OLD RIDGES

Some mornings I get up wanting to write and feel a certain fogginess of mind and absence of subject matter that reminds me of E. B. White and his essay of “Writer at Work.” In March of 1927, he wrote that Edna Millay was contemplating a trip to Washington, D.C., and he quotes a Washington news story: “to have this tender poet here in cherry blossom time and to hear her version of this glorious spectacle [would be great].” E.B. White, who is obviously struggling to create his essay for the day, remarks that “Even the theme is laid out for her, like clean linen.”

E. B. White says that a writer is always straining his eyes, peering ahead and around so that when the moment of revelation comes, his eyes are poppy and tired and his sensitized mind has become fogged by the “too frequent half-stimuli of imagined sight…”

I sat here, reading those lines, waiting for my mind to clear, and wondered if there were new ridges there that prevented clear thoughts. What appeared to me was an actual vision of ridges —chenier ridges south of the Intracoastal Waterway in Louisiana. I could almost smell the marshy air and see oak trees in the distance — old beach ridges or cheniers. The sand in the ridges is above the marsh so that oak trees abound in the dry soil there. According to an entry in Roadside Geology in Louisiana by Darwin Spearing, the ridge, Little Chenier, marked the position of a beach 2800 years ago. The town of Creole is strung out along another chenier where Chenier Perdue, 2500 years old, and Pumpkin Ridge, 2200 years old, merge.

The largest beach ridge plain in Louisiana is near the Caminada-Moreau Coast with as many as 70 sandy beach ridges that began to grow about 700 years ago. Of course like much of Louisiana coastland, the Caminada-Moreau coast continues to erode.

I’m more familiar with the ridges near Creole, Louisiana because I explored that territory when I was writing my book for young adults entitled Kajun Kween. Those ridges provided the setting for this tale about a young girl named Petite Marie Melancon who wasn’t so petite and who became the heroine in a comic strip. I have an envelope of photographs showing scenes of cheniers that includes a beautiful one which Dr. Sullivan snapped, and I framed for a wall of my study. There’s even an alligator in a corner of the photo, and it’s a scene that has not only inspired me while I was writing Kajun Kween, it became the cover of a book of. poetry entitled Old Ridges in which the opening poem describes the scenery I encountered back in the early 2,000s. 

Although the theme wasn’t “laid out for me, like clean linen,” as E. B. White wrote, my nostalgic thoughts sent me to the bookcase where I found Old Ridges and began to read:

OLD RIDGES

Writing a story of persiflage

I found a place of legend,

a station of shade 

cool enough to wade in,

no voice, no sound,

an alligator hiding on the bank

sliding into murky water,

breaking the silence and the shade.

Further back, I could see ancient ridges,

oak groves, wild grapevines overarching

marshmallow, yucca, and oleander,

some distance from the Intracoastal Canal

where I once rode in a boat

bound for Cheniere au Tigre,

weaving through a network of canals

and anchoring at a wooden dock

that may have been near the old town.

We climbed an old-fashioned stile

astride a barbed wire fence,

searching for an abandoned hotel,

and found: the bones of a cow,

the feather of a crow,

the leaf of a toothache tree --

mystery.

Old oaks stood sentinel, asking:

Do you think it’s too late?

I haven’t forgotten how it is

to die before dying,

consider my age,

consider this shade,

no voice, no sound.

What was I looking for?

The corpse of a cowboy lying

among bones of Brahma and Charolais?

a chest of Lafitte’s treasure?

the old watchtowers of WWII?

the tiger that mauled a boy a century before?

Hackberry trees grew among stands of oaks

and in the center of one grove,

a house of silvered cypress, 

torn screen on the sagging porch,

door ajar, as if someone had just departed,

the abandoned house among trees

buffeted and twisted by Gulf winds.

Like the trees, it seemed to say

I haven’t forgotten how it is

to die before dying,

consider my age,

consider this shade,

no voice, no sound…

and a tiger lurks over the ridge.

CHENIERES, BEACH RIDGES

Cheniere by Don Thornton

I have many pieces of art by regional artists in my home, and among my favorites is a small painting of a cheniere by the deceased artist/sculptor Don Thornton of New Iberia. Don gifted me with the painting years ago after I'd written several articles about him for regional publications. He did a series of paintings of the Louisiana Cheniere Plain which extends from Sabine Lake to Vermilion Bay along the Gulf Coast, and my prized painting is #64 in this series. I was drawn to the painting a few days ago when a heavy storm forced me to stay indoors and enjoy my book and art collections.

