Short Stories from the Heart

By Margaret Helms

Some years ago I was privileged to be a member of a writers' group. We met each month at the library. A story we had written was to be read to the group at that time. This book is a compilation of those stories.

My family moved many times during my younger years. Every place brought new people into my life along with experiences that I would not have encountered, otherwise. It's my desire that everyone who reads this book will feel blessed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margaret Helms
• Release date: Feb 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370115235

Book preview

The Fisherman’s Tree

Almost forty years ago, now, my husband brought home a little tree he had discovered growing on the Plain Dealing Road right-of-way.  He was an avid fisherman, so the six-foot catalpa tree was just what he had been looking for.  The tree was placed in a choice spot in our yard between the house and garden.  It could be viewed from windows on the north side of the house.  It grew rapidly, budding out early, producing hand-sized leaves and clusters of fragrant white flowers.

About the time the flowers faded and young seedpods developed, tiny caterpillars emerged from eggs laid by a special moth.  The fisherman was happy, longing for the day those caterpillars would eat their way to maturity.  It wasn’t long before their constant eating left the tree looking very bare with only stems left of the green leaves.  Now it was harvest time for the fisherman.  Carefully he shook each limb, picking up the big juicy worms that fell to the ground.  They were put in an empty coffee can for a trip to the lake. Immediately, the tree began to produce a new crop of beautiful leaves.  The moths visited another time.  The cycle was repeating itself all over again.

One day while looking out of the window, I saw a large bird in the tree that I had never seen before.  It was perched on a low branch nearest the window so I could really observe him.  Being a birdwatcher, I stood motionless, studying its markings so I could make an identification from my field guide.  That yellow-billed cuckoo was there with fishing on his mind, too.  He had a different technique from that of my husband, but going after the same bait.  He was spying on the caterpillars, and would return for a tasty lunch when they were the proper size. Later, I discovered more than one of those beautiful 11-inch birds in our tree.  Six of them!  Now I was ready to be a spy.  With binoculars in hand, I situated myself in the swing about thirty feet from the tree.  I could have said, Now let the show begin, because that is what really happened. 

Each bird sat very nonchalantly, just looking here and there.  Actually, they were choosing the caterpillar that would become their lunch.  Suddenly, the birds flew and picked off a caterpillar from the bottom of a leaf in flight to another limb where an amazing process began. All six of the cuckoos were biting on their prey as it was passed back and forth in their beaks.  At the same time, they were slinging their heads.  Observing closely, I could see them swallowing the juice as it was being extracted.  This continued until there was nothing left except a limp piece of skin, which was promptly swallowed.  Each repositioned itself for another juicy morsel as the show continued.

Since that day, many beautiful birds have visited us, using the fisherman’s tree as a place of refuge.  Some would feed their young, while others would rest after eating their fill of sunflower seeds or after bathing.  Many have serenaded us with varied songs.  The tree has weathered many storms with its branches spread wide, but it still stands tall even though it has thinned from age and wear.  I like to think there is a welcome sign posted somewhere among the branches of the fisherman’s tree.  It beckons all God’s little creatures to come rest a while, or maybe feast again upon the food produced there.

All of this reminds me of words memorized so many years ago:  I think that I shall never see, a poem as lovely as a tree…

M. Helms

July 16, 1997

Papaw’s Letter

When our new grandson, Steven, was nine weeks old, my husband began writing a letter to him.  I thought this was rather strange, but watched with interest, as words seemed to fly across the page.  It was like he had a million things to write down with only a short time to do it.  This was every morning before breakfast, after we had eaten, or whenever he had a few spare moments before work. I remember when he asked for more paper.  Typing paper was all that was handy at the time.  I wasn’t concerned, as I knew the finished letter would need to be recopied.  Work time, and into the cabinet drawer went the letter with placemats, bibs, and napkins.  The next morning it was the same routine.

