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.

Sunday, April 28, 2019

Elroy Gremillion Meets the Governor

I met four Louisiana Governors because of Daddy.  He was in the Louisiana Legislature as a Representative and then State Senator from 1952 to 1976, so I met Robert Kennon, Jimmy Davis of the “You Are My Sunshine” fame, John McKeithen and Edwin Edwards.  Growing up, I always felt like I was in a “goldfish bowl” (my mother’s words, not mine.)  We were to be seen and not heard most of the time. 

However, because of Daddy, I was able to attend inaugurations and parties held by governors around hotel swimming pools.  I even sat in one governor’s desk and read comic books whenever they were in session (yea, I was nine).  I had even been to the governor’s mansion on more than one occasion. It seemed a magical life, for a boy who was free to roam the state capital grounds with the Lt. Governor’s son, climb on Huey Long’s statue, and pretend to give tours from the top of the capital to visitors.  In my teenage years I was even a senate page.  I thought it cool that governors knew my name (even if it only was, “That’s Senator Blair’s son.)

  So, when Daddy officially retired, I felt that my years of meeting governors was over.  Yet, years later, I   met another governor.  The first female governor of Louisiana, Kathleen Babineaux Blanco, governor from 2004-2008, was one that I admired a lot.  I met her after that horrific Katrina disaster that ruined many lives and certainly complicated hers.

 So now I’m sure your question is, “Who is this Elroy Gremillion up in the title?  I thought this was about your experiences.  How did this Elroy know the Governor of Louisiana?   What is this all about?” Well, I’ll tell you.

Those who know me, know of my whimsical art pieces of people.  I loved cutting them out of wood and giving them a name and a story, (you know, sorta like, “Who’s your mama and dem?”) One such piece was Elroy Gremillion.  Yes, Elroy is a figment of my imagination, but Elroy is different from the rest because he was the first one which was created with an entire painted background, complete with a decorated frame, (half of an old screen door).  All the previous pieces were single people. 
                                 ELROY GREMILLION                                    

 This is his story:

Psalm 28:6-7    Praise be to the Lord, for he has heard my cry for mercy.  The Lord is my strength and my shield; My heart trusts in him, and I am helped.  My heart leaps for joy and I will give thanks to him in song.

 Elroy Gremillion was a bitter Vietnam veteran who turned to drugs and alcohol.  He lived in a cardboard box in the back room of a bait stand on Main street in Pineville, Louisiana, when the weather was good, and in shelters the rest of the time.  I met him at the Main Street Mission, two doors from the bait stand, when he came for a meal one day. (Several from our church served meals twice a month at the mission).  We began to talk over the next few weeks.   It was here that he shared his story. 

Elroy had a lot of hatred about the way he was treated upon returning to the states, and a lot of nightmares of the horrors he experienced fighting in Vietnam.  It was bad enough, he said, that he had to live in dirt and mud while constantly fearing for his life fighting in a war that no one wanted.  Upon returning home he was spat upon and cursed at the airport.  This seemed to be the last straw.  At first, he returned to New Iberia, his hometown, but was treated with the same disdain.  His life spiraled downward after that.   Elroy’s only relative, his sister, kicked him out.  They drifted apart after that. Unable to find a job because of his anger toward people, Elroy ended up on the streets, another of the number of the invisible homeless veterans.  Elroy continued displaying his anger toward others until this one night when he was restless and unable to sleep.  He heard some music.  He gazed out the window searching for the haunting melody, a beautiful rhapsody, he thought, that rippled among the pines.  Unable to find it, he relaxed and slept soundly that night.  When the sun rose, he greeted the day with thanksgiving.  All day that melody penetrated his thoughts.  The owner of the bait stand told him the music came from two doors down, at the mission.  Elroy said he seemed to know the music, but it was as if hearing it for the first time. 

  Main Street Mission became his salvation.  People were different there.  One day he asked the man in charge, “Will you teach me the music?”

“In time,” he replied. “Give it time.”

 As he became stronger, less angry, Elroy discovered how to love again and eventually began to help others who had lost their hearts so they, too, could learn the love of God.

 Elroy’s story is not that complicated, and, like all of us, he is still discovering himself and his purpose in this world.  

