Annabelle Terrebonne and Gracious Duncan

Proverbs 11:29 ...and the foolish will be servant to the wise hearted.

While visiting a friend at Ochner's hospital in New Orleans, I met two wonderful ladies, Annabelle Terrebonne, and Gracious Duncan.  They are second cousins, once removed, on their stepmother's brother's half-sister's side.  That’s Annabelle’s story and she’s sticking to it.  These two ladies are animated, energetic, deeply caring people that love good stories and laughter.   They have more stories and jokes than their mamas have relatives. Family and friends come first in their lives.  They are West Bankers as well as their parents and grandparents and are proud of it.   You would think they were sisters, the way they finish each other’s sentences.  The have lived next door to each other most of their lives.  Gracious even married her stepfather's son from a different marriage.

 Annabelle is a nurse at Tulane, (she’s the one on the left).   She possesses a strong N’Awlins accent and loves to talk.  When I introduced myself, she looked me up and down before saying, “Who’s your mama n’dem?”  There are no strangers in her world because everyone is treated as if they’re family. She tells it like it is and is usually blunt. Being a nurse, she is required to wear a name tag, while at work, for identification purposes.  This causes some confusion to those with little common sense when seeing her last name.  It upsets her to no end when a patient looks at the name tag reading “Terrebonne” and then says, “Are you from Terrebonne Parish?”  She will straighten to her full five-foot-two-inch height, stare them down and say rather sarcastically with much vigor in her deep N’Awlins voice, “Now why the hell would I run around with the name of a parish on my name tag? You insane? Dat's my name you couillon! I know your mama done taught you better den dat?”

 When not nursing, Annabelle is a Cajun Re-enactor for the Grande Derangement, (the forced removal by the British of the Acadian people from the present-day Canadian provinces of Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Prince Edward Island causing death of thousands of people).  She usually pretends she doesn't understand the term fully and just acts deranged, which brings knee-slapping laughs from Gracious.

 Gracious is a scholar and teaches at Tulane.  She was there visiting people in the hospital to cheer them up, her favorite thing to do. Gracious was dressed in a bright red above the knee dress, high heels and more jewelry around her neck and wrists than madams on Bourbon Street.  You would never guess she is a professor the way she dresses when not lecturing at the University. You might find her going through garbage looking like she’s homeless, or she may wear a bright orange wig (Bozo the clown orange) and be dressed in short shorts as she visits antique shops on Magazine Street.  Upon hearing her story, I said out loud, “Good gracious!”.  She smiled at me and said, “You got that right dahling,” and slapped me hard on the back.

 Gracious, also, is a researcher in the field of Genetics and is sought after as a popular speaker at conventions and University campuses across the United States.  She has an infectious laugh that is throaty and low with a heart of pure gold. Gracious has recently established the first genealogical database research web site for Purebred Registered Canines…called C.A.R. or Canines of the American Revolution.  She owns a beautiful English Bull dog that she claims is a direct descendant of George Washington’s favorite canine. Her ancestor, she says, was a favored slave of General Washington and was given a dog for a reward by the General.  The family has carefully and proudly maintained the line throughout the years.  

 Yeah, you right.  Gotta love ‘em, BLESS THEIR HEARTS.

© 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 Funeral

I had one remarkably interesting experience while working as an art and dance therapist at Central Louisiana Mental Hospital back in the 1970’s.  Some of them were good, some bad and some funny.  One of the most unusual ones was the death of one of my therapy patients.   This man had spent most of his life in the hospital.  I was told he had no family that ever checked on him.  Mr. Doe had been in my class for about a year.  He loved playing with the clay and often would make unusual pieces.  One was a gravy boat with a dragon head.  The neck was hollow, and liquid could pour from it.  He gave it to me as a gift. I don’t use it but treasure it just the same.

 One day, Mr. Doe didn't attend his therapy.  I checked on him.  He had died during the night.    At mental hospitals where people have been institutionalized for most of their lives and abandoned by family, they were usually buried on the hospital grounds. This wasn't unusual.   Now here is the strange part.  There was an estranged family who wanted a proper burial and they wanted me to be one of the pall bearers.   I had questions whether this would be appropriate, but after talking with my superiors, decided it would be fine. 

