Wild Violets: The Years of Hope

© 2012 by Alma Arthur. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   10/18/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6574-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6573-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6572-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012916318

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

The Great Flood and My Birth

Chapter 2

The Time and Place

Chapter 3

Ancient Oak, Davis Cemetery and Mom’s Bouquet, the School Santa

Chapter 4

Starting school, Fairies, Cutting X-mas Tree

Chapter 5

Dad’s Story

Chapter 6

Coming to Terms with the Monster

Chapter 7

Shrimping Picnics at Lake Ponchartrain

Chapter 8

Life before electricity—Daily activities

Chapter 9

Snoopy, the Bully Sheep, Fun and Chores, Star Gazing

Chapter 10

Abita is Electrified, the Magic of Radio, Wrong Way Corrigan

Chapter 11

Dad’s Brother, Edward, Marries Florence

Chapter 12

Mama’s Mail Order Chicks Arrive

Chapter 13

Third and fourth grades—Books and the Parish Fair

Chapter 14

Mom’s surprise—the Piano

Chapter 15

Hunting and Fishing with Daddy

Chapter 16

Mrs. Reeter, Shirley’s Eyes, Dad’s Surgery and Mom’s Flower Project

Chapter 17

Fifth grade, the Winds of March, Kite Flying

Chapter 18

My Many Trips to New Orleans, Exciting Experiences

Chapter 19

1933 Chicago World’s Fair as Told by Matt and Norman Ballatin

Chapter 20

Incidents Remembered With No Exact Time Frame

Chapter 21

1939—The Robert E. Lee, How Green was My Valley

Chapter 22

Mrs. Reeter Returns, Making Indian Baskets and Caning Chairs

Chapter 23

Sixth Grade, Baseball, England at War, Dunkirk, Lou Gehrig

Chapter 24

Attack on Pearl Harbor, December, 1941, Events in early 1942

Chapter 25

Mrs. Reeter Returns—the Bullet Proof Sweaters

Chapter 26

First Half of 1942 and Graduation

Chapter 27

Albert, Dad’s Son is Coming to Visit

Chapter 28

Barnes’ Lawn Party, Disc Jockey, News of the War

Chapter 29

Freshman Year, Dad’s Grim News, Albert’s Death

Chapter 30

First Midnight Mass, Young Voices in the Choir

Chapter 31

Summer of 1943, WWII Continues, the Purloined Boat

Chapter 32

LSU Football Game, WWII Events, Sophomore Year

Chapter 33

D-Day and summer, 1944, Boarding Merchant Ship in Mississippi River

Chapter 34

Junior Year, Battle of Okinawa, Atomic Bombs, and a Tragic Thanksgiving Day, 1944-45

