A Visitor from My Past

By Earl Gates, 2008

I sensed someone standing at my front door: the doorbell didn't ring; no knock, but I knew someone was there. I looked up, and through the full-length plate-glass door, I saw a stranger, a strange looking man standing on the front porch. He peered into the house a bit and then looked behind him as to make sense of where he was.

I rose from the dining room table where my genealogy papers littered the table, went to the door, opened it and asked if I could help him. His striking wardrobe was from a completely different era, and not a costume. His clothes were like those I've seen in historical movies and 19th century albums and genealogy magazines.

Genealogy! Suddenly, the room began to spin and I grabbed the back of a chair. A light bulb in my mind slowly grew brighter. "Oh my," I said under my breath when the light shone bright, "Are you John Gates from Mississippi?” I whispered.

"As a matter of fact, I am," he said as he doffed his hat. "And may I have the pleasure of making your acquaintance?"

"Of course," I said. "I am Earl Gates, Your great-great-great-great grandson. Won't you please come in?"

"What?" He took a step backward. "I have no grandchildren."

"I am the descendent of your son William L. Gates born in 1815."

"I do not understand," he said, sounding frustrated and fascinated, like he had entered a time machine.

"Please come in and sit," I said. I showed him to the best chair in the room. "Let me put the kettle on or would you prefer coffee?" I was talking too fast and the pitch of my tone was much too high. I consciously tried to lower it.

"Coffee would be most enjoyable, "he said, adding quietly, "I don't think I've had a cup for quite some time." His forehead was a map of frown lines.

"Please let me try to explain," I said after I put the coffee maker on. I sat on the sofa near him. "I am a genealogist and I have been steadily working on you for the past two days." Then I laughed. "Please excuse my poor choice of words. I have been thinking how wonderful it would be to spend sometime with you and show you some of the changes -- the innovations -- that have taken place since your lifetime."

"Now comes my question," he said, his voice filled with anxiety. His eyes looked deep into my eyes. Not at my eves, but in them, where he might have found my soul.

"Pray tell me, what is the present year?"

"It is 2008," I said quietly, fearful he might faint. "It's been 163 years since you died in 1845, when you were 65 years old. I cried when I read your death listed in the family bible," I told him." It was so sad to think that as a young man with a family of 5 you helped tamed the Mississippi Territory in the early 18--'s. I choked up and tears spilled from my eyes. The coffee pot was telling me coffee was ready. "Would you like your coffee black or with cream and sugar?" I asked.
"Oh, white, with a spoonful of sugar."

"White?" I queried. "Oh, with cream.l" I retrieved the pint of half-and-half and poured it into his cup until his coffee was white. "Would you like some cookies? Sorry, but they're store-bought, not homemade."

"Store-bought? You bought cookies at a shop?" He looked at his mug covered with Shakespearean quotes. "I read all of Shakespeare's works as a young man," my ancestor said, "but I would never have thought to put his words on coffee cups." He laughed.

That reminded me that I wanted to ask him who his parents were, where he met and married his wife Rebecca, what my ancestor William L. Gates middle name was, but now did not seem like the time to ask. As we drank our coffee he noticed I was still in my pajamas. "Should you be in the field working on the crops?” I said, we don't have a field; and this is what I sleep in. It certainly is far less clothing than all the layers you are wearing. Is this what you would have worn in Mississippi.

"Yes," he answered. "This is my good suit, my Sunday-goint-to-church suit, and, I suspect, my burial suit."

"Do you have paper and pencil, so I could make some notee?"

I gave him a ballpoint pen, which amused him to no end. After he had written a good while, I interrupted and said, "There are so many questions I want to ask you about your time on Earth: I have many holes in my genealogy that I know you can fill. I want to know more about your life."

"Certainly," he said, tucking his notes into his breast pocket. "Ask away."

"First, I cannot tell you how much I love you," I began. "My dad told me stories about you, and your legend lives on in our family because I have told everyone about your accomplishments and your death, and I have written that story down for future generations." "I stopped speaking, looked at him and rose from my chair, walking slowly towards him. He stood and opened his arms as if to welcome the hug I wanted to give. But in a heartbeat, he was gone. Gone! I was astounded. I stood there, feeling foolish with my arms wide open for no apparent reason. My ancestor John Gates was gone.

