Life's Lessons

It's likely true that the lessons you learn as a teenager do as much to cement the real values in your life as anything else. That said, I spent many of my teenage years attending college in Monroe, Louisiana.

Majoring in geology, I took many science courses but I also dabbled in English and the arts. Probably the most important course that I took at Northeast Louisiana was a lesson in life - a lesson in how to cope in a world filled with no family and mostly strangers.

When I attended Northeast, a gallon of gas cost thirty cents, or less. A Coke was a nickel and you could buy a pitcher of beer for a dollar. My favorite watering hole, along with that of most of the male population of the college was the Trianon. I wrote about the Trianon in my short story A Talk with Henry. Henry was a real person and I took much of the dialogue for the story from actual conversations.

I started college during summer school, at the tender age of seventeen. My Brother Jack and close friend Elwin also attended summer school the same year. The year was 1964. There was an air show at the airport that summer and a local pilot offered plane rides in his Beechcraft Bonanza for a penny a pound. Jack, Elwin and I all took our first ride in an airplane for a cost of less than five dollars.

There is a Bayou that runs through the campus of what is now the University of Louisiana at Monroe. During summer, Bayou DeSiard is a hot spot for students. While not quite Florida, sun bathing students line the beach and it was, and is, a great place to meet members of the opposite sex. Jack, Elwin and I went swimming every day that semester and even light-skinned Eric had a tan before the end of summer.

At night, Jack, Elwin and I would haunt the Trianon. There were gambling machines, the walls black, lighting dim and music loud. We chugged lots of beer and discussed every important world issue there was. At summer's end, Jack and Elwin both flunked out, unable to return the next semester because of poor grades. I made it, passing, but barely.

Today, I can't remember a single course that I took that summer. Grade-wise I almost flunked my first semester in college, but now it doesn't seem so important. Looking back, I think that I probably aced the part of my life that was most significant at the time.

Eric'sWeb

Standing Last in Line

During basic training at Fort Polk, the saying was “Your mind is your own but your butt belongs to the U.S. Army.”

That was true as our drill sergeants told us when to eat, smoke, sleep and take a toilet break for six weeks. We were also poked and prodded by doctors and dentists, and had so many injections during that time that my arms felt like pincushions.

With large numbers of soldiers passing through the facility, it was easy to contract various diseases from the troops. Mostly it was just colds and sore throats but often enough it was killer meningitis.

The injections usually occurred early in the morning, right after breakfast, leaving lots of daylight to deal with bad reactions to the various serums. Once, after a Plague injection, ninety percent of my Company had severe reactions that included vomiting and passing out. We were standing in formation when the troops began dropping in their tracks

Marilyn asked me today if I’d ever had an injection to protect against meningitis.

“I don’t have a clue,” I answered. “We often had multiple shots at the same time and they usually didn’t bother telling us what they were for.”

The doctors and nurses giving the injections would often form a gauntlet, three or four on each side, all carrying pneumatic needles that looked like air pistols. We would line up and roll up both sleeves and then parade through the gauntlet. The result was often bloody and painful.

You never wanted to be last in line. Those going first would trot past us, moaning in mostly faked pain as blood streamed down both their arms. It didn’t matter much because there were many more injections in our future. Next time, they might be standing last in line and it would be our turn to cause them mental grief as they awaited their fate.

Gondwana

Family Spirits

The dictionary defines triskaidekaphobia as the fear of the number 13. Today is Friday the thirteenth, supposedly an unlucky day. My day started in frustration with me thinking things are going badly for me. It made me think, which spirit have I angered. My first thought was my Mother.

My Mom died of lymphoma about two years ago. She was eighty-five when she died and mentally as sharp as a twenty-year-old. She fought her cancer until the end because she didn’t want to leave my Dad, who has advanced Alzheimer’s, alone. I assured her, just before she died, that Brother Jack and I would look after him.

I have wondered lately if she is keeping an eye on things and somehow unhappy with the way Jack and I are managing things. I have thought this for sometime now because my “Magic Moonflowers” haven’t bloomed since she died.

