Laissez Les Bon Temp What?

By Carolyn Nicholson

When our family moved to Louisiana from Alabama 31 years ago, we had never experienced Mardi Gras before. We had heard of the parades and decadence in New Orleans. We were aware Mobile celebrated the oldest Mardi Gras in the country, but we’d never gone down for that Alabama carnival either.

            We moved to Lafayette at the end of February and started settling into our unique new community. The best way to get a feel for a new place is to read the local newspaper so we made sure to get a copy of the Daily Advertiser the next day. That issue included a special Mardi Gras insert for newcomers. It told of the history of Mardi Gras, listed the krewes, dates and times for parades, and even a crash course in some of the most common Cajun French expressions. One Mardi Gras custom that stood out for me, though, was one I’d never heard of before – Courir de Mardi Gras.

            As I read, I discovered the details of this rural Mardi Gras custom and grew more anxious with every word. The article told of how masked, costumed riders on horseback rode through the countryside, from farm to farm, drinking, dancing, chasing chickens, and begging for all the ingredients for that evening’s gumbo.

            Keep in mind that we had only been living in Louisiana for a couple of days. I was really getting worried! I had no idea where Mamou, Church Point, and the other small towns mentioned were. Galen was at work, and I was at home with two small children. What was I going to do if these drunken, masked men rode up to my townhouse, demanding a chicken or some rice? Would they accept a package of frozen chicken or a box of Minute Rice? What would they do if I just didn’t answer the door?

            Needless to say, I made it through the day unmolested. I soon found out that my fears were unfounded and we grew to love all the distinctive customs of our local pre-Lenten celebration. But I always warn newcomers to the area to have a live chicken ready, just in case!

The Witch in the Window

By Carolyn Nicholson

When you’re a small child no one believes you when you say you’ve seen a witch or a monster. They laugh and try to explain it away but you know what you saw.

            I was 5½ years old in November, 1957, when my mother gave birth to my baby sister. Mother and Daddy had taken my 2½-year-old brother, Mike, and me to Mama Jay’s and Papa Jay’s house in the country to stay while Mother was in the hospital. I was having a hard time, missing my mama and daddy, and did a lot of whining about it. Mike even told me, in his toddler wisdom, “Well, we can’t walk home, Carolyn.”

            There were two adjoining bedrooms, just off the kitchen, in the back of my grandparents’ house. Mama Jay slept in one and Papa Jay in the other. That one contained his double bed and a small twin bed in the corner where Mike and I slept.

            One night I woke up, feeling homesick, and turned over facing the window across the room. In the light of the full moon, silhouetted against the paper shade, I saw a witch! She wore a big, cone-shaped witch’s hat and was sitting on a broomstick. It was the scariest thing I had ever seen! I started crying and called out to Papa Jay, “There’s a witch! There’s a witch in the window!” I don’t think he even opened his eyes because he just chuckled and said, “Aw, that’s not a witch; that’s just a tree. Go back to sleep.”

            It took me a long time to go back to sleep. I kept my eyes on that witch and she never did move. I finally drifted off after I decided that she was outside and I was safe inside.

            The next day Daddy came to pick up Mike and me to bring us back to Birmingham to be reunited with Mother and our new baby sister, Sharon. In all the excitement, I forgot about the witch until the next time we were at my grandparents’ house. My brother slept in that small bed many times over the next few years but I refused. I knew what was lurking outside that window!

How do you know, Meimers?

By Carolyn Pons

One lovely spring day I picked up my eighth-grade granddaughter from middle school.  As soon as we reached my house, Maddie went to the patio and pulled out her canvas and a set of acrylic paints.

Fascinated, I watched her paint, and I was compelled to question Maddie.  “How do you know which angle to paint, Mad?  What do you do to make shadows?  Is size determined at the start?”

Hearing Maddie give clear, concise, and intelligent answers pleased me, as much as her beautiful artwork.  “Oh Maddie,” I said, “I could never do that.”

Fourteen-year-old Maddie turned her head in my direction, looked up at me seriously, and immediately replied, “How do you know, Meimers, did you ever try?”

