Creekbank Stories

“Where Everyone is your Uncle or Aunt”

I grew up in a rural community where it seemed every adult was my uncle or aunt. I knew they couldn’t all be kin, although they seemed to be. 

They’re two of the sweetest words in the English language:

Uncle.

Aunt. 

In Dry Creek, these terms of respect were given to our elders. I knew them as Aunt Mary Jane, Uncle Jesse, and dozens more. They’re all gone except in my memory. 

These folks reached their big arms and hearts around us with love. That’s how they became everyone’s uncle and aunt.

About twenty years ago, I made a trip to China. The language was difficult and my phrasebook was of little use. One of my new Chinese friends taught me a word: Aie. It was Chinese for aunt. He explained, “China is in the second generation of its one-child policy and an unintended side effect has been the disappearance of uncles and aunts. We’ve lost the word Aie.”

Two thoughts saddened me: Children never knowing an Aunt or Uncle,

and Uncles and Aunts who never had the chance to love on their nephews or nieces.

For the rest of my trip, I addressed older women with a respectful nod and “Aie.” I still feel emotion when I recall their joyful faces.  My Yankee dialect was poor, but their smiles testified I’d gotten through.

Aie. I hope I never forget that word.

I’ve buried most of my biological aunts and uncles.  How I thank God for each one and how they guided me in love.

Every culture and language has a tender term for aunts.  I have a granddaughter of German heritage who calls every female family member Tante. I easily fall in love with the strong Aunties of our American Black culture. 

My Ugandan friend, Joseph, lives in the middle of a circle of thatched huts. Several dozen family members pour in and out of the compound. I’ve yet to sort out who really is a brother, sister, child, uncle, nephew, father, or aunt. 

In the compound, it’s easy to spot the wizened old Mzees. These uncles or grandfathers are treated with the utmost respect. Joseph tried to explain the term Mzee to me. It seems to be a stronger version of Uncle. Mzee. 

It’s how we addressed the male elders of my childhood. They were our Uncles. They were our Mzees. 

That’s the mid-century culture I grew up in a small community called Dry Creek, Louisiana.

A place where everyone was your uncle or aunt.

Enjoy your elders.

They honored me by calling me Mzee.

Mzee Curt

A Patteran for others to follow.

I’ve always been fascinated with Gypsies. There are so many stories, tales, and legends about these traveling people. My favorite story is about patterans.

Gypsies (known as the Roma in Europe) had a unique method of communicating with fellow travelers. At a crossroads, Gypsies would build a small pattern of twigs, leaves, or grass. This was called a patteran and would guide the following Gypsy bands for the direction of their travel.

Patteran is a term most of us are not familiar with. The dictionary defines a patteran as  “a handful of leaves or grass thrown down at intervals by Roma (Gypsy) people to indicate their course.”

As I stand at the crossroads of a new year called 2023, I want to leave some patterans for those who follow. Here are several I’ve jotted down:

1. Love. Love leads us, lifts us up, and is always welcome. I will choose to be more loving in this new year.

2. Kindness. Always be kinder than necessary.  Everyone needs a good dose of kindness, and we can each spread it.

3. I want to leave the patteran of integrity. “Integrity is who you are when no one is looking, and what you are willing to stand for even if you’re standing alone.” It’s a trait that sticks out in the 21st century.

4. I want to grow spiritually. If we neglect the spiritual side of our life, it is to our own peril. The growing man or woman is always maturing spiritually.

These are some patterans I hope to leave at this crossroads called life. I bet you’ve your own list. Write them down. Share them. Live them.

Yours for the journey,

Curt Iles

What is Class?

“Class can walk with Kings and keep its virtue and talk with crowds and keep the common touch. Everyone is comfortable with the person who has class.”  -Ann Landers

I’ve been thinking about class this week. It’s such a fine word, and it’s a fine trait.  The Oxford Dictionary defines class as “Showing stylish excellence.”

I find class difficult to truly define. I know this for sure, you’ll know it when you see it. Sadly, it’s also pretty easy to spot the absence of class.

 Class walks on a level field with everyone and never views anyone as beneath them.

