The Wayfaring Stranger Sample Chapters
The Wayfaring Stranger: Louisiana Journey Curt Iles The following post contains the introduction and first two chapters of my upcoming novel. If you enjoy these, additional chapters are being posted weekly at http://awayfaringstranger.blogspot.com . Curt Iles P.S. This is a draft. This means it is still in revision. It also means that your input and ideas are welcome and needed! Introduction: “One day” I’ve now lived for over half a century among the piney woods of Southwestern Louisiana. During these years, I’ve had countless conversations with friends who passionately stated, “If I could go back in time for one day—just one day, I would want to be transported to the 19th century and walk among the virgin longleaf pine forests of Louisiana.” I remember my own great-grandmother, whom we affectionately called “Doten” describing the open pine forests of that time: “Baby, except in the creek bottoms where the oak and beech trees grew, all of the upland areas were covered in large tracts of majestic longleaf pines, or as we called them, ‘yellow pines’ My, my—the had no limbs for the first fifty feet or so and seemed to reach to heaven and their interlocking canopies kept out the sunlight as well as any underbrush. It was clear under the trees as far as you could see in every direction and a man could ride his horse at a gallop and only have to avoid the big trees. Grandma Doten continued, “The carpet of pine straw was so thick under the trees that wagons would roll quietly along on the cushion of needles. Those big pines– they were always ‘singing’ as the wind blew in their tall tops.” Telling this, a far-off longing look in her eyes would seem to be seeing the long-gone virgin pines of her area. Then she would sing a line of the old song, “In the Pines”: “In the pines, in the pines Where the sun never shines, And you shiver when the cold wind blows.” Now, I’ve never fully recovered from her descriptions. Even though I’ll never walk under the virgin pine forests, The Wayfaring Stranger is my attempt to recreate on paper what my mind and heart have visualized since childhood. So come join me as we travel to the Louisiana area called “Ten Mile”—deep in the piney woods of Central Louisiana. In my own journey to recreate this part of mid 19th century Louisiana, I fell in love with another faraway place: the rolling hills, bogs, and friendly people of Ireland. As we travel with Joseph Moore on his journey from treeless Ireland to the heart of the piney woods, I hope you’ll get glimpses of his homeland, the beautiful ‘land of forty shades of green.” Ireland—the land that in spite of its hardships and troubles during the years of this story never faded in the heart of any immigrant who left it behind. I hope The Wayfaring Stranger also takes you to this island nation, the home of multitudes of our ancestors—many of whom traveled to these piney woods and fell in love with them also. Curt Iles Westport, County Mayo Ireland March 2007 Prologue “It is difficulties that show what men are.” -Epictetus A journey is defined as traveling from one place to another—usually taking a rather long time; sometimes we call it a passage, which can mean progress from one stage to another. Normally we consider a journey a trek of physical miles in moving from one place to another. However, the greatest journeys, as well as the greatest struggles, are always those on the inside of a man or woman—in their heart. The Wayfaring Stranger is a journey of all of these components: a physical trip of thousands of miles, an accompanying struggle to overcome great adversity, and finally and most of all: a journey within the heart. It is the story of a man who faces the challenges, difficulties, and obstacles of life. Come join Joseph Moore on this journey… Chapter 1 – The Journey Begins I am a poor Wayfaring Stranger, Traveling through this world below There is no sickness, toil, or danger In that world to which I go. I’m going home to see my Father, I’m going home no more to roam. I am just going over Jordan; I am just going over home. -“The Wayfaring Stranger” Traditional Irish Ballad March 1849 “I knew it would finally end this way—“ That was the thought burning in the mind of Joseph Moore as he lay hidden behind the stone wall. Breathing heavily with his heart pounding wildly, he tried to calm down as he listened for the sound of the tracking dogs. Once again, he felt the wound just below his right knee and withdrew his hand to see blood. He had just run a panic-filled mile frantically trying to escape the baying dogs and shouting men chasing him. The dirt felt cool against his face as he lay on the ground. The sweat from fear and exertion ran down his cheek in a trickle onto the dirt. Wiping his face, Joseph watched nervously through a hole in the rock wall. He could see toward the west as he scanned carefully for any sign of the men and dogs. On a normal day the unique smell of the peaty dirt of western Ireland would have been something he enjoyed. But today was not a normal day. It was a day full of events that would change his life forever – if he survived it. On this day, in the year 1849, Joseph Moore of the village of Westport, County Mayo, Ireland was a young man of sixteen. A tall thin teenager with sandy hair and a pleasant freckled ruddy face, he was dressed in homespun clothes and bare-footed. All in all, he was pretty non-descript among typical Irish teens in this famine-ravaged area. He was pretty typical except for one detail – anyone who met him for the first time always commented on his
