My father and grandfather were “great” men. They were exceptionally competent and well respected. I believed that Dad could do anything better than anyone else. I remember getting into an argument and then a fight with Warren Whitaker on the school bus over whose dad was better. He said his dad could throw a baseball 100 yards. Well, my dad could throw one 200 yards. He said his dad could bench press 250 pounds. Well, my dad could bench press 400 pounds. And so forth until we came to blows. Warren was older and got the best of me. But I still believed my Dad was better than his and anyone else’s dad.
As for me and my competence, well I was a scatter-brained kid who left gates open so cows got out, was rarely in the present, and just didn’t think to do things the way they were supposed to be done. Also, I was not particularly strong, nor fast, nor a good shot, though I was a good horseman. I sometimes felt Dad was a bit disappointed in me.
My grandmother, Nora, Mama’s mother, made me feel completely differently about myself. She was my refuge and my affirmer. More than anyone else, she told me “you are kind, you are smart, and you are important.” She is the one who countered the messages that made me feel that I did not measure up as a Treppendahl male.
Nora lived in the same house where she had been raised on Lanehart Lane, located about two miles south of Woodville on the west side of US Hwy 61. It was named after her father, Adam Lanehart. (He and his wife, Elizabeth, raised 8 children – one boy and the rest girls. Nora was the oldest.) Nora had been living in Alexandria, LA and raised her children there. Her husband, Orla Roberts, (Papa) had a job working for the railroad. After he died and both her parents had died, Nora “moved home” and several years later married the retired postmaster, Allen Wood. I attended their wedding when I was about five years old.
Nora and I did many things together. One activity I especially enjoyed was riding horses with her. Occasionally we would ride to Bayou Sara Creek where we would get the horses stuck belly deep in quicksand and then cheered as they struggled to get out. We did it just for the fun of it Sometimes, we would ride from her place to Valhalla. That meant crossing US Highway 61 and cutting through the Stockett family’s property, which extended several miles eastward to the Woodville – Jackson Road, the highway on which Valhalla fronts.
Horse shoeing. There was a blacksmith, Mr. Johnson, whose house and shop were located on the corner of Harris Conner Road and Woodville-Jackson Road. When it was time for the horses to be shod, Nora and I would devote most of a day bringing the horses to him. We would follow the same path we took to get to Valhalla but turn south instead of south off Turnbull Road and go about two miles. Sometimes we would bring an extra horse or two with us. Mr. Johnson would take off any old shoes still on the horses and then trim and measure their hooves. Next, he would take a basic horseshoe, heat it red hot in his forge, and then, with his hammer and anvil, beat the shoe into just the right size for each of the hooves. He would drop the superhot shoes into a barrel of water to cool, which would explode with steam. Finally, he would nail the new shoes on the horses’ feet and bend and clip the nails so they would not protrude and not retract. Quite an art. As I reflect on this now, I can recapture the sight, smells, and sounds of the whole process. There was no way Nora could have gotten four horses shoed without my help. First time we did this I was about 6 years old. It made me feel quite special.
Scarlet. One of the most vivid memories of my childhood happened when I was about five years old. Nora sent me down to the barn to get eggs. She had a lot of chickens who had nests in the haybarn. Among Nora’s horses was Scarlet, a massive roan colored Tennessee Walker mare who had a mean streak. That day, Scarlet and a couple of other horses were loose in the back yard between the house and the barn. I had gathered a basketful of eggs from the barn and was returning to the house. When I was about 20 yards from the back steps, I looked to my right and saw Scarlet coming at me. There was no way could I make it to the steps in time, so I turned left and fled to where the little pump house was located. Scarlet had fire in her eyes and her teeth were bared and gnashing. I slung the basket of eggs at her and started screaming for Nora as I ran around and around the pump house with Scarlet right on my heals. I heard the back door slam and Nora shout “I’m coming, David!” I remember thinking, what can she do to stop this terrible horse? Moments later I heard a loud “Twhack!!!” and looked back to see that huge animal tumble to the ground knocked senseless. Standing over her was Nora with a big locust fencepost in her hands.
Squirrel hunting. Nora had inherited a double-barreled rabbit eared shotgun from my great grandpa Lanehart. She gave it to me to use to protect the pecan orchid on the west side of the house from squirrels. Nora taught me to call squirrels with my mouth and to be very very still. I guesstimate that I killed over 100 squirrels with that antique shotgun. I would clean them and Nora would make squirrel stew, something that she and Mr. Allen really liked. Me, not so much, but I ate it all the same – it was part of the total experience.
Card playing. Nora loved to play cards and would regularly have ladies come over for card games. She taught me to play canasta and bridge, and by the time I was 10 I was able to fill in on canasta, and by 12 I could play bridge with them when called upon. Nora would always be my bridge partner. We lost more often than we won, but when we won as a team, she was so proud of me.
Baptisms at the black church. About halfway between Hwy 61 and Nora’s house was a little church that was perched up on top of a hill overlooking a small pond that was about 75 yards from the gravel road. One Sunday when I was about ten, Nora came to get me and said, “put on your Sunday clothes, we are going to a baptism for Tob’s wife.” Tob was a black man who lived in a shack with his family between Nora’s house and the church. We drove down and parked on the side of the road, got out of the car, and stood by it overlooking the pond. In a few minutes, a parade of black people started coming out of the church and walking down the path to the pond. The pastor was leading the procession, which included four or five people dressed in white gowns, as they were the candidates to be baptized. When they got to the edge of the pond, the pastor and a few other men, his deacons, led the first candidate out into the water where it was about hip deep. The preacher quoted some scripture, said some prayers, and then bent the candidate backwards into the water so that they were completely immersed. He then brought them back up to joyful shouts from the Congregation and the deacons escorted the newly baptized Christian out of the pond and retrieved another candidate. This process was followed until every candidate was baptized. One of the women was Tob’s wife, and Nora tipped her head when she came out of the water. The pond was muddy, so the beautiful white gowns turned a bit dingy red brown in color. But undoubtedly, the hearts of the newly baptized were now white as snow. There was a lot of singing and shouting, but we did not mingle with the congregates. We stayed where we were until the last person was baptized, and then we drove home. It was the only black baptism I have ever witnessed.
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