Thoughts on loving a dog
I come from a family of dog lovers and grew up in a dog-loving rural culture. (One of my older friends, Lela Boggs Harper, always said, “Curt, don’t trust no one that doesn’t like dogs.”) I have no problems with cats or even people who don’t share my great love of dogs. I’m just thankful that dogs are, and have been, a big and satisfying part of my life. I consider dogs a special gift to humans from God. I’ve always heard that any man or woman who has had a faithful dog is rich. I’ve been privileged to have a handful of great dogs in my half-century of life. But there are none I’ve loved more than Ivory. That’s why burying Ivory this morning was so hard. She’d been my constant companion for over thirteen years. Although technically owned by my son Clint (who paid good money for her as a puppy) this white lab captured my heart early on and never let go. “Putting a dog down” is never easy. Everyone but me agreed it was time, and I knew it too, but just had to get ready. This morning I was as ready as I could get. As I looked into her eyes, I believe Ivory was ready too. She couldn’t walk any more and had lost most of her sight and hearing. Labs have the most intelligent and human-like eyes, and I could nearly sense her saying, “It’s OK. I’m ready.” That didn’t stop the tears or how I felt inside. Dr. White and her staff were so kind. I shared how as a younger man, I’d always put dogs down with a gun, but there was no way I could do that with one of the best friends I’d ever had. The injection worked so quickly and she just drifted off to sleep. I felt a great sense of relief, in spite of the loss. I buried her in the front yard. Maybe, it’s being a little sentimental but I plan to get a small grave marker. What I want on it is simple but telling: Ivory Best Dog I Ever Owned. If blog readers will allow me, I’d like to blog dog stories this week. Several are about Ivory as well as other canines who’ve touched my heart. Check by the Creekbank for updates. Curt Iles Creekbank Stories PO Box 332 Dry Creek, LA 70637 curtiles@aol.com http://www.creekbank.net
Art from Bill Iles
I’d like to invite everyone within SW Louisiana to drop by an excellent art show at the RealArt DeRidder Gallery. Tonight, Dec. 29 from 6:00-8:00 PM, is the opening reception. Four DeRidder natives, including my beloved uncle Bill Iles, are featured in this show called “Coming Home.” The paintings are on display through Jan. 9. At the closing of the show on that date, local writers (including Curt) will be reading from their works. To learn more, visit www.realartderidder.org
Three reasons why I write
“To the world you may just one person; to one person, you may be the world.” -C.S. Lewis Three reasons why I write I’m asked nearly weekly, “Why do you write?” Here are three short stories that answer that question: My friend Wayne is living in Dallas right now. He’s awaiting a double lung transplant that will save his life. He’s a long ways from his home in the village of Elizabeth—sitting in a big city as the clock ticks toward the organs he must have to stay alive. It’s emotional to think that someone out there must die for Wayne to get his lungs. One person’s life will end suddenly and tragically, so my friend can live. Within a matter of hours, one family will suffer great loss while another receives a great gift. It’s more than ironic that Wayne’s waiting game is being played out at Christmas time. I’ve thought about how Christmas is about the Gift. Our gift of salvation and eternal life also meant that someone had to die. His name is Jesus and His final words, “It is finished” are all I need to hear to know his death bought my life. That is the message of Christmas. Wayne wants my two latest books for Christmas. That’s why I write: so a man in the midst of a great crisis will have the comfort of good stories. Even though I’m not there with Wayne in Dallas, through my writing I am. That’s why I write. Secondly, I write to connect with people, especially young people. In addition to selling books, I give many away, especially to children and teens. Last month at Dry Creek’s Community Thanksgiving service, I talked with Austin Barrett, a local preteener. I gave him a copy of my latest book and scribbled a short note in about how he inherited a good name: Barrett. Austin’s family has been highly respected in our community for generations. This week Austin’s mom sent me a copy of a paper he wrote in school, Dear Curt Iles, Ever since I started reading your new book A Good Place, I have learned how to trust in God through difficult times even when it’s hard to. I relate to Mayo because we both have jobs on a farm. Your book inspired me to want to read your other books. Your writing affected my life because now I have put more faith in God. In conclusion, this was the best book ever. Your friend Austin Folks, that is why I write. Finally, I write to make new friends. Last week, I had a book signing in downtown Natchitoches at The Book Merchant, one of Louisiana’s finest independent bookstores. It was a rainy afternoon and foot traffic was light along the brick street where the famous Christmas lights are displayed. An older couple came into the store and I gave them bookmarks. This started a conversation and I soon learned about them. They had traveled over from Jacksonville, Texas to stay in one of the city’s beautiful bed and breakfast inns as celebrated their 49th wedding anniversary. The husband bought a book and I had the privilege of signing it, wishing them a wonderful anniversary in their Natchitoches visit. It was so obvious how deeply they were in love. They were giggling and hugging on each other like two hormone-driven teens at their senior prom. It was like a breath of fresh air watching them. I wrote their names in the book, wishing them a happy 49th anniversary on Dec. 17, 2009 in Natchitoches, Louisiana. Today, I cannot recall their names, but I’ll never forget them. They walked out of the store with my book, and I captured in my heart the joy I saw in their faces. Hopefully, it was a good trade on both ends. I believe I got the better end of the deal. Long after they’ve forgotten my stories, I’ll still hold their smile in my heart. And that’s why I write. Curt Iles