The Wayfaring Stranger: Free Sample Chapter
Each week I will be posting a chapter from my upcoming novel, A Wayfaring Stranger. I’m really excited about this historical story of how two characters, Joseph Moore of Ireland and Eliza Clark of Ten Mile, Louisiana came to meet in the mid-19th century. Feel free to follow along each week as I add a chapter. If you like what you read, pass it along to a friend. Because this is a draft, all input and criticism is appreciated! Use the comment section for feedback. Prologue: A Journey is defined as traveling from one place to another, usually taking a rather long time; sometimes we call it a passage, which can mean progress from one stage to another. Normally we consider a journey a trek of physical miles in moving from point A to point B. However, the greatest journeys, as well as the greatest struggles, are always those of the heart. A Wayfaring Stranger is a journey of all of these components: a physical trip of thousands of miles, an accompanying struggle to overcome great adversity, and finally and most of all: a journey of/within the heart. Come join Joseph Moore on this journey…Dedication To my Dad, Clayton Iles, the Wayfaring Stranger. He passed on to me the love of the old music, the woods, and his faith. He would have liked this book. He’s “crossed over Jordan…” he’s gone home. However, he is always with me as I write. “It is difficulties which show what men are.” -Epictetus A Wayfaring Stranger By Curt Iles © 2007 Creekbank Stories http://www.creekbank.net Chapter 1 – The Journey Begins April 1848 I am a poor Wayfaring Stranger, Traveling through this world below There is no sickness, toil, or danger In that world to which I go. -“The Wayfaring Stranger” Traditional Irish Spiritual/Ballad 2/15/07 update April 1848 Joseph Moore, breathing heavily and heart pounding wildly, tried to lay quietly behind the low stone wall next to the freshly plowed field. Once again, he felt the wound just below his right knee and withdrew his hand to see blood. He had just run a panic-filled mile frantically trying to escape the baying dogs and shouting men chasing after him. The dirt felt cool against his face as he lay on the ground. The sweat from his fear and exertion ran down his cheek in a trickle onto the dirt. Wiping his face, Joseph watched nervously through a hole in the rock wall. He could see toward the west as he scanned carefully for any sign of the men and dogs. On a normal day the unique smell of the peaty dirt of western Ireland would have been something he enjoyed. But today was not a normal day. It was a day full of events that would change his life forever – if he survived it. On this day, in the year 1848, Joseph Moore of Westport, Ireland was a young man of nearly sixteen. A tall thin teenager with sandy hair and fair skin dressed in homespun clothes and bare-footed, he was pretty non-descript among typical Irish teens. He was pretty non-descript except for one detail – anyone who met him for the first time always commented on his intense deep green eyes. Those eyes smoldered with a fiery passion that was unforgettable when you looked into them. An older Irish lady had once commented to his mother, “My Lord, those green eyes will either get him killed or make him kill someone. I’ve never seen any quite like his.” Right now those green eyes were peering cautiously over the low stone wall as he heard the howling hounds approaching. Shaking with the rush of adrenaline, he wondered if his life was to end at this young age. In the last three years he had seen plenty of death up close among both adults and many children much younger than him. The failures of the potato crop had caused widespread famine and cost the lives of thousands throughout Ireland. Coupled with the desperate mass emigration of thousands who had left his area of County Mayo, it seemed Ireland was now becoming barren of people. The smell of the dirt beneath his face reminded him of the hundreds of fresh graves at the cemetery. This presence of daily death attested to the ongoing tragedy continuing in the country he loved deeply. Thinking of all of the recent graves of the past three years, he thought: I’ve helped dig many of those graves. I just wonder if f someone will be digging my own grave before this mess is over. Laying at the edge of the potato field, he quickly thought back on the events of the day that had brought him to this terrifying moment. This normal April morning had begun innocently enough. There were always plenty of chores to do on the small Moore farm. What had earlier been a family of seven now consisted of only Joseph and an older married sister. Everyone was gone – his dad’s exile to Australia by the authorities, other family members had emigrated to Liverpool or onto America, and the rest were dead from the fever that had swept through during the worst days of the famine. When the trouble started on this spring morning he had been hoeing away the grass from the potatoes. It seemed as if this year’s early crop might be disease-free. The cool breeze from the west had the smell of the nearby North Atlantic Ocean. He had always loved that salty smell that stung your nostrils and made you feel a little more alive. The ocean smell always made him dream of being on the sea, a huge fantasy for a boy who had never traveled more than twenty miles from home. As he hoed, Joseph was just out of sight of the last possessions of his family farm: their family sheep herd: an old ram, two ewes, and two young lambs. They were grazing in the next field hidden