 Now, this man was huge - well over six feet tall and probably on the plus side of 300 pounds.  His daughter, it turned out, was the only living relative, and she really didn't know him because she had been abandoned as a baby and raised in another state.  She was willing to come home and have him buried in a cemetery Pineville, Louisiana, not on the hospital grounds.  The service was to be conducted at a local Catholic church.  I knew no one there, and really felt out of place.  Yet I wanted to do this for Mr. Doe, whom I had learned to respect. 

 The priest that conducted the service was recovering from a long illness, running fever, and heavily medicated.  I should have noticed the signs.  We rolled the closed casket to the center of the aisle in front of the altar and the priest began his service.  Being medicated, he was unsteady on his feet and tripped reaching for the casket for balance.  It moved down the aisle a bit.  He brought it back while waving the metal censer suspended by chains, over the body once or twice hitting the casket which allowed more smoke to leave the censer.   I was unfamiliar as to why this smoky incense was being used, so I asked the man next to me.  He explained that many see it as a symbol of prayers or the soul of the deceased person rising. It is also used as a sign of reverence and dedication, used at funeral services to honor, and commemorate the dead.  I thought I rather liked that idea even though the priest was clumsy.

 When the priest finished, he missed the censer holder and dropped it on the floor.  Stumbling, he placed his Bible on top of the casket which made the casket roll again and the flowers on top fall off.  While recovering the censer rolling about the floor and placing the flowers back on the casket, he apologized and was sorry the other priest was not available.  I was relieved that the rest of the service went well, except for a few more fumbles on his part.  

 During all this, the daughter sat rigid and stared straight ahead disassociated.  I guess she felt it her duty to bury her only relative although she really didn't seem to have any emotions whatsoever toward him. 

 The service was finished, and we stood on each side rolling the casket to the hearse.  As we reached the door, the daughter suddenly screamed, “Wait!  I want to take pictures.” We looked at her with shocked expressions.  She wanted the casket opened.  The priest complied.   She stood next to her father while someone took their picture.  But that wasn't all.  Next, the priest had to be photographed with the deceased.  And then all eight of us pall bearers had to take our turn for the photo op.  We finally closed the casket and lifted the heavy man down the steps to the hearse.  It began to rain.

 At the cemetery, we had the daunting task of taking the casket to the top of a hill in the rain.  Since it was a long climb, the body was placed on a rolling cart.  We began our ascent.  The wet ground was slippery.  One man lost his footing and his shoe and fell, getting mud all over his suit.  He recovered his shoe and we proceeded.  Then we all began losing our footing as we slipped and slid trying our best to keep this heavy casket going forward and upward.   Suddenly, the casket, with the 300 pound plus sized man inside, slid off the cart and slid toward the bottom of the hill.  Thank the good Lord the casket did not open.  After several attempts wrangling the casket to the top of the hill, we managed to get Mr. Doe to his grave site and finished the service.  We stood in stunned silence with bits of grass, flowers, and mud all over our clothes and around the casket, while the rain continued.  Still the daughter sat rigid and straight faced. 

 As we began to leave the daughter suddenly asked for one more photograph.  What?  So, we stood around the casket, muddied clothes, and all for the final picture.  With that finished, she turned and walked away, got in her rented car, and left.  No thank you, kiss my foot or anything.   I certainly hope this eased her guilt.

 Hears to you, Mr. Doe.  I’m glad I knew you as a person, too bad your daughter didn’t.  Bless her heart.

© 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.

 JOE BREAUX AND TABASCO

Genesis 18:13   Then the Lord said to Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh and say, 'Will I really have a child, now that I am old?'  Is anything too hard for the Lord?'"

 He was lying in a wicker basket neatly padded with old dishtowels that smelled as if they had been washed in sunshine.  His deep-set eyes and sad expression stared blankly at the sky.  He did not cry.  Sarah and Abe, an older couple, were on their way home from Mass that Saturday evening.  It was their anniversary, and they were lonely.  Sarah was crying.  Laughter had left them since their only child died at six-months years ago this day.