Chapter 35

Senior year, 1945-46, Graduation as Valedictorian

Chapter 36

Enter R.N. Program at Charity Hospital School of Nursing, 1946

Chapter 37

Operating Room, My First Formal Ball

Chapter 38

Obstetrics, Psychiatry, Orthopedics

Chapter 39

Premature Nursery and the Great Hurricane of 1947

Chapter 40

Pediatrics, the Miracle Child Returns

Chapter 41

New Born Nursery and Seeing Aida the First Time

Chapter 42

Accident Room, T.B. Building, Contagion, Graduation

Chapter 43

A Few of my Heroes and Heroines

CHAPTER 1

The Great Flood and My Birth

The time was the waning years of the 1920’s; in the distance could be heard the tolling of the bells—the death knell for the roaring twenties with its’ opulence, excesses, loose morals and speakeasies. The signs of economic uncertainty had been rearing its’ ugly head, but the population thought good times would last forever. The setting for this story is a quaint village in the pine forest of southeast Louisiana, part of the Florida Parishes, famous for its’ wonderful air and pure water. It wasn’t even St. Swithin’s Day which usually was a harbinger of 40 days more rain, but never the less, it had been raining for days, not unusual for June in Southeastern Louisiana. They were not gentle rains, but continual intermittent heavy rains with lighting piercing the sky, followed by ominous rumbles of thunder. John Peters was a tall, sturdily built man of about 40. His face appeared young. It didn’t show the effects of countless years of being outdoors in the sun, working, hunting, fishing, gardening and playing. Perhaps the bright blue eyes and the shock of blond hair gave the false illusion that he was a younger man. Today, June 21st, 1929, he had a worried look about him as he gazed at the menacing black clouds. His wife, Mamie, was very near term with her second child, and he was studying his options in case the Abita River rose higher and more water poured into the surrounding woods and over the highway. John had been walking into town every day to check the river. This day, the current ran swiftly, carrying downed branches with it, whirling and banging into the bridge supports. He was worried. His wife, Mary Alma (Mamie), was expecting her child any day now, and, as he stood with his foot on the bottom rail of the bridge, he pulled his hat down and crossed his arms wondering how the midwife, Mrs. Bender, would be able to cross the bridge in her old beat up Model T if the rampaging river were to overflow its’ banks. She wouldn’t be able to negotiate the current and the high water. He though glumly, that the water would also block him from contacting her when the essential time came. He didn’t have a phone. He would have to get her. Still perusing his options, he walked hurriedly to the post office, his fingers filing along the rows of combination boxes until he reached his box, # 205. He pulled out a single envelope and noted the return address—one of Mamie’s sisters, Lillian. He stuffed it in his pocket, and lowered his face against the warm rain that had just begun again and hurried home, where the aromas coming from his kitchen reminded him that he was hungry. As he sat down, he handed Mamie the letter. It’s from your sister, Lil, he said. Mamie had four other sisters and one brother.

The river was higher the next morning when he surveyed the situation. The road was still passable, but the water had invaded the low lands near the river. For at least ¼ of a mile, the stands of yellow pines were inundated. Even though they were 2nd growth, they were at least 50 years old, and John thought they could withstand the onslaught. He saw a water moccasin slither by. The bridge was being bombarded with debris, and there was two inches of water in the roadway. Not a good sign. The rain had lessened by the time he reached home, but a fresh breeze had sprung up. He fed the livestock, the chickens, and talked to his beloved Llewellen setters. Mary (Mamie) read the newspaper to him. He had Jeanne, their toddler, sitting on his lap as she read. He loved the adventure serial that ran every day in the Times Picayune, but never seemed to end. Mamie was teaching him how to improve his reading skills since he had been taken out of school in the 3rd grade to work for another family for pay and lodging. His mother, Viola Long Peters, couldn’t afford the textbooks, but mainly, he left school because his mother relied on him to help earn income to keep the farm going. Her husband, George Albert Peters had put on his hat one day, left and never came back, leaving her with 5 boys under the age of eleven. Dad was a quick learner and he attempted to read the funnies under her tutelage. Soon, he was reading like a pro.

The night of June 23rd, the wind howled and lightning lit up the sky, and loud claps of thunder came a few seconds later. The rain came in torrents. The sound on the tin roof almost drowned out their voices. They finally fell into an uneasy sleep around nine p.m. Labor pains awakened Mamie. It wasn’t quite time for the baby to come; she had hoped for a few more days until the rains ceased. Mamie put some cord wood in the cast iron stove and lit a match on some kindling, and a nice fire started. She then went into the little bathroom off the back porch, and ran the whiskey still. Prohibition was the law of the land, but, a man was entitled to a little share of cheer after a hard day’s work after all. When Mary finished running the still, she woke up John, this is it-the baby is going to be born today. How soon, he asked? Two or three hours I expect, Mary said. John lost no time. Hurriedly, he flew into his clothes and headed for the garage. There was no way he could make it to Mrs. Bender’s house in his little Ford Woody. There was already 2 feet of water around the house. The road was impassable with the howling wind and the rising water. John had an idea!

