RODEO CLOWN

 Before I was destined to be an artist, (a life I never knew existed until halfway 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. Not me, I had rodeo clown as my number one goal in life.

Rodeo clowns were fast on their feet and very agile, and so was I. After all, I was on the gymnastics team in high school. I could do back flips over those bulls, I thought. This was quite appealing to me. The rodeo clowns saved lives, too. Knowing that other people’s lives would depend on me and my agility was exciting. This seemed the ideal career choice. My friends couldn’t 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 lives 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 Trixie, 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). Trixie 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, like the time I made her rear up too far and she fell on top of me, and I broke a rib while Mama and Daddy were out of town.  I'm surprised I didn't have 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. I think Mama destroyed it when she had dementia while living in Assisted Living later in her life. 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. She was 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). Sheba was another of my favorite horses.

We lived on Jackson Street Extension in Alexandria, Louisiana 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 later became 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 Hineston, Louisiana, 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 down Jackson Extension and all the way down MacArthur Drive.

This was when I fell in love with the rodeo clowns and all things rodeos. 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 to protect the cowboy. This was the life I dreamed of. I think rodeo clowns are the glue that hold everything together. Without them there could be no rodeo. Now it’s 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. It’s probably best anyway because I know my Daddy would never have been fine with that. 

             After I started college, I became interested in art and somehow, over the years gave up my dreams of life traveling from event to event. I quit being a cowboy and quit riding horses and although I don’t do that anymore I still love watching PBR and the bull riders.

Once in a while, I dream of what joy it would have been if I had become 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.

WILLIE AND CAMELLIA WATERS

Job 33:28        He redeemed my soul from going down to the pit, and I will live to enjoy the light.

                     

 

Willie and Camellia are members of the Riverdawg band and regularly perform at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. Their blend of country western, blues and Zydeco, with a bit of rock and rap is acclaimed as the new music of the century. Other bands are clamoring to copy these pioneers. They have developed a large following, especially among the Canadian French.

Willie grew up in central Louisiana in Rapides Parish staying in fights and barely passing school. We were classmates all of our years in school. I remember him being frequently in the principal’s office in grammar school. In high school he was at the point of being expelled for the year when our principal, Mr. Johnson, decided to try a new approach rather than lose yet another young man to the streets. Mr. Johnson knew Willie liked music and needed direction in his life, something to discipline him. A goal to achieve. It took a great deal of persuasion to convince the band director to give Willie a chance.  

It was rough, at first, but gradually Willie discovered he had talent. The rest is history. Willie excelled in band going on to study at the New Orleans Conservatory of Music graduating with honors.

Camellia, his wife, is the lead singer in the Riverdawg band.  Some say she has tremendous promise, with a voice that rivals Ella Fitzgerald. Unlike Willie, she grew up in New Orleans around music. Her parents are performers, and music is in their blood. When she was growing up her evenings were spent doing homework in back corner offices while her parents were on stage. Occasionally she would join them for a song or two. It was only natural that she would follow in their footsteps. Camellia met Willie several years ago at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, falling in love with both his suave personality and exhilarating style of music. They fell in love. He gave her an engagement ring in the shape of a guitar, and they exchanged vows on the main stage at Festival International, in Lafayette, Louisiana while the band played on.

Willie and Camellia have been married for five years and are expecting their first child on Mardi Gras Day. This is an honor among musicians from N’awlins, I'm told. Camellia is thrilled because she once dreamed of having a child while riding on a float down Canal Street. She does not plan to be riding one on her due date, however. 

They have had a lot of discussion as to what the child should be named. If the baby is a girl, they intend to name her Lilly, Rose, or Pink. If it is a boy Willie wants to name him Fizzle, Fart or Stink. However, if Camellia has her way, the boy will be named Fat Tuesday, but she will still let Willie call him “Stink”.  I hope it’s a boy and he grows up to be a musician, too. He’d have a cool name, Stinky Waters.