Albert Einstein said it well: “I speak to everyone in the same way whether he is the garbage man or the president of the university.”

As I thought this week about folks who exuded class, I thought of Erik Pederson.

The son of Danish immigrants, Erik grew up in Lake Charles. When he moved to my hometown of Dry Creek and opened his business, he and his wife Yvonne became cherished friends and neighbors. 

Erik Pederson showed class in a variety of ways. My favorite trait was how he was the same no matter where he was. I’ve always said that Erik would’ve been just as comfortable in the Oval Office as he was drinking coffee at Foreman’s Grocery.

Another way my friend showed class was his friendliness to everyone. Erik Pederson had an impish smile and a twinkle in his eye that he shared wherever he went. 

Finally, Erik was comfortable in his own skin. There was no pretense about him. He wore his “uniform” every day: Wrangler jeans, a tan snap button work shirt, and boots. His wardrobe was completed by a Gospel of John he carried in his shirt pocket. He was a “what you see is what you get” kind of person. That’s what I loved about him. It’s one of the reasons he was loved by so many.

You see, class has nothing to do with fame, riches, or position. Class is about the inner person and who they really are.

. . . like my friend Erik Pederson.

“Class is an aura of confidence that is sure without being cocky. Class has nothing to do with money. Class never runs scared.”

                                                             -Unknown

A few years ago DeDe and I spent time in the country of South Africa.  There were several things that affected us deeply on this trip.  It was in the middle of their AIDS epidemic, and we saw death up close and personal. There were fresh graves everywhere.  I’ll never forget visiting the homes of men and women just waiting to die.

In spite of this despair, we also saw a ray of hope. We visited a number of orphanages that were filled with babies and small children. Many were orphaned due to the epidemic.  It was at one of these orphanages that I first learned about what they called Moses’ Baskets.

The South African Moses Baskets were carefully woven and lined with handmade blankets. African women can make anything beautiful and these baskets were no exception. 

The baskets were placed outside churches, schools, and orphanages. A mother could leave a baby, no questions asked, and the baby would be taken care of.

The baskets got their name from the story of baby Moses being placed in a basket in the Nile River reeds where he was discovered there and saved by Pharaoh’s daughter.

The South African baskets were used quite often. In a land of death, mothers either cannot or will not, take on a baby.

This week I read how the state of Indiana is gaining notoriety for an effort to place what they’re calling “Safe Haven boxes” at public places.  (Louisiana has a law allowing these Safe Haven boxes.

Like our Moses baskets, babies can be left and cared for.

This is definitely an alternative to the devastating process of killing a baby. For those of us who are pro-life (and there are many of us), we must support any and all ways of promoting life.

It’s the right thing to do.

    I grew up in a wonderful basketball culture at East Beauregard High School. From the early 60s when the school was opened until the mid-70s, were the heyday of basketball for the school which I attended for all of my education. It’s the same school I later returned to as a coach, teacher, and principal.

There was a fine trophy case in the lobby of the East Beauregard gym. It was filled with championship trophies of all heights and years. Because my Dad seldom missed a game, I fondly recall most of those championship games.

There were several trophies that had the team’s players engraved on the plaque. I would walk through the lobby, look at the full trophy case, and recall those names and players that were part of my childhood and early teen years.

Years later I visited East Beauregard gym and noticed most of those great championship trophies were missing. Further investigation revealed that they’d been moved under the home side bleachers.

Later, I crawled through a cubbyhole under the bleachers. I shined a flashlight on all of those trophies that’d meant so much to me. Sadly, they were tarnished, dusty, and unseen.

East Beauregard now has a newer gym. I’m not sure about the condition of the old gym, but I suspect those trophies are still gathering dust in the darkness under the bleachers.

It reminds me of the words of Jesus, “Don’t store up treasures on earth. Moths and rust can destroy them, and thieves can break in and steal them. Instead, store up your treasures in heaven, where moths and rust cannot destroy them, and thieves cannot break in and steal them. Your heart will always be where your treasure is.”  (Matthew 6:19-21).

There’s nothing wrong with earthly treasures unless we put them ahead of the things that really matter: the spiritual things of God as well as relationships with those around us.

