MY  COLORFUL FAMILY

It has been said that Southern politicians are known for being a colorful sort of people. Southern politician's families even more so. Then why should anyone be surprised if my family looked like the 8 box of Crayola Crayons (that's counting the dogs). We were different, brilliant and non toxic, and oh, so much fun.

My dad held the trump card of the raconteur, feeling most at home with an audience around him, telling homespun tale after tale. Never mind if the tale grew in size and proportion each and every time it was repeated. If it caused attention being brought to him then the better the tale. Daddy loved an audience. He rose from the ranks of the poorest share croppers son to work for the common good. He honed his skills of honesty and hard work, meshed with a clear understanding of every man's problems and dreams. He had a big generous heart and a fair dealing hand which characterized his efforts in the strange world of Louisiana politics. The most important person was the ones he was currently talking to. He loved having people around him. Such a man was my father.

My mother was articulate, literary and well trained for public life. She required lots of alone time. Being a minister's daughter, she had lived her entire life “in a fish bowl” and was well suited for being scrutinized by everyone, relishing the idea of surprise as to their evaluations. Mother felt drawn to the man who had never known the genteel ways she had been taught, perhaps exercising her independence by rebelling against the tight reins her parents had kept on her and perhaps due to her idealistic hope of refining the rough edges of this common man.

As a young couple, they were perfectly suited or so one thought. On the one hand, there was the idealistic country boy out to conquer the world, who had never used a telephone until the day he arrived at college. On the other hand there was the naive young lady who was used to Sunday socials, attending plays and concerts and teas in the warm summer afternoons, or sneaking off to swim on a Sunday afternoon, a known sin for a preacher's daughter. My daddy was a home body, he had never traveled except during the war and really didn't care much for it. Mother, lived to travel. She was used to it since Methodist preachers moved every three years back then. No two backgrounds could ever have been more different. Yet, there was a commonality between these two. Both of them had a keen sense of humor and playfulness; both were strong willed, though mother had been trained to acquiesce to the male in the family. Both loved to talk at the same time. Actually one never really listened to the other, but continued to talk over and above the other, succeeding to communicate his or her wishes only by endless repetitions. To this competing conversation at the dinner table, we four children added our voices creating a cacophony intolerable for most, but the norm for us.

My parents believed in entertainment and creativity. Our life was one adventure after another. For instance, when I was around nine or ten mother decided I should experience a train ride and a plane ride. So the two of us went down to the train station on lower Third and boarded a train to New Orleans where we spent hours exploring Magazine street and the antique stores. We went to Brennan's for a meal, white tablecloths and napkins, jazz music in the background, and fine silverware. A sharp contrast to the rowdy meals we had at home. We spent the night at a hotel on Canal Street. The next day was spent at the Audubon Zoo after some beignets at Cafe du Monde. She even took me down Bourbon Street and told me about the evils that lurked behind those doors while laughing at the drunken characters we met on the street. The next day we boarded a plane and flew home. I was now a man of the world, I thought.

Another time, while I was staying with daddy in Baton Rouge he took me to a bar/restaurant downtown just a block from the Heidelberg Hotel. He said I should learn about Beatniks. These were young people who were part of a social group in the 1950s and early 1960s that rejected the traditional rules of society and encouraged people to express themselves through art. We sat at a back corner table, wine for daddy and a coke for me, listening to the young people. Some played their guitar, others read a poem. One sang a song of rebellion. After each performance the fingers would snap in approval. The room was dark with wine bottles as candle holders and black lights around the black walls. Everyone there wore black clothing with berets or scarves, Most everyone was smoking. I, being naïve like mama thought they were only cigarettes. Daddy didn't think the smoke would be a problem since we wouldn't be staying for long. I was fascinated by these people that I had heard of but never seen. I might have even dressed the same except that I owned no black clothing. Blue jeans and cowboy boots with a black shirt just wasn't right.

