Bayou Tales

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0 height="100%"><tr> <td valign="top" width=200 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div> Angels <A NAME="angels"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> Blackberries <A NAME="blackberries"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <div> Cemeteries <A NAME="cemeteries_1"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> </td> <td valign="top" width="100%" BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B>Bayou Des Allemands Robert O. Zehr</B></FONT>     |     <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Bayou Des Allemands Robert O. Zehr">home</A></div> <div> <A HREF="id17.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="My Content">My Content</A>   |   <A HREF="id18.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Who Am I?">Who Am I?</A>   |   <A HREF="id19.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Family Photo Album">Family Photo Album</A>   |   <A HREF="id24.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Mardi Gras 2000">Mardi Gras 2000</A>   |   <A HREF="id20.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" My Poetry Page"> My Poetry Page</A>   |   <A HREF="id21.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Some Favorite Links">Some Favorite Links</A>   |   <A HREF="id23.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="From the Pulpit">From the Pulpit</A>   |   <A HREF="id22.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Please Sign My Guest Book">Please Sign My Guest Book</A>   |   <A HREF="id26.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Alaska 2000">Alaska 2000</A>   |   <B>Bayou Tales</B>   |   <A HREF="id29.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Des Allemands Mennonite Church Constitut">Des Allemands Mennonite Church Constitution</A>   |   <A HREF="id30.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Hiking and Camping 2002">Hiking and Camping 2002</A>   |   <A HREF="id35.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Parable of the Orange Trees">Parable of the Orange Trees</A>   |   <A HREF="id36.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="The Fellowship">The Fellowship</A>   |   <A HREF="katrina_updates.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Katrina Updates">Katrina Updates</A>   |   <A HREF="aftermatrh_of_katrina.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Katrina Reflections">Katrina Reflections</A></div> <div> Bayou Tales</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B> <A NAME="angels_1"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B><B>Angels</B></div> <bR> <div> by Robert O. Zehr</div> <bR> <div> I’ve done this countless times before.  Here I am doing it again.  A young couple, excited and eager stand before me,  he sharp looking in his tuxedo and she absolutely beautiful in the simple white gown.  Lance is the picture of health and can brag that he is a survivor.  He won a battle with cancer when he was twelve years old.  Now at the age of twenty he is marrying Abby, just eighteen, but wise beyond her years.  I have misgivings about the tenderness of age of this couple.  However, after months of premarital counseling here we are at  "The Celebration of Marriage"<B>.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B><IMG SRC="1cceda70.jpg" border=0 width="237" height="167" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> <B>I begin.</B></div> <bR> <div> The Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of the Father, and the fellowship of the Spirit be with you.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> <B><U>Lance Michael Bergeron</U></B>, will you have <B><U>Abby</U></B> to be your wife, to live together in the holy relationship of marriage?  Will you love her, support her, comfort her, honor and respect her, in joy and in suffering, and remain with her, as long as you both shall live?</div> <bR> <div> Lance replies with a grin and an enthusiastic,    “ I will.”</div> <bR> <bR> <div> <FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B><U>Abby Page Prosperie</U></B></FONT>. Will you have <B><U>Lance</U></B></div> <div> to be your husband, to live together in the holy relationship of marriage?  Will you love him , comfort<FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Technical" > him, honor and </FONT>support him, in joy and in suffering and remain with him, as long as you both shall live?</div> <bR> <div> Abby answers:        “ I will.”  </div> <bR> <div> Her eyes are bright with unborn tears.</div> <bR> <div> They join right hands and repeat their vows:</div> <bR> <div> I, <B><U>Lance</U></B>, take you,<B><U> Abby</U></B>, to be my wife.  I promise before God and these friends to be your loving and faithful husband, to share with<FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Technical" > you in wealth and poverty, </FONT>in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live.  God help me.