Once upon a time there was a bag swing on Carlin Drive in Westlake. What, you might ask, is a bag swing? A long rope was attached to the top branch of a tree—undoubtedly a cypress—on the edge of the swamp at the north end of Carlin Drive. The tree was a lofty one—fifty or sixty feet—and about halfway up someone’s father, or maybe some of the neighborhood boys, had built a small wooden platform just large enough to hold two Junior High kids.

Said kids got to the platform by climbing up a series of wooden slats nailed to the tree at twelve to fifteen inch intervals. Did I mention this platform was twenty-five feet or so  off the ground? At the bottom end of the rope a ten-pound flour sack filled with sand had been tied.

The object was to straddle the bag and swing out over the swamp—cypress knees, water moccasins, and everything else the swamp nourished. That wasn’t too dangerous. Junior High kids don’t weigh that much. Trouble was—it got boring with just one person flying out over the murky water. Why not see how many could jump on every time it made a pass back to the platform? I think six was our limit. The last two to jump on were hanging on by their fingernails (pardon the cliche.) Did I mention we were twenty-five feet above the swamp? Oh, that’s right. I did.

I’ll dispense with calling out names here to protect the guilty, but I remember those Saturday and Sunday summer afternoons when we could experience the freedom of the birds—when for a brief moment we could defy gravity and soar with the eagles. Dangerous? Not that bunch. After all, we were twelve years old. We were going to live forever. I guess some things never change.

Halloween in the 1940s would be unrecognizable from present day Halloween. Today the holiday is a multi-million—or dare I say billion—dollar industry. Take costumes. Every year party goers and trick-or-treaters get more and more creative, and costumes hit new highs pricewise. Decorations? Jack-o-lanterns. Cobwebs covering bushes. Ghosts hanging from trees. Let’s not forget about the “treat” industry. Candy sales are through the roof and keep dentists busy for at least a year.

In earlier years it became dangerous for children to collect candy from strangers. Churches and other organizations began to have group treats. Trunk or Treat in church parking lots. Haunted houses abound. These are good and keep children safe.

Once upon a time the grownups didn’t get involved. Hark back to the early 1940s when I was an adolescent—still in grammar school. We lived on Foster Street in Lake Charles. There were children living in nearly every house in the neighborhood. Across the street from us were two brothers—Robert and John—three or four years older than me. My mother had no problem sending me off with them to ring doorbells, knock on doors, or scratch on window screens before running away to the next house for more of the same. No treats for us. Just pure unbridled fun.

The last activity—for me, anyway—was our annual trek through the cemetery next to St. Patrick’s hospital, which was located across the street from our house. We ran through the graveyard, being careful not to step on any graves as per my grandmother, and wended our way among the headstones from one end to the other. Someone spotted a grave with a hole in the corner of the cement cover. It was decreed by one of the older ones that we all had to have a look—no exceptions. Not even my seven-year-old self.

It was dark, of course. No streetlights in the graveyard, but someone had a flashlight. I shined it into the hold, peered in—and jumped back. A skull was grinning up at me. I decided it was time for me to call it a night.

Our houses were right by St. Patrick’s so I was a couple of minutes away. The Sherwoods left me at my house and went on to ring more doorbells.

Here’s what I remember about the next morning—All Saints Day. Our next door neighbor’s porch chairs atop the telephone pole in front of their house. Since I don’t know for sure who did it, I’ll not offer my opinion, but I’ll always remember tricking with the Sherwood boys.

For this post I decided to leave the past behind and jump into the present. In addition to marketing my novel—Wild Justice—and my short story collection—Sidonie and the Loup-Garou: Stories from the Bayou—I’m up to my ears in new work.

I have three major projects going right now: a new novel, a nonfiction book about my dad, and a collection of poetry. It’s somewhat like juggling chain-saws since I’m working on all three at the same time. Also, on the back burner I have two novellas started and more short fiction, but they’re at the bottom of the pile.

The novel has a new title, which I’ll share later. It’s about how the past can come back to haunt you. The main character is a retired female helicopter pilot just trying to lead a quiet life in her small hometown after the mayhem of her military years. Instead, she gets caught up trying to keep her twin brother alive when a menace from his past comes after him and three of his fraternity brothers. An incident from their college years triggers a killing spree that also puts her in danger. In addition, she must contend with a peril from her own past—a stalker with revenge on his mind.

The nonfiction book is a memoir mostly about my father—Wallace “Preacher” Hebert. He hunted and skinned alligators when he was thirteen years of age and survived the unnamed hurricane of 1918 in Cameron Parish. He spent fourteen years playing professional baseball with the St. Louis Browns, San Diego Padres, and Pittsburgh Pirates. He pitched against such greats as Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Joe DiMaggio.

He played on the same team with Ted Williams and Bobby Doerr. His later years saw him skinning alligators again.

The poetry book is a collection of poems I’ve written over the years and I would just like to get them all together in one book whether anyone buys it or not. Everyone knows that poets don’t quit their day jobs. This book will be out by the end of October, hopefully. The novel and nonfiction have a way to go, but I’m shooting for the first half of next year.