I felt someone shaking my shoulder. "Earl," my wife said. "You have to come to bed. It's two in the morning and you're sleeping at the table. Come on. This will all be here tomorrow.

"By the way, did I hear you talking to someone’?"

Women Find Their Place

By Lorene Walker Auld, September 15, 2008

 

In February 1943, my life took on a new dimension when I accepted a job with Jarecki Manufacturing Company, an oil field supply company located on Southeast 29th Street in Oklahoma City.  

For blocks along this street were oil-related businesses, and at that time only men were employed to perform the secretarial and clerical duties.  Of course, their duties might also include the handling of tools, parts, pipes, etc., that were stocked for sale to the oil industry.  World War II brought about a change in this practice since men were now carrying out their duties in military service. 

This company, which was headquartered in St. Louis, Missouri, had never hired a female for office work, so I was in on the ground floor of this change.  The company manager had just hired a personal secretary; and shortly thereafter, I came on board as an office clerk.

The building was a huge wooden warehouse with separate rooms partitioned for the manager=s office, two rooms for the clerical staff, and one restroom.  Within a very short time, a second restroom was added to provide for the female employees.

In the middle of the building was a huge potbellied, wood burning stove that provided heat for the entire structure.  When I arrived early each morning, it was my privilege to enjoy visiting with the man who opened the store for business and who also started the fire in the stove.  He was a kind, courteous gentleman who helped me to adjust to my new environment.

Why did I arrive so early each day?  I lived with my parents, and my transportation was provided by my father Luther Walker.  He was working at Will Rogers Air Base, and he had to report to work about seven in the morning.  We lived on an acreage located on Southeast 29th Street near Tinker Field more than five miles east of Jarecki, and Will Rogers Air Base was located southwest of Oklahoma City.  That extra time I spent each morning before the other staff arrived provided an opportunity to broaden my horizon in the field of business.

As I recall, the company was maintaining their inventory by Amemory.  I was assigned the task of setting up an inventory card file for everything in the warehouse and in the yard.  The male employees did the hands-on inventory and furnished a handwritten copy for my use. 

I completed the card file and maintained it from the invoices of items received from headquarters, and the sales tickets of items sold to customers.   Several years later my father told me that he had recently met the manager of Jarecki, and he was pleased to report they were still using the inventory card file that I had prepared.

I consider it an honor to have been among those women in our country who Abroke ground in many professions during World War II.  We demonstrated effectively the use of our gifts, endowed by God, for the betterment of the human race.

I Captured It On Film

By Ellender Boudreaux

In March of 2009, I received a call from my sister-in-law, Ruby. I had not heard from the family since December, when I got a Christmas card from them. After telling me hi, she told me my brother wanted to talk with me.

When she gave him the phone, and he began to talk to me, I could tell he was crying.

He immediately told me, “I have cancer, it’s in my liver, in my brain, and in my colon. They want to put me in the hospital and decide the treatment that will prolong my life for a few months. If I do not take any treatments, I probably have only a couple of months to live. I have decided not to take any procedures to fight the cancer; I feel it will only continue the pain. I have lost so much weight that I do not feel like fighting any longer.”

My heart was so heavy at that moment I couldn’t talk.

I told him to do whatever he needed to do to keep from having too much pain, and we would see him in a few days.

I decided to make a copy of the stories I had written about our growing up, and put them into a book, and add pictures we had taken through the years, to remind him of the good life we had experienced.

As I opened the album and looked at the old pictures that were taken many years before, I saw our family as we were then. I looked at the photos taken of my mom and the six of us children. I saw the pain she was enduring after the death of our father.

As I looked through the book for other photos, I saw our joys and sorrows come into view. Here to remember were photos of our school years, our working days, and our marriages. Each picture a story remembered.

As I continued to look, there were the pictures of Donald and his brother, Oliver, he loved so much.