I became familiar with chenieres almost forty years ago when I joined a group of four females who set out one humid summer day to find Cheniere au Tigre in Vermilion Parish, Louisiana. We embarked from Intracoastal City in a speedboat piloted by Dr. Victoria I. Sullivan, a biologist at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette who was armed with a pile of maps by which she attempted to guide us.  Although I'm not sure we found this famous site that was advertised as a summer resort in the early 20th century and which offered tourists room and board for $1.50 per night at that time, but we did hike through a wood of old live oaks that topped the sandy ridges of the Cheniere Plain. A Cheniere Plain consists of a beach ridge separated by marsh and swamp vegetation, and is often wooded; in fact, the word is derived from the French word, "chene," which means "oak" to designate the ancient oaks growing on the ridges.

Explorer, Cheniere au Tigre

Several books have been written about Cheniere Caminada, a cheniere adjacent to New Orleans that was destroyed by a hurricane in 1893. This cheniere was settled by the Chitimacha Indians, and because of the oak grove at the tip of the peninsula, it was called an island. Early settlers of the cheniere included Lafitte's privateers, among whom was an Italian named Vincent Gambi who raided any vessel he sighted in the Gulf. Descriptions of his exploits and of the famous hurricane are recorded in a volume entitled Cheniere Caminada, Buried at Sea, by Dale P. Rogers. It's an account of the tidal wave and hurricane that killed 2000 people living on the island in 1893 and includes photographs, maps, and drawings depicting the disaster. Some of the remains of buildings the hurricane did not totally destroy were salvaged and reused, one of which is the Curole home later occupied by the descendants of the Curoles in Cut Off, Louisiana.

Chenieres appear in my young adult book, The Kajun Kween and also in a book of poetry entitled Old Ridges. The photograph on the cover of the latter, by Dr. Victoria I. Sullivan, is among my favorite photos of Louisiana, and if readers look carefully at the bayou pictured, they may sight an alligator snoozing on the bank.

The following verse is extracted from the poem, "Old Ridges," which is the lead poem of Old Ridges and alludes to the famous Cheniere au Tigre trip that four adventurous females took too many years ago:

"...Hackberry trees grew among stands of oaks
and in the center of one grove,
a house of silvered cypress,
torn screen on the sagging porch,
door ajar, as if someone had just departed,
the abandoned house among trees
buffeted and twisted by Gulf winds.

Like the trees, it seemed to say
I haven't forgotten how it is
to die before dying,
consider my age,
consider this shade,
no voice, no sound...
and a tiger lurks over the ridge."

COMIC RELIEF

The little strip above is one created by Paul Schexnayder of New Iberia, Louisiana for a book entitled The Kajun Kween that I wrote a few years ago about Petite Marie Melancon who became the superheroine in a comic strip.

I’ve loved comic books since The Golden Age of Comics (1930-1950) during my early childhood. I did my share of trading them on the front porch of my home on Birch Street in Baton Rouge, Louisiana: Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Captain Marvel, and, of course, Dagwood and Blondie. And when I was six, Archie appeared. Wonder Woman hung around until 1953 during the Silver Age of Comics, but probably my favorite comic strip featured a character to which my Dad introduced us on Sunday mornings – Popeye. To this day, when I hear the word “hamburger,” I automatically think of Wimpy, the character in the comic strip who loved hamburgers, which my father called: “catheads.” I’ve even written a book of doggerel about my childhood that includes a poem describing my father reading the Sunday comics. The poem appears at the end of this blog.

Actually, comic strips were banned by many of my elementary school teachers. They regarded them as presentations of violent characters and felt that the reading matter was so abbreviated, it wasn’t enough to educate young minds. Several teachers vetoed characters like Captain America who punched out the Nazis. However, at school assemblies we sang all the WWII songs and followed the fighting on large maps with pins showing major victories in Europe. I can’t remember any pacifists during my childhood. And Little Orphan Annie even fought Nazis who appeared in the comic strip about her WWII activities.

A revival of comic book superheroes has exploded due to the film industry creating films about Spider Man, Batman, and Super Man, but Wonder Woman hasn’t kept pace with the male superheroes. I might be seeing just a comic book bubble, but I’m betting on the continuing popularity of comic books because there’s a shortage of superheroes in the postmodern world.

Unfortunately, I don’t have one comic book in my library to pass on to my grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but once they see their first superhero movie, they’ll probably be among those haunting the bookstores and news stands, searching for a comic book about the archetype characters who appeared in the Golden Age of Comic books.

