Wide Eyes and Gloomy Skies

Thanksgiving was one of my favorite holidays while growing up in northwest Louisiana. My Mother had three sisters and a brother. My Grandparents lived but a few blocks from our house and most of my Aunts, Uncles and Cousins would usually come in for the holiday.

My Grandparents, the Pittman’s, usually had Thanksgiving at their house. I loved all of my cousins, but was closest to Cousins Ken and Angela, about the same age as I am. I have lots of younger cousins, and at least one that is older, but I mostly remember Ken, Angela and my brother. I remember one Thanksgiving holiday in particular.

While there weren’t many inclement winters that I remember while growing up in north Louisiana, a certain November was particularly dark and gloomy. For some reason we celebrated that particular Thanksgiving at my parent’s house.

The Pitt’s all loved politics. Whenever they congregated, you could bet there would be a spirited discussion on the subject. It did not matter what half of the group believed, the other half would dispute it, Grandpa Pitt always leading the charge. While the parents argued inside the house, we kids were having fun in the back yard.

None of us kids cared much for politics, and this included my cerebral, and very pretty cousin Angela. We were busy outside, amid a blue Louisiana gloom, thinking only of ways to have fun.

Jack and I were the country cousins, Ken and Angela from Shreveport and Houston, respectively. Jack and I had both had BB guns, bow and arrows and knifes since we were old enough to know better. Ken and Angela had never even popped a cap.

Fireworks weren’t illegal in Vivian during the fifties and sixties. Two-inchers and M-80’s were as legal as they were potentially deadly. Jack and I had made pipe guns, plugged on one end, with a stock for holding and aiming. You would drop a lighted two-incher down the barrel, followed quickly by a marble, aim and wait for the explosion.

Ken and Angela were slathering at their mouths to shoot the guns. Finally, Jack and I acquiesced. The two City Cousins held the barrels in the air as Jack and I dropped two-inchers, followed quickly by marbles down the barrels. They pointed and the resulting explosion was deafening. Jack and I watched with open eyes as the projectiles blew out the windows of my Dad’s garage.

Angela and Ken were oblivious to what they had just done but Jack said, “Oh, shit!”

My own rear end began to pucker.

Jack and I knocked out the remaining glass from the windowpane and discarded the broken shards in the trash. With Thanksgiving festivities in full swing, we got a bye for a few days before my Dad realized what had happened.

When he finally discovered the transgression, he failed to give us the whipping that we anticipated. Instead, he took away our marble guns, and our fireworks. Angela and Ken never received any punishment, and I do not suppose they should have, neither having a clue as to what they were doing when they blew out my Dad’s garage windows.

Yes, Thanksgiving is still one of my favorite holidays. I miss hearing my parents and relatives discussing politics, but mostly I miss those blue Louisiana days when skies were gloomy, and our young eyes wide.

Gondwana