Opelousas, Louisiana, circa 1959-1960
My mom, Joyce, my older brother Glenn, and I moved in with my maternal grandparents while Dad was stationed in the United States Army in Giessen, Germany. I was twenty-one months old when we moved in with my grandparents in September 1959 and was a month shy of three years old when we moved out.
My grandparents were Emilian and Louise, but to us, they were Papa and Momo. They lived in a small two-bedroom house on one of the Boagni Farms, where Papa farmed and raised cattle and chickens. Their house sat on a shell road off Highway 31, on the east side of Opelousas. There was a cattle guard at the beginning of the road.
The house itself had bold wallpaper, a metal roof, and outside walls covered with asphalt shingles that looked and felt like sandpaper. A small wooden porch stretched across the front.
The shell road ran north and south from Highway 31, curving east just past the house. At the end of that road, Papa grew potatoes. He could often be seen riding his tractor along the shell road, using it as his way of getting around.
Behind the house were rows and rows of corn. When the corn matured, Papa brought his share home. He, Momo, and Mom would shuck the corn, remove the silk, and cut the kernels from the cob. Once prepared, Momo cooked the corn in a large pot, then let it cool before storing it in containers or plastic bags to freeze for later.
Whenever Papa brought in corn, beans, or other vegetables, there were usually people around to help can or store them. The same was true during a boucherie. Family and friends gathered, worked together, and shared in what was prepared.
One day, I remember Papa driving up the shell road with a swing set. It had two swings, a two-seated glider, and a slide for Glenn and me. It felt like something special had arrived just for us.
I must have visited Opelousas before we moved in, because I remember going through a basket of clothes looking for an outfit I had worn before. It was a pair of shorts with a midriff top. When I found it, I could not wait for Momo to help me put it on.
There was always something to do. There was land to run and play, and Glenn and I sometimes followed Papa as he gathered eggs or milked cows. Sometimes he let us pick up the eggs ourselves.
We watched him run hard corn through a device that removed the kernels, which were then used to feed the chickens. He would toss handfuls to them, and they would rush in.
There was wooden fencing near the house that was perfect for climbing. Not everything was fun, though. Tiptoeing through the yard to avoid stepping in chicken droppings was something we learned quickly.
Glenn and I got chicken pox while we were there. With chickens all around us, I thought that might be how we got it.
It snowed in February 1960 while we were living there. I do not remember the snow itself, but Mom took photos of us in it.
Momo was a wonderful cook. With chickens right outside, she often prepared them in gumbo, stew, fried, or other ways. One of my favorites was her oven-cooked beef roast stuffed with garlic, onions, bell peppers, and seasoning.
Meals did not always include meat. One of Papa’s favorites, and mine too, was rice and milk, or hot rice with eggs scrambled into it.
Momo loved to bake. Her homemade cupcakes with chocolate frosting were my favorite. We used to say they were world famous because they were so good. If she made twenty-four cupcakes, they were divided among us. At that time, I only had one brother, but even then, you learned quickly to eat your share right away. If not, they were gone. I never asked her for the recipe, which I regret. The taste of those cupcakes has never left me, and Glenn says the same.
Blackberries grew along the barbed-wire fence by the shell road. Momo showed Glenn and me how to pick them. After we gathered enough, she would wash some and sprinkle sugar on them for us to eat. The rest became pie.
There is one story about her cooking that still makes me smile. One time, she accidentally used chocolate frosting in her gumbo instead of roux. Roux, a mixture of flour and oil, is the base for gumbo. You can imagine the reaction when people took their first bite.
I remember standing on a chair to wash dishes at the sink, so there must have been some indoor plumbing, though I do not recall the details of the bathroom.
Mom took Glenn, me, and her cousin Lucy to a waterfall near the levee in Port Barre. We also went to a cookout with my grandparents’ friends, Saul and Darlee. I remember Darlee, who felt like another grandmother, making rice dressing.
For Easter in 1960, I received a large basket filled with candy. Mom dressed Glenn and me and took a photo of us sitting on one of Momo’s chairs. Later, we visited Momo’s parents in Eunice. Their house was raised high off the ground, and the children played underneath. Of course, I joined them.
Papa and Momo loved spoiling Glenn and me, especially Momo. Mom was an only child, and we were their only grandchildren at the time. They had us with them for a full year instead of short visits. They knew we would eventually leave again, likely to somewhere far away. There were always tears when it was time to go.
Momo loved taking us downtown to shop. She did not drive, so Papa or Mom would take us. Papa often stayed in the car while we went from store to store. Mom worked downtown at J W Low’s, a five-and-dime store, so we often went there. Like many grandmothers, Momo enjoyed showing us off to her friends.
She would hold Glenn’s hand and mine as we walked from one place to another. I remember going into what I think was a leather or saddle store next to a children’s clothing shop on Main Street. She was likely looking for something for Papa.
Even when we moved away, Momo continued to shop for us, mailing clothes and including a dollar bill for each of us in her letters to Mom.
We met many people during that time, mostly family. My grandparents often had visitors, and we were taken to visit others. Being so young, I often needed reminders later about who people were and how we were related.
Momo loved telling me about our family. That may be where my interest in genealogy began. She kept her photos in a dresser drawer, and I would pull them out, asking who each person was. I must have done that hundreds of times.
Today, I wish Papa and Momo were still here. I would spend more time listening, learning, and showing them just how much they meant to me.