Here’s the promised poem about comics from my book of poetry, Grandma's Good War, entitled: 

READING THE SUNDAY “FUNNY PAPERS”

He could press 4,000 pounds and sometimes 36 tons,

and enlisted in “the mighty Navy” in 1941,

muscled arms riddled with tattoos, arch enemies he’d foil

in “arful” battles designed to impress his girlfriend Olive Oyl.

Each Sunday at the oak dining table my father read aloud

the adventures of Popeye the sailor man, a character he avowed

could handle any enemy who dared to invade the States,

a spinach-eating hero to all his admiring shipmates,

father shouting at the end of each strip, his own “zap, pow and bam,”

quoting Popeye’s “I yam what I yam, that’s all I yam,”

affirmation of my father’s individuality, a message belying the cartoon,

with Popeye, he was ready to battle Sea Hag, Bluto, and Alice the Goon;

His somber voice deepened, describing the cold cruel world he knew

as that of Little Orphan Annie, another comic icon of WW II

who formed Jr. Commandos and blew up a German U-boat,

enlisted us to collect scrap metal to keep the US Navy afloat.

On her arm, Lil Annie wore a band with “JC” inscribed upon it,

called herself “Colonel Annie” and demanded we do our bit,

“Gee Whiskers,” my father’s voice would sometimes resound,

“She’s left Daddy Warbucks! Poor girl’s on shaky ground.”

Alley Oop in the Kingdom of Moo who traveled to the moon,

Prince Valiant, the Nordic Prince who fought the hated Huns,

Dagwood, Blondie, Lil Abner in the Golden Age of comic strips

where our father took us on astonishing Sunday morning trips,

life served up in weekly installments of strange cartoons,
his voice ascending on floating word balloons.

RETURN OF THE KAJUN KWEEN??

While packing up papers in anticipation of returning to Tennessee for a short visit to my home on The Mountain, I came across an old book entitled Of Other Worlds by C.S. Lewis. It includes an essay concerning his speculations about the famous Narnia stories for children, as well as those about his science fiction trilogy. The short essay that interested me, “It All Began With A Picture,” focused on how Lewis came to write The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, in which he explains that all of his seven Narnia books and three science fiction books began with seeing pictures in his head; e.g., the Lion began with a picture of a Faun carrying an umbrella and parcels in a snowy wood.

I experienced a sudden “aha” in my own head when I read this line, remembering how Kajun Kween, a young adult book I wrote several years ago, originated with a picture in my head of a six-foot, two-inches tall, 13-year old girl with feet that required size 12 shoes. The entire story, in comic book form, unfolded in my head. It featured this giraffe-like girl who interviewed for an actual comic strip publisher and beat out more ordinary jolie catins in a contest for a character who would become the heroine of this comic strip. Her job was to provide true adventures about her native Cajun French Louisiana; e.g., an encounter with a mama ‘gator protecting her egg nest; a stand-off with a giant snapping turtle; and an experience with a loup-garou late at night in a cypress swamp. The pictures in my head were described for and beautiful executed by Paul Schexnayder, New Iberia artist, for Kajun Kween.

Sketch by Paul
Schexnayder for Kajun
Kween

The picture that came into my mind as I planned the trip back to Tennessee was one of Petite Marie Melancon fulfilling the last line of Kajun Kween – she would be exploring new kingdoms. Thus, she might consider The Mountain at Sewanee in Tennessee. Pictures of adventures flashed in my head: ghosts appearing to Petite at Rugby, Tennessee where a Brit once tried to establish a Utopian colony; Petite attempting to hike to Fiery Gizzard;  a “See Rock City” trip to Chattanooga where she plunges off a cliff; an experience in which she becomes Queen of the Moon Pie Festival at Bell Buckle, Tennessee…

Since I’ve just completed a book of poetry, Street Sketches, which should appear in a few weeks, the pictures that appeared in my head about Petite Marie seem like they want to tell a story in 2016. Like Lewis, “I don’t know where the pictures came from, and I don’t believe anyone knows exactly how he/she makes thing up. Making up is a mysterious thing…” All I know is that the pictures will persist until the story is told. In Petite Marie’s case, four or five years passed before she was birthed. We’ll see how she responds when I return to the winter cold on The Mountain next week; that is, before we move on to Florida for a few days. Pictures of her exploring Florida may become cut lines for a comic strip based there -- elusive crocodiles in the Everglades, Disney World experiences, glass-bottomed boat rides, explorations of coral reefs… Petite has begun to travel a lot.

As Lewis notes, “the right sort [of stories] work from the common, universally human ground the stories share with the children, and indeed with countless adults.” Meanwhile, I’ll just enjoy the pictures forming in my head.