Bob Hamm

I never did work for The Governor. That is, I never was on his payroll, or the state's. While I was in journalism school at LSU, I did an interview with him for the school newspaper, and when I finished, he asked me if I had a car. Then he sent me to deliver a ham to a black family about 30 miles down river from Baton Rouge. "I don't expect you to do it for nothing," he told me. For the next two years, until I graduated, I got a call at the dormitory at least once a month to run an errand for The Governor. The dollar he gave me for gas that first day was the sum total of my pay while in the service of the Governor of Louisiana.

I suspect that he knew he was giving me a priceless look inside Louisiana politics that would be of lasting value in the news business. But I still don't know why he picked me to babysit State Senator E. Andrew Bohannon the night before the bill to give local policemen and firemen supplemental pay from the state was coming up for final passage in the senate. Senator Bohannon, at age 82, was the senior member of the legislature, both in age and time of service. He was also that body's most notorious bon vivant as they say in South Louisiana. The Governor just called him "a' old tom cat."

He pursued the ladies with the vigor of a 20-year-old. If there was an end result to the happy pursuit, he was too much of a gentleman to talk about it--but he was hell when he was in pursuit.

In his latter years (75 to 90), his ardor for a particular lady was usually short-lived and easily transferable, but while it was focused on her, the attention she received was courtly, enthusiastic and unrelenting. Miss Wilda, the governor's 64-year-old spinster-and-happy-that-way secretary, managed to abide his vigorous and inventive wooing for almost a month, but when he followed her to the golf course and gallantly retrieved every ball she hit, she took time off from the job until his fancy found a new direction.

The Senator lived with a widowed middle-aged daughter, who was sternly, vocally critical of any kind of tarryhooting and philandering. Other legislators claimed he kept an elegant wardrobe at a small hotel in his hometown in North Louisiana's Bible Belt, and, when he went tom-catting, would leave home in drably proper "old man's clothes," then change to his fancy duds at the hotel before descending on some place where pretty ladies served good whiskey and guitars and fiddles made happy music.

(State Representative Dick Bartran used to say the Senator had a few toddies too many one night, went home in his fancy clothes, and his dog bit him.)

I tell you all this so you'll know the nature of the man that I, at 20 years of age, was assigned by the governor of Louisiana to look after and keep safe from the wiles of the loyal opposition.

"I want you to stick to the Senator like glue until he is in his chair in the senate tomorrow," The Governor told me.

"But Governor, I've never even met Senator Bohannon."

"Don't matter. You get next to him and see that he don't have any contact with Senator Bourque's bunch. He's staying at the Capitol House Hotel, and if he goes downstairs to that Hunt Room Bar, they'll get him to drinkin' and convince him to vote against my supplemental pay bill for firemen and policemen. If we lose his vote, the bill's dead. And if they can get to him while he's tom-catting, they can sway him."

BABYSITTING THE SENATOR I never did work for The Governor. That is, I never was on his payroll, or the state's. While I was in journalism school at LSU, I did an interview with him for the school newspaper, and when I finished, he asked me if I had a car. Then he sent me to deliver a ham to a black family about 30 miles down river from Baton Rouge. "I don't expect you to do it for nothing," he told me. For the next two years, until I graduated, I got a call at the dormitory at least once a month to run an errand for The Governor. The dollar he gave me for gas that first day was the sum total of my pay while in the service of the Governor of Louisiana. I suspect that he knew he was giving me a priceless look inside Louisiana politics that would be of lasting value in the news business. But I still don't know why he picked me to babysit State Senator E. Andrew Bohannon the night before the bill to give local policemen and firemen supplemental pay from the state was coming up for final passage in the senate. Senator Bohannon, at age 82, was the senior member of the legislature, both in age and time of service. He was also that body's most notorious bon vivant as they say in South Louisiana. The Governor just called him "a' old tom cat." He pursued the ladies with the vigor of a 20-year-old. If there was an end result to the happy pursuit, he was too much of a gentleman to talk about it--but he was hell when he was in pursuit. In his latter years (75 to 90), his ardor for a particular lady was usually short-lived and easily transferable, but while it was focused on her, the attention she received was courtly, enthusiastic and unrelenting. Miss Wilda, the governor's 64-year-old spinster-and-happy-that-way secretary, managed to abide his vigorous and inventive wooing for almost a month, but when he followed her to the golf course and gallantly retrieved every ball she hit, she took time off from the job until his fancy found a new direction. The Senator lived with a widowed middle-aged daughter, who was sternly, vocally critical of any kind of tarryhooting and philandering. Other legislators claimed he kept an elegant wardrobe at a small hotel in his hometown in North Louisiana's Bible Belt, and, when he went tom- catting, would leave home in drably proper "old man's clothes," then change to his fancy duds at the hotel before descending on some place where pretty ladies served good whiskey and guitars and fiddles made happy music. (State Representative Dick Bartran used to say the Senator had a few toddies too many one night, went home in his fancy clothes, and his dog bit him.) I tell you all this so you'll know the nature of the man that I, at 20 years of age, was assigned by the governor of Louisiana to look after and keep safe from the wiles of the loyal opposition. "I want you to stick to the Senator like glue until he is in his chair in the senate tomorrow," The Governor told me. "But Governor, I've never even met Senator Bohannon." "Don't matter. You get next to him and see that he don't have any contact with Senator Bourque's bunch. He's staying at the Capitol House Hotel, and if he goes downstairs to that Hunt Room Bar, they'll get him to drinkin' and convince him to vote against my supplemental pay bill for firemen and policemen. If we lose his vote, the bill's dead. And if they can get to him while he's tom-catting, they can sway him." "Governor, I can't control this man. He's a state senator and I'm a college kid." "Don't matter. You stay with him until tomorrow morning and keep him out of that Hunt Room Bar." "Governor, he's 82 years old and I'm 20. He's not going to listen to me." "Don't matter. Son, you'll be doing something good for every fireman and policeman and all their wives and children if you keep him out of Bourque's hands until tomorrow morning." "I can't just go into his hotel room and tell him I'm spending the night there. He doesn't know who the hell I am." "That's taken care of. I told him you're my cousin's nephew, and your granddaddy just died and you're feeling lonesome and depressed. That his wisdom and understanding would help you forget your misfortune. I told him I didn't want you to be alone in that dormitory room tonight." "I have three roommates." "Don't matter." "And my grandfather is very much alive." "Not tonight. Tomorrow morning, there'll be a glorious resurrection, but tonight he's resting in the bosom of Abraham. Now you get on over to the hotel. The Senator's waiting to take you out to supper and distract you from your grieving." I went. the Senator was waiting in the lobby, and I knew if we ate in the hotel restaurant, the opposition would corner him. So I came up with a pretty good story. I told him my late grandfather was Italian, and that I wanted to go somewhere for a pizza in his honor. My grandfather, George Ira Kelly, wouldn't have touched a pizza with a hoe handle, but the Senator bought it and we left the hotel in a taxi. I'll have to admit it was one of the most enjoyable evenings of my life. I was enthralled by the warm, joyful spirit of the remarkable old man, as was everyone else in the restaurant. He conversed with everyone around, told me wonderful story after wonderful story, and charmed the waitresses completely. He approached everything with a marvelous gusto...the wine, the food, the conversation, the pinching of the waitresses...everything. I developed an immediate fondness for the senator. But the glow of the evening was dampened by the certain knowledge that it would not end when the meal did. I knew that chances were excellent he would want a nightcap in the Hunt Room. How could I stop him? How in hell could anybody stop him from doing anything he wanted to? Well, that took care of itself. What I had not realized was that he had taken his charge from The Governor as seriously as I had taken mine. He was determined to keep my mind off my terrible loss. He put his hand on my shoulder while we were waiting for a cab in front of the restaurant. "Son," he said, "I know you're hurting, but you got to fill up that hole inside you with something joyful. That's what your granddaddy would want. I'm gonna buy you some poontang." I was stunned. "What, sir?" "I'm gonna take you to Miss Georgie DeWitt's whorehouse over on Thirteenth Street and buy you some nookie." "Uh, sir...I don't...I mean, I can't...". "Don't worry about it, son. I'm a GREAT granddaddy myself, and I know your dear departed granddaddy would want you to have that joy in your life to ease your sorrowfulness." "If my grandfather finds out," I thought, "he'll ease my sorrowfulness with a razor strap, but, what the hell, it'll keep him out of the Hunt Room." The Senator told the cabby he was taking me to a whorehouse because my grandfather had died. The cabby looked at me understandingly and told me it would do me good. He explained to Miss Georgie DeWitt and everyone else in the cat house that he had brought be me there to alleviate my sorrow. Then he paid the tab and I picked out a woman who looked to be in her forties and had a very kind face. When we got upstairs I explained to her that I had just come to humor my eccentric grandfather, and that if it was all right with her, I'd just stand out on the stairwell and watch him instead of going in the bedroom. She patted me on the head and went on in the room for a short nap. I could see the Senator plainly from the stairwell. He was seated in a plush easy chair, holding court as usual. The girls were gathered around him, thoroughly enjoying his comments and stories. I waited a reasonable period of time, and was about to go downstairs and express my appreciation when a guy entered who looked like trouble. He was unshaven, dressed in greasy coveralls, and obviously tipsy. I saw Miss Georgie signal the bouncer to keep an eye on him, and then move close to the telephone. He stumbled over to where the girls were gathered around the Senator's chair and pushed his way through to stand in front of the old man. He stood weaving over the Senator with a sneer on his face. "Why y'all hanging around this old bastard?" he asked the girls. "His old pecker probably ain't stood up in 40 years." The Senator dropped him with one pop from his cane. He didn't even stand up. When he did stand up to pop him again, the girls grabbed his arm and the bouncer gently relieved him of the cane. Miss Georgie had dialed the police as soon as the action started, and the prowl car must have been cruising nearby, because there were two police officers there in a New York Second. The got the drunk on his feet, checked him out to be sure there were no serious injuries, then handcuffed him and one of them took him out. The other turned to the Senator. "Sir," he said, "I'll have to take you in, too." The Senator looked at him in absolute amazement. "You'll have to do what?" he asked. "I'll have to take you to the police station, sir." "Do you know who I am?" the Senator demanded. "Yessir, I do, sir. I'm sorry, but I have to take you in. And I have to put these handcuffs on you, sir." The Senator was deadly quiet as his wrists were manacled, then he said softly, "When I get through with that bill for state supplemental pay for firemen and policemen tomorrow, you're gonna wish you'd a'locked these things to your tallywhacker and left them there." He left quietly. "Oh my god," I thought, "there goes the governor's bill." It was eleven o'clock and I knew The Governor had probably been asleep for a couple of hours, but I had to call him. "Dadburn and hell," he said after I explained what happened. "Dadburn and hell and damnation. You get your butt to the police station and straighten this out. I'm sending Trooper Breaux for you right now. Y'all get down there and cool Senator Bohannon off, you hear me?" "Governor, I don't know anything I can do. He's mad at every policeman in the world. There's no way he'll vote for the bill now." "You get down there and change his mind, you hear me? "Governor, I'm just an errand boy. I don't know what to do. I don't know how." "Don't matter. Trooper Breaux will pick you up and you get down there and do it. And when you finish doing it, you're fired. You hear me?" "I don't work for you, Governor." "Don't matter." Trooper Breaux picked me up in a few minutes, and I told him the whole story on the way to the police station. The Senator was at the desk signing something when we walked in. He turned and looked at us and his angry expression changed to one of genuine concern. "What is this?" he asked Trooper Breaux. "Why are you bringing this boy in? He had nothing to do with this. This boy is in mourning right now. Whatever he did, I take the responsibility for." The trooper was about to explain the situation when the stroke of genius hit me. I hold the idea that came to me at that moment, out of nowhere, to be the most marvelously brilliant, inventive, spur-of-the-moment idea ever to enter the brain of a frightened college kid. I caught Trooper Breaux by the arm as he was about to speak. "This is him, Officer," I shouted. "This the man I was telling you about. Senator E. Andrew Bohannon. He's leading the fight for the bill giving police officers and firemen supplemental pay from the state. I told you he was a friend of mine." Trooper Breaux picked it up beautifully. "Well, if that's true," he said solemnly, "if this is the man behind our pay bill, and he's a friend of yours, maybe I can overlook what you did." I looked at the Senator pleadingly. His eyes were hard at first, then they softened with understanding. He nodded slightly. "Officer," he said, "this young man is my friend. He is a fine young man, and, like his late grandfather, plans to make his career in law enforcement. He will one day be a fine policeman, and I would hate to see his career marred by some unfortunate record set down here tonight. It is not just for you and all the other fine officers of today that I fight in the halls of the legislature. It is also for young men like this to whom you will some day turn over the badge with confidence that your great work will continue." Then he drew himself up and delivered one of the most beautiful speeches I've ever heard--a marvelous oration in behalf of state supplemental pay for local police and firemen. It was fantastic. The officers there in the police station were cheering when he finished. The one who had handcuffed him tore up the arrest record and shook his hand reverently. The next day, the Senator made the same eloquent speech in the senate, and the governor's bill passed by a larger margin than he anticipated. It was 5:30 the following morning when somebody banged on the door of my room and told me The Governor was on the phone. I stumbled sleepily down the hall and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Governor." "Trooper Breaux told me what you did. That was good." "Thank you, Governor. I have to go today and tell Senator Bohannon the truth. He's going to be mad as hell, but I can't let this thing stand. He's too good a man." "I already told him. Talked to him this morning." "How furious is he?" "Furious? Hell, he thought it was good strategy. He was flattered that I'd go to all that trouble." "What about me. Is he pretty upset with me." "No. He thinks you're a fine young man, and you ought to get into politics instead of writing for a damned newspaper." "He wasn't mad?" "Well, he did say he wouldn't have eat that pizza pie and drunk that Kee-anty wine if he hadn't thought it was in honor of your dear departed Grandpa. By the way, what I said about you being fired--forget about that." I sighed. "I don't work for you, Governor." "It don't matter." We said it in unison. ###

The next day, the Senator made the same eloquent speech in the senate, and the governor's bill passed by a larger margin than he anticipated.

It was 5:30 the following morning when somebody banged on the door of my room and told me The Governor was on the phone. I stumbled sleepily down the hall and picked up the receiver.

"Hello, Governor."

"Trooper Breaux told me what you did. That was good."

"Thank you, Governor. I have to go today and tell Senator Bohannon the truth. He's going to be mad as hell, but I can't let this thing stand. He's too good a man."

"I already told him. Talked to him this morning."

"How furious is he?"

"Furious? Hell, he thought it was good strategy. He was flattered that I'd go to all that trouble."

"What about me. Is he pretty upset with me."

"No. He thinks you're a fine young man, and you ought to get into politics instead of writing for a damned newspaper."

"He wasn't mad?"

"Well, he did say he wouldn't have eat that pizza pie and drunk that Kee-anty wine if he hadn't thought it was in honor of your dear departed Grandpa. By the way, what I said about you being fired--forget about that."

I sighed. "I don't work for you, Governor."

"It don't matter."

We said it in unison.

