent Roman candle my Dad just shook his head, grabbed the remaining fireworks and walked into the house. Mom followed him, but not before unloading verbally on Jack.
Nothing much else was ever said about the incident, Mom and Dad giving Brother Jack the benefit of the doubt that what he did was caused by inexperience and lack of good sense. After living in close proximity to him until I was fifteen, I know better. He went to sleep that night giggling about scaring my Mom and Dad and getting away with it.
The Fourth of July means a lot more to me than just fireworks and hot dogs and we should all reflect on the sacrifices this wonderful holiday immortalizes. Still, my favorite holiday remains the Fourth of July and the one I remember best is the first one that I can remember.
Fiction South
While growing up in small town Vivian, there were no City ordinances barring the use of fireworks. Every manner of explosives was sold including M-80s and Two-Inchers. Jack and I are both lucky to have all our digits as we later experimented with everything we could strike a match too.
My buddy Timmy Jon and I even mixed our own batch of gunpowder and almost burned up the house with it. The first Fourth that I can remember, however, we made do with firecrackers, bottle rockets, sparklers and Roman candles.
On the Fourth of July my Mom and Dad would buy us about ten dollars worth of fireworks. Ten bucks doesn’t sound like much but you could pop lots of firecrackers for that amount in the sixties. We always began the fireworks as soon as it was dark enough.
I don’t remember my age but I was old enough to feel the excitement of impending danger. With our Dad’s help we began lighting sparklers, popping firecrackers and launching one bottle rocket after another. We soon got down to the good stuff.
‘Hold it in the air and shake it,” My Dad directed as he lit my first-ever Roman candle.
I can still remember the percussion and slight recoil as incandescent flame burst from the coiled-paper barrel of the explosive device. I couldn’t count at the time but I had a seat-of-the-pants feel for how many fiery rounds the candle contained. When it was over I held the warm rod in my hand, inhaling acrid smoke and burned powder. It was an odor I will never forget.
My red-headed Brother Jack was next at bat and he had mischief in mind before my Dad ever lit the candle’s fuse. My Mother was standing behind us in the open door of our house. Soon as the candle started spitting fire, Jack began pointing it at anything that caught his fancy - a tree, the family car, me, and finally toward the open door of the house.
Dodging the oncoming fireball, my Mom screamed and jumped off the porch. Jack put at least three fireballs through the house, luckily catching nothing on fire. When he finally threw down the spent Roman candle my Dad just shook his head, grabbed the remaining fireworks and walked into the house. Mom followed him, but not before unloading verbally on Jack.
Nothing much else was ever said about the incident, Mom and Dad giving Brother Jack the benefit of the doubt that what he did was caused by inexperience and lack of good sense. After living in close proximity to him until I was fifteen, I know better. He went to sleep that night giggling about scaring my Mom and Dad and getting away with it.
The Fourth of July means a lot more to me than just fireworks and hot dogs and we should all reflect on the sacrifices this wonderful holiday immortalizes. Still, my favorite holiday remains the Fourth of July and the one I remember best is the first one that I can remember.
Fiction South
Monday, June 29, 2009
Mavis' Fried Okra
Cajun and Creole cuisine is known and loved throughout the world but native Louisianans have a dirty little secret – they love fried foods. From fried oysters to fried turkey, there is little they haven’t tried to fry. One of my favorite dishes that my Mother prepared almost every Sunday was fried okra.
Roll the okra in flour then dip in a mixture of egg and buttermilk. Batter the okra with corn meal and then fry in hot oil until brown all over. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot.
My Mother had a large cast iron skillet she used to fry things in. While my Grandmothers fried with lard (pig fat) my mother began using vegetable oil once it was widely available. Personally, I prefer the vegetable oil. Try it and enjoy.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Roll the okra in flour then dip in a mixture of egg and buttermilk. Batter the okra with corn meal and then fry in hot oil until brown all over. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot.
My Mother had a large cast iron skillet she used to fry things in. While my Grandmothers fried with lard (pig fat) my mother began using vegetable oil once it was widely available. Personally, I prefer the vegetable oil. Try it and enjoy.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The Little House Where I Grew Up
The last time I visited my parents in the house where I grew up, before my Mother died, I sat on a stool with my laptop on the bed. This is the room where I lived for seventeen years of my life, the first fifteen along with my older brother Jack. The room is small, sixteen by fifteen, or 240 square feet. These days my brother and I get along very well. Now I know why! If we didn’t, we would have killed each other long before either of us ever graduated from high school. And the room seemed much larger than it does now.
I don’t remember getting along with my brother. Just the opposite. Memories of torment filling every waking moment abound in my mind, torment that usually lasted every single day until one or both of us fell asleep at night. If that’s true, then how did we keep from killing each other?
As I sat there, staring at the walls now decorated with pink print wallpaper, I wonder – did my Mother secretly want girls instead of boys? Even the sheets and comforter on the bed are pink. Yeech!
Now there was a queen-sized bed in the room. Jack and I each had our own beds, small beds. I remember moving them around like forts, taking the plungers out of our BB guns and having cork wars, shooting at each other until my Mother would hear us and race into the room screaming, "Your Daddy’s going to whip your butts when he comes home. Now stop it right now and straighten up this room."
My Father worked in construction and was away from home a lot. When he returned on weekends my Mother would meet him at the door with a belt. We almost always got a whipping before we got a hug. He never hurt us; the whippings were always more bluster than substance.
After pondering this great mystery of life, I’ve decided three things – the way we remember people we once knew is probably totally wrong, our memories of how things used to be are likely completely false and, last but not least, size only matters to adults.
One more thing bothers me, though. Am I wrong about the pink wallpaper?
Fiction South
I don’t remember getting along with my brother. Just the opposite. Memories of torment filling every waking moment abound in my mind, torment that usually lasted every single day until one or both of us fell asleep at night. If that’s true, then how did we keep from killing each other?
As I sat there, staring at the walls now decorated with pink print wallpaper, I wonder – did my Mother secretly want girls instead of boys? Even the sheets and comforter on the bed are pink. Yeech!
Now there was a queen-sized bed in the room. Jack and I each had our own beds, small beds. I remember moving them around like forts, taking the plungers out of our BB guns and having cork wars, shooting at each other until my Mother would hear us and race into the room screaming, "Your Daddy’s going to whip your butts when he comes home. Now stop it right now and straighten up this room."
My Father worked in construction and was away from home a lot. When he returned on weekends my Mother would meet him at the door with a belt. We almost always got a whipping before we got a hug. He never hurt us; the whippings were always more bluster than substance.
After pondering this great mystery of life, I’ve decided three things – the way we remember people we once knew is probably totally wrong, our memories of how things used to be are likely completely false and, last but not least, size only matters to adults.
One more thing bothers me, though. Am I wrong about the pink wallpaper?
Fiction South
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