Once mama caught some of us using crayons on the walls in the hall. There was some fussing, and we had to clean up after ourselves but soon we found that she had cleared out a closet in the middle of that hall and declared that it would be our place to be creative. There was the space where the clothes should be and overhead that were two large spaces that used to house suitcases. We could climb up and lie down in those cubbyholes. We wrote all sorts of things on those walls as well as colored and drew to our hearts content.

We made hideouts in hay lofts and read books away from prying eyes. We climbed trees and hung by our knees on the top most branches. We used slingshots and china berries and had wars with each other. We made rafts in newly created drainage ditches and floated around the area. Our only rule was to be home for supper and before dark. Yes, our family is different, brilliant, non toxic and fun.

© 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 very interesting experience while working as an art and dance therapist at Central Louisiana Mental Hospital back in the seventies. Some of them were good, some bad and some really 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. The day he didn't attend, I checked on him. He had died during the night. At 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 lots of questions as to 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 Alexandria. The service was to be conducted at a local Catholic church. I did not know the other pall bearers and really felt out of place. Yet I agreed to do this for Mr. Doe, whom I had learned to respect.

The priest that conducted the service was recovering from a long illness and was heavily medicated. I should have seen 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 once tripped and reached 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.

After 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 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.

During all this, the daughter sat rigid and stared straight ahead. 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 ready to roll the casket to the hearse. As we reached the door, the daughter suddenly screamed, “Wait! I want to take pictures.” We had a shocked look on or faces, I'm sure. This time 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. 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 lb plus sized man inside, slid off the cart and descended toward the bottom of the hill. Thank the Lord the casket did not open. After several tries we managed to get Mr. Doe to his grave site and finished the service. We stood in stunned silence with bits of 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. Finally we were able to leave....bless our 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.

Shetland Ponies

My brother and I had not received our early wake up call from daddy, which consisted of him standing at our door and whistling shrilly, rudely waking us. First two notes (my signal) then three (my brother's). We learned to pop out of bed as he said, gruffly, “Out of bed, boys, time to hit the floor.” My brother usually made a very rude remark since he was a night owl and I, being a morning person, jumped up without a fuss. But this morning was different. He didn't come. I crept out of bed and walked down the hall toward their bedroom. He was still asleep and Mama was sitting on the bedside wiping his brow with a cold washcloth. My daddy was never sick! Never! Mama looked at me and whispered that Dr. Rozier was coming over and that I should go unlock the door. We found it really convenient having Dr. Rozier living next door...well, across from our pasture lane, anyway. He made many a house call for all of us through the years, except daddy. It was really weird to see daddy sleeping in bed, knowing the doctor was coming for him.

A few days later, daddy was still in bed and feeling rotten. Friends began to visit. One of his best friends brought over some magazines for him to read. Some of them were the National Shetland Pony Journal. Shetland ponies, originally from the Shetland Islands, are not miniature horses. They are taller, for one thing, and a breed all their own. This was a magazine devoted entirely to show ponies. Now, my daddy had a tendency to become totally involved in whatever really interests him. He will immerse himself in every aspect of his latest “hobby” until he masters it. Then he tires of it and moves on to new hobbies. We should have seen the signs coming about his new “hobby”since he read and re-read the journals, but we didn't. Maybe it was because he was sick and there were not piles and piles of magazines and books on the current subject strewn at his feet. Whatever the case, we had no idea that we were about to enter another adventure with daddy. Adventure? How about a whole new life style. When mama brought his breakfast the next morning, something she has always done...full meal, eggs, bacon, sausage, toast coffee and milk. Since they were married, she suddenly suspected trouble was brewing for he sat up in bed and started talking non stop about Shetland ponies. She cringed. Shaking her head, she knew in her heart that we would soon be owning, raising and showing Shetland ponies, if he had his way. Which he did. As soon as he was well, he set off for a show in Oklahoma with his friend and came home with two show mares. The adventure had begun.