Stolen Christmas Trees… Thoughts on Holiday Giving
A Stolen Christmas Tree From the book, Wind in the Pines, by Curt Iles copyright 2004 Creekbank St0ries “I know I tagged a tree in this area.” Those are the words of my neighbor, Mitzi Foreman, as she walks through our Christmas tree farm on a blustery Sunday afternoon. Together we search through where she tagged her tree last week but cannot find it. “Well, maybe your tag blew off or worse—maybe someone pulled it off,” I said. “No, I tied in on securely.” The problem is that all of the other nearby good-sized trees are taken. However, my dad and I have learned to be prepared for situations like this—we have several extra trees tagged for such an occurrence as this. I walk Mitzi over to a beautiful Leyland Cypress in the southeast corner of our field, away from the highway. She loves it and I quickly saw it down before she can change her mind. Later that afternoon, Daddy joins me and together we look for the missing tree. He points to an open spot, “Look at that.” It’s the rough-cut stump of a tree. It’s evident it was not cut with the level cut of our bucksaw, but rather the jagged cut of a machete or ax. We now know what happened to the Foreman tree—someone stole it. This both mystifies and frustrates me. Who in the world would steal a Christmas tree? I just can’t quite picture a family sitting there on Christmas morning, opening presents, singing “Silent Night” around a stolen Christmas tree. However, people will steal just about anything. In the gift shop at the Christian Camp where I work, we have an ongoing minor problem with shoplifting. Ironically, the most stolen items are the W.W.J. D. bracelets. As you probably know, this stands for “What Would Jesus Do?” Well, I know this much—Jesus wouldn’t tell you to steal a bracelet—or for that matter, a Christmas tree. A few days after cutting several trees for customers, I take my boots off at our front door. Hanging from the Christmas wreath is a scribbled note, “I cut a tree today.” Attached to the note, held there by a clothespin, is a twenty-dollar bill. Pocketing that, I kneel to lift our doormat. Under it is another price tag and twenty dollars. Written on the price tag is ‘Wishing you a very a Merry Christmas.” Yearly, Daddy puts up a sign telling how we operate our tree business. I love his handwritten sign, posted at the end of our road: “If we aren’t home, you can still get your tree. The saw is on the front porch. You can leave your tag, your name, and money by the front door. Now go do your thing.” I especially love his benediction. “Now go do your thing.” Unbelievably, this system has worked well. We’ve found that when you put trust in people, they usually come through in an honest way. In the week after the stolen Foreman tree, we notice another stump. The thieves have evidently returned, or someone else has sunk to their low level. I tell my three teenage sons, “We’re going to catch the thieves if and when they return at night. The next night about 10:30, my middle son Clint and I see the headlights of two vehicles leaving our driveway. We spring into action, running to my truck, taking off in hot pursuit. We are dressed for battle—I have on my pajamas and Clint in his boxers and a T-shirt. Speeding down the highway, we catch the escaping thieves before they’ve gone a mile. At the stop sign where Dry Creek’s only two highways intersect comes our moment of truth. As my headlights illuminate the rear of both vehicles, I tell Clint, “We’ve got ‘em red-handed now.” There the culprits are—my mother in her van, and my dad in his truck. They’d left one of their vehicles at the Christmas tree farm going to a basketball game. The headlights we saw were when they returned for the extra vehicle. Clint and I both burst out laughing as we turn the truck around. Arriving back home, my wife DeDe is waiting at the door. After sheepishly telling our story, she asks, “Well, what would you boys have done if you’d caught up with the real thieves?” We look at each other in our nightclothes, and I shrugged. “I guess I’d have taken off one of my house shoes and whipped them with it.” The best parts of a tree farm are the children. The excitement of warmly dressed preschoolers running through the trees laughing and singing is enough to put anyone in the Christmas spirit. The fun of letting a five-year-old boy hold the other end of the saw as he “helps” me cut down a tree. As the tree falls he loudly shouts, “Timmbbbeeer.” He’ll remember for the rest of his life how he “cut down that tree” during a Christmas season so many years ago. One of my favorite experiences, illustrating how special a tree is to a young child, occurred about five years ago. A preschool class from our local school came to shop for a classroom tree. Several of the parents came to help their child also select a tree for home. After we’d chosen and cut four or five trees, the preschoolers loaded back on the bus. I put the trees in the back of my truck and followed the bus to school. About half way down my driveway, the bus came to an abrupt stop. Teacher Dianne Brown exited the bus and came to me. “Curt, one of the little boys is crying and shouting, ‘I want my tree. That man’s taking my tree. I want my tree right now!’” It took careful explanation to convince him we were bringing his tree to school. Yes, stolen Christmas trees could make you cynical, but the joyful faces of children cutting a tree outweighs the frustration of any theft.
