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| after hurricane gustav 2009 |
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| after hurricane Holyfield 2011 |
for as long as i have been alive this oak, and it's twin have stood guard at the entrance to our family home. there were more around the place, which sadly, are gone. there was one close to the fence where there used to be a garage [which, i believe, burned down]. i have fotos of my brother & sister & i as children with them [also smaller] behind us; photos of most of our family with them behind them. there was a chain in one, over a large limb, which grew into it; which my father said, as a teenager, he put there & hoisted up a car to work on it! when hurricane gustav snapped it in two, it snapped my heart in two.
i suppose i am entirely too sentimental, and romanticize about the past, which was probably not so romantic. i know it was a hard life back then. i only lived in the old home place house until i was five or 6; then daddy built a new brick house just down the field. but i remember as a child walking down to see my grandma, miss emma, whom everyone called 'mama'- and step grandfather, joe. my blood grandfather, claude, whom i am named after, died when my father was just a boy.
i would pick wildflowers and take them to 'mama'; i remember there being a little pool of water by a tree, mid way between the houses, 1/2 way through our 40 acre field, which was very mysterious to me; rather a small oasis; a magical thicket. i imagined salamanders to live there; or maybe they did.
i also remember life on the front porch; which seemed to have gone on forever. everyone was always sitting on the screened in front porch, talking; gumbo yaya, everybody talking at once- especially mama & joe. neighbors & family sitting in rocking chairs, drinking coffee, or creme sherry; maybe a fan on the floor going. sunday was always visitng day, but i recall people always sitting on that porch of an afternoon- having coffee with them.
i enclosed the porches [front & back] when i bought the place in the 1990s-and moved all my stuff back from new orleans. i needed more space [why?] and i couldn't deal with the eternal dust & pine pollen, which didn't seem to exist back in the day.
i asked for and got all grandma's old negatives from joe, when she passed, which were revelatory- she as a young woman, always finely dressed, or on fishing trips in khaki jodhpurs & boots; almost always wearing a hat; in a ruffled swimsuit on the beach in galveston. amazing things: little glimpses into a life i did not know. san antonio, where they'd lived, sounded so exotic. my father gave me a small notebook of poems miss emma had written; i had no idea she ever wrote poems; she was always just grandma. i treasure it.
i once recorded some of the porch conversations on a cassette deck- my mama and i had driven out from town to visit "mama" & joe. i regret that i didn't record more- and ask more questions. there was so much i wanted to know. when i asked mama, "where did your father come from?" she replied, "aw honey, i dont know... he came from the west..."
i've scanned all the negatives and poems for posterity; digitized the cassette recording, but, with all grandparents, parents, all aunts & uncles gone [save one: aunt katherine; my father's sister] many things will never be known. much of our family history is and will be forever lost. the duffey oaks witnessed everyone come and go, as i'm sure the remaining ones will witness me come and go, too. to my celtic soul, they are sacred.
i suppose i am entirely too sentimental, and romanticize about the past, which was probably not so romantic. i know it was a hard life back then. i only lived in the old home place house until i was five or 6; then daddy built a new brick house just down the field. but i remember as a child walking down to see my grandma, miss emma, whom everyone called 'mama'- and step grandfather, joe. my blood grandfather, claude, whom i am named after, died when my father was just a boy.
i would pick wildflowers and take them to 'mama'; i remember there being a little pool of water by a tree, mid way between the houses, 1/2 way through our 40 acre field, which was very mysterious to me; rather a small oasis; a magical thicket. i imagined salamanders to live there; or maybe they did.
i also remember life on the front porch; which seemed to have gone on forever. everyone was always sitting on the screened in front porch, talking; gumbo yaya, everybody talking at once- especially mama & joe. neighbors & family sitting in rocking chairs, drinking coffee, or creme sherry; maybe a fan on the floor going. sunday was always visitng day, but i recall people always sitting on that porch of an afternoon- having coffee with them.
i enclosed the porches [front & back] when i bought the place in the 1990s-and moved all my stuff back from new orleans. i needed more space [why?] and i couldn't deal with the eternal dust & pine pollen, which didn't seem to exist back in the day.
i asked for and got all grandma's old negatives from joe, when she passed, which were revelatory- she as a young woman, always finely dressed, or on fishing trips in khaki jodhpurs & boots; almost always wearing a hat; in a ruffled swimsuit on the beach in galveston. amazing things: little glimpses into a life i did not know. san antonio, where they'd lived, sounded so exotic. my father gave me a small notebook of poems miss emma had written; i had no idea she ever wrote poems; she was always just grandma. i treasure it.
i once recorded some of the porch conversations on a cassette deck- my mama and i had driven out from town to visit "mama" & joe. i regret that i didn't record more- and ask more questions. there was so much i wanted to know. when i asked mama, "where did your father come from?" she replied, "aw honey, i dont know... he came from the west..."
i've scanned all the negatives and poems for posterity; digitized the cassette recording, but, with all grandparents, parents, all aunts & uncles gone [save one: aunt katherine; my father's sister] many things will never be known. much of our family history is and will be forever lost. the duffey oaks witnessed everyone come and go, as i'm sure the remaining ones will witness me come and go, too. to my celtic soul, they are sacred.