He trudged through the water until he reached the lowlands near the river. He swam through the trees, now and then being able to rest on a log. He was forced to swim across the swollen, debris filled river whose current kept carrying him off course. Finally, he was past the river in calm water. He was heading for Morgan’s big resort on the other side of town, whose huge swimming pool he had helped to dig. Moran’s resort rented rowboats. It was nearly five a.m. John negotiated with the proprietor for the use of one of the boats. No charge, Morgan said when he had heard John’s urgent mission. Water was swirling everywhere, branches, and benches and anything that could float was in the mêlée. He navigated his way to the midwife’s house, tied the boat to a big bush and vaulted up the stairs yelling wake up, wake up. Mrs. Bender had had many similar experiences and realizing the significance of John’s tone of voice, she had quickly lit a candle and was dressed. She grabbed her midwife’s bag and an umbrella, and she and John were rowing in the still water now, but as they neared the Abita River, the tremendous current started carrying the boat the wrong way into the river. John fought and rowed with all the strength he could muster. He rowed like a madman, and the clock said 5:30 A.M. when he arrived back home with the midwife. Mrs. Bender went right to work. The wood stove was already quite warm, and the midwife put a kettle of water on to boil and washed her hands. John went by Baby Jeanne’s crib and noted happily that she was sound asleep. Mary’s pains were coming with great frequency now. They were very forceful also. She was very courageous and after twenty minutes of hard labor contractions, John heard the unforgettable wail of the first cries of a newborn baby. It was 6 a.m. sharp. That’s how I made my entrance into the world. I weighed 6 pounds on the kitchen scale. Mrs. Bender stayed with us two whole days and then Dad paid her and rowed her back to her home, thanked her, returned the rowboat to Morgan and swam home. They called me Alma Doris May Peters. So many names!

The very first time that I was cognizant of another human being comforting me is the dimmest recollection registered in my brain. I knew that I was cold, and very uncomfortable. A loving person with soft, tender hands plucked me from my crib and held me closely to her warm body. I heard soft sweet tones of comfort. She took off the soggy, offending clothes and placed me in warm, soapy water in the round galvanized tub in the kitchen, warmed by the huge cast iron wood stove. The warm water washed over me and the gentle motions of those soothing hands linger in my mind’s eye to this day. She hummed in her sweet voice. The fragrant smelling, soft, dry clothing and the cuddling were to be repeated over and over again. To that dear smiling face with the tender eyes, I remain committed to this day. That was my beloved mother. Both she and my father, John, were in their second marriages, both had lost their spouses to disease some years before.

My first memory of Christmas was when I was two. My crib was in the living room. The room was darkened. All I can remember is a pine-scented tree, and Mama was placing little glass balls on the tree. My older sister, Jeanne, was in the other bedroom, probably asleep. My most vivid image was the little alligator clips that held tiny little candles. Dad lit them all for a minute, and they illuminated the room for a brief while, and then he blew them out; being satisfied that the decorating was done. I was in my crib in the living room, and the sudden glow of all the candles created a moment of luminescence I’d never forget. Then, all was dark. I fell asleep and don’t remember anything else about Christmas for a few more years. Funny-the things you remember.

CHAPTER 2

The Time and Place

Before I begin my story, I would like to make the reader aware that there were four of us sisters—Jeanne, Lee, and Shirley and me who grew up in exactly the same circumstances, but our perceptions of events differ widely from each other. It is as if the reality is a two way road—the input to and from the characters involved depend greatly on the psyche and personality of the players. My sisters may have a slightly different version of this story due to their own private recollections, but I will set down my remembrances as best I can. Many of the characters’ names have been changed to protect their privacy. My birth in 1929 ushered in the Great Depression and ended the era of the flappers. The piece of land where I grew up could hardly be called a farm, but it was two and a half acres of fruit and pecan trees, potatoes, tomatoes, melons, okra, corn, beets, greens, squash, butter beans, yams and all manner of fruits and vegetables. My mother planted flowers every spring, and reveled at the beauty of the narcissus that sprang up every spring after lying dormant in the cold ground all winter. The joy of my mother’s life was the beautiful wisteria tree that perfumed the summer air with its fragrance and wafted its scent through the window where Mom always sat at her 1917 treadle sewing machine.