© 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 OLD CODGER HAD AN EXPENSIVE MEAL

My daddy was the compulsive sort.  Whatever idea he had in mind needed to be acted upon and acted upon immediately.  When the spirit moved him, it was best to just get out of the way and let him because nothing would stop him. Most of these ideas had to do with the farm. 

This time it was peacocks.

 My daddy decided we needed peacocks to roam about the farm for their beauty. I visualized him fantasizing about being some European gentry on his estate with exotic fauna.  Mother just rolled her eyes and shook her head with that “I've been through this before” glazed look upon her face.  She reminded him that Peacocks are expensive play toys. Daddy's retort was they would be a thing of beauty as they strut around the farm and that we needed to have something else for the school children, who visited the animals on our farm, to enjoy.

After researching zoos and many telephone calls, across several states, he managed to purchase two males and their matching peahens. We kept them in cages in the barn, for a few weeks, to get them used to the area before giving them free rein to roam the farm. When released the males paraded about the place showing off like fifteen-year-old boys in front of a gaggle of giggling girls. 

peahen

            The peahen, on the other hand, is a drab sort of creature lacking the finery of her distinguished mate. These drab ladies followed the males about the barnyard with admiring glances, obviously adoring every move made by these cocky show-offs. The conceited males loved the audience and spent endless hours turning and preening and spreading their fan shaped tails for their women to admire.

Daddy found joy in hearing their caterwaul from barn roof tops or around the grounds. Mama hated the sound especially when the caterwaul was in the middle of the night on the roof above our heads

Visiting school children adored the addition of peacocks to the goats, ponies, geese, deer, and lamas that the “old gray mule (my daddy) provided for their visits. We began having more school trips of adoring children having free reign of the farm while the tired teachers attempted to control the enthusiasm. Daddy loved the visits, which was easy for him to say since he usually went somewhere else leaving me in charge of crowd control. This went well until one weaselly little boy left the gates open. Hearing some noise, I looked up to see the peacocks parading down the middle of the busy highway. Right behind them, like a pair of dutiful squaws, walked their little mousy mates. I struck out at a gallop while the teachers practiced crowd control on the squealing children. 

I learned that Peacocks, for all their beauty, are lacking in brains, and are impossible to herd. They went everywhere except the right way. Finally, a kindly truck driver helped me retrieve the fowls running amuck.

Life went well for a while until one bright moonlit night. We suddenly realized something was missing. There were no screams of “help, help”, like some PBS murder mystery. It was too quiet. They were gone. Where were the peacocks and their homely women?

 Early the next morning, I was sent searching for these wanderers. The peacocks were found desolate, sitting in the tall grasses of a ditch dragging their beautiful feathers, like playboys with a hangover. They were alone. The mousy peahens were missing. I found no traces of them. Subdued and repentant, the peacocks were silent all the way home and spent the rest of the day sitting under a tree bemoaning for their missing mates. There was silence all day, until the moon came out. Suddenly the peacocks sounded like a couple of drunks, sobering up, and set off the most desolate cries of their entire lives for their girls. They screamed night after night for weeks. Still, we couldn't find the peahens. 

Mother was outdone with the whole situation and furious that the money daddy had spent on those noisy birds and their mousy mates was lost.  

Weeks later, mother heard, quite by accident, that an old codger down the road, who shoots anything with wings, except buzzards, to eat, had bragged how he just happened to find sitting on his back tree two of the nicest wild turkey hens he had ever seen. “I fattened them up on that corn I got from Mr. Blair, and they sure was tasty,” he said. This old codger had mistaken the peahens for wild turkeys. He sure had an expensive meal that year.

© 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.

 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 lifestyle.  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 to Baton Rouge while the rest stayed home.   I remember, vividly, one occasion in the summer of 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 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 capitol 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 they 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 begun.  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 nonstop in a snobby attitude of a voice.  She carefully wrote down every detail concerning prices and handed me several brochures for us to choose the kind we 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. As other people explored the trailers, we talked about our trips overseas and mentioned the Governor's name several times. The salesman was all excited for his sales to be, but suddenly mama straightened herself, abruptly thanked him for all the information and the tour while ushering me quickly toward the car, mumbling loud enough for everyone to hear that we had to hurry for she had forgotten her meeting with the governor’s wife for tea.  Leaving the salesman high and dry.