The Warm Glow of Giving
The Warm Glow of Giving It’s the kind of December day Louisiana is famous for: cold, foggy, with a thick humidity that chills you to the bottom of your toes. Parking my truck at the Hope Center, I feel kind of like the weather. I didn’t sleep good last night and my “battery needs re-charging.” I wipe my boots on the back porch mat before fumbling with a balky doorknob. It finally relents to my twisting and I step inside the large meeting room. This room, which doubles as a bluegrass music stage, if full of people. There must be thirty or more, most manning an assembly line that would make Henry Ford proud. But they’re not assembling car parts—it’s food they are putting into large cardboard boxes. These people, mostly senior adults, are the Third Tuesday Food Box Crew at The Hope Center. They’re busy putting bags of kidney beans, rice, and other foodstuff into the box. The room is abuzz with laughter and talking. It reminds me of movie scenes from Santa’s North Pole workshop the week before Christmas. Maybe it’s due to the cold dampness outside, but there is a warm glow and energy pulsating in the room. The room is filled with light, and it’s not the type given off by fluorescent bulbs. I realize it’s the warm glow of giving: of folks who’ve learned that it truly is more blessed to give than to receive. They’re filling boxes of food for needy folks—boxes that will make a difference in how happy a Christmas some “shut-ins” and families will have. The brightest glow in the room comes from two people: not just any two people, but a couple I love dearly. One of them, Mancel Reeves, isn’t able to work today. He tells me of terrible vertigo that keeps him from standing without “getting sick-dizzy.” In spite of his physical problems, Mancel still has that glow. His glow comes from the inside. It’s a joy I notice in the faces of committed followers of Jesus. The glow is intensified by the joy of giving that fills this building on US 190 between Reeves and Ragley, Louisiana. His wife, June, scurries about the room instructing everyone and keeping the assembly line going. I catch up with her near the freezer where a stout man is rolling a dolly stacked with meat into the walk-in. June Reeves has that same glow on her face. Once again, I recognize it as the glow of giving. Giving, it’s just what Christmas is about. Here’s a couple at the age where folks are supposed to sit in a rocker and while away the hours. They’re as busy serving others as they’ve ever been. I walk up and down the assembly line visiting with the many friends. As country people do, they pick at me, “Well, look who shows up when the work’s all done” and “I’d sure like to be a writer where I just come and go whenever I please.” It’s all in fun and I laugh with them. I’m really jealous of them as they work in the happy camaraderie of people getting “outside themselves.” I just believe next month I might come down here and help. Well, it’s time to go. I leave my gift in the hands of June Reeves. She’d asked me to write a Christmas story to place in each food box. I finished it early this morning and hand the copied story to her.* I look on the assembly line and see a stack of my books. One is going in each box. I remind myself that my hands are also part of this assembly line—just in a different way.** I ease out the door, back out into the cold. However, it seems as if the dampness doesn’t soak into my bones as before. Driving to my next stop at DeRidder High School, I realize I’ve been warmed by that room at The Hope Center. My battery has been re-charged. It got re-charged back in that room. A room full of the warm glow of giving. Merry Christmas. It’s all about giving. It’s all about the Gift. His name is Jesus. Curt Iles *The story I wrote for the food box, “First Christmas in Dry Creek” will be in tomorrow’s blog at http://www.creekbank.net ** The book I’m donating for each box is my only book that I overprinted and it undersold, Hearts across the Water. Rather than staring forlornly at the stacks of boxes holding copies, I’ve decided to give them away to schools, libraries, and other entities. They say the world could come to an end in 2012. If so, I hope I’ve given away all of my copies by then.