I don’t know if any of this is true, but last night I called on the spirits of my Grandpa and Grandma Pitt, my Mom’s parents, to intercede if this is truly the situation. Jack and I are far from perfect and neither of us can be with Dad as many hours each week as he would like us to. I also know that no one could ever take care of him as good as my Mom Mavis.

Now I know lots of you out there don’t believe in spirits, but today my luck took a turn for the best. Two very positive things that I had almost given up on happened and I have had a mile-wide grin on my face since noon.

I know the world is an imperfect place. I have thought many times that no one can do anything as well as I. I also know that when things don’t go right you often tend to blame the ones you love the most. I’ve known this since I was a child.

My Mom and my Grandma Pitt were very close and never a day passed that they weren’t together. Brother Jack and I were no angels and got into trouble on a daily basis but we always knew that Grandma Pitt would intercede on our behalf, no matter what mischief we had caused. Grandpa Pitt would back her up and tell my Mom to cut us some slack.

“They are just being boys,” he would say.

Today is Friday the 13 and a chill wind is blowing outside the house. I am happy as I keyboard this story because I realize that “family” is the single strongest entity that exists and that I can still grab my Grandma’s spirit leg and ask her to protect me, and know that she will.

Gondwana

Stealing From the Dead

As I sat out by the pool tonight, playing with my pugs, I recalled something from my past when I glanced up at the full moon partially covered with pregnant clouds.

I have mentioned many times that Halloween is my favorite holiday. There was little or no crime during my childhood in Vivian, Louisiana and the parents allowed us to stay out until the wee hours on Halloween night. Despite the darkness, I can only recall being frightened on one occasion.

Darkness comes early in late October and it was well after dark when Rod, Wiley and I left my house, intent on collecting lots of candy and treats. Parents didn’t accompany their kids when I was young. They didn’t need to. The three of us had hit every house on our block. We were moving east when we first encountered a church group engaged in a scavenger hunt.

“We have to get a flower from the cemetery,” a girl’s voice dressed as a witch told us in passing.

“Let’s get that piece of obsidian from the graveyard,” Rod said. “You’re not scared, are you?”

“Not me,” Wiley said.

“I ain’t scared,” I said. “But we shouldn’t steal from the graveyard just because it’s Halloween.”

“You’re a wus, Eric. You wait here and Wiley and I will get the obsidian.”

“You ain’t going no place without me,” I said. “We’ll see who the wus is.”

Louisiana is always humid. Halloween night had a rare full moon that year, but rapidly moving clouds covered much of the stars and moon. Vivian is hilly, the town cemetery at the top of the highest hill. The pumpkin moon had just disappeared behind a cloud when we reached the top of the hill and headed for the obsidian grave. When we reached it, we found something unexpected.

There is no obsidian in Louisiana, at least not natural obsidian. Someone had placed a large chunk of the rock at the foot of someone’s grave. As an amateur rock hound, I lusted after it. I had talked about it so much that both Rod and Wiley also coveted it. Stealing it from the dead was another matter. I had the big hunk of obsidian in my hand when I noticed someone kneeling in front of the headstone.

The person looked like a witch and at first I thought it was the girl on the scavenger hunt. When the person stood and faced us, I realized that it wasn’t.

I was close enough that I could smell the dank fabric of the dark clothes the woman wore. When she turned to face me, I thought she was wearing a mask. As I stared at her, I realized that she wasn’t.

Rod and Wiley didn’t hang around; they ran away when they realized the person was not a trick-or-treater. I looked at the ugly old woman, my heart racing, still holding the hunk of obsidian in my hands. When she raised her hands over her head and took a step toward me, I screeched at the top of my lungs and started running. I didn’t stop until I was at the bottom of the hill where I found Rod and Wiley.

“Did you get it?” Rod asked.

“No thanks to either of you.”

I kept the hunk of obsidian for two days, but my conscience wouldn’t let me keep it. I returned it to the cemetery, placing it at the foot of the grave where I had found it. I forgot about the old woman until tonight when a full moon cloaked by pregnant clouds reminded me again.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Shave and a Haircut

There were two barbershops in Vivian when I was growing up. My friend Rod lived up the street and his dad Coy owned one of them. When I was old enough to start getting my hair cut by myself, I began frequenting Rod’s dad. Before then, I always went with my Dad and his instructions to the barbers were always to cut my hair short – I mean very short.