In July of 2005, I had a one man show on Magazine Street in New Orleans. 
Elroy was one of the pieces that I had exhibited.  It was a festive, summer evening, with people strolling down the street, stopping at galleries open for the art walk.  I had invited lots of friends and enjoyed a wonderful reception, even sold a few pieces. It was a lovely time with good food and friends.  The show would hang until the end of   August.

 On August 23, disaster hit.  Hurricane Katrina came to town.  
It was the third major hurricane of the 2005 season and the fourth-most intense Atlantic hurricane on record.  Eighty per cent of New Orleans was flooded due to breeches in the levee system.  There was looting and crimes. People were stranded in the Superdome.  Life in New Orleans seemed to have ended.  

 I was unable to retrieve my art pieces from Magazine Street.  I didn’t know if the gallery was flooded or if any art was safe.   I tried to contact the owners but received no response.  They had left the city.  After a great deal of searching I turned to a friend that was a state trooper, temporarily assigned to New Orleans to help crowd control.  He eventually found time to go by Magazine Street and informed me  that the building was locked and not damaged by water.  Everything was dry.   Nothing was looted.  The trooper arranged to return my art whenever he came home.   

 Like the Katrina Rose, Elroy had survived the devastation of Katrina.  

 Who knew, that after enduring Katrina, there would be more to Elroy’s story?  Who knew that the Governor would one day meet Elroy Gremillion? That they would become friends and hang out in the Governor’s Mansion together?  Certainly not me.  Perhaps they met when Governor Blanco oversaw the massive evacuation of 93% of the New Orleans area.  We will never know.  Maybe he told her they had something in common, both being Cajuns from New Iberia although I doubt their paths ever crossed during Katrina.

Kathleen Blanco was the 54th and first female Governor of Louisiana when Katrina struck.  I have always had a lot of respect for her.  (Understand this.  We are not going to talk politics here about what troubles Katrina caused her or her career).  The Council for a Better Louisiana gave Blanco it’s Robert B. Hamm Award for Distinguished Service in recognition for her work in improving education in the state and for guiding the first pay raise in years for public school teachers.  She said, “Education was the best way to lead people out of poverty.”

In March of 2007, I was accepted to participate in the Governor’s Sixth Annual State Home Showcase of Art.  I was one of seven artists from the state asked to participate.  A committee, including Governor Blanco selected the art to hang for one year in the Mansion.  My piece, Elroy Gremillion, was selected.  In April, my wife, Frances and I enjoyed the unveiling of the art reception in the Governor’s Mansion where all of us artists had our picture taken with the governor.  We were given a tour of the mansion. It brought back memories of being there in the past.  Beautiful art pieces, from the other artists, hung throughout the building.  Searching for mine, I was surprised to discover that Elroy hung directly in front of Governor Blanco’s desk where she could see it daily.  Later, she told me she wanted it opposite her desk because it made her smile.  He reminded her of her Cajun roots.  I can only imagine what stories Elroy heard and what laughter and tears he witnessed.  I often wonder if she talked to him, late at night, of her frustrations.

Old Elroy Gremillion has had quite a life.  He survived Vietnam and then Hurricane Katrina before meeting the Governor of Louisiana and hanging out with her for a year.   Elroy must be kin to Forrest Gump!  Ha!

Note:   It makes me sad, that as I write this memory, Kathleen Blanco is under hospice care because of cancer.  I wish her family well during this time.  May she transition without pain.  She gave me a wonderful memory that I will forever cherish.

Nippy.   April 26, 2019
© 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.

Monday, April 15, 2019

 Lena Hall
A memory of a favorite person

I was back from the war in Vietnam, 1970 and still had a year of service left.  After a brief leave at home, I was sent to Fort Knox, Kentucky where I worked in a photo lab printing and enlarging negatives.  I didn’t mind the work at all but living in the barracks with forty or more men was nerve wracking for an introvert/extrovert.  I needed space and time alone.

