TRAVEL TRAILERS AND HUEY LONG

 

I had never seen nor really heard of such a strange house that could be moved on wheels to a different town, or even state, until my first glimpse of one in a magazine Mama had picked up. She and I thought they were cool and wanted to see one up close, inside and out, hoping we could one day. Daddy was now a politician, elected to the Louisiana state house of representatives and traveling back and forth to Baton Rouge. Our family was experiencing a new life style. Mama would often spend days with him at the Heidelberg hotel while we free ranged around the farm with Annabelle in charge. Annabelle lived in a shot gun, with her family, next to our barn. She was as much a part of our family as anybody and well trusted to take care of the four of us. We were as comfortable in her home as her children were in ours.

Occasionally, mama would allow one of us to travel with her while the rest stayed home. I remember, vividly, one occasion in 1953, when I was 10 years old. I got to see a whole parking lot full of these motor homes.

The history of travel trailers dates back to the beginning of cars and motorized travel on highways, but not until the early 1950's were they being marketed as an inexpensive form of housing. People were still recovering their lives after World War II and were reluctant to spend large sums of money so the trailers were described as an option to renting apartments; a cheaper form of housing. They were rectangular in shape and only eight feet wide. Not until around 1956 did they become 10 feet wide. They were an alternative to site-built homes the ads would say.

Mama and I had gone to Baton Rouge and settled in our second home, the Heidelberg hotel.

 The hotel was built in 1927 and was a favorite haunt of Governor Huey Long who stayed there in the 30's when he was overseeing the construction of the state capital building, four blocks from the hotel. The hotel had an underground passageway that led to the hotel across the street where Huey would meet his flamboyant mistress. During the 50's this hotel was THE place for politicians to stay and so we did. While Mama attended sessions at the capital or luncheons with politicians' wives, I would roam around the hotel with legislator children spending time at the pool on the third story roof overlooking the Mississippi river, or roaming through the underground passageway to the hotel across the street, unaware of the history of this underground tunnel, but fascinated that I could come out in the lobby of the King hotel across the street. It was just a great way to play with friends. When we tired of this game we would play ball or hide and seek on the capital grounds or climb on the statue of Huey Long, gazing toward the capital, when guards weren't watching. 

One day, while playing around the statue, my friend said his daddy was buying a house trailer and they would bring it to Baton Rouge, staying near the LSU campus, instead of at the Heidelberg, to save money. Not to be outdone, I told him that I already knew all about those trailers and how my mama and I had already seen one and were thinking of buying one, too, and keeping it near LSU. This was partly true. We had seen some at a dealership in Baton Rouge and Mama and I had planned to visit the lot on the way home.

One afternoon, Mama decided we should visit the trailer lot posing as millionaires and have fun with our little adventure. She had me dress up in my Sunday clothes, a suit and bow tie, while she dressed in a pink shirtwaist dress, pill box hat with a short veil, gloves and chinchilla stole. We had a Buick station wagon at the time and it probably didn't look like the fanciest car, but we didn't care. Off we went to the trailer dealership, laughing and practicing our story. Our adventure had began. Mama concocted a story of being a state representative's wife and a distant cousin of Huey Long and that we were interested in purchasing several trailers ourselves for our family to stay in for home games at LSU. The man practically fell over himself showing us the finest trailers on the lot. Mother inspected the insides with a fine tooth comb, swiping her gloves over surfaces, lifting mattresses, checking out all the cupboards, inspecting every inch of this new house on wheels while talking non stop in a snobby attitude of a voice. She carefully wrote down every detail concerning prices and handed me several brochures to chose the kind I wanted, explaining that we would be back the next week or two to purchase three trailers to be delivered to our land near the college campus. This salesman must have thought he had a great deal going with his new venture in trailer sales.

Suddenly mama straightened herself , abruptly thanked him for all the information and the tour while ushering me quickly toward the car. While driving back to the Heidelberg, Mama said with a wink, “Now wasn't that better than just going to look at those old trailers, like ordinary people?” Of course, I couldn't wait to tell my friends of my great adventure.

Note:

Ironically, years later when daddy became a state senator he did buy a house trailer and keep it near LSU. It was convenient to stay in after home games and not fight the crowd heading back to Alexandria.

© 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.