Betting on the Saints
Betting on The Saints: Thoughts on 60 inch TVs, “Cryptkeeper” Tattoos, and Louisiana Rednecks It’s a scary combination: a bet, a case of beer, Louisiana rednecks*… and the New Orleans Saints. It sounds like a sure enough formula for trouble for any day of the week. *First of all a disclaimer: “Redneck” is not an offensive term where I come from. The first time my laptop’s Spell Check flagged is as a “divisive term” I laughed out loud. In the Deep South we’re proud of our Redneck pedigree and take no offense at its use. It does denote a certain attitude. And sometimes a certain behavior. Many times a less than brilliant behavior. Take the case of Wayne A. Spring. Last week he made an impulsive vow. (Impulsive vows have gotten people in lots of trouble all of the way back to Bible times.) Here was his vow: if the New Orleans Saints won their next game, he’d take his 60 inch screen TV out in the back yard and allow his Facebook friends to shoot it. That was a pretty brash statement… especially concerning a team that was 11-0 and playing the lowly Washington Redskins. But he said it. I’m sure with four minutes to go in the game and the Redskins nursing a touchdown lead and needing only a chip shot field goal to ice the win, strange things began happening. The Redskins kicked pushed the field goal for a miss. The Saints scored, forcing overtime, and a Washington fumble and a Saints field goal ended the game. 12-0 for our Saints. And Wayne’s phone began ringing. His friends soon began arriving, armed to the teeth with their weapons and plenty of beer. You can see it on YouTube by clicking here. It wasn’t a pretty sight. All I can say is that Wayne Spring is a man of his word. He kept his end of the vow. Even said he’d be watching the Saints this week on a 13 inch black and white TV. When I thought about betting on the Saints and betting, I recalled “Cryptkeeper” and wondered where he might be now. I know Cryptkeeper by his other nickname, “J.J.” Tattooed across J.J.’s forehead in large letters is “Cryptkeeper.” A year ago he showed up at our church needing help to get a bus ticket to Boston. We helped him and I had a chance to ask about his unusual tattoo. “I got it when I lost a bet.” “How so?” “I was in jail and made a bet with another fellow that the Saints would beat the Chicago Bears and go to the Super Bowl.” He grinned as he pointed to his forehead. “They lost and I got this tattoo.” “That was the bet?” “Yep, the loser had to get ‘Cryptkeeper’ tattooed on his forehead.” “They did it right in the jail?” “Yep, it’s a real jailhouse tattoo. It’s a beaut, ain’t it?” I couldn’t think of anything nice to say, so I just smiled, finally commenting, “Well, at least you’re a man of your word.” “Oh yeah. I made the bet and I lost, but I kept my word.” Two stories. Two bets on the New Orleans Saints. My advice: Don’t bet on/or against the Saints. As they roll toward a possible undefeated season and that elusive Super Bowl, my money’s on our Louisiana team. I guess that’s all right. Just don’t bet your big screen on it (or for that matter, the skin on your forehead.) This Sunday our Saints play the Falcons. Wayne A. Springer will be watching it on a little BW TV unless some of his redneck friends invite him over to see it on their plasma or flatscreen. And J.J. (aka Cryptkeeper) who is now cooling his heels again in one of Louisiana’s prisons, will watch it in some cellblock TV room. I just hope he doesn’t make any kind of silly wager on the Saints. I’d bet you he will… I’m pretty sure of it. He’s kind of like Wayne Springer down in Albany, La. Not exactly the sharpest ax in the woodpile. Who dat say they gonna beat them Saints. Who dat.
A day with students is always a good day
I visited this morning with Mrs. Kelly Rudy’s third graders at DeRidder’s Carver Elementary. We had a fun time together as I told them three stories: The Evening Holler (from Stories from the Creekbank) , Joe Moore and the Skunk (The Wayfaring Stranger) , and Mayo’s Snake-Popping story (A Good Place). No matter the age, people love stories. No matter the place, I love sharing stories.
