Thursday, April 16, 2020

The Girl I married

Have you ever known about someone before you ever met them?  I have.  Her name was Frances.  Yep, the same one I married.  You know that stately beauty with a beautiful smile and swan like neck.  Strange isn't it.  Some people would say it was written in the stars; we were ordained to be together.  I can't argue with that.  I personally believe that God had these plans all along, too. 

I was in the army.  In Vietnam, at the time. My commanding officer asked me to replace someone putting together a yearbook for our brigade in Tokyo.  He knew I had a background in art and assumed I knew all about layout and proof reading. Of course, I told him I did.  I was clueless.  I went to Tokyo for my last month in Vietnam.  What a blessing.  I did get to meet with the person I was replacing.  We had one day together and he taught me everything I needed to know to finish the yearbook.     

I had a friend stationed at the airbase there.   Sam lived down the street from me growing up.  His wife, Jill, was pregnant.  Jill was also a great friend.  I had gone to college with her and we even dated, as friends on occasion, before she met Sam.  Sam was in the air force and going on temporary duty to Korea.  I looked in on and visited Jill a lot while he was gone. 

Jill has a twin brother, David.  I was always hearing about this girl he was dating from south Louisiana.  Jill was also telling him about me watching over her while Sam was gone.  This girl was named Frances.  Frances was also hearing about this friend that was with his sister over in Tokyo.

Years later, after I finished another year with the army, I returned to school and finished my degree. I started work as an art therapist in town.  I lived in a house that had been vacant for seven years.  It was rent free since my dad owned it.  One day, I got a call from a dear friend, Madie Carter, who was like a second mama to me. Her daughter and I were long time friends.   Ms. Carter had a girl staying with her that had graduated from Northwestern and was teaching in Alexandria.  I should meet her, she said.  Her name was Frances.   I was invited to a meal, several times.  I politely declined those several occasions.  Eventually, Frances joined my church, Emmanuel Baptist and I went down to meet her.  She looked at me and said, “You must be the guy Ms. Carter keeps inviting and never comes.”  I could have kicked myself.  She was beautiful. 

We ended up singing in choir together, going to Sunday school together and I finally got the nerve to ask her for a date.  (Men are dumb when it comes to matters of dating.)  I asked her one day if she would like to see Cabaret the movie with me.  She said that she heard about it and did not think that would be the kind of movie she would want to see.  I said, “Oh, okay.  Well maybe some other time.”  I kicked myself to the curb all the way back to the car.  Why didn’t I ask her to do something else, or even see a different movie? 

A few weeks later I finally worked up enough nerve to ask her out again.  I chose the correct movie.  The day of the date came, and it was a disaster.  It rained.  Not just a rain but a down right flood, a Noah's Ark type rain.   My roof was leaking in several rooms.   I called her and told her that I was not going to be able to go on the date because I needed to stay home and mop the floors.  I did not explain about the roof leaking or what a disaster each room was.  Oh, no.  That would have been too easy.   Again, remember,men are clueless and dumb when it comes to dating.

She must have thought I was nuts by this time.  I'm sure she was rather cold toward me at church for a good while after that.   Eventually I did ask her for a date a third time.  I told her I had to do something over at a girl's reform school.   Did I explain that I was chaperoning some youth?  Of course not.   Would she like to go.  She said yes, to my surprise.  So, our first date was chaperoning twenty something youth to sing at a girl’s reform school.  We did not go anywhere else afterwards.  You would think I had been able to get my act together by this time.  Bless my heart.    

We did continue dating after that and one day discovered we had heard about each other before.  I I told her about my friend Jill whom I had visited while in Tokyo.  She asked Jill’s last name, “I heard about you from her twin, David. I used to date David. He was always telling me about her friend helping her while her husband was flying to Korea.”  I realized that this was the Frances I heard about from Jill.  The puzzle came together.  Small world isn’t it.

How we married is a story all its own, just as bizarre and yet we have been married almost 47 years.  Bless her heart, she still loves me.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

Saturday, March 21, 2020

Today is my brother's birthday so I'm sharing a story from my archives about him.  Happy Birthday, Bobby.

My brother, the Sleepwalker

              My brother and I were unlikely roommates.   He and I are as different as night and day.  He has been a good ole' boy from head to toe since the day he was born and I am, well, I'm not sure what category I fit into.  Bobby is four years younger than me.  We were roommates, forever.  Something neither of us cared for. 