The Pine Knot Pile: Earthly Treasures
The Pine Knot Pile: A Lesson on Earthly Treasures All of a sudden, the February wind picked up and turned out of the south. Instantly what had been a small controlled fire in my back field became a raging monster. The flames spread rapidly through the dead knee high grass – as fast I as I could, I ran ahead with my faithful firefighting weapon – a wet grass sack. But no one person, nor any wet sack, was going to curtail this fire. It seemed to have a malicious mind of its own as it raced northward. DeDe and the boys came running out of the house. Armed with brooms, buckets, and a shovel, they ran to join me but were also driven back by the raging racing fire. All five of us knew exactly where the fire was going – right toward one of my most precious possessions: my pine knot pile. Now before coming back to the fire, let me clue you in on what a pine knot pike is. Southwestern Louisiana was naturally populated with Yellow Pine, or as we now call it, Longleaf Pine. Every area of upland was covered with these slow-growing but stately pines. During the late 19th and early 20th centuries, all of the virgin pine forests were clear-cut by large timber companies. Where huge tracts of pines had once towered only open fields of stumps now stood. The timber companies came in, cleared large areas for miles, and then moved on. These Yellow Pines had many great qualities. Prime among them was the tree’s large heart, or inner core. This resiny heart, instead of rotting, turned into a rich, sappy wood. These remains of pine stumps were called “rich lighter” or “fat pine.” Due to its thick rosin, lighter pine would burn easily and has always been the preferred method of starting fires in cook stoves and fireplaces for generations. In the 1940’s, Crosby Chemical Company of Picayune, Mississippi moved into Beauregard Parish and began harvesting the remaining stumps for their turpentine mill. Turpentine is the syrupy liquid in these pine stumps. It can be used for many commercial purposes. In addition to these industrial uses, country people gathered all of the rich pine they could for their personal use. Every older home had a large pine pile in the backyard or near the barn. Every home proudly considered their pine supply a great prize. Fires were the method of keeping warm and cooking. During the winter a fire was usually burning in either the fireplace or cook stove around the clock. However, over the years as propane and electricity became part of our rural culture, cook stoves and cooking in the fireplace became lost arts. In spite of these modern improvements, most people kept their fireplaces going. There is no substitute for sitting cozily by a popping and crackling fire as the cold wind moans and the rain blows against the house. Because of the proliferation of fireplaces, nearly every country home continued to have a pine knot pile. When DeDe and I bought our Dry Creek home in 1985, I was excited to also inherit a huge pine knot pile in the corner of our back field. The land on which we now live had been a second growth forest until it was cleared for soybean farming in the 1960’s. This was during a time when the price of soybeans skyrocketed and many residents cut and cleared their pine forests to plant beans. As they cleared the land I now live on, the pine stumps and knots were placed in an impressive pile in the corner of the field. This pile reached head high and was twenty feet wide. I inherited this lifetime supply of pine when I purchased our home and the surrounding acreage. With pride I pointed this treasure pile out to my family and friends. I could feel the envy of men as they commented on this vast and valuable pile. There was enough here to easily last a lifetime and more. Starting a fire in our fireplace was easy with the pine splinters cut from these stumps. I tried not to be completely selfish with this abundant supply. I shared wheelbarrow loads with my dad, family, and neighbors. Even after ten years of use, I hadn’t even made a good dent in my pine pile. However, this hot runaway fire in my back field, started by me, was approaching my pine knot pile, and was going to make more than a dent in it. As suddenly as the brush fire got to the pine pile, it was completely engulfed in flames. The fire and thick choking black smoke billowed high into the sky. If it’d been anything but my pine knot pile, it would have been enjoyable to watch …But it was my “lifetime supply” of pine literally going up in smoke as we stood and watched helplessly. DeDe went inside and called the fire tower to inform them as to the source of the thick black smoke. The tower observer replied to her, “Ma’am, go easy on your husband; It’s a tough thing on a man to lose his pine knot pile.” It had all happened so quickly and was over in a matter of minutes. There, where fifteen minutes earlier my huge pine knot pile had towered, was now only charred ashes and smoking chunks of wood. I think back to my precious pine knot pile when I read Jesus’ words in Matthew 6. He reminds us that all earthly treasures someday will rust, corrode, rot, become moth-eaten, be discarded and abandoned, or as in my case – burn up. When you see someone driving a new car off the sales lot, remember that one day the new and shiny car, will be junked, smashed, and melted down. Jesus told us to hoard heavenly treasures – the things that really last: eternal things. The only things I’ve seen that really last are