A Good Epitaph to Have
A Good Epitaph to Have. . . Have you ever thought about what epitaph you’d like to have? Years ago I walked along the seawall in Galveston, I saw one I admired. A plaque there read: In memory of Leroy Columbo 1905‑1974 A deaf mute who risked his own life repeatedly to save more than one thousand lives from drowning in the waters surrounding Galveston Island. As I looked out over the Gulf of Mexico, I wondered about what kind of man Leroy Columbo was. Evidently here was a man who exhibited a passion for saving lives. I suspect he was a man who overcame his physical challenges, and put everything fiber of his being into the life saving business. As I gazed down the beach, I could nearly see Leroy Columbo sitting alertly on his lifeguard stand. There he was‑ the most focused lifeguard on Galveston Island. I can picture him sitting on his perch oblivious to the surrounding honking horns and squealing children. His focused gaze surveyed the waters for the signs of a swimmer in distress. . . If anyone lives near Galveston Island, I’d love to know if this plaque survived Hurricane Ike in 2008. You can read more about Leroy Columbo as well as see photos by clicking here. I can imagine his joy as he handed a rescued child over to a terrified mother- how many lives and families were changed by his live‑saving work! With each saving act, his passion grew deeper to do what he was born to do‑ save lives. As I stood there, I thought about our jobs as followers of Jesus. Our reason to exist is to be a part of Jesus rescuing souls in need of God’s grace. That is to be our focus and passion. Just as Leroy Columbo did, our focus and concentration must be on the job God has called us to. We cannot change one single life‑ only God can touch lives as we’ve seen. I’m convinced that now is one of the most important times for presenting the gospel to the wide world. Technology and opportunities allow the sweet story of Jesus to penetrate to new places and into fresh hearts. The world today is sincerely searching for what we know is the answer‑ a personal relationship with God. We are to keep our gaze out on the waters as we strive to reach those who need the life‑changing news of how much God loves them. Let’s do whatever it takes to serve and minister to others! What greater privilege is there in life than to be part of a person coming to know Jesus Christ. Pray often for your world. It’s the world that begins at your doorstep and extends to “the ends of the earth.” . . . It’s the most important thing you can do! One way you can support reaching the world for Jesus is through the Lottie Moon Christmas Offering. It helps support over 5000 missionaries serving throughout the world. On my African and Asian trips I’ve worked with these dedicated men and women. They are so worthy of our support and prayers. Learn more about the offering at www.imb.org. This story is adapted from the story of the same name in the book, Stories from the Creekbank by Curt Iles.
Can you hear me now? Thoughts on reaching the world
Can You Hear Me Now? A man I encountered in a rural area of Cambodia may have been the defining image of this interesting part of Asia. I saw him coming before he saw me: he was a rather large man for the Khmer race. What really caught my eye was his attire. All he was wearing was a loose short skirt called a sarong. He was barefooted and bare-chested. Just walking along. I thought to myself, “It’s as if we’re back in the 19th century here.” I quickly wondered if he’d ever seen a television, felt the coolness of air conditioning, or knew how electricity worked. He did have one modern thing with him. He was smoking a cigarette and blowing the smoke up into the air as he walked along. He was still a ways from me when I heard a strange noise. It was at the same time familiar as well as unfamiliar. The Cambodian man stopped and reached into his skirt. I quickly saw what it was as he placed it to his ear. He’d just got a call on his cell phone. He stood there smoking, smiling, and talking as I stared in amazement. Here was “Mr. 19th century” doing something I can’t even do in my hometown- talking on a cell phone! In Dry Creek, Louisiana you’re lucky to get two bars showing on your phone. I always tell guests at our camp that they’ve arrived in the cell phone dead zone. Others call our community the “Bermuda Triangle” of cell phones. I’ve told many people of seeing campers at Dry Creek walking the grounds holding their cell phone high in the air, vainly trying to get reception. Once I even saw a man placing his cell phone against our flagpole hoping he’d found a makeshift antenna to connect him to the outside world. (I shouldn’t make too much fun because later I went and tried it myself just to see if it made a difference. I can attest it