The town that Mom and Annie, her sister, choose to build a summer home was a paradise—clean air, sparkling cold artesian water, bountiful trees and green meadows, birds singing all day long, a gorgeous river, and a prosperous town with a dance pavilion, three stores, two meat markets, lots of open space and a huge swimming pool resort area, a town hall with huge playing field across from it, a baseball team, track meets, and a marching band. There was also a Lutheran church and a Catholic church and a brand new two story brick school plus a train station.

Our home was white with plantation green shutters, four rooms and baths, a front and back porch, shotgun configuration, topped with a tin roof. It was set back about 60 yards from a lightly traveled blacktopped road. The living room was quite spacious and doubled as a bedroom. It was decorated with the furniture from my mother’s first marriage. In the large second bedroom were two double beds, a wood burning heater, Mom’s 1917 treadle Singer sewing machine, a square table, adorned with a starched and ironed fabric with Mexican drawn work, 4 chairs and a huge closet. On the wall, there was a beautifully framed picture of a benevolent Jesus with hands held out as if he was giving a blessing. Mom’s beloved 4 feet tall, wind up Victrola (record player) with all its’ records occupied a prominent place due to its importance. Generous sized windows with neat lacy curtains on the east and west sides of the room completed the picture. The massive kitchen /dining room held a huge wooden table made by my father, and seemed to be a focal point where most activities took place. It was rustic, but warmly comfortable. A huge wood burning cast iron stove was used for cooking and heating. There was no running water—the water had to be hand pumped and carried in to the sink from the outdoors. My father had made a large pantry with shelves, as well as, a medicine cabinet out of reach of children. There was a small bathroom off the kitchen and a spacious covered back porch. There was also a large, round cistern for collecting rainwater. The icebox was out on the large enclosed rear porch. There was a claw-footed bathtub in the bathroom was used only in the summer (the house was built as a summer cottage). Just off the back porch was the hand cranked pump that supplied drinking and irrigation water. The detached garage held the 1925 Ford Woody, tools, stove wood piled floor to ceiling, nesting boxes for the chickens to lay their eggs or brood their young. The chicken house was used to milk the cows, or for the suckling calves to nurse. A fenced in enclosure kept any animal from escaping to the garden area or to the pasturelands and pine forests beyond. The reason it was called the chicken house was because the chickens wandered in toward twilight and climbed up onto the roost where they slept at night. Attached to the garage was a smoke house. Behind the garage was the outhouse with the old issues of Montgomery Ward and Sears Roebuck catalogs stored on a shelf for toilet paper. The building to the east and back of the house held a multitude of wondrous items—the large 30 gallon crocks with sauerkraut and fruitcakes wrapped in cheese cloth and dampened with brandy monthly, a corn grinding mill for chicken feed, shelves lined with canned jars of figs, pears, tomatoes, blackberries for winter pies, pickled hard boiled eggs in jars, relishes, jellies, jams and pickles. There were barrels of feed for the cattle and chickens, boxes of wonderful Stuart pecans and other produce harvested throughout the year. Years later, I would be present at a most magical time for me. It was when Mama opened her grandmother’s steamer trunk from 1834. The top was domed with hammered metal straps and decorated around the lock and fasteners, but when she lifted the domed top, there were sweet little angels flying around in a cerulean blue sky with fleecy clouds of white, rimmed with gold. Mama handled each object she touched tenderly and looked at some old pictures. Sometimes she would wipe a tear from her eyes. It would be years later before I learned about the devastating losses she had suffered. She did not share her tragedies with her children; she didn’t want her unhappiness to rub off on us. But a few years later, I heard a song that seemed to sum it up. It was called Among My Souvenirs and the lyrics went: There’s nothing left for me of days that used to be, I live in memories among my souvenirs. Some letters tied with blue, a photograph or two, I see a rose from you among my souvenirs. As the teardrops start, I find a broken heart among my souvenirs.