I've been having that same dream at least once a year for over 40 years now. I'm always a teenager again, standing in front of the Community Center in the small Central Louisiana town where I grew up. Jimmy Lee comes riding by on his battered old bicycle that was built for someone younger than him and with much shorter legs, and that he put back together after it was thrown on the city dump. He's still 16 years old, and wearing somebody's (maybe my dad's) discarded old pleated Sunday pants and a blue work shirt that was faded and patched when it was handed down to him. His skinny black body is a good 30 pounds shy of filling out the pitiful ensemble. I try to run after Jimmy, but--you know how those dreams work--my legs won't move, and when I try to yell, nothing comes out. I try to scream, "It was the times Jimmy. That's the way things were then." But my voice doesn't work and Jimmy Lee keeps on riding, looking back over his shoulder at me with pain in his eyes. I cant say Im sorry. I try, but nothing comes out. Then he's far, far away, but I can still see those big, round eyes, full of terrible hurt. I wake up then, but I can still see those eyes. Jimmy Lee came with my dad's grocery store. When we moved to "Elleck" (which is what everybody called Alexandria, Louisiana) and Dad leased the little business in the "colored section," Jimmy was about twelve years old and had been working in the store three years already, during which time he had lost the index finger on his left hand in the meat grinder. (I say he was about twelve. Jimmy never knew when he was born, or who sired him, but I judged him to be a year older than I was at the time, which was the summer of 1945.) Dad didn't actually hire him. He just showed up the first day, said, "I works here," and started sweeping out the store. Nobody argued with him, and he never argued about the two dollars he was paid on Saturday for working as janitor, stock boy, butcher's assistant, delivery boy and whatever else was needed of him. I was a red-neck kid fresh out of the North Louisiana piney woods, and hadn't seen too many black people close up. But Jimmy had an open, engaging personality and a free, happy spirit that, along with the missing finger, I found irresistible. We lived in an apartment above the store, and there were no white people in the neighborhood other than the operators of other small businesses, so Jimmy Lee became my only companion in those early days as a new kid in town. Of course, living where we did, I wasn't a sought after companion for other white kids, so most of the time it was just me and Jimmy Lee. The friendship was cemented when three tough white kids from a nearby neighborhood decided to beat me up, just for something to do on a hot summer afternoon. One of them was my size and the others were smaller, but I had never been in a fight before and I was scared silly. They started by shoving me from one to the other until I was stumbling and falling. Then the biggest one held me by my hair, slapped my face and tossed me over to the next one. All of a sudden about 90 pounds of black fury appeared in the midst of the fracas, long arms swinging like rope in a windstorm. Jimmy Lee's punches seemed to come from all directions at once, and within minutes, two of my assailants were high-tailing it down the block, clutching their battered faces. The biggest one was standing his ground, looking in amazement at the grinning black whirlwind. "Get him, Jimmy Lee," I shouted. Jimmy sort of let his body dissolve to the ground, where he lay back, grinning. "Naw, man. He yours. You got to whup him. Hi-yi-yo," he shouted happily. Well, I didn't do it. But I gave pretty good for what I got, and the other kid couldn't have looked on it as a clear-cut victory. Jimmy Lee saved me from bitter humiliation, as well as a thorough butt-beating that day, but more importantly, he let me fight my first fight, and learn that getting punched wasn't necessarily fatal. I was damned proud of the bruises and lacerations, and my friendship with Jimmy Lee was cemented. We had some wondrous adventures after that. Jimmy Lee had an inventive mind and a brash, cheerful sense of daring that generally kept us in some kind of mischief when we weren't working in the store. We stole watermelons from the street-side peddlers, swam naked in Bayou Rapides in the shadow of the "No Fishing or Swimming" sign, hopped slow moving freights and rode the four or five miles to the roundhouse, hunted rabbits with our slingshots (we both called them "niggershooters") on clearly posted property, and peeked in the windows of Big Irene's whorehouse. One of the great joys was going to church with Jimmy Lee on Sunday night at Brother Andrew's Pure Gospel Tabernacle, a run- down wooden building (that had formerly housed a saloon, among other businesses) on a terrible little dirt street behind the sawmill. Brother Andrew played the guitar while he preached. When he prayed, he picked out a lively old hymn and did a wonderful little dance at the same time. Once a guitar string broke just as he ended his prayer and he said "Amen, aw shit." On Saturday night, I would snitch a quarter from my dad's cash register to give to Jimmy Lee for church. He wouldn't steal from Dad, but he was willing to accept my booty, since it went to the Lord anyway. Jimmy would spend a goodly part of Sunday morning polishing that quarter to a brilliant shine, then when the collection plate came around that night at church he would hold it up as if studying it, letting it shine there at the end of his long arm while he cleared his throat vigorously to attract attention. In those days in the black community, not many grown people had a quarter for the collection plate, so it created interest every time. You could hear the rustling and whispering and the good sisters saying, "umm-umm." Then Jimmy would let it drop about a foot to the metal plate where it would ring like a ten penny nail and Jimmy's shiny face would beam as brightly as the coin while the faithful mumbled acknowledgment. (Jimmy was content they were acknowledging his affluence and generosity, but "thieving little nigger" was softly mentioned by some of the mumblers.) I've heard the tale of Gabriel's horn told by many people and attributed to various pranksters over the years, but it was Jimmy Lee who pulled it, and I was there to see it. The old timers in the Sonnier Quarters in Elleck will tell you Jimmy Lee did it. Brother Andrew had a standard routine for working the collection. He approached it with a magnificent fire-and- brimstone sermon that would have put the fear of hell into anybody. Then he went into his Gabriel routine, telling the congregation that "the archangel's lips are to the trumpet and that mighty horn could sound in the next hour or the next minute or the next second." "When it does, brothers and sisters, (the guitar was wailing now) judgment will come upon you with the speed of Jehovah's wrathful sword, and those who are sinful, hallelujah, or greedy, hallelujah, or did not share their blessings with the Lord-- everybody here say 'amen'-- shall be plucked from your pew, hallelujah, and sent spinning and screaming off into darkness and damnation and flesh-scorching fire. Brethren and sistren, Gabriel's lips are to the horn." Motivated by the Reverend's vivid picture of Gabriel about to sound the trumpet, everybody found something to put in the plate. It worked every Sunday night. Old Gabriel got the coin purses open for Brother Andrew. Jimmy Lee and I had the Gabriel pitch memorized and Jimmy could deliver it exactly like Brother Andrew. He knew the inflections and the tones. He knew precisely when it was that the picture of Gabriel putting his lips to the trumpet became most vivid in the minds of the faithful. And one Sunday night, he hid in a little closet behind the choir loft with a tin dime-store horn, and blew it magnificently at that very instant. The congregation panicked. People ran all over each other trying to get out the door and away from the sound of Gabriel calling judgment down on them. Brother Andrew was in the middle of the mob, scrambling with the rest, when Jimmy Lee caught up with him and blew the little horn right in his ear. Brother Andrew whirled around in mid stride, his switch blade open in his hand. "Don't fuck with me, Gabriel," he shouted. "I'm gonna cut you bad." There were three glorious summers with Jimmy Lee, filled with the most improbable of adventures. The only real damage we ever did was the flooding of Big Irene's Whorehouse. We used to hide in the bushes behind the big old two-story house and watch some of Elleck's finest citizens come wheeling into the parking lot, hats low over their eyes, and zip through the back door to the delights beyond. We knew what went on at Big Irene's. Jimmy Lee had first hand experience with the pleasures of the flesh. (I knew it was true because my older brother had on a couple of occasions driven Jimmy and others from the neighborhood to Charity Hospital for penicillin shots at the request of the public health doctor.) Saturday afternoon was a busy time at Big Irene's, and the clientele was pretty high class. I suppose professional people and elected officials were the only ones who could slip off from work on Saturdays. One particular Saturday afternoon, the city was draining a fire hydrant outside Big Irene's place. I never knew why they did it, but occasionally, they would hook a fire hose up to the hydrant and turn the water on, letting it run for long periods into the sewer system. Jimmy Lee and I cooled off in the flowing water for a while, then he enlisted my aid in lugging the big heavy hose up to the side of the whorehouse. It was tough going, but the water was just sort of flowing out--not blasting out in a powerful stream like for fighting fires--so it didn't buck and kick the way they do when the firemen are using them in ernest. Big Irene's wasn't air conditioned so the windows were open, and only frilly drapes guarded against prying eyes. We stacked some apple crates up to the sill of one window, then wrestled the hose up and rested it on them, letting the water flow down the side of the house. "Can you get the nozzle the rest of the way into the window?" Jimmy asked. I assured him I could. "When you hear me holler 'Hi-yi-yo,' you whup it right against the screen," he ordered. Then, to my amazement, he went dashing right in through the back door, into Big Irene's kitchen. "The levee's busted," I heard him holler. "The water's coming up and its done washed away Mr. Cangelosi's fruit stand next door. Hi-yi-yo." I shoved the big nozzle to the window and let it fly. The exodus was better than the flight from Gabriel at Brother Andrew's church. Some of Elleck's best known people came running out putting on their shirts and zipping their pants. Unfortunately, one of them was a city policeman, and he got a good look at Jimmy Lee and also saw the red headed white kid taking flight with him. The next day, he came and got us. Of course, whorehouses aren't into filing charges or suing for damages. But the officer was pretty high-ranking and he wanted satisfaction for his personal inconvenience. He took me into a small room and gave me a good talking to. Then he took Jimmy Lee in and beat the hell out of him. I learned that day, from the bruises on Jimmy's lanky body, that there were certain standards for whites and different ones for blacks. Jimmy had never really come face to face with it to that degree before, either. He was never quite the same after that. And that was our final summer. The grocery store failed, and Dad went to work for the government. We moved out of the black section of town into a lower middle class white area, and I started junior high. I was a pretty good speech student, and in the debate club and the dramatics club, I found a circle of white friends for the first time. They were different. All of them had good clothes and good teeth, and played tennis and knew which fork to use. Their fathers were mostly professional people, and their mothers belonged to clubs and went to New Orleans for classical music performances. I was enthralled by this new world. I had fully intended to maintain my friendship with Jimmy Lee, but somehow I just had no time to go back to the old neighborhood. Then one day I was coming out of the (whites only) community center with several of my new friends, when I heard a loud and happy "Hi-yi-yo" ringing down the street. Jimmy Lee was riding by on his battered old bicycle. His shirt was tattered and the old pants that had once been part of a Sunday suit flapped ridiculously around his skinny legs as he peddled. For the first time, I saw him as a ragged black kid on a too-small bicycle instead of a boon companion, confidante and co-conspirator against the world. "Hi-yi-yo," he shouted again, his face shining with happy expectancy. I turned away from him, looked at my friends and shrugged, my expression saying, "I wonder who that is?" I looked again just as he was riding out of sight. His face was still turned toward me but the look of happiness was gone. His big black eyes were full of hurt. I never saw Jimmy Lee again after that. I didn't like to think about him, because when I did I felt a terrible sense of shame and guilt, which eventually turned to anger at him for making me feel that way. I'm told he went to work in a sawmill that year. They say his lanky frame filled out and he became a giant of a man. And they say he turned mean. People were afraid of him, particularly when he was drinking. Eventually, a bar owner blew him away with a .12 gauge shotgun on a Saturday night when he was crazy drunk and hurting people. I think about Jimmy Lee now when I see southern white kids and black kids going to school together, and double-dating and partying together and eating together in restaurants. (It came too late for us, Jimmy Lee.) And at least once a year I have the dream where I try to shout that it was just the times...just the way things were. And I wake up still seeing the hurt in Jimmy Lee's eyes.

I think about Jimmy Lee now when I see southern white kids and black kids going to school together, and double-dating and partying together and eating together in restaurants. (It came too late for us, Jimmy Lee.)

And at least once a year I have the dream where I try to shout that it was just the times...just the way things were. And I wake up still seeing the hurt in Jimmy Lee's eyes.

Looking back on it, I realize now it never was nothing but me and old Tiger chasing cars. Or, more accurately, pickup trucks. That's about all that runs the lonely roads in the swamp during winter time. And damned few pickup trucks, even.

Anyhow, it was us all the time, but I didn't come to realize that until it was already a full-blown legend. And folks in the Atchafalaya Swamp aren't going to part with their legend even after this honest effort at confession. They likely wouldn't give it up even if old Tiger wrote this confession.

A swamp the size of Louisiana's Atchafalaya Basin, the world's largest river bottom swamp, needs a legend. wants a legend, you might say. And, unknowingly and without malice aforethought, me and old Tiger gave it one.

OLE TIGER AND THE SWAMP HORROR Looking back on it, I realize now it never was nothing but me and old Tiger chasing cars. Or, more accurately, pickup trucks. That's about all that runs the lonely roads in the swamp during winter time. And damned few pickup trucks, even. Anyhow, it was us all the time, but I didn't come to realize that until it was already a full-blown legend. And folks in the Atchafalaya Swamp aren't going to part with their legend even after this honest effort at confession. They likely wouldn't give it up even if old Tiger wrote this confession. A swamp the size of Louisiana's Atchafalaya Basin, the world's largest river bottom swamp, needs a legend. wants a legend, you might say. And, unknowingly and without malice aforethought, me and old Tiger gave it one. I had suffered a mild heart attack in 1965, and the doctor told me to get out of the rat race or get my will drafted. I had come into a little money when Aunt Maggie died, so what with selling the cafe I was able to retire and buy a cabin at Butte La Rose, a little settlement which sits on a bend in the Atchafalaya River in the heart of the Atchafalaya Swamp. At that time, it was pretty primitive, but close enough to Interstate 10 that you didn't feel absolutely alone. The fellow I bought it from asked me to keep old Tiger, because the dog had lived there all his life and might pine away and die if he were moved. I know now that he asked me to keep Tiger because the 101st Airborne Division and six Marine Battalions couldn't have moved him. The camp belongs to Tiger, and I'll always be grateful to him for letting he share it. Best I can judge, Tiger is a cross between a German Shepherd and maybe a grizzly bear. Once when a dog at the next camp down the bayou came in season and all the male dogs in the swamp gathered outside the fence where she was kept, Tiger trotted down there and systematically whipped hell out of all of them. The owner of the female was so impressed that he opened the gate for Tiger, and Tiger still had strength left to go in and enjoy the spoils of war. That was an uncommon amount of excitement. Ordinarily, the swamp was serene and beautiful and until they came with their giant oil field equipment, men were unable to leave much of a mark on her natural splendor. I found the peace I was looking for. The freedom from stress. Threw away the cigarettes and breathed the wonderful clean air. The doctor was impressed when I showed up six months later for a check-up. But he told me I had to lose weight and get more exercise than dangling a cricket in a bream hole. Well, I got a bargain at a second hand store on a fire-engine red jogging suit, almost exactly the color of my hair and beard (which were both hanging nearly to my waist by then) and took up jogging. Damn, that's boring. I did it, but I didn't like it. I even moved up from jogging to running. After a few months I was in uncommonly good physical condition. I got down to 220 pounds, which was lean enough for a man that stands six feet, six inches tall, and could run for miles along the levee--going like a bat out of hell--without even breathing hard. But, truly, it was just boring as hell. One night it dawned on me that old Tiger was getting just as much exercise, and having a damned site more fun, chasing pickup trucks. They say running can give you a natural high, and maybe I was in one of those euphoric states the first time I did it, but me and old Tiger ran a pickup truck from Butte La Rose to the Henderson guide levee that first night, and I never had so much fun in my life. I discovered I could bark pretty good too, with all that lung power I had developed. Like I say, there's not much traffic in the swamp on winter nights, and sometimes we didn't get to run a car or truck more than two or three nights a week. But I guess that was enough for the legend to start. About six weeks after we started chasing cars and trucks, I found an old copy of a Lafayette newspaper somebody had left at the boat landing, and there was a story about some folks who had encountered a monster in the swamp. They had about a dozen eyewitness accounts from motorists who "deep in the bowels of the Great Basin," as the newspaper story said, "had been terrified to see a gigantic creature covered with red fur leap from the marshy woods and pursue them down the eerie, winding roads of the mysterious swamp." I tell you, it scared me. Especially the part about the great, hairy, four-footed creature that accompanied "the ferocious, two-footed giant with the scarlet fur"--both of them "snarling, barking and howling." For awhile, me and old Tiger stayed inside the fence at night. During the day, we scouted the area around the cabin for footprints left by what the newspapers by then were calling "The Swamp Horror." The only footprints we ever found were our own, and after the only radio station we could pick up dropped the story, we went back to chasing cars and trucks. Right away, The Swamp Horror was back on the radio newscasts. Besides motorists being chased and terrified, there was a story about a troop of Explorer Scouts who had come upon The Horror and its companion, "with their heads tilted back, wailing and shrieking in a mad, half-human way." That really shook me up, because it happened in an area near Bayou Benoit where me and old Tiger were camping that same night. I remember it well. We weren't too sleepy that night, so when a full moon came out, me'n Tiger commenced to howling at it, just for the hell of it. I recall trying to teach Tiger to howl to the tune of "The Orange Blossom Special," but he never could get it just right. Anyhow, we were right there in the area where those Scouts came upon The Horror, "shrieking and wailing," according to the news report. I decided to stay close to the cabin after that, and give up camping out in the swamp. The next thing we heard, a couple of hunters reported spotting The Horror and shooting at it. The radio said they were making their way through the swamp when it rose up in the air about fifty feet in front of them. The reporter had a tape recorded interview with one of the hunters: "It just seemed to float up out of nowhere," he said. "We could see it plain through the trees. It was waving and snapping at us like a red ghost, and it was floating on the air. It's feet didn't even touch the ground. Joe blasted the son of a bitch with his .12 gauge, and I know he hit it. But it just kept floating there above the ground, twisting and waving its arms at us. We cut and run. That ain't no human thing down there." I remember that day well. It was real breezy and I had washed my red sweat suit and hung it up on a limb to let the wind blow it dry. While me and old Tiger were out checking a trot line, something got hold of the sweat suit and made a hole in the seat of the pants the size of a cannon ball. I figured maybe The Horror had come right up to the camp and took a bite out of my britches. I thought about reporting that to the radio station, but they seemed to have enough news about the subject. There was what they called a traiteur, a faith healer, that the Cajun people there in the swamp believed in without reservation, and he had begun to give interviews to the radio station. He explained that the red thing and the big hairy four-footed thing were undoubtedly "loup garous," which is a kind of Cajun werewolf that roams at night, stealing souls and other valuables and making cows' milk go sour. According to the traiteur, a loup garou can change its shape into anything it wants to be. He said the only protection against it was some kind of powder that he made up from a secret recipe passed down to him from his father who got it from his father and so on and so on. Me 'n old Tiger slipped over to his cabin one night and there was a gang of people there. He seemed to be doing a brisk business in loup garou powder. Well, I figured the powder was doing the trick, because pretty soon the news about The Horror died down again, and before too long, me 'n old Tiger got back to running cars. And that's when the realization came. One night, we set in behind a pickup truck that was weaving pretty bad down the swamp road, and when the driver looked in the rear view mirror and saw us, he ran the pickup half way up a cypress tree. He jumped out, looked right at me and old Tiger and hollered, "It's The Swamp Horror," then he threw a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam at us and took off down the road, running like a spotted-assed ape. Old Tiger inspired him to an impressive pace, snarling and nipping at his butt as he ran. I called the dog back and we went home to the cabin. There, sipping on the remainder of that Jim Beam and reviewing in my mind all that had transpired, it came to me clear as a bell that The Swamp Horror never was nothing but me and old Tiger chasing cars. So we stopped that, and after about a month or so the scare died out. But the Swamp had its legend, and I guess it will live on forever. Now they've even added a new one, about fishermen seeing something in Bayou Peyronnet that could have been the Loch Ness Monster or worse. Me and old Tiger are not contributing to that one. We never did intend to scare people and just to avoid the possibility of it happening again, we gave up running and have taken to swimming for exercise. As a matter of fact, we swim in Bayou Peyronnet two, three times a week, and I've never seen anything that resembles a monster.

One night, we set in behind a pickup truck that was weaving pretty bad down the swamp road, and when the driver looked in the rear view mirror and saw us, he ran the pickup half way up a cypress tree.

He jumped out, looked right at me and old Tiger and hollered, "It's The Swamp Horror," then he threw a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam at us and took off down the road, running like a spotted-assed ape. Old Tiger inspired him to an impressive pace, snarling and nipping at his butt as he ran.

I called the dog back and we went home to the cabin. There, sipping on the remainder of that Jim Beam and reviewing in my mind all that had transpired, it came to me clear as a bell that The Swamp Horror never was nothing but me and old Tiger chasing cars.

So we stopped that, and after about a month or so the scare died out. But the Swamp had its legend, and I guess it will live on forever. Now they've even added a new one, about fishermen seeing something in Bayou Peyronnet that could have been the Loch Ness Monster or worse.

