TALES FROM THE BAYOU: Under The Weather

Fall has always been my favorite time of the year. Growing up in the swamps of Louisiana didn't have as much color as living in the hills of Tennessee but I still had the chance to splash in rain puddles and feel a nip in the air as I walked the dozen blocks or so to school each day. Being allergic to the heat and sun, I couldn't wait to wake up to ice crystals on the ground and seeing my breath dance around me on a frosty fall morning.

There was only one thing to dampen my love of Autumn. My medical Achilles heel was that I was sick a lot growing up. It was only during the fall and only two things brought me under the weather on a regular basis...strep throat and bronchitis. I don't know if it was because my mother was a heavy chain smoker which affected my breathing or whether it was just inherited but I could always plan on being sick at least once a month for about four to five months of every year until well into my thirties.

My mother got to the point that she knew how to take care of me better than the old town physician could and most of the time I just stayed at home. Mother even had three tried and true remedies for whatever ailed me...alcohol baths, Vicks vapor rub and poached eggs on dry toast.

The alcohol bath was supposed to help break my high fevers but all I could feel was the stinging cold of the alcohol on my heated skin. I would shiver under layers of blankets while Mother kept a watchful eye on the thermometer numbers. Today, doctors would probably frown on dipping your children in rubbing alcohol but back then, one mountain woman's fever reducing remedy was as good as any doctor's pills.

I didn't mind the Vicks vapor rub that much other than the fact the strong smell felt like it was burning my nose hairs. Mother would rub a generous amount all over my chest and throat before bundling me up in hot, dry towels under a mound of blankets. Not only was she trying to break my fevers by sweating it out of me, Mother thought the Vicks vapor rub would somehow help my coughing and congestion.

But it was the awful food I was forced to eat whenever I was sick that I hated the most. For some reason I will never understand, my mother thought the best way to help me on the road to recovery was to feed me slimy poached eggs on dry toast and unsweetened lukewarm tea for every day I lay in bed. It would make me gag but in my house the repercussions for ever trying to say no to Mother was much worse than simply choking the stuff down and hoping it stayed there!

Today, as I look outside my Tennessee home and watch the leaves turn a lovely shade of rich orangey-red, I'm feeling a bit under the weather.  I still have my rounds of strep throat and bronchitis I deal with but not nearly as often as I did in my youth. What I'm fighting now is probably a sinus infection but you can bet I will NOT be indulging in any of Mother's home remedies to help me get over this. 

My eggs will be fried, my toast will be buttered, and my tea will be hot and sweet. Thanks, Mom, for looking after me when I was younger but I think I'll try something different for a change...

TALES FROM THE BAYOU: The Adventures Of Billy

Every kid needs a sidekick when they are young. Somebody to be the buffer between them and the world. Someone to tell their secrets to.  My sidekick was Billy.  I don't know at what age Billy came into my life...maybe when I was three or four years old...but he remained a steadfast confidant to all my hopes and dreams until I was well into my teenage years.

I can remember one Fall when I was about six or so when every day my mother would go into her bedroom and all you could hear was the whirring sound of her old treadle sewing machine. Sometimes I was allowed to watch her as she put together my new school clothes. But when that door was closed, it mean secrets were happening in that room and no amount of begging would get my mother to tell me what she was doing.

It wasn't until Christmas that year when I found out. She found a small citrus crate and covered it with the old sticky contact paper people used to line their pantry shelves with. It was white with small flowers on it and magically changed that old wooden crate into a lovely baby's bed. Then she spent hours sewing and stuffing the mattress, pillow, and sheets to go with it. She must have spirited Billy away from me in my sleep so she could measure him because that Christmas he also had a new wardrobe of baby clothes. I spent many a happy hour putting that doll to sleep and reading him stories.

But life for Billy wasn't all fun and games. Even the life of a baby doll can be harsh. One day while I was playing with him outside, the neighbor's dog took an instant liking to Billy and wanted him for himself. A tug-o-war ensued with one of poor Billy's jointed legs being torn from his body. Taking his prize, the neighbor's dog ran off while I sat on the porch steps crying over the loss of a plastic limb. Then I did the only logical thing a six year old could do. I didn't want my poor friend to go through life with only one leg so I promptly pulled off the other leg!