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> I, <B><U>Abby</U></B>, take you, <B><U>Lance</U></B>, to be my husband.  I promise before God and these friends to be your loving and faithful wife, to share with you in wealth and in poverty, in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live.  God help me.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> As they hold hands I pronounce them husband and wife.</div> <bR> <div> Since<B><U> Lance</U></B> and<B><U> Abby </U></B>have consented to join together in marriage and have promised themselves to each other in faith and fidelity before God and this gathering, I affirm that they are husband and wife  according to the laws of the state of Louisiana and in the name of God the Father through his Son and in the Holy Spirit.  </div> <div> May your mutually exchanged promises be for you both, again and again, a source of happiness and life giving strength .Let all people her and everywhere recognize and respect this holy union, now and forever.</div> <bR> <div> Let us pray,</div> <bR> <div> Father of Love, shower your grace upon this couple who have come before you to pledge themselves to live together in marriage.  Grant them the patience and strength , the affection and understanding, the courage and love to continue together according to your will, through Jesus Christ our Lord.  AMEN.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> Their moment has come and as they turn to face the sea of relatives and friends assembled to wish them well I introduce them:</div> <bR> <div> "Mr and Mrs. Lance Bergeron"</div> <bR> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="1cef1a70.jpg" border=0 width="241" height="167" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"><IMG SRC="1d0d2a70.jpg" border=0 width="210" height="167" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"><IMG SRC="1d276a70.jpg" border=0 width="118" height="167" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <bR> <bR> <div> Lance and Abby have been married now about twenty months.  Their brand new trailer is parked under an ancient live oak tree.  The Spanish moss draped above their home lends an air of mystery and elegance .  Both are working and Lance just bought his pride and joy- a new Ford pick up.  They have it all?   </div> <bR> <div>  This morning Lance came home from work with a nagging pain that travels down his spine to his leg.  He walks like an old man and Abby gives him an Advil.  You ‘ll be better soon.  But it doesn’t get better.  Endurable pain turns excruciating and the battery of tests comes back with chilling news.  Lance has a cancer on his spine!  It seems as if the radiation and other treatments that cured him at twelve are backfiring.  What once was a cure is killing him now.</div> <bR> <div> Even Rusty, their pet boxer, knows something is wrong .  He lies at the foot of the bed and moans sympathetically as Lance groans in pain.  Abby is an excellent nurse.  She keeps a log of what she gave Lance and when she gave it.  The time between pain medications grows shorter as the effectiveness lessens.</div> <bR> <div> Abby reaches out to her community by slipping requests for prayer into the mailboxes  of every pastor and priest in town.  We all are praying for a miracle.  I happen upon them one day when the pressure is great.  Abby has by this time taped notes on the refrigerator with reminders that this is God’s house and that God is watching over them.  A note reminding them that God is powerful and is the source of all healing is tacked to the wall above Lance’s bed.  Lance’s moans are inconsolable .  I feel helpless and have no idea what to do.</div> <bR> <div> Abby, perky and as self-confidant as ever, hops into Lances’ bed and cradles his head in her lap.  Dear Jesus, “ she prays, “ Take Lances pain away”.  She looks to the ceiling as though it isn’t there.  I am certain that she is looking straight into the eyes of Jesus seated at the throne in heaven.  Thank you Jesus she ends her request and gently strokes Lance's dark hair. Lance quiets down and begins to breathe comfortably.  Praise God he is resting now. </div> <bR> <div> Abby looks up at me and says, "Brother Bob,  Do you believe in Angels?  Every time we pray together we find one of these on his pillow."  </div> <bR> <div> She reaches over to the pillow just behind Vince's feverish head and gently picks up a dainty white feather.</div> <bR> <div> A shiver goes up my back and I look around.  I see nothing but Rusty, quiet now, at the foot of the bed and Abby with Lance's head cradled in her lap.  I suddenly know I have been in the presence of something  very special. .  I am not really sure in my self whether angels have feathers or not.  I cradle the feather in my hand and almost ask Abby if I may keep it.  But I can't. She reaches for it and takes it to a little box on the mantle piece.  As she opens the cover and gently places it in, I see the box is filled with feathers.  