 FALL, COTTON AND SWEET

Ah, Fall. What a glorious season it is. A season where our senses awake from the dull heat of summer. On cool, crisp mornings our breath seems to hover around us like a misty, early morning fog as we breathe in the freshness of the earth. In fall, people are friendlier, happier, less sluggish here in the south. We actually begin to enjoy the outdoors and move about with a new sense of purpose. We begin to prepare for the winter, like squirrels gathering nuts. The excitement of the arrival of Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas puts a lighter step in our gait. We visit with neighbors, leaning against our rakes in front yards, catching up on families. Long walks in wooded areas are planned to see the changing leaves. Decorations are hauled from the attic or garage, dusted off and displayed with pride. 

Pumpkins and mums are placed on front steps with Indian corn and other fall squashes. 

Tables are covered with candles and fall leaves. Annual checkups for the heating system are arranged. Menus are planned for football gatherings, or block parties. 

Favorite quilts that grandmother, or a favorite aunt, lovingly made are brought out of storage and placed on beds while memories and stories are told and re-told.

As mornings become cooler, we switch our summer closets to winter ones but still hold on to those blue jean shorts and summer tee shirts. Fall here in the south, though exciting, is still unpredictable and the summer heat may still cling to the trees tenaciously, unwilling to accept change. Yet, we sense its arrival in the air and see the difference in the position of the sun and how it slows its early morning arrival and lingers longer in the evenings. We know it is coming and are more than willing to accept it with open arms.

Fall is the time to recharge, to connect again with nature, build stronger bonds with families, prepare jams and jellies and gather pecans. Fall is the time for carnivals, festivals, state and parish fairs.

Fall also means harvesting of crops.

 

In the 1950's my dad raised cotton for several years and October meant the crop was ready. We didn't have machines like today and relied on human labor to pick the cotton. Every morning he would drive his pick-up slowly through Samtown in the quarters, honking his horn asking for people willing to come pick cotton for the day.

All day long they would do back breaking work, work that wore fingers raw from the cotton bolls, without complaint.

 These were strong, prideful people, who were willing to work for extra money.

 One of these people left a lasting impression on me. Her name was Sweet, which was her name, not her disposition. She was as wide as she was tall, 4 feet, 9 inches. Her husband, Rufus, would snuggle up to her and with his wide, toothless grin, say, “Acres and acres and she's all mine.” Sweet would just smile and hit him hard over the head. Might be where he lost those teeth.

It was a Saturday and hot and humid for a fall day, with rains expected. Everyone was relieved when noon came. We piled into the truck and headed for Tommy's Grocery or the Tic Toc.

 Buying moon pies and R-ah C colas.

 Sweet wasn't there. Some worried that a rattler may have gotten her, but Rufus denied it, saying that she was so mean she would just bite that ole' rattlers head off and have it for lunch.. Everyone laughed.

At the end of the day everyone came in dragging their full bags of cotton, waiting for daddy to weigh each bag. Here came Sweet. Not only did she have a full bag of cotton but she also had a new born baby girl. No one even knew that she was pregnant, not even Sweet, she admitted. We named that baby Cotton.

After all the excitement and everyone had been paid and shuttled home I climbed in the wagon and stretched out on the clouds of cotton, with friends, and enjoyed the ride to the cotton gin under the brilliant stars. It was better than any hayride could ever be. Laughter surrounded us as we talked about Sweet and that baby being born in the cotton field, while burying ourselves or pummeling each other with cotton bolls.

*Note: the field  no longer exists but is now the grounds of Brame Junior High school. Cotton visited on occasion, with her mama, until she became a teenager. I have lost touch with Cotton Caulder and often wonder at this time of year about her.

© 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.

 

AUNT DOLLY MAYO 

Proverbs 17:22. A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.

   

          She was a Nazarene preacher’s wife, my aunt on my mother’s side, my grandmother’s baby sister  to  be exact: the Hoffpauir branch, the ones from Rayne, Louisiana. She and her husband were such opposites in so many ways. She was five feet tall on a good day with the proper shoes on and he was at least six feet five. She loved good food and good conversation while he looked as if bread and water were his only staples. They were Jack Sprat and his wife in every sense of the word.

Uncle Preacher, as we called him, was stern and erect. Don’t know if I ever saw a smile on his face. He was the kind that probably wore a suit and tie (dark ones of course) to bathe in and certainly wore one to bed. How he fell in love with Aunt Dolly is a mystery that is still discussed in family circles to this day, or better yet how in the world did she fall in love with someone so stiff and boring. They appeared to be a total mismatch, but I sensed there was love for each other, somewhere.

