Monday,
3 September
The
LATEST
“My
own twisted look at my visible part of the world!”
Most
people have graduated high school with a mixture of relief that is it is
finally over, and fear and anxiety for their future. I graduated over fifty years ago, and,
although the rumors are common, there is no basis in fact for the legend that
it took a SWAT team to get me out of there.
I didn’t like school the first day, I didn’t like the last day, and I
didn’t like any of the days in between. I
don’t know why people have so much trouble understanding that.
The
school, from which I graduated, Simmesport High School, closed in the 1987, and
the students currently enrolled were transferred to a consolidated high school
in Moreauville, ten miles to the north.
Back in February of this year, Mr. Kirk Guidry, the last principal of
the school, proposed a reunion of all of the graduates, teachers, workers,
etc. Included was anyone who attended,
which brought in those who went for a time and transferred elsewhere, or that
went to Moreauville to finish high school.
Along with Mrs. Patra Coco, Mr. Guidry planned and executed what was
billed as the Simmesport High School Mega-Reunion. It was held on 4 August of 2018, more or less
thirty years after the closure of the school.
This was one of the most well organized and executed events of this type
that I have ever seen. There were over
600 attendees! Of my class, that of
1966, there were nine of us. There were
so many people that I didn’t get a chance to greet everyone I wanted to. This is an interview with the organizers: http://www.kalb.com/video?vid=489525181
We
were a class of 28. Nine of my class,
that of 1966:
As
I write this my truck has 199,996 miles on it.
Darling companion did not think it would make it to Simmesport from
Central High, so we rented a car, a Hyundai Santa Fe, and I have to say I was
pleased with it. I drove in on Friday of
that the week of the reunion and met my brother Stephen and his wife, Carol,
their daughter Aimee, her husband, Sam, and their children Jerrod and Sarah, at
a restaurant in Bunkie designated ‘Rocky’s Tails and Shells Dugout Grill.’ I had an exceptional crawfish etouffée. There was on the menu, although I didn’t
attempt it, a crawfish etouffée dish consisting of a layer of fried crawfish
topped with a layer of rice topped with a generous serving of etouffée. The smell of the food in that place is not to
be described, but to be experienced. It
was excellent.
During
my visit I stayed in Plauchéville with Stephen and Carol. During my visit, and the following week,
Carol was also hosting all but two of their grand-kids, eight of them! They slept on a thick rug in the living room
and I would have thought that it was be bedlam and pandemonium, but they were
surprisingly well behaved. I suspect
that Grandma runs a pretty tight ship.
One of the older children, Bella, who I think is 11 years old, surprised
us with her ability to play the guitar, which she has been studying for only
several months. She was actually showing
Stephen and I chords we had never seen after playing for many decades. Jerrod, the only little bull in the herd,
wanted a blue guitar for Christmas, so last year Stephen got him a blue guitar,
a really blue guitar. While we were
playing Jerrod was banging away on his guitar to the best of his four-year-old
ability. Stephen tried to show him how
to make a chord, and he state unequivocally, “Papa, I know how to do this!” While maybe it was technically ‘music,’ but there
was tremendous confidence.
When
the kids went outside they donned their shoes, and when they reentered the
house the abandoned them near the back door.
On
Sunday, Stephen, Jerrod and I made an effort to find the Civil War Fort De Russy
near Marksville. We followed the GPS
directions while Jerrod did his best Bart Simpson by asking, “Are we there
yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” When we finally found it, it was discovered
that it was closed on Sundays!
Ironically there are five Fort De Russys, including the one in Louisiana
and one in Hawaii, on the beach in Honolulu, that were named for brothers. Failing to gain entry to Fort De Russy we
began to search for sustenance, unfortunately, all of the Creole restaurants in
Marksville were closed, so we took victuals in a Lebanese restaurant in
Marksville. Who knew? The food was good. I didn’t have a clue what it was, but it was
good.
While
there I visited my cousin, Carole and her husband Donnel, who goes by the
soubriquet, Dink, on Crockett Bayou. Dink
had knee surgery and within an hour of his surgery had a heart attack! That is some scary stuff. He is doing much better now.