Do I believe in Angels?  You can bet your bottom dollar, I do.</div> <bR> <div> As I walk from their trailer that afternoon I remember what I said at their wedding a scant two years ago.</div> <bR> <div> <I><B>1 Cor. 13:1-3</B></I><I> </I></div> <div> <I>If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. 2 If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. 3 If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing. </I></div> <div> <I><B>1 Cor. 13:4-13</B></I><I> </I></div> <div> <I>Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. </I></div> <div> <I>8 Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. 9 For we know in part and we prophesy in part, 10 but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. 11 When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. 12 Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. </I></div> <div> <I>13 And now these three remain: Faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. </I></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <I>Paul's words of wisdom that we just heard, speak to the enduring qualities of LOVE!  </I></div> <div> <I>Love lasts.  Love never gives up. Love isn't jealous.  Love doesn't plot evil.  You heard the words.  We all heard the words.  What do they really mean?</I></div> <bR> <div> <I>In the context of marriage these words shout COMMITMENT!</I></div> <div> <I>Marriage is commitment.  Many in our culture are approaching relationships with attitudes that lack commitment.</I></div> <div> <I>     -we will love as long as we are in "love"</I></div> <div> <I>     -I will love you as long as you meet my needs</I></div> <div> <I>     -I will love you as long as you are young and beautiful</I></div> <div> <I>     -I will love you as long as things go well                                                                         </I></div> <div> <I>     -I will love you as long as I don't find someone else</I></div> <div> <I>The commitment you are making today holds no waivers, no as long as, no qualifiers.  The kind of relationship you are committing to is one of permanence.</I></div> <div> <I>Christian marriage is commitment.  In a Christian's mind the end boundary of marriage is death. Till death do we part are not just words we repeat on our wedding day.  They are words of meaning.  They are words of commitment.</I></div> <bR> <div> <I>Your separate lives have met at a crossroad.  You have committed yourselves  to travel the rest of your lives together down the same path.  Of all the many ways you could go, to go separately is no longer a choice for either of you.  I commend you in this choice.  Your families and friends commend you also.  We are excited with you in the prospects of the journey ahead.</I></div> <bR> <div> <I>As you step into the future, don't look back. Don't look down other roads or other paths.  Don't ever make separate detours away from each other.  Travel together.  Hold on tightly to each other during the tough times.  Hold on to each other in the good times.  Don't  ever look back or away from each other.</I></div> <bR> <bR> <div> One week later we celebrate Lance's final freedom from pain.  At the same spot they made those promises to each other, "Till Death do we part", we gather to say Goodbye to Lance.  As I preach his funeral service,<A HREF="id23_the_keeper_of_the_stars_1.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="From the Pulpit"> </A><A HREF="id23_the_keeper_of_the_stars_1.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="From the Pulpit">The Keeper of the Stars</A>, <FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Technical" >( If you click on the underlined text you will go to Lance's service)</FONT>I can’t help but notice the smile on Abby’s face and the tears that trace down her cheeks.  In my mind the entire church is filled with feathers. Tiny delicate white feathers.  Do I believe in angels?  You bet I do!     </div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div>                     Do You?</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> Postscript</div> <bR> <div> August 25, 2003</div> <bR> <div> Dear Bro. Bob, </div> <div> I signed your guest book today... I must say you have a wonderful website. Your angel story is beautiful. It brought back so many memories. Thank you so much for sharing it with everyone, I hope that there are more people that will come to "believe". It will be 5 years in November since Lance has passed and my heart still aches for him. </div> <div> My life has changed a great bit, there have been some major adjustments. I graduated from nursing school Thursday, August 21, 2003 with honors and perfect attendance (1500 hours). I'm just waiting to take Louisiana state boards for my license. I can't wait to start working. I can only hope that I will make a difference in at least one person's life. I want to give back what we were given when Lance was sick. I have some poems that I would like to share with you. Also, Mr. Skippy  (Lance's Daddy) told me that you would like some pictures of Lance and me, so I attached some to this email. You are more than welcome to put the pictures or poems on your website. </div> <div> I'll be in touch soon. Have a nice afternoon. </div> <div> Love, Abby</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id28_l.htm#blackberries" TARGET="TRLX_Left" TITLE="Bayou Tales"><B>Blackberrie</B></A><B>s</B></div> <bR> <bR> <div> by Robert O. Zehr</div> <bR> <div> Celeste used to live here.  