The Watermelon Patch

One of the local farmers grew and sold watermelons.   Dad and his buddies would slip into the watermelon patch at night to steal and eat the watermelons.  Having enough of that and wanting to discourage these young thieves the farmer posted a sign that read,

“ONE OF THESE WATERMELONS HAS STRYCHNINE IN IT!”

Dad, being the kah-nahy kid that he was posted a sign next to the farmers saying,

“AND NOW YOU HAVE TWO!”

Not knowing whether or not this was true, the farmer could sell no more watermelons that season.

(I told you he was bad!)

School Days

The old school bus picked up the farm kids in the area daily and took them to the little school house.  Close your eyes and picture a typical school bus.  Okay, now open your eyes and forget that image because it is nothing like the school bus of old.  Dad describes his bus experience like this. 

“The cab of the bus was homemade out of wood.  They stuck an old engine under it.  There were benches all the way around, an 8 to 10 inch board that you’d sit on.  There were no windows just tarps.  When it was cold Mr. Renee Landry our bus driver would put the tarps down, but when it was hot he would roll up the tarps and tie them up.  Air would pass through.  We had to pick one kid up about a mile back on a dirt road.  When it would rain the bus would get bogged down in deep ruts.  Mr. Renee would make the kids get out of the bus and push, only we would pull cause we didn’t want to go to school.  When the daddy of the boy would see the bus stuck, he would hook up the mules and pull the bus out.  If we misbehaved Mr. Renee would make us kneel on rice next to his seat.  It hurt like hell and would leave rice marks in your skin.  I had a lot of sore knees.” 

That’s my dad!

The school was located behind the church in Leroy.  Every teacher, other than the first grade teacher, taught two grades.  It was a wooden school building with an outhouse that consisted of “a four or five holder and a pee trough.”  There was no toilet tissue, pages from a Sears catalog were used.  The kids would line up knee to knee on the “four or five holder” to do their business   (And our kids think they have it bad!) 

Dad tells this story.  “There was a boy in my third grade class named Harold Vincent.  The teacher didn’t let him go to the bathroom during class one day so he pulled down his overalls, sat on the teacher’s trash can and did his business.” 

So…what do you think would happen if a kid did that today??

If You Didn’t Grow It You Didn’t Eat It

In dad’s words, “If you didn’t grow it you didn’t eat it.”  That was pretty much the rule of the day.  But, occasionally grandma would treat the kids by trading a dozen eggs for a few slices of bologna from Alexander Bonin’s general store.  Once home grandma would fry up the bologna into “little cups” and fill them with pork and beans.  That was a great day on the farm!

Uncle C’s Long Life

1918!  Can you even imagine life in 1918? Think before television and video games.  Think beyond telephones and automobiles.  Think even before electricity, heating, running water and indoor plumbing.  1918 was the year Uncle Carlos was born.  Unbelievable.  It is hard to imagine life in those times, how difficult things must have been.

Uncle Carlos, who is called “Uncle” by many, but actually is uncle to none, was born the third child of a doctor and his wife in Illinois.  To this day Carlos speaks of his father with great respect and often becomes teary-eyed whenever reminiscing about him.  His father was not only a physician, but a scholar and preacher.  His father graduated valedictorian of his medical school class and continued studying and gaining knowledge throughtout his life.  Carlos’ recalls times when his father was gone for days tending to patients in their homes, unable to make it back to his family.  He was a caring, patient man and refused care to no one.  Mostly his pay consisted of a chicken or some eggs, possibly a ham or whatever else a family could spare.

Carlos also speaks lovingly of his mother, a hard-working woman who remained at home caring for the children as her husband cared for others.  Life was hard for women in those days.  There were no gas or electric stoves on which to cook, thus food was prepared over an open fire.  There were no washers or dryers, clothing was scrubbed by hand and hung up to dry.  Winters in Illinois were brutal and his mother worked diligently at keeping a fire going in order to keep the family warm.  Carlos remembers his mother heating bricks over an open fire and tenderly wrapping them in cloth before placing them under the covers at the foot of his bed on cold winter nights to keep him warm and toasty.

It is the stories of his childhood that Carlos loves to share with my family and now I would like to share them with you.  Enjoy!

The Lovely French Language

My father’s ancestors were originally from La Chausiee, Loudun Region, France.  Around 1640, the family departed France, arriving in Port Royal, Acadia, now known as Annapolis Royal, Nova Scotia.  In the mid 1700’s the family was deported to Maryland and later made their way to South Louisiana.  Through the years the family continued to speak their native language, thus dad grew up in a French speaking family.  As a child I remember going to my grandparents’ farm every Sunday for lunch and not being able to communicate with my grandparents.  We would smile and say hello, but other than that I don’t recall ever having a conversation with them.  I think that my grandfather did pick up a few words of English once the grandchildren came along, but my grandmother never really learned the language.