              Bobby was born not long after we moved to the Paradise community.  Our room was upstairs with a screened porch adjoining it. We frequently played on that porch.  I was careful with my toys, Bobby not so. When I was nine and Bobby five, I had a toy Roy Rogers Ranch set, complete with the fences and buildings for Roy and Dale, Trigger and Buttermilk and all the animals.  I would place them in a corner of that screened porch and play with them for hours, keeping things nice and neat, carefully putting them back in the box when finished.  Bobby loved destroying things.  He lost one of the horses and broke one of the fences.  He also had some pet white mice that he removed from their cage.  These critters chewed on Trigger and caused him to lose a leg.  I was furious.  I told Mama that I wanted a room all to myself.  I threatened to lock him on that porch with his pillow.  Of course, that didn't happen.  I was told to just be more careful with my toys.

We moved the summer before I went to the fourth grade.  Daddy built us a ranch style house on Jackson Street Extension, out in the country.  It had a long hall that separated the living quarters.  There was one house on either side of us and corn and cotton fields all the way back to MacArthur Drive.  Our pasture went all the way to Prescott Road.  The house was huge.  The fireplace alone had enough bricks in it to build a small house.  We both thought we would have a room to ourselves.  We didn’t. The bedrooms were off the long hallway, ours first and then my sisters.  We didn't have real doors, just an accordion style folding screen in place of one wall that separated us from the hallway. This was so we could have cross ventilation since there was no air conditioning. Mama and daddy were at the end of the hall with a real door, and a small window unit.      

We didn’t like that we had to share a room again.  Daddy had a headboard custom made by Leonard Lemell, our faithful carpenter, that had a shelf for books and stuff.  Our two single beds, connected by this headboard, were side by side with only a foot between us.   We were both unhappy. At least we each had our own closet and built in chest of drawers.   My side had sweet potato vines and books neatly arranged.  My clothes hung in the closet with short sleeves first, then long sleeves, then pants, all facing the same way, neatly spaced.   My underwear and tee shirts were carefully folded in the drawers.  I constantly told him, “Don't touch, that's mine.”   Bobby had jars of pickled rats and snakes.  He had clothes strewn everywhere, skulls of dead animals, wads of bubblegum stuck on the headboard.  His closet looked like the Tasmanian Devil had taken up permanent residence.  We fought, constantly.

            After about a year, Daddy became tired of our fighting.  The headboard that kept our beds so close was placed in the center of the room giving each of us our own space.  He threatened to build a wall between us if we didn’t behave.  He should have.  This worked, but the only problem was I had to pass his side of the room to go to the bathroom.  We co-existed, fighting often.  I still had to live with a brother that would place his cat on me after I was asleep.  Have you ever been awakened by a cat sucking on your neck in the middle of the night?    How that poor cat survived, I'll never know because it was slung upside the walls too many times.  He also found great pleasure in sneaking up from behind and choking me until I passed out. 

              One night, after both of us were asleep, daddy thought he heard a burglar in the house.  He walked quietly up the hall searching.  When he got to our room, he found me sitting up in bed talking in my sleep and Bobby sleepwalking.   Bobby became a regular sleepwalker after that night, and I continued to talk. 

            Soon the trouble began.  Bobby didn't just leave his sleepwalking to our room only.  Since we had no real door, he began wandering the hall to my sisters' room, into the kitchen and other places in the house.  Once he thought he was going to the bathroom and ended up going in the refrigerator.  Mama had a chain and lock placed on it after that.  Mama and daddy discussed things with our next-door doctor.  He said that when Bobby was sleepwalking, we were not to wake him suddenly for fear of causing trauma.   So, we put up with him wandering the house during the night.  It became a game like “Where's Waldo”.  Every morning we would search closets and rooms to see where my sleepwalking brother finally bedded down.  We got used to it.  

             We had a door in the hallway that exited outside. One night, Bobby went outside.  He was found sleeping on the patio in the back yard.  Since we lived in the country, we hardly ever locked doors.  We had to lock the door, now.   He found other doors.   When someone forgot to remove a key, he would unlock the door and head outside.   Soon, he didn't just leave the house and sleep in the yard, he began wandering to the barn, or was found in the pig lot or in the pasture among the animals, quietly sleeping with his pillow, cows and horses calmly ignoring him.  We even found him in the nearby woods off Prescott road.   Mama was beside herself and threatened to place a chain and lock on HIM at night.  Maybe she should have.   All of us were losing sleep.