 The room at the barracks was divided into open cubicles. There were eight of us in double bunks crammed together at the back of the room.  The other seven and I were not compatible at all.  They drank every night, came in drunk every weekend, and gambled on the floor in clusters all the time.  There was always loud music into the night.  On top of all that, the base trained artillery nightly.  Which meant that loud noises were heard, and me, just back from Vietnam, was still gun shy.  Many nights I would hear the artillery and jump from bed and run for the bunkers and safety.  It was an automatic response.  I was miserable.

Here I was alone, living in a situation I found deplorable.  I needed help.
 I had two friends in the lab that were in the same situation.  About a week later, the three of us rode a bus to a Volkswagen dealership in Louisville.  We all bought 1970 Karma Ghia’s.  My friends bought convertibles and I, a two- door coup.  I paid $2800.00 cash with money I saved from my tour overseas. Yes.  You read those figures correctly.   I now had freedom.  There are no words to describe the feeling of paying cash for a new car and then driving it off the lot that same day.  None. 

I drove the long way back to the base. I discovered things that day.  One was the town of Elizabethtown and the other was the Severns Valley Baptist Church. The next Sunday, I visited that Baptist Church.  After a few more visits, I joined the church, which I’d been taught was the proper thing to do.  I made friends and joined the choir and a Sunday school.  Life felt normal except for my situation on the base in the barracks, which was still just as deplorable.

Before long, I ended up sleeping in my car, most nights, because my seven bunk mates would harass me. At first, I slept in the base parking lot and then later I ended up sleeping in the parking lot behind the church.  I mentioned this to a man in the choir one day and he suggested I move off the base.  He then introduced me to a lady he was kin to, Mrs. Lena Hall, who was living alone just a few blocks from the church.  She was not that sure of renting to a stranger, nor I from a lady that had violets in vases everywhere and crocheted arm covers on all the furniture.  After our visit we learned we had a lot in common and we agreed to try it for a while. 

I went to my sergeant and explained to him I was moving off base to Elizabethtown.   I gave him her name and phone number.  The sergeant explained that single men were not allowed to live off base unless it was with some relative.  I said, rashly, “She is my grandmother.”  He called while I was standing there before I had time to let her know what I told him.  I was scared.  She answered, “Yes, he is my grandson.”  Wow!  I knew this was the best thing ever, and, I knew Mrs. Hall and I would be great friends.  I moved off base.

She made room in the corner of her basement for a bed and a dresser with an old quilt draped over a wire, for privacy.  It was comfortable.  Eventually she invited me upstairs to watch TV with her.  We became fast friends.   I admired some hand punched rugs on her floor which she had made.  She taught me how to make them. 
Because of Mrs. Hall, I developed a love for folk art and rekindled my desire to return to college and finish my art degree.  

  I took her places on weekends. I used to laugh at her because she began leaving her purse on the stand by her chair, next to the front door, and the very mention of, “Would you like to go somewhere?” would say, “Let me find my purse.” Then reach over, grab it and say, “Here it is.  Ready.”


 Once, we saw an old weaving loom.  I expressed the desire to own one and learn to weave.  She told me stories of someone in her family that wove, reassuring me that we could learn also.  She called her son, Jodie Hall, who traveled around Kentucky and asked him to keep his eye out for a loom.  He found one way up in the woods somewhere in the area at an estate sale.  An elderly couple were giving up the farm.  The loom was in parts, in a pile sitting next to the barn.  Jodie reassured me that if anything was missing, he could probably make the lost part. Everything was there, however.  I bought it for $13.00 because no one else bid on it.  I should have bid lower, (ha)! Jodie helped me move it to his mother’s basement.  We learned to warp it and then to weave.  Mrs.  Hall spent hours sewing rag strips for me to weave.  We made rag rugs and sold them at a Flea market. 

On the ceiling of her basement she kept a quilt frame and often would sit quilting while I learned to weave.  One day, I decided that I would like to paint a quilt.  I bought a white sheet and we stretched it on her quilting frame so I could paint easier.  I painted one for her with red flowers, her favorite, taking it off the frame to measure how it was fitting on the bed and back to the frame.  When finished she and I drew patterns for the quilting.  We bought the filler and put the quilt together before she did the intricate quilting.   Then we made one for my mother in blue. 