The Rich Life of Carl Ford
The Rich Life of Carl Ford Sunday, October 15, 2006 They buried one of my heroes today. In a steady rain, Carl Ford was laid to rest by an Air Force honor guard at Shiloh Cemetery. The 21 gun salute and playing of taps both echoed off the pine trees and emotionally touched everyone present. Carl, a retired Air Force serviceman, was given a worthy and honorable send-off for a hero. A member of the honor guard gave the folded flag to his wife Sugar as she sat between her children, Mike and Pam. However, the fact that Carl Ford was my hero was due to something else beside his honorable service to our country. He became my hero during my teenage years. Here is the story: When I first began to drive (legally) in Dry Creek community, the place I most wanted to go was the Sugar Bowl Skating Rink at Wye, Louisiana. It was the main hangout for teens in the East Beauregard area (Dry Creek and Sugartown) as well as the surrounding communities of Fairview, DeRidder, and Pitkin. The Sugar Bowl (also known as Morel’s) had been run by the Morel family for years. When I first started going there, it had just been taken over by Carl Ford and his wife, Chaery “Sugar” Morel Ford. Carl had just retired from the Air Force and he and Sugar had returned home to run the skating rink. The Sugar Bowl could be a rough place. As with every teen hangout, there were constant problems and challenges, many dealing with alcohol. My mom’s parting words on going to the Sugar Bowl were always, “You park your car on the south side of the highway close to the rink. I’d better not hear about you being across the highway.” Needless to say, ‘across the highway” was the parking area where most trouble took place. Being pretty square, I stayed away from there. I didn’t go to The Sugar Bowl to fight, get in trouble, or get drunk – I went to skate, laugh, shoot pool, and be among my friends. Carl and Sugar Ford ran the skating rink in a way that made me respect and love them both. That is when both of them became my heroes. This couple made the perfect team. Sugar was so sweet (she is the most aptly named person I’ve ever known.) Her positive personality made her loved by all the teens. No one wanted to disappoint her or cause her problems. Because of that, most everyone behaved well. Carl was respected for a whole different reason. He just had the aura of the kind of man you did not want to mess with. He had a strong jaw, a quiet manner, and a friendly but cautious manner. Because of these qualities, even the most onery teen boys wisely chose not to cross or disobey Carl Ford. He was well-liked by all as well as slightly feared by the rural teen boys who frequented The Sugar Bowl. I never remember him having to get rough with anyone. His quiet words and manner defused problems before they escalated. Carl Ford reminded me of several men from that era- the hero of the Westerns: whether it was Matt Dillon keeping Dodge City safe or John Wayne cleaning up a cattle town, this quiet yet powerful manner of addressing problems made an impression on me that lives on to this day. I learned this not from the stars of the screen or television but from Carl Ford at The Sugar Bowl skating rink in 1972… and 1973… and 1974. Carl and Sugar ran the skating rink in a way that prevented most problems. They modeled for me how to deal with teenagers. For my entire adult life, I’ve worked with teenagers. I firmly believe the Fords helped shape me during those impressionable years. Thinking back: Even now I can hear the screen door slamming behind me as I enter the loud skating rink on a Saturday night. Smoke on the Water (by Deep Purple) or Linda on my Mind (by Conway Twitty) booms from the jukebox. Jimmy Garner and my other friends lean over the pool table enjoying a game. In the next room you can hear the skates colliding with the hardwood floor of the rink. Behind the counter stands Sugar Ford. She is flipping those famous Morel’s burgers on the grill. That wonderful burger smell permeates the whole area. Her husband Carl, always working hard, walks briskly from the kitchen to check out another pair of skates, then back to unjam the pool table that has jammed and taken someone’s quarter. Over the next thirty-five years of my life, I worked with Sugar Ford for years in our school and community. I always enjoyed visiting with Carl whenever our paths would cross. He continued to be my friend, and probably unknowing to him, my hero. Yes, Carl Ford. Always my hero.