For the rest of Billy's existence in my life he seemed quite content to get around by bouncing on his butt. You see, it didn't matter to me that Billy was "handicapped". He still knew how to keep my secrets and that meant the world to me.

Years later, I returned to my old home after both my parents died and I was named executor of their small estate. Tucked away in the back corner of the attic was a box and inside, wrapped in an old blanket was Billy. I was amazed my mother had kept him but then I'm sure she realized how much he'd meant to me all those years ago. Maybe it was just her way of keeping HER "baby" close to her long after I had left home...



TALES FROM THE BAYOU: Crawfish Boils & Mudbug Races

Anyone who tells you crawfish taste like lobster is wrong. Crawfish tastes better and if you ever lived in the bayou areas of southern Louisiana you would probably agree with me.

Outsiders to life in the swamps might look at this picture and think, "I would never eat that!" But if you come from a poor family and wonder a lot where you next meal is gonna come from, that plate represents some tasty times in the Lavergne family while I was growing up.

There was a small creek cutting through the back yard of a house I lived in as a child and after a heavy rain, I would run out back with my siblings to check for crawfish holes. Those crafty mudbugs would bury themselves deep into the wet ground and there were only two ways to get them out. One was by tying something like a small piece of bread to the end of a string before lowering it into the crawdad hole. If you were lucky, a crawfish would clamp down on the bread with one of it's claws and you could pull them out of the hole. Crawfish are ornery critters and almost always refuse to let go once they've latched onto something.

The other way (one I NEVER chose to join in on) was to walk barefoot through that creek and hope a crawfish would find one of your toes appealing enough to clamp onto it! I use to watch my brother and sisters walk the creek trying to catch crawfish but was never foolish enough to try it myself!

Every so often my father would bring home huge bags of crawfish for the family. I'm not sure if he bought them, trapped them himself, or if they were a gift from someone taking pity on us. No matter...it was three hundred pounds of instant fun for us.

For racing, I would pick whichever one seemed to be crawling around the fastest and then pit it against my siblings' choices. For fighting, the champion would be the one with the largest pinchers. Either way, they all eventually ended up in a large caldron of boiling water flavored with crawfish boil seasonings, new potatoes and corn on the cob.

Then there would be a mad dash to cover our dining room table with multiple layers of newspapers as Mother began dumping pan after pan of delicious crawfish onto the papers and everyone could eat their fill. Tails were pulled from whatever was left over and put in the freezer for later. Many a night Mother would watch her TV shows while cracking open the shells until her fingers bled just so her children could have food for another day.

I didn't realize the sacrifices my mother made back then but I do now. There aren't many crawfish holes around the hills of Tennessee but whenever I do get the chance to enjoy some crawfish, I always remember the wonderful crawfish boils made possible by a parent doing everything she could to keep her children fed.

Thanks, Mom.



My Little Corner Of The World

In case you didn't know, I'm a Cajun.  Born and bred in the swamps of Louisiana; home to great food, a unique flair for homegrown music, and a land of mystery as well as history.  My ancestors were persecuted for their beliefs, driven from their homes and forced to seek refuge in a sort of no-man's land where only the foolish would try to make a life. And yet they stayed...lived, loved, and died among the alligators and swamp creatures of deep southern Louisiana.

There was a time when I couldn't wait to leave that place...to strike out on my own and make something of myself.  But the older I got and the further from the swamp I roamed, I came to realize that you can take the gal out of the swamp, but you can't take the swamp out of the gal.  There is a strength to the Cajuns which can't be denied.  How a race of people could build a life out of nothing but mud and cypress trees and backwater bayous crisscrossing the landscape is beyond me. But build it they did and when they were finished there was cause for celebration.  A time for giving thanks they no longer had to run.  Thanks for the chance to raise their families, worship their God, and strive for a better life in their little corner of the world.