We
moved into this house in 2007 and things are starting to wear out. The 4-foot florescent light in the laundry
room passed away, so rather than purchase a ballast, I purchased an 4-foot LED
(light-emitting diode) light, the most advance product in home lighting
fixtures, for almost the same price as a ballast. I installed it in that little room and its
brilliance almost ran me out of the room.
DC grumbled about it, but as long as she wears sunglasses she should be alright. Well, the 4-foot florescent light in the
walk-in closet in our bedroom went out shortly thereafter. Forewarned this time, DC insisted that I
install a shorter LED fixture in that space.
I obtained a 2-foot fixture and installed it. Before I installed the diffuser, and when I
was reasonably sure that I was not going to burn down the house, I called DC
and asked her to try it. Well, friends
and neighbors, without the diffuser even that little feller is bright, really
bright! I then, with an angry wife and blue
spots dancing around in my eyes, I installed the diffuser and it made a
remarkable difference. They are supposed
to last ten years. I am anxious to see
what new technology will have replaced LEDs by the time I have to change the
next one.
Several
months back I had surgery on my hand for what is known as ‘trigger finger.’ I asked Dr. Funderburk, the surgeon, what
caused this and he responded with “A lifetime of abuse.” Well, I am certainly guilty of that. It is still stiff and sore, but everything
works now. I am even playing my guitar
again. The good surgeon officially
released me from his care.
Last
year I read an article on something entitled, ‘Swedish Death Cleaning.’ It is not as morbid as it sounds. The whole premise of this dark and gloomy
title is that, in spite of our best efforts, we are all hurtling towards our
own demise. We should get important
family heirlooms, documents, expensive items, and the memorabilia, that was collected
for a lifetime, sorted out and placed into the hands of those who can appreciate
and enjoy them. The idea is to not
burden grieving family members to dispose of your treasures, as they have no knowledge
of the history or the value of the items, and will sell them all at a garage
sale, donate them to Goodwill or pitch them in the trash. Since I am approaching the age of 70, I have
been giving this some serious consideration.
Toward
that end I have donated my Vietnam uniform, which I certainly could never going
to fit in, much less wear again, to the Field Artillery Museum, along with a
number of uniform items, Vietnamese money, and my trusty, rusty P-38 C-ration
can opener. I had fabricated a rather
large device resembling a safety pin, out of brazing rod to carry my church key
to open beer and my P-38 to open C-rations.
I carried this on by belt so that they would be readily available in the
unlikely event that they would be needed.
It occurred to me that those things were probably exposed to any and
every germ, bacteria and virus available in South-East Asia and I used them to
open consumables! I sometimes marvel at
the fact that I got as old as I did.
My
cousin, Aline, reminded me that I owe her another story from our family, so
here it is. Back at the beginning of the
20th Century, Central Louisiana roads were nothing to brag about, indeed, other
than I-49, they are still not terribly reliable. Jules Dufour, known universally as ‘Sweet
Papa’ in our family, was a partner in a very small double-ended steamboat known
as ‘The Minnow,’ no, not that ‘Minnow.’ The
Minnow,’ was double-ended so that it could navigate the narrow waterways
without having to turn around. The
little boat was, when the roads were not passable due to rain and flooding, a
lifeline to the outside world. Sweet
Papa and his partner, whose name was lost to the mists of time, delivered
foodstuffs, hardware, dry goods, farm equipment, passengers and so forth, when
travel was impossible by terrestrial means.
Now,
it seems that a customer ordered a wood-burning, cast-iron stove that was
supposed to be delivered by ‘The Minnow.’
It was duly loaded and ‘The Minnow’ made its way up the rivers and
bayous loading and unloading cargo as was its mission. Now, these wood-burning, cast-iron stoves
were shipped knocked-down and crated, weighed in north of four hundred pounds,
and were not easily handled. They also
cost about $100, or about four months income for the average farm family at
that time. Upon arrival at the dock of the customer, they attempted to unload
the cast-iron stove. As their burden was
eased up to the dock, ‘The Minnow’ moved!