Thus began my sojourn into unfamiliar right brain activity.  Soon after Maddie hit me between the eyes with the truth of the matter, I enrolled in art classes at the Lafayette Art Association.  I told my instructor that I wanted to draw, thinking that to be easier for a beginner.  I then worked on a drawing in class each week, and also at home, until I declared the drawing finished.  Basically, I drew and our teacher commented, giving me hints and direction.

“You need to quiet your left brain, Carolyn, and let your right brain take over,” the teacher told me over and over.  At her suggestion, I drew upside down, in an attempt to “not see” the named object that I was drawing.

The instructor told me about an art teaching method that uses techniques based on left-brain versus right brain.  Our left-brain is our analytical side; my whole life had been spent analyzing.  Our right brain is our creative side, the side that sees lines, contours, shapes, color, and negative space—but does not see the named object itself.  I continued to search for my right brain and teased it to come out in my drawing.

Mostly I worked on my own.  I struggled, because my left-brain learning style required more teaching.  I kept at it.  After about four months though, the rest of my life interfered, and I dropped out of class.

“Amazing” was what I thought of my accumulated drawings.  I was genuinely surprised that I could recognize what I drew.  Some looked better to me than others, but overall they pleased me.  My struggle had paid off, but I wanted more and knew that I needed more.

Other activities, writing and traveling, seemed to take all my time.  My interest in art sagged.  I wondered if I would ever return to it.  Suddenly, another of the Art Association studio artists offered a class called “Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain.”  I immediately knew that I had to register for this class.  I felt like it was meant to be.

The six weeks of lessons energized me.  The method did not squash my left-brain; rather it allowed me to use it in my drawing.  I drew from life, progressing from drawing my own hand to drawing a profile of a real person.  I also did an amazing architectural drawing, this one using my right brain for measuring.  I drew fruit, bread, vases, and even shoes.  I copied pictures, with a likeness that thrilled me.  Until my self-portrait at the end of class, my family was as impressed by my drawing as I was.

I know that I am not a natural artist.  If I were, I would continually make art.  Something inside me, an instinctual force, would push me.  I am a learned and learning artist.  The work does not come easily to me.  I have to push myself, and be in the correct frame of mind, to start drawing.  The few times that I painted, I dragged my heels even more.

The best part of my foray into doing art is that I see so much more than I did previously.  After my initial look at a piece of art, I wonder at the artist’s technique, at the struggle to achieve.  I note the lines, color, and depth.  In many ways, despite my years of museum and gallery visits, my eyes have been suddenly opened.

Thank you, Maddie, for asking if I ever tried.

First You Wear An Apron

By Charlene Morella

My mother passed away May 6, 2002, three days after her ninety-first birthday.  This was following an-eight year battle with Alzheimer’s disease.  I still miss her terribly. 

            Mom had not worked in her chosen profession of wife, mother, and homemaker for many years. Alzheimer’s had robbed her of all memories and abilities.  The lifetime of love and respect she earned from family and friends should have been a great comfort to her in her declining years, but the slate had been wiped clean.

            However, in her day she was at the top of her game.  She navigated her home with a quite and unassuming but regal authority that is only present in people that are completely confident and comfortable in their roles.  This is what she loved ---this is what she lived for. 

            My most vivid memories of her center around our kitchen, the hub and the heart of Mom’s existence ---that 20’ x 20’ room that contained a stove with an oven that was never regulated with the proper temperature, an aging washer and dryer, a stained and chipped porcelain sink, no dishwasher, one of the first side-by-side refrigerators ever made, ancient vinyl flooring, not enough cabinets, and a window air conditioning unit grown rickety in it’s battle with the dryer and oven for air space.

            Her reputation for being a good cook was unrivaled in the Webb family.  It was not unusual for my Uncle Joe or one of his sons, who were big hunters to request a family dinner, prepared by my mother.  They always brought squirrel meat to be used in her scrumptious Cajun gumbo. Uncle Joe would then appeal to Mother’s good nature by wishing out loud for some potato salad, “and maybe one of those delicious banana cakes of yours” he would say, or a pecan pie, or peanut butter fudge if you’ve got the time.”