Securing the doors became a hard-and-fast rule.   But that didn't stop him.  He still managed to escape.  One morning, we found him on the grass under the China berry tree, in our neighbor's pasture, fast asleep.   All the doors were still locked, and keys accounted for.  This happened for several nights.  I was put on watch, after that, to see how he escaped.  I really hated that, but at least I didn't go to sleep first to have that cat thrown on me.  That rascal had found the wood box next to our huge fireplace.  The wood box opened to the den and to the outside so we could load firewood from the woodpile without tracking the wood across the living room.  No one ever thought that it should be locked.  Bobby had managed to crawl through that space and leave the house. 

Bobby finally stopped walking in his sleep.  The reason?  One night he went outside and fell into a ditch filled with water, frightening him alone out there in the dark.   In the middle of the night he came banging on the door and screaming.  Bless his heart.  He was traumatized.

He was always in his bed every morning, after that experience, AND we continued being horrible roommates.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

Thursday, February 27, 2020


This is a blog from the archives. One of my favorites about my mama.

April 22, 2015

             My mama had a mischievous eye.  Occasionally she delighted in bringing it out to wink in merriment. Once when she and I were returning from Grandma and Grandpa Georges in Hattisburg, Mississippi, she decided we'd drive to New Orleans and spend the night before coming home.  I thought nothing about it because I was used to those, spur of the moment type excursions, on Mama's part.

            We stopped for lunch somewhere on Magazine Street, Mama’s favorite place in the world to go antiquing.  She could spend days just enjoying all the unique shops up and down this street.   After ordering our shrimp po boys and while waiting for our meal, Mama began eavesdropping on the people in the booth just behind her, another of her favorite pastimes.   As they ordered, they were talking about a certain large expensive piece of jade, from Burma, they had seen on Magazine street, on their last trip during Mardi Gras and had come back from Dallas to purchase it.  During the conversation the couple mentioned the shop's name and described the jade in detail to their friends who had traveled with them.  The lady said, “Let’s enjoy our meal and dessert and then go purchase this jade. There’s no hurry.  I had called and they know we are coming.”

  Mama looked at me, a twinkle in her eye, “Quickly finish your meal,” she said.  “I know that shop.  Let's have some fun.”   We rushed through our shrimp po boys and left straight for the antique shop, just two blocks away.  

When the people arrived to acquire the jade, they found Mama at the counter holding that beautiful stone trying to decide whether she would purchase it.  She kept going on and on about its quality and how her daughter would love to wear it at her wedding.  She told the shop owner that we had come from Dallas for this stone. “You do remember our phoning about this, don’t you? We wanted it for our daughter’s wedding,” she said, smiling at me.  The couple was restless and nervous as they watched in horror.  “Napoleon, Mama said, addressing me, don't you think this would look perfect on your sister?  Sweet daddy won’t mind.  His precious darling is marrying someone with almost as much money as we and Daddy would LOVE to show off by buying something expensive for his precious little girl.”  I nodded, used to playing along. Mama stood silent for the longest time before putting it down.  She started to walk away but quickly returned to the counter and examined it some more. Finally, Mama said to the owner, “Could you hold this beautiful stone while I retrieve my daughter?  It won't take a second,” she said, “She’s down the street purchasing some antique armoire for her new house on the lake.  Darlin’, I'll even leave my son, Napoleon, here until I return.”  He agreed.  The couple was devastated. Mama turned, smiled while greeting the couple, walked to the door, and left. 

 I watched the color leave their faces.  The wife was about to cry.  She kept whispering to her husband to do something.  He stood his ground, however, while standing there in his cowboy boots and leather Stetson hat, appearing as if his temper would flair at any moment.  I was afraid that if mama didn’t return soon, from around the corner, he would be rude and force the owner to let them procure it, after all they had come all the way from Texas for this stone.  I averted my eyes from them as they stood there, uncomfortable in their silence with hatred in their eyes.

I thought Mama was hiding around the corner a wee bit too long and was about to bolt for the door. The man in the Stetson hat began pacing the floor while the wife continued crying.  

Just as I felt Mama had abandoned me, she returned and said, loudly, from the door. “Oh, never mind about holding that jade. I can't find my daughter.  Come on Napoleon, let's go.  I changed my mind concerning the jade.”  The expression on that woman’s face was priceless, tears smeared her mascara.  The man practically knocked me down rushing to the counter, checkbook in hand. 