Right next to the railroad track.  Old Spanish Trail squeezes itself between her postage stamp sized front yard and the embankment that serves a double purpose.  The first to carry the tracks that stretch toward Los Angeles from Jacksonville, FL. The second to act as a levee to keep the floods from overwhelming this little town when hurricanes threaten.  Celeste was a happy woman who bore than more than her share of hardship.  To add cancer to an alcoholic husband was bad enough but when the husband didn’t have the cancer and she did seemed to add insult to injury.  I think of her every time I pass this house.</div> <bR> <div> Looking west down the street the cemetery is on the left.  The tombs are always white and gleaming in the sun.  The local Ace Hardware store sells cemetery tomb paint by the gallons.  That is why they gleam.  They have been “Aced” so to speak.   Most of the tombs sport a spray of plastic flowers.  K-Mart Blue Light specials! </div> <bR> <div>  Between here and the cemetery is a big commotion.  It may be more fair to say a catastrophe of major proportions.  Between the oaks and the electric lines a Medical chopper is touching down to pick up Carolyn who is still as death along side the road.  Ambulances, police all with throbbing lights, along with cops, EMT’s, and scores of curious neighbors are crowded around.  The police are busy doing police things–filling out forms, getting signatures, checking in with the dispatcher while the medics are wrapping, taping and  tightening straps.  Finally after what seems an eternity the door to the chopper closes and the pilot jockeys his cargo up past the branches and wires.  They leave in a whirl of dust and leaves and we watch as they head for West Jefferson Hospital.  We can only pray that they make it in time.</div> <bR> <div> It is early spring.  One of the treats of this time of year is the profusion of blackberries and dewberries that can be found almost any where.  The railroad embankment is covered with the sweet luscious fruit just begging to be picked and eaten.</div> <div> Tonight just after supper Carolyn takes her bucket and her nephew, little four-year old Jason.  Together they walk to the end of the street and cross the canal on a rotting railroad tie that someone has placed there–a makeshift crossing.  It makes a wonderful footbridge.  Carolyn is soon busy swatting mosquitoes and picking berries.  Jason quickly becomes disinterested in the process and wanders off.  The bucket is filling rapidly as she maneuvers through that thorny hell which is trying to deny her the choicest and sweetest orbs of sweetness.  She has been picking about half an hour now, when suddenly she misses Jason.</div> <bR> <div> “Jason, Honey?”  She calls.</div> <bR> <div> “I’ here Auntie,” he answers.</div> <bR> <div> She doesn’t bother to look up since she has just spotted a choice cluster of berries.  The bucket is filling fast now.</div> <bR> <div> She hears the train whistle coming from down the track toward New Orleans.  There is an urgency in its tone but she pays no mind.  As she continues to pick the plump ripe berries, she is thinking of the blackberry cobbler and the black berry jam she will make.  In fact she’s just decided that this is going so well that as soon as this bucket is filled I’ll go get another bucket.  There will be time enough for another one before the sun sets.</div> <bR> <div> The train is rumbling closer and by now the whistle is continuous and downright annoying.  Something strange about that whistle she thinks.   “Why doesn’t he shut it off.”  She glances up and sees Jason standing on the track!</div> <bR> <div> “Jason!”  She screams. </div> <bR> <div>  Her scream pierces  the shrill from the shrieking  train. But Jason seems frozen to the track.  In one desperate and heroic lunge Carolyn scrambles through the thorns.  She doesn’t feel the thorns ripping her arms and legs.  Her bucket of berries so carefully hoarded are scattered to the wind.  As the heavy freight train barrels down on them she grabs Jason in a swoop without thought for herself. One mighty heave and she hurls him to safety into the black berry bushes.  Carolyn almost makes it too. Just as she attempts her jump to safety the front of the engine catches her hip and throws her like a baby down the slope.</div> <bR> <div> The engine rumbles and grumbles on down the track like a disappointed jackal denied his prey.  Carolyn tumbles down the steep embankment like a limp rag doll.  