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?” That poor man is going to be sad we we don't return. 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.

 

                    THE DAY MAMA STOLE THE FIREWOOD...

                                 A THANKSGIVING MEMORY

   I wish there were a photograph, a little instamatic black and white would do, so I could frame it for future generations to enjoy. But there isn't and memories are all that remain.  It was a beautiful fall day; the leaves were at their brightest. The sky couldn't have been any clearer. You could see your breath in the early morning light. It was the mid 1950's. I was 14 and my brother 10. Thanksgiving morning. The family had plans to visit some German friends of my parents, in south Louisiana, later in the day, to share the Thanksgiving meal.

My brother and I were waked up early with Daddy's shrill whistle. He had a way of doing that when he wanted something done immediately. We hopped out of bed and were given orders to hitch a trailer up to the truck and then go with our mother to pick up a load of firewood. 

 Daddy was sending - yes, that is the operative word - the three of us to get the firewood from a place in Buckeye, a small community outside of Alexandria because he had business to take care of. The man owed Daddy money and since he was unable to pay, suggested Daddy take the firewood for payment in exchange. We were to do this before we left for south Louisiana.

After some verbal communication, between the two of them, the three of us set off with an attitude. Mama still had not finished cooking the dish we were to bring, and Buckeye was out in the country with lots of winding roads. She didn't know the area like Daddy did, but could he go? Oh, no.  He had to send her! My brother and I listened to this tirade all the way there.

            We wandered the roads in the country, looking for the house Daddy described.  It was taking too long. Mama, in her madness, had forgotten the exact directions.  (This would not be a problem, today, because of cell phones, but we didn't have that luxury in the 1950's. 

The more we drove the more Mama thought of things she had to do before leaving for Crowley. The more she thought of things she had to do, the more upset she became. The more upset she became, the louder she got. We moved to the backseat as we listened to her tirade against Daddy. She began driving recklessly.

Finally, she spotted a huge pile of wood stacked against a pasture fence, newly cut, close to the road.  “That’s the place,” she said.  “He said the woodpile was not near the house, but close to the road.” 

The house was a good 100 yards away and Mama didn't see the need to knock on their door since we were in a hurry. She backed the trailer up to the pile of wood and ordered us to hurry and load it on the trailer.  

We protested. She yelled at us, “The man knew we would be here today, so no need to knock. Daddy called him, I’m sure.”

 When almost all had been loaded, a woman came out of the house, shouting at us.

 “Who do you think you are?  My husband just cut that wood this morning.  You're stealing our wood,” she shouted. 

Mama snapped.  “I am Mrs. Cecil Blair.  We are not stealing your wood. Your husband owes my husband money, and we are taking this wood for payment. We were to pick it up today.”  

Mama told us to keep loading.  The woman ran into the house saying she was going for her gun. “This woman’s nuts. Hurry,” Mama said and ordered us to finish loading and quickly get in the truck. 

As Mama started the truck a man came roaring down the road, trying to block us. Mama thought he was going to explain things to his wife, but he wasn’t. He was angry. He had a gun. Mama managed to maneuver around him, and we weaved about the road heading for home. We heard shotgun fire. She drove faster.

We arrived home and began unloading the wood while Mama hurried into the house, mumbling bad things about my Daddy, who wasn’t home.

 Suddenly a Sheriff's car drove up. The sheriff got out of his car and asked my brother and I some questions. He sent us inside to get Mama.

We told Mama he wanted her to come outside, but she refused because she had too much to do before we left. The sheriff followed us inside. She told them they could talk with that sorry husband of hers when he returned. 

The sheriff asked how she got the wood. She explained that some man named Mr. Wilson owed her husband some money, that she had to go get it and we didn't have time for this because we were going to Crowley for Thanksgiving with some friends and she still had to finish the dish she was making, bathe and change clothes and make sure all four of us children were getting dressed and ready. 