So daddy bought Shetland ponies, not just any old Shetland, but pure bred ones. Ones with pedigrees and papers that made college graduates with doctorates look uneducated. You know, the more pure bred a pony the more expensive they were. Well, let me tell you, these were expensive ponies. We weren't rich. What did he do? Get a bank loan? We still don't know. Lucky that we had a hundred something acres on the old Baton Rouge highway near LSUA that we were farming, because houses were being built all around us on Jackson Street and our little pasture behind our house was getting boxed in by developments.

Mama wasn't sure where all this was headed with all these expensive mares pregnant from pedigreed studs wandering around in the pasture. She worried they would be stolen or hurt. She worried about all that money standing around eating hay. She worried where this was leading. She soon found out. That summer, Daddy built a wooden fence around the front acreage of the farm, up by the highway. My entire summer was spent painting that fence that year. Since it was creosoted wood it took several coats because the creosote would bleed through. I painted a coat of white on the fence. Then I painted two coats of aluminum, followed by two more coats of white. It took me two weeks to finish one coat and then I would begin again with the next coat. Of course, all this was in addition to all the other chores of taking care of feeding the cows we milked, helping bale hay and loading it in the barn. (I was the designated stacker because my brother deliberately messed up the stacks so he wouldn't have to do it. He got away with it too, but if I had done so, I, being the eldest son, would have to re-stack the hay). I also had to bush hog pastures and plant gardens, mow the yard. Oh, and of course there was always the chore of watering the camellia bushes...300 of them. I'm not sure if I slept that summer, come to think about it. When I complained about the extra time painting the fence, Daddy explained that this fence was needed so the now Camellia Shetland Pony Farm would look outstanding. Wait a minute. He said, “now” Camellia Shetland Pony Farm? Mama had a look of total resignation. Trucks and horse trailers were painted with the new logo. The barn was cleaned up and stalls installed to house the ponies. A training ring was built right next to the barn. (It needed painting, too, and yes, my brother got out of it by spilling paint and doing sloppy work). A horse trainer was hired. Our colors were decided.  

 We were in the business of training and showing Shetland ponies. 

 Our time now consisted of grooming the ponies, feeding and mucking stalls, preparing them to show. We began traveling around the country to Shetland pony shows....Iowa, Oklahoma, Kansas, Texas. We entered shows, won ribbons and became well known in the Shetland pony world.

Meanwhile, Daddy became tired of traveling back and forth to the farm on the highway. We had already sold the back portion of the Jackson Street land and Brame Junior High was built where our cotton field used to be, off Prescott Road. That should have been a warning. The next thing we knew, we sold the house on Jackson Street and moved to the farm. But that wasn't all. Yea, daddy was still in politics, still had his pest control business and still loved sitting on a tractor all day but he was still restless. He wanted more from his Shetland pony adventure. Daddy decided to accept the nomination to become the National President of the Shetland Pony Association. He won. During this time, we expanded the business. He and three other men bought a champion stud named C-Jo's Topper for $56,000. This was in the late 50's and early 60's folks. Mama cried. They retired C-Jo and put him out to stud at another investor's home in Crowley. Eventually daddy bought off the other investors and we brought C-Jo home. Meanwhile, he purchased several mares, one for $16,000 and another for almost that. Mama cried again. We bred them. Our diversification was paying off. We had lots of customers willing to breed their mares. We continued entering shows, winning trophies and ribbons. Everything seemed so rosy at Camellia Shetland Pony Farm.