did not.) Yet here I am 12,000 miles from home. In the middle of a country, Cambodia, where thirty years of civil war and unrest have left a terrible mark and here is a guy using a cell phone. His traditional dress and his embrace of modern technology is an apt description of Southeast Asia, especially Cambodia. A land where the past, present, and future seem to collide together. Most of all, in Cambodia I saw the open doors of sharing the gospel. The country is a land of young people. Most of the leaders and professionals age fifty and above were killed by the communist Khmer Rouge or escaped the country. There is a great void of leadership and openness to new ideas. Many of the younger generation are disillusioned with the old ways and the traditional Buddhist religion. They are searching and whether they know it or not, the good news of Jesus Christ is what their heart is yearning for. This is a nation seeking its future and identity. The harvest is ripening. It is worth whatever it takes to be a part of sharing Jesus. Then I’m reminded of a young American couple I met in Cambodia. They are probably in their late twenties. Both had great careers back in the states. He was a pilot for Delta Airlines. She flew planes for the Air Force. Their future looked bright and limitless. Their journey to Cambodia started when they came here to adopt a child. Due to widespread disease and violence, there are many many orphans. They did something that so many westerners do when they visit this unusual country – they fell in love with its people. They later returned to adopt another child. Then they left their secure careers and came to Cambodia. The day I met them, this ex-Delta pilot was helping dig a water well at a village school. He looked happy – just serving the Lord and being part of the harvest. Over and over I saw examples of talented young people who’d left behind what we call success to serve where the work is hard and the problems are numerous. Working next to them were retired couples who’d refused to buy in to the great American dream of retiring to a condo in South Florida. Instead here they were, signed up for a three year term of serving God half a world away from their children and grandchildren. I was once again reminded of why missionaries have always been my heroes. Ordinary men and women, with normal problems and faults, who are used by God in an extraordinary way. They’ve decided to seek the best, while forsaking earthly rewards, while laying up treasures in heaven. It’s just a matter of doing whatever it takes to make a difference. Jim Elliott served as a missionary in Ecuador during the 1950’s. His heart was to minister to the unreached Indians of a jungle tribe. After making contact with this tribe and seeming to be making progress, he and his fellow workers were killed by the very people they came to help. Before his death, Elliott made a statement that continues to touch lives today: “No man is a fool who gives up what he cannot keep, to gain what he cannot lose.” The Cambodian encounter with the cell phone reminds me that technology is a way to reach these seemingly “unreachable” areas. While many types of electronic items have been misused, the spread of the gospel through the internet, DVD’s, satellite phones, solar-powered CD players, and computers has been useful in reaching the entire world. In Acts 1:8, Jesus told His followers, “But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” Going to the “ends of the earth” means getting the gospel out to places that are difficult
Suzie Q's Eyes: A Chinese Story
“I know I’ll never see her again until heaven…”
Snowing in Dry Creek/Review of A Good Place/YouTube snow video
It’s rare to get snow along the Gulf Coast, especially in December. Yesterday’s 2 inch snowfall was the earliest ever recorded. Just a note: we had snow last year in mid-December, some during Easter 2007 (See the Easter Cold Snap in The Wayfaring Stranger) and previous to that it had last snowed on February 7, 1988. Click here to see a YouTube video of the snow (with soundtrack by the Bluerunners.) One of the best part of book signings is making new friends and visiting with old ones. Mr. Sid Cole, age 85, is a friend I always enjoy seeing at Pitkin, Louisiana events. He is a wealth of information about the history of our area, especially the area where he grew up: Harmony/Green Oak Community near where the Calcasieu and Ouiska Chitto (aka Whiskey Chitto) Rivers meet in Allen Parish. Mr. Sid is a veteran of both WWII and Korea. He’s an example of the rock solid folks who live in Piney Woods Louisiana and make this world a better place. This is a recent review of A Good Place from the Lake Charles American Press. Dry Creek inspiration for author’s latest novel BY ELONA WESTON AMERICAN PRESS DRY CREEK — To Curt Iles, there’s no better place to be than Dry Creek. Iles has traveled the world, but no matter the miles, his heart never leaves the piney woods. That’s where the 53-year-old author grew up and where eight generations of his family have lived. It’s also where Iles draws most of his inspiration for his books. “It’s a wonderful place to live,” he said. Iles’ latest book, “A Good Place,” is fiction set in “No Man’s Land,” an area that included much of Southwest Louisiana during the 1800s. “No Man’s Land” is a place of myths and legends. It was a rugged place that attracted people looking to escape and evade their rough pasts. Iles’ 299-page book centers on a family who faces obstacles but manages to keep their ties strong. The tale begins in 1862 with the family bracing for a hurricane. The story is told through the eyes by Mayo Moore, who is 12 when the story begins. The book follows the family through both happy and sad times, through calm and storms, including the turmoil of the Civil War. Throughout the book are scattered references to the area — from the family names of the characters to the names of roads and places — all will sound familiar to the Southwest Louisiana reader. The names of the characters in the book are taken from Iles’ own family. Iles researched area history for the book, and he has combined that history with his own imaginative tales. “I love the freedom that comes with fiction,” he said. Writing is Iles’ passion. He began journaling at age 17 after his uncle, Bill Iles, who lives in Lake Charles, gave him an empty journal and encouraged him to pen his thoughts. Iles, a former teacher, coach and administrator at East Beauregard High School and camp director at Dry Creek Baptist Camp, said his journals now number 49. But Iles said it wasn’t until about 15 years ago that he started taking writing seriously. Iles said he has always been a curious person and decided to put his curiosities on paper. “My writing started just for the enjoyment of it,” he said. Iles said he also writes to “glorify God.” Over the years, Iles has written “The Wayfaring Stranger,” “The Mockingbird’s Song,” “Hearts Across the Water,” “Wind in the Pines,” “The Old House” and “Stories from the Creekbank.” He has sold 20,000 copies of his previously published books. Iles said with each book he has written, he has grown more comfortable and confident in his writing. He said with each, he has learned a little more about himself and a lot about others. Iles said he has noticed that he listens to people more. He said he watches people’s expressions and listens to their vernacular. He said it is those little observations make a story more believable. “People are the most fascinating things in the world,” he said. Iles dedicated his new book to his great-grandparents, Frank and Theodosia Iles. “During the short decade that we shared life, ‘Pa’ and ‘Doten’ connected me to the beauty and wonder of Louisiana’s 19th century ‘No Man’s Land,’ ” Iles writes. “Pa was the grandson of Joe and Eliza Moore, the fictionalized heroes of this story. Doten’s family homesteaded the land I grew up on. They both gave me a precious legacy — one that I attempted to pass on in my writing.” Iles said the book was written in several of his area “offices,” which include a nice, quiet spot in the Dry Creek woods, the Beauregard Parish Library, Books-AMillion in Lake Charles and in the lobby at the Best Western Richmond Suites in Lake Charles, just to name a few. Iles said his next book, “A Spent Bullet,” will be on the Louisiana Maneuvers. To read excerpts from “A Good Place” or to purchase the book, visit http://www.creekbank.net.
Latest Posts: "Gratitude" and "Every Tribe has a 'Bogeyman.'"
Click here to read author’s notes on the hurricane that starts Chapter 1 in A Good Place. Gratitude: Two stories about a wonderful word. Gratitude: It’s a word that rolls off the tongue. To read more No matter where you go, every culture has bogeymen stories to scare their children. In the following scene from A Good Place, Eliza Moore tells her children of the “Hobyahs,” fictional monsters that lived in the Louisiana swamps. What brought this passage to mind was a book I’m reading, Black Elk Speaks. It is the autobiography of a Lakota Sioux chief. He relates, “Lakota parents induced good behavior in their children by telling them the “Wasichus” (white men) would get them ‘if they didn’t behave.’ ” (page 12) I’m reminded of my K-12 school principal years. Parents would sometimes introduce me to a new preschooler/KG student with, “See that man. If you don’t behave, he’ll paddle your butt.” I didn’t appreciate that one bit! As I say, every tribe has a bogeyman: The Irish have the “Little People,” the Swahili have their “Bush Devils,” and my piney woods ancestors had the “Hobyahs.”