            She was just as adept at whipping up a quick supper for Dad, my sister, and I.  I’m not sure if she enjoyed the entire process but I do know that she took great pride in presenting her delectable creations at the dinner table.

            But there was one thing my mother insisted on before any of the pots and pans began to rattle; it was the introduction to every cooking lesson my sister and I were ever taught.

            “First you wear an apron” my Mom would say.  “All that stirring and tasting can get away from you.”  She believed it was impossible to be a good cook and not splatter and spill occasionally.  Janie and I, reluctantly, were obliged to don an apron when recruited to help in the kitchen.

            So the aprons were bountiful in my mother’s kitchen.  Most were homemade on her ancient Singer sewing machine ---plain and practical with a big pocket on the front.  You could usually find a paper towel hidden there for wiping you hands in a hurry.

            She had a few made like a sleeveless smock that snapped up the front.  These were her favorite.  “It covers up more of the splatter zone” she explained.

            All of Mother’s aprons were washed and ironed at the end of its work shift and rested dutifully in a drawer of the buffet in our dining room.  When it was called into service, it hung on the back of the pantry door between meals and stood ready for the bombardment of soups, gravies, and sauces.

            Many years ago for her birthday, I gave Mom a chef’s apron made of blue cotton, with yellow, red, and green strips.  I thought it might be a nice alternative to her smocks and still cover enough of that “splatter zone.”  From that day forward, she used it every time I was there to visit. 

            Today, the stripped apron hangs on the back of my laundry room door.  It’s faded and has obtained a gentle softness from its countless washings.  I don’t have a wardrobe of aprons as my mother did.  I don’t need them.  I have my Mom’s apron.

            There are many things in my home that once graced my parent’s home.  I have the dining room buffet, a few other pieces of furniture, my mother’s wedding rings, but none evoke such deep emotion in me as that blue stripped fabric hanging in my laundry room.  It is a symbol of all the good parts of my life growing up and the woman that made it so.  She is my beloved role model and was the very first love of my life.

            So tonight as I go to prepare dinner ---first, I’ll wear my apron --- in a silent tribute to my mother.  We will be eternally bound together by these tattered apron strings.

Those Wonderful Days that Turned Into Years

By Edith Matte                                          
              Beyond any doubt, the saying ‘with children the days are long, and the years short" is true. How the years have flown, it seems like yesterday, that I was a young wife and mother. In 1965, We were expecting our first child. I was employed as a 4-H-Home Economist with the LSU Cooperative Extension Service. To be productive, the job required long work hours and being away from home six weeks during the summer. Therefore, I knew that remaining in this position would not be possible after the baby was born. Therefore, I resigned. We were blessed with a beautiful baby girl on June 2, 1963. That first year as a ‘stay at home mom’ was rewarding, enjoyable, and sometimes trying. Our daughter, Mary Beth, was the picture of health, but she was an ‘allergy baby’ which often meant long nights rocking a crying baby and many trips to our pediatrician. She walked at ten months and was talking at a year. In the spring of 1966, we found out we were expecting triplets which were due in mid August.