“Stop Abe,” she said suddenly through her tears, “there was a basket back there and it looked like something was in it.”

  “It's probably just another puppy,” he replied as he pulled off the road and backed up a few yards.  They helped each other as they walked to the basket.

Their hearts skipped a beat when they looked inside.  “Look, mother,” said the old man, “we won't be lonely again.  The Lord has answered our prayer.”

“But Cher, he don't belong to us,” she said.  “Surely, he belongs to someone else. They must be looking for him.”

 

 “We can't leave him here, it's not safe,” said the old man.

 

  “Yea, you right.”

 

  She placed the basket between them on the well-worn front seat of the old Ford truck.  They drove home in silence afraid to express their thoughts for fear of breaking the spell.

The next day they searched the newspapers for any reports of a lost one.  There were none.  The couple turned on the TV and radio but there were no announcements.  They had already become attached to the little fella and decided to not call the police unless they heard something.  Three weeks passed with no word.  They decided to keep the baby for he had stolen their hearts.  The couple had not even given him a name for fear they would lose him but now that the decision had been finalized, they felt it was time.  They named him Joe. Joe Breaux, sort of a Cajun version of John Doe.

 

Sarah and Abe laughed at their good fortune.  The Lord had blessed them, an older couple with a baby.  The two of them agonized over how to explain his sudden appearance.  They rationalized that this wasn't any different than the other times when strays wandered into their lives for them to nurture.  Both their cats and their dog were gifted this way.  It was decided. No one would be able to care for this dear child like they would.  They would love this child as their own and raise him properly, teaching him to value the importance of a good education and the love of family.

Joe is now 25 years old and aware of his being adopted and the circumstances as to his arrival.  Yes, he wonders why he was abandoned and why no one ever came back for him, but he also knows that this elderly couple, now in their early 90's, loves him dearly.  They sometimes joke that he floated down the bayou on the back of an alligator with an egret holding his basket and placing him on the bank in front of their home, their gift from God.

Joe has a master’s degree from Nichols State University, majoring in music, lives next door to his parents and plays for the Lafayette Symphony.  He has not found the girl of his dreams yet, but there are prospects.  Joe relaxes by serenading the swamp with his music until morning breaks, the colors washing the sky with an artist' palette that only God can create.  Then Joe rests, his faithful dog, Tabasco, beside him.

The picture is Joe on a street corner on Bourbon Street in New Orleans during Mardi Gras.

© 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.

It appeared to be that type of day – hot and humid.  The air was heavy making it hard to breathe.  The sky hung over the earth like a damp washcloth.  Occasionally the sun would peer through clouds to dry things out, but it only made matters worse.                                                                                                  

And daddy said, "Let there be boiled peanuts."                                                                                      

 Didn't I say the humidity was unbearable?  And I was dying for a cool bath.  Who wants to share their bathwater with peanuts freshly harvested?  Not me.   Our family was suffering the last several days   from not bathing, but the animals in the barn lot were in a worst predicament.  Their water troughs were full of soaking peanuts too.  Daddy said, “The animals will drink the water anyway.  It’ll be fine.”

Now, you see, my father is from the Mississippi Delta and grew up as a sharecropper's son with little or no money so when he decided to do something, he did it in a huge way.  Nothing can be half done with Cecil Blair.  It was whole hog or die until he found something else to conquer.

This year it was peanuts, boiled peanuts to be exact, since boiled peanuts had been his favorite since he was young...so naturally it stood to reason that we (meaning family) would share his enthusiasm for growing peanuts and boiling them.  We were okay about the planting, but the harvesting of them was hard labor on us.  Daddy didn’t have the machinery to harvest so we had to do so by hand.  It was back breaking, sweating, cruelty to children, hard labor. 