Now I live among the hills of eastern Tennessee and cherish the life I have created here.  But it hasn't been easy.  While the trials and tribulations of a life well lived has left scars on my body, my mind soars with all the possibilities a new day can bring.  I gather around me people whose spirits lift mine own up.  I hold close to me great works of beauty to feed my soul and wish for the day when I might do something which touches the spirits of others in some small way. Until then, I write my stories from my little corner of the world and give thanks for my roots which began by the bayous in the land of the Cajuns...

The Rougarou

I can remember many childhood ghost stories while growing up in the marshy lands of southern Louisiana.  My father, coming from a deep Cajun culture, would fill our heads with the stories  he was told as a young lad. You can believe I made sure to walk the straight and narrow...behaving as I should...lest I come face to face with one of the creatures reported to be lurking in the mist...

There is a place...back in the darkest swamps of Louisiana...where the natives there whisper the stories of a creature known as the Rougarou (also known as the Loup Garou).  Steeped in history are the tales of this "wolf-man" who lives in swamps of the deep south, feeding on the flesh of those unlucky enough to cross it's path.

Some say the stories of Rougarou were originally made up by elders to convince Cajun children to behave.  Others say the swamp creature will kill any Catholics who are not observing Lent properly.  There is also some stories which describe the Rougarou as a person caught under a dark spell for 101 days.  Then the curse is transferred onto the creature's latest victim.

No matter which tale you might find interesting, keep in mind when you are lying awake late at night and you suddenly hear a low, rumbling growl coming from under your floorboards, you might want to pull the covers closer and pray for the morning to come...

A to Z: Exuviate

Down near the swamps of Louisiana where I grew up, the summer nights would often bring the sound of the male cicadas as they called to their potential mates.  After an eating and growth period, they would literally crack out of their shells with a new body and leave the old ones behind as collector items for the kids in my neighborhood,  Those shells remind me of my writing and my new writing word...exuviate...which means to cast off or shed.  When I am in the middle of a work in progress, I should exuviate any doubts or fears regarding my ability as a writer.  As one blogger so aptly stated, "I am an Author, therefore I Auth!"  Lol...silly I know,  but writers have a driving need to put words to paper, and they have enough to deal with in the actual writing without having to worry about other things like unnecessary "shells" holding them back!

Emma's Lamb (in honor of my mother...who hated her middle name, Emma)
Written by: Kim Lewis
Illustrated by: Kim Lewis
ISBN: 10-0763604240
Ages: 3-8
Teaser:  Emma is asked to look after a lamb while her dad looks for it's lost mother.  Emma thinks the lamb would make a nice pet and she plans to take care of it herself.  Will dad find the lost ewe or will Emma have a new playmate?

Cooking Up Gumbo

Sorry guys, but today's blog post is running a little bit late.  You see, I had to wrestle with this guy and he didn't want to cooperate.  Writing is like making a fine gumbo.  I was raised near the swamps of Louisiana, and I learned early on what goes in that pot.  It takes time and the right ingredients to produce a finished product that anyone could sink their teeth into.

Good writing is the same way.  There are so many ways to create a story but only the right mix will create a story worth reading.

Okra is the foundation of gumbo.  It doesn't matter whether you add chicken, sausage, or seafood.  Some people add rice at the end and others may put in noodles.  You can throw in any vegetables you want, but if you don't have okra...you don't have gumbo!

The foundation of a good story is strong writing skills.  Weak characters, poor grammar, and unsatisfactory endings leave a bad taste in a reader's mouth.  Who would want to sit down to a bland bowl of tasteless gumbo?  And who would want to sit down to a bland, boring book when you have already figured out everything about the story line before you begin?

Gumbo's secret ingredient?  Why file' of course!  File' powder is actually ground up sassafras and it is the added spice that gives gumbo the right kick of flavor.  While you might get lucky and make a good gumbo without this spice, why would you take that chance?

Writing's secret ingredient?  Why it's YOU, the author, of course!  When you allow all the creativity within you to spice up your stories, the real flavor or style of writing comes through.  Anyone can put words onto the computer screen, but it is the writer who allows their writing skills to blend with their own creativity who cooks up a great story.  

A great gumbo takes time and patience to make a meal worth sinking your teeth into...so does great writing...

Enjoy!