Anyway, that’s what been going on for me. I wrote this blog post because I needed to make a commitment on paper. I found myself spinning my wheels and not getting anything done. I decided to put it out there and I’ll be embarrassed if I don’t follow through. Here’s hoping it will help. Feel free to bug me about it.

The Lake Charles High School students filed in and took their seats at the Monday assembly. After the round of routine announcements the principal, G. W. Ford, placed an oblong box on the lectern and called for Wallace “Preacher” Hebert to come forward.

A belt bearing the Wildcat insignia on the buckle was presented to him in appreciation of the fine work he did against the Deridder Dragons football team the preceding Saturday. The existence of the belt, donated by Kushner Brothers, local jewelers, was unknown to any of the players. I suppose this was a precursor of the MVP awards of today.

The Wildcats beat the Dragons by a score of 26-6, and the paper reported my father’s “spectacular line plunging” was the largest single factor in the Lake Charles victory. He scored three out of the four touchdowns for the Wildcats: the first from eight yards out on three tries; the second from twenty-five yards—eighteen yards, five yards, and into the end zone; the third was a fifty yard drive with him doing most of the ball carrying.

The Deridder game was just one in an undefeated run for Coach Killen’s Wildcats. When the final whistle blew on the last game of the season LCHS had scored 215 points to their opponents’ thirty. Known around the state as the Ramming Preacher, he scored more points for the Wildcats than any other player on the squad, his total for the year being seventy-eight.

At a special banquet given at the close of the season Preacher was elected captain of the Wildcats for the next season along with fellow all-stater Homer Robinson as co-captain. The banquet was for the main purpose of choosing leaders for the ’29 squad. He enjoyed his football years, but baseball was his passion.

They had lived in peace for more than 150 years, those people known as Acadians. They called their homeland Acadie, known today as Nova Scotia in Canada. Their distinct culture established a prosperous way of life and instilled a strong sense of independence. Their original homeland was France, so they were a devoutly Catholic society.

Trouble was on the horizon when Acadie became a possession of the British Empire. The king of England wanted them to sign a loyalty oath to him, which they refused to do. The British officials, in their infinite wisdom and mercy, decided the Acadians were no longer welcome in Canada so they had soldiers seize their farms in 1755. The farms were turned over to Anglo-American Protestants, and the Acadians were forced into exile. This expulsion from their homeland of more than a century and a half is known as le Grand Derangement.

The British separated husbands and wives, parents and children, and scattered some of the Acadians throughout the thirteen colonies and others were sent to Europe where they were not particularly welcomed by the inhabitants. Half of the entire Acadian population died during this time, and among the survivors many roamed the world seeking lost family members and a new homeland.

Between 1765 and 1785, after the French and Indian War, some three thousand exiled souls made their way to Louisiana where they were welcomed. Among the Broussards, the Boudreaux, and the Thibodeaux was an Hebert who established a family tree in what became known as la Nouvelle Acadie—the New Acadia.

To paraphrase Julius Caesar, our Hebert ancestor and his fellow exiles said, “We came, we saw, we conquered.” Known today as Cajuns, we’re famous for the distinct culture that has evolved. Our food: what’s better than seafood gumbo on a winter night or crawfish etouffee anytime? Our music: what’s more fun than the two-step or waltz twirled to the accordion and fiddle?

Plunk Wally “Preacher” Hebert down in the 18th Century and he would do just fine. He would have survived the exile and conquered his new homeland with all its challenges. Meat on the table? No problem—go out to the field and kill a rabbit. Vegetables? Plow up the ground and drop a few corn seeds. Need cash? Skin a few gators. Scared of Babe Ruth? I don’t think so.

On Monday the fourteenth of August yours truly along with two of my writer friends loaded up our luggage and our writing supplies—pens, paper, laptops, etc.—and headed west. Where? Austin, Texas. What? Writer’s League of Texas Summer Writing Workshop. Why? To hone our writing skills in order to win a Pulitzer Prize someday. We were all set for five days of intensive study and getting feedback on our own work.

I had enrolled in one of the fiction classes with Charlotte G. as an instructor—a teacher par excellence. I had been looking forward to this event since March. To say we were excited is an understatement.

We zipped along Interstate 10 making good time, but Houston is always a worry. You never know what you’ll run into there. However, no problem in Houston. We eased onto I-610 and got off on Hwy. 290, which would bring us into Austin. Toodling along 290, we felt like we had it made. But the calm is always there before the storm.

I was reading the map when the car jerked to the right and we heard a noise like a rifle shot.  I thought we had a blowout, as did the others. My driver friend—I’ll call her “Jane”— guided the car to the shoulder and stopped. All three of us got out to check the tires. Everything was fine there. We walked around to the back—no bumper. It was off in a field slightly behind where we had finally stopped. The left rear fender was smashed in, but the car was still drivable.