And there was evening and morning, the first day:  

We didn't dare ask to have some of them parched or roasted...no that was not his plan...we had to boil them...all of them.  And not just boiled any old way but boiled according to his mama's recipe:

 Soak peanuts in water 12-24 hours. Drain and rinse. Place 6 quarts water, 2 ham hocks, ¼ C kosher salt, ¼ C cayenne, ¼ C paprika, ¼ C minced garlic, ¼ C coarse black pepper, 2 T onion salt, 2 T oregano, and 2 T thyme to a boil.  Reduce heat and simmer for 3 hours. Remove ham hocks.  Let cool then chill for 8 hours.  Skim the fat.  Add peanuts, then add ½ to 2/3 C salt and bring to a boil.  Cover, reduce heat and cook 6 hours until tender.  Let stand one hour before serving.

Of course, this meant using both bathtubs and sinks, as well as 15 washtubs that we gathered, including a water trough or two just to soak his field of peanuts. This also included all the burners on mama’s stove, plus, all the pots and pans from the kitchen as well as borrowed ones from neighbors.  Did you look at that recipe?  Did you see the hours needed to make one batch?                        

We made dozens of batches.   Dozens of batches! 

 And there was evening and morning, a second day:  

When the sun was trying to etch it way through the washcloth of clouds and beat its good morning upon the cold tin roof, we were exhausted.  I would have loved being able to sit and quietly commune with the morning but the noise from the kitchen let me know daddy was still at work. 

And there was evening and morning, a fifth day: 

The peanuts seemed to be multiplying.  The dirt was beginning to crust on our skin, and we desperately needed a bath.  We stank.  Thank goodness this was summer because I'm sure we would have had to drop out of school because of our odor.  I wanted to bathe with the garden hose, but daddy was using it to fill washtubs.  He was possessed as he rushed between the washtubs and the stove.   There he was with his overalls, straw hat, white beard, and tobacco juice streaming down his chin.  There was mama bustling about as if she had lost her senses.  Her eyes were bulging, and she had a faraway look on her face trying, desperately, to bring a stop to this madness as she rushed about the house talking nonsense. 

And there was evening and morning, a sixth day:  

Daddy saw all that he had made, and it was good.  The jars were filled.  The bathtubs were empty.  Empty but dirty.  The animals rejoiced at the fresh water.   The peanuts were blessed and ready to be shared, except no one in the family wanted any.  Not sure daddy gave much away either.  Our laundry room was packed with jars and jars of boiled peanuts.  We kept a path to the back door so we could escape.

By the end of the seventh day, daddy rested.

And we bathed....and bathed...ran hysterically through the hoses...and bathed...spent hours in showers.  And it was good.  Particularly good.  Our water bill was enormous, but daddy had his precious boiled peanuts to enjoy to his little hearts content.  Alone.

I guess you can’t take the country out of the boy.  Bless his heart.

© 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.

ESTHER SUE WILLIAMS

“By the time I got home at night, my eyes were so chlorinated I saw rings around the lights."  Esther Williams

 

The first time I heard her name was during the 1988 Summer Olympics in Seoul, South Korea. I had traveled there with my friend, a reporter for a newspaper.  There we were sitting in the arena and watching the Synchronized Swimming Event.  Two ladies were sitting a few rows below us and talking rather loudly.

 “There she is, Lois, she’s there on the end.”

“Yes!  I see her, Betty.  Yoo Hoo, Esther Sue!  Here we are. Lands, how did she ever get to be in the Olympics? That family was nothing but poor white trash!  After her mama died, that girl went to live in some houseboat in the swamps, I thought we were through seeing her mess up our beautiful bayou.”

“I know, darlin’, can you believe it?” said Betty, “Our little swamp rat in the Olympics.”

“Quiet,” said Lois, “she might hear you.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter.  Nobody here will care,” Betty said under her breath.  “You know, I knew her family.  The whole bunch should have been locked up somewhere.  They were strange people.  It wasn’t normal, I tell you.”

“Well, that mama of hers was strange, since she let her practice in the bayou, I mean, who did they think they were?  Decent folks would never have allowed it.  That bayou's too pretty, we didn't need her messing up the waters.   I can’t believe she made it to the Olympics.”