Me and old Tiger are not contributing to that one. We never did intend to scare people and just to avoid the possibility of it happening again, we gave up running and have taken to swimming for exercise. As a matter of fact, we swim in Bayou Peyronnet two, three times a week, and I've never seen anything that resembles a monster.

I was sitting in Gaboon Arcenaux's Bar, Boat Landing and Bait Shop, Incorporated when three car-loads of sheriff's deputies rolled down off the levee and pulled around behind the building, parking on the swamp side where you put your boat into Henderson Lake. They couldn't be seen from the levee road back there, so I knew they were laying for somebody.

"Who they after?" I asked Gaboon.

"You know that dago, Kahlil?"

"The little fellow living in your rent house across the levee?" I asked.

"Him."

I said I knew him. I also knew he was Lebanese, but to Gaboon, anyone not cajun, redneck or black was a dago.

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THE GREAT CONFLAGRATION AND FIREWORKS DISPLAY AT GABOON ARCENEAUX'S RENT HOUSE I was sitting in Gaboon Arcenaux's Bar, Boat Landing and Bait Shop, Incorporated when three car-loads of sheriff's deputies rolled down off the levee and pulled around behind the building, parking on the swamp side where you put your boat into Henderson Lake. They couldn't be seen from the levee road back there, so I knew they were laying for somebody. "Who they after?" I asked Gaboon. "You know that dago, Kahlil?" "The little fellow living in your rent house across the levee?" I asked. "Him." I said I knew him. I also knew he was Lebanese, but to Gaboon, anyone not cajun, redneck or black was a dago. "Why they after him?" I asked. "You know what he do for a living, him?" I nodded. "I hear you can contract with him for a building to burn down accidentally." "That," Gaboon said, "is what he do." "They gonna arrest him for burning something down?" Gaboon nodded affirmatively. "Soon as he do it." Kahlil had a reputation for doing well in his chosen profession, but being fairly new to the English language and constantly befuddled by the unique usage of it among South Louisiana's Cajuns, he sometimes got his signals crossed. Like the time Neg Barras wanted his restaurant to catch fire at two o'clock in the morning when it was closed and empty, but it somehow burst into flames at two o'clock in the afternoon when remnants of the lunch crowd were sipping their coffee. Nobody got hurt and nobody got arrested, and those who had seen the slight, dark-skinned fellow happily splashing the building with a liquid from a red metal can never mentioned it to law enforcement officials. Neg paid for the job anyway, because he knew that Kahlil knew that he lived in a frame house...and that Kahlil knew where it was. Anyhow, the deputies climbed out of the cars and went sort of tippy-toe over to a little storage building at the corner of the lot that they could hide behind and peek around the corner at Gaboon's little rent house. Here's the way it was laid out, so you can get a better picture of what was going on: the Atchafalaya Guide Levee runs down through the Atchafalaya Basin, this country's largest riverbottom swamp. On each side of the levee, sloping down to the water, is a strip of land they call the "berm." That belongs to the government, but you can put a camp or a home on it without paying any money. Only thing is, if the Corps of Engineers decides to rework that portion of the levee, they notify you to get the hell out, and you get the hell out, even if you've lived there twenty years and made a lot of improvements and planted a garden, or even opened a little bar or grocery store or boat landing. Gaboon Arceneaux's Bar & Boat Landing & Bait Shop, Incorporated was on one side of the levee and his little rent house sat on the opposite berm. A gravel road runs down the middle of the levee, and you can drive it from Interstate Ten near Lafayette all the way to the Gulf of Mexico if you want to. So the deputies were ganged up behind the storage shed, and one of them was peeking around the corner, watching Gaboon's little house. "He gonna burn your rent house?" I asked Gaboon. "Yeah. He's pissed off at me because I won't give him no more creddick. I told him he don't buy nothing else on creddick until he pay what he owe me, him." "And he told you he was gonna burn your house down?" "He ain't told me nothing. But that's what he do. I went over there maybe a hour ago and it smell gasoline everywhere. He got it soaked. Pretty soon he gonna come throw the match, and them deputies gonna bust his ass." Pretty soon was right. Before I finished my beer, Kahlil's old Chrysler New Yorker came barreling out of the dust on the levee road. But instead of turning left to the little rent house, he wheeled the big car into Gaboon's parking lot and pulled around behind the building. Damned if he didn't park right next to one of the sheriff's cars. It was obvious the deputies didn't realize who was driving the big sedan. They were still bunched up behind the storage building, and the lookout was peering steadily at the rent house. We watched Kahlil climb out the car--Gaboon's place is screened all the way around so we could see in all directions--and walk directly over to the crowd behind the tool shed. He approached with his usual happy stride and innocent grin, and moved right up to stand behind the lookout...assuming an identical pose and gazing intently at the house they were waiting for him to torch. We were able to detect the first signs of recognition. All the deputies were engaged in quietly animated conversation when one of them stopped in mid-sentence and mid-gesture and stared with a look of disbelief at the newcomer. He stared for about thirty seconds before he elbowed the deputy next to him and whispered something out of the corner of this mouth. They all stopped talking and looked with obvious fascination at Kahlil, who was looking with obvious fascination at the rent house. The deputies looked at him for a long time. Then they looked at each other for a long time. "Son of a bitch," Gaboon said. "He ain't gonna throw the match now. Them deputies might as well get in their cars and go the hell on because he...what the hell was that? Hell had broken loose in the little house across the levee. Bam! Bam! Bam! Sounds like shotgun blasts came first...rapid fire...like a lot of hunters shooting at the same time. Then the damndest noise, like giant firecrackers, bottle rockets, roman candles...exploding, whistling, screeching. Then the fire came. You could see it through the windows, starting everywhere at once. It raced up the walls and tore right out through the flimsy shingled roof. And as the fire poked holes in the roof, fireworks came shooting out, creating a glorious spectacle, even in the light of day. It was a truly wonderful display of sight and sound. Gaboon and I ran outside to watch. People started popping out of camps, shacks and bait shops along the levee. There were a lot of whoops and yells as the fireworks spectacular blazed on. The family at the house next door began applauding enthusiastically, and the next house picked it up and pretty soon you could hear joyful sounds of approval ringing through the swamp. The levee people love a good show. Gaboon even gave it a few claps. They took Kahlil into the St. Martin Jail, but they couldn't hold him, because he could prove where he was when the fire broke out. And the state police lab people who came in could find no sign of a timing device or anything that might have permitted him to start it by remote control. He was out of jail within 24 hours, but he never came back to the swamp. I heard he move to Baton Rouge where the property values are higher. If he had returned, he would have been sort of a folk hero on the levee. Folks in the swamp don't get to see things like the great conflagration and fireworks display at Gaboon Arceneaux's rent house very often. And they truly admire someone who could pull something like that off while standing a hundred feet away in the middle of a pack of deputy sheriffs. Very few people ever learned how he did it. I didn't learn the true story until one day when I ran into Tee Joe Bourgeois in a bar in Lafayette. Tee Joe was one of the handful of people born and raised in the swamp who left for greener pastures and found them. He was a prosperous businessman, with a seafood processing plant, a couple of shrimp boats and a whorehouse. We were drinking Little Millers and talking horse racing when Tee Joe put his can down and laid his huge hand on my shoulder. "You don't know how the dago done that, no?" I knew what he was referring to. "I truly don't," I said. "Well, he didn't think it up by hisself, no." "Anybody I know help him?," I asked. "That well might be." He lifted his beer can, and I had the terrible feeling that he considered the conversation closed. "Wait." I almost shouted it. "Was Kahlil a friend of yours?" "We might have been acquainted. I might have even felt like I owed him a favor. Tu compron?" "He did something for you?" "I never hired him for nothing, no." "But he did something helpful for you." "He did a service to the community." "What? Dammit, tell me the story." "Well, I remember mentioning to him that there was a new whorehouse in town and that the girls were not--how you say--safe to be with. They was girls I had run off from my place because they was doing tricks on the side--taking on bums, and maybe catching some disease." "A threat to the health and wellbeing of the whole town," I suggested. "A definite threat." "When did you mention that to Kahlil?" "As best I remember, it was Christmas Eve two years ago at Tee-Tan's Bar in Gueydan." I let that run through my head. "Christmas Eve of 1968," I said. The fire at Eraste Benoit's Place was New Year's Day, 1969." He raised his beer can and studied the label. "Something like that," he said. "Wait. Let's suppose Kahlil did something good for the community, and someone felt kindly toward him. Somebody very intelligent and creative. Somebody who could come up with a plan to burn a house down in front of an army of deputy sheriffs...without anybody being able to figure out how it was done...or to prove who did it." He was still studying the label on the beer can. "You can suppose any thing you want to," he said, and tilted the beer can to his lips. I was becoming very agitated. "What kind of a plan do you suppose somebody who felt kindly toward Kahlil for saving Southwest Louisiana from a venereal plague would have come up with?" I asked. "You really want to know that?" "Come on, Tee Joe. Dammit. How was it done?" He looked around to be sure no one would be privy to the conversation, then he put his lips close to my ear. "Crabs," he whispered, with a note of pride and satisfaction in his voice. He threw a bill on the bar and rose to leave. I grabbed his arm with both hands. I considered throwing a leg lock on him. "What the hell is that? What the hell does 'crabs' mean? Sit down, dammit." Tee Joe sighed and sat resignedly on the stool. "Well," he said, "because I like the little dago, I gave him a small gift. In fact, I gave it on the day Gaboon's house catch fire. It was a case of shotgun shells, a case of big firecrackers, a case of roman candles and bottle rockets and some other fireworks stuff, a dozen frozen crabs and a dozen long candles." "Crabs and candles? Crabs and candles? Why? What did crabs and candles have to do with Gaboon's rent house and the fire?" Tee Joe turned to Johnny Latiolais on the next stool. "Johnny, my man," he said, "run to my plant and get me one of them quick-froze crabs. Tell 'em its for me." He signaled for the bartender. "Hand me one of them long candles you keep for when the lights go out." A red tapered candle, about 15 inches long, was produced from under the bar. Johnny was back in a few minutes with the frozen crab. Tee Joe sat it on the bar and ordered another round. He ignored the crab. I watched it with fascination. It began to thaw. I was about to explode with curiosity when he picked up the candle and lit it. He held it over the crab and let the wax drip onto the shell. When a puddle had formed, he set the candle in place on the crab's back. The candle burned slowly. The crab was thawing rapidly. "You remember the gift I gave Kahlil?" Tee Joe asked me. "Yeah," I answered. "Fireworks, shotgun shells. Crabs. Candles." "Pass a good day," Tee Joe said, and sauntered casually out the door. I watched the crab. The candle on its back burned and the crab thawed. When the crab began to twitch, I thought at first it was the beer making me see things. But it twitched some more. It began to move. The damn thing was thawing out and it was still alive. I watched the lighted candle begin to move slowly down the bar. And the light that dawned in my head illuminated a perfect picture of twelve such torches, inching crab-like toward the gasoline-soaked furniture and drapes in Gaboon Arceneaux's little rent house. ###

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I watched the crab. The candle on its back burned and the crab thawed. When the crab began to twitch, I thought at first it was the beer making me see things. But it twitched some more. It began to move. The damn thing was thawing out and it was still alive.

I watched the lighted candle begin to move slowly down the bar. And the light that dawned in my head illuminated a perfect picture of twelve such torches, inching crab-like toward the gasoline-soaked furniture and drapes in Gaboon Arceneaux's little rent house.

The cowboy was coming up gently from a deep, peaceful slumber. His mind was clear and his body free of pain. There was no headache, nausea, guilt or depression. He awakened with his usual, indestructible sense of well-being.

He had been uproariously drunk a few hours before, and recalled without remorse the damage he had inflicted on persons and property before someone put out his lights. It had been a good fight. He had to assume that someone got behind him with a bottle or a chair, because, jeezuss, he had been doing good. Busting asses right and left and feeling totally free and ten feet tall. He savored the recollections behind closed eyelids.

"Wonder where I am?" he mused without opening his eyes. "Must be on the floor. Harder than hell. Must be in jail." He drifted back into child-like slumber; a tall, rawboned man in his early fifties wearing faded jeans and worn-out boots. His Wrangler shirt was ripped in several places, revealing a lean hardness and muscles that seemed to ripple even in repose.

"Lost my damned hat," he thought as he twisted briefly, trying to adjust his rangy frame to the hard concrete. "Steal me one with feathers when I get out." Then he was off again into untroubled sleep.