The sheriff tried to interrupt her, but she didn't hear him and shouted for us, boys, to hurry up.  There was too much to do. 

Finally, the sheriff said, “Mrs. Blair, I understand your frustration, but what did you say the man's name was where you took the wood?” She said, Mr. Wilson out in Buckeye.  He looked at his tablet and said, “Mrs. Blair, you were not at Mr. Wilson's house. You stole that wood. I’m afraid we must arrest you.” 

Thankfully, Daddy arrived home before they took her away.  And, yes, we had to take the wood back before leaving for Crowley. Thank goodness Daddy was friends with the sheriff. I'm sure glad the meal was not planned for the noon time.

© 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 Bleu Crab Café

“A Cajun will always share a recipe with you, but they'll always leave out one ingredient.”  Tourist couple from Baton Rouge

Acts 14:7…and yet he did not leave himself without witness, in that He did good and gave you rains from heaven and fruitful seasons, satisfying your hearts with food and gladness

 

     

 By the time she was six Joyce Eva was making Gumbo at her mother’s side and has been cooking ever since.   She is the owner of the Blue Crab Café in New Orleans.  To see the place, you would never guess that it was a café.  It sits quietly on a street in the French Quarter, another row house among all the other row houses.  The only way to recognize it is the bright lime green paint on the siding and the neon pink porch rail. There is a small sign next to the front door with a picture of a blue crab and the words Joyce Eva’s underneath. But locals just call it The Blue Crab. It is well known to locals and a few fortunate tourists.  They say the food has no comparison, part Creole, part Cajun, part southern and all soul.  The recipes are handed down by her grandmother who was the main cook on her master’s plantation. 

 The Blue Crab Café has been a tradition since the 1870’s.  Joyce Eva, the granddaughter of a slave, is carrying on a family tradition, like her mother and grandmother, of serving the best food around.

 She graduated from the famous Le Cordon Bleu school in Paris, and after working as a Chef in several large cities like Atlanta and Chicago, London, and Paris, came home to take care of her ailing mother and just stayed because family mattered, working part-time in the café.   After her mother died, she decided to remain in New Orleans as the chef of this quaint café. Why not? It already had a following from the locals, and besides, she was not married and had no other family ties.  She needed this quieter life.

 Joyce Eva is the acclaimed author of several bestselling cookbooks on blended Cuisine such as The Taste of Possum and In Pursuit of Poke Salad, or the popular Suck Dem Heads and Crack Dem Crabs.  The Blue Crab cookbook, her latest, contains several mouth-watering recipes such as braised Nutria lips and pickled alligator feet as well as some famous French recipes.    

 Her salad garden is grown outback with all the freshest herbs.  “All my food comes from the heart,” she says.  “Good home cooking is what gets us through the tough times as well as the good.  I cook as if cookin’ for a funeral 'cause, you know, there is nothin’ better than funeral food.  It fills you from head to toe and soothes the soul.  You won’t leave nothin’ on your plate, and you won’t go home hungry.  That’s a fact!” 

 At the Blue Crab, Joyce Eva serves only the finest food on tablecloth-clad tables, real cloth napkins and sterling silver.  The chef works with the highest quality, freshest produce available.  Local favorites are her mustard green salad and of course her award-winning poke salad.  The shrimp, crabs and Gulf fish like red snapper are fresh from the gulf. Her down-home dishes can make your eyes water, reminding you of your mama’s cooking.   

 Her pork chops cannot be compared.  The pork is purchased from a very small, family-owned, organic pig farmer in Slidell because she hasn’t found any cleaner pork to match.  “None of my dishes come from the slaughterhouse, baby.,” she says.  “I shop daily at the fish market for the freshest and all my produce is grown in my own back yard.  My wines are suitable for every palate – from white to rose and red to champagne.  You won't find finer food anywhere else; I guarantee.”

 So, if you are in the mood for soup l'oignon, boeuf bourguignon, con fit de canard or chicken, shrimp and andouille jambalaya, red beans and rice, seafood gumbo, or just some mouthwatering soul food then you must go to the Blue Crab Café. If you can find it. 