“I hear that some young handsome fellow is paying her way,” said Lois.  “He was heading to Grand Isle to fish when he saw her swimmin’ in the bayou as he drove by and thought she was drownin’.  Jumped in to save her from what I heard from June over at the grocery,” she sneered.

“Imagine his embarrassment.  I’m sure he feels obligated, after all the fuss she made.”

“Maybe it’s blackmail,” they both laughed.

 My friend and I couldn’t enjoy that event past that conversation because we wanted to know more.  For one thing, we didn’t know which one was Esther Sue and furthermore we wanted to know why these ladies seemed to be here just to gossip about somebody.  Were they hoping some reporter would hear them and interview them?  And what would they say? I thought they were just nosy snobs. We wanted to know more so we moved directly behind them.

 “Excuse me ladies,” my friend said in his best reporter’s voice. “I’m from the national news.  Did I hear you talking about Esther Sue?”

 They blushed and stammered. 

 “Oh, yes,” eventually, the heavier of the two said, “We’re great friends of the family.  Good people those Williams.  They always did so much for the community.  That poor child was practicing in the bayou because her pool had some problems.  I offered to let them use our pool, but they turned it down, can you believe that?  Our pool is Olympic size with waterfalls and a slide.  It sits just behind our fifteen-room house we built last year from our inheritance.  My husband is in oil, you know. Why would she not want to swim there?  She’s ruining the neighborhood by swimming in the swamp,” blurted Lois before she realized that she was gushing and making a fool of herself.  Betty wanted to see our credentials.

 We gave each other a knowing look, smiled, and excused ourselves.  The ladies began make snide remarks about us as we returned to our seats.  My friend immediately made inquiries as to Esther Sue while continuing to watch the event.

 It seems that Esther Sue was a natural, although she apparently practiced alone every evening in the bayou.  When we interviewed her coach, he said he couldn’t believe that one who practiced alone could be in such harmony with the others. She seemed to have an innate sense of her surroundings, never missing a cue. 

 As we watched the event, these snotty ladies soon came to stand in awe of the young girl’s abilities, shouting for joy when Ester Sue’s team won the Gold Medal.

 After the ceremony, they both made a beeline to the arena to greet Esther Sue.  They kept shouting her name, "You Hoo, Esther Sue, You Hoo."   We watched with amusement as Esther Sue ignored them, pretending she had no idea who they were.

 This is the background story my friend uncovered after interviewing Esther Sue. She told him that she always loved the water.  It seemed to summon her, entice her, embrace her, baptize her in its soothing powers.  She loved to spend hours letting the tranquilizing waters cascade over her face.  It became a daily cleansing ritual to go to the water and sit half immersed.  She’d let her hand slowly sway in the stream while leaning against a rock, dreaming of being a mermaid.

 Water has been a part of her entire life.  She had been raised in a small cabin quietly tucked safely in a hidden part of the Amite River. When she was 4 months old her mother took her to the banks, placed her in a reed basket, lowered it into the water, and sometimes plunging her underneath, much to Esther Sue's delight. 

 When Esther Sue was almost five, her mother again took her to the banks of the river, tied a rope around her waist and thrust her into the current. “Swim, baby, swim,” she murmured.  “Mama won’t let anything happen to you.”  Esther Sue's smile would light up as she began swinging her arms and kicking her legs.

 That summer, Esther Sue became a proficient swimmer. The water exhilarated her.  She felt a wild abandon and a freedom in diving or floating or performing underwater acrobatics in the Amite.     

 At the age of nine they moved to bayou Lafourche.  It was here that her mother told her of her dreams, that she had always wished to be like the famed movie star, Esther Williams.  She had spent hours at the cinema to see this movie star perform acrobatics in the water.  “I even married that man John Williams, whom I didn't love, for his last name,” she said.  “And when you were born, baby, I just had to name you Esther Sue.  I always wanted you to be famous like her.  That woman changed my life.”