I had a hybrid crew cut – flattop until I went away to college. It wasn’t even much of a flattop, more of a cowlick just above my forehead. I usually left the barbershop with only about a quarter-inch of hair on the top, hair pointing skyward with the help of a liberal dose of butch wax that was sticky and smelled bad.

College separated me from Dad and I was able to let my hair grow for the first time in my life. For me it was a liberating experience. When I met Anne, she introduced me to Tony, her stylist and one of the best hair cutters in the world. He kept my hair in top shape for years.

Last year, the oil business became so hectic that I had little time to make an appointment for a haircut two weeks in advance so I began dropping in to the local barbershop instead. I went today and the look and feel of the old shop sent waves of nostalgia coursing through my memory.

There were four barber chairs in the place - all antiques - seated firmly amid the floor’s black and white tile. The barber buzzed my hair with his clippers, and then shaved me with a straight razor lubricated by hot foam. He finished by slicking my hair back with a glob of sticky pomade.

My Dad is in a rest home now and they have a professional stylist on staff. Last time I visited, his hair looked like that of a pampered movie star preparing for a possible Oscar-winning role.

My Dad now has a well coiffed head of hair, not a strand out of place. Meanwhile, I’m trying to wash the goop out of my own hair as I wonder what I look like. I guess we’ve come full circle.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Old Friends and Ex-Wives

While digging through a box in my garage I found an old photo of ex-wife Gail and myself. With us were three of my four best early friends. I took the picture, using the camera’s timer function, at the Vivian bowling alley, a business defunct for thirty years. A wave of memories swept over me as I gazed at the faded photo causing me to ponder all my friends, ex-wives and ex-lovers.

Gail is long gone; I haven’t seen her in years, but I still stay in touch – although infrequently – with Tim, Rod and Wiley. Although married three times (a fact I would have never dreamed) Gail is my only ex. Anne and I were married twenty years when she died. Marilyn and I are still married. While I only have one ex-wife, I have a slew of ex-lovers. About the only difference is a signed marriage license.

An ex-lover is not simply someone you once had sex with. During the pre-AIDS era one-night stands were commonplace and I had my share of nameless and faceless encounters. An ex-lover is someone you were close to for months, or maybe even years, and someone you remember vividly. I can count my ex-lovers on one hand.

No matter how memorable they were, all my ex-lovers and ex-wives are long gone. It’s different with my friends. As I look at the old photo I realize all my friends - while they may be far away - are all still around.

Gondwana

Domino Parlors and Old Fords

Marilyn and I were driving through downtown Edmond when she asked me to stop the car. She wanted to show me the building where the pool hall and domino parlor was once located.

"Pull into the alley,” she said

The only entrance to the domino parlor was through the alley. Edmond condoned dominos but not, it seemed, on Main Street. It was a little different in Vivian, Louisiana where I grew up.

We looked behind the building where the parlor was once located. Replaced by the back entrance of a gift shop, it was not there anymore, but it got me to thinking about the domino parlor and pool hall in Vivian.

My grandfather and Uncle Grady were both pipefitters by trade. The nature of their job often predicated that they were away from home a lot, often in different states, building an electrical generation plant, or such. When they weren't away from home they could usually be found in downtown Vivian, at the pool hall, playing dominos.

When my grandfather finally retired, he spent much of his time in the domino parlor, driving downtown around ten every morning. He generally stayed there until it was time to eat dinner.

I never saw either Grandpa Pitt or Uncle Grady drink a beer or slug a shot of whiskey. I think that Grady was a teetotaler but I heard from my Mother that Grandpa was known to take an occasional nip of whiskey.

Grandpa lived to almost a hundred, but he quit driving sometime in his eighties. It happened abruptly when he pulled out on Louisiana Highway One into the path of an oncoming truck. The collision totaled Grandpa's Ford Fairlane. He was unhurt except for a few bruises and scratches. By this time, Uncle Grady had taken over the reins of family patriarch. He informed Grandpa that he had seen the last of his driving days and he absolutely refused to let him buy a new car.