Her daughter, Alene and her husband were members of a square-dancing club and would go square dancing on the weekends.  I soon joined them.  I had never, really, square danced before but quickly loved it. There was never any trouble finding a partner.  I loved hearing the caller chanting, “Allemande left and do si do, roll away to a half sashay, ladies in, men sashay. Face your partner and a right and left grand.”  Watching the ladies (and men) in their bright matching costumes and club colors was always a treat.  Of course, Mrs. Hall made an outfit for me, too.  This became a regular on Saturday nights dressing up and traveling around this area of Kentucky and Indiana.

This elderly lady and I in my twenties were a match made in heaven.  I relieved her of the loneliness of living alone and she saved me from a deplorable living arrangement in the barracks.

I hated leaving her at the end of my tour of duty.  I even went to Berea, Kentucky and applied for jobs, to no avail.  It’s a good thing I did return home to continue schooling because I never would have met my Frances. 

We kept in touch for a while, and even made a visit with my wife, once, but I was never able to return and visit her again.  I wish I had made the effort more because she was a large part of who I am today.  She made me see myself as the artist I am.  Thank you, Mrs. Hall for telling that sergeant I was your grandson.
© 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, December 4, 2018


I was in the third grade, back in the early 1950's, when life was tranquil, and Daddy decided we needed to move. He announced that living with too many neighbors was making him claustrophobic. There was a neighbor on each side of us, one across the street and three more down our lane. That was fine, really, but when more houses began to be built, on some land behind us, that was too much. We had to move. He bought some land on the outskirts of Alexandria, Louisiana, on the other side of the Red River, that was still considered country, and began plans to build the house we would live in until I went off to college. It would be a huge brick ranch house with plenty of room for all four of us kids, in fact, the fireplace, itself, would be large enough to build a small house, he told us. There would be plenty of room to roam. “I would have enough land to raise some crops, have cows to milk and horses to ride and no neighbors, except one on each side of us.
“But we already have cows to milk and a horse to ride, and a neighbor on each side of us,” mama said.

“But others are building around us and we are getting crowded out,” was his reply. “The neighbors, at the new place, are farmers. The one on the left isn't and just has a small parcel of land. I could live with that,” he said. “It's just the size to have a small farm, and the kids can each have their own animal.” He was on a roll, and Mama knew that once he made up his mind then that was that and there was no need to keep arguing. The plans were in place, and we would just have to get used to it.

I was apprehensive about moving. I enjoyed our two story house in the Paradise community that I had lived in since I was four years old. I really didn't remember any other house. I enjoyed our little shed of a barn with chickens roaming about and the cow and horse we owned. I loved the house. I started school from this house. I didn't like changes. I even loved the bed room I shared with Bobby, on the second floor that was next to a screened porch where we kept our collection of white mice and where we slept on hot summer nights. So what if Mama and Daddy had to cross through our room to go to the main upstairs bathroom. That wasn't our problem.

We weren't going to be moving into a ready made house either, I found out. We were going to build this house, something Daddy always wanted to do. He wanted to have his own house as long as he could remember since he grew up as a sharecropper's son.

That glorious brick ranch house, with the too many bricks in the fireplace, was built and we moved in the summer I turned nine and Bobby five. Becky was ten then and Jane only three. That summer we discovered it wasn't all that bad after all. We had the freedom to roam all over the place. There were no houses around us except our two neighbors. Just land and woods and things to explore. We became free range children.

The first thing Daddy did, after the house, was build a barn. After all, our cows and horses needed a place to be. He spent his evenings planning and drawing and thinking how the barn should look. Daddy consulted his architect friend, Claude Boutte. Plans were drawn up. It was a simple tin barn with a hay loft upstairs and stalls on each side of the open space below. Daddy's hunting dogs even got a place next to the barn. They each had their own dog house and an area to roam, complete with a tree in the middle. We loved playing among the rafters and spaces as the barn was being constructed having no idea how much this barn would become a huge part of our memories years down the road, good and bad. The stories that barn could tell of the Blair children and their escapades, thankfully, may never come to light....well, the bad ones anyway, not on my watch.

This was the life the four of us enjoyed. There were trees to climb, horses to ride, woods to explore, secret places to hide under the canopy of pines telling secrets. These were the carefree days without cell phones and indoor distractions. We made caves from the hay bales and hid in the barn reading books or listening to rain on the tin roof on rainy days. Of course we had chores to do, too, but the freedom to be ourselves and explore was priceless.