Mama, as well as, her four sisters and one brother were born in the 1890’s to 1904, the Gay Nineties. They came of age in the early 1900’s. Their children were born between 1916 and 1919, and grew up in the prosperous era from the end of WWI to 1929. Most of my aunt’s and uncles were in the grocery, restaurant and bar business. Business was booming!! But they worked very hard. In 1925, Annie and Mamie decided to build a vacation house in the healthy piney woods near Abita Springs, just north of Lake Ponchartrain. My father, John, turned out to be the builder they contacted to build a small vacation residence alongside a big stand of virgin pine trees. To the rear of the property were grasslands for about 3 miles and to the north second growth timber. Just a half-mile away was the little town of Abita Springs. Between the town and the new property were two regionally famous hotels with French chefs, a beautiful river with many moods, more second growth yellow and long leafed pines (now about 50 years old) mingled with hickory, live oaks, sweet gums, hawthorns, and elms; a mixed hardwood forest with many varieties of flowers, and vines, honeysuckle, Casino berry trees, May Haws, huckleberries, and black berries. This was how Mary (Mamie) met John, fell in love, was married in 1926, and started a family. They lived in the new house, planted fruit and nuts trees, vegetables and flowers. In the summer, Mamie’s relatives from New Orleans came quite often for swimming and hiking and strolls in the forest. It began as an idyllic life, but that was soon to change. It was the end of a time of radical social change, loose morals and carefree living. It was the onset of the Great Depression. Depression or not, it would prove to be a paradise in which we four sisters grew up, oblivious to the famine and suffering in many parts of the country until we were older.

The Long Branch property was about a quarter mile from our home, and was to play an important role in our lives, so I’ll write about its’ beginnings and tell you a little bit about the village of Abita Springs. The Long Branch area, which had been a part of the Davis land grant, contained about 12 acres and was sold to a Mr. Frank Lenel, who proceeded to construct a huge two-story hotel. In June, 1880, the St. Tammany Farmer, the local newspaper, reported that the new hotel would open on June 10th. Coursing through the northeast portion of the property was a small tributary of the Abita River known as the long branch of the Abita River, from which the hotel received its name. Just one month later, Mr. Lenel, about 60 years old, went for a walk in the woods in the direction of town, and was never seen

The Annex Hotel—This building was an annex to the tremendously popular Long Branch Hotel. They were run by the Loustalow brothers, Joseph and Arnold.

The grounds were very spacious, shaded by large pines. There were three or four bungalows for rent by the week or by the month in addition to the large hotel. The brothers were gourmet French chefs and Arnold was a fabulous pastry chef. A path through the pines led to the foot bridge across the Abita River to the Pavilion. A second larger foot bridge crossed the river on the other side of the crescent and led into the little village of Abita Springs.

again. Ownership passed to his heirs. They inherited the heavily wooded land, the large guest house, mainly for single gentlemen, the main Hotel with 16 large rooms, and the Spring House pavilion over an artesian spring under pressure, which survives to this day, carriage houses, stables for horses (long gone), a bath house, and gorgeous grounds covered with lawns, Eastern red cedars, sweet gums, hawthorns, gardenias, crepe myrtles, pine trees, hickory trees, May haw trees, huckleberry and blackberry bushes, wild azaleas and jasmine and many others whose names allude me. On the western edge, past the boundaries of the hotel property was the ring of ancient oaks with the largest tree (the sacred tree to the Choctaw Indians) in the center. Folklore has it that this was also the site that Gentleman Jim Corbett used to train for his New Orleans fight with John L. Sullivan. Our home was a quarter mile from the Long Branch Hotel with nothing but forest in between.

Beginning about 1900, the people of New Orleans discovered the beautiful village (originally a Choctaw Indian village) north of Lake Ponchartrain. Soon they were enjoying the clean, fresh air and clear waters of Abita Springs. The town flourished with the tourist trade, and the Long Branch owners purchased 16 acres of a wooded tract of land, adjacent to their property, across a dirt road that would later become Highway 36. They built a more modern hotel with 20 guest suites and three or four cottages

for families and called it the Annex Hotel. Visitors enjoyed dancing, playing games and strolling along the path that led to the little bridge over the river that led directly to the Abita Town Pavilion. The Abita Pavilion was a very large two-story structure, which has quite an interesting history.