Aunt Dolly loved a good joke and was constantly trying to create ways to shock someone, especially her husband. She adored playing the devil’s advocate. “Lighten up, Claudius,” she would say, “People are tired of hearing that they are all going to hell every Sunday. They might listen more to your sermons if you weren’t so stiff. You have to bend, baby. Bend. There’s some interesting stuff in that Bible if you would just tell them about it. They need something to discuss over dinner.”

Aunt Dolly loved singing solos. The louder the better and it had to have a decent beat. None of those droll ole’ hymns for her, no sir. If she sang Bringing in the Sheaves then, honey, they brought those sheaves in a-dancing and a-jiving and rejoicing all over God’s kingdom, and loved bringing them in. She put a honky-tonk rhythm into everything she sang. I loved her dearly.

I remember one Sunday when the pianist was sick and Aunt Dolly decided to fill in without informing Uncle Preacher. As people solemnly filed into the church, expecting to be listening to a funeral dirge, or a quiet hymn, they were shocked as Aunt Dolly pounded on those keys, singing at the top of her lungs,  “I feel like Hell. I feel like hell. I feel like hel-ping some poor Soul. Do you feel like Hell, yes feel like hell, feel like hel-ping some poor soul?” The people had something to talk about over dinner that day.

© 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.

RODEO CLOWN



Before I was destined to be an artist, (a life I never knew existed until half way through college), I had two ambitions in life: be a trapeze artist or a rodeo clown. My expectations for a career were quite low according to my friends who had ambitions of going to college and becoming doctors or teachers or marine biologists, but, here I was with rodeo clown as my number one goal in life. (We'll talk about the trapeze artist another day). Rodeo clowns were fast on their feet and very agile. They saved lives. After all, I was on the gymnastics team in high school and quite agile myself, I could do back flips over those bulls, I thought. This was quite appealing to me, knowing that other people’s lives depended on me and my agility. This seemed the ideal career choice. My friends could not understand why I would desire living so dangerously. “That's part of the excitement,” I told them. “You get to run and jump and entertain people and save lives on occasion. That's what a rodeo clown does, saves lives,” I told them. I secretly dreamed of being the hero, rushing and distracting the bull that was ready to gore the rider that had ridden him for eight seconds or had just been thrown. The adrenalin rush was intoxicating.

 

While friends were enjoying normal teenage life on weekends, I was content to hone my skills by jumping over barrels or riding my horse trying stunts like the rodeo trick riders.

One of my favorite horses was Goldie, a beautiful palomino with a flowing golden mane.

 

 

 

 I felt like Roy Rogers on Trigger when I taught her to rear up.

 



 

At night if I couldn't sleep I would sneak out of the house and just be on that beautiful horse, quietly riding about the pasture, bareback, or just lying on her hugging her neck. ( I'm sure she really loved me for that.) Goldie is the one that I tried my riding stunts on, like jumping in the saddle from the garage roof like Zorro, or bouncing on the ground and back in the saddle or trying shoulder stands while she was galloping full steam down the pasture lane. The thought of breaking bones never occurred to me. Nor did it really bother me. After all, I had broken bones several times up through high school. Nine to be exact. I'm surprised I never had a concussion.

Living on a farm had prepared me for such a career. I was a country boy and it was almost a daily routine to wrestle horses that needed to be corralled or branded. Horses were in my blood. In fact, I had been given a beautiful sorrel mare for my first birthday. There exists, in some long lost box, a picture of daddy leading me around the yard sitting high in the saddle in my diaper. Where that elusive picture is, I can't tell you. If I ever find it I will certainly share. As a teenager I never missed an occasion to ride. I lived on my horse. Many times I would sit and eat a meal or read a book on Sheba, a huge plow horse with feet so big she could walk across the cattle guard. She never did, but only because she never thought of it.

We lived on Jackson Street Extension in the 50's and early 60's, from the time I was in the 4^th grade until I finished high school. It was out in the country at that time with nothing but fields of cotton or corn from MacArthur Drive all the way to Twin Bridges. Our farm included the area of Mohon Street, Brame Jr. High and the Camellia Place subdivision on Prescott Road in Alexandria. Brame Jr. High was my father's cotton field and my racing ground. We were, also, raising Shetland ponies showing them around the United States and, of course, we had horses and a few cows.

I attended rodeos every time one was around, like Ted Johnson's in Hinston or Jimmy Thompson's near the traffic circle on MacArthur Drive. Some of my riding friends and I were usually the first ones at the gate for the Grand Entry. We would gather at our house on those evenings, saddle our horses and ride to the rodeo.

