The Lazenby's Story - Bayou Chicot Part 2

I last told you that our life in Bayou Chicot was in many ways idyllic. Today I will share some reasons it was just that, even though it may be difficult for some of you to imagine why I would describe it so after reading this post. For us girls though, remembering and reliving these experiences hasn't changed our opinion one bit.

In writing this, I have come to see that sometimes it is the most seemingly insignificant incidents at the time, that create the most meaningful memories.

Daddy had plenty of space to garden, an office where he could read and study to his heart's content. Most of his meditating time though was done outside in his garden. He had the most prolific gardens with plenty of produce for us and to share. He had a workshop where he began his love for woodworking. Some of his projects were done out of necessity, others from sheer enjoyment of doing something creative with his hands.

Dad hunted and fished and shared his faith in the most consistent and unobtrusive manner wherever he went. Knowing of his standing in the community, Edwin Edwards visited Dad seeking his support for one of the local Democratic candidates. They hit it off well and in fact, Dad really liked him. It was later he decided that party wasn't his kind of politics and voted pretty much Republican instead. Many an Evangeline Parish politician tried to bargain for his support, most to no avail.

Daddy on far left

In 1953, Dad was selected along with four other pastors from across the state to be part of a new Hospital Chaplain training program at the Baptist Hospital in Alexandria. He excelled in this and was soon offered a position in Baton Rouge as the Chaplain of the largest Baptist Hospital in the state. After much prayerful and agonizing thought and debate, he turned it down. He said God had called him to be a country preacher and he didn't think God had changed his mind.

Gin and I sure tried to change it though, but it was of no use. The decision had been made. We saw our future as debutants in our state's capitol go down the drain. In retrospect, we know God was always in control and I can only look at my husband, children, grandchildren and great grandboys to know that He was and still is.

Dad did use the learned counseling skills in ministering to untold people through-out his years of being a pastor. He never stopped learning and soaked up information like a sponge.

He even learned to use hypnosis but mostly used it on himself. Once, Dad was cutting tomato stakes on his table saw and one fell onto the blade and deeply speared his side. He immediately went inside, cleaned the wound and used hypnosis to control the pain and bleeding. He allowed his body to do what it was designed to do - heal itself. When I saw him a week later, there was hardly even a scar, and without stitches.

Dad had always been a smoker and when he finally decided to stop, he used this method to quit "cold turkey." The habit of reaching for his shirt pocket was greater than his desire for a cigarette, so for a while he kept peppermints there. At one period, Dad suffered greatly with trigeminal neuralgia on the left side of his face. This condition causes severe, recurrent nerve pain that in his words felt like an electrical shock. His head would actually jerk. The suicide rate was extremely high in those days, because there was no known treatment other than risky surgery to cut the nerve.

When Dad was unable to see a doctor for three months because he failed to explain the degree of pain he was in, he used hypnosis to help him forget the pain he had just experienced in order to handle the next nerve shock. When he did see the neurologist, he was amazed that Dad had endured so long. He had never heard of what Dad had done, much less that he was able to survive. Healing, when it takes place, is a mysterious miracle. Yes, again, God had intervened in providing our Dad the positive attitude based on a deep faith, and ability to maximize the healing process. Through prayer and surrender, together they did what God designed the body to do - take care of itself.

Dad loved music and had collected several records of top hits from the 40's. Once, he rigged up a loudspeaker and played records for anyone who happened to be close to our house and the church. Of course, there weren't many, but we all loved hearing "The Girl That I Marry", one of his favorites going out across the empty expanse. In December we serenaded the countryside with Christmas music.

The Christmas Eve before Sarah turned three, Dad climbed on top of the house and made appropriate reindeer sounds and ended with a hearty "Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas," and we are all still convinced that Santa was really there.

A story our family was finally able to laugh about happened around 1954. A reporter from the State Baptist Convention Headquarters appeared on our doorstep with camera in hand to interview Daddy about pastoring "The Oldest Baptist Church West of the Mississippi River." The article and pictures were going to be featured in the State paper, The Baptist Message, that went to every Southern Baptist household in the state.

Dad was polite but less than patient with the man; nevertheless, there is a picture floating out there somewhere that we pray will never reappear, of the most pitiful looking, rag-a-muffin country bunch you have ever seen. I'm not sure Daddy had his teeth in, mother's hair and makeup for sure wasn't done, and Gin and I had been called in from the woods wearing short shorts and barefooted. Yours truly's legs were not made for short shorts or a camera and provided proof the nickname "Bean Pole" was more than appropriate. Of course, Gin always had long gorgeous legs at any age and a sweet smile, so she, adorable two-year old Sarah and Beebo the dog were the only redeeming features of that photograph. Needless to say, that feature never appeared in The Baptist Message and we give all the glory to God for not embarrassing Himself or us with that one.

Speaking of Beebo; she was a large black lab and our dad's shadow. She followed Dad's every step and took her role as Assistant Pastor very seriously. Every Sunday she would take her position at the Church's front door and greet all attenders. A pat on her head was her greatest reward and a pass for going inside.

Beebo also was Dad's assistant in monitoring the many bird nests around our place. Dad had Martin Houses and knew exactly how many generations visited each year and when a new generation had hatched. One day Beebo very carefully scooped up a fallen baby bird with those dangerously strong jaws and brought it to Daddy. The baby was not even wet. The birds trusted Dad and allowed him to place all fallen birds back in the nests. Porter and Beebo made quite a pair.

Dad tried to teach us to play the piano by learning the shape notes in the hymnals of the day. This wasn't a very successful endeavor and I hate to think of his disappointment with what I'm sure he had dreamed would be talented and smart children. After that, he and mom drove Gin and me several miles away for a few weeks to be taught "real" piano lessons. That didn't take well either, so they decided it just wasn't worth spending money they didn't have on that experiment.

