CAMELLIAS AND ROSES

 My father was a passionate person with many interests.   When he became enthusiastic toward something, he would do everything he could to learn all there was on the subject and pursue it to his best ability until he lost interest, which was often, and then on to new quests.   Take for instance, flowers.   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.  The area next to his chair was piled knee high with his collection. 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 bushes with such names as Alba Plena, Angel, Apollo, Candy Stripe, Finlandia variegated.  yes, you heard that right.  300 bushes.  Daddy never did anything half way. 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 filled with the camellias.  I remember many an afternoon placing protection around prize flowers and coddling them for a flower show; 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 around the state.  I remember helping him graft plants to create a new variety.

            One of the perks with having camellias was that I got to bring a single flower to two favorite teachers at Cherokee Elementary, Mrs. Ward-Steinman and Mrs. Maxa Salter. 

In the summers when the weather was hot it became my job to water the 300 bushes twice a week.   I was given a stopwatch and the hose and told to place the hose at the base of each plant and water them for five minutes each.  Can you imagine how many hours that took?  Do the math.  I watered camellias six days a week all summer long.  I would set mama’s kitchen timer and play until it went off before moving the hose...day after day.  That was a boring summer.

                                               

                                                                                Roses:  

                                     

After daddy conquered the Camellias, he discovered 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, even taller that the camellia magazines and books.  It wasn't long before he made a trip out to Forest Hill. Louisiana, the nursery capital of the world, 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 one would plant a garden, 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, forever tethered to that hose wrapped around my neck.  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 sinking on the horizon; when chores on the farm were finished, the sensation of the rich soil cool to my bare feet.  I would silently lie down in that soft dirt and just take in all the colors that were glistening above me - sometimes against a blue sky or a sunset that complemented 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 keep his current one.  Daddy decided to deliver roses to people in hospitals (Rapides and Cabrini).  Now 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, he thought). 

The next Saturday, I was waked by his shrill whistle at dawn.  “Get up, son,” he said, “we need to cut roses.”  After filling a bucket with water, we began to cut the rose buds.  We would take them to the barn and trim each bud, fill the vases with water and carefully place them into the car. 

                                  

Then we transported them to the hospitals.  Now, here is where the story becomes more interesting.  Daddy had this fear of people in hospitals...he did not like to visit them.  He would not even step beyond the entrance doors.  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 next to the bed, and picking up the old vase.  Sometimes stopping to chat with a person or two.  I loved these 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.     I developed a love for cheering people.  Kudos, daddy.  Thanks for the 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.

T-Ray Deshotels

Ecclesiastes 1:2   Vanity of vanities!  All is vanity.

 

                                                       

      T-Ray wanted to be a trapeze artist when he grew up.  The goal was pure selfishness on his part, however, for his ulterior motive was to be near the scantily dressed girls on the high wire.  They were beautiful and graceful as they “flew through the air” causing his heart to skip a beat.  His mother, seeing the desire of her unusual child and not knowing his secret motive, had a custom-made trapeze built in the back yard of their home and delighted in watching her son fly.  After all, she reasoned, he had been doing such in the trees for years, swinging from branch to branch as if he were a monkey.  Why not give focus to her son’s dream? 

            When the girls paid little attention to T-Ray he soon lost interest and pursued his second dream; be a rodeo clown.  He had already proven he was fast on his feet and very agile, why he was even on the gymnastics team in high school.  Surely this would attract the girls.

            Growing up on a cotton farm in Avoyelles Parish with horses always around had prepared him for such a career. He was a country boy and horses were in his blood, in fact, he had been given a beautiful sorrel mare for his first birthday.   

T-Ray and his friends were always the first at the gate for the grand entry when the rodeo was in town.  Once he even got to carry the flag and lead the others around the arena.  T-Ray knew that people were standing in respect to the flag but in his heart, he pretended they were rising to their feet because their hero was passing before them.  He dreamed of being the star of the rodeo. “I’ll be a rodeo clown someday,” T-Ray said, out of the blue one weekend, after watching the rodeo.

“Are you crazy,” interrupted his friend, Marcello, “Since you love horses more than breathing, why not be a bareback bronco rider?”

“That’s not showy enough,” he retorted.  “You only have a few minutes in the arena before adoring fans.  If I were the clown then I would be out there the entire rodeo,” he said smugly.  “Rodeo clowns are the glue that keep everything together.  Without them there is no rodeo.  I want to be the star not just a star, besides girls admire heroes”.

His friend could not understand why he would like to live so dangerously.  “That is part of the excitement,” he told Marcello. “You get to run, jump, entertain people and save lives on occasion.”  But inside he thought, “I’ll be a girl magnet.” 

Soon the thought of people depending on him and his agility for safety became quite appealing.  He dreamed of becoming the hero, distracting the bull that was ready to gore the rider he had just thrown.  The thought of breaking bones never occurred to him. Nor did it really matter.  He had broken bones several times through the years.  In fact, nine times.  Broken bones never slowed him before, why should they now?

T-Ray, the infamous bachelor, lives next to his parents, working the farm alongside his siblings and their families. It was hard work hoeing the weeds in the cotton fields and taking care of the tractors and machinery.  On weekends he practiced trick riding on his horse, bouncing in and out of the saddle, standing on the back of his horse in full gallop or doing back flips off the horse. He loved the adrenaline rush it gave him.  He even had a costume.  But his dream of being the rodeo clown was easily forgotten after a near death experience when the girth strap broke and he ended up under his horse while in a full gallop.  He crushed his collar bone. 

Now his focus is on girls and being part of the Avoyelles Parish Courie Le Mardi Gras, riding bareback through the countryside once a year in search of chickens or other ingredients for the big gumbo celebration at the end of Fat Tuesday.  He has become “the” star of the Parish with his shenanigans on horseback. 

Bless his heart he still thinks he’s a girl magnet.  

© 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.