 Mama and I stood outside on Magazine street laughing. 

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

Tuesday, November 26, 2019


It was Thanksgiving week, 1943.  World War II was still going on.  Mama and Daddy had moved to Alexandria, Louisiana and he had started his Pest Control Business. Daddy had not yet joined the Navy. My sister, Becky, was eighteen months old and I was due the first week of December. 

Everything was wonderful, until daddy announced that he had invited his family over for Thanksgiving.  Could mama put together a meal?  I know that my mama did not take this quietly and exhausted as she was from taking care of Becky and being nine months pregnant, fussed and fumed while she prepared the meal.  Thursday, family arrived, some with side dishes or pies, and everyone ate and then left.  I/m sure, mama, being mama, told them not to worry about cleaning up, because “the maid comes in later.”  I’m sure she expected daddy would wake up and help her.

After everyone left, daddy committed that he and his good friend and hunting buddy, Richard Mohon, were going hunting and be back Sunday.  He gathered his gear and left.  Here was mama, exhausted and furious.  Becky was, no doubt, talking as if she were vaccinated with a phonograph needle and running all over the house like the hyper energizer bunny.  I must have sensed this stress because Friday morning, mama went into labor.  How, or who, got her to Baptist hospital (later Rapides General) is a mystery.  I was born that afternoon.  Friday, November 26th.

Someone found daddy and he returned late that afternoon.  Mama had already been settled in her room (remember, in the dark ages of the 1940’s, women were required to stay in the hospital for a week).  Mama had already given my name, James David, for the birth certificate.  Daddy saw this and reminded mama that he had wanted the baby, if a boy, named after his buddy Richard Mohon.  There probably was no response from mama.   Daddy took the certificate, without mama’s knowledge, and informed the hospital that the name was wrong.  It should have been James Richard.  They changed it.

Mama didn’t find out until several months later.  So, daddy, seeing that mama was settled in her room decided that he and the doctor would go hunting for the weekend and return Sunday since someone was taking care of Becky. 

Soon after that, daddy joined the Navy and spent the rest of the war in China, spraying mosquitos for malaria since he had a degree in Entomology. I didn’t really get to meet my daddy until I had begun talking.  My first memory was of this man being in the house all the time and him spanking me because I kept saying, “Stranger, go home.”

Happy Thanksgiving, mama and daddy.   There were better Thanksgiving days through the years, even though daddy seemed to manage hunting most of them.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

Friday, July 26, 2019

Cotton Caulder

Psalm 30:11     You turned my wailing into dancing, you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.

(This story is based upon a true event that happened in my daddy's cotton field back in the 1950's.  A woman actually delivered a baby in the cotton field while picking cotton.  The names, story and artwork, however, are mine.)

           Cotton Caulder was born in my daddy’s cotton field one hot fall day back in the 1950’s.   She’s the daughter of Sweet.  That’s her mama’s name not her disposition.  Sweet was as wide as she was tall, 4 foot 9 inches.  Lived over in Samtown; picked cotton.  No one even knew that she was pregnant, she may not have known herself.  I have heard of such things happening.  Sweet’s husband, Rufus, used to snuggle up against her and with a great big toothless smile, say, “Acers and acres and she’s all mine.” Sweet would just smile and then hit him hard over the head.  Might be where he lost his teeth.  People didn’t cross Sweet, no sir, didn’t cross her at all.
Cotton Caulder    after retirement

It was cotton picking season.  The weather was hot and humid for a fall day.  No one wanted to go into the field, but the money was needed, and the cotton had to get out of the field before the heavy rains came and soaked the crop.   I don’t know which would be worse, people being soaked to the bone or the cotton.  
The pickers were relieved when noontime came.  Everyone piled into the truck and we headed for Tommy’s Grocery buying moon pies and R-ah C colas. Sweet wasn’t with us. 
          “Must have run off,” said one.
          “Naw, Sir, bet a mean ole rattler gots her,” said another, causing some to scream.
          “Don’t you go worrying none ‘bout my sweet, she’d bite that ole rattler’s head off if’in he’d come near her.  Yes sir, bite that ole head off, I tells you,” said Rufus.  They all laughed at the sight of that.
          “You right, Rufus, ain’t nobody gonna cross that woman of yours.”