Blessed yet Burned
Burned, yet Blessed, by the Fire This is one of my reader’s favorites. The original story is in Wind in the Pines. This updated version will be in my new book, The Mockingbird’s Song. (It is due out in early 2007.) The once green pine forest, now charred and blackened, lifelessly stares back at me. As far as I can see to the west of the highway, sad black lines of burned pine trees extend in the distance. It seems as if another stand of pines has succumbed to a late winter forest fire. Normally in February, after several months of killing frosts, the piney woods of Louisiana are often be the scene of numerous forest fires. Whatever the source of these fires, whether control burning or woods arson, the result is often the same: Smaller trees, grasses, and shrubs all killed by the hot wind-driven fire. Surveying the charcoal-colored field I before me, I realize that this is a stand of Longleaf Pines. Although seemingly lifelessly charred by the fire, the resilience of this species will reveal itself in the coming weeks as spring arrives. There is an amazing story behind the effect of fire on Longleaf Pines. The history of the Longleaf Pine, Pinus Palustrus must be understood to truly grasp this story. This native tree, also called the yellow pine, ruled the virgin forests of the South from Virginia to East Texas. Because of its hardiness, adaptability, and ability to grow in shallow, sandy soils, it covered much of the acreage of the southern United States These beautiful pines existed in vast tracts called pine savannahs. These were upland areas where the pines were scattered throughout grassy areas. Because of the tall grasses, fire was always a reality during the dead of winter, when frost had killed the surrounding vegetation. The first to burn the woods were the native Indians. They burned the savannahs to be able to see game animals better and lessen the chance of their enemies hiding nearby. Later, white settlers burned these same grasslands to make better grazing for their cattle and sheep, as well as to kill pests such as redbugs and ticks. No matter the reason for these fires, the Longleaf Pines continued to grow. Whereas non-native pines, such as Slash and Loblolly, are easily killed by wildfire, the Longleaf seems to thrive because of fire. Longleaf Pine grows much slower than the other pine species. Because of that reason, most replanting of pines today uses the faster growing non-native species mentioned above. The early stage of a Longleaf Pine is called the grassy stage. The tree has hardly any trunk above ground and the long green needles more nearly resemble a wild type of grass than a tree. The pine will stay in this “long straw” stage indefinitely until a fire sweeps through. During this stage, the tree will remain dormant in growth due to what is called Brown Spot Needle Blight. This fungus attacks the top growth area of the young pine, called the candle bulb. The combination of the tall grass around the tree competing for sunshine and nutrients, and the Needle Blight keeps the young pine tree from growing upward. The surrounding grass keeps the area moist, which is the condition the Needle Blight needs to attack the small pine’s topmost candle bulb. The result is that the Longleaf sapling will stay in this grassy stage indefinitely – still alive, but never growing upward. A Longleaf Pine will never reach its potential until a fire rushes through, killing the grass and other trees competing with it for water, sunlight, and nutrients. Additionally, the Brown Spot Needle Blight is killed by the heat of the fire. Due to its thick bark, this species can withstand most hot forest fires. Unfettered by the competing grasses and trees and free from the stunting blight, the tree is ready to grow. The bushy Longleaf Pine is freed by the fire to grow to its intended height and size – and doesn’t a Longleaf grow tall and beautiful! One of the reasons I love these pines is because of their resilience. In the succeeding weeks driving along the highway, I inspect the field to see any new growth. Finally, in March the tops of the trees begin to show new green growth. Soon healthy candle bulbs, some nearly a foot long, begin to reach upwards. Over the coming weeks and months, this candle bulb turns into a tree trunk and sprouts fresh pine straw, and this once-dwarfed Longleaf Pine will never again have to compete with the grass for water, sunlight or food. Knowing about this species, I also know that this same growth is taking place underground. If you’ve ever seen the exposed tap root of a Longleaf Pine, you know that it has a deep strong foundation for growth. This deep root enabled most of these pines to endure the strong winds of Hurricane Rita in 2005. There is a spiritual application from