COWBOY, FAT WILLIE AND THE PIMP The cowboy was coming up gently from a deep, peaceful slumber. His mind was clear and his body free of pain. There was no headache, nausea, guilt or depression. He awakened with his usual, indestructible sense of well-being. He had been uproariously drunk a few hours before, and recalled without remorse the damage he had inflicted on persons and property before someone put out his lights. It had been a good fight. He had to assume that someone got behind him with a bottle or a chair, because, jeezuss, he had been doing good. Busting asses right and left and feeling totally free and ten feet tall. He savored the recollections behind closed eyelids. "Wonder where I am?" he mused without opening his eyes. "Must be on the floor. Harder than hell. Must be in jail." He drifted back into child-like slumber; a tall, rawboned man in his early fifties wearing faded jeans and worn-out boots. His Wrangler shirt was ripped in several places, revealing a lean hardness and muscles that seemed to ripple even in repose. "Lost my damned hat," he thought as he twisted briefly, trying to adjust his rangy frame to the hard concrete. "Steal me one with feathers when I get out." Then he was off again into untroubled sleep. He awakened again in a few minutes, feeling good. "Must of ended up with a woman," he thought, his eyes still closed. "Somebody's trying to unbuckle my belt." He relaxed and let it happen. The unseen hands tugged at the wide belt buckle that told of championship bronc busting, Fort Worth, 1957. It separated. "Hot damn," he thought. "I hope she ain't no ugly old piece of hide." His first impulse was to continue lying there with his eyes closed and let the tingling spread through his loins as the hands moved gently. But curiosity overcame him and he let one eye open reluctantly. "Well I'll be...," he said softly. "Well kiss my...goddam!" A slim black man was bending over him, fooling with his belt, while two other blacks observed. One of them was wearing his cowboy hat. The cowboy's freckled arm whipped out and his big hand closed on the slim black one at his belt. He held it gently for a moment, then squeezed. "Ouch! Ow! Sonofabitch!" The nattily dressed intruder managed to pull his hand free, then looked down at the cowboy with astonishment. "I think you broke my hand, mother-fucker." His voice was not filled with rage, but with genuine disbelief. "What the hell's the matter with you? You some kind of crazy man or something? Ouch. Goddamit." He shook the aching hand. The cowboy had not altered his position. He lay fully relaxed on the hard floor and assessed the situation. Jail. The drunk tank. Probably about four a.m. Companions? The skinny bastard who had been screwing around with his belt; a round, butterball of a black man who was wearing his cowboy hat, and a very large mulatto youth with the build of a stevedore and the angelic expression of a contented, retarded child. Over in a dark corner, he could make out what was undoubtedly a man, but could have been a pile of rags. "Bastard!" the slim one scolded. "Broke my damned hand." "I ain't broke your damned hand," the cowboy drawled. "I know when I feel bones break. I ought to kill your ass for trying to steal my belt." The slim one was still wringing his hand. "You hear that? You hear this crazy mother? Man, we ain't trying to steal your big ugly jive-ass belt. Ain't you ever been in the drunk tank before." The cowboy still lay in his lazy position on the floor. "Not in New Orleans," he said. "Been in a bunch of West Texas jails. If you wasn't trying to steal my belt, what the hell was you trying to do?" A high pitched giggle came from the rag pile in the corner. "They gonna get your bootie. They don't want no belt. They fixing to get your bootie." "Shut your face, you old wino," the fat one wearing the cowboy's hat said. "Ain't nobody asked you nothing." "Get your bootie," the wino giggled again. "What the hell is he talking about?" the cowboy demanded. "You trying to steal my britches?" "No man," the slim one said. "You heard the man. We gonna get your bootie." "My beauty?" the cowboy asked with genuine interest. "Your bootie, goddamit. What the hell's the matter with you. You get them raggedy-ass blue jeans off." "I ain't taking my pants off," the cowboy said, closing his eyes sleepily. "I ain't got no boo-jie in my britches, and if I did you couldn't have it anyhow...and that fat sonofabitch better give me my hat." He turned his face away. "Motherfucker,' the slim one breathed. "This dumb sonofabitch don't even know what we're talking about. Hey! Hey! Wake up, asshole. They three of us here and we gonna get your bootie. Now you get ready for it." The cowboy sighed. "What the hell are you talking about?" he asked calmly. The fat one wearing his hat began shaking with exasperation. He went into a jiggling dance of rage as he talked. "You the dumbest sonofabitch I ever seen in a drunk tank. We gonna get your bootie, man. WE GONNA SCREW YOU." The cowboy thought about it for a moment with his eyes closed. Then he began to chuckle. The pale blue eyes opened finally and he surveyed the scene with amusement. "You mean," he said softly, "that y'all three are gonna try to corn-hole me?" "Corn-hole?" the fat one shrieked. "What kind of jive ass talk is that? Man, get them trashy blue jeans off." "You better get my damn hat off," the cowboy whispered, closing his eyes again. "You get a bunch of Royal Crown Pomade hair grease smeared all up in my hat and I'm gonna kick your ass 'til your nose bleeds." The slim one was exasperated to the point of hysteria. "Look," he shouted. "We gonna get your bootie. You understand me? They three of us and one of you and we gonna pack your shit. You understand that? You understand that, Honkie?" The cowboy opened his eyes. "What the hell does that mean?" he asked. "I told you, motherfucker. We gonna get your bootie, and that means...". "Naw, Naw," the cowboy said wearily. "I understand what a booly is." "Bootie," you dumbass. "Bootie." "Whatever. I want to know what a honkey is. Why y'all always calling white people honkeys? "Because, you ignorant cracker, you always driving down in black neighborhoods and HONKING your horn, thinking some fine black sister gonna come jump in your car and give you some." "I ain't never done that," the cowboy said. "You probably ain't got no car." "If y'all would take care of your women, they wouldn't go jumping in strange cars every time a horn honks." The fat one in the cowboy hat began to jiggle with rage again. "Take care of our women? What the hell you mean, take care of our women? What the hell you mean by that?" "Well," the cowboy drawled, "if you wasn't all the time trying to bugger some man, you could keep your women satisfied. Looks to me like y'all don't care about women. Just want to get your belly-whackers in some man's boozie." "It's 'bootie,' goddamit," the slim one shrieked. "BOOTIE." The fat one was quivering. "Man, we get more squinch than a honkey like you can think about. Whitey can't satisfy no woman. White men got little dicks ain't hardly big enough to piss through." The cowboy was no longer amused. "Let me tell you something," he said indignantly. "That size stuff is bullshit. I got a prong that'll satisfy any woman, black or white. Hell, I can make a jersey heifer hump her back." "What the hell is a jersey heifer?" the slim one asked. "Aw, for the love of...a jersey heifer is a cow. New Orleans people don't know shit. Don't know what a jersey heifer is. Jeezus." The fat one began to quiver again, half with rage and half with laughter. "You mean you stick it up in a milk cow? You mean you come in here talking about us not being able to satisfy our women and all the time you nothing but a long, jive-ass cow- fucker?" The cowboy was in a sitting position now. "Wait a minute," he cried, a touch of hurt in his voice. "That ain't like doing it to another man. I don't plunk no damn bulls. Just female cows. And only out on the prairie where there ain't no human women around. It ain't like I'm all the time going around looking for a cow to plunk, like y'all all the time trying to get some man to drop his drawers. It ain't the same thing, goddamit." "A cow-fucker," the slim one sneered. "A honkey cow- fucker." The cowboy was on his feet. "A ass-fucker," he retorted with equal scorn. A corn-holeing black queer." "Hold on," the fat one shouted. "Don't be laying no queer shit on us. I get out of here and get my heat, I'll bust your heart. Don't be laying no queer shit on us." "You screw another man, you're a queer," the cowboy shouted. "You go around banging men in the butt, you're a bunch of queers. That's all. A bunch of queers." The old wino in the corner giggled his piercing giggle. "White folks all the time eatin' pussy. All the time trying to get they faces in it." He laughed himself into a paroxysm of coughing. The cowboy realized there was no further point in debating the subject. "Which one of you wants his ass kicked first?" he asked. "Let me have the mother," the fat one growled, his pudgy fists moving in circles. "No, man," the slim one said. "We all three gonna whip him at the same time. We teach the sonofabitch to go around calling people queer." "Don't want y'all to hurt him." It was a quiet, shy statement from the gigantic mulatto youth. He caught the slim one under the arm pits and lifted him off the floor. "Don't want no fighting," he said. "Don't like if people be hurt." He set the slim one down and caught the fat one by his wide, flowered tie. "You behave," he said gently. He took the hat from him and handed it to the cowboy. "Nobody get hurt," he said. "It's okay, son." the cowboy responded. "I can handle both of them without raising a sweat. You just stand out of the way." The big youth put the hat on the cowboy and studiously adjusted it to his liking. "You don't hurt nobody, too," he said. He lifted the rangy Texan effortlessly to eye-level and the cowboy felt the youngster's enormous strength. "Nobody get hurt," the youth said. He set the cowboy down gently. "Nobody get hurt." The three thought it over and, with as much dignity as possible, retired to neutral corners. For a half-hour, the silence was broken only by the coughing and occasional muttering of the old wino. The slim one and the cowboy thought about it the longest. The fat one saw no reason even to consider that there was anything perverted about his sexual behavior. He was more concerned with the cowboy's remark about Royal Crown Pomade. The young giant had understood little of the conversation. He smiled his gentle smile in appreciation of the peace around him. The old wino coughed and muttered. The slim one, however, felt vaguely troubled. Could what he had been about to do to the cowboy be considered a homosexual act? Was what the cowboy said true? If a man screws another man, does that make them both queers? Finally he settled the issue unequivocably in his own mind. "Naw," he told himself with honest conviction. "I ain't no queer." At about the same time, the cowboy put aside his soul- searching with equal conviction. "When a man's got to have it," he told himself, "he's got to have it. Don't hurt the cow none." Finally the fat one spoke. "Hey, you," he said. "You really a cowboy?" "Sometimes," the cowboy mumbled. "What you do for a living? Collect welfare?" "You better watch that shit. I'm a businessman, goddamit." The old wino giggled. "He name Fat Willie. He think he the nigger mafia." "You better go on with your shit, old man," Fat Willie said menacingly. The wino ignored him. "Fat Willie think he in the protection racket. Go in Mrs. Glorioso's store and tell her she got to pay protection. She slap him all over his head with a broom handle." He began to laugh and cough. "Ol' Fat Willie waddlin' down Magazine Street fast as he can with a little old dago lady whuppin' him all over his head." He almost choked on his laughter. "Ol' Fat Willie he the nigger mafia." Even the slim one began to laugh. "What you laughing at?" Fat Willie demanded. "You ain't nothing but a pimp." "He call hisself 'Sweet Daddy'," the old wino chuckled. "Try to be a pimp. Got one old knock-kneed, cross-eyed whore. Look at her from across the street and your eyeballs get the clap." Sweet Daddy started for the old wino, but the young giant stepped between them. "Nobody get hurt," he said softly. They were all released from the New Orleans jail shortly before noon. The cowboy left first, contemplating whether or not he would be meeting up with Sweet Daddy and Fat Willie without benefit of the young mulatto's mediation. He was walking away from the jail when he heard Sweet Daddy's voice. He tensed. "Hey, cowboy," Sweet Daddy said. "Tell the truth. Is cows good?" Twilight found them sprawled in the mouth of an alley a block from Jackson Square. They had pooled their resources for a fifth of Jim Beam and a gallon of muscatel wine. Cowboy, Fat Willie and Sweet Daddy shared the bourbon, while the wino and the giant pulled on the muscatel. People passing by on their way to the hot spots in the French Quarter looked back over their shoulders at them. Two attractive young women, hurrying to get past them, heard a drawling Texas voice make what seemed to be a complimentary observation about what each assumed was some part of her anatomy. Then another voice, decidely New Orleans, obviously black, drifted out of the alley in a tone of amused tolerance. "It's 'bootie,' you raggedy-assed cow-humper."

Twilight found them sprawled in the mouth of an alley a block from Jackson Square. They had pooled their resources for a fifth of Jim Beam and a gallon of muscatel wine. Cowboy, Fat Willie and Sweet Daddy shared the bourbon, while the wino and the giant pulled on the muscatel. People passing by on their way to the hot spots in the French Quarter looked back over their shoulders at them.

Two attractive young women, hurrying to get past them, heard a drawling Texas voice make what seemed to be a complimentary observation about what each assumed was some part of her anatomy.

Then another voice, decidely New Orleans, obviously black, drifted out of the alley in a tone of amused tolerance.

"It's 'bootie,' you raggedy-assed cow-humper."

The rain had messed up our fishing. The levee was wet and slippery and we couldn't drive the pickup down to the edge of Two Mile Pit to put the pirogues into the water. So we stayed in the cabin on the bank of Bayou Bernard, and I was happy. I was never quite sure whether the pleasure of visiting Jason Bench in his beautifully constructed and ferociously dirty cabin was in going where he knew the fish would bite, or in sitting there at the table and listening to his remarkable discourses. We had the television set on. Oh yes, he had television down there on the primitive edge of Louisiana's Atchafalaya Basin. The set was relatively new and had had time to collect only a little dust; no cobwebs at all. Old Jase never dusted, never cleaned, never mopped. Because a black newsman had just interviewed a black public official, Jase had turned his agile mind to the issue of race relations and was lamenting the fact that television--that was in the late sixties-- discriminated against mulattos and octaroons. "You never see a high yellow on any quiz show or reporting for any news program," he asserted. "You don't see anything but black black people. I'm constantly turning off Nipsey Russell. You can't have a quiz show without Nipsey Russell, because he's black as this iron skillet. "A yellow nigger ain't got a chance." Elvin came in then, without knocking. Like the other levee people-- the aboriginal, inbred inhabitants of the narrow strip along the edge of the great swamp--Elvin was fascinated by Jase. Jase was 65 years old, over six feet tall, powerful in the chest and possessed of a ruddy skin and pale blue eyes that set him apart from the Cajuns and the Chittemache Indians of the Atchafalaya Basin. He was educated, too, and cultured. A product of a proud South Carolina family, he had attended the Citadel just before the depression wiped out the family farm and sent him farther south, looking for work. He had survived the depression and prospered, despite a fierce Irish thirst for whiskey--a thirst he finally conquered by leaving the pressures of business for the peaceful life of a levee rat. He had lived eighteen years on the banks of the bayou, his Walden's Pond, and been free of the need for booze. "It's been a long time I ain't came here," Elvin said by way of greeting. He was about 21, slightly built, but his slim arms were corded with the muscles of a shrimper and trapper. Like Jase and me, he hadn't shaved for a few days. He was Cajun, with some Indian in him. "Elvin never looks at people," Jason observed, matter-of- factly. Elvin didn't. He sat at the table and looked into a corner, pursing his lips and squinting his eyes. He would not turn his head toward us, but when he made what he considered to be a profound or stimulating observation, he would cut his eyes in Jase's or my general direction and grin, with his mouth pursed and his eyes squinted. Yeah-h-h," he said to the corner, as if it had asked him, "I'm gonna get some with Louise next." Louise was a homely little bar maid at one of the terrible little bars on the levee. "I got some with her mama last night." He cut his eyes briefly in Jason's direction. "You mean you're grinding that old woman?" Jason asked, his blue eyes laughing. "How old is that old woman?" "She's 67," Elvin told the corner. "I been wantin' to get a little with her for a long time. She used to be a pretty woman, Yeah." "Well, grind it all, boy," Jason told him. "Old women are good. Grind it all." Elvin squinted his eyes, pursed his lips and grinned. Old Jase resumed his condemnation of racial prejudice on television. "If they gonna put 'em on tv, they ought to put the mulattos on, too. Course, they gonna mess up television like they mess up everything else." He was still in his drawers, white ones that hit him just above the knees. After it was clear that we weren't going to fish, he had declined to dress. We were preparing lunch. He had put a heavy chuck roast in a big iron pot. I was cutting up shallots and garlic on a piece of one-by-six that was his cutting board. It was about 7 a.m., but I had already started drinking red wine. I hoped to drink enough, fast enough, to stop wondering if Jase had washed his hands after he disconnected himself from the bucket. They had operated on his cancerous bladder at the Veterans hospital and left him with a little plastic bag at his side as a substitute. When he went to bed at night, he connected the little plastic drain to a hose going into the bucket by his bed. I hadn't seen him wash his hands that morning after he disconnected himself. Now he was mixing corn bread batter with his hands. "They'll mess up anything," Jase commented. "That's what happened to the Egyptians. For a thousand years, they kept the blacks below the second cataract of the Nile. When they finally let 'em up, the country went to hell. They even had a nigger pharaoh. "Why do you think they're electing black mayors in all those cities? They don't have to do that. They could elect white people if the political bosses wanted to. But the cities have already gone to hell. Too late to save them. So they go ahead and let a nigger be mayor 'cause it can't be screwed up much more than it is, and the nigger'll get blamed for it...just like the nigger pharaoh." "Yeah-h-h," Elvin told the corner, as though affirming Jason's assertions. "That old lady was pretty good. She had a blonde wig on when we got drunk in Gaubert's bar before I banged her. After I got a little with her, she made me put on that wig and do it to her again. Her name's Rita." He cut his eyes in my direction and grinned. A motorboat roared by on the bayou. "That's Junior," Jase said. "He don't stop if he sees my truck here. If I'm not here, he stops and grinds Sweet Thing." Sweet Thing was a coquettish white shetland pony who had recently given birth to a yellow male colt. It was common knowledge along the levee that Sweet Thing was Junior's steady piece. "Junior thinks that colt is his," Jase said. "That silly bastard thinks he can breed with a horse. I told him to get the colt on welfare and get some food stamps for it. Hell, that colt contributes as much to society as most people on welfare." "Yeah-h-h," Elvin said thoughtfully. "Her name's Rita. I think she wants to get married with me." "You better watch it," Jase warned. "Her last husband ended up with a knife in him." Elvin squinted his eyes and pursed his lips. "She told me she did that. She said she used a butcher knife on him and the nigger woman he was with." "That's a damn lie," Jase said. "He was killed in a parking lot in Morgan City with a pocket knife. There was no nigger woman there, much less killed with a butcher knife." "Yeah-h-h," Elvin said. "She told me she killed him and the nigger woman. She told me about it while I was gettin' some with her and I went off like a roman candle." He began nodding his head knowingly toward the corner. "I guess the mulattos are used to it," Jase said. "Used to being discriminated against. They got nigger blood in them, so the whites don't have much to do with them. And they got so much white blood in them, they don't get along good with the blacks. "People up north don't know about niggers' meanness to other niggers. That's been going on for a thousand years. The Fiji Islanders were very discriminating about who they ate. They didn't care about eating a white man. Didn't have enough flavor for them. They'd rather eat each other." He looked at me, at my red hair and fair complexion. "They wouldn't of ate you unless they were mighty hungry," he grunted. He stomped into the little alcove where our beds were and got his pants. Elvin kept nodding knowingly at the corner as Jase struggled into the same trousers he had been wearing when I got there three days earlier. The stitch at the crotch had long ago given up the job of holding the cloth together over the zipper, and the zipper had wearied of trying to stay closed. There were still a couple of belt loops on the pants, but they were purely decorative. He wore no belt. Dirty is too weak a word to describe the condition of the trousers. He had wiped a little of whatever had touched his hands that week on them; gasoline, kerosene, gumbo mud, mayonnaise, catsup, hog lard, fish entrails, swamp water, crawfish fat, cornmeal batter and fishing worms were among the things I had seen him apply to the khaki fabric. "Yeah-h-h," Elvin said. "Her name is Rita. I got some with another woman named Rita in Breaux Bridge one time. I stayed in her trailer three days." "How did you meet her?" Jase asked. "In a bar," Elvin told the corner of the room. "She works in a bar. She calls herself Sugar Cane." "But her name is Rita?" "Her name is Rita. She wasn't as good as Louise's mama. That old woman was good to get some with." "You left Sugar Cane because she wasn't any good?" "No. She told me to leave. She said her brother was dead and buried a year, but she saw him drinking in a bar. He told her to get me out of her trailer." He squinted his eyes. "I don't think it was her brother. I think it was his ghost." "Indubitably," Jason said. "Indubitably." A boat passed on the bayou. There were two black men in it. "There they go," Jase said, without malice. "A few years ago, somebody would have killed them if they came in the swamp. They'll screw up the fishing. After niggers get through fishing a place, it's no good any more. They do something to it. They mess it up. You might as well leave it alone after niggers have fished it for awhile. Nothin' is gonna bite then but Choupique." "It's because they not clean," Elvin said, addressing the topic at hand for the first time. "They not clean in theirselves or their habits." He wiped his nose on his sleeve and spat on the floor. "It's mostly because they're ignorant and don't know no better than to be that way." "My daddy used to tell me," Jase said, "and he knew them, because he worked them on the farm, that up until a nigger was twelve years old, he'd learn everything faster than a white boy. But they quit developing after that. Their minds don't grow." "Yeah-h-h," Elvin said. "I'm gonna get some with Louise next." "You grind everything you can, boy. With your taste in grindin', you don't have to worry much about competition." Elvin accepted the compliment graciously. He squinted his eyes, pursed his lips and cut his eyes in my general direction. "Quote me if I'm wrong," he said, "but mulattos is just like black niggers. They don't got any morals. My aunt fixed my cousin up with a mulatto woman last week. She knows all of them and can fix you up with any of them you want to get some with." "How did she get to know them so well," I asked. "She drinks in them bars over by Jeanerette with the mulattos. She had twin babies with a mulatto man. That was a long time ago. I guess they both grown mens now. She'll tell you mulattos don't got any morals." Jase put the corn bread in the oven and wiped his hands on his pants. "You get her to find us a mulatto gal," he told Elvin. "We'll go get her in my pickup truck and bring her over here. I got a shower in the back room. We'll clean her ass up." "Yeah-h-h," Elvin told the corner. "If Aunt Margie can't get us one, she could come herself." ###

"They'll mess up anything," Jase commented. "That's what happened to the Egyptians. For a thousand years, they kept the blacks below the second cataract of the Nile. When they finally let 'em up, the country went to hell. They even had a nigger pharaoh.

"Why do you think they're electing black mayors in all those cities? They don't have to do that. They could elect white people if the political bosses wanted to. But the cities have already gone to hell. Too late to save them. So they go ahead and let a nigger be mayor 'cause it can't be screwed up much more than it is, and the nigger'll get blamed for it...just like the nigger pharaoh."