As the stove was being lifted the gap between the dock and ’The Minnow’
widened and eventually gravity overtook the limits of human muscle-power and
the wood-burning, cast-iron stove plummeted to the mud in the depths of the
bayou! What is a cargo carrier to
do? The contract said that the
wood-burning, cast-iron stove was to be ‘delivered,’ and the customer pointed
out the fact that its resting place at the bottom of the bayou was not
considered ‘delivered.’ Sweet Papa and
his partner had to hire people to retrieve that wood-burning, cast-iron stove
from its semi-liquid resting place and place it on the dock completing the ’delivery.’ History does not record the verbiage used,
but I have a feeling that it was somewhat vulgar French.
Very
few people are aware that I am very sensitive to smells, especially strong
ones. Whenever Darling Companion and I
are cruising the antique shops, some of which reek of potpourri, she will turn
to me and whisper, ‘Potporri Alert!’
That way I don’t enter and get a nose full of extremely strong odor and
the resultant headache.
As
some of you are aware of, I work the elections at Central High for the Stephens
County Election Board. On 28 August we
worked a run-off election in preparation for the November election for
Governor, Lieutenant Governor, Attorney General and a host of candidates for
local elections. During this last
election a very nice lady came in to vote.
After voting she handed Janice, one of the other workers a small sample plastic
bag of some sort of smellum’ crystals she was selling. It seems that one is supposed to put an as
yet undetermined amount of these crystals in the washing machine to freshen the
laundry. The smell was overwhelming! As soon as the nice lady left, Janice pushed
the bag towards me and said, ”I am very sensitive to smells! Go put this in the back of your truck. DON’T PUT IT IN THE FRONT!” Well, I did, and now my hands smell like
that stuff! I finally got it washed down
to a manageable level. When I went to
return the voting equipment and ballots to the Election Board the odor had not
diminished one wit, the County prisoners that unload the stuff, and the deputy
supervising them, asked about the smell and I pointed to the little plastic
sack. I told them, “Whatever you do,
don’t touch that or you will smell like that all night!” They dutifully avoided it! I brought it home and put it in the garage
for several days to prank Darling Companion and she never smelled it! It is now in my shop making the place
smell .
. . like what I can’t tell, but it now smells really
good! I have a mental picture of the
rats and mice holding their little black noses and asking each other, “What the
Hell is that smell?!?”
On
Thursday, 30 August, 2018, I went to the museum at Fort Sill to teach a
class. The Interstate in Lawton runs
roughly north & south. In the
south-bound lane, a mile south of Fort Sill there is an exit to the right for
traveling west on Cache Road, a major thoroughfare. A hundred yards south of that is the exit for
2nd Street, it goes straight, and the Interstate diverges slightly to the left. These exits are very easy to utilize and are
not in the least bit confusing.
There
is construction on the Roger’s Lane exit a mile to the north. In the middle of the Interstate, even with
the Cache Road exit, is a gravel cross-over to allow the trucks and machinery
from the construction project to cross the Interstate.
As
I am driving north-bound on the Interstate, there suddenly appears a huge cloud
of dust in the turn-around. It appears
that Maw Maw was drifting the old Honda in the cross-over and she appeared out
the cloud of dust right next to me. She
was going south-bound in the north-bound lane!
I was barely on time for my class, so I didn’t have time to go back and
see the results of Maw Maw’s actions. It
scared the crap out of me! There was
nothing on the news, so I assume she rerouted herself and made it.
Kevin’s
wife, Chris, enjoys fishing as much as Kevin and I do, and she is quite skilled
at it. They actually go fishing a great
deal more than I do. These are our best
catches during recent excursions to Taylor Lake.
At
the left is Kevin and his best fish, I am in the center with a nice crappie,
sac-a-lait to the Francophones, and at the right is Chris’ fish. It is easy to catch the big ones that bite,
but try catching a two-inch fish on a three–inch jig! Now, that takes skill.
Until
next time, I am the ex-patriot Creole,
Lynden
T. Couvillion
Scribe