Losing his driving credentials did not stop Grandpa from frequenting the domino parlor. He began walking to town every morning and then back home at night - even until he was almost ninety years old.

My good friend Rod and I visited the den of iniquity one weekend when we were both home from college. The place reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Old men sat at the table's playing dominoes and they didn't bother looking up when we entered the door.

Red paint on the floor had almost worn away by decades of work shoes and oilfield boots walking across it. The pool tables were probably mahogany but the wood had so many cigarette burns that it was hard to tell. Their red velvet stained almost black. The two teens with arm tattoos and cigarettes in their mouth didn't bother looking up as Rod I gave the place the third degree.

My grandfather died when he was ninety-seven years old. He continued playing dominoes until he became a little senile and I think that he finally forgot how to play.

While Edmond is growing - now the third largest town in Oklahoma - Vivian is in decline. There are no new businesses to speak of, except for the Wal-Mart on Louisiana Highway One. Main Street Edmond is growing while Main Street Vivian is largely a row of empty buildings.

I doubt that most teens today have even heard of dominos, but I bet Grandpa Pitt and Uncle Grady are playing right now with the angels in heaven. I don't know if they have old Fords there, but if they do Grandpa probably drove one to the parlor.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

A Bayou Runs Through It

It's likely true that the lessons you learn as a teenager do as much to cement the real values in your life as anything else. That said, I spent many of my teenage years attending college in Monroe, Louisiana. Majoring in geology, I took many science courses but I also dabbled in English and the arts. Probably the most important course that I took at Northeast Louisiana was a lesson in life - a lesson in how to cope in a world filled with no family and mostly strangers.

When I attended NLSC, a gallon of gas cost thirty cents, or less. A Coke was a nickel and you could buy a pitcher of beer for a dollar. My favorite watering hole, along with that of most of the male population of the college was the Trianon. I wrote about the Trianon in my short story A Talk with Henry. Henry was a real person and I took much of the dialogue for the story from actual conversations.

I started college during summer school, at the tender age of seventeen. My Brother Jack and close friend Elwin also attended summer school the same year. The year was 1964. There was an air show at the airport that summer and a local pilot offered plane rides in his Beechcraft Bonanza for a penny a pound. Jack, Elwin and I all took our first ride in an airplane for a cost of less than five dollars.

A Bayou runs through the campus of what is now the University of Louisiana at Monroe. During summer, Bayou DeSiard is a hot spot for students. While not quite Florida, sun bathing students line the beach and it was, and is, a great place to meet members of the opposite sex. Jack, Elwin and I went swimming every day that semester and even light-skinned Eric had a tan before the end of summer.

At night, Jack, Elwin and I would haunt the Trianon. There were gambling machines, the walls black, lighting dim and music loud. We chugged lots of beer and discussed every important world issue there was. At summer's end, Jack and Elwin both flunked out, unable to return the next semester because of poor grades. I made it, passing, but barely.

Today, I can't remember a single course that I took that summer. As far as grades are concerned, I almost flunked my first semester in college, but now it doesn't seem so important. Looking back, I think that I probably aced the part of my life that was most significant at the time.

Fiction South

Vivian's Jones Pond

While growing up in Louisiana, I came face-to-face with water moccasins on several occasions. My closest encounter remains vivid in my memory.

My friend Barry lived near a pond that resided deep in the woods behind his house. Jones Pond had the best visibility in north Louisiana - about six feet. This is significant because the water in nearby Caddo Lake is so opaque that you can barely see your hand in front of your facemask.

Barry and I, both snorkeling enthusiasts, would often trek through the thickly forested area to go swimming. The pond was small, covering no more than an acre or so. It was also shallow - less than twelve deep.

Thick vegetation grew all the way to the pond's edge and fallen branches and brush littered its bottom. We often saw snakes, squirrels, armadillos, etc., that lived near the pond. It didn't stop us from swimming there because the water was clear - oh so very clear.

One warm summer day, I was swimming in the pond. After taking a deep breath, I dove to the bottom of the pool and began swimming through felled branches - north Louisiana's version of a coral reef, at least in my imagination. Many fish lived in the pond and I was nose to nose with a small bream.

