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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781982211219 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Balboa Press |
| Publication date: | 10/22/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 240 |
| File size: | 9 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Blue Weeds
Tall weeds seemed to appear overnight. Small blue flowers hugged the side of each green stem, and though they looked skimpy on their own, a few of them bunched together looked pretty darn good. Barefooted, I scooted around the yard and plucked all I could find. I ran past the dirt pile where we played king de la butte (king of the hill) and into the neighbor's yard to pick more. These weeds stood a bit taller since the neighbor dad didn't mow his lawn as often as my daddy. Then I scampered to the damp ditch, where I harvested more colorful stems.
It was early afternoon when I walked into the house. My momma was standing at the sink, finishing up the dishes. I tugged her skirt, and as she looked down, proudly handed her my bouquet of blue weeds and said, "I love you, Momma. Do you love me?" It is my earliest memory, still clear and sharp, unusually so.
I was four going on five with blond, very blond, almost white hair. My cousin Kenneth called me "Cotton-top." I saw the world through green eyes, eyes my momma said turned blue at times — times when I looked at blue things, like the sky or a bunch of blue flowers. I listened through bigger-than-normal ears, and felt with fingers that were double-jointed.
Of course, I have other memories before that day, but they are all fuzzy, single images. Each connects me to a lost story. Some link to old photographs; others are recorded only in my head. Riding a tricycle on the sidewalk at our old house on Hebert Avenue, my brother Gene smiling at me, my dad's cigar smoke, my brother Ronnie's crew cut, my mom's pointy dark-framed glasses, kumquats hanging from a tree across the street, laughter, Dixieland jazz, beer bottles. Subtle tones of emotion still find a home in these images, scents, and sounds. Other feelings linger as orphans.
Mom pulled off her yellow rubber dishwashing gloves, bent down and said, "Of course I love you, babe!" She took my blue weeds and carefully placed the green stems in a water-filled mason jar, the kind we used as an iced tea glass when it wasn't full of preserves made from figs picked at grand-mère Meaux's house. Being a smart woman, she must have known, as I do now, that it's not every day a four-year-old boy asks his momma if she loves him.
Keeyaw! Wow! It's amazing what big, sad, green-blue eyes, a few blue weeds, and an I love you and would you mind loving me a bit too? can get a boy. The next thing I knew I was snuggled in my dad's arms as he read to me from a gray-bound book of fairy tales. Of course, lots of dads these days read fairy tales to their kids before they go to sleep at night. Not this dad, not in those days; he had too many important things to do, like start up a brand new lumber yard from scratch, pay bills, re-level our house whenever it began sinking, spank one or all three of his boys with his leather belt when Momma got upset with us, and of course make the four of us feel safe and secure whenever a hurricane came by. He was the king de la butte. Hell, he hauled the dirt and made the butte himself. It was his butte, this was his house, and here I was invited to jump into his chair — with him.
Even in his absence, the chair was a symbol of his presence. Most of the time as he sat there, he was unapproachable, surrounded by the magical incense of cigar smoke and hidden behind important documents like the New Orleans Time Picayune or the Lafayette Daily Advertiser. This day was different. After some encouragement from my momma, he invited me into his lap for the first time. His big hands reached under my armpits, lifting me to princely status. I felt warm and safe.
He read my favorite story, "Tom Thumb." When he finished, I begged him to read it again, wanting more of this new experience: my dad's time and attention. He sure didn't act like he wanted to on this Saturday afternoon when he usually took a break from his kingly duties. My momma, still standing at the sink, exchanged a few words with him in French and juréed him, fussing until he read to me again. Grumbling and boudéed (pouting), he obeyed. He actually read it a third time, until enough was enough, and I was dethroned to roam our yard, where my brother Ronnie was mowing down the blue weeds with our new push lawn mower.
