But I Don't Have A Bayou

My mother told stories. Most of them were true, or nearly so. During the long days, and then years, when Mother and Caitlin were together in our house, Southern stories enlivened many hours. I was quite familiar with the majority of the tales but a few were fresh, having occurred after I moved away from home at the age of nineteen.

Possibly the most popular anecdote involved a horse and a huge hole in the ground. For some inexplicable reason, this recitation of near loss and joyous recovery appealed tremendously to my little girl. In fact, the story became one that she always requests be repeated whenever she is sick or in pain or both. It produces a balm that lifts immediate hurts and transports her to a halcyon place that she visited only a few times in her life before it was sold.

My rendition is much less expressive than the original story so aptly rendered by my mother in a soft Southern voice. The reader must imagine an elderly woman gathering her only granddaughter close as she relates a pastoral saga. Essentially, the characters are my daddy, mother and a horse named Brutus. On a particular day, the colt went missing. Hours of searching produced no clues as to his whereabouts. Nor were there any broken fences or gates left unlatched. Were predators to blame? If so, where were the remains? None could be found.

With little hope that Brutus would be discovered alive and with daylight dwindling fast, Daddy and Mother looked in one last place. Far below the edge of the pasture's bayou, festooned with tangled kudzu vines, they found their horse. He'd nibbled the tasty leaves, wandered down the bank and become ensnared. I can almost imagine a smile on his face when he saw his keepers ready to rescue him.

Abundant bayous marked my family farm. Other than trapping large animals, they were useful as depositories for unwanted, extraneous possessions. My mother discarded with abandon. She felt absolutely no need to keep everything. I admired her ability to part with various items easily but disdained the fact that she exhibited little discretion in her tossing. Mother surely 'bayoued' possessions of mine that I would have elected to retain, had I been given that option.

As springtime brings impeccable days and the seasonal tendency to discard evidences itself, I envision bayous. Having lived in this house for more than a quarter century, the accumulation of debris, both precious and redundant, is significant. Sorting the categories is not easy. A while ago, I suggested to our adult daughter that I was considering destroying multiple boxes of photographs and negatives. She recoiled immediately and asked me to continue to retain those pieces of history. Understand that I was not contemplating casting aside albums filled with original photos, just the duplicates. The boxes remain intact, untouched.

In the last ten years, we have renovated every room in our house. Furniture has been replaced, kitchen utensils updated, linens refreshed. Little reluctance accompanied the departure of those possessions. I am comforted by the knowledge that most of these things, if still usable, have been recycled. For me, Angel View, a local charity, is my bayou.