the story about these pines. Just as these pines need the fire to prod their growth, in our lives we need the fire of trials and challenges to grow into the person God wants us to be. None of us desire these times of heat and pain, but God uses these times for the shaping of our heart for maximum growth. During these fiery times, we will often wonder where God is. Even though it is often difficult to feel His close presence in the fire, He is beside us as never before. It is good to be reminded of his faithfulness and steadfastness. We see a memorable example of this “burned yet blessed” experience in the wonderful Old Testament story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. The book of Daniel tells of these three young men being thrown into the fiery furnace for refusing to bow to the idolatry of the Babylonian king, Nebuchadnezzar. The fire was so hot that it killed
Ricky’s Story: Dragons by a TKO
The Battle of the Dragon and the Yellow Jacket Thursday, September 7, 2006 Today is a special day of remembrance. It’s been four years since my friend Ricky Gallien died. His family and thousands of friends still miss him… and always will. On this day, I want to relate one of the finest and funniest stories he ever told: It is the story of the Dragon and the Yellow Jacket. Ricky was good at so many things. His ability to work with others and get the best out of them was an attribute that made him a standout person and talented leader. No where was that strength more evident than from his years as a basketball coach. I watched him coach at every level- Little Dribblers, Junior High, High School girls, and High School boys. He had the knack for getting the very best out of his teams and that is the mark of a true coach: taking what you have and developing it into a team. The year that the story of the dragon/yellow jacket took place was probably Ricky’s best year of taking a team to a higher level. He took a good DeRidder High School boys team to a level no one expected: the state quarterfinals. (I believe it was 1984.) The quarterfinal game with New Iberia High was scheduled for DeRidder’s old Pinewood gym. This was due to a rule that prohibited teams from playing in their home gym. This fine old wooden gym was packed with a huge pumped up crowd. Here is how Ricky related what happened during warm-ups: “DeRidder’s team, the Dragons, and the New Iberia team were warming up on the court. The packed stands, separated from the floor by a retaining wall, were full of fans from both schools. The DeRidder mascot, a student dressed in a dragon suit with a long tail, paraded up and down the sidelines exhorting the home team fans to cheer loudly. As the New Iberia players shot lay-ups, their mascot, a student in a yellow jacket suit excitedly ran up and down the other side of the stands. He also had a tail on his outfit, but it was short. It was a hard piece of plastic representing a stinger. As the two mascots were cheered on by their respective fans, the inevitable happened– the dragon and the yellow jacket came upon each other right by the scorer’s desk- Right in front of the coaches bench. The two mascots began playfully jostling with each other much to the delight and attention of the crowd. However the wrestling and grappling soon became a little more rough than playful. It is at that point that the yellow jacket began turning around and aggressiveoy poking the dragon with “his stinger.” By now the dragon mascot had had enough. On about the third sting, the dragon reached out and punched the yellow jacket, landing a good right hook that sent the yellow jacket sprawling on the court, down for the count.” Ricky would tell this story with a gleaming twinkle in his eye coupled with his special smirky smile. He said pandemonium broke out as the yellow jacket lay prone on the court to the astonishment of the crowd, coaches, and fans. DeRidder Dragon fans whooped with laughter at their mascot’s action. The New Iberia Yellow Jacket faithful were (excuse this phrase) “mad as a hornet.” Ricky said that a near riot broke out. With the help of administrators, coaches, and law enforcement, the crowd was brought under control and order was restored. The Yellow Jacket, none the worse for wear, received a half-hearted handshake and apology from the Dragon and the game then started. Even though the Dragon won the undercard, the main event was won by New Iberia’s team. They narrowly defeated DeRidder and advanced to the state tournament at LSU. It’s been a long time since the battle in Pinewood’s gym. However I can still see it in my mind as Ricky stands there trying not to laugh as the yellow jacket goes down. That unique smile, those twinkling eyes and his warm expression are what I will carry with me today, September 7, 2006.
