I don't have a sister, but I lived and was introduced to "sisterhood" with my Great old Granny, Mary O and her sister, Minnie. The bonds were born in Louisiana and the road to Alex was how it was maintained. Many hours were spent looking out the window of the car as my Mother sped down the highway, my grandmother led the singing as the front seat passenger. I was in the back with my great grandmother. There was much wisdom passed to me, but these trips into the swamps of Louisiana were where life stories were told. And when they were first told to me they were almost one hundred years old.
I read the highway signs. And every time at Homer, I would be told, there lies my first born, still born. No name. No grave marker. And every time a song was sung. Precious. Memories.
The women in my family sing. The men too. Our ancestors sang, Uncle Henry said we just sing because we have to. He knew this because he had a song too. He sang as a child with his sister Mary., She was two years older than he was.
They were children of farmers. Cotton was the main crop. Theirs were the hands that picked the fields. This story happened on one of those hot sultry summer days.
The Panther 1891
For the ones picking cotton, the field promised three things: hot feet, bleeding fingers and and aching back. You had a cotton sack that you dragged as you filled it with cotton. You knew going out that you best be ready to work hard and fast. You knew going out to the field that the youngest kids would get the short rows. When you were ten, like Mary O, you knew you better run fast and lay claim to a good row or you'd have no chance to go cool off in Big Creek because you'd be picking cotton all day long.
Between the house and the cotton field lay Big Creek. And a foot log. Now, I don't know how much you know about a foot log, but it was described this way to me. A tree was fell along the bank to lay across the creek so your feet wouldn't get wet getting to the other side. The limbs were cut away and chopped up to use in the cook stove.
As she ran that day, Mary saw the sun playing shadows through the brances of the trees and the
Spanish moss that hung from these trees. It was going to be a hot day. She ran all out. Her feet barely landed on the foot olg and she arrived with her brothers and sisters calling out, "This row is mine. This row is mine."
Suddenly, jast as she saw her mother coming up to the edge of the field, a frightful scream that sounded like a woman in the woods pierced the air. Her Momma yelled, "hush children!". Just then the second cream filled that morning with a fright that Mary had never before known.
"Run children, run! Don't look back! It's a panther! Run!", her Momma's voice filled the quiet with a controlled panic and command. Mary knew she meant business. Mary made a mental note of the younger ones and put them ahead of her, picking up and carrying the ones that couldn't run fast enough. She and Henry took off. John and Willie were ahead. Momma followed.
Then she saw it. Black, sleek and powerful, the panther showed itself from the woods. Threatening death to anyone it pounced on. Women and children were helpless to fight off an attack. And there was nothing to fight with in the cotton field.
John, Willie, Alma, Henry, Minnie, Momma, oh Lord please gut us home. Mary prayed for swift feet, for sure feet. Lord, please get us across that footlog. Oh please God don't let that panther eat Momma.
She could hear her Momma behind her. "Don't look back." "Run." How odd to find comfort in hearing these words, though they were uttered in fear. It meant Momma was alive and God was near.
Oh be careful of the foot log. Don't close your eyes. Don't look down. You gotta watch ahead and don't slow down. Now she could hear the panther in the woods, still chasing them.
Running. Blood pounding in her ears. Heart about to explode in her chest. Oh, Lord, thank you. The house. Safety.
I hear Momma.
We are still alive.
The cotton would be picked tomorrow. God was gonna be praised and thanked tonight.
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