Lagniappe
"Tom Thumb," in case you haven't had it read to you, is the story of a thumb-sized boy whose father sold him to traveling showmen. He was a clever little guy, and he eventually made his way back home in the belly of a wolf. His daddy killed the wolf to get his son back and promised Tom that he would always be wanted and never sent off again. In my cotton-topped head, the question of whether I was wanted and loved seemed like a big deal. I had heard my momma tell a story many times about my older brothers wanting a sister. When she walked in from the hospital with me and told them I was a boy, they acted disappointed; she asked if she should take me back. Merci le bon Dieu, thank God, they said no. Every time I heard that story, part of me wondered if I was really wanted or if I was some kind of orphan. Not likely a real orphan since I have a bit of my mom's brainy, neurotic mind and a lot of my dad's square chin, but I surely wondered.
Maybe there's something to that unwanted-orphan business. Before we got a TV so my dad could watch the game of the week, my parents veilléed — visited — with my grandparents every weekend. On each visit, after the gossipy nouvelles — news — they gestured and gabbed about family. I heard story after story about who was whose daddy and who his grand-père was and don't forget the mommas and the grand-mères.
Maybe they were all trying to convince themselves that we, all these Cajun French — at least kind of French — speaking people came from some place important since we sure weren't like the people on the radio and TV, or the people who taught school or ran the church. Most of the priests came from France or Canada and spoke a fancier French. And the people in the schools and on the TV — well, they spoke English proper-like, like we were supposed to. But we didn't do any of that.
So perhaps we were orphans after all, just orphans with plenty of relatives going way back. Maybe the stories were trying to help us get home to where we really belonged, at least to where we really came from. Maybe my blue-weeded question was really about more than me. Maybe it was about all of us Cajuns. Maybe I was also asking, "Who are we?" and "Do we really matter?" Maybe everybody wonders that. And maybe if I tell a story long enough and full enough I'll find out the answer to those questions, mine and ours. Je ne sais pas. I just don't know.
* * *
My parents named me François Leon after their daddies, François Meaux and Leon Broussard. My birth certificate says Francis, splitting the difference between the boy I was and the girl everybody else in my family expected. Maybe my mom switched from François to Francis for another reason. As kids, my parents were spanked on the playground by their américaine teachers for speaking in their Cajun French dialect; it didn't take but a couple of whacks to make them feel couillon et honte — stupid and ashamed — and second-class. Perhaps she didn't want me to feel shame growing up and maybe wanted to save me a spanking or two. Maybe she wanted to clear a path for me into the larger American culture while still helping me hold on to my Cajun heritage. My mom was great at splitting differences. Growing up, she called me "Francis Lee" when she was upset with me; that always made me feel couillon, for sure. I have no memory of my daddy ever calling me by any name.
In my hometown, everybody called me "Flm" (pronounced like the fancy word for snot), thanks to my uncle Ray. He was my daddy's brother and he visited my mom in the hospital when I was born. His real name was Rayule. Like many Cajuns, he had moved to Port Arthur, Texas, seeking work during the Depression. He'd found it as a painter for the Texas Company, later known as Texaco. He'd probably got hired after calling himself "Ray" instead of Rayule. While he was painting Texaco executives' initials on their parking spaces, he amused himself making names out of the letters. BJM, bajum; BLM, blem; FLM, Flem. Flm stuck like paint to concrete. To this day, everybody still calls me that in my hometown. When I left South Louisiana, people called me Frank and that stuck too. Today, after a lifetime learning to be Frank everywhere but Louisiana, where I'm still Flm, François sounds pretty good again. Mom would like that since she said lots of times that she regretted the switch. I suppose I am beginning to know who I am. But part of who I am is a lot older than me.
CHAPTER 2Hugs and Sissies
I sure wanted my momma to hug me and say "I love you" and my daddy to hold me in his big arms, but wanting that made me feel small and honte, you know, ashamed. I watched my brothers arm wrestle and beat each other up. I watched Ronnie catch bullfrogs, shoot birds, and skin rabbits. I watched Gene whistle, play a smooth trumpet, slick his hair back, and try to look cool all the time. I watched my dad gut fish and hammer nails. And sometimes I watched my mom chase a chicken, catch it, and ring its neck. I never saw any of them hug or say "I love you" or sit in each other's laps or look scared. And then there was weird little Flm, picking blue weeds like a sissy and feeling lonely, and saying dumb stuff like "Do you love me?" I was one confused cotton-topped boy. Of course, I was little and they were all grown-up, at least kinda, moitié.