Excerpt from A Good Place
Landmark Longleaf Pine on Longville Gravel Pit Road. See below for more A good word: “Compel” A short story from Hearts across the Water by Curt Iles Then there is the story of my friend Tom Dunville. I’ve known Tom for seven years. He is a wonderful artist and the nicest guy I know… when he is sober. Tom has fought a life long battle with alcohol. Sometimes with the help of the Lord, he has won. At others, it seems as if the bottle has had the upper hand. But sober or drunk he is my friend. I love him like a brother. Tom re-surfaced in Dry Creek on the day that Katrina flooded the levees in New Orleans. Tom and his son-in-law Tim Evans saw the flooding going on in New Orleans. From their house in Westlake they watched in horror as the city went under. They and four other buddies immediately decided to do something about it. But first they needed a boat. Tom remembered that our pastor, Don Hunt, had a fishing boat. So they borrowed our pastor’s flat-bottomed aluminum boat and headed out. They were stopped at the edge of New Orleans by state police and turned back. But they told “a little white lie” to convince the officers that they were part of the official Wildlife and Fisheries Department caravan coming in. They “had just gotten separated from the rest of them.” Once they were inside New Orleans there was no stopping them. They put the boat in at the 17th Street Canal that separates Orleans and Jefferson Parish. By going through the levee breaches they were able to get to the areas of the city with the deepest water. For the next four days they rescued people from rooftops and the second story windows of buildings. Tom told me they never saw a uniformed official in the first three days. The entire rescue was done by civilians. Tim Evans and a Baton Rouge marine, Mason Crawford commandeered (my favorite post-hurricane word) a one ton semi truck and five flat bottom boats and used them to haul people off rooftops to Interstate 10. Now if you saw Tim, Tom, and their crew you’d say they look like a pretty rough bunch. I’d agree with you. But if you were stranded on a roof for three days, you’d see their heart long before you looked at their hair or dress. When describing his decision to go to New Orleans, Tom Dunville had a simple but deep explanation, “After I saw the flooding, desperation, and great need I just felt compelled to go.” That’s a good word: compel. It means to “bring about by force.” Tom and his friends saw a great human need and something deep within them forced him, in compassion, to take action and go make a difference. Once again, a group of guys who decided to “get er done.” The complete story of the Evans/Dunville “fishing expedition” was in the Lake Charles American Press edition on Sunday, September 11, 2005. Excerpt from Chapter 6 of A Good Place Narrator Mayo Moore, age 12, is on an errand through the piney woods when he encounters the local “bull of the woods” named “Roscoe.” As a boy my great grandfather entertained me with tales of wild bulls chasing him. Trotting toward my grandparents, I had no idea another encounter awaited me. Bo wandered off in pursuit of a squirrel, and a few minutes later, a noise came from the woods ahead. Figuring it was Bo, I whistled. However, what stepped out into the clearing was much bigger than a dog—it was a huge red bull, snorting and pawing the ground. In our area, cattle roamed the woods. Most were gentle and grazed close to the homes of the settlers. Others, what we called range cows were truly wild and foraged in a wider area. Some of these wild cattle, especially the bulls, were fierce and greatly feared. The most infamous one was a big red bull nicknamed “Roscoe.” His normal area was West Bay Swamp, a good fifteen miles from where I stood. I’d heard tales of this bull and had no doubt it was him standing fifty yards in front of me. It’s Roscoe. That storm must have run him off from his usual stomping grounds. Speaking of stomping grounds, that is exactly what Roscoe was doing. Upon spotting me, his front hoof began throwing clods of mud behind him angrily. He was the bull of the woods and well known for attacking other bulls, horses, and even humans—I fit in that last category and it was obvious this meant trouble for me. Filled with fear, I looked around for a climbable tree, but saw only tall pines with no lower limbs. Only a fox squirrel was going to scale those trees, not a scared boy. My best shot at escape lay toward the swamp, where low-limbed climbable hardwood trees grew. We both moved at the same time—I scampered like a scalded dog toward the swamp, with Roscoe chasing after me. Each time I’d glance back, he’d gained on me. Soon, I could easily hear his plodding steps closing the distance. There was no way I’d make the swamp at this rate, so I decided to use the fallen trees to my advantage. Directly ahead of me was a pine top. I waded into it, pushing my way clear to the other side. Roscoe couldn’t get through as quickly, and I gained some running room. However, in the clearings, he’d shorten my lead. A panic filled my chest knowing I couldn’t outrun him much further. Climbing through another treetop, I broke off a small limb. When I came out of the top, Roscoe was already around the treetop, heading me off at the pass. I immediately reversed direction—running right back into the treetop. Snorting with rage, he came back around, matching my every move. We danced a deadly dance, a terrified boy
A special tree and a special couple
Thanksgiving for my parents, Clayton and Mary Iles This old beech tree still stands on our family land on the bank of Crooked Bayou. It bears the initials of my mom and dad, CI (Clayton Iles) and MP (Mary Plott.) Today (November 25) is their 56th anniversary, so the tree pre-dates 1953. Even though my dad has been dead six years, the marriage my parents exhibited still impacts my life greatly. They had devoted love for each other and expressed that in a hundred ways for my sisters and I. They were no different at home than they were in public. During this time of Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for the lessons they taught me on loving someone for a lifetime.