One day the letter stayed in the drawer.  With spring came gardening time before breakfast and a much heavier work schedule.  Instead of writing history, Papaw was enjoying the present with the baby, and the letter was forgotten.

When Steven was in the 4th grade, the class had finished reading a good story about grandparents.  The teacher asked them to tell about something their grandparents had done that was special.  This assignment was to be completed in two days.  When Steven told his mother, all she could think of was Papaw’s letter.  It was still tucked away, waiting to be given to him when his mother felt it was time.

On her way to work the next morning, she came by and asked if I could put the letter and some pictures together for her.  The catch was it had to be done that day.  She would have to go over it with Steven that night, as he was to take it to school the next morning.  By 3:30 p.m., I had the letter in its protective sheets with pictures pulled from various packets of prints all in place.  I must say it was a very emotional experience for all of us.  How I wish Papaw’s letter had been completed.  Who knows?  We may have been reading a book today.

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Springhill, LA 71075

March 12, 1985

Dear Steven,

This is most likely one of your first letters.  I know that it will be some time before you can read.  If God chooses to let you live and do well, that time will be here soon.  The reason I’m writing this letter to you is simple: I love you very much.  I know there is a possibility that I may not be here to tell you some of the things I want you to know.

I do not remember ever having a Papaw – as your brother, Jeff, calls me. My grandfather, Moses Helms, died before I was born and my other grandfather, Will Toms, died when I was two years old.  It would have been nice if he had written me a letter.  I guess he thought he would live to see me grow up.  I hope to live long enough to see you finish school and have a family of your own.  You never know when God will be ready for us to leave this world and come up to heaven to be with Him.  That’s where your Granny and I plan to go when our lives are over here on planet Earth.

If you could look back and see your Granny caring for you while your sweet mother is at work each day, you would know how much she loves you, too. You are a fortunate little boy.  You also have your grandfather and grandmother Ronquille who think you are a fine boy.  You even have a great-grandmother Costello that cares for you sometimes while your mom goes grocery shopping.  Your daddy thinks you are the greatest, too. 

I hope I will be around to show you the candy pecan tree I planted for you the day after you were born.  If I’m not around, you can get your brother Jeff, your daddy, or your mom to tell you where it is.  In my mind’s eye, I can see a rowdy boy of ten or twelve, picking up pecans from underneath that tree.  I also planted you a black walnut tree near your daddy’s shop.  You will love those black walnut goodies. That’s the way life is; all your life you eat fruit and nuts from trees someone else planted, then when you get old, you plant trees for someone else to enjoy.  That’s what keeps life lots of fun and plenty of trees, also.

When I was a small boy, I can remember some of the old folks talking about how the lumber mills were cutting down all the trees.  They feared that soon there would not be a tree in this country as big as a man’s leg.  However, it did not turn out that way.  That was fifty years ago and there are more trees today than there were back then.  God has a way of taking care of those things that are His.

The timber business has been big business in this part of the country all of my life.  Back when I was a small boy, they didn’t have big trucks and good roads like we do today.  Large lumber companies would buy thousands of acres of timber, and then build a railroad into the woods.  The logs were cut with two-man crosscut saws, and then pulled to the railroad loading dock with big horses or mules.  I can remember when there was a railroad track that ran east of Springhill toward Emerson, Arkansas.  It was built just to haul logs.  One also ran east of Taylor, crossing Dorcheat Bayou and into the big woods south of Magnolia.  Another crossed Bodcau Bayou west of Taylor where Lake Erling is today.  It went into Bradley.

We had a lot of woods, but game hunters had killed out all of the wild game.  I roamed these woods in north Louisiana and south Arkansas all my boyhood days and never saw a deer or wild turkey until the Game and Fish Commission stocked these woods back in 1950.  We didn’t have lakes stocked with fish either.  Most of the lakes were built between 1940 and 1960.  When we went fishing we only caught small perch and catfish.