Now, as I look for more, there are pictures of a kid, eighteen, in an army uniform, then his return from the Korean War. Following his return photos, I found a picture of two happy people in a wedding photo. Shortly after their marriage they moved to Texas, and the pictures were less and less as their lives became too busy for visits back home.

When we did get together, we always used our cameras to remember these visits of Christmas, Easter, happy times and sad visits, like funerals of love ones.

We did make our trip to Texas last week.  It was a good day, even though we knew it could be our last visit with my brother.

We took those memory photos, and now as I look at them, I see in the group, the changes the passing years have made.

The four of us, Donald, Joyce, Mildred, and me were still happy to be together that day, however, one sister was not able to be with us. Wanda and her husband, Don are in a nursing home, but I will put her picture there with the rest of us.

As I closed the album, I realize that nothing will be as it once was, and that the old family album is a priceless possession to save forever. What a wonderful thing to be able to go back in time and see recorded on film, our lives as we lived it through the years.

The Stories in My Head

By Flossie Turner, December 3, 2008

There always seem to be stories running through my head. While I'm in the pool at Red's or taking a shower, or driving, they pop up, unbidden. Sometimes at night, lying in bed, they come to me. Always, always, when I cannot write them down, the stories come. I blame this on my life writing class.

Last fall, I was driving my neighbor Nancy home from a lecture series at the library She was telling me about the life writing class that she was teaching and the idea sounded wonderful. I applied for the spring, but was too late. What a disappointment, but Nancy encouraged me to apply for the summer session. That, too, seemed like it wouldn't work out but finally I was able to get in. I was thrilled to begin my class.

On my first day of class I had no idea what to expect. Upon arriving, there were many new faces, and most seemed to know one another from previous classes. We did introductions all around, Nancy explained some of the basic points of the class and we were given a syllabus with suggestions as to what we should be writing. I didn't know then that not everyone followed these suggestions. On our next class, we began reading our stories. This was not what I had expected. I thought we would be given pointers, grammar rules, anything to do with writing. Just sitting and listening to others' stories - this was NOT what I had in mind. Nancy had worked so hard to get me into class. I would just continue through the summer and gracefully "drop out" before the fall session began.

Then something happened. I realized, as I listened, that even though all of us were from different backgrounds, our stories were remarkably the same. Each of them touched me in some way, as did each of the people in the class. Their stories blended with my own, and added things that I had long since forgotten.

Fall session started and I was there, listening to some of my friends from the summer , and learning "the stories" about the new people in our class. Earl, who is so soft hearted and gentle. Lorene, whose husband VL's eggnog recipe I will use this Christmas. I have never seen Hong Kong but know of the beautiful people and wonderful sunsets from Mary. I have never eaten food from Newfoundland, but I know about them from listening to Imelda. I learned about the pain of having a black friend in an integrated world from Helen. Mac and Bev bring me back to New Orleans, with Bev's tales of playing ball for NORD and Mac's knowledge of my great uncle's bar, Sprada's Café, a "classy joint." Edith tells tales of her grandchildren and William, stories from the past in Acadia Parish. Jackie, by her own admission, tells of her "cause du jour." There are people in class that I had known previously. I have known Harriet for some time, but never knew was a daughter of sharecroppers. Linda's daughter and mine graduated together, so I knew of her and her husband, but never realized she had served in the Air Force when it wasn't common for women to do so. Nancy grew up in a small Texas town that my grandmother's family had lived in for years. So many commonalities, so many differences.

Each week, as I sit and listen, I learn so much more about my new friends and their lives. I listen to their stories, and their way of writing them, and more stories pop into my head. I have also learned that Nancy will offer help in grammar, technique, all those things that I thought I would need to write when I first began. I've learned that more than those technical aspects, writing begins in the heart.

My goal, when I began this class, was to write a history of my family for my children. That is still where I am headed so that they will have the story of their family. I just may take a few detours, with my friends, along the way.

Mid-week Memory Keepers

By Mary Langford

I’m happy when Wednesday comes every week.

If you wonder why, I’ll give you a peek.

That’s when I meet with my Life Writing class,

Not an experience I willingly pass.

I love to hear my classmates’ stories,

As they tell of their failures and their glories.