When Uncle Ditimus run the blade of his jackknife down the stick he was whittling on and sliced off a quarter-inch of skin from his finger, he didn't even feel it. That's how sharp the knife was. The blade was old and narrow and hard like him. It was worn down from being honed ever morning and whittled with all day--that being Uncle Ditimus' chief employment. I figure the knife was keen enough to shave with, but if Uncle Ditimus used it for that purpose, it wasn't a daily occupation like whittling. I was probably eight years old that time when Uncle Ditimus sliced the skin off his finger. Me and Mama and Gramma had been going to visit him and Aunt Della every six months or so for as long as I could remember, and him cutting his finger was the first thing he had ever done that was different from his ordinary performance. Usually, me and him would sit there on the floor of the front porch while Mama and Gramma and Aunt Della talked in the kitchen, and he wouldn't do anything except whittle and sip. About every twenty minutes or so he'd shift the stick over to his knife hand and pick up his bottle with his stick hand. He'd drink, his big old adam's apple would bobble up and down, and he'd kind of shiver all over when the whiskey hit his belly. Then he'd put the bottle down careful, wipe his mouth on his hand, spit towards the rickety old porch railing, take the stick back from his knife hand, and commence whittling again. I guess I probably saw that performance upwards of a hundred times before I was eight years old. It was when he wiped his mouth that I noticed his finger was cut, because he got a little blood in the bristles on his face. He noticed it when he raised the stick to evaluate his handiwork (which never amounted to anything more than whittling til he ran out of stick). He studied the blood on his finger very seriously for a while, like he might just let it drip on his raggedy old overalls until it was done. But finally he shook some of it off on the old raw timber the porch was made of, and some on his bare feet, and commenced to calling Aunt Della. "Deller," he hollered. I knew that made Gramma rare back in her chair. Uncle Ditimus sitting on his behind and hollering for Aunt Della to do everything for him was a major source of irritation for Gramma. And her back would go rigid when he said "Deller" instead of "Della." Gramma always pronounced her sister's name properly. I had heard Gramma say probably a hundred times that "Ditimus Banks wouldn't get off that dad-blamed porch for the Second Coming, even if it happened right in his own kitchen; he'd probably holler for 'Deller' to bring Jesus out there so he could look at him." "DELLER," Uncle Ditimus hollered again. He was aggravated enough that he even scooted himself around a little on the floor. I tried to see if there was a hollowed-out place where his behind always rested. Gramma claimed there was, but I didn't see it. "DELLER!" I knew Aunt Della could hear him, because her and Mama and Gramma were right there in the kitchen with the window open onto the porch. Even if the window hadn't been open, the old wall was just one plank of one-by-six lumber thick, with knot-holes in it a squirrel could have got through. "DELLER!" I knew, too, that Aunt Della wouldn't pay any heed to him until she was finished talking. She ordinarily didn't have anybody to listen to her, so she saved everything up until Mama and Gramma came. I could stand about twenty minutes of Aunt Della's non-stop talking, then I'd slip out o the porch and watch Uncle Ditimus whittle. There wasn't any place else to go. The old house was just a porch and kitchen and bedroom. Mama didn't want me getting off the porch because of snakes. There wasn't much yard, anyhow. Just one little bare spot under a tree where Aunt Della's wash pot was. The tree had pieces of an old swing dangling from a chain, but the wood had pretty nearly all rotted away. Past that was a little trail that went out to the toilet, cow shed and Aunt Della's vegetable garden. "Deller!" I never had seen Uncle Ditimus get up off the porch, but I figured he did from time to time. He'd of had to walk about three feet from the shaky old steps to get into the woods and break off a limb to whittle on. Of course, he might have just set there and hollered until Aunt Della brought him a fresh stick. I truly don't know. "DELLER!" he hollered again. "Damn that woman. She don't hear nothing when she gets to flapping her damn tongue." He pulled at the bottle of Early Times, shivered all over and spit. "The whole damn family is crazy as Bessie Bugs," he told me. "Your chances of growing up with any sense ain't worth doodley squat. "I was over at your Uncle Ben Howard Wilbank's house last week, and they ought to put him and both his daughters in a home. DELLER. Damn that woman." He threw the stick up against the rickety old porch railing and jabbed the knife into the floor. I squeezed back against the wall, trying to get a little more separation between me and him. "We going to Uncle Ben Howards's house to visit when Mama and Gramma get done talking to Aunt Della," I said. Uncle Ditimus flipped some more blood on the floor, rubbed some in his overalls and hollered for Aunt Della again. "Your grandma is too damn charitable," he said, "going to see Ben Howard Wilbank when she don't have to. If I didn't need to borrow his coffee grinder ever now and then, I wouldn't go near the old lunatic." Uncle Benjamin Howard Wilbank--another one of Gramma's brothers-in-law, had been a total cripple for probably forty years even then. Gramma said he went into Winnfield in a wagon one time to get some medicine for one of his daughters, either Martha Adelaide or Mary Priscilla. They were just little girls then and their mother (Gramma's and Aunt Della's sister, Rhoda) had died when they were babies. Gramma said it was a hot day, and Uncle Ben Howard got thirsty. He started sipping the medicine, which was mostly alcohol, and got drunker'n a hoot owl. Gramma said somebody told her they saw him standing up in the wagon, whipping the mules and hollering, "The first shall be last and the last shall be first, giddy-up goddamit." Later they found him under the wagon with his back and various other parts broken. He wasn't able to walk after that, but he lived another half century and never got off his front porch. "DELLER!" Uncle Ditimus hollered. "Damn that woman." He shook his hand again and this time some blood spattered next to my big toe. I pretended I didn't notice. "Your Great- Uncle Ben Howard Wilbank been in nothing but either his bed or his front porch chair for forty years," he said. "He ain't seen no progress and he ain't let none into his house. And them two daughters of his have growed up without knowing diddley-squat about what the world's like outside their own cow pasture. DELLER." "What do you want, Ditimus?" Aunt Della could make three syllables out of the word "want." "Come wrap this damn finger," he told her. "Last month," he said, talking to me again, "Martha Adelaide and Mary Priscilla seen the world end." He flicked his wrist again but the bleeding from the little cut on his finger had almost dried up. He took another big swig, shivered all over and spit. Then he scooted his behind around on the floor and stretched his long, skinny body almost flat on the boards, just raised up enough that he could tilt the bottle to his mouth without spilling very much. "I guess that story will be an embarrassment to their kinfolk to doomsday," he said, "even to us that's just their in- laws." He got a little more blood in his whiskers when he wiped his mouth, and I guess that's all there was left in the injury. "That Pepsi Cola airplane was flying over here," he said, "writing out stuff in the sky with smoke to advertise their damn bellywash, and of course we all knew what it was except Martha Adelaide and Mary Priscilla. Old Ben Howard was asleep in his chair on the porch and he might just as well of been, because he wouldn't of had no idea what it was either." Aunt Della bustled onto the porch tearing up an old rag of some kind. She was short and round like Mama and Gramma and had on that flowerdy print dress she always wore when we came visiting. Another one, a little more faded and worn, was hanging on a clothes line that ran from the corner of the house to the tree where the old piece of swing was. When we came she always had the one on and the other hanging. I figured the one hanging on the line was her every day dress. She wrapped Uncle Ditimus' finger without speaking a word, and he never looked at her while she did it. When she was finished, it looked like his finger was wrapped for a Christmas present, with a big bow in the middle of it. She was talking to Mama and Gramma again before she got back through the door. "Now, Martha Adelaide and Mary Priscilla told me this theirselves," Uncle Ditimus continued. "If it had happened to me, I wouldn't of told nobody. But that's how them two are. "I think it was Mary Priscilla seen the Pepsi Cola (he pronounced it 'coler,' just like 'Deller.') writing first. She went running up on the porch, hollering and carrying on and trying to wake up old Ben Howard. I don't know what the hell he would have done about it anyhow. Been sitting in that same spot for forty years and don't know nothing except when the Harlan and Salter bus is gonna pass on the way to Winnfield. "People think it's a marvel and a wonder that Ben Howard can tell the exact minute when the bus is gonna round the curve in the road by where the sun is on that sweetgum tree he looks at all day. That ain't nothing. Hell, I could do that if I lived up on the road." He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Anyhow," he went on, "Martha Adelaide heard Mary Priscilla carrying on and she come running out of the house and overshot the porch. Fell clean out in the yard, hollering, 'My God, Mary Priscilla, My God. What has happened to Papa?' "And Mary Priscilla says, 'Ain't nothing happened to Papa, Martha Adelaide. Get on your knees right there in the yard and pray. The end of the world is here. Look yonder in the sky.' "Well, Martha Adelaide looked up there and likely wet her drawers. She commenced to hollering, 'Oh Lord Jesus Holy Savior God Almighty it's the end of the world there's the writing in the sky Oh Sweet Jesus.' "Then Mary Priscilla jumped off the porch without touching one of them eight steps and landed on her knees next to Martha Adelaide and they begun to wailing and hollering to The Almighty and singing Rock of Ages and hugging one-another and praising Jesus. You'd a'thought it was camp meeting and every sinner in Winn Parish and parts of Caldwell was come to baptizing. "Then Martha Adelaide jumped up and says, 'My God Mary Priscilla My God, do you reckon anybody else in the world knows it but us?' and Mary Priscilla says 'let's tell everybody we can before the fire and brimstone comes upon 'em.' And they lit out down the hill to the road. They ran right out in the damn road into a line of cars headed towards Winnfield. "What it was, it was a funeral procession. Old Man Wilmer Barnes had died that week and they had waked him and preached over him and was taking him to the grave yard at Gaars Mill to plant him. Everybody in the procession was riding along solemn as they ought to be when Martha Adelaide and Mary Priscilla came galloping right into the traffic. "They went to flapping their aprons to flag down cars, and running from one car to another telling everybody 'For God's sake, get out of that car and pray. The world's coming to an end. We have seen the writing in the sky.' "They disrupted the funeral procession so bad that Wilmer Barnes' soul probably never will get no rest. Old Lady Tannehill got all three hundred pounds of herself out of Pollard Bennet's car and went to running with them, hollering 'Hallelujah Oh Come Emmanuel suffer little children to come unto you,' and such as that until she got winded and just set down in the middle of the road. It took half a dozen stout men to get her up and into the back of a pickup truck. "Some folks towards the back of the line of cars figured there had been an accident up ahead and was sure and certain some of their kinfolks was in it and bad hurt or killed. Women folks started screaming and crying, and pretty soon Ardis Gates's coon dogs, nearly a mile down the road, heard all the commotion and they busted out of the fence and come running and barking loud enough to wake up old Wilmer. "Dempsey Swilley was drunk as usual and thought he was caught up in a traffic jam, and he started to blowing his horn and cussing loud as he could. It was such a calamity and a hell- raising that I could hear it clean over here. I almost got up off the porch and went to look, it was so bad. "Finally, Preacher Walker got hold of Mary Priscilla. He had to run her down and get a head-lock on her and holler as loud as she was until she shut up for a minute. He says, 'Miss Wilbank. Miss Wilbank. That ain't the Lord writing up there. That's an airplane putting out smoke to make letters and advertise Pepsi Cola soda water. It ain't the Lord writing in the sky, Miss Wilbank. It ain't the end of the world.' "Well, by that time, Martha Adelaide had doubled back up the other side of the line of cars and she stopped to see what Preacher Walker was hollering at her sister about. When she got the gist of what he was saying, she stopped dead in the middle of a chorus of 'Rock of Ages,' grabbed Mary Priscilla by the arm and headed back up the hill. 'Mary Priscilla,' she says, 'you should have knowed. You been to Shreveport'." Uncle Ditimus laughed a short, mean laugh. Then he took a drink, shivered and spit. "Some people are plumb eat up with ignorance," he said. "DELLER!" "What do you want now, Ditimus?" she hollered back, making those three syllables out of 'want' again. "Come out here," Uncle Ditimus snapped. "You've wrapped the wrong damn finger." ###

It was in the Spring of 1966, I think, when we all went with Tiny Joe to break Dut Robichaux's back. It was one of those many mornings when we had drifted one-by-one into the little all-night bar at the Castle Hotel in Lafayette. I say many mornings. Hell, it was every morning. Me, Tiny Joe, Neg, Francois, Crazy Nu Nu, Al and Preacher--the early morning regulars come before day light to get that precious first drink. Tiny Joe was the only one who raised that first glass each morning with a steady hand and sipped it. The rest of us shook and gulped. As was our custom, we had drunk ourselves to sleep the night before and awakened too soon, demons whispering black words in our ears; desperately needing the only thing we knew of that would stop the shaking and quiet the vague sense of terror that the alky feels in the quiet, early-morning hours before he can get to that first drink. So we gathered each morning at the Castle. Some of us couldn't keep the first shot down, but eventually one would hit that quivering spot in the stomach and spread deliciously, stilling the shakes, quieting the terror, and letting us feel normal again. And to each of us, Tiny Joe offered her standard words of sympathy as we grasped the glass with both hands and tried to steady it enough to get most of it down our throats. "Oh dear," she would say. "Dear. Dear." She was such a gentle soul, Tiny Joe. She was big as Rosie Grier, and in her best days might have taken him at arm wrestling, but inside she was dainty and sweet, and she cared about people. She had been a professional wrestler, Tiny Joe had. And a good one. But age, arthritis and alcohol finally took her out. Her last match was there in the Cajun country of Southwestern Louisiana, and she decided it was a good place to settle down. She had a little money coming in from somewhere, so she didn't have to work. Her social life was there in the bar at the Castle, and from there she went to her little room for a nap, spent some time in the public library, and then finished up the evening back at the bar. She went to bed each night a little tipsy, but never knee-walking drunk like the rest of us. Oh, yeah. I was going to tell you about the time we all went with her to break Dut Robichaux's back. Dut was a young, good-looking guy who did a little pimping and pushed some dope. Small time stuff. Dopers weren't welcome among us honest alcoholics, because we needed somebody to feel superior to and they were it. But Dut was living with Jenna, the Castle's early morning bar maid, a sweet, plain little girl of about 22 who was desperately in love with the no good bastard, so we had to put up with his company on occasion. Usually he came in to hit little Jenna up for some money, and he treated her like trash while he was doing it. Tiny Joe would always say,"Oh, dear. Dear. Dear," when he would talk ugly to Jenna or embarrass her by pawing her like a piece of meat in front of all of us. Jenna was a nice kid and it upset us all, but especially Tiny Joe. And we knew he slapped her around. She would show up with bruises on her face..sometimes a black eye. (Oh, dear. Dear. Dear.) It would hurt Tiny Joe to see it. She was a real softy and cried over little defenseless things. They weren't whiskey tears either. Tiny Joe really cared. The morning we went with Tiny Joe to break Dut's back, Jenna hadn't shown up for work. Jake, the owner of the hotel, was behind the bar. "She's in the hospital," he told us. (Oh, dear. Dear. Dear.) Dut said she was drunk and slipped on the back stairs at the apartment house and fell and hit her head on the step. Haw. Haw." "That son of a bitch," Tiny Joe growled. Everything got very quiet. We'd never heard her cuss. We looked at her and it was kind of like she had swollen up even bigger than she was. Her eyes were hard (we'd never seen that before either) and the veins in her head were standing out. It was scary. I mean this is a hell of a big woman we're taking about and she looked like she was about to dismantle the barroom. "That child don't drink at all," she said, very cold like. "He hurt her. That son of a bitch has hurt her bad this time." She picked up a heavy stool like it was a stalk of celery and slammed it across the room. It splintered a table before its smashed into the wall. "I'm going over there," she said. "I'm going over there." I reached out to touch her, but thought better of it. "Don't get involved, Tiny Joe," I said. I knew she was going to Dut's apartment. She didn't look at me. "I'm going over there." "What are you going to do?" "I'm going to break the bastard's back." We knew she meant it, and we knew she could do it. At first it scared us. But before she got up to leave, we had downed enough booze that our pilot lights had kicked on, and warmth was blowing through us. With the fourth or fifth shot, breaking Dut Robichaux's back seemed like a wonderful thing for Tiny Joe to do. She stood up, towering over all of us, and this time she tossed down a straight shot of bourbon instead of sipping her highball like she usually did. "Get the hell out of my way," she said. I did it, but by the time she reached the door, we were all right behind her--me, Neg, Francois, Crazy Nu Nu, Al and Preacher. She slammed through the door with us at her heels, everybody walking fast to keep up with her long strides. Johnny Bicycle was just wheeling up as we walked out. "Where y'all going?" he asked. Preacher answered him in his great, booming voice. (He really had been a preacher once, and he could make his words sound like they were coming straight from The Almighty.) "We are on a mission, brother," he boomed. "On this bright day, we walk with our sister, Tiny Joe. We stand with our beloved sister as she goes forth to do a good and noble thing." "She gonna break Dut Robichaux's goddam back," Neg explained. "Break his sonofabitchin' back." "Poo-Yie-Yie," Jimmy Bicycle shouted. He jumped back on his bike, pulled a bottle of cheap wine from the newspaper carrier's satchel that hung across the handle bars, and joined the entourage. We felt good and noble walking down Cypress Street as dawn came slipping into Lafayette. We had a mission. We were the support team. I think it was Crazy Nu Nu who started singing, then we all took it up like a battle hymn. It was either "Nearer My God to Thee," or "Good Night, Irene." Those were the only songs Crazy knew. We sounded good to us, with Preacher's big voice rattling the windows of the buildings as we passed. Tiny Joe didn't sing. She didn't even seem to know we were with her. She just kept taking longer strides with those oak tree legs of hers. People along the way struck their heads out and inquired as to what was going on. Preacher and Neg took the time to explain to each one about Tiny Joe and what her plans were for Dut Robichaux's back. Nobody seemed to think it was an inappropriate thing to do. After looking at Tiny Joe's face, they wouldn't have expressed such a sentiment if they felt it. Well, it was a grand and glorious march and I still look back on it with a feeling of pride, like all of us from the Castle had a purpose in life that day, and a noble one, even if the actual accomplishment of it was dependent on the wondrous strength of Tiny Joe. But she didn't do it. We got to the apartment house and beat on Dut Robichaux's door and hollered things like, "Come out here you lily-livered fil de putain," until the manager came out and told us Dut had packed up and left during the night, proclaiming he was through with our little hick town and headed for New Orleans. We went on back to the Castle and Tiny Joe cooled down after a while and got back to saying "Oh, dear. Dear. Dear," instead of "son of a bitch" and stuff like that. Little Jenna came back to work in a few weeks, and she had heard about our march and it made her feel real good. She hugged Tiny Joe and squeezed the hands of all the rest of us, and right then, a great wave of affection for the young girl swept over all of us, and we all felt very proud of what we had done...even if we were just the pep squad and Tiny Joe was the one who was to have done the back breaking. Little Jenna became kind of special to all of us. Tiny Joe took her in, because she had no place to stay since Dut had vacated the apartment. In our own minds, the rest of us kind of looked after her, even though we weren't worth a damn at taking care of our ownselves, even. But we brought her little gifts--sometimes something we had actually bought, but more often something we had picked up, like flowers from the funeral home down the street. Tiny Joe looked on the girl as her daughter, and gave her lectures and love and made her go to mass. So you can imagine how we felt when she came in one morning, acting a little scared of us, but very happy with what she had to announce, and told us Dut had called from New Orleans and wanted her to join him. "He's changed," she said. "I could tell from his voice. He really loves me. And he...he wants to marry me." Tiny Joe just got up and walked out, and the rest of us got very busy with our whiskey, all of us studying it like we hadn't seen any before. You could tell Jenna was torn up by the reaction, but next day she was gone. Things got back to normal after a few months. Tiny Joe didn't show any signs of worry or hurt. We just didn't talk about Jenna any more. The new barmaid was a tough little broad with a foul mouth, but a good sense of humor, and she seemed to enjoy shocking Tiny Joe with her street talk. Tiny Joe would say, "Oh, dear. Dear. Dear," when Marie would cut loose with a particularly strong string of profanity. Then, during the winter, when we had to take cabs to the Castle it was so cold, Jake the owner came in and told us about Jenna. The New Orleans police had called to see if he knew how to reach her next of kin. Seems she had been in another accident, another fall, and this one had killed her. "Ain't it funny how damn clumsy she would get when she was around that bastard?" Jake asked sourly. Tiny Joe didn't say anything. She didn't cry. She didn't even say, "Oh dear. Dear. Dear." She just sipped her drink and looked at Jake. Then she got up and left. We didn't see her again for months. It was different without her. We really missed her. She was part of our family. She had given us our moment of glory that morning when we walked down Cypress Street. If strangers came in and tried to sit on Tiny Joe's stool, Crazy Nu Nu explained to them that it was a dangerous stool and a person could get hurt sitting on it. Spring came again and Tiny Joe came back. Things got right again. We still missed little Jenna, but we didn't talk about that. Then one day Jimmy Bicycle came in all excited, showing us an article in the New Orleans Times-Picayune newspaper. Seems somebody's remains had been found in the woods near Destrehan, outside of New Orleans, and police had identified it from the dental work as Pierre Dutrel Robichaux. He had been dead for a period of months, according to the paper, and the cause of death had not been determined. Speculation was that he might have been hit by a truck. The coroner said it appeared his spinal column and rib cage had been crushed. Nobody looked at Tiny Joe. We didn't even look at each other. But Preacher, sort of under his breath, said "Oh, dear." And the rest of us said, "Dear. Dear." ##