 As a teenager, Esther Sue became an orphan.  She began making daily pilgrimages to the water to replenish her soul. She worked as a waitress, on occasion, during the cold months and began to devote her summertime in the swamps swimming among the cypress trees.  Her mother had taught her how to raise a garden and between the food she grew and the fish she caught Esther Sue never really worried about anything else.   The people on the bayou did not like this young lady who spent her days swimming in the bayou.

 One day, Esther Sue noticed a houseboat abandoned in the swamps and began to get it back into shape. She worked months repairing boards that were rotted, painting, and sealing the outside to make it float again.   Evenings were spent sitting on the deck, fishing, or playing on a guitar. Her dream began to be complete.   Eventually she moved into the houseboat.  That’s where the gossip began.

 From that day forward, Esther Sue's entire life focused on becoming the first and foremost solo synchronized swimmer in history, practicing daily in the swamps hoping for her skill to become an Olympic sport.  She wanted to make her mama proud.

Isn’t it funny how fame makes even the worst of enemies’ best friends?  Bless Lois and Betty’s hearts.  I know it was a shock to read about Esther Sue in the papers and to hear her story on the national news.

 And bless Esther Sue’s heart, I know her mama would have been proud.

 NOTE:  For the younger generation, Esther Williams was a real person, a famous movie star who was known for her beautiful water acrobats in several movies.  This story is fictional.  I loved seeing Esther Williams in the movies. And no!  I never went to the 1988 summer Olympics.

 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.

This is a story I wrote years ago and well worth repeating.  Yesterday was the hottest day so far and summer has barely begun. 

MAMA AND THE AIR CONDITIONER

“Pick your battles, she muttered to herself.”                                                                

 So here it was, the beginning of July in the middle 1950's and it was hot.  So hot that mama kept mumbling, “Springs sprung, Fall's fell, Summer's here and it's hotter than hell.”  

We were miserable. The heat that summer was unbearable.  We had been in our new house out in the country for only a couple of years.  “It's cooler in the country, you know,” daddy said when we built this ranch style house.  “Yet, we are still hot,” mama said.  “You'll get used to it,” daddy said.  Mama didn't.  “It’s designed to catch cross breezes,” he said.  She disagreed.

 She asked for ceiling fans.  “Too expensive to have all those fans,” daddy replied.  “Besides, there are still things that have not been finished yet, like the barn being built, or the dog pen for my hunting dogs.  I don't even have a decent place to fatten a hog.   Remember, we have lots of windows opposite each other and tons of air circulation.  Open them all up.  You'll be all right.”    

Mama huffed from the room saying under her breath, “The wind doesn't always seem to favor blowing all the time for our pleasure, you old skinflint.  We are hot, you miserable old tightwad.”   Mama was more determined than ever to be cooler. 

 The next week, while daddy was in Baton Rouge taking care of state business as a state Representative, she researched air conditioners for the windows.  She had men come out and measure and quote prices, carefully writing down all the details and different estimates.  She presented them to daddy when he returned.  Taking one look at them he said, “Are you kidding?  That is too expensive.”  This really made mama hot.  No, mama didn't “glow” like all true southern women.  Nor was she the type of hot where you sweat buckets.   She was so hot her blood boil.

 To everyone else, life seemed to be fine for the Blairs.   Daddy had been elected to the State House of Representatives and making a life for himself.    Even his business, Blair's Pest Control, was going well.   He didn't need air conditioning at the house, he had it at his office, and he wasn't home that much anymore since he spent a great deal of time at the state capital which had air conditioning.  When he was home, he was outdoors on his tractor, planting or harvesting the cotton and corn we grew on what is now Mohon Street and Brame Junior High School in Alexandria, Louisiana.  And if he wasn't there then he was out playing politician.  We were the ones who had to suffer!                                     

 Meanwhile, mama stopped cooking steaks and big meals using the oven thinking that would make him change his mind.  No, he began to eat at Effie's Restaurant, a favorite gathering place for politicians in Alexandria. He had meals with his cronies, while we ate peanut butter sandwiches.  Nothing seemed to work.  Mama was at her wits end.

 Mama let daddy know that the barn wasn't being built; the dogs didn’t have their improved dog pen, and the hogs shared the barn lot with the cows.  Yet, daddy continued finding ways to not get things done.  He was too busy, politicking, or hunting or fishing with school board presidents or influential people in his district.  At least those were his excuses. 