            Returning to the field, daddy parked under one of the pecan trees and everyone sat around eating.  Some stretched out and took a brief nap before going back to work.  At the end of the day, everyone returned, dragging in slowly with their full loads of cotton.  As they sat around the wagon, waiting for the big man to weigh the individual bags, Sweet came in carrying a full load of cotton and a brand, new baby girl. 

They named her Cotton and she grew up playing in the fields,  or working, helping hoe.  When she was ten her mama couldn’t stand to look at that child anymore and ran off with another man.  Rufus, not knowing how to take care of a ten-year-old girl, sent Cotton to Chicago to live with her Auntie.

            When Cotton was seventeen, she moved once more, this time to Harlem to live with other relatives.  She said she didn’t ever want to go south again.  She was a good dancer and tried out several of the clubs, but that didn’t appeal to her.  One day she heard of the Rockettes.  Didn’t know anything about them but they were having tryouts.  She went.  She got the job.

            She was quite the dancer, that Cotton.  Kicked higher than others and had to learn to control her enthusiasm.  People started calling her “high” Cotton.   Cotton worked hard and eventually was given the coveted position of being front center.  Things worked well for several years, that is, until the accident.  Once, while performing for the President of the United States she kicked too high, lost her balance and broke her partner’s nose, causing the whole line on her left to fall, while breaking her hip in the process.  Bless her heart.

 Here’s a tip:  Don’t kick and break a hip or your career will go zip.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

Saturday, June 22, 2019


Luke 15:4   “What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness, and go after the one which is lost, until he finds it?”


            It was still dark that Monday morning when the moss gatherers met on Elijah's barge ready to caravan to the swamps for a few weeks work.  “Bring da lanterns,” Emile shouted.  “And don't forget your spikes, like da las time, Baptiste.”   When daylight came the moss fleet headed down Palmetto Bayou traveling on the narrow float roads.  Following the barges with the cabins housing the womenfolk and children and supplies were the skiffs holding derrick like platforms from which the men worked.  They hoped to be at the camp site by nightfall as long as there were no mishaps.  Surely not this trip since they had the priest himself bless their fleet before leaving Pierre Part.

            Isabelle was on the lead barge in a basket with her baby rattles made from rattlesnake tails even though she was close to two years old.  Her mama liked her being there while preparing the evening meal.  Grandpere was playing his accordion in his favorite chair on the front of the barge.  Then it happened.  The barge hit a cypress stump which was just below the surface, sawed off during low water.  Everyone disappeared in the murky waters.  Men, from the caravan, frantically searched but found no one.

            Days passed and the search party finally left since the area was too treacherous.  Nothing was found of the Comeaux family. Everyone was believed to have been eaten by the alligators.

             Years passed and no one gathered moss in this area again for years, believing it was cursed by the Gris Gris.

            One year, the grandsons of the first moss gatherers decided to take a chance and work this same bayou since it had some of the best moss around.  They no longer believed their parents warnings.  One evening, after everyone was settled in for the night, music could be heard coming from the swamp.   Men turned on their lanterns, and shouted for Te Emile to stop that music, thinking he was playing the accordion, but he was fast asleep.  They went back to bed after much grumbling.  Tomorrow would be the roughest day what with setting up camp and making racks on which to hang the moss to dry. 

            That night they continued to hear strange noises in the swamps, not paying too much attention at first, but this music was different.  It wasn't the bellowing of the alligators, or the shrill cry from the birds or the wind making noises in the trees. This sound was remarkably like an accordion playing.    The women were beginning to be spooked, thinking the Gris Gris really was in this part of the swamp where the Comeaux family died.  They begged the men to leave someone at the base camp for protection when they left to gather moss the next day.  The music continued day and night.

             One afternoon while, gathering the moss, one of the men discovered a basket containing rattlesnake baby rattles and clothes.  A note attached to the basket said “Isabelle Comeaux”.  Could this be the remains of the baby from the crash that their grandparents talked about?  The men broke camp immediately and left that very night.

            Absolutely terrified, no one comes to that area of Palmetto Bayou any longer.  Word has been passed down, again, from village to village about the spirit of Isabelle Comeaux haunting the swamps, while playing the old Cajun music of their grandparents.  She flies, through the air, on an egret.  Rumor says she is protecting her family from others disturbing the graves. 