            Late in the afternoon of June 25, 1966, three precious, little girls decided it was time for them to enter ‘our world’. After their dramatic arrival in Breaux Bridge, they brought them to an isolation nursery at Lourdes Hospital in Lafayette. Dr. Wynne, our pediatrician, gave them excellent care and kept me posted on a daily basis. Their birth weights were 3 pounds 11 ounces, 3 pounds 12 ounces and 4 pounds. They were in the isolation nursery for four weeks. Then, one Friday, they told us that we could bring them home on the following Tuesday. It was a busy, hectic weekend. My doctor would not permit me to drive or do much for four weeks after the birth of a baby. Preemie clothes, if available, were very expensive. That weekend, I spent long hours at the sewing machine making eighteen very tiny, long sleeve plisse diaper shirts. We also shopped for other necessities and washed new diapers, crib sheets, and baby clothes. How I wished I had disregarded my doctor’s orders and done a little at a time to prepare for bringing our babies home! The men set-up three baby cribs - one we got with S&H Green Stamps, friends gave one to us and we borrowed one. Our home had only two bedrooms with wall to wall beds. One bedroom contained three baby cribs and a double bed, and the other had Mary Beth’s baby bed and our double bed in it.
             The big day arrived. My Mom and mother-in-law went with Mary Beth and me to the hospital to bring them home. We brought them home in a large oval laundry basket and a smaller round plastic container. I still have the basket as it is a wonderful keepsake of that time in our lives. On our way home, Mary Beth, oblivious to what was happening, sat in her car seat sucking her bottle. When she finished, she just tossed it. It landed in the basket hitting one baby on the head. Were we so thankful it was a plastic bottle!
              The first twenty-four hours that the babies were home, were great. We fed them 3 ounces of formula every three hours, day and night. Feeding took about two hours and fifteen minutes because they were so tiny. Forty-five minutes after one feeding was finished, it was time to start another. It took at least two people for each feeding. Then things’ changed - on the evening of the second day all three babies started crying like they were in terrible pain. Colic, we thought. Then came diarrhea, a doctor’s visit, formula change, more crying and diarrhea, another doctor visit, another formula change. The crying and diarrhea continued!! Each doctor’s visit took three adults, but also confirmed that although they were in pain and had upset stomachs they were still gaining weight. Finally, it was determined they had come home from the hospital with an E-Coli bacteria. The doctors would not prescribe antibiotic or any other medication because they were still so little. After weeks of screaming, they prescribed antibiotic and Bentyl to be put in each bottle. I kept them on Bentyl until they were eight months old for fear they would start hurting again. For many years, I had flashbacks when I heard a young baby crying in pain.
Besides caring for their normal baby needs, there were thirty-six bottles to wash, sterilize, make formula for, and fill each day. We washed between three and four dozen diapers daily for four little ones. Since Mary Beth was only fourteen months old, she still required much care and love so that she would not be jealous. Both grandmothers took turns staying a week at a time for about a month after we brought them home. Then my mother-in-law had a kidney abscess that required surgery. We hired a middle age lady who came to help me for six hours a day until they were almost a year old. I am so thankful we had many wonderful friends who came to help without ever having to be asked.
           As the months went by, our home became more and more baby proof. We put latches on doors to hook them to the wall so no fingers were smashed, locks on cabinet doors, and put up several baby gates. Play pens were a valuable possession for us. We had two in the living room, and one behind the front seat of our 1959 green Chevy station wagon. We had put down the back seat, opened an oblong playpen, and placed it there. This creative arrangement enabled me to travel with the girls without the help of another adult. When they were about a year old, if the weather was good, I would set out for Port Barre with four little girls - one in a car seat by me and three behind me in the playpen. That playpen also came in handy to go to the grocery store for a few items or to get notions at Zene’s Fabric store. I would put the girls in the grocery cart and put the items around them or they would hold them. One day I could not find the banana I had put gotten. When the girls stood up in the cart for me to take them out, there they were - mashed bananas - Janet had sat on them.
             Christmas has always been my favorite holiday, and a special time for our family. We always had a large Christmas tree. When the triplets were eighteen months old, my father-in-law and husband built a cage to surround the tree. This enabled us to enjoy it without constantly saying ‘no", and also to prevent them from getting hurt. Since I sewed all their clothes, each child had a beautiful dress to wear to church and to participate in the Children’s Christmas program. Since I only have one brother and Clarence is an only child, in 1967, we hosted Christmas dinner for both our families. That tradition continues until today. The grandparents are gone, as are most of my aunts. We are now the grandparents, but the tradition continues, with our children, grandchildren and uncle and aunt.
Birthday parties were also special times with grandparents and friends to celebrate. Each child had her own birthday cake that I made with special care. In 1969, we went on our first vacation to Lake Charles to the beach. Both grandmothers came along to help us. This tradition also continued - a vacation either far or near until the girls were grown. After they started their own families, we enjoyed several family vacations with our children and our grandchildren.
             The memories of those wonderful years, with their joys and sometimes difficulties, are precious to me. Surely, God’s hand was upon us throughout the years as He provided for all of our needs. We may not have been rich in material possessions, but we were rich with what money could not buy - faith, love, wonderful family, and loving, devoted friends.