  Mama just got madder. 

 One day, in early August, daddy came home with a brand-new bass boat, the latest model.  It had all the bells and whistles, wonderful motor.  Everything a fine fisherman needed to enjoy on his days off.

 

Mama hit the ceiling but held her tongue.

 Two weeks later, the legislative session began, and daddy left for Baton Rouge.  The first thing mama did was call the dealer that gave the most expensive quote and ordered air conditioners.  She told them to install window units in all three bedrooms, the dining room and living room as well as the laundry room and to send the bill to Blair's Pest Control where it would be paid promptly.  “Oh, and please write at the top of the ticket, in bold letters, 'Thanks for the bass boat.'  We love it,” she told them.  They did.

 
Daddy never said another word and we no longer had to wring our sheets out every morning after waking.  I think my daddy learned a lesson that day.

 This was the day Daddy learned to never underestimate the power of a hot, mad woman.  Life was finally cool for all the Blairs.

© 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.

NERO ROBICHAUX

To Rome: “If to smoke you turn, I shall not cease to fiddle why you burn.”  Nero

 

     
             Nero playing his fiddle!

 Nero Robichaux is the master of his kingdom which consists of a moonshine still hidden back in the woods, an undernourished stray dog, some chickens and a rooster, some hogs and two changes of clothes.  He lives in a run down, one bedroom house that he shares with his grand pappy, the man who raised him, and the animals.  It wasn’t a good raising.  Most of his memories consist of hard work or abuse.  Since the time he could hold a hoe, he was sent to the fields to help his grand pappy, sharecropping the land that doesn’t even belong to them.

Nero has never been the brightest bulb in the box.  They lived far back in the woods near Lake Charles, Louisiana.  His education came from the man who raised him, a man that only had a 2^nd grade education himself.   Since grand pappy thought school was a stupid idea, he never taught Nero anything except how to count on his fingers, make change and sharpen tools.  Nero was lonely. He wanted friends so one day left his grand pappy and found his way to school.  He didn’t learn much the few years he went except how to name every type of tree in his surroundings, and locate plants that are edible, or used for medicinal purposes.  

When Nero was 14 his Grand pappy died in a barroom fight.  He was left alone.    The dogs had always been company, but they weren't enough.  He wanted more.  Nero dropped out of school, taught himself how to make homemade remedies for all types of illnesses from the herbs in the woods and set out to make his fortune.  He concocted remedies for inflammation, nausea, digestion, migraines and anxiety, and set off to make his fortune.  It didn’t work and he ended up back in the broken-down cabin living in squalor.  

One day out of boredom Nero searched the house and discovered a fiddle.  This was a huge surprise for he had never heard his Grand Pappy play.  Nero thought that maybe if he learned to play it, he could at least make some money on street corners, perhaps even move to New Orleans, and play around Jackson Square.

He taught himself how to play.  The dogs loved it.             

One night, not being able to sleep in the heat of the summer night, Nero took Grand pappy’s mattress out to the porch hoping to catch a breeze or two. As he shoved the mattress outdoors, he noticed how lumpy it seemed to be.  Nero investigated and discovered that the old man had been hiding a gold mine.  There was lots of money that apparently had been hidden inside that mattress all these years. 

Nero gathered all the money and one of the dogs, and they moved to New Orleans planning to sell his homemade remedies in the back alleys, or at least play his fiddle. 

Things went well for a while, until poor Nero bragged about his fortune.  Late that night he was robbed, finding himself back on the streets. Nero hitched a ride back to Lake Charles, and began peddling his remedies without any trouble, thanks in part to his fine fiddling.   

            Nero began to make enough to eat on until Hurricane Rita danced into town.   Poor Nero lost everything—the house, the dogs, the chickens, and the hogs—everything except his Grand pappy’s fiddle.

Here he is seen playing his fiddle on what’s left of his roof while Rita flooded the area.

              He is one of the least of these my children.

 © 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.