This is one of the main buildings of the Long Branch Hotel. Photo was taken in 1990 when it was vacant and had some deferred maintenance. During the time of the Loustalow ownership everything was ship shape. Their business was thriving and people came from New Orleans and even from the European embassies to partake of the cuisine. There were other buildings and a tea house pavilion with an artesian spring in the middle where the guests gathered in midafternoon. The grounds were magnificent with a large variety of flowering bushes mixed among the large pines and other trees. Odette and Joseph Loustalow brought the place to life with his gourmet expertise and her bubby personality and musical ability.

It seems that at the New Orleans 1884 World Industrial and Cotton Exposition there was an enormous room that held a lot of architectural buildings, including a lovely building known as the White Kiosk designed by the famous architect, Thomas Sully. It had a high-pitched roof with a center point and was open on all sides. Encouraged by the success of the new hotels, grocery and drug stores, boarding houses and the hordes of visitors, the town’s elected officials purchased the White Kiosk when the cotton exposition ended. They dismantled it, transported it by rail cars and reconstructed it at the site over the famed artesian spring, which was at a crescent configuration of the Abita River. Two bridges connected it to the paths from the 2 largest hotels and a second long elevated bridge connected it to the town proper. To protect it in times of flooding, a levee about 14 feet high surrounded the kiosk. The lower level was paved about 30 feet from the spring in all directions, making about a 60-foot area. There was a concrete drainage ditch that carried the run-off from the spring to the river. It became the focal point for the town then, and still is to this day. The top floor was a huge dance floor with benches built around the perimeter. The views of river and pine and hardwood forest, and wild flowers were exceeding impressive. Many parties and dances were held there through the years. Bands played the latest syncopated Ragtime rhythms, and the fashionably dressed visitors, danced Square Dances, The Charleston, The Cake Walk, The 4 Step, The Turkey Trot, The Bunny Hug, and always The American Waltz which was slower and more romantic than the frenetic pace of the European waltz. Even the children used the pavilion for playing, skating, playing Jacks, dodge ball, etc., especially when it rained, for the structure had a very large overhang to its’ roof, which kept the dance floor dry.

Toward the end of the 1880’s, the excursion trains began arriving from New Orleans to a large assembly of locals at the new train depot across from Trauch’s Grocery. The town band played as the passengers (hotel guests) disembarked from the train to great fanfare. The guest also came by stagecoach and by water. Thirty or more steamships plied Lake Ponchartrain between Mandeville and New Orleans. A few of their names were the Pine Land, Pleasure Ship, Ozone, Heroine, and Camellia.

One of the visitors in 1905, Odette Dazelle arrived in Abita to stay all summer at the Mutti Hotel (long since destroyed by fire). Her parents, who lived in the French Quarter in New Orleans, had sent her there in order that she would escape Bronze John (yellow fever) which was ravaging New Orleans for the last time. She was fifteen years old, and had been born in the Vieux Carré (old square) in New Orleans. Her parents came from Mazeral, France. Odette fell in love with Abita—the dancing and music, attending the little wooden Catholic church, the woods and flowers, the continual activities of the townspeople meeting the trains, the bustle of the carriages and tally-ho’s, watching the well to do people who came in all their finery to the grand hotels. She visited the Long Branch Hotel and rejoiced in the beauty of the grounds. In time, a lot of the hotels were lost to fire, business slacked off due to the ominous clouds of war on the horizon, yellow fever had been conquered, the Model T allowed people to travel in all directions. So, businesses closed and the heyday of the town was gone. Abita still had a lot of great boarding houses, award winning water, the great pine forests, the wholesome air and the river. The Long Branch Hotel and The Annex Hotel prevailed, but there was to be new owners in their future—the vivacious and beautiful Odette, her husband and brother-in-law, two fabulous French chefs.

In 1913, Odette Dazelle married Joseph Loustalow, from the Basque region in the Pyrenees.