Life just couldn't get any better for a boy and his brother who spent practically every waking moment riding horses and making forts in the tiny strip of woods nearby. Jane was still too small and Becky, well, Becky read books, hiding in the hay.

I'm not sure we noticed that Alexandria was growing, especially out our way. Sure our street began to have more houses, but they were few and far between. There was still plenty of farm land all around us all the way to Twin Bridges road. But progress was moving our way like a black cat sneaking up on a mockingbird. When I turned twelve and Bobby eight, one of our first sub divisions began to be developed. Plantation Acres. It was on land on the other side of our farm neighbors on the right. There was even a part that bordered our property. Houses went up. Street lights and cars showed up, and people and dogs and snotty nosed children with bicycles moved in. Our little freedom of riding horses and roaming our property was spied upon by the suburbs. Children stood on the other side of the fence gawking at us and our country way of life. They threw things at our animals;we threw cow patties back at them. We were thrust into a modern day range war. Our free range suburb neighbors were causing problems for these free range country children and our land, and we didn't like it one bit. The Plantation Acres gang cut sections of our fence down so they could roam at will, riding bicycles and making ruts in daddy's cotton field. We put dead snakes at the entrance where they cut the fence with a note: “This this could be you.” It got ugly.

In time,Daddy repaired the fence, and the war settled down. One day, Bobby and I were riding the fence row, checking for breaks when some of the Plantation Acres gang asked if we would let them ride our horse. How dare they, we thought. We told Mama, knowing she was unaware of most of the meanness we threw back at those snotty nosed instigators. She said that as nice little Christian boys we should let them ride. We could be good neighbors, and perhaps they wouldn't cause so much trouble. “You boys could hold the reins and let them walk around with the horse; they probably never rode one before. It would be a very nice thing to do.” We said we would think about it.

Two weeks passed before Bobby concocted a scheme. “Sure we could let them ride, for a price,” he said. “We can use Sheba, the biggest horse.” I agreed, after all Sheba was so huge that I could lie flat on my back, feet outstretched, with room to spare. We decided we would charge a nickel a ride and put seven or eight on at once. The arena they could ride on was plotted out on the edge of the cornfield near where the gang crossed our fence, and put ruts in Daddy's cornfield. The rule would be only one ride around the area mapped out, per child. No exceptions. If they wanted a second ride they would have to pay again. We built a step so they could mount the big horse. We took the saddle off so we could squeeze as many as possible on that dear horse's back. We opened our piggy banks so we could make change. We told the gang our plan. To our surprise they thought it was wonderful. Our business began.

It was summer time and Daddy was in Baton Rouge every week on business since the legislative session had begun. Our devious minds knew what we were doing. The first morning, the children lined up on their side of the fence as I collected their money and helped them mount. Then Bobby would take the reins and walk them one time around the area. We thought we were the most clever entrepreneurs around. Word spread that we were giving rides. More children came. Our revenge on these suburb children was paying off. A month went by. We were raking in the money.

Oops. Daddy came home early one Friday and caught our little enterprise. We were busted. He made us give the children back the money we collected that day. After the children left, he wanted to know how long this had been going on. Bobby said we had just started. I kept my mouth shut. Hey, I was twelve. Bobby eight.

I never did tell daddy that we had been making money for about a month. This is one of the biggest regrets I think I ever had. I know that I have asked the Lord to forgive me of my indiscretions. Not so sure about that brother of mine tho!