This was when I fell in love with the rodeo clowns and all things rodeo. I loved the sights, the sounds, the smells. I loved the way the clowns kept the spectators entertained while bull riders prepared for their eight seconds of glory. I loved their makeup, their outfits, their ability to jump over barrels and sometimes over bulls. These individuals exposed themselves to great danger in order to protect the cowboy. This was the life I dreamed of. Now it is true, I did consider being a bull rider or a bareback bronco rider, and this would have been fine, but they were not like the clowns. Rodeo clowns are the glue that hold everything together. Without them there could be no rodeo.

I believe it was a parent that put the brakes on my dreams and decided it was too dangerous a career for a boy.

I still,to this day, dream of what joy it would have been becoming a rodeo clown, or bullfighter as they are known today. Sometimes I regret that I never had that opportunity.

 Ha! Maybe this should be on my bucket list.

© 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.

Camellias and Roses

Camellias and Roses



My father was a passionate person with many interests. When he became enthusiastic about something he would do everything he could to learn all there was on the subject and pursue it with his whole heart until he lost interest, which was often, and then it was on to new quests. Take for instance,

 

 

He loved flowers.

 

 



 

 

 

Camellias and roses were his favorite.

 

 I remember him sitting in the living room nightly perusing magazine after magazine, learning the best way to plant, prune, and water them. He learned how to grow bigger flowers and how to graft them to create new species.

Camellias:

 



 

 

  My dad decided one day that camellias would be the perfect plant to place around the yard. So we soon became the owners of 300 camellia plants with such names as Alba Plena, Angel, Apollo, Candy Stripe, and Finlandia variegated. These were placed along the edge of the yard next to the pasture lane (what is now Mohon Street in Alexandria). Others were placed around the house, and in beds in the huge back yard. Daddy even created a grassy walking path that wound around a part of the yard like a maze, all lined with camellias. I remember many an afternoon placing protection around prize flowers and coddling them for a flower show or arranging covers over prize plants when the weather might destroy a particular bloom. Many weekends in the fall we would be up early cutting the prize blooms and transporting them to camellia shows.

One ot the perks with having camellias was that once a week I got to bring a single flower to each of my favorite teachers at Cherokee Elementary: Mrs. Caillouet, Mrs. Maxa Salter and Mrs. Ward-Steinman .

In the summers when the weather was really hot it became my job to water the 300 bushes twice a week.

 



 

  I was given a stop watch and the hose and told to place the hose at the base of each plant and water them for 5 minutes each. Can you imagine how many hours that took?  Do the math. I watered camellias 6 days a week all summer long. I would set the stop watch and play until it went off before moving the hose...day after day. That was a boring summer.

 

After daddy conquered camellias he discovered Roses.

 Roses:



 Again, night after night we talked roses around the supper table. Books and magazines on cultivating roses were soon growing in piles around his chair. It wasn't long before he made a trip out to Forest Hill to purchase rose bushes.

Not just a few rose bushes, oh no. He planted 3000 bushes. 3000 glorious bushes of roses planted in rows, like those in Colombia, South America, just to the left of our pasture lane. 3000 rose bushes of every color you could imagine. 3000 roses that I feared would be my destiny to water forever tethered to a garden hose.

  Thankfully, daddy installed a watering system.

  I loved these roses even more. My favorite escape would be to visit that aromatic hide-a-way late in the afternoons when the sun was getting tired of its day; when chores on the farm were finished and the sensation of the rich soil was cool to my bare feet. I remember silently lying down in that soft dirt and just taking in all the colors that were glistening above me - sometimes against a blue sky or a sunset that competed with the roses and sometimes against those cumulus clouds that beckoned me to cavort among their billowed mountains. There, I might wander to far off places of adventure or meander on a creative rendezvous with my muse, occasionally lulled to sleep by the perfumed bouquet. This was my liminal moment before “heading to the barn”.

One of the reasons I loved these roses was daddy's generosity toward people. He found a way to have a new passion and still keep his current one. Daddy decided to deliver roses to people in hospitals (Rapides and Cabrini). Now in order to do this he needed a plan. First he contacted the hospitals and determined the number of rooms in each, then he bought two vases for each room. Why two, you ask?  Well, one to put the flower in and one to bring home for the next delivery. Then he collected wine boxes with the neat little compartments to put the vases in. Of course he had to have a container to hold the boxes so he devised a wooden crate that fit in the back of the station wagon (the back of the truck would cause damage to the roses).