She rolls through the thorny bushes but the tears and the rips are nothing compared to the gaping wound that has left her leg dangling awkwardly.</div> <bR> <div> “Oh, Jason baby, are you OK?”, She moaned over and over. </div> <bR> <div>  The path she has cleared from the track to the canal is painted red from crushed berries and blood from her shattered leg.  </div> <bR> <div> “Oh Jason Baby are you OK?”</div> <bR> <div> They had to amputate that leg.  In fact the amputation is so radical that she has little to sit on as she tries to get comfortable in her wheelchair.  Her recuperation has been lengthy and at times she wanted to give up But she has hung in there. And when I ask her,   “Would you do it again?” she replies.  “Sure I’d do it again! In a heartbeat. That is –give up my leg to save Jason.”</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> We never had a parade to celebrate her bravery.  But we should have.  Carolyn is a sure enough genuine Heroine.  And she lived on my street.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id28_t.htm#cemeteries" TARGET="TRLX_Top" TITLE="Bayou Tales"><B>Cemeteries</B></A></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> These stories are  based on experiences I have had as an Anabaptist minister in Cajun Country.  I have taken the license to combine some incidents into one happening.  At times I have changed the names and places to protect the guilty.  All in all my heart races again as I tell the stories.  I find myself emotionally moved as I retell what happened to me and the wonderful people my life has touched the past 38 years.</div> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>The Gold Tooth</B></div> <bR> <div> Tourists are fascinated by the cemeteries. Yes the cemeteries-- those little villages of the dead that dot the land south of New Orleans.  It seems that old timers had a horror of burying their dead in six feet of water and so the custom of building a tomb or a little stone burial crypt became an obsession.  Today these cemeteries are common in Cajun land and as one drives south west on highway 90 from the city they begin to pop up among the cypress knees and the live oaks that seem to be trying to hide them.  Modern day tombs are precast concrete boxes with heavy concrete lids.  These are placed about a foot or two in the ground and the lid is left to face the sky and brave the rains and the hot burning sun..  </div> <div> These tombs are works and labors of love.  Relatives trek faithfully to the graves on holy days to bless and maintain the tombs.  White cemetery paint is slopped on the concrete tops and the result is simply amazing.  These little houses of the dead gleam in the sun.  I suspect that there is a sort of competition to see whose tomb is the whitest.  Sometimes it seems as if everyone has forgotten what is inside these whitened sepulchers.  Dead men’s bones!</div> <bR> <div> T-Boy was in a hurry. It was late and he had as they say, passed a good time in town.  As he traveled the old road, Old Spanish Trail, he caught a shadow of Amtrak train gaining on him in his mirror.  So he stepped on the gas and began a race with that mighty behemoth of the night.  As his speed increased, he paid less attention to the fog and the pavement that was slithering in a snaky trail behind him.  He even forgot that Dead Man’s Curve was coming up. </div> <div> The Old Spanish Trail snuggles up close to the railroad embankment for miles through swamps and lowlands.  Dead Man’s Curve is a dog leg that jogs around an old shell mound.  The ancient ones– the Chittamachas and the Houmas, so they say-- used these mounds for burial sites and then later the Black community buried there own there.  It must be because of the sacredness or maybe more accurately the scariness of the place that no one bothered to straighten out the road.  And now smack dab ahead of T-Boy is Brother Joe’s nicely painted tomb looming as big as a twelve-foot alligator.  T-Boy didn’t feel the bump as he sailed across the small canal along side the road.  But he did feel the jolt when his bumper slipped the vault cover and the coffin lid in one grand whomp!  Dang!  What a grand mess.  The damage to his car was extensive but fortunately mostly cosmetic.  After frantic revving and jockeying,  he managed to back off the tomb and limp off the mound to the lane and back on the Trail.  Amtrak had won this one and T-Boy drove off leaving Brother Joe there almost embarrassed in his newly uncovered state.  As the car coughed off into the distance he stared vacantly at the night sky as a Hoot owl swooped overhead. Unfortunately this wasn’t that “Great Gittin Up Morning. Fare Thee Well, Fare Thee Well” and our dear departed kept his rest unaware of the night sounds unfolding around him.</div> <bR> <div> I was awakened out of a dead sleep by the wrangle jangle of the telephone<FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" >.</FONT> The glowing clock face showed 2:00 A.M..  