Everything wasn't always rosy tho. Daddy was frequently gone dealing with state senate business and committee meetings in Baton Rouge, and unaware of the day to day problems because mama didn't want to bother him. So I was the hired worker. We had birthing problems, deaths, injuries but we didn't bother Daddy until he came home. One of our mares had trouble with birthing and seemed to neglect her colt. We ended up bringing that colt to the house and raising it in my bedroom. Mama took advantage here and wrote the popular children's books “Easter Pony” and “The Show Ring” from this adventure, which sold all over the United States as well as foreign countries. (That's a story all itself.) Another time a different mare was in trouble, her colt was coming out feet first and I was the only one around. I had to reach in and turn the colt and help birth it before the veterinarian arrived. I enjoyed that and felt proud because I had a part in saving this valuable show mare. When we had a death, we had to have an autopsy. Everyone on the farm would head for the hills before the veterinarian arrived. Not me. I would help hold the horse while he cut it open, examining and concluding the cause of death, while asking questions all the time. Maybe I should have been a vet. Ha.

There are lots of other adventures around these few years with the ponies, like the Shetland Pony ride we developed, or when Dr. Glen Bryant, our pastor at Emmanuel got interested and joined the pony business. But, those are stories to be told later. Let's just end this by saying that Daddy did eventually become tired of the Shetland pony business, sold off his ponies and moved on.

 Ah, life as a Blair sure has been unique.

© 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.

 

Mama and the Governor's Party at the Heidelberg Hotel

The year was 1960. I was a junior in high school. Daddy was in the state senate and Jimmy Davis was the Governor. Although I had been down to Baton Rouge many times while the legislature was in session, this was the first time I went as a worker. I was daddy's Senate Page. It really isn't as glamorous as one might expect. Prestige yes, well, to those home, anyway, I guess. 

We senate Pages, mostly spent our days being the go-fers for whatever any senator needed. We would fetch newspapers, cigars, cigarettes, water, notes to other senators, lunches or snacks from the cafeteria, and on several occasions, I would push the yea or nay button for daddy, if he was across the room filibustering, when a vote was called. O.K. I confess. I got to do that only once and only because I had just delivered something to his desk and happened to be standing there. I don't even remember what bill I voted yea for.

Daily we sat in a room on uncomfortable folding chairs, in our white shirts and ties, name tags visible, waiting to be called for assistance. On two occasions I was sent to fetch a senator's wife from a hotel and once I delivered a steak from a restaurant across town. But, mostly, we sat in our own little room just outside the chamber waiting as if we were horses at a race at Louisiana Downs. A buzzer would sound, a name called and off we'd run with a smile on our face and our best manners on our sleeve. Rushing about being “boys” for the important people. I got to hear a lot of interesting debates from that room, though, and enjoyed hearing the ins and outs of daily proceedings. I walked taller as I bustled about the state capital building on my errands.

Being a senator's son and a Senate Page had its perks too. In the evenings, we'd visit expensive restaurants with lobbyists as they wined and dined daddy and other politicians, usually at the lobyists expense. On several occasions a fancy party or two was held. Which brings me to the parties. They were mostly boring and loud but usually became entertaining as the evening wore on and the drinks flowed. I remember one in particular.

It was a Friday evening, I had a date with Representative Munson's daughter and we were attending a party the Governor was throwing at the poolside deck of the Heidelberg Hotel. The weather couldn't have been more perfect. A cool breeze was wafting from the Mississippi river. The moonlight glistening over the water. Mother had come down for the event and everyone was having a grand time. The orchestra, from New Orleans, was gathered near the pool playing jazz. The men were dressed in tuxedos, the ladies in formal evening wear, expensive jewelry being displayed as if at a movie premier. Cocktails were flowing, people laughing. The Governor was in a tux and cowboy boots, entertaining guests with his stories while others were trying their best to get close enough to meet the Governor or pull him aside to promote their latest bill. Clusters of men were gathered in a corner discussing strategies or certain bills, smoke curling around their faces. The women were also clustered in small groups, some with noses in the air trying to out snob each other with their importance. My date and I were dancing in the moonlight, discovering we had absolutely nothing in common. 