© 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, August 23, 2018

Image result for fall leaves clip art 
After Mama arrived, we took Mrs. Hall around Kentucky to caves and museums. The three of us in that tiny Karman Ghia. Mama sat in the back since Mrs. Hall was elderly and crippled. I sure wish I had taken out that Pentax and gotten a picture of Mama in the back seat, or even her getting in or out of it. The third day, we threw our suitcases in the back seat, and took off like horses at the derby. We were on a road trip to see the big city down some roads less traveled. It reminded me of the poem, The Road Less Traveled by Robert Frost. The last lines told our story well:
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,”
No interstate for us. We needed to see the glory of the fall leaves in all their splendor. If we saw a road less traveled by, we explored it. We loved the way the car held the sharp mountain curves. We wound around curves as fast as if in the Indy 500, laughing at the image of me, a twenty-something soldier and she, the elderly lady, (her words, not mine) traipsing around the mountains without a care in the world. We stopped at interesting places on a whim, sampled apple cider till we were full as ticks, took picture after picture of fall leaves, each time declaring the current tree had the best color. But, bless our hearts, we were wrong. Suddenly we rounded a curve and there she was. Standing tall at the foot of the hill, in the middle of a sharp curve, the most beautiful tree with the most colorful leaves. We gasped. This elegant Sugar Maple definitely was the best. We pulled off the road and admired her. I took pictures, and more pictures. We wanted to stay there till the cows came home,but it was getting late. We drove into the night to get to Alexandria, Virginia.
It was late and we were worn slap out. We couldn't find a motel. After driving around a while we finally found one with a vacancy. They only had one room, but, we were so tired we didn't care what condition it might be in. We only brought one suitcase into the lobby, for some odd reason, and were laughing and being silly. The clerk, a gray haired elderly woman, with disheveled clothes, looked at my mama, then looked at me and frowned. Just one night I said. She gave me another dirty look as if I was hooking up with some cougar. She wouldn't even look at Mama, who snickered while putting her arm around me. We went to the room, laughing, while the clerk mumbled under her breath, “They ought to be ashamed”.
Horrors! There was only one double bed in the room. One. We started laughing again. No wonder she gave us dirty looks. No wonder her thoughts were in the gutter. From the looks of the room she shouldn't have been so snotty. The place did look like it was rented by the hour. Mama said, “It don't amount to a hill of beans, she doesn't know us and never will see us again, bless her heart.” We survived the night, Mama in the bed and me on the floor.
The next day we went into Washington. We toured the Abraham Lincoln monument, we went to the top of the Washington monument, both scared of the height. We ate lunch from a food vendor, before finding another motel suitable with two double beds, again getting looks from the clerks. But we didn't care because we were having fun and both of us were tightwads, not wanting to spend so much on a room we would hardly be in.
Over supper, when talking about that tree, I mentioned how I loved the yellow leaves and how bright they appeared in the headlights. She corrected me. “They're red leaves,” she said. “And yes, the red just popped in the headlights”. Unlike today, I couldn't instantly scroll through my pictures to prove my point, I had to wait until I could get the film developed. Therefore we argued about the color of the leaves the rest of the trip.
We called Gillis Long and tried to get a tour of the White House, but he wasn't available, we walked and admired the Cherry Blossom trees, we window shopped and ate at wonderful places, before ending up at the White House toward dark. Since we weren't able to see the insides, we decided to walk around the perimeter. Somewhere, in the corner of this iron fence, Mama spies something lying on the ground, on the edge of a magnolia tree. It was shiny. “I don't know what that is, but it would make a great souvenir,” Mama said as she reached through the fence to retrieve it. She couldn't quite reach it, so she found a stick just by the fence, retrieved it, placed her foot on the iron fence and began reaching again for her treasure. A guard, immediately, came running over. He wasn't pleasant, shouting at us to halt and move away from the fence. We did while Mama begins explaining to him who we were, where we came from, how I was in the Army, and she was my mama, and she had never been to Washington before, that her husband is a state senator from Louisiana and knows Gillis Long, on and on. He stood his ground and let us know that he didn't care who she was or who her husband was, or who she knows, but she will not reach through that fence ever again unless she wants to be arrested. He asked us to leave. We did, half scared, but, laughing about our adventure at the White House.
Going home, we decided to return the same route so we could find that tree again and end our debate. It was getting dark again when we found it. The tree was on a curve with a high embankment. I back the car up as close as I can under the tree. I take off my shoes, climb on top of the car and jump to grab a branch. I fall against the embankment, twice, I try again and am successful with a small branch and several leaves. I hold the leaves in the headlights. We laugh. We were both right. The tree had both red and yellow leaves. Some were yellow and some red and some had both colors.
“I told you so,” said Mama, as she slaps me on the back of my head.
And so we drove home on our merry little way.
The End

© 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.