However, much to our parents' delight, while serving in another church their teenage daughters were selected as the church "Pianists." That word is plural because we both played together. Gin played the treble notes with both hands, and I played the bass with both of mine. There were no chords, improvising, running scales and certainly no modulations. Just the notes. But, for our folks that's all they knew how to sing anyway. As long we could agree on what to play and the director didn't mind taking our tempo, we did well. Our favorite offertory was "Wayfaring Stranger," and the congregation heard it often. Dad joked that he could only afford to pay for us to learn only part of the staff.

From Daddy we learned to love nature and music, but from mother we learned to eventually be ladies. She had an appreciation for things of beauty and doing things well and right. I have so appreciated all that she instilled in us during those early years. She and Mama taught us how to have proper manners (or else), to love reading, sewing, cooking, and even embroidery. The pillowcases on my wedding bed were ones I had done as a child.

The greatest lessons our parents taught us were by example. They lived lives of faith, kindness, selflessness and unconditional love. Their great unending love for God and each other are lessons for which we will always be grateful.

Mother made all our clothes until we left home. We even had embroidery on our little white socks to match our matching dresses. We also had welcomed hand-me-downs from our older cousins whose mother didn't sew. We were thrilled to actually have "sto-bought" clothes. It was from one of these cousins that I had my H.S. and college formal and borrowed my wedding dress from the other. The first time I actually went into a store to buy a dress was for my HS graduation. When asked about the size, all I knew was the pattern size. Country girl come to town.

Mother's remodeled kitchen was where she loved to cook and entertain, and always had a pot of Seaport Dark Roast Coffee on the stove. She was happiest when folks dropped by to just visit, and there was always someone coming and going.

Gin and I spent all our waking moments either riding our bikes, climbing trees or in the woods. Dad had found some old very cheap Schwinn bikes that he rehabbed for us. Mine was red and I rode that thing for miles and miles until one day going up an incline, it came apart right in the middle. That caused quite a fall, but somehow Daddy got us both put back together and my imaginative trips around the world continued.

Mine and Gin's best friends were our exact age, Jonnie and Bit Wolf. We spent a lot of time together. Their grandmother, Ma Wolf lived right behind us and who at Jonnie's urging, told me there really wasn't a Santa Claus. It broke my heart, but I knew Ma Wolf would never lie to me. She made us both promise that we wouldn't tell Gin and Bit, and to my knowledge we didn't.

Bit still talks about the picnics Mother often planned for us that always consisted of egg salad and Vienna Sausage sandwiches. Most important to her and Jonnie though was that they were included in our family activities. Gin and Bit are still close, but Jonnie passed away a few years ago. Bit wrote a comment on a previous blog post: "My years with the Lazenby family were as near to the tv shows that were so serene. Thanks for stirring up my memory of long-ago days."

Gin and I made hide-outs anywhere we could find a good location, and even created a real "Dodge City" among the fallen trees after a hurricane passed through. When we weren't playing with Bit and Jonnie, two boys Gin's age were usually with us; however, our company with Roger and Top, came to a temporary end one day. Gin and I had worked so hard to rake up pine straw to create the outline of our "house" and rooms. It was quite an architectural marvel. When the boys found us in the woods, they simply stepped right over the walls with absolutely no regard for the actual entrance. That did it! We told them we could no longer be friends.

After that, they delighted in hiding in the loft of a nearby barn and taking BB shots at us. That didn't last long either because Gin and I had no qualms about being tattle tales.

There was never a large population of Negros living in Chicot while we were there, and there was not much mingling between the two races even though everyone was friendly. The few families Mother and Daddy knew were fine Christian people and we were taught to respect them.

Mother would occasionally have one lady she considered a friend come help her with laundry which was done outdoors in big tubs and then run through a ringer machine and hung out to dry. Mother would "pay" her with some of our out-grown clothes. She would sometimes bring one of her daughters who was my age, and we would play in the yard together.

As I'm writing this, I realize Mother didn't really need help with the laundry. She enjoyed this lady's company and respected her. By having her over to visit and help, she could show love while also meeting her needs with dignity. It was also setting an example for us girls whether we knew it at the time or not. Thank you Mother.

Some Sunday nights after our service we would sit outside and hear the Negros singing and praising from their church not too far away. We white Baptists sure didn't know how to praise the Lord the way they did.

The following story will come as a contradiction to what I just wrote; many lessons are learned after the fact.

At some point Gin, Roger, Top and I came up with a plan to "clean up our woods." I will not take the blame for this plan, but I will not disavow it either. Please note that we were probably 8-10 years old at this time and definitely knew better. There was a nice black family who lived on a road behind our house and in order to get to the only grocery/post office/buy-anything store, they had to go through "our" woods. Usually, the shopper was the son who was about my age, At some point, someone had nicknamed him "Nigga' Jerry."

For us kids, it was just his name and meant no disrespect. Remember, this was in the mid 50's in the south and even though we didn't even know the word discrimination, much less its meaning, it was alive and well.

Anyway, we decided Jerry had no business going through "our" woods and decided to ambush him and tell him what we thought. On the anticipated day we were hiding in wait, and just as he approached us we all jumped out; however, before we could make our demands we saw he was carrying a sawed-off shotgun. The demands were forgotten and it suddenly wasn't important where Jerry decided he wanted to walk.

This was not our proudest moment and certainly not a memory we are proud of, but it was part of life in Bayou Chicot for two Lazenby girls. Instead of Mother going to the heathens, she may have brought two with her.

Next time I'll tell you more stories about these two heathen preacher's kids in Bayou Chicot.