Before I go on, I'll admit I am exaggerating. I did see some hugging when I was little temps en temps — from time to time. If my momma cornered my daddy, after a few beers and a dance, she could sometimes get a meek hug out of him, with his eyes looking off toward the ceiling fan, just like I did in Dr. Fletcher's dentist chair while he drilled away at my cavities with his slow-poke, noisy drill. You can bet I didn't let him numb my gums, because that's what sissies did. (Actually, I was more afraid of the needle than anything.)
I was a capon little kid, sensitive and timid, but I wanted to be tough and cool like the rest of the men in my family. My brothers liked to tease me. "You want to play ramassé, Flm?" I didn't know what it meant, but it sounded good to me. "Talk about!" My brother Gene pulled out a deck of cards, which made him real grown-up-like, at least to me. Shuffling cards, like whistling, meant you had a skill that made you stand out. Gene could whistle and shuffle cards at the same time. I stood, waiting for the game of ramasse'. Gene then held the deck between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed, sending cards flying all over our bedroom. Pointing to me, he laughed and said, "Il faut tu les ramasse. You have to go pick them up." Up north, they called that fifty-two-card pickup. I picked them all up, handed the deck back to Gene, and it started again. FRRRRIPP ... encore. Maybe I liked being teased or maybe being included was more important. It wasn't an "I love you," but it was attention.
Sometimes though, enough was enough. When Ronnie teased me one too many times while we were all pulling weeds in the yard one Saturday, I picked up a hoe and chased him around until my mom stopped me. "He just teases you because he loves you."
Well, I don't suppose my momma and daddy popped out of their mommas' bellies all grown up. They were almost the youngest in their families, like me. My momma was the last girl and the ninth of ten and my daddy was the last boy and the twelfth of thirteen. Maybe they both wanted to be hugged and told they were loved when they were three feet tall.
They grew up a few miles from each other, unlike many today who marry folks from the other side of the country, or even the planet. But in some other ways, my momma and daddy were thousands of miles apart. My momma was a Broussard. She grew up on a farm down the road from the village of Meaux, Louisiana. My daddy was a Meaux, but he was born in a village called Cossinade and moved to Kaplan when he was still little. My mom had her own horse on her daddy's big farm. My dad didn't even have a mule and his daddy for sure didn't have a farm. My mom's dad planted acres of rice, and raised enough vegetables, cattle, hogs, and chickens for plenty of great dinners cooked by her momma every day. My dad's daddy was a carpenter and, with no horse or car, he walked from house to house with his toolbox on his shoulder. My mom's home wasn't some big mansion, but it was nice and well built; it's still standing in a grove of slow- growing, centuries-old live oaks. My then three-foot-tall dad lived in an old house where the winter wind slipped through the rotted siding and hit him in the face while he tried to sleep. The house fell down a long time ago, along with two smelly, quick-growing, China ball trees his daddy planted for shade.
My momma's family hugged on her a lot, maybe too much. I don't think my daddy's family hugged on him much, if at all. My momma's parents loved each other and seemed well raised — bien élevé. I don't think my daddy's parents liked each other much. My dad's daddy often went into the barn, chewed tobacco, and had a swig or two to get away from my dad's momma. My mom's family really believed in Jesus and Mary and God and goodness. They prayed a lot together, and said the rosary every night. My dad's family was only un peu Catholique — just a little Catholic — and did their praying when they had to, maybe. Mostly, they worked to have enough to eat.
My daddy told me that his older brother Ophe (pronounced oh-fay) once wanted a nickel from him to mail a postcard to his girlfriend, Belle. My daddy wouldn't give it to him, so my uncle Ophe chased him all over the countryside until he caught him and stole it. My momma had plenty of nickels and would freely have given you one because there were plenty more in her daddy's pockets or her momma's apron. By the time my mom was five feet tall, she was warm, comfortable, hugged, loved, and happy. My dad, thirteen years old and five feet tall, was struggling to earn money doing what his daddy did, sawing and hammering. He already knew where the tobacco and whiskey were cachéed — hidden — in the barn. He probably found that secret hiding place by the time he was ten.