Did I mention that cocktails were flowing? Well, they were flowing as fast as that Mississippi river was. As the evening wore on, the laughter became more raucous. People began swaying, not to the music but from the drinks. Suddenly, someone swaggered to the pool, placed a couple of hundred dollar bills at the end and shouted in his blurred speech, “Two hundred dollars to the first lady that will jump in the pool and swim to the opposite end.” My mother, who was not a drinker and was stone sober rushed to the pool side and with her floor length evening gown jumped into the pool, swam to the opposite end and grabbed the money. She then tucked the money in her bra and returned to her room. 

The laughter exploded as, suddenly, wives and escorts followed suit. Drunken women, wine glasses in hand, were splashing about in the water. One very inebriated senator tripped and fell face down into the pool, creating more laughter as he attempted to steal kisses. It was one glorious, bedlam moment. The attendants, working that night, began fishing everyone out and rescuing the cocktail glasses. Someone signaled the orchestra to begin playing again and the party went on as usual. 

When mama returned about an hour later, the band played “You Are My Sunshine” as she made her entrance, barefoot since she only had one pair of shoes, she said, and they were wet. People applauded. Later, I asked her, “Why?” “Why, indeed,” she laughed, “I can have as much fun as everyone else without even drinking. They didn't know the difference and, besides, most won't remember tomorrow anyway.” Which they didn't. Personally, I'm just glad the reporters were not there to record the fun and splash it all over the papers.

© 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.

 

CHEESY BUFFALO CHICKEN SPAGHETTI SQUASH

Nippy Blair

Ingredients:

1 medium spaghetti squash

2 cups of cooked shredded chicken (I used skinless chicken breasts but skin-on thighs would be wonderful and juicy).

1 cup freshly grated cheddar and mozzarella cheese (½ cheddar, ½ mozzarella)

¼ cup Tabasco Hot sauce (or less if you prefer less heat or more)

2 Tablespoons melted butter

1/3 cup Greek Yogurt or sour cream

¼ cup chopped green onion, divided

salt and pepper to taste

1 teaspoon minced basil

1 teaspoon minced rosemary

1 teaspoon minced oregano

Optional: ranch or blue cheese dressing for drizzling

extra cheese for topping

DIRECTIONS:

for the spaghetti squash:

Slice the spaghetti squash in half lengthwise and scoop out the seeds. (If the skin is too tough you can place it in the microwave for 5 minutes to soften it a little).

Place the two halves on a rimmed baking dish lined with a silicone sheet or foil, Rub a small amount of olive oil on the cut sides and place face down on the baking sheet.

Roast for 40-45 minutes at 350, or until tender and easily pierced with a fork.

While the squash is cooking, cook the chicken. (you can use your favorite method: roasting, baked, poached, rotisserie, Crockpot). I used the following method:

Salt and pepper the chicken on both sides. Melt 2 T butter in a frying pan. Mince 1 clove garlic (I used 3 because we like garlic) and saute in the melted butter for 1 minute then add the basil, oregano and rosemary and saute for another minute or two. Add the chicken and cook until juices come out clear and chicken is tender. Set chicken aside to cool slightly before shredding. Melt one T butter in the remaining juices from the frying pan.

In a separate bowl combine the cheese, Tabasco, Greek yogurt, green onion, and the remainder of the melted butter from the chicken. Add the shredded chicken.

With a fork, scrape the spaghetti squash bowls to release the strands of squash and mix with the cheesy buffalo chicken mixture. Stir to combine completely. Place in a baking dish. (If you wanted to impress company then use the squash bowls instead of the baking dish).

Note: You may top the squash mixture with a little of the extra cheese (I sometimes grate Parmesan cheese)

Cover with foil (tent it so the cheese doesn't stick).

Bake at 350 for 20 minutes or until the cheese is hot and bubbly. For extra golden bubbly cheese, remove the foil and place under the broiler for 2 to 3 minutes.

Garnish with green onions. Serve with a veggie salad and/or green beans or veggie of your choice.