A good lesson for all of us from a stack of tarnished trophies.

T.O.B.

I’m part of a Friday morning Bible study led by Warren Morris. Warren is the former LSU player who hit the famous walk-off home run to win the 1996 College World Series.

He is a great teacher and leader. Most of all, Warren is one of the humblest men I know. From time to time, he’ll share a story about his college coach, Skip Bertman.

Recently, Warren shared one of Coach Bertman’s maxims. He called it T.O.B. and it stands for “Transfer of Blame.” This is the human tendency to always blame someone (or something) else for the failures, disappointments, and difficulties of our lives. You can go all the way back to the Garden to see Transfer of Blame:  Adam: “The woman You gave me.”

Just because something is a human tendency doesn’t make it right. Transfer of Blame is a weakness that the mature person will seek valiantly to resist.

One of the most disturbing trends in today’s culture is the victim mentality. It’s the habit of always being the victim and not taking responsibility for things around us. T.O.B. is a bad habit some folks learn as a child and never leave behind. However, it is a habit that can be broken.

The flip side of transferring blame is to take personal responsibility. It’s the mature person’s way to react. It’s reflected in the maxim, “If it’s to be, it’s up to me.”

A story from the college career of quarterback Tim Tebow is worth telling. Tebow’s 2008 Florida Gators were upset in an early season loss to Ole Miss. At the postgame press conference, Tebow sat behind the microphone and said emotionally, “I’m sorry . . . I promise you one thing, a lot of good will come out of this.  You have never seen any player in the entire country play as hard as I will for the rest of this season . . .”

Tebow’s half-minute speech is referred to as “The Promise.”  It’s not surprising that Florida won its final eight games, resulting in the National Championship. “The Promise” is a shining example of taking responsibility and moving forward.

I’ve just finished a fascinating book called One Hundred and Forty Days until Hiroshima. It is a behind-the-scenes look at both the American and Japanese governments in the final months of World War II.

One of the central characters in the book is the new American president, Harry Truman. Facing many doubters, Truman reveals a strength of character and willingness to take personal responsibility when making difficult decisions. This is evidenced later by the famous sign on Truman’s desk: “The Buck Stops Here.”

Basically, our life choices run from “The Buck Stops Here” to “Transfer of Blame.”  We’ll be wise to make the correct choice.

This story, written years ago, is still my favorite Christmas story. Enjoy and Merry Christmas to

you and your family.  -Curt Iles

The Best Christmas Gift

“The only true gift is a portion of yourself.”

– Ralph Waldo Emerson.

            With sweaty palms, I wheel my pickup onto Eleanor Andrews Road. I feel as if it’s the first week of fifth grade.

Why am I nervous? I’m a man on a mission: delivering a Christmas tree to my favorite grade school teacher. I fell in love with Eleanor Andrews during my fifth-grade year at East Beauregard School.

She was a legendary teacher who’d tutored two generations of Dry Creek and Sugartown children. Mrs. Andrews was from what we called the “Old School.” She had a well-deserved, fierce reputation of being stern and taking no gruff or lip off anyone.

I quickly saw how rigid her classroom was. Everything was “down the line.” She was the captain of the ship, and no one questioned that.

I also noticed something else: beneath that gruff exterior were warm, smiling eyes. She loved watching students learn and leading them into new knowledge.

I learned to love writing, and my love of reading deepened. Being the mother of three rowdy boys, she had the knack of letting country boys know it was okay to enjoy books and learning.

And I learned to love Eleanor Andrews. During that year, 1967, she became my favorite teacher. Years later, she still is.

#   #   #

This December morning, I received the expected call from Mrs. Andrews.  “Curt, when you get a chance, drop by. I’ve got something for you.”

“Do you want me to bring your tree?”

“Yes, I’m ready for it.”

I know that the best present of the season is now ready.

It’s time for Christmas Jelly.
Back in October, I tagged a special Christmas tree for her. Knowing her exact standards in a tree, I carefully selected the one I thought she’d like best. Holding my saw, I walked around it one more time making sure it was the right height, width, and color.

That’s why I’m nervous. I want her to approve of the tree. I’m once again in the fifth grade waiting to hand in an essay.
I remove the tree from the truck, shaking it for loose needles.