            So.  If you hear some accordion music while deep in the swamps, perhaps it is only Isabelle Comeau trying to pass the day.  Stay clear or you might be eaten by the alligators as well.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

Tuesday, May 21, 2019

The Snare 
by Susie Blair

 This past Mother’s Day I was reminiscing about my mother and the wonderful person she was.  Not only did she write two children’s books that were simultaneously published in Canada and the United States (she received letters from children in Ontario, Iceland and England) but she also wrote articles in McCall’s, Good Housekeeping and probably other magazines (under a nom de plume…the name not ever revealed to us either). Mama was well known around Alexandria and Baton Rouge.  She was a frequent guest speaker at Garden Clubs, Matinee Music clubs, and Junior Leagues.  She was known for her wit and unusual insights into every day living.  She was also a Bible scholar and was known for her vast knowledge of the history of the Bible.  Her Sunday school classes were well attended at Emmanuel Baptist Church in Alexandria. 

Mama was well known in other circles as well.    She was known by several Governors and people all over Louisiana, yet she never put on “airs”. Ms. Susie was Ms. Susie.   It was nothing for her to jump in a swimming pool, in her evening gown, on a dare in front of lots of important people from Louisiana.  It was nothing for her to answer the front door barefoot and in shorts for a visiting governor.  It was nothing for her to call a representative or senator in Washington, D.C., about business that wasn’t something Daddy, a state senator, should handle on the state level.  If something wasn’t handled correctly, Mama went right to the source, or the manager, or the head of the company.  She even had warehouses shut down because of some illegal underhanded business.   

Yet, Mama seemed to meet everyone as if they had been friends forever.  This is probably because she was a Methodist minister’s daughter and grew up all over Louisiana.  One of her favorite quotes was, “My whole life has been in a fishbowl.  I was one as a minister’s child and another one as a politician’s wife.    One day I’m gonna’ write a book.”  I wish she had. 

Mama loved to write, but then she did come by it naturally.  Her Aunt Dolly played the piano and wrote songs.  Her mother wrote poetry.  Her brother wrote textbooks and her sister wrote poetry and painted.   She came from a family of creative people. 
 There is so much more I could tell about Susie Blair,  but today I want to share a poem she wrote years ago, the date unknown – I discovered it when in college and have kept it with me all my life.


By Susie Blair

Psalm 25:15 “My eyes are ever toward the Lord, for He shall pluck my feet out of the net.”
Psalm 31:4 “Pull me out of the net, for thou art my strength.”

It looked like a cobweb.  Lacy, pretty, not very strong.
Something I could touch, brush aside if it bothered me.
So, I reached out, I touched it.  Things began to happen that surprised me plenty!
It looked like a cobweb, not very strong,
Only it seemed to have a strange quality,
Holding tight, tight.
I couldn’t let go.

I couldn’t get out.
Either I got smaller to be held by a cobweb, or it got bigger to hold me. 
I couldn’t tell which.
The bands of silk were rawhide strips.  Green rawhide digging into my flesh every time I moved.
I looked at myself, Helpless there,

Wanting to get out.
I looked again.  I was smaller,
Quite little,
The web was the same.  It was I so changed.
 The web had changed me from big to little the moment I touched it.

Now it was too late,
Now I was too little, too helpless to ever escape.
I just had to sit and wait,
Hopelessly to be consumed piece by piece.
Till I became nothing, nothing, nothing at all.
This was the Web of Sin.
No escape?

I felt so small, incapable of trying.
Weaker, every minute.
I cried over and over, Help!
Please help me!  Someone, please!
In a frenzy of fear, I turned, twisted, fought with all my strength.
My strength was nothing, nothing at all.
The web!

The terrible sticky web!
How I wished I never touched it.
Too late!  I cried.
But I was wrong.
I had become small, almost nothing.

Suddenly a big strong hand reached, tore away the sticky web.
Effortlessly, easily, picked me up.  Held me high.
I leaned over, I looked down, afraid of falling.
Then…I looked up.
I saw a face
Gentle, patient, kind.

A voice that said, “I won’t let you fall.  Not ever, not ever.
You may jump off if you like, but you only get tangled up again.
Why not stay.  Stay here in my hand.
Don’t look down.  You’ll feel frightened.  Look up!
Look up, little one.
I did.

I felt stronger almost at once.
Daily I grew again.  Regained my stature, my smallness disappeared.
I got bigger,
Less afraid.
As I got stronger, He let me help Him going about picking up others caught in the web.
I could tear the web away from others myself….
With Him helping me, of course!
Never by myself.

Note: I recently discovered two magazine articles that were published and am looking forward to reading them soon.  Still no sign of her nom de plume.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.