Drizzle with the ranch or blue cheese dressing if desired.

© 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.

 

MONA JEANSONNE

1708 Shirland Avenue

I'd just moved into a vacant house my dad owned. It had never been rented before and had been vacant for seven years, neglected except for some storage. I was single, just out of the army and Vietnam. I had come back to finish my college degree, so moving there just seemed like another adventure, and I was up to the challenge since the only other option was to move home.

Pieces of the 1930's wallpaper hung stubbornly to the walls and ceiling, but the majority was on the floor. I stripped all the paper off the walls in the front room and placed a 200 year old loom I had bought, while stationed at Ft. Knox, Kentucky in the center. Strings from the old cheesecloth backing gave visions of a haunted house.This room would be my studio.

The Loom.  After moving to our current house.

In the corner of the bedroom, I placed a single mattress on top of a set of springs, found in the dump, balanced on bricks I found in the back yard.  On restless nights I would toss enough to knock the mattress off the bricks tumbling me to the floor.   The wallpaper on this ceiling seemed to breathe as if alive when the wind pumped life into it. I would lie in bed, mesmerized watching the ceiling catch its breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Breathe in, breathe out. “I am alive. Help me please,” it seemed to sigh. It was better than counting sheep.

I had one borrowed couch and no TV in my living room.  The floors were so uneven that I could drop a marble at the front door and it would roll to the opposite wall faster than I could take two steps. 

The dining room had holes in the floorboards in the corner, large enough to see the ground underneath. I put bricks over the holes, placing tons of artificial fern and a nude statue.  I called the corner “Mary Hattie in the bushes”.   On boring nights, I would remove the bricks to see how many marbles would roll into the holes before I knocked them away with another one. It became a game of skill similar to quail hunting for they rolled so fast. In the center of the room I placed my parents first piece of furniture, their dining room table that mama had shortened for a coffee table. It had belonged to every one of my siblings before coming to rest with me. I painted it turquoise and yellow. I even painted stripes on the wallpaper with flowers between stripes so it wouldn't look so drab.

The kitchen floor was so rough that I bought a huge roll of red, white and blue plastic cloth and tacked it to the floor so I could at least mop.  I painted an image of Mickey Mouse in the center. For meals,  I had a hot plate to heat food, a refrigerator, a pot to cook in and utensils pilfered from my mother.  I would “cook” hamburger helper once a week and heat it up daily for my meals, then eat on a table I bought for $10.00 at a flea market. I still own that table.  Across the street was the Lighthouse Root Beer Stand.  On days I didn't want to cook I would order there, walk home and then be informed by speakers when my meal was ready.  I became so regular, that as I drove into the driveway, they would ask over the speaker if I wanted the usual. Receiving my nod they would fix my order. This was my life in the early 70's.

After the first month living there, I found my neighbor, an old woman, in my yard, her hair in rollers with a scarf over them. She was peering into whatever window she could – sometimes on a chair or stepladder to see better. 

My friends began to visit, and so did she, sorta. No matter how many friends arrived I could count on Ms. Jeansonne to show up five minutes later with a tray of coffee and the right amount of cups with saucers for my guests. It was eerie. She never was wrong. She'd knock on the door, thrust the coffee into my surprised hands, then disappear, shaking her head and muttering in French. As soon as the last guest left, she would return, no matter how late, to retrieve her belongings, never speaking, just shaking her head at me.

  One day I came home with groceries, a bag of Community coffee visible at the top. She was on my porch looking through the window.  Upon seeing me, and my groceries, she marched, in a huff,  toward me, grabbed the coffee and began to lecture me in French, all the while shaking her finger at me. Then she opened the coffee and emptied the contents into the street and spat upon it.