In the midst of great losses, we hear Annie’s attitude

Of trust in God, of hope and gratitude.

We’re amazed at all of the roles Vi has filled

And through it all, her enthusiasm hasn’t been stilled.

Then Carol, transplanted by a south’ner’s charm,

"Flew" in church and "cussed" when she broke her arm.

Lorene’s stories are of family history,

And her typing tip helped to solve a mystery.

Then there’s Flossie, cheerful and full of fun.

If you want to talk library, she’s the one.

Praise for self-expression was vital to Colleen,

And she’s ready to fight for her hero Gene.

Paul makes it easy to know which twin is which,

‘Cause he was born a "saint" and she was born a "witch."

Helen has received many awards in her career,

But it is her husband and family she holds most dear.

Harriet, also a twin, has walked us through her schools.

She managed to meet Bill Daly, in spite of all the rules.

Imelda’s life is a mosaic with its stones of many hues,

She sees each life event as something God can use.

And who is busier than Edith Matte, our classmate,

Who has daughters, grandchildren, church and e-bay on her plate?

There’s Beverly from New Orleans– athlete and banker.

She tells it like it is. Our class has no one franker.

Mac writes of when his chances of survival were quite slim.

We all believe, no doubt, Someone’s been watching over him.

Linda’s Air Force adventures we all love to hear,

And her school bus story took us back across the years.

Then there’s me writing weekly of places I’ve called home,

Of my favorite relatives and people I have known

But where would we all be without our leader?

No other class has one to beat her!

She shares her own stories, makes sure that we know

About concerts, exhibits and the latest good show.

And whether our writing is hum-drum or fancy,

We can always count on a good word from Nancy!

There's a Monkey in the Christmas Tree

By Malcolm Domingue

     It was the week before Christmas and the family gathered at the home of my Aunt Lucille to exchange Christmas gifts.  The rooms of the house were arranged so that you entered  the front door into the Living Room which led into the Dining Room, and through a doorway lead to the Kitchen.  A hall ran the length of the house so that those rooms were to the right of the hall, and all Bed Rooms and Baths were located to the left of the hall.

     The tall Christmas Tree was beautifully decorated and was placed to the right of the entrance into the Living Room from the front porch.  My Aunt Lucille had a penchant for the unusual which led her to purchase a small monkey as a Christmas gift for her son.  The monkey was unbelievably small being no more than six inches tall.  He was the center of attention as the family arrived and began to be excited by all of the noise and commotion of arriving guests.  In his excited state he began to scamper through the house across the Living Room, on into the Dining Room and Kitchen, taking a turn now down the hall which brought him back to his starting point in the Living Room, where upon he would  repeat his circuitous track again and again.  He continued this wild race through the house moving so quickly that we were unable to catch him.  He needed  to be in his cage but the little rascal bolted like a flash of lightening and could not be subdued.

     It was at this point in the commotion that my Aunt Lillian and her husband, Uncle Tilman arrived coming through the front door just as the monkey leapt up into the Christmas Tree.  At this time, neither of them had seen the monkey.  As Aunt Lillian walked past the tree the monkey lunged toward her landing in her hands.  Having just arrived into the house she was  startled, to say the least,  and was not quite sure what it was that she was holding in her hands when the monkey in its excitement bit her finger, then dashed forward commencing his mad dash again and again being cheered on by the children.  She let out a blood curdling scream which  frightened the monkey spurring him on to move ever so much faster, and now some of the other older aunts were becoming

agitated and were chiming in with their own screams while uttering words of displeasure over the wild monkey incident.

     Now Aunt Lillian was known to be the most extreme of hypochondriacs in the family and it was well known by everyone that she enjoyed poor health and beamed when anyone paid attention to her exaggerated tales about her health.  So at this point of having been bitten by the monkey, we took turns going by and examining her finger to which would be added the need to have a doctor examine her finger just in case the monkey did carry some rare jungle disease.  One by one, we all went by and  with great respect told her all the horrible things we could imagine that could occur from being bitten by a creature like this big six inch tall monkey.