Arnold was a Paris trained chef of great repute and his brother, Joseph, had many culinary talents, as well as being a master pastry chef. In 1922, they purchased the Long Branch Hotel and Annex Hotel, and 28 acres of land with a stream running through it. They had the means to completely overhaul, remodel and redecorate the old 1880 buildings to comply with modern standards. When they drilled a new well, it tapped into a huge artesian reservoir that gushed strongly to deliver the pure cold water to the second stories of the buildings without any mechanical assistance. With the superb talents of this trio, the Long Branch received a new lease on life for about 20 more years. The culinary arts of the Loustalow brothers combined with the charm of Odette as a terrific hostess was a winning combination. Word spread like wild fire of the new hotels whose repasts rivaled those of Paris. Diplomats from foreign countries, mainly France and Belgium, and other dignitaries from abroad gave the hotel a continental flair. The food was magnificent and the setting perfect for relaxing. Odette was an accomplished hostess and musician, playing waltzes and classical selections for her guests. She could improvise a song if a guest gave her a few bars. Her piano was a player type with rolls, so the guest could play music in their spare time. Odette would tell stories, mostly jokes that were risqué to her and her brown eyes would twinkle as she laughed. The jokes were far from risqué, but her laughter at her own jokes was contagious and soon everyone was laughing.

In 1925, the old wooden Catholic Church was replaced with a new brick one and it had an amazing pipe organ. The school and Lutheran Church were also built to replace the old ones. Mr. Morgan had his dream of a huge natural pool, picnic grounds, and dance pavilion for tourists. It did come to fruition a little later.

The most wonderful feature of the town of Abita was the pristine Abita River, packed with fish, having sand bars for kiddies to wade in and catch minnows, and deep clear cold holes for swimming and diving. It was a river of many moods from tame to rampaging. But most of all, it was beautiful.

CHAPTER 3

Ancient Oak,

Davis Cemetery and Mom’s Bouquet, the School Santa

Another early childhood memory was the walk along the wide grassy path behind our little farm to the majestic old oak tree that had stood for centuries like a sentinel guarding the Davis cemetery. The road continued past the cemetery, past the back of the Long Branch Hotel’s spacious grounds and emerged on the Range Line Road. The path had at one time been part of a subdivision, with lots marked out, and was supposed to become a street when the project was approved. It never happened. Range cattle and an occasional wagon used it and as a result, the grass was kept short, making a great path to our favorite picnic spot under the ancient oak. Mama always packed a lunch of punch, sandwiches, fruit and nuts, and an old blanket to sit upon. We kids carried the lunch carefully. We hurried along the path, as the low hanging branches of the oak, carved out like saddles beckoned us to mount them as prancing steeds. We played in the tree until Mom called us to lunch. We ate ravenously, as we were anxious to get back to the tree. We soon learned that with one person in the dip we called the saddle, and 2 or 3 of us pushing and pulling on the terminal end of the branch, the tree would become a bucking bronco. Of course, we look turns and even got Mama to take a little ride. As we got older and stronger, we followed the branches upward into the heights of the tree, where we were able to see our house and for miles across the open grasslands to a little stream that we didn’t know existed, about 2 ½ miles out. We would have to explore that area soon and have another great adventure. Before we left for home, we measured the girth of the immense tree. Mama and four little girls, holding hands could barely reach around the trunk. Mama told us many stories, usually at our insistence. One was that the Choctaw Indians who lived in this beautiful land regarded this tree as sacred, and held their dances and rituals in the very place where we had just eaten our picnic lunch. An outer circle of huge oaks surrounded the biggest one. The Indians thought that was a sign that this was a sacred place. We asked Mom an overabundance of questions. Mom told us that she was born in the city and didn’t know much about the history of our little town, but she did know about the clear artesian springs and pool in the village that was so pure, one could see a pebble down deep in the water. The water was so clear, had such health-giving properties that the old Choctaw chief had his beautiful daughter, Abita, who was dying, carried to the spring to drink its life giving elixir. A miracle happened. Day by day, little by little, her health returned; the color came back to her cheeks, and in a few weeks, she was as good as new. Mama was an entertaining story teller. We soon packed up and left as our many chores were calling to us. On the trek home, we begged Mama to sing some of the many songs she knew. She sang Casey Would Waltz with the Strawberry Blonde, I’ll Be Down to get You in a Taxi, Honey, To You Beautiful Lady, After the Ball, Merry Widow Waltz, The Daring Young Man on His Flying Trapeze, Sweethearts on Parade and others. That night, when we told Daddy about our little adventure, he brought out a little box of Indian arrowheads that he had recovered when he first plowed the land. We handled them gently, examining the sharp, chiseled edges. We girls returned to our beloved oak tree often. It became as sacred to us as to the Indians. The story about the sickly Indian princess gave us the material for many childhood dramas under the pine trees near our home. We took turns being the princess, swooning and falling to the ground to be rescued by Indian braves, running to the spring and returning to administer the restorative potion. Without radio or television, we had to be creative in our play. We were so lucky. We had the whole forest, rivers and grasslands as our playground. We felt as free as the red-tailed hawks that soared above. We didn’t have to pretend too hard!