In Defense of Lady Godiva

By Jeron J. La Fargue, February 27, 2008

Lady Godiva was born in the year 1040. She was married to Leofric, earl of Mercia. They lived in Coventry, Warwickshire, England having moved there from Shrewsbury, Shropshire, where Leofric had earned his fortune and title from successes in the mutton trade. Since they were thoroughly Christian, they were immediately impressed by the lack of proper facilities for training and housing men of the cloth in Coventry. Coventry was a little district of that area with a population of 6,215. Being “nouveau riche” and wanting to be recognized in social circles there, they decided to put some of their money into a worthy cause there.

Near the center of Coventry, where the bombed-out ruins of the mighty Coventry Cathedral stands today, Leofric and Godiva founded and funded an abbey or monastery named in honor of Ste. Eunice of Saxmundham who was an early English martyr slain by flaying at the hands of the Romans.

The monastery, in addition to being a place to house and educate religious, became the gathering point where popular events and festivities could be celebrated. The local people respected Leofric and Godiva for establishing this center of social events of the community. Leofric gained public appreciation and recognized him as a generous philanthropist and he assumed a growing role in the governance of public affairs and public works. There was then a need to obtain the money to build these community projects so it was natural that he turned to taxation as a means to raise this money.

Lady Godiva took an interest in equestrian activities and became a polished horsewoman and enjoyed the hunt. In pursuing this interest, she became associated with a class of people who were cultured and had varying interest in the field of arts. I guess you would say that Leofric and Godiva were social climbers of their day.

Godiva apparently thought that her association with artists, etc., would inspire the masses by way of example. She wanted to have the populace develop an interest in the arts and humanities.

However she realized that she was not having too much success in this endeavor. She determined that nearly all of the people spent almost their entire waking hours in an effort to feed and clothe themselves and the provide themselves with shelter for the elements and most were having a hard time doing just that. Leofric had taxed the people so much for his grand public works projects. He even placed a tax on manure.

Lady Godiva was a determined woman and she would not let her desire to lift the population to a higher degree of appreciation for the arts especially at the expense of a new municipal water supply. She knew that the taxes imposed by Leofric would have to be reduced if the community was going to pull itself up to the 11th century and its more cultured concerns.

When she approached him about reducing the taxes he absolutely refused and could not understand why art appreciation should be rated over a new water supply. Not only did he refuse to reduce taxes, he added a tax on paintings. This required Lady Godiva to pay the tax since she was the only one who owned paintings except for the Church and it was exempt from taxation. However she did not give up and continued to nag him at every opportunity. Finally, after a long time, he agreed to remove some of the taxes but under a condition. He pointed out to her that the ancient Greeks and even the Romans viewed the nude human body as one of the highest expressions of the perfection of nature. Nudity was not seen as erotic in any sense, but as purity, and a celebration of the wonderful form of a sensuous being.

Therefore he proclaimed that, if Lady Godiva would ride her horse through the crowded market of Coventry, in the full light of mid-day, clothed in only that which God had given her, as an example of the perfection of God’s work and as an expression of the highest possible aesthetic, then he would reduce the taxes on the populace. Godiva agreed once she had ensured that she actually had his permission to do so.

Leofric could not believe that Godiva would have agreed to the condition and was now convinced that she totally believed in the merits of her cause. He committed himself that, upon completion of her ride, he would remove all of the taxes on the people and not just reduce them. The only taxes that would remain would be the taxes on horses which were already imposed at the time he took office.

On the appointed day in 1057, Lady Godiva accompanied by two female aides on horseback, one on each side and slightly to the rear, proudly rode  through the market place. She was not an exhibitionist. She rode with a look of complete composure upon her face. She was relaxed, confident and unashamed. She received the respect of the citizens who witnessed her ride as being one accomplished in dignity for a worthy purpose and the taxes were removed as promised by Leofric.

And that is the true story of Lady Godiva. I know because I have researched the story in detail because she was my 37th Great Grandmother.

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’?"