Le Petit Baton Rouge
Le petit baton rouge* By Curt Iles Creekbank Stories copyright 2006 Of all of the memorable places to visit in my home state of Louisiana, Avery Island is one of my favorites. Situated on the coastal marsh below Lafayette, “The Island” is an elevated area that rises above the surrounding flat marsh. It is not really an island but is a high area due to sitting above a salt dome. It is home to many species of waterfowl as well as alligators that may be seen when the weather is warm. We always encourage our Northern volunteers at Dry Creek Camp to visit Avery Island which is about 150 SE of us. When you step out of your vehicle at Avery Island, a sharp pungent odor burns your nostrils. It is the smell of hot red peppers in the drifting in the air. You are now standing at the home of Tabasco Hot Sauce. Avery Island is where this famous unique hot sauce is processed. Among the three major ingredients needed for hot sauce (salt, vinegar, and peppers) salt is in great supply there in the nearby underground salt mine. A few years ago while touring the Tabasco plant, I first saw the red stick shown in the picture. Our tour guide explained about “le petit baton rouge”* as it is called in French (or “the little red stick” in English.) Every pepper picker for Tabasco carries a stick like this in their hand. As they harvest the peppers, they use the little red stick to insure that they are picking the fruit at the exact color shown on the stick. When the pepper is at this redness, it is perfectly ripe to give the exact taste needed to produce the Tabasco taste that millions enjoy daily. This stick, painted this very particular shade of red, is used as the standard for picking. Picked too early when they are still green, or too late after they’ve lost some flavor, is not acceptable. The pickers carefully compare the fruit on their bush to the red stick. Only those with the right ripeness/color are picked. Here’s a neat application to le petit baton rouge: As the world looks at the followers of Jesus, they are seeking to see a difference in our lives that is caused by our Savior. They are not as interested in our churches, music and preaching as they are in seeing a difference in our lives. Here is what they are looking for: It’s a simple word called love. When folks look at our lives, they will compare our lives to the teachings and love of Jesus. In other words, they compare our fruit to the le petit baton rouge of the teachings of Jesus. Jesus very clearly emphasized the defining mark (or color) of a Christian in John 13:34-35, “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” (New International Version) There it is: the fruit of my life as a follower of Jesus is to be the color of love. A love that begins by loving those around me as in “love one another. . . ” But it’s also a love that refuses to stay indoors among our own kind. This Jesus-kind of love flows out in a ripple effect where lives are changed and enriched. Others are watching. They are using their petit baton rouges to judge and compare our lives. But here’s the scary part: Jesus himself, the living Son of God, is also applying his red stick to our lives. We can never come close to meeting his standard. He was perfect, is perfect, and will always be perfect. However, by growing closer and closer to Jesus… we will take on “His Color.” …And His Color is always love. His “petit baton rouge” was not really petit (or little.) It was large… a large wooden cross… an instrument of death. And just like the stick from Avery Island, it was dipped in red. The red color on the cross was from the very blood of the Son of God. And here is the best part: He willingly went to that cross personally for you… to pay for your sins. What will you do personally about that? You have two simple choices: Embrace that love-gift of Jesus and commit your life and heart to Him personally… or walk by it rejecting the chance to be in relationship with the very Son of God. You have permission to copy this story and share with others. Please acknowledge authorship and copyright. * Our state capital Baton Rouge was so named by the early French explorers who while coming up the Mississippi noticed how the local Indians had driven red-painted sticks along the riverbank. Therefore this spot became known as “Baton Rouge.” Even today in Baton Rouge there are many businesses and addresses featuring the name “Red Stick.”