The next Saturday, I was awakened by his shrill whistle at dawn. “Get up, son,” he said, “we need to cut roses.” After filling the vases with water we began to cut the rose buds and carefully placed each in a vase and then into the car. Then we transported them to the hospitals. Now, here is where the story becomes more interesting. Daddy had this fear of hospitals. Would not step very far into the them. I never understood this. Here was a man wanting to deliver joy and happiness to people in need, and he was afraid to do so himself. It was my job, now, to visit the rooms. So off I went visiting each room on each floor, placing a vase of roses in every room and picking up the old vase. Sometimes stopping to chat with a person or two. I loved those days because I got to receive all the praise for such a thoughtful gift from people I didn't know. Daddy had no idea what joy he was missing...or maybe it was his ploy to develop a caring attitude, in his son, toward those in need...who knows. I just know that I loved my Saturdays and delivering roses to people in hospitals.

Cudos, daddy. Thanks for this memory.

© 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.

THE GOAT THAT KILLED MEASLES

Daddy never could stand to be too crowded. When too many neighbors began to surround us he would find new territory to pioneer. This was the case during the summer I finished the 3^rd grade at Tioga Elementary. Daddy had purchased land in the country outside of Alexandria. We were to build our dream home. Our farm ran from Jackson Street Extension all the way back to Prescott road. There was a house on each side of us and that was it. The property where Brame Junior High is was our cotton field, Mohon Street, our pasture lane.

 

 We moved our cows, horses, Daddy's hunting dogs, our pet dogs, pet goat, the whole menagerie and all 6 of us to the country.



 

We built a barn and a lovely brick house whose fireplace had enough bricks in it to build a small house itself. It was heaven for us free range children.

I was old enough now to have my share of chores along with my brother. The main one was to feed the dogs daily. Since my brother and I never could get along peacefully, we devised a plan of taking alternate days to feed, which truth be told never worked out for us because I had to help him on his days because he was only 5.

Daddy had six hunting dogs. Next to the barn he built a pen with a six foot high fence. A tree was in the middle of it for shade. Each dog had his house. I could not tell you the name of any of these dogs except for one...Measles, a short hair pointer.



Measles

 

Measles seemed to be different from the other dogs. Measles loved to climb the tree and stretch out on one of the limbs like a leopard. Granted, we were not allowed to play with these dogs for they were trained to hunt, not be pets. But Measles seemed to be the exception. Maybe it was the fact that he loved climbing that tree. We made a habit of petting Measles whenever we fed the dogs. Bobby and I encouraged him to try to climb higher. This was probably the one thing my brother and I agreed on.

Among the animals we brought to the farm was a pet goat named Billy.

 

 

 We had begged daddy to get it for us when we lived in the Paradise community. We were going to train it to pull a small cart around the yard, we told him. Training never happened. The goat was too stubborn and was always getting into and out of everything. He was a headache to us. Billy just wouldn't be controlled. On more than one occasion we were butted by this monster. (Note that we, of course, were innocent as to why the goat became mean).



 

 

Billy goat was in the barn lot. The hunting dogs were protected by a fence. Everyone was safe. It was late in the evening, almost dark and I, again, had been sent to feed the dogs since neither one of us claimed it being his day to feed.

I had just finished feeding the dogs and had exited the dog pen when Measles wanted to play.



 

This was the day Measles paid attention to our teaching him to climb higher on the tree.

 

 He climbed higher, barking for our attention, then he climbed the limb that stretched over the barn's tin roof, jumped off, scurried across the hot tin and jumped into the barn lot. Bobby and I ran to get Measles. While we were playing with the dog, Billy goat ran, head down, butting position, and hit Measles so hard that he was thrown across the lot, knocking both of us down as well.

   Measles was dead.

Bobby and I were too scared and didn't know what to do. How were we going to explain why that dog had gotten into the barn lot? After all, we had never told Daddy that we had befriended the dog and certainly never told him we encouraged Measles to climb that tree. Like cowards we left that poor dog lying in the lot. I could hardly sleep that night.

 

Daddy was to find his precious hunting dog the next morning.

I feel ashamed and guilty now that neither Bobby nor I ever let Daddy know the real story behind his dog being found dead in the barn lot away from his pen.

Confession of an 9 year old farm boy.

© 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.