My momma did chores of course, but she had time to read lots of books and study. She liked to learn. Meaux was a happening place in the first half of the 1900s when my momma was growing up. There were a few country stores and a real school where my mom learned to read and write. Of course, she was taught by proper English speaking folks with last names like Rupert and Brookshire who came from up north. But she was smart and went all the way to the eleventh grade at Meaux School without being spanked, because she was good at using her brains and manners to impress her teachers and stay out of trouble. She was the smartest kid in her class in Meaux School, making straight A's and learning as much as she could for as long as she could during her eleven-year education. They didn't have a twelfth grade yet, so she never graduated. By then, she had already worked as a newspaper reporter, writing articles about the happenings around Meaux for the Abbeville Meridional. My dad wasn't much for book learning and flunked out of school in the seventh grade, possibly because he was too exhausted from running through the countryside trying to hold on to his nickels. Maybe he didn't have the opportunity to study with the wind blowing his school papers all over the place. He seemed plenty smart though, smart enough to get my mom to marry him.
You could say my momma's family was quiet and calm. They didn't drink much except for a 'tee gout de vin rouge — a sip of red wine — with dinner temps en temps. My daddy's family was noisy, and when they weren't working hard at surviving, they were hard at work making and playing music, dancing, and drinking. You might get the impression that everyone in my mom's family was a saint but that's not true. Most of them tried to be holy and mostly they messed up by trying too hard to be good or look good. And you might think my dad's family were all hicks or something. But that's not true either. My dad's big brother Caesare left Cossinade and became a traveling salesman. He learned to talk like he was from up north (I never could figure out how he did that since I still talk with a Cajun dialect). He sold stereoscopic pictures and then moved up to selling women's cosmetics. He met my aunt Lucy, who was a Begnaud, one of those classy Lafayette family names, and they lived under live oaks in Lafayette with well-educated neighbors who were proper English-talking professors and doctors. Uncle Caesare didn't seem to dance or drink much if at all. He was distinctive. But most of the Meaux men didn't seem interested in being too distinctive.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Blue Weeds"
by .
Copyright © 2018 François Meaux.
Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
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Table of Contents
Foreword, ix,
Beginnings, xi,
Lagniappe, xiii,
Part One,
Chapter 1 Blue Weeds, 1,
Chapter 2 Hugs and Sissies, 5,
Chapter 3 Bread and Milk, 16,
Chapter 4 The Big Dream, 23,
Chapter 5 The Summer of 1951, 28,
Chapter 6 Figs and Fidelity, 35,
Chapter 7 Boucheries and Bayous, 45,
Chapter 8 Chicken Feed to Chicken S**t, 50,
Chapter 9 Bigger and Better, 56,
Chapter 10 Sights and Sounds, 62,
Chapter 11 Ernest and Huey, 73,
Chapter 12 Black and White (or White on Black), 78,
Chapter 13 Poodoos are People Too, 86,
Chapter 14 Maltrait Memorial, 96,
Chapter 15 Sex in the Deep Deep South, 107,
Part Two,
Chapter 16 God Calling, 119,
Chapter 17 Summertime and the Living is Easy, 129,
Chapter 18 Seminary Years, 139,
Chapter 19 The Marsh, 152,
Chapter 20 Heaven to Hell (or the other way around?), 171,
Chapter 21 Welcome to the Real World, 190,
Chapter 22 Endings, 197,
In Gratitude, 201,
French/Cajun-English Glossary, 203,
Appendices,
Appendix A1 The Acadian Odyssey, 211,
Appendix A2 Broussard Lineage, 215,
Appendix B1 Dartez in Louisiana, 216,
Appendix B2 Dartez Lineage, 218,
Appendix C1 Meaux in Louisiana, 219,
Appendix C2 Meaux Lineage, 220,