~ @P,/./@/{w{o>g@ e3[q1AwHRHkgwD p "[$G$gN5j5gQgggN5QjjQ$``#P p@`0P p$``#P p@`0P p$``#P p@`0P p$``#P p@`0P p$``#P p@`0P p $``#P p@`0P p$``#P p@`0P pG$<,^.\/ /+/./gN5`#P p@`0P p$``#P p@`0P p$``#P p@`0P p$``#P p@`0P p$``#P p@`0P pF ^..0./I uG#J-,...)ru@/G$./(Times New Roman Symbol&Arial..Ph/37237#BOB HAMMBOB HAMM

I gave up booze a few years back, but I never intend to give up the memories of those great old watering holes that were so much a part of the easy-going life of Lafayette a generation or so ago. They had character, those barrooms of yesteryear, and some of the uniqueness of our community passed into history with them.

We had bad bars back then, of course--places where men went alone and the ladies were already there. But I'm talking about the places where you could take your wife--and, in many cases, your kids. Out in the country--until very recent times--the whole family was welcome. Neighbors sat and sipped and talked and the kids slammed in and out of the doors...and it wasn't much different from a gathering in somebody's living room.

Without question, the granddaddy of all the country bars was Fernand Stutes'. It was, like Fernand, one of a kind. We will not know the likes of it again. When Lafayette took the fast track--racing to become another Houston--the lifestyle that made possible a Fernand Stutes' Bar was lost in the hustle and bustle.

If it existed today, it would hardly be a "country" bar. Fernand's sat--or sort of leaned--at the corner of Ridge Road and what is now Ambassador Caffery. Up until the early sixties, that was way out yonder.

It was much more than a bar. The rambling old frame building housed a grocery store, too. And a barber shop. And the office of the Justice of the Peace of the Eighth Ward. And real estate and agricultural development offices. And a marvelous kitchen where the lovely "Mrs. Georgie" produced Cajun Cooking that would make Paul Prudhomme's mouth water. And living quarters. And any other activity or facility that captured Fernand's fancy.

The marvelous part was that you were never quite sure where one of these operations ended and another began. Weddings were performed in the kitchen. Decisions of the Justice of the Peace were delivered across the bar. Feed, hay and fertilizer were stored in the barber shop.

But though you might not know exactly which area served what function, you had no problem identifying the person responsible for each function. It was Fernand. He was bar owner, grocer, farmer, real estate developer, barber, Justice of the Peace, and collector of everything--from pieces of wire he found in the road to old school buses.

REMEMBERING FERNAND STUTES, THE SAGE OF RIDGE ROAD

BY BOB HAMM

I gave up booze a few years back, but I never intend to give

up the memories of those great old watering holes that were so

much a part of the easy-going life of Lafayette a generation or

so ago. They had character, those barrooms of yesteryear, and

some of the uniqueness of our community passed into history with

We had bad bars back then, of course--places where men went

alone and the ladies were already there. But I'm talking about

the places where you could take your wife--and, in many cases,

your kids. Out in the country--until very recent times--the

whole family was welcome. Neighbors sat and sipped and talked

and the kids slammed in and out of the doors...and it wasn't much

different from a gathering in somebody's living room.

Without question, the granddaddy of all the country bars

was Fernand Stutes'. It was, like Fernand, one of a kind. We

will not know the likes of it again. When Lafayette took the

fast track--racing to become another Houston--the lifestyle that

made possible a Fernand Stutes' Bar was lost in the hustle and

If it existed today, it would hardly be a "country" bar.

Fernand's sat--or sort of leaned--at the corner of Ridge Road and

what is now Ambassador Caffery. Up until the early sixties, that

was way out yonder.

It was much more than a bar. The rambling old frame

building housed a grocery store, too. And a barber shop. And

the office of the Justice of the Peace of the Eighth Ward. And

real estate and agricultural development offices. And a

marvelous kitchen where the lovely "Mrs. Georgie" produced Cajun

Cooking that would make Paul Prudhomme's mouth water. And living

quarters. And any other activity or facility that captured

Fernand's fancy.

The marvelous part was that you were never quite sure where

one of these operations ended and another began. Weddings were

performed in the kitchen. Decisions of the Justice of the Peace

were delivered across the bar. Feed, hay and fertilizer were

stored in the barber shop.

But though you might not know exactly which area served what

function, you had no problem identifying the person responsible

for each function. It was Fernand. He was bar owner, grocer,

farmer, real estate developer, barber, Justice of the Peace, and

collector of everything--from pieces of wire he found in the road

to old school buses.

And he did whatever he needed to do in whatever area he happened

to be. If he was going to be driving the new Cadillac he got

every year and some hay or even a pig needed hauling, the vehicle

was suitable for the task at hand. If official papers needed

signing while he was working on an old tractor, the barn behind

the bar became the office of the Justice of the Peace.

And he was generally in transit from one activity to

another. Once when he was cutting hair, he walked over to the

barroom side for some reason and a customer who had stopped in

for a quick one on his way to Beaumont invited him to go along.

I've been told it was an hour or so before the fellow in the

barber chair--with half a haircut--was informed that Fernand had

gone to Texas.

A wedding performed by Justice of the Peace Fernand Stutes

was wondrous to behold. I filmed one once for television and

will always regret that the film got away from me. Suffice it to

say that the Justice sometimes interrupted the service to stir

the gumbo, and the music for the occasion was generally from the

juke box. Occasionally a lucky couple got live music from "Chonk"

and his guitar or T-Paul and his musical spoons. And anybody at

the bar was honored to serve as a witness.

I think there is some sort of law that marriage

documents have to be filed with the proper authorities within a

specified period of time. But Fernand walked his own way and did

his own thing. He reportedly kept the documents around for

awhile, "in case that young couple change their minds." Instant

As late as the sixties, folks brought their kids to

Fernand's. The presence of the little ones was always duly noted

and proper decorum enforced. And Fernand always had a nickel for

the "cher little hearts." During barber shop hours, the

youngsters could get a haircut for fifty cents. (Barber shop

hours were whenever Fernand felt like cutting hair.)

The old building was tattered and patched. For years, there

were holes in the walls of the restrooms that a plowhorse could

have jumped through. The floor had a lovely slant to it. Some

claimed if you dropped a dime, it would roll all the way to

But it drew a clientele from every walk of life. And there

was a family atmosphere in which wealthy oilmen rubbed elbows

with old five-'n-dimers, and a fraternity-like bond developed

between most of them. Today when they meet, they inevitably

share stories of the good old days at Fernand Stutes'.

He was a living legend, and an era seemed to end with him.

You could build something to duplicate the old building, and put

in a bar, grocery, barber shop and all the rest. But they'll

never build another Fernand...and it was the free and restless

spirit of that remarkable man that made it a very special part of

Everyone who knew him has a favorite Fernand Stutes story,

and this is mine:

It seems that a gentleman from another state, driving at

night on Fernand Stutes Road (which some misguided souls call

Ridge Road), came in violent contact with a mule of sizable

proportions. The collision killed the mule and did massive

damage to the stranger's automobile. So he went in search of the

owner of the mule, intending to demand compensation for the

damage...a search which eventually brought him to the "office "

of the Justice of the Peace.

"You want to get some money for what happened to your car?"

Fernand asked.

"I'm entitled to that," the man replied.

"So you want to know whose mule that is."

"That's correct."

Fernand pondered the case briefly, then delivered his ruling.

"You kill that mule?" he asked.

"Certainly."

"Then," Fernand said with finality, "that's YOUR mule."

The Sage of Ridge Road. A wisdom the like of which we lack

The rescue assignment for John Chance & Associates involved 38-year-old data. The goal was to find the Liberty Bell 7 - the only spacecraft ever lost at sea by the United States.

The Liberty Bell's original mission went awry on a hot day July 21, 1961, when U.S. astronaut Gus Grissom nearly drowned after a 16-minute space flight. Upon landing, the Liberty Bell 7's hatch popped open unexpectedly.

Grissom had just splashed down off the shore of the Bahamas, and he barely escaped the space pod before it plummeted to the ocean floor for what would be its resting place the next 38 years.

Ironically, Grissom would perish behind a faulty door six years later in a fire during testing of the Apollo 1 spacecraft. Secured by the embrace of Atlantic Ocean, the Liberty Bell 7 fared much better.

For years the technology did not exist to recovery the Liberty Bell 7. But in the 1990s, technology improved to the point it became a feasible project. Chance & Associates became involved earlier this year when Houston-based Oceaneering Inc. sub-contracted for its world-class surveying expertise.

Recovery involved a two-fold project. The lost craft needed to be located on the ocean floor by Chance & Associates. Then it needed to be successfully raised.

"It was an easy job, really," said Larry Prewitt, manager of Chance's marine operations. "The biggest challenge was getting accurate information on where to look for the Liberty Bell 7."

The key was Chance's proprietary graphic survey tool, Starfix.Nav, which was developed in 1986. The first satellite positioning system to operate 24 hours a day, Starfix.Nav has been improved repeatedly over the years by Chance to remain one of the most reliable systems in the world.

The search for the Liberty Bell 7 targeted 20 possible locations in a 24-square-mile area. Tides, winds and 38-year-old locator information were also used in the equation.

"We plotted all possible positions and laid them out based on the flight path," Prewitt said. "It was a fairly large area to search. We found it on the first try."

The 9-by-13-foot vessel had sunk three miles below sea level, about 500 feet deeper than the Titanic's tomb.

The Liberty Bell 7 was located May 1 but it wasn't retrieved until July 20. Thousands of pounds of water poured from the spaceship as it was plucked from the Atlantic. Inside, seven Mercury dimes Grissom had hoped would bring him luck were found on the spacecraft floor as was the dud locator bomb that had failed to work.

The capsule is now undergoing what is expected to be a six-month overhaul at the Kansas Space and Cosmosphere Museum in Hutchison, Kan., where it will be stripped of rust, dismantled and re-assembled.

The next trip for Liberty Bell 7 will involve a public tour for the Discovery Channel, which sponsored the recovery. It will then be returned to Kansas for permanent display at the museum, which is paying the $225,000 in restoration costs.

There are larger operators of rotary-winged aircraft than Petroleum Helicopters, Inc. The U.S. military has a bigger fleet. The Soviet military has more helicopters, also. But that exhausts the list. In the commercial helicopter industry, this Lafayette-based company is the giant. It is the largest operator in the world.

In all probability, the immense scope of the PHI operation is unknown even to most Acadiana residents. In fact, employees within one department of the company are hard-pressed to keep track of the many other facets of the huge operation.

Despite decreased activity in the domestic oil industry in recent years, the company presently operates 298 helicopters, flying some 18,500 hours per month from 30 bases in the U.S. and six foreign countries. There are 2300 PHI employees, including approximately 700 pilots and 1,000 maintenance people. The company payroll exceeds six million dollars a month.

From the time of its organization in 1949 to meet the unique needs of oil field operations in Louisiana's coastal marshes until January 1 of this year, PHI pilots have recorded 6,722,649 flight hours...the equivalent of 742 years in the air.

PHI lists among its customers all the major oil companies operating in the Gulf of Mexico and on the Atlantic Coast. The company's technological and procedural innovations have contributed to the progress of every segment of the offshore oil and gas industry.

The operations headquarters at Lafayette, which covers 132,000 square feet, includes a maintenance facility described by one publication as "mind-boggling." As an example of the scope of the operation, a PHI division, Evangeline Automotive, Inc., handles engine overhauls for the company and for outside customers. With two engine test cells, the facility can overhaul 60 engines a month.

The stock of spare parts at the Lafayette base is valued at $30 million, and a fleet of trucks is kept busy nightly, shuttling parts to bases along the coast, and returning with the replaced parts.

The facility is so completely equipped and staffed that, when a new aircraft comes into the fleet, mechanics are able to put it through a major modification process, preparing it for the effects of working in a world of corrosive salt water by replacing much of the aluminum with steel, adding inspection panels and sealing seams. After about three years on the job, the task of re-painting and interior refurbishing is also accomplished in-house.

Bendix fuel control governors and torque control computers are kept in operation by the company's large calibration center. There is an avionics shop and a shop for maintaining base radios.

The scope of the maintenance facility, the inventory of parts and equipment, and the diversified ability of maintenance personnel is such that company personnel are confident a helicopter could be built from the ground up at the Lafayette facility, if the need arose.

Attesting to the effectiveness of the maintenance program is the fact that the company is a service center for Bell, Aero-Spatiale, MBB BO-105, and Sikorsky S-76 helicopters.

Carroll Suggs, chairman of the board and chief executive officer, says the end product is safe, efficient, cost-effective service to the oil industry, and more recently to the emergency medical industry, which the company serves nationwide with 17 medically-configured helicopter ambulances.

"However," Suggs says, "backing up the 700 pilots are people with skills in hundreds of different disciplines. Our location in Acadiana is important to effective service to the offshore oil industry. It is also highly beneficial to us in that this area has a seemingly endless supply of workers who are industrious, creative and loyal. They come to us with a variety of skills which they are eager to enhance through continuing education programs, and they are enthusiastic about trying new approaches to their jobs. They are very innovative, and are possessed of a work ethic that is not commonplace today.

"Many factors have contributed to our company's position of leadership in its field. Certainly none has been more important than the caliber of worker that Acadiana produces."

A 3-LINE DESCRIPTION OF YOUR OPERATION(INCLUDE UNIQUENESS) FOR USE DURING AWARDS & RECOGNITION PROGRAM.

While we had no family farm as a base when we began producing sugar cane in 1991, we have since become one of the largest producers in the state, with more than 4,000 acres of cane and soybeans. Our operation is unique in its combination of traditional farming methods and creative innovations. We have been willing to take bold steps, such as becoming the first producers in our state to utilize railroad transportation of raw sugarcane in more than 40 years.

A 5-7 LINE DESCRIPTION OF YOUR OPERATION (PLEASE ATTACH SEPARATELY TO BE USED TO DISPLAY PURPOSES THROUGHOUT THE AFBF ANNUAL MEETING.

Although we had no family farm from which to launch our venture into agriculture in 1991, we have become very much a family operation with all family members sharing the challenges. Concentrating on sugar cane production, and accepting each challenge as an opportunity to be enthusiastically pursued, we have developed our operation into one of the largest in the state, producing more than 4,000 acres of sugarcane and soybeans. While family farms, unfortunately, are diminishing in number, we have experienced steady and rewarding growth. This has required a willingness to try new approaches, such as our successful use of railroad transportation for raw sugarcane, something that had not been done for more than 40 years in our state. We look forward to continued growth and success through higher yields and innovative production and management practices

C. Please list your specific responsibilities:

Because of the commitment to success of our entire family, there is enthusiastic sharing of ideas and family participation in the setting of goals and objectives. With this strong family support, I assume responsibility for managing all production aspects of the farm, including decisions of plantings, personnel, capital acquisitions, work schedules, and all other aspects of the farm. With goals set at the beginning of each crop year, we practice a hands-on management style that permits me to monitor the progress of our cultural practices as the crop progresses. Adjustments are made as needed for the optimum crop possible. While essentially we are sole proprietors, the inclusion of a Certified Public Accountant as a vested financial partner has proved extremely valuable. While I am responsible for production, he handles vital accounting responsibilities and secures financing. D. Total acres operated: 4100 Acres owned: 85 E. Number of years farming and or ranching: 8 years

D. List other farm or related business enterprises and describe size and relate importance to your total operation.

In 1995, because four sugar mills were considering expanding into our area of the state, our company was contracted to implement an expansion program for sugarcane. Utilizing a large tract of idle land within 100 miles of our existing production area, we planted 1000 acres of sugarcane to be distributed as seed for local farmers the following year. The venture was successful and we have since grown this operation to 1,800 acres as a second farm. This distributes weather risks, since unfavorable weather conditions that affect one farm may not impact the other. In addition, it gives us the ability to expand our acreage more rapidly. We are also involved in custom planting of soybeans for local rice farmers who are not equipped for row crop planting. Additionally, we do contract sugarcane planting and harvesting and contract out our excavator to local farmers who need it for drainage work. This generates substantial income each year while allowing us to keep our equipment investment working year-round.