“Come on in. I’ve been waiting for you.” She greets me with that special smile I’ve known over the years. She makes me feel as if I’m the most important person in the world. That’s why she’s always been my favorite teacher.
She nods at the kitchen table. “I’ve got something for you.”

I see the basket full of colorful jars of homemade jelly.

Muscadine, mayhaw, even crabapple. Mixed in are jars of green pepper jelly, and tomato chow-chow. Topping it off is a Ziploc bag of her specialty candy: chocolate—“Martha Washington’s.”
We visit over coffee in the manner that special friends do. We always seem to pick up right where we left off. That’s how the best friendships are.

After two more cups of coffee, I put her tree in its corner of honor. Nodding at her fireplace, I remind her to water it.

“Curt, it’s the perfect tree.”

“You really like it?”

“It’s just right.” We now enter the next phase of this yearly ritual. She reaches for her purse. “How much do I owe you?’

“Nothing. The best deal I ever make is trading a tree for the best homemade jelly in Dry Creek.”
We hug, and I leave with my armload of jelly jars and a lightened heart. At Highway 113, I pause as a log truck roars by. Emerson’s quote comes back to me. “The only true gift is a portion of yourself.”

I touch the decorated jars and am reminded of what the spirit of Christmas is truly about.

It’s about giving.

Giving of ourselves.

Sharing what we have.

Giving handmade gifts that come from the heart.

Shake Like a Man

As we’re slowly but surely passing up the restrictions of the Pandemic, it’s time to be reminded about the manly art of handshaking. A fist bump is a poor excuse for a firm handshake.

“When you give a man a handshake, make sure it’s firm because it shows you’re a man.”

-John Groves

When I was a young teenager, Tubby and Agnes King moved to Dry Creek and joined our church. I soon learned a valuable lesson about Tubby. He had a vise-like handshake and would hurt your hand if you didn’t get a good grip.

I’d been taught how to shake hands like a man earlier in life. It’s a proactive move where you ensure you get the webbed area between your thumb and forefinger right against the same part of the shakee, or fellow shaker’s hand. If you do this, you’ll get a firm grip and guys like Tubby can’t squeeze your fingers like wringing a wet dishrag.

I don’t think Tubby King meant to hurt other men with his handshake. He was a fine man, but his handshake brought tears to a generation of Dry Creek men and boys.

His handshake was hurtful only if you didn’t know how to shake like a man. It’s a learned habit:

Extend your right hand in a friendly forceful manner and give a firm handshake. It’s not a contest of the tightest grip, but men in the Louisiana Pineywoods (and much of the world) are judged by their handshake.

There’s no place for a dead fish handshake. Just as a firm shake gives a positive impression, a limp handshake gives the opposite impression. There’s no room in our culture for wimps or wimpy handshakes.

That handshake doesn’t have to last long. Neither does it need to be vertical. I’ve shaken hands with some fellows whom I thought were going to wrench my elbow out of socket shaking up and down.

But there is a part of a man’s handshake that doesn’t just involve the right hand but is equally impressive. In my world travels, I’ve been introduced to several cultural variations on handshakes. On the African Continent, it’s common to place your left hand on your right forearm during the handshake. It shows that the shaker isn’t holding a weapon behind his back with the free hand.

I learned another handshake variation in Indonesia in the aftermath of the terrible 2004 Tsunami. I was part of a Louisiana medical team that ministered to the refugees from this century’s worst natural disaster. The Indonesian Sumatrans would shake my hand while patting their heart with their left hand. The hand to the chest was explained as their way of adding, “I am connected to your heart.” Coming from the deeply Muslim people of Aceh, I always took this symbolic gesture literally to heart.

Worldwide, the handshake is a symbolic feature of introduction and connection.

So, shake like a man. You don’t have to be a bodybuilder to have a firm handshake. It’s just a matter of practice and technique.

It’s part of a good first impression. It can open doors to strong friendships, jobs, open doors, and opportunities of a lifetime.

So, shake like a man.

“A gentleman is always ready to offer a hearty handshake.”

–How to be a Gentleman by John Bridges

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