As summer ended and the nights turned chilly, we listened for the innumerable migratory birds, winging their way to the southern marshes, their winter home. In the daytime, we marveled at their formations. Daddy said the leaders made flying easier for the followers, and they often changed places; he also told us some of the birds would travel as far as South America. He showed me on a map, but I just didn’t comprehend the vast distance he meant. From our beds at night, we heard great hordes of them honking as they flew overhead to a warmer clime. Their numbers seemed endless. Day and night, they proceeded southward in their marvelous formations. We loved autumn; the air was clear and dry; the sweet gum trees turned brilliant red, the temperature was perfect. We saw gorgeous harvest moons due to debris in the air from leaf and meadow burning. Soon a bitter chill in the evening breezes became a harbinger that winter would soon be upon us. Occasionally, it snowed.

I remember once when I was about five, I awakened before the adults to find the grounds covered with 3-4 inches of white stuff (I had seen it on Christmas cards). Out I ran, in my nightgown and with bare feet and began running around the yard, squealing with delight. I picked some up in my hands; put some on my face, oblivious to the fact that my feet were turning blue. Daddy rushed out of the house and swooped me up; he carried me to the kitchen, where he began to rub my feet with towels. The outdoor thermometer registered 8 degrees F. The water in the ditches along the highway was frozen solid. So was the water in tubs and troughs. After a warm breakfast, and properly dressed, we were allowed to play in the snow. Dad helped us make a snowman. What fun!! This was a new experience, and one that happened only rarely. We could walk on water. It was frozen solid as a rock.

A few years after our first picnic by the huge oak, we girls took the liberty to venture into another sacred place, the Davis Cemetery. We were between 5 and 10 years old. The Davises were a prolific family. The U.S. government had given their ancestors the first land grant in the area in 1836. Many of their descendants still lived in our town. There were massive tombs, decorated with angels, smaller tombs less lavishly decorated and tiny tombs for children. Everything was in good condition; there were no weeds, the grass was mown, the fences and gates were wrought iron with no rust. My oldest sister, Jeanne, was the first to muster up the courage to go in. When no lightning bolts struck her dead, we all entered. We respectfully read all the headstones, noting the year they died and how long they had lived upon the earth. Many had died ages ago. We came upon a tiny grave; no longer than 3 feet long. The gravestone read, From Mother’s Arms to the Arms of Jesus. She had died when she was only 6 months old; that small grave made us feel very gloomy. We then climbed up onto the largest tombstone, with the top bedecked with angels and finials. We four little sisters laid down on the flat part (which was as large as a bed and elevated 5 feet about the ground). It was cool to the touch in the summer heat and we fell asleep to the song of the Bob White’s call, and the scampering of the squirrels in the tree branches above. We woke up about an hour later just in time to see a doe with her fawn outside the fence. When we moved, they bolted away, graceful in their retreat. We returned many times to that peaceful scene.

Mama was a devout Catholic, but she rarely attended church except on special occasions such as weddings, funerals, marriages, communions, etc. That was her agreement with Dad, a near atheist, and we girls didn’t like it at all. Mama sent us to the beautiful red brick Church, St. Jane de Chantal, every Sunday, in our best dresses, our patent leather Mary Jane’s, our rosaries, our mother of pearl prayer books and, of course, the customary hats with flowers. We attended catechism