E. How was farming or ranching operation acquired? Indicate, in narrative form, what portion of your operation was purchased or personally earned, acquired through inheritance, through partnership conversion, rental, contract or management arrangement.

We began our operation from scratch. While I worked as a grain merchant after graduation from college, my ultimate goal was a career in farming. After seven years, I resigned from the grain company and we were able to secure start up loans to plant our first crop of 480 acres. Our initial goal of 1,500 acres was met within the first three years. We have steadily set our goals higher. I was raised on a rice farm but have never held ownership in the family operation. Our corporation has operated independently of the family farm from the beginning. Growth has been achieved through our personal efforts and those of our partner By growing our farm into one of the largest in the state through traditional practices and constant innovation, we feel we have proved that today’s young people can launch viable farming operations without the benefit of the family farm.

F. Please list and explain major agriculture machinery, equipment irrigation systems and buildings built or devised by the applicant during the years you have been farming.

During eight years of farming, we have modified many tools and built numerous specialty tools. We have built special covering tools for sugarcane, and made improvements to equipment sheds, storage sheds, drain blades, row openers and many accessories to existing tools. We have also modified a grain drill and seedbed conditioner to prepare and plant early variety soybeans on six-foot rows in order to double crop soybeans prior to sugarcane planting in the fall. We try to avoid the high cost of repairs through an extensive maintenance and fabrication program done primarily by our own employees. Because sugarcane is a specialty crop, much of the research and development of better tools is done locally and on the farm. Constant experiments in tool modification aimed at higher production levels is a key to success and survival. Modifications begin at the time of purchase and are on-going as we work to make each tool more suitable to our established cultural practices. We feel that our goal of higher yields is directly correlated to development of tools to improve our farming practices.

G. Use this space to briefly describe changes, expansion or improvement in management practices in your operation since you began your farming program.(for example: conservation, bookkeeping, improvements, etc...)

The principal change in our operation over our eight year history has been growth, both in production and the scope of our management practices. While I grew up on a large farm and my wife was raised around family farms, we began with no knowledge of sugarcane production. The on-the-job training involved study, experimentation and hard work. While farming is a constant learning process, we feel our efforts have paid off in a solid working knowledge of sugarcane production that allows us to concentrate now on improved management. My wife and I have each had individual responsibilities, but have shared the same broad vision and worked closely together toward its accomplishment. Due in substantial measure to the commitment shared by the entire family, our farm has become a multi-million dollar business and we are dedicated to managing it as such. We never lose sight of the fact that relentless attention to detail is vital to growth and prosperity. We work extremely hard on the financial aspects of farming. Having a partner who is an accountant assures us of sound guidance in making decisions concerning investments, costs, compensation packages, and management of our assets. Advanced technology is an important part of our growth strategy. Using a satellite map program, we maintain field records for comparing production performances to expenses. We find that leasing a large portion of our equipment is highly beneficial in an operation the size of ours. Since the leased equipment is new, we save greatly on repair costs. Down time in the field has been virtually eliminated. Rotation of our lands with soybeans gives us a positive cash flow from fallow year lands. This also controls problem weeds that cannot be controlled in sugarcane. To assure that our soils generate the best crop yields possible, we maintain soil analysis and fertility levels annually. Our increased acreage goals result from our belief that volume creates efficiencies. All these factors benefit us, but we do not lose sight of the fact that we must manage all production level details in order to take advantage of these benefits. Being meticulous about production details is part of being hands-on owners. It is one of the most pleasant parts for us, because our love for farming is very, very deep.

C. Applicant please indicate other sources of income and property during the years you have been farming, such as off-farm employment, SPOUSE'S INCOME, gifts, foundation awards, prizes and inheritances.

In the beginning, as we made our first sugarcane planting of 480 acres, it was necessary for my wife and me to earn outside income. While I resigned my position as a grain merchant, I remained with the company through the end of 1991. I drew full salary while training my replacement. In January, 1992, I took a part-time position as office manager for a local insurance agent, working at that job while handling the necessary spring and summer farm work. This helped with the cost of living that first year of farming, and I remained in the job until our first harvest. Since then, I have devoted full time to growing our operation in size and diversity. As we launched our family venture, my wife continued to work as manager of a local health club. Her employment provided us with health care benefits, profit sharing and other benefits that helped us cope with the cost of living. She continued in this capacity until November 1993, when our second child was born. Today, she devotes her time to being a mother, a volunteer in community service and agriculture promotion in schools, and an active participant in our farming operation. I am very proud of her work in organizing Farm Week activities, taking school children on tours of our farm, working with Farm Bureau Queen contestants, planning Young Farmer & Rancher activities, serving as a Farm Bureau district director and other activities that promote agriculture.

D. Indicate effect on operation due to any unusual situations, such as urban development, public highways, public works construction, discovery of mineral rights, etc.

Part of our commitment to the expansion of sugarcane in our state was to prove that the railroad was feasible for the transportation of cane. Rail transportation had not been used for that purpose in the state for more than four decades. In our industry, the greatest challenge is the cost of transporting our bulky, perishable commodity. In 1997, convinced that a the key to expanding our industry into distant areas was to ship it daily by rail, we coordinated the daily delivery of 14 carloads of raw sugarcane to sugar mills more than 100 miles away. The pioneering venture took two years of planning, designing and building. It required close coordination with a large number of entities and a commitment from the short line railroad company, the state public highway department, and that of our industry. The results were all that we hoped for. We were able to prove conclusively that sugarcane could be delivered by rail on a timely, cost- effective basis As a result of our test program, the state's sugar industry has set in motion plans to build satellite railroad loading sites to serve farms that are long distances from mills. Government grants have been made available for the project. Besides increased efficiency and productivity for the sugarcane industry, this has generated public good will among the general public. Reducing the number of cane trucks on the roads during grinding season improves highway safety and traffic flow.

B. Describe ways in which you measure and evaluate the management of your farming operation (ie, increase/decrease in cost per acre; increase/decrease in net income per acre; debt/income ratio; debt/equity ratio)

We measure success in meeting our goals by the increase /decrease of net income per acre. Experience tells us that, that in sugarcane, success is achieved by maximizing the economic yield in direct relation to the year- end bottom line, regardless of crop yield or total input cost. While it is gratifying to be able to boast about capturing highest yield awards, we do not consider this the key to success. In our management system, economic decisions are not always intended to produce the highest yields. We concentrate on monitoring the economic yield through extensive accounting practices of inputs. This decision- making process allows us to repeat our successes or change non-productive practices in ensuing crop years. Our goals on debt are based on debt/equity ratios. Much of our equipment has been obtained through yearly leasing at attractive rental rates. Each year, by comparing debt notes to tool usage at the fair market rental rate (hour/acre), we seek to maintain positive cash flow on every piece of equipment. All capital investments must be fully utilized each year. This allows us to prevent positive cash flow from a rental scenario and in turn builds a positive equity position every year. From a crop production cost standpoint, our annual production cost represents the bulk of our debt. These are viewed from a debt/income ratio each year.

C. Indicate major problems connected with your operation which you have overcome or solved.

The major problems we faced initially were securing production loans and acquiring equipment. These were solved when FHA approved our first production loan and equipment was secured through rental agreements with local farmers and dealers. Since that beginning, our company has become the first production agriculture loan client of CO-BANK, a large commercial lender from another state. We secured an attractive loan arrangement that has allowed us to continue to expand. Another major problem was managing a second farm almost 100 miles away. Not only has this been accomplished, but we have also grown the second farm to nearly 2000 acres. The last major problem was one we shared with the entire industry —developing a timely, cost-effective method of transporting sugarcane. We were key players in solving that problem for all sugarcane growers by proving that rail transportation is feasible. Cane had not been shipped by rail in our state for more than 40 years. During the harvest of 1997, we accepted the challenge of coordinating a pilot program entailing the daily loading and shipping of sugarcane from points more than 100 miles from the mills. Although we had our share of problems, it was proven not only feasible but also highly successful. Regular rail service is now being planned for sugarcane farmers in other parts of the state.

D. Please indicate plans for future expansion, improvements or changes in your farming operation

Our expansion goal -- growing 3000 acres of sugarcane and 1000 acres of soybeans – is now at the point of fruition. Final achievement will make our farm one of the largest in the state. We will continue to seek higher yields through improved soils and production practices. I earnestly believe that we have gained maximum volume efficiency for our current Size. Continued success will depend on increasing our yields per acre while working with higher input cost. We will also maintain the needed equipment and personnel for maximum productivity. Through hard work and creative management, the massive challenges we faced when we launched our family farm have been met. Today, we look forward to devoting more time to the two essential ingredients of our success: family and God. From these sources has come the motivation and dedication that, along with a deep commitment to agriculture, sustained us in the most difficult times. I believe farmers know better than anyone else that life is about family. Our primary objective from this point forward will be to provide our children with quality time, love and security for the future. I look back over the past eight years with deep gratitude for the opportunity I was given to pursue my dream of being a farmer. Making the commitment, taking the risks and doing the work has produced rewards beyond the material. It has made our family stronger and strengthened our values and beliefs. I hope that, as my wife and I work to promote agriculture among today’s youth, we can in some way inspire young people to seek the success and happiness we have found. I am very proud to be an American farmer.

E. What are your leadership goals for the next five years?

We have a clear vision of our leadership goals for the next five years. Our first objective will be to help our employees develop their full potential as part of the agriculture industry. We are fortunate to have outstanding people working with us on our farm and we are committed to providing them with the knowledge and skills that will assure that they always have a good quality of life. From an industry standpoint, we will continue to work with the state, railroads and sugar mills in the development of rail transportation as a means of increasing efficiency and productivity for sugarcane farmers. From an agriculture standpoint, my wife and I hope to use the diverse agricultural knowledge and education with which we have been blessed to benefit the industry and its people, particularly young people considering a career in farming. I want to share my experience in grain futures trading, barge transportation and rail transport and farm ownership, just as my wife wants to use her background in management, communications and agriculture to benefit present and future farmers. We will continue to be seek leadership roles with Farm Bureau and other industry organizations. Farming has been extremely good to us, and we feel a profound obligation to use whatever ability we have to benefit the agriculture industry and the men and women who have made it the strongest on earth.

J. Rayburn Bertrand served as mayor of Lafayette for 12 years (1960-72), leaving behind him much tangible evidence of his superb leadership and unyielding dedication. But perhaps his greatest monument is the simple contract he engineered between the city and its future, which—30 years ago—opened the way to progress and growth, and will benefit generations of Lafayette residents yet to come. It is in simple form: a one percent sales tax to fund the expansion of the city's infrastructure as population growth creates new demands. Because of this simple measure, which Ray and his administration took to the voters shortly after he was elected to his first term, Lafayette will not be caught in the dilemma it faced immediately prior 1960.

When Ray took office, the city was dangerously swollen at the seams. Due largely to the influx of petroleum industry offices to the Heymann Oil Center, the once sleepy little bayou town had begun to grow at a remarkable pace. A population explosion was underway...and Lafayette was not equipped to meet the heavy new demands for municipal services.

Ray and his fellow officials, Trustee of Finance Dan Boudreaux and Trustee of Public Property Curtis Rodemacher, had a plan before the public almost before the ink was dry on their official commissions. Voters were asked to consider proposals constituting the administration's "Big Step Program," which asked approval of the one percent sales tax, a million dollar ad valorem bond issue, and a $10-per-front-foot assessment on properties along major arteries, for improvements to those arteries. Along with the bond and tax measures went a $500 homestead exemption.

The key feature of the proposal was a safeguard against siphoning off the sales tax revenue in future years for other uses, thus putting the city at risk of another period of growth without a funding mechanism to cope with it. Ray had the foresight to ask the voters to approve dedication of 90 percent of the revenues to capital improvements. It is not subject to political whims. "Long after I'm gone," he says, "Lafayette will be financially geared for growth—because the sales tax revenues will be there, increasing as the population increases, and providing the funding to keep pace with progress."

Thus the Ray Bertrand Years began with a plea to people to dig into their pockets and dig the city out of its dilemma. The vote of approval for "The Big Step Program" was one of the strongest votes of confidence ever given a political leader on a tax issue. The sales tax passed by a vote of 3-2 and the bond issue by 3-1, with one of the largest voter turnouts ever. The Big Step carried every precinct but one.

With the program in place and generating revenue, Lafayette began to take giant steps. In low income neighborhoods, residents had choked for generations on the dust from shell and gravel (mostly shell) streets, their only respite the temporary one provided by the old watering trucks—an expensive and ineffective effort on the city's part.

The very early Bertrand Years saw the resurfacing—not patching—of 60 miles of streets, and families along those thoroughfares began to breathe normally again on hot, dusty days.

The next problem was at the opposite end of the spectrum; when the rain was heavy enough to settle the dust, chances were very good that it would be heavy enough to cause flooding at numerous points in the city. The problem was bad before the population growth that began in the fifties. As today, drainage was through coulees, in which bushes and trees grew, and erosion created mounds that impeded the flow. With the population growth, large open areas that had accepted rainfall into the ground were quickly covered with concrete. With ground absorption blocked by cement, the water needed to flow...and the coulee flow was sluggish at best.

A heavy rain could virtually shut down the city. The Jefferson Street Underpass would flood. Areas north of the railroad tracks in the area through which the Evangeline Thruway now runs were inundated. The police headquarters in the basement of the old city hall had watermarks nearly to the ceiling after a flood. There were few areas of the city safe from a really heavy downpour.

The Bertrand Years saw the reworking of the drainage system. Where plant growth and silt had slowed the flow until the water often sought a new route (over the banks), the city cleared and concreted the coulees.

The growth spurt had threatened the safety of the city from fire, also. There was not enough manpower or equipment. The improvements to the fire department in the Bertrand Years were so effective that the rating bureau moved the city from a Class 9 to a Class 2. Everyone was safer, and paying much less in fire insurance premiums.

The same inadequacies—manpower and equipment—lessened the ability of the police department to protect the city. The administration launched a series of improvements which culminated in a well-staffed, well trained, well-equipped force operating from a modern police and city court facility.

The recreation and parks system was drastically affected by the population growth. There were far too many citizens for the facilities. The Bertrand Administration increased the acreage for parks and recreation use 10-fold.

There were other major improvements, too numerous to mention. In short, Ray Bertrand became mayor at a time when the city had completely outgrown its infrastructure. With bold, practical moves, he brought us abreast of the growth and gave us the municipal services and facilities needed by a city on the move. Just as importantly—perhaps more so—his foresight in dedicating the one percent sales tax to meeting capital needs has insulated us from a return to those traumatic days when the needs of the people exceeded the capabilities of the municipality.

The vast improvements to municipal facilities and service during the Bertrand Years were obvious. We saw the crews at work and the projects taking shape. But another major contribution by Mayor J. Rayburn Bertrand was done so quietly that few people know the story. It was during his administration that racially segregated public facilities were abolished in Louisiana, with turmoil and bloodshed in certain areas of the state. In Lafayette, however, the new day dawned without incident, largely through the never-publicized diplomacy of the mayor.

"The change was here," Bertrand said. "The time for integration had come, and our priority was seeing that it did not bring with it situations which would cause harm to our citizens—black or white." Without fanfare, Bertrand launched a campaign to make the social transition a peaceful one. He met with owners of restaurants and other commercial establishments who would be affected first by the demise of segregation and argued logically and persuasively for acceptance and tolerance.

Working with the outstanding citizens of the Biracial Council, he arranged things like the quiet integration of the municipal golf course. "We didn't want a demonstration-type incident," he says. "Through the council, we picked a black foursome and asked them to be the first ever to tee off at Muny. We told them there might be harassment, but that they were doing something good for black people and white people in breaking the barrier as quietly as possible. They played 18 holes without incident, and a new era began in Lafayette."

The symbolic sit-ins at local lunch counters also were without incident. "We had no intention of telling them they couldn't sit at the lunch counters, and we had no intention of telling the owners whether or not they had to serve the sit-in group. Our intention was to keep anyone from getting hurt, and we were prepared for that. But there was no trouble."

Bertrand downplays his vital role in the peaceful integration. "Basically, it was the nature of our people," he says. "Even those who didn't want to accept integration never made the slightest move toward violent resistance. The people who operated businesses—and had understandable concerns about the effect on their livelihoods—were wonderfully cooperative. Lafayette has truly good people."

In 1960, the City of Lafayette was floundering under the weight of its own population explosion and desperately in need of true excellence in leadership. Ray offered that leadership, the people accepted and trusted him, and he guided us to a new era. The Bertrand Years were twelve in number, an impressive political term, but a relatively short span of time in the annals of Lafayette history. In those years, Ray Bertrand left a mark on this city that the years will not erase.

After several years of retirement, Larry Logan of Lafayette has returned to the concert stage. The classical harmonicist, who has performed with major symphony orchestras in this country and abroad during his highly successful musical career, embarked in January on a five week tour of Community Concerts in the mid-western states. Coinciding with his return to the concert stage was his selection by the International Biographical Centre of Cambridge, England to its prestigious "Men of Achievement" roster.

Music critic Harley Quinn described Logan as "one of the three leading classical harmonicists in the world." According to Quinn, "he ranks with the great Larry Adler as a classical concert artist."