“Hey, you crazy old lady, what did you do that for?” I yelled as I attempted to retrieve my coffee. She continued angrily fussing in French as she rifled my groceries, shaking her head and finger at me, spitting on the ground whenever she found something she did not like. Her daughter stepped outside. “Mama,” she shouted, first in English and then in French, “It's OK if he wants to buy his own coffee and groceries. He doesn't understand you, he can't speak French.” Without missing a beat, Ms. Jeansonne jerked what was left of the bag of coffee from my hands and carried it to her house, continuously lecturing me in French. At the door she swiftly turned, grabbed a broom and, shaking it in the air, yelled in English, “Learn!”. The daughter returned my groceries and explained that I had offended her mother by buying my own coffee. She said the old lady felt I couldn't take care of myself and felt obligated to mother me.   Gradually I began to tolerate her snooping around my windows and bringing me coffee when guests arrived.   

Eventually I married and brought Frances home to this hovel.  I had warned her about the neighbor and her coffee runs.   The first time friends came over to visit, I warned Frances to not make coffee since Ms. Jeansonne would supply our drinks.  She didn't. In fact, she never brought coffee over again and we never saw her snooping around the house.  I had been abandoned by this crusty old French woman.   I asked her daughter if her mother was ill. "No," she explained, "mama feels you don't need to be taken care of anymore. You have a wife now." 

 Eventually Ms. Jeansonne had to be placed in a nursing home because she began wandering the streets, confused. 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.

BEAU

chapter 5

Old Struck

(The Final Chapter)

Me and Beau didn't see each other for a while after that 'cause our mamas said they needed a break from the shenanigans we had caused. When I did see him again, Beau was wearing his brand new, store bought overalls. His paw had sold some good deer pelts for less than what they were worth so Beau could have some britches. His Maw gave him the what fer over all the trouble he had caused and warned him that them overalls had better last all his born days until he became an adult and maybe a long time after that.

It felt good bein' friends again, full of fun. One day we decided to head over to the clearin' by “old struck” and just hang about. Paw said it was good for us cause we could learn to be better swampers. “If'n you'd just go somewheres in the swamp and stand still for a while, you might get to know them critters and their habits. It'll help you trap better,” he said. “They gonna' stay hidden long as you boys keep makin' all that racket.” Beau said he already knew them critters and he weren't 'bout to go stand still in that old swamp waitin' for them critters to show their face, 'cause the skeeters and chiggers would eat us alive. “ Besides,” said Beau, “some old bobcat might sneak up on us and have us for dinner.” I said we should climb up on old struck to watch for the critters, but Beau said he would get sleepy and fall off the limb and the old buzzards would come and invite all their friends to a buzzard party over our dead bodies. Said they'd eat his first since he was sweeter. I said, “Wait a cotton pickin' minute,” and hit him up-side the head. We wrestled for a while before sittin' on the ground, back to back. “Ain't nothin' sneakin' up on us today 'ceptin' them skeeters,” Beau laughed.

Weren't long before we heard some rustlin' about in the leaves. Beau whispered it must be a bear sneakin' up but it weren't really nothin' but some old birds searchin' for somethin' to eat. Just as I was about to fall asleep myself and cause the buzzard party, Beau heard a “plink” in the water. A squirrel had dropped some of its pine cone dinner into the water. Then we saw a snake swim over to investigate before catchin' some small frogs instead.

'Bout the time we was learnin' somethin' 'bout the swamp we realized things got mighty quiet. I think it sorta crept up on us. First the wind started to blow and it felt so cool and refreshin' after all that hot sun that we didn't pay it no mind a'tall. Then everythin' got real still and the birds stopped their singin'. It sure was quiet. Kinda spooky and in these parts of the swamp things can get really spooky, if'n one set his mind to it. Beau looked at me and I looked at him and then, “BOOM”, that first bit of lightnin' struck. Beau's feet never touched the ground as he knocked me down while I was fixin' to run for home. Then the rain came poundin' down hard on us. So hard we couldn't see straight. I ran one way and Beau ran the other, chasin' each other round and round cause we couldn't see nothin'. Everythin' looked the same. Weren't long before we ran smack dab back into “old struck”. Sure felt good to find somethin' familiar even if it was “old struck”. Beau said we oughta stay there a while till the rain let up some, but I weren't too happy 'bout stayin' under this tree 'cause that lightnin' and thunder was strikin' faster'n a cornered rattlesnake. I just knew today would be the day that “old struck” got struck again. But Beau just crossed his arms and sat down right at the foot of that tree and said he weren't gonna budge till it was over. I reckon we stayed there all night, that rain never lettin' up enough for us to see ten feet. We was shiverin' so hard we almost lost our you-know-whats.