Suddenly, out of the submerged brush, a large viperous head, complete with slanted eyes and large fangs set against a white background, appeared. The head was attached to the heavy body of a reptile. I knew in a moment that it was a cottonmouth.

Thankfully, the snake wasn't interested in me and I saw him grab the bream in his mouth. I didn't wait around to watch him swallow it, flipping around and stroking as fast as I could for shore.

I didn't wait for Barry to come up for air. "What's the matter with you?" he asked when he came out of the woods and found me in his back yard.

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you," I said, barely mustering a grin.

Gondwana

Brennan's Bananas Foster

Brennan’s in New Orleans is famous for many dishes, including their brunch, but their signature dessert is Bananas Foster. I found this recipe on their website and they explain that New Orleans was once the primary destination for Central and South American bananas. This is one of those desserts you need to put on your bucket list.

Brennan’s Bananas Foster

¼ cup (½ stick) butter
1 cup brown sugar
½ teaspoon cinnamon
¼ cup banana liqueur
4 bananas, cut in half lengthwise, then halved
¼ cup dark rum
4 scoops vanilla ice cream

Combine the butter, sugar, and cinnamon in a flambé pan or skillet. Place the pan over low heat either on an alcohol burner or on top of the stove, and cook, stirring, until the sugar dissolves. Stir in the banana liqueur, and then place the bananas in the pan. When the banana sections soften and begin to brown, carefully add the rum.

Continue to cook the sauce until the rum is hot, and then tip the pan slightly to ignite the rum. When the flames subside, lift the bananas out of the pan and place four pieces over each portion of ice cream. Generously spoon warm sauce over the top of the ice cream and serve immediately.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

French Quarter Pics - circa 2006

Here are a few NO pics taken in 2006 during my trip to check out the results of Hurricane Katrina.

Fiction South

Curing the Cat

My good friend Dave Beatty of Livingston, Louisiana sent me this story, and the picture of his cat. No, he doesn’t have a degree in veterinary medicine but he apparently knows how to cure a sick kitty.

Curing the Cat

My cat has allowed me to live with him for the past thirteen years, his whole life. He’s always been a little eccentric but lately he has taken to lying in the dirt tray I put out for the birds to dust themselves.

About a week ago, he got sick and didn’t eat for three days. He looked so puny that I really thought he was about to die. Despite his eccentricity, I really love the cat so to avoid further trauma following his death, I pre-dug a hole for his final resting place in what has become my pet grave yard (several pets from me and my sister reside there).

Maybe he was watching me on his walks around my property (sorry his property), or saw the hole I had dug. Something must have made him think because from the day I dug the hole, he got progressively better.

Now he is eating again and running around like a kitten, well almost. Just in case, I haven’t yet covered up the hole and I turn a few spades of dirt every day when I think he is watching.

He’s not only made a miraculous recovery, he’s also been a pretty good cat lately - except I just can’t keep him out of the bird’s dirt tray.

Fiction South

Mayhaws and Other Wild Louisiana Things

Growing up in northwest Louisiana, I recall trekking to Jeems Bayou in search of wild mayhaws so my mother could make mayhaw jelly. Although I didn’t know it at the time, this is the fruit of a variety of Hawthorne bush that grows profusely throughout the south, especially in swampy environments. Jeems Bayou, near Caddo Lake is a perfect spot for the elusive mayhaw.

Mayhaw jelly is thought by many to be the finest jelly in the world. I can’t argue with that sentiment. If you can find a jar, buy it and try it. You won’t be disappointed.

Mayhaws grow ripe in May and June, a time of abundant vegetation and wildlife, including snakes, in the area around Jeems Bayou. Once, far from the car and deep in the heavily vegetated area where mayhaws abound, my mother crossed paths with a snake – probably a harmless grass snake. It didn’t matter. It may as well have been a boa constrictor. My mother screamed bloody murder and didn’t stop running until she reached our brown and tan 1950 Ford.

My brother and I found the scene pretty funny but we didn’t laugh when we learned that we had also missed out on mayhaw jelly for the rest of the summer.

Fiction South