During his career, the Lafayette native has performed as featured soloist with the symphony orchestras of Washington, Manila, Singapore, St. Louis, San Juan and many others. He was chosen by the state department to represent the U.S. in a tour of eleven countries, serving as Good Will Ambassador. The title of "Heifetz of the Harmonica" was bestowed on him by a Manila newspaper after a concert in the Philippines. Following a performance with the Nashville Symphony Orchestra, a critic for one Tennessee newspaper wrote, "Logan elevated his (usually considered) lowly instrument to a position of artistic importance such as few have ever given it." The Singapore Free Press called his musicianship "brilliant."

During his career, Logan has appeared as a supporting act for a stunning array of legendary names in show business, including Bob Hope, Rudy Vallee, Jimmy Durante, Eddie Cantor, Lisa Kirk, Giselle McKenzie, Frankie Laine and Cab Calloway.

Despite his recognized virtuosity, Logan has fought a long battle to overcome prejudice regarding the harmonica as a serious musical instrument. "This is not a folk instrument," he says. "Contrary to popular conceptions, the three-octave chromatic harmonica is designed for playing serious music."

"I perform with a harmonica custom made of sterling silver which cost several thousand dollars. No one would make that kind of investment in a perfectly engineered musical instrument—a Stradivarius of the mouth organ family, if you will—to play a simple folk or blues melody. The general public, and even music educators, are simply not aware of the tremendous difference between the diatonic scale and the chromatic scale harmonica."

Logan notes that well-known contemporary composers have written serious works for the harmonica. "Such composers as Arthur Benjamin, Darius Milhaud, Hector Villa-Lobos, Ralph Vaughn Williams, Norman Dello Joio, Alexander Tcherepnin, George Kleinsinger and Michael Spivakovsky have recognized the capabilities of the instrument."

Logan believes his return to the concert stage comes at a time when a breakthrough is imminent in the move toward respectability for the harmonica as a classical musical instrument. "The guitar suffered the same plight for years, until Segovia's genius established its acceptance on the concert stage," he says. "I believe that those of us who continue to perform the great classical works are close to seeing that kind of acceptance for the harmonica."

Logan's concert tour will conclude in Florida, after which future engagements will be arranged by Karlrud Concerts, Inc. of New York. "Concert Encores," Logan's most recent recording, is currently being distributed by Raccoon Records of Lafayette.

KIRTLAND AIR FORCE BASE, N.M. – U. S. Air Force officials here say a dramatic rescue by Lafayette native Maj. Louis J. (Jay) Cornay, Jr. and his crew was “all in the line of duty for this seven man crew who put service before self.” According to an Air Force spokesman, Cornay was in command of an MC- 130 H Combat Talon aircraft on a night-time training mission in Colorado when the rescue occurred. The Public Affairs Office of the 550th Special Operations Squadron, 58th Special Operations Wing, says he was taxiing for a takeoff from Pueblo Memorial Airport when a Piper Cherokee took to the air, banked left, then fell at a high rate of descent. The plane crashed to the ground and flipped. Cornay taxied into a position that allowed him to illuminate the crash scene with the lights of the Combat Talon, then the crew rushed to the scene and sprayed the craft to prevent fire or explosion. The passenger door of the small plane was jammed, but loadmaster Technical Sgt. Sheldon Belsches climbed through a cargo door and pulled the pilot, who was the lone occupant, to safety. There were no major injuries. The incident happened at about 10:30 p.m on July 22. A Squadron spokesperson called it “a memorable night.” Cornay, son of Mr. and Mrs. Louis Cornay, Sr. of Lafayette, is a 14 year veteran of the U.S. Air Force, but his flight career dates back to high school days. His mother, Jeanne, says his dream of becoming a pilot began in childhood, and while a junior at Cathedral-Carmel High School here he began actively pursuing it. He arranged to work at Paul Fournet Air Service in exchange for flying lessons, she says. When he received his license at 16, he was one of the youngest pilots in Louisiana. Cornay attended USL to pursue a degree in Business Administration and to advance his plans for an Air Force career through the university’s ROTC program. He graduated in 1985 and the same year became a member of the U.S. Air Force, stationed at Williams AFB in Phoenix, Arizona. He has since earned a Master’s Degree in Finance from Webster University. Cornay is an instructor in Special Operations. The Combat Talon he commands, one of only 24 such aircraft in the world, is dedicated to non- conventional force support. The night-time tactical training mission in Colorado, during which the rescue was accomplished, involved flying low level routes and making lights-out approaches to un-lighted air fields. Cornay and his wife, the former Erin Clare Cassidy Townsend, have two children: Grant and Julia Clare. Mrs. Cornay has a long association with the U. S. Air Force also. Her grandfather, Gen. Emmett Cassidy, was the Air Attaché to U.S. Ambassador Clare Booth Luce, for whom Mrs. Cornay was named. The Cornay family resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Men crippled by disease, devastated by financial reverses, destroyed by unhappy romances.

Wife beats hell out of him on the golf course. 193 men have come to me in the last four years and said, "Your wife really has a beautiful swing." Five Iron to the titleists...not a beautiful swing. "Fore"... Telling Bob Hamm how well his wife plays....

Loved Leora and she loved golf. Decided I needed to learn game--retrieve ball for her. Not easy for her. Perfect lady. Never told an adult male he needed to stick his butt out. Stick his tee in the ground. Putt in a hole in the green.

Really strained our romance when I asked her what that little box on the pole with the crank was.

But she has taught me as well as my limited athletic ability will allow. Rocky at first....turn my shoulder & hips. Bring shoulder under chin. In hospital for a week...Lady of Prompt Payment.

I've progressed. 320 yard drive last Sunday. 310 that way. Ten that way. Leora hits from the ladies tees. I hit to the ladies' tees. Second shot terrific. Straight bourbon.

Anyhow, I played my tall iron next. tall irons and short irons. Long is not in my game. Landed on the green. It was #9, but what the hell.

Played it where it landed. When I took second divot, learned something new about Luca Barbato.

Leora said most important lesson was knowing how much distance I could get with each club. After twelve holes, I knew exactly how far all my clubs would go. I stood at the white tees on Number 13 and threw the whole dam bag in the ditch.

Talk to God a lot on the course. For three years, I was convinced that there ain't no God on a golf course. But last week spoke to me. Number 13 again.

Tournament play. Leora and I played in a divorce open here at Acadian Hell of a Country Club once and won it. It's the only time we've ever been equal on the golf course. Her score was the same as my handicap.

I have some problems with tournament play. They have prizes for things like "longest drive," and "closest to the hole." I think that's discriminatory. They ought to have things I could win. Like:

• Farthest from the hole
• Closest to your partner when ricocheting off a tree
• Most sidespin on your fourth putt
• Longest distance bouncing down the cart path the wrong way
• Best shank when hitting a mulligan

Best alibi for hitting a pitch shot with a sand wedge and making it run across the green faster than a two iron shot. (I always blame it on the damn butterflies chattering and banging...)

Steady nerves — drink Canada Dry.

Airplane safety — flew to Shreveport in 2 engine plane with Abner Joe Snelling...

Sports safety — nephew Jimmy Lee just quit the Louisiana Tech football team...

Infectious diseases — Mayor Bobby Gene Funchess, New Orleans — selling this time?

Animal safety — exotic birds...

This appears to have been an outline or notes for a humorous safety presentation, typical of Bob's ability to find comedy in the most unexpected topics. The complete speech would have expanded on these topics with his characteristic wit and Louisiana storytelling.

Ordinarily in a situation like this, you get roasted by the wits of the community. With Richard, Donald and Leon, I feel like I've been roasted by a wit and a half. I think I've added that right: three half-wits together make a wit and a half. If I called them all back up and had them stand in a circle holding hands, the Boy Scout Council would be busted for harboring a dope ring.

Richard Zuschlag was in his glory up here: he had a microphone, an audience and cameras flashing. This is not original with me, but it has been said that the most dangerous intersection in Lafayette is the one between Richard and a television camera.

I'll tell you a story that is absolutely true. Bob Hamm, who conducted the first television interview that Richard ever participated in, says Zuschlag was so scared that after it was over, he went out in the Channel Three parking lot and threw up. Now, he's on television so incessantly that when he finishes, the viewers go outside and throw up.

Richard is brilliant in his operation of the ambulance service, but outside of that area of expertise he is a lost child in a confusing world. He came to see me one day for help in getting some restrictive federal regulations reduced. I said, "Richard, this is a political matter, not a legal one. You should write to the federal government. Write to Washington. Write directly to the president." He called me back the next day and said, "Roland claims Washington hasn't been president for years."

Richard, when your medics look in their rear-view mirrors and see me behind them, that's not ambulance chasing. I'm just doing some investigating for a client. I won't tell you who the insurance company is, but boy, have I got a Blue for you.

Then there's Leon Moncla. The Monk. I got a telegram just before we started today saying it would be degrading for me to call him Monk. It was from Cheetah.

Leon is an old, old friend. I remember when he first started going down to the marshes with a group of us who hunted together. He really wanted to be part of the group. We told him there was an initiation ceremony. He had to wrestle an alligator and make love to a Cajun girl. Leon was gone about an hour. Then he came rushing in all bruised and lacerated and said, "That's one down. Now, where's that Cajun girl I'm supposed to wrestle?"

Leon pretends to have a sight problem. Don't believe it. If there's money involved, he has eyes like a chicken hawk. If you think he can't see well, give him a one-dollar bill and tell him it's a 20.

I got hold of some really bad counterfeit money once. The counterfeiter had made a $12 bill. I figured Leon couldn't see well enough to know the difference so I asked him if he could change it for me. He gave me a nine dollar bill and a three.

Leon was honored as king of the Bishop's Charity Ball this year. He thinks that's gonna save his sorry soul from hell. Leon, Bishop O'Donnell and Madeline Boustany pulling on you with a bull-dozer couldn't get you through the Pearly Gates.

Then there's Deputy Barney Fife over there. Sheriff Breaux says I try to get the crooks out of jail that he puts in. I haven't done that yet, but I will if he ever makes a case strong enough to hold anybody.

I've known Don for many years. He was an excellent left-handed boxer in his youth. Won a lot of awards. Those punches may have done something to his head. After he won a gold medal once, he was so proud of it he took it and had it bronzed.

Don's also an excellent golfer. I saw him on the first tee at Oakbourne one day standing about six feet in front of the tee box. I said, "Back up Don, you can't hit from there." He said, "leave me alone, this is my third shot."

I remember his early days on the police force. He worked in dispatch where you take the calls and send out the cars. Guaranty bank had a button on the floor of each teller cage that would buzz the police department if you stepped on it. I was in there one day when a guy tried to hold up the bank. The teller stepped on the buzzer. The phone in the cage rang immediately. The robber picked it up. It was Don at the police station. He said, "hey, do you know you're standing on that damned buzzer over there?"

I'm not going to try to teach a course in writing in fifteen minutes this morning. Father Sarducci can do that. I can't do that.

What I would like to do is encourage those of you who do not work daily at honing your writing skills to do so.

I would urge you to do it number one for your own personal satisfaction. It adds a dimension to your craft. I personally believe that, without that dimension, you can never really call yourself a journalist. But even if you disagree with that, you're robbing yourself of a deeply, deeply satisfying aspect of your career by not becoming a proficient writer. Why is it satisfying? Because it is yours. You make it happen. The camera man can't do it for you. The director can't do it for you. The anchor man can't do it for you. It's a totally individual thing, where you're out there alone on the thin edge with no tools except your knowledge, intellect and command of the language. And when you bring those together in a piece that is tinged with drama, excitement, humor, pathos—when you have told a tale as only a good journalist can—there is a sense of exhilaration...a natural high. Once you experience it, you will seek it again and again, and the only way you will maintain it is by constantly upgrading your writing skills.

Your audience will not recognize your skills for the most part. They'll know that they fully understood a complicated story...or that they were moved by it...excited by it...amused by it. But only you and a few of your peers will know that you gave them that through the power of your words. And the effective use of words is one of the most powerful forces on earth.

There are other reasons for honing your writing skills. For one thing, it permits you to maintain control of your story. Too many reporters depend on the actuality...the taped statement...to give their story direction. I believe in the actuality. But when it sets the tone and mood of your story and directs the tack your story will take, you've lost control.

What I'm saying is, if you go down to the legislature and the House Ways and Means Committee is meeting...and you wait in the corridor for Jerry Leblanc to come out and put the mike in his face and let him report what went on in there...Jerry LeBlanc controls your story. He has a vested interest in using your microphone to report the story his way. In most cases of that kind, the reporter builds his story around the interviewees comments. So it's not the reporters story.

When you cover it...and you report it effectively, and use Jerry's comments as his contribution to your story...then you are in control.

Reporters cover stories. They don't run in, get silent footage, then stick a microphone in a participants face and let him do the reporting. A monkey can hold a microphone.

I have a real problem with some broadcast journalism schools which de-emphasize writing, because television is a visual medium.

The people who set the course for television news and gave it its finest hours were writers.

Over the years, the technology has improved unbelievably. But few people have come along who can walk in the shoes of an Ed Murrow....Bob Trout...Eric Sevareid...W.W. Chaplin.

Howard K. Smith is a writer. Walter Cronkite is a writer. David Brinkley is an old wire service man. Charles Kuralt is an old newspaper man. His best reporter-producer, Jim Houtrides—learned his craft from Vince Marino at the Daily Advertiser

There are journalists, there are broadcast journalists and there are broadcasters. Journalists can write. Broadcast journalists can write. Broadcasters can broadcast.

How do you learn to write. Ernie Gaines' formula is read, read read and write write write. It's a good formula. Don't believe you can't learn to write good news stories by reading Hemingway. Get yourself a copy of the old man and the sea. If you can ever bring to a news report a story line as magnificently clear and pure as that...you will ready for the networks.

Mark Twain was a damn good newspaperman before he started writing books. You can learn something about your craft by reading Life on the Mississippi.

Read good writing. Read it for pleasure, but also read it for structure and form and style. It's a learning experience and it's an inspirational experience if you really want to hone your writing skills.

Read, read, read. And write, write, write. You'll get caught in deadlines and you won't have time to give it your best effort for the six o'clock news. Re-write it for ten. Or just re-write it because you want to write it better, even if it never gets on the air.

If you're in the broadcast media, write on the side for the print media. You'll cover features regularly that some small magazine or newspaper would be delighted with. Write it and submit it. You may get rejected. You may make a buck. Either way, you grow as a journalist.

Finally, for God's sake, learn the rules. If Vince hasn't recommended Strunk's little book on style to you, he will. I got my first copy from Vince. I've given a copy to every promising young journalist I've run into. It should be on every desk in the television news room. It's how to write in 71 pages.

Writing is a craft. It can be learned.

Mark Twain said the difference between the right word and the nearly right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.

I am counting down the minutes remaining in what has been one of the most profoundly rewarding experiences of my life. It is time to turn over the duties of board chairman to someone whose commitment, dedication and leadership abilities will take us to the next level in this incredible journey of caring. But while I am relinquishing the gavel, I will keep memories that are more precious than I have words to describe. I would like for you to know why the privilege of serving as campaign chairman and board chairman has been so profoundly meaningful to me.

I grew up in a rural area without organized social services. In times of misfortune or need, friends and neighbors came with good hearts and willing hands. But even with the great depth of caring, the lack of resources, structure and unity of purpose severely limited the good that could be accomplished. It was often too little, sometimes too late.

Neighborliness and concern flourish in rural areas. In communities like ours, however, it is given structure and resources that enhance and amplify the good work that stems from it. I discovered that truth as so many do, in a time of need. When my husband was diagnosed with cancer, I turned to Hospice. People I had never met enveloped me with their caring and helped me through a time of great pain. Those who showed up to do things like donating blood were not long-time friends and neighbors, but strangers whose depth of caring was universal and whose kind acts were structured, focused and coordinated for the maximum achievement of good.

Out of that experience came the realization that caring is raised to its highest level of accomplishment when good people join together in a structured environment with clearly defined missions and goals…when concern is supported by unity of purpose and community resources.

I learned this at a time when my needs were great and the community's response was not only caring but deeply effective. The wonder of it made me want to be a part of it. As I began to make my small contribution, I came to realize that while community services were many and varied, there was one sustaining link between all of them – a steady foundation that supported and enhanced their good work. At the heart of the community's concern, compassion and caring rested the quiet, efficient structure of United Way of Acadiana. When I was given the opportunity serve this organization, I knew I had found the wellspring that nourishes the most noble qualities of Acadiana.

Being chosen as your chairman was a milestone in my life. I have known no greater challenge than trying to leave some small mark of my own while walking in the footprints of this community's giants. I have known no greater joy than serving with a board of directors composed of Acadiana's most caring and most competent citizens. I have come to look upon the people of the agencies we serve as this area's unsung heroes.

The people of United Way have been the motivation for whatever I have been able to accomplish as chairman. I would be less than honest if I didn't acknowledge that while working for the needs of others, I have been aware that I was helping to perpetuate services that I will one day need -- and that will at some point benefit my children. There is already a benefit of great importance to me as a mother. United Way has helped to make this a very special community in which to live, work and raise a family. Because of that, I am optimistic that my children will make their lives here and not seek their futures in some distant city. That is very important to me. I am grateful.

I look out on all of you who have worked so hard this year, and I think of Kahlil Gibran's definition of work as "love made visible." If that be true, then we are in the midst tonight of possibly the greatest exemplification of love in Acadiana's history. In the closing years of this century, your work has taken United Way to new heights. We have built a structure that has brought a level of efficiency to the business of caring never before experienced in our community. It took 45 years to break the $2 million mark. Now we have surpassed it and moved on. Three million is solidly in our sights and well within our grasp. Our challenge is to continue refining that structure and continue raising the mark. The people gathered here tonight make me totally, absolutely, unshakably confident of success.

It is time now for the passing of the gavel. Roland Dugas, please come forward. I present to you the symbol, not only of the office, but also of the caring nature of a great community. Ladies and gentlemen, the newly elected chairman of the board of United Way of Acadiana, Roland Dugas.