The Dead Cousin

While working as an art therapist at Central Louisiana Mental hospital, I had the privilege of meeting John, who had been hospitalized for over ten years without any visitors during all those years. He had therapy an hour a week for over a year. John never said a word during any of these visits.

 I furnished him with crayons, markers and a piece of paper.

At first he just sat there staring at the paper never attempting to draw anything, or communicate with anyone. After about a month, he picked up a black crayon and drew a single face that filled the entire page. In the area of the cranium, there was a black void. When he was finished, he got up and walked out the door. The next week, and all those afterwards, John would come in, sit in his chair and draw one face and leave. The cranium was always dark and ugly. In the rest of the face, there might be rakes or teeth or houses or people, or snakes or animals; things that were probably on his mind. John never talked. Just came in, drew and left.

One morning, after about a year, John came in as usual. Sat down and began drawing, as I had begun to call them, his self-portrait.   

 

 He began talking to himself. I had never heard him utter a single word before so I sat next to him and listened.

JOHN:

  “I came upon the dead yesterday. It was Tuesday, 8 PM. I had only a pair of undershorts on and no shoes. She called me on the phone. I don't have a phone, had to go next door. My aunt said that Bubba didn't answer and wanted me to check on him. He is old, lost most of his hair and has no teeth. He has teeth but don't wear them, not even to eat, afraid he will swallow them. They don't live together. He used to beat her up.

I walked down the gravel road. Didn't put my shoes on. The gravel hurt. I got there and had to knock on the door. Got no answer but I knew he was there so I climbed in the window. Had to get a bucket from the shed to reach it and then a board to break the kitchen window so I could get in the house. Scratched my knee climbing in that window. Got a little blood on his window. Had to look at that red blood a bit.

Oh, my Lord, he was lying there in the middle of the kitchen. He had heart trouble, went to the doctor a lot for that. I could tell he was dead. He had his hand up over his head like he was looking for something that might be under the house. His feet were crossed, the left one over the right. His left shoe was off and over away from him. He was cold. I could tell he was deadener a pecker wood. Had his face down on the rug and his hand up over his head like he was trying to see what was under the floor boards, or praying to Jesus, begging for mercy. Oh, my Lord, he was my second cousin, on my mama's side. The mama that put me in here cause she said I weren't right in the head. I ain't never come up on a dead man like that with his hand up over his head. He weren't looking for nothing cause he didn't have his glasses on. Must of been praying.

Used to go to the Baptist church in the 50's. When he was young. The one out there in the woods over by Jena. Taught me Sunday school. Taught me about Jesus and the 12 merry men that ate fish and loaves of bread.



 

Ain't teaching no more, stretched out dead on that floor like he was searching for Jesus.

I didn't know what to do. I yelled for help. I don't have no phone. Have no use for those things. The woman what has the phone, the Indian woman, she's pure Indian, came running. Married my daddy's cousin during the war. She ran next door and called for help. Some men came in a big old car with lights all a flashing. They took one look and started to move the man. I said I didn't see no need to move him to a comfortable spot cause he was deadener a pecker wood. Lying there looking like a statue. They moved him anyway and that arm stayed up over his head. Man was stiff. Been dead a long time, they said. I said, we could put a flag in his hand and stand him out by the mail box, he was so stiff.

They carried him out with his feet crossed and I began to quote the Bible. I said, 'I have come to prepare a place for you, so that you may be there too. Do not be afraid for the place I prepare is better than that cold floor you were lying on.' Jesus said that. Before they took him out the door, I grabbed my cousin and began to shout prayers at him. But he didn't hear me cause he was deadener a pecker wood. I was told to always pray for the dead. I sure did that. Yes, sir. I knew my aunt would want to know what happened to Bubba since she used to be married to him. I made them take a picture of me holding that hand that was searching for Jesus. Like we was praying together or something.”

John was quiet for quite a while after that. As John finished his self-portrait, he gave me a wink and said, “When mama sees that picture I took then she will know which one is crazy. Yes, sir. She will know it should of been her in here instead of me.”

John suddenly placed his hands over his ears, closed his eyes and shook his head, as if removing all the evil thoughts that haunted him, before standing and stretching. He looked at me for the first time and said, “Won't be back no more. Gotta go to a funeral.”

John walked out.

I looked at his portrait and the cranium was clear and not scribbled or colored in black. There were no strange drawings about the face.

 

Perhaps John cured himself.

John died one week later and was buried on the grounds with no family members present.

© 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.