© 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 ELEVATOR SHAFT AT EMMANUEL BAPTIST CHURCH

 You know, when little boys are growing up, they can get into all sorts of messes, sometimes without intention.  Sometimes totally on purpose.  This is a lesson on how not to follow the crowd which I didn’t do then.

 I grew up in Emmanuel Baptist Church in Alexandria, Louisiana.  I really cannot recall a time, even into adulthood, when I wasn't involved week to week at that church.  Our whole life revolved around Sundays and Wednesdays there. I had no problems with that.  It was a wonderful life.

 This is a story of a Sunday school class that overlooked an old elevator shaft when I was twelve years old.  An all-boys class.  We were on the second floor of the old building that used to be the sanctuary. It was renovated as an educational building when the new church sanctuary was built on the corner property in 1950.  I was seven. The old sanctuary section was divided into more classrooms for children and the balcony area became extra classrooms for teenagers. The adults had classrooms downstairs.

 When the building was the sanctuary, it had a two-person elevator that went to the balcony. I was told it was built for Mary Calderwood Bolton who had trouble with stairs.  What I most remember, however, was that the Boltons sat on that balcony in rocking chairs on Sunday mornings, after all, they were founding members of Emmanuel.  I also remember going up there when I was six, with a friend, on a Wednesday and rocking in those chairs out of curiosity even though I had been told I should never go to the balcony and sit in those chairs. It was a scary adventure because I was afraid, I might be caught. This was the sanctuary I remembered until 1950 with the beautiful yellow stained glass around the top above the balcony which brought in such a glow to the whole room when the sun was shining. Even as a young child it was ethereal.  During the renovation the elevator was removed, and the empty shaft was left.

 When I was twelve, we were promoted to a new Sunday school room on the second floor. At the back was a window that blocked the shaft. We could look down to the first floor from that window. It was fascinating to twelve-year-old curious boys since inside the shaft was a wooden ladder. We had trouble listening to lessons because our minds wandered and dreamed of being able to explore the bottom of that shaft. During the 1950’s in Sunday school we had an offering envelope with sections to mark like attendance, on time, Bible brought, offering, prepared lesson, preacher attendance. And a place to write our names and the amount we gave each week. Our teacher, Bob Belk, would check these and mark them before leaving us alone while he turned the envelopes in to the secretary down the hall.

 This is when we elbowed each other to get a better look at that forbidden shaft while one was “elected” to stand guard for his return. It was also when we realized that the window was held shut with three or four screws.

 One Sunday we had the bright idea that someone should bring a screwdriver to class so we could loosen the screws when Mr. Belk left the room. Names escape me, but one of us (I’ll just call him Jim) said he could get his daddy’s screwdriver that he kept in his workroom off their garage without his daddy knowing it. He was elected and the next Sunday was to be our escape. The following Sunday we waited in anticipation with silence and sweaty hands.  We made sure Jim set in front of the window. When Mr. Belk left the room, we made a dash to watch him undo the screws, but he was only able to remove one. So, week by week we carefully removed a screw each week, fearful we would be caught.

 The final day arrived; Mr. Belk left the room to turn in our envelopes. We forced the window open, and all climbed down that ladder to the bottom of the shaft closing the window behind us. Our teacher returned to an empty room. He never thought to look down the shaft but I’m sure he searched around the larger meeting room and asked the secretary.  We were scared when we heard the bell ring to end Sunday school because we weren’t sure how we would be able to get ourselves out without being caught. We waited until we were sure church had started before we escaped.  We snuck into the balcony thinking we would be fine.

 Well, we weren’t.  All of our parents had been contacted by Mr. Belk before church started, and one of them saw us sneak up to the balcony. We had a group meeting that Sunday immediately after church with all our parents and the preacher who chastised us severely about our sins and the dangers that could have happened. Our parents let us know how frightened and embarrassed they were, and we were punished.

 Our Sunday school class was moved to a different room after that and our old one was given to the girls. I don’t know who put the screws back on the window, I never went back to check. Lesson learned. Carry on.

© 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.