We lived in a run-down shack, iron gray
weatherworn boards, rusted tin roof, and sagging front porch, about two or
three miles from Chataignier, a small community with about two hundred and
fifty inhabitants. Every week, my father would make the trek to town to buy the
necessities we needed to live on. Sometimes, he would walk. Other times, he
would take the school bus to town. When he returned, he would always have a
small treat for my sister and me. We would run behind him and in excited voices
ask, "Qu'avez-vous acheté pour nous? (What have you bought for
us?)" Always, he gave the same answer, "Un petite rien tout neuf
(A little nothing brand new)." No matter how many times we heard him say
it, we still laughed. Then he would stick his hands in his shirt pocket and
pull out a couple of bonbons for us. It is one of the most pleasant memories I
have of my father.
One day, however, my father varied the
routine. When we asked him what he had bought for us, he answered, "Un
serpent dans la poche (A snake in the pocket)." Of course, we didn't
believe him, so, being quicker than my sister, I stuck my hand in his khaki
shirt pocket and instead of a delicious bonbon, I grabbed a cold scaly snake.
It coiled around my fingers, and I yelled in fright. On his way home, he had
come upon a small Speckled King Snake, and decided that would be a good trick
to play on my sister and me. Although my father was a notorious trickster, he
often used his tricks to teach. After he had a good laugh, he pulled out the
snake, and while it coiled around his arm and wrist, he told us all about it,
how it was non-poisonous and ate poisonous snakes and mice. "Il est un
ami de l'homme, ce serpent. (He is a friend of man, this snake)."
After his lesson, he pulled out two bonbons from his other pocket.
Bayou Marron ran behind our house, about a
half-mile away. Whenever the bayou was low enough, my father and I along with
Mr. Aucoin and his son would seine sections of it. They would wade through
muddy water, dragging the seine behind them across the bayou. Of course, the
net would ensnare all sorts of bayou creatures, including the ones we would
eat, catfish, gar, choupique, sac-a-lait, crappie, crawfish, turtles, frogs,
and others. It would also snare those we would not eat, mostly snakes. The
deadly moccasin was the one we feared the most because it was so poisonous. My
father had a unique and dangerous method of killing them. He would grab them by
the tail, spin them around over his head, and crack them as you would a whip. I
was always amazed when he did this and enjoyed it almost as much as the bonbons
he brought us.
When I asked him how he did it, he replied, “C’est
facile (It’s easy).” He explained that the snake was at its most vulnerable
when swimming. Grabbing it by the tail and swinging him around prevented it
from sinking its fangs in him. Cracking it like a whip destroyed the intricate
system of bones it had and rendered it useless.
Another method of catching food out of the
bayou my father used was noodling, which was dangerous because he never knew if
there might be a Moccasin waiting to strike. He was a master at this. He would
wade in the bayou, the muddy water staining his khaki trousers a dark brown,
and look for catfish holes or nests. When he found one, he would slowly stick
his hand in the cave and feel around. If he felt a catfish, he would gently run
two fingers over its bony head, and curve them behind the twin barbels located
just behind its mouth. Then he would pull it out and dump it on the bank, where
I would pick it up, using the same method he did, and place it in the large
burlap sack I carried.
My father's proudest moment was when he
noodled a nine-pound yellow cat. He had to use two hands to
pull it out. He held it high above his head and gave out a shout of delight. Later, after he safely placed it in the burlap sack, he told me that as
soon as he felt the catfish's head, he knew it was going to be the biggest he had
ever caught by hand. "J'étais
nerveux. J'avais peur de le perdre. (I was nervous. I was afraid to lose
him.)." It became a story that he related to anyone who would listen.
A little nothing brand new was never
"nothing" with my father, but it was always brand new whether it was
a sweet bonbon, an experience, a trick, a lesson, or a story. The expression is
one I have used often with my own children.
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