The next mornin' we began to shoutin' and hollerin' but no one ever heard us. We were too wet and cold to really care, anyway. And that rain was still poundin' and the lightnin' still flashin' like old Noah was gonna show up with his boat any minute. I said I bet old Noah was glad it was rainin' so he could wash them animals. Beau said he didn't know how Mrs. Noah could stand being on that boat with all them stinkin' animals roamin' about. He said he bet she was runnin' round like a chicken with its head cut off, what with cleanin' up after all of 'em. “If'n I was Mrs. Noah,” he said, “I wouldn't a put up with all that mess. I'da made him make two boats, one for the family and one for all them critters with a long rope connectin' them two and if Mr. Noah wanted to have a hissy-fit he could join the other boat.”

“Beau,” I shouted, “we gonna drown down here under “old struck. This rain's a real frogwash. Them gators gonna have their own party bout us goin' away. I ain't ready to die.” Bout that time, before Beau could answer his sassy self, “BOOM!” That lightnin' hit so close that the whole swamp shook. We took off like hound dog s chasin' coons. That next bolt hit “old struck” so hard that it split in two, right where Beau had been sittin'. Then a fire started up. “We better head for the barn, Beau,” I shouted, “we better start runnin'. Beau!” Beau didn't move. I shouted more. Still no movin'. Beau had been hit by a limb and was bleedin' and I was too scared to have noticed. His leg sure looked funny. By now, that fire was creepin' up on us faster-n a hot knife through butter. I had to throw Beau over my shoulders, midst all his hollerin' and groanin', in order to not burn. Possums and coons and deer were runnin' all around us trying to escape the fire. “My leg, my leg!” Beau shouted. “I can't move.” I said, “Beau, we're in a heap of trouble if'n we don't high tail it.”

The fire was all around us, ceptin' a spot out in the water so I jerked Beau up again and headed out. Water was up to our chests and gators and snakes were all around us but they didn't never mind, 'cause they was escapin' that fire too. So there we sat with the fire and gators and snakes sayin' their howdy-do as they passed on by. We were still in that water when our paws found us. Said we had been gone for two days and that fire finally hushed itself up over by the landin'. Beau's leg was mighty swollen now and his Paw said he reckon it were broke so we made a splint with that charred wood and hauled us out'a that swamp. Paw said he reckoned “old struck” had finally bit the dust.

Our maws started cryin' and huggin' and kissin' us when we got to the clearin' but when Beau's maw took one look at his overalls, she said she was gonna jerk a knot in his tail for messin' up them brand new store bought britches. Said she weren't gonna fix 'em any more and he'd just have-ta be buried in them.

Beau didn't get us into any more trouble after that what with his broke leg and such that we just lazed around the house helpin' our paws skin the animals they trapped. Winter was comin' soon and our paws had killed enough beaver, deer, coon, and nutria pelts to get through the winter. Yes sir, we was just good ole' boys livin' down in the swamp.

BEAU

EPILOGUE

My family moved not long after that so that my sisters could have a right schoolin'. I didn't see much of Beau after that but I do know that Beau had been savin' some pelts he had trapped and when he had gotten enough went to Mr. Higgins' store and sold them. He had enough to buy his mama a new dress for her birthday since she had put up with enough of his shenanigans to last a life time.

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.