With my heart jumping like a bull frog trying to outrun a Cajun, I mumbled, “Hello?”</div> <div> What had happened? Has someone been in an accident?  Has someone died?  All of these thoughts raced through my mind.  Telephone calls at late night are deadly.  I wonder as I cradle the phone to my ear, “How many pastors have died of heart attacks answering late night telephone calls.”</div> <bR> <div> Reverend Zehr?  The caller drawls the Reverend to an absurdity as I answer “Yes”.</div> <bR> <div> “This is Deputy Smith with the Sheriff’s Department.  There has been an accident at your cemetery and one of your graves was struck by a vehicle and is  open.  The lid is off. Could you come on down?”  There was an edge of terror in his voice.</div> <bR> <div> “Yes, I’ll be there in a few minutes.’ </div> <bR> <div> Since the cemetery is only several blocks away,  I held good to my promise.  But when I arrived the cemetery was quiet, peaceful. Not a living soul in sight.</div> <div> “Aha!” I thought. “ I’ll bet a poboy that the accident is at Dead Man’s Curve”.  So I wheeled my car around and headed down Old Spanish Trail. Only an occasional light was on in homes where over active bladders were making demands, perhaps a crying baby or where the Three to eleven shift people were winding down before hitting the sack.  The town was strangely still.  I drove past the little lanes with names like Autin,  Dufrene, Cortez and Up the Bayou Road.  It is about two miles .  There I saw it up ahead– Sure enough.  I could see the pulsing red light yelling at the dark.  The grave closest to the road had been struck–AGAIN!</div> <bR> <div> The hit and run perpetrator was long gone.  And there in the spooky shadows of those ancient oak trees festooned with somber hangings of Spanish Moss, a wizened dried out corpse lie staring vacantly up through the branches at a thin crescent moon.  I was surprised at how sedate and serene he appeared.  His tie was knotted perfectly and there was nary a wrinkle in the funeral parlor suit.  Fortunately the coffin lid and the vault cover had parted company with a minimum of damage.  The departed did not appear upset at all.  He looked quite unruffled.</div> <bR> <div> Deputy Smith reminded me of Deputy Barney Fife.  Between the swaggers meant obviously to impress me and the nervous darting here and there it became clear that he was covering all bases in this bizarre setting. Nervously he kept spraying the macabre scene with his 5 cell official torch light. As the beam swept past the tomb, I saw a glint, a bright point of light from that toothy grin in the coffin</div> <bR> <bR> <div> Time had drawn the lips of our resting in peace dear departed back away from his teeth. There in the middle of that peaceful grin was a gold tooth.  It sparkled, It beckoned.  I found my attention fascinatingly drawn by its eerie glow.  What need does Brother Joe have for a gold tooth?  The thought crossed my mind and I remembered a time when a Funeral Director, who shall forever remain unnamed, removed rings from the fingers of the deceased, telling me she doesn’t need these. I’ll take them off for her family.”  </div> <bR> <div> Well, I was not about to relieve Brother Joe of his gold tooth, especially with Deputy Smith nervously patrolling the scene and reporting on his police radio to Dispatcher Celeste all the gory details.  No, not me!</div> <bR> <div> I tried to calm Deputy down and explained that this was not my cemetery.  “Why not,” I reasoned, “Wait till morning. Then in the light of day we could track down the caretakers of this cemetery.  I’m certain that no one will disturb our friend until morning.”  So we took a tarp from the trunk of the official patrol car.  I am sure it was an official tarp. As I left, Deputy Smith was resuming his nervous dance, darting here and there, keeping all bases covered.  I’m sure he didn’t enjoy being left alone With Brother Joe even if Brother Joe was sleeping peacefully under the official tarp.</div> <bR> <div> The next day the funeral home came out and repaired the damage.  A new coffin lid was fitted sort of half heartedly and a new vault cover was cemented in place.  I was telling the crew who was finishing up the repair job about how shiny the golden tooth was when the flash light beam struck it.  What golden tooth? We saw no gold teeth. In fact he was missing a tooth.</div> <bR> <div> I can’t believe it. Did Deputy Smith screw up enough courage to steal Brother Joe’s tooth after I left?</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> Whenever I drive past Dead Man’s Curve, I look at that vulnerable tomb beside the road.  It has a nick in the cover where a small car glanced off in a narrow escape since.  I know Brother Joe is inside waiting for that “Great Gittin Up Morning.”  As he greets St. Peter on that Great and Wonderful Day, I hope he doesn’t blame me for his missing gold tooth.  I didn’t steal it!</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>