Story from: Evelyn T. Batton, Opelousas, Louisiana
Narrative by: Sophi Black
When I was a little girl, we couldn't afford the little niceties that I happily afforded to my children and grandchildren. I often wore hand-me-downs, and the inventors of the internet were just a twinkle in someone's eye. But inovation was our luxury.
Easter was still a time when we excitedly received goodies in our "baskets." Only our baskets were shoe boxes. And the plastic "grass" I see my grandchildren use is a far cry from the real thing.
In my family, the day before the eve of Easter, my brothers and sisters and I would venture into the cemetary near our house. Appropriate, considering the season. Back then, spring was spring in Louisiana, and not summer. The bees would be buzzing about the violet flowers bravely reaching above their bouquets of clover. And our little hands would happily rob the bees of the clover. We would pick bundles of clover and flower alike, and gingerly place them into the carefully chosen shoe box. The graves around us often shielded the sun from our heads, but also hid other patches of clover from the marauding hands of children. Later, colorful eggs and such would be placed on the mattress of clover in our shoe boxes. Our rectangular, deep shoe boxes, not unlike the graves. And inside, we placed memories of the holiday.
I picture the spirits of the graves- adults most of them- as smiling grown ups, laughing at the antics of young people. And so when some asked if I were scared to live by the grave yard, I was more confused by their question than they were by my negative answer. None of my family has ever considered the cemetary a spooky or scary place. The cemetary is a place where we remember things; whether they be holiday grasses or loved ones.
Story from: R. Carriere, Baton Rouge, Louisiana
There are two things I love to tell people. One is that I have a twin brother. I think it's because people think it's really cool. Well, I suppose it is. The second is that my family is odd. Now that is cool. Growing up in my family is definitely the way to do it. And when people inevitably say, "Oh yeah? How's that?" I smile give them an example. "Well," I say, "I learned my ABC's in the grave yard." Polite people will smile and nod their heads and change the subject. Some people laugh, but others look decidedly concerned. "You did, huh. Well that certainly is....neat." But that statement always ends with the inflection of a question.
Let me explain. My grandma lives relatively close to a graveyard. And we lived relatively close to grandma. So we'd visit a lot. And the graveyard started out as a great place to play hide and seek. For those of you who can't see it, allow me to remind everyone that in Louisiana we bury people above ground. This is because there is a lot of ground water. We could bury people six feet under, but they wouldn't stay there for long. The first big flood and Aunt Celeste is riding the waves.
Anyway, so my brother and I would often run around the grave yard hiding and finding. My mom and grandma would never be far away, and often they were followed by Mama's dogs who always seemed to be able to get into the graveyard. They never brought us any "presents" from there, thank God. So when my brother and I got tired, we'd find our way back to the adults- who were strategically placed in front of the big white cross in the center of the cemetary- and they would feed us. I think that's how the picnic tradition got started, but I'm not entirely sure.
I guess one day Mom and Mama decided that they'd take advantage of our surroundings. We liked the grave yard, so why not make it educational. First came the reading. If you think about it, it's not a bad idea. We would always ask what this grave said and what date that person died on. And so Mom or Mama would take our dirty little fingers and make us trace the numbers. 1-8-3-6 or D-E-V-O-T-E-D H-U-S-B-A-N-D. I think we were the only 3 year olds who knew what "devoted" meant. So we'd trace numbers and letters. And then when we saw them in books, we knew what they were because we'd seen them. And when it came time to learn to write, we twins were pros.
In addition, there were a few history lessons. Geneology, of course, because a lot of our own family was burried there. But also, some historical general of Napoleon and a couple of more people I really should remember. But anyway, I've never been afraid of grave yards at night or on halloween. Stepping into a cemetary is like stepping into my first classroom. The only thing that's different is that my blackboard was so many marble headstones. And we had a much bigger window.