We got back into the car to wait for the police. In the meantime a car passed us and stopped about fifty or so feet ahead of us. At first I had thought we’d been hit by a ghost car, but the driver got out and walked around the car, so we surmised this must be the one who hit us—and it was.

The state trooper arrived and made everyone get back into their respective vehicles. He took a statement from Jane and one from the driver of the other car. Then he came to our car and asked if everyone was okay. We said we weren’t hurt, but I said “My pants are wet.” At the look on his face, I decided I’d better rephrase that. “Jane’s coke fell on my leg when the car lurched,” I told him. Don’t know if he believed me or not.

Long story short, in the course of conversations we discovered the other driver was on her way to the same writer’s workshop we were going to. When we got to our first class on Tuesday, guess who was sitting in our classroom. You got it. The other driver. What are the odds? During the week we all became good friends. My two writer friends and I were famous among the other attendees. To them we were the three ladies from Louisiana who were driving around in the car with no bumper.

(This is a repost from 10/16, Preacher Hebert’s Summer Vacation. Enjoy!)

 

In the summer of 1921 he was thirteen years old. After school ended that year he took a pirogue, a cast iron skillet, a shotgun, and some clothes into the swamp. It takes a lot of coordination to even sit in a pirogue, much less paddle one through a swamp. Setting up camp in an old houseboat with a wood-burning stove, he was there by himself all summer, living off the land. If he wanted to eat he had to catch it himself—fish, duck, squirrel. Do you know any thirteen-year-olds in this day and age who could spend an entire summer alone in the swamp catching all their food?

In the southwest Louisiana of 1921 money was scarce for his family. His reason for being in the swamp was to hunt alligators. No gator season back then, and the big reptiles were as thick as birds. Some might question why he didn’t go home at night. Because nighttime was when he hunted them.

The swamps and bayous of the area teemed with small fur-bearing animals—mink, muskrat, and nutria—and they were worth a lot of money. The alligators, on the other hand, were worth nothing, and ate those little animals faster than a Cajun can suck the heads from twenty pounds of crawfish.

A wealthy landowner from Lake Charles put a price on gator hides—$5.50 for anything from seven and a half to twenty feet long. Hides from four to seven feet brought in $1.50. That was a lot of money in 1921.

When darkness descended he would paddle the pirogue through inky waters with a lantern and a shotgun. The full moon kept the obscurity of night at bay, but the rest of the month the blackness there was smothering. He shined the lantern out into the water and the only thing shining back at him were red gator eyes. He paddled to within two or three feet of the eyes, and keeping the light trained on them, shot at the space between the eyes.Continue Reading

Back when I was a junior in high school in the winter of 1953 the big doings for January was the Junior Prom. Football season was over and the Westlake Rams had had a good run. Basketball season was in full swing and the boys’ team had taken first and second place in several tournaments, and the girls were doing okay. However, the prom was coming up so basketball was on the back burner.

I had my dress—a white strapless number I had worn for Homecoming. (Back then it was okay to wear a dress more than once, especially in small town Westlake.) I had a date, someone to take me, so I was good to go. All was well—until ten a.m. or so. It came one of Louisiana’s gully-washes. A real frog-strangler—pardon the cliche—but that’s the best description I could come up with. By mid-afternoon the dirt roads out our way were a squishy mess.

I was ready to go by six o’clock—all dressed up in my white taffeta and armed with a red carnation boutonniere for W’s sport coat. He showed up around six-thirty looking great in navy slacks and a powder blue jacket. His eyes, unnaturally bright, should have warned me that things were starting to go south.

His face had a ruddy hue and his voice was raspy when he answered my mother’s query about how he was feeling. “Fine,” he croaked, and I knew all was not well in West Fork.

He insisted he was okay, so we exchanged our carnation creations and got into his parents’ big Buick sedan. As soon as we crossed the cattle guard and turned left onto the road the car stopped. No amount of revving and floor-boarding would make it move.

Somehow we managed to get out of the car and back to the house without ruining our clothes, but we did have to clean up our shoes. It looked like we were going to have to miss our prom. The End of the World, as far as two sixteen-year-olds were concerned—until my mother had one of her bright ideas and called Mr. Morgan.

Mr. Morgan was our bus driver. He also lived about halfway down Phillips Road from our house. He also had a tow truck. My mother could be quite persuasive. She also had no fear when it came to asking for favors. Mr. Morgan came to our house with his tow truck and wearing a pair of hip boots. He got the two of us ensconced on the front seat of the truck—white dress, powder blue jacket, and red carnations. After hooking the car to the truck, he drove us to the high school gym in Westlake, where we created quite a stir when we exited our Cajun limo.

I had a good time at the dance. I can’t speak for W. He acted like all was well, but he spent the following week in bed with the flu. We danced and ate and mingled until they shut it down at midnight. We didn’t try to go back to my house down Westwood Road. He drove the Buick back to his house and I spent the night across the street at my friend’s house.

That was my first and last prom. The guy I was dating the next year was a good Baptist and didn’t believe in dancing, so I missed it. However, I’ll always have the Prom of ’53 in my box of memories.