Since the majority of the farming families in the area were also of French heritage, French was the only language spoken amongst the people in their community.  It was not a problem until the children started school.  Dad began school not knowing a word of English.  He sat there dumbfounded, not understanding anything the teacher was saying.  “It sounded Greek to me.”   Initially, the students were allowed to communicate to each other in French, but after a few weeks the principal announced that not a word of French would be tolerated making it difficult for these students to learn.  Dad did not even know how to ask to be excused for the restroom.  At recess, the boys would sneak behind the outdoor commode in order to communicate.  If they were caught they were punished.  They were shamed and looked down upon, therefore the French language became an embarrassment to all those in that area. 

Try as he might dad could not put the French language behind him. It was imbreeded in him. Even while in the Navy every word went through his head in French and then translated into English.  He only learned to recite his prayers in English after he married my mother. 

Growing up my father and mother refused to teach me French.  It was still embarrassing to them.  The only time I heard French in our home was when my parents were talking about things they did not want me to understand or when one of my father’s siblings called.  I picked up a few words here and there and, of course, learned the curse words, but other than that never learned the language.  To this day I regret not being able to speak French.  And to this day my father still thinks in French before speaking in English.

Life Didn’t Get Easier On The New Farm

The difficult farm life got even harder once the family moved to the new place.  Besides cotton they began planting rice.  My grandfather owned six mules that were used to ready the fields and plant the rice – he used two, Elridge (my father’s older brother) used two and dad used two.  They pulled single ear plows in circles around acres and acres of land, turning over the fertile dirt.  Once the dirt was readied, they again walked behind the mules pulling a piece of equipment that resembled a king size rake.  It consisted of iron claws connected to bars.  Two or three pieces of wood were placed on top of this rake, then sacks of dirt were placed on both sides to weigh it down.  Again they went round and round with the mules breaking up the dirt.  When all of the dirt was as fine as silk, a “drop” was used to plant the rice.  Rice was poured into the drop which basically was a bin on wheels,  and paddles inside would turn and drop the rice, thus the name, “drop”.  Once the rice was dropped, my grandfather, dad and his brother hand raked the entire field to cover the rice with dirt.  They then rushed to flood the fields before the birds ate the rice.

The water used to flood the fields came from the Vermilion River.  The water was pumped into Hunter Canal, which curiously enough was owned by private individuals.  The farmers were forced to pay the owners for use of the water.  Gates were used to control the water and a man on horseback rode up and down the canal daily keeping track of whose gate was open and whose was closed.  The farmers would then owe the owners of the canal a percentage of their crops, depending on how much water was used.  At harvest time, the only person with a steam tractor was, of course,  good ole’ Alexander Bonin, the local crook. The steam tractor pulled a thrasher which was used in harvesting the fields.  Mr. Bonin also took a percentage of the farmer’s crops.  

In dad’s words, “Whoever said those were the good old days!”

Black Pepper

Dad’s mother handed him six eggs in a paper sack one day and sent him to Alexander Bonin’s store for some black pepper.  Dad jumped on his horse, eggs securely in hand and rode horseback as quickly as possible.  Once there dad told Mr. Bonin, “Momma wants three eggs worth of black pepper and three eggs worth of candy.”  Mr. Bonin began scooping black pepper in the little canister – he kept scooping and scooping and scooping, filling the container.  Dad thought to himself, “Wow, look all of the black pepper momma will get for three eggs and I’ll get my candy too!”

Mr. Bonin then looked at dad, poured all the black pepper back into the barrel, handed dad the little container and said, “Here, smell this cause that’s all the black pepper you get for three eggs.  Now what does your momma really want?”  Dad, standing there with his head between his legs replied, “Six eggs worth of black pepper please.”

Lesson learned – Don’t lie to Mr. Alexander Bonin, a crook recognizes another crook.

A Little Rascal

Dad wasn’t the best kid around – not the worst, but definitely not the best.  He did tend to get in trouble a bit, nothing serious, just stupid stuff.  He was what the Cajun French people called “kah-nahy” (mischievous for you non-Cajuns).  He tells a story about sitting behind the barn with his brother Elridge eating sugar cane with a butcher knife and chewing on the sweet yummy inside of the stalk.  For some long forgotten reason, dad began to chase his brother with the butcher knife and his Poppa happened to catch him in the act.  Oh-oh!  Poppa dug his pocket knife out, handed it to dad and told him to cut a limb from the peach tree.  Dad came back with the skinniest limb possible.  Poppa sent him back, “Cut one that’s close to the trunk.”  Dad dutifully cut a thick limb close to the trunk, handed it to Poppa and took off running, never looking back.  There was a coulee nearby with a board that stretched across it that dad had never before crossed.  He was too afraid.  But this time, fearing for his life he just kept running, right over the board to the other side.

Dad made his way to his grandparents house right about dinnertime.  When his grandmother didn’t offer him food (which is unheard of for Cajun people), he asked for some supper.  His grandmother refused.  What?  That had never happened before.  She then asked what he had done to anger his father and then sent him on his way.  With nowhere else to go and quite hungry by this time, dad went home, “walking in like a dog done wrong.”   The family was sitting at the table having dinner and dad sat in his usual place across the table from Poppa, hoping his father had forgotten about the incident.  Wrong!  Poppa got up, picked up the peach tree switch from the kitchen cabinet and headed in dad’s direction, grabbing him as dad tried to run again.  In dad’s words, “Poppa whipped and whipped and whipped until I thought he was tired.”  Then Poppa said, “That was for chasing Elridge with a butcher knife, now this is for running away from me,” and the whipping started all over again.  After, it was finally over dad was sent to bed without supper.  