     Gifts have been exchanged, opened and paper and ribbon clutters the floor.  The excitement of the monkey incident is now passed and multiple conversations are going on, when suddenly there is a lull in the conversation and no one is uttering a word, then we hear from the hall my aunt saying into the phone, “Hello Lourdes, this is Mrs. Chatelain honey, there was this monkey in the Christmas tree,” and at that point my Uncle Tilman yells out, “Damn you Lillian, half the town thinks you’re crazy already, now they’ll know for sure, HANG UP THE DAMN PHONE!!!  And she did, so in our family while other families tell the story of"T’was The Night Before Christmas," we tell the story  about “The Night There Was a Monkey in the Christmas Tree,” and remember an old eccentric old Aunt who we loved dearly and wish she was still here to share her life with us.       

Be Adventurous

Sheldon A. Blue wrote this as an assignment on March 13, 2008. The prompt was "Be Adventurous – Interview someone from your past."

     “I’m not sure just how old you were during that time,” Dad said. “Lafayette had less than 15,000 people in it, and I know Southwestern (SLI) had less than 1,500 students. Mr. Heymann had this huge nursery next to the College, where the Oil Center is today and a big wooded area existed between Mc Naspy Stadium and  Heyman’s Nursery.”

     “Why is it that you bring up the wooded area next to the stadium?" I asked.

     “Well, you see, a group of us in the Lion’s Club in those days had our eyes on that area for a project.”

     “Wasn’t that the area where the C.C.C. (Civilian Conservation Corps.) camped when they came in to help after the depression and the flood of 1927?  And didn’t Dave Church have a house or cabin in those woods?”

     “Yep, you got the right area.  About a dozen of us in the Lion’s Club had camped and picnicked in those woods, and we came up with the idea of taking a bunch of trees out, leveling out areas, and maybe even building a lake in a hollow spot in the woods.

     “One of us had a farm tractor with some attachments, another had access to some logging equipment, and we all had strong backs and were a lot younger in those days.

    “No one said NO, we just all told our wives not to plan anything on the weekends for the rest of the year.  Then we met the next Saturday, and a project was born.”

     I don’t remember reading anything about this in the "History of Lafayette" I read last winter.  But who is to question Dad’s memories of Buryl Logan, C.O. Theriot, Pip Billeaud, Jerry Butcher, Pop Chicqulen (and others I don’t remember), meeting weekend after weekend reshaping a forest.  It has to be true.  It was one of the biggest items of their lives for three or four years.  I am not sure what each pledged to the other, but it had to be a big promise for that group to give up dove hunting in September and duck hunting in November, to work their butts off in the woods each weekend.

     I do remember, about noon each Saturday, Mom and I would drive out St. Mary’s Boulevard and turn on the gravel road that went past the stadium.  I knew the spot well from all the times in spring when Dad would take me with him to spend the day there while he officiated as a timer at an S.L.I. track meet.  Each Saturday we brought enough lunch-meat sandwiches to feed an army and a huge jug of lemonade to feed that dirty crew.  There we met others doing the same. 

     It didn’t look like much was being accomplished after the first couple weeks, but I know Dad came home late on Sunday nights and fell into bed and slept soundly.

     Weeks later clearings began to appear from the road.  We didn’t have to blow the horn

and wait for them to come out of the woods for their lunch.  They could see us when we drove up, and we could see them working.  Sometimes you could still smell the burning trees and stumps from the week before.

     As time went by, Mom and I got in the habit of staying after lunch on Sundays, in the clearing, to watch what was going on.  It became easier for me to play as the clearing progressed.

     I remember bringing my fishing pole and sitting next to the hollow when they started to put water in it.  It was my intention to catch the first fish from that lake.

     Weekend after weekend went by,  I’m not sure how many were involved in this project.  There were eventually 40 to 50 men working each weekend.  All I can really remember is how dirty they all came home on Sunday nights.

     One thing sets well in my memory.  It was the day I found Dad and his friends Zeke Laughlin and Coach Louie Campbell sitting at the kitchen table, smiling and joking while they drafted a news release that said:

             “Lafayette City and Lion’s Club join hands to dedicate Girard Park.”