Lesson learned – never run away from Poppa (not sure he ever learned a lesson about chasing Elridge with a knife).

Unscrupulous People, Even Then

There was only one general store near the family farm.  This store was owned by Alexander Bonin who would allow the local farmers to come in and charge items they needed.  Try as he may, Poppa could never clear his debt, it just kept growing and growing so Poppa could never quite get on his feet.   One day Poppa went in to pay on his bill and came home with a stack of receipts. Looking through the receipts Poppa noticed charges that included a new saddle (they owned no saddle, couldn’t afford one), a pair of rubber boots (Poppa owned none) and various other items that had been added to his bill.  Angry, Poppa confronted Alexander Bonin about the charges to his account.  Mr. Bonin’s explanation was that after doing inventory he was short one saddle so he just charged every customer for one.  If they came in to complain as Poppa had, he would credit their account.  As far as the rubber boots, Mr. Bonin explained that Poppa had gone in one rainy day and had no rubber boots on so Mr. Bonin had taken it upon himself to charge Poppa for a pair.  Funny thing was Poppa never left with them.  In fact, knew nothing about them.  Poppa was an uneducated man, but smart enough to know that he was being scammed.

About that time the Bank of Jennings began lending money to local farmers.  Poppa went in, secured a loan to pay off his debt with Alexander Bonin and purchase enough seeds for the year.  By the end of that season Poppa had saved enough money to pay off the bank and still pocket $1,o00.00 cash.  From then on he began paying for everything in cash, no longer charging at Mr. Bonin’s store.  He couldn’t avoid the store altogether since it was the only place around to purchase seeds and other needed items. By the end of the second year Poppa had enough money to buy seeds for the entire year without borrowing money from the bank.  In fact, he did so well he was able to buy a bigger farm in Leroy, paying cash.  One can only imagine how much Mr. Bonin had stolen from the poor, uneducated farmers over the years.

A short time later Poppa had saved enough to buy a family car.  He went to Lafayette by horse and buggy and bought a Henry J.  Poppa paid the man cash and with a handshake purchased his first automobile.  Six months later this same man came to the farm to “repossess” the car.  Apparently the car dealer also owned a finance company and in his books showed Poppa’s car as financed.  Since no papers were signed, no title available back then, the car was repossessed.  A classic case of one man’s word against another’s and with no paperwork to prove that he had paid cash, Poppa lost.  Poppa later learned that the same Henry J automobile had been sold and repossessed by the same dealership several times.   And with a hard lesson learned, it was back to horse and buggy.

The Beginning

In August of 1928 my father, Wiley Joseph Landry, was born at home on a small family farm in South Louisiana. Since the birth took place at home by midwife it was never recorded with the State of Louisiana which, as you can imagine, caused many problems over the years.  The only record that this child existed was a Baptismal record in a little church in Leroy, Louisiana, in which the priest spelled his first name “Willa” the French pronunciation of Wiley.  This error by the priest caused even more headaches as my father grew up and his father “Poppa” eventually had to hire an attorney to have the name changed on the Baptismal certificate, still not bothering with that pesky little birth certificate.

Life on a farm in the 20’s and 30’s was a hard life.  There were no tractors, no combines – there were just mules pulling plows to till the land and the entire family out picking the produce.  They planted what was need to feed the family, the pigs, cows and chickens.  They planted sugarcane to make enough syrup for the year.  It was cut, brought to the mill, cooked down and jarred.  Corn was planted for cornmeal for the cornbread and to feed the chickens.  Sweet potatoes fed the family and the pigs and grandma’s garden grew watermelon, cantaloupe, okra, snap beans, sweet peas and purple hull peas.  Chickens provided the eggs and the meat came from slaughtering the cattle and pigs.  None of this was sold since everyone else in the area grew the same things for the same reason.  The only crop that was grown for sale was cotton – the bane of my father’s existence.  He hated the cotton.  Hated planting it, picking it, everything about it.  I once asked dad at what age he began picking the cotton.  After a slight pause, contemplating my question he answered, “I don’t remember ever not picking cotton.”  They could not afford help so all were required to pick cotton except for one sickly sister.  And then there was the baby of the family, Mary, who at two years followed behind everyone crying.  “Poppa”would get the entire family up very early in the morning to begin picking.  If Poppa woke up at 4:00 in the morning and the moon was bright enough to see the fields, all of the kids were up and working.  Dad’s mother made each of the kids a sack that was slung across their chest to hold the cotton.  They picked before school, were allowed to come in from the fields about an hour before class started to clean up and then were back in the fields again until dark.  In my father’s words, they worked “from can to can’t.”