You can get your brother, Jeff, to tell you how he and Papaw used to go over to Murray Lake, sit on the rocks down by the water and catch a stringer full of nice sized bass.  Oh, he enjoyed those trips and so did I!  He always wanted to tell Granny that he caught the fish, but he couldn’t keep a secret very long.  The truth was, I would get the fish hooked, then hand my rod to him so he could reel it in.  We both had fun!

Now, I’ll try to tell you just a little about your family roots.  I can only go back as far as your great-great-grandfather, Moses Helms.  He came to this area with his mother, who was a widow. They had come from Tennessee, desiring to homestead property in the Louisiana Purchase.  This was about 1850.  Their covered wagon broke down in the Western Community, leaving them stranded at the Pattillo farm.  Moses began working for Will Pattillo, and later married one of his daughters named Alice.  Moses and Alice had four sons: Emmitt, Ernie, Walter, and Charlie.  Today their families are scattered from Texas to California and Florida, so you have kinfolk all across this country. 

Moses, nicknamed Moke, died while he was a young man.  My grandmother told me that he had a mole-like growth on his back.  Doctors back then came to see sick folks at their homes.  This one came in his horse-drawn buggy and cut the growth off my grandfather’s back.  During the night my grandfather bled to death.  At the time, my grandmother, Alice, was pregnant with their fifth child.  Later, she gave birth to Little Moses, who lived only a short time.  Both he and my grandfather are buried near the entrance of the Western Cemetery, located out from Shongaloo, Louisiana.

After Moke’s death, my grandmother remarried.  She and Grandpa Dees had four children: Ada Sandlin, Gency Shaw, Jewel Dees, and Nova Bryan.  I mentioned earlier about Grandpa Will Toms that lived until I was two years old.  His wife’s name was Mary Dees Toms.  She was a sister of my grandmother’s new husband.  This really makes us kin to a lot of people around this area. 

After Grandpa Dees’ death, Mr. Caldwell came calling on my grandmother.  She said he was a good man with a fine family in west Texas, where he was from.  They married, but Mr. Caldwell did not live very long, leaving my grandmother a widow once again. 

My grandmother bought a home located on Cemetery Road, known today as 12th Street N.W.  It’s the third house past the north entrance of the Springhill Cemetery. The house had a half porch in front and looks just like it did in 1927 when we lived there with Grandmother.  The only thing missing is the apple tree Grandmother and I planted at the end of the porch.  The little tree was growing so fast and pretty, but then its leaves began to turn yellow.  In those days, there were no indoor toilets.  The natural thing for a little boy to do every morning was to run the end of the porch and tee-tee off on the ground.  That little tree was just too close. Grandmother explained that tee-tee would kill my tree.  I was more careful after our talk.  The apple tree did grow up and produce crops of delicious fruit for almost forty years. 

One day as I stood on the porch looking past my apple tree, I saw men digging a hole in the pasture across the road from our house.  Grandmother explained that the man and woman who lived in the big house that faced the other road (Plain Dealing Highway) owned the pasture that was behind their house.  Their fourteen year old son had died and they couldn’t bear the thought of taking him way out in the country to be buried.  They would bury him in the pasture so they could take care of the grave.  That was the first grave in what is now known as Springhill Cemetery.  Later the Bouchers were laid to rest near their beloved son.

We were still living with Grandmother when Mr. Hardaway came on the scene.  He was a kind old man with a neatly trimmed mustache, who came courting from Haynesville in a buggy pulled by a real pretty horse.  They married and had a few happy years together.  Grandmother was then left a widow until her death.  She is buried just to the west of the Bouchers, in the front part of the cemetery.

A lot of things have taken place in my lifetime.  I remember the first cars in this area.  In 1927 there were so few roads, when the weather was bad the car was left in the shed and the horse or mule-drawn wagon was used to make the trip to town. Telephones were monstrous things that hung on the wall.  The crank on them was turned so that it produced an electrical current that rang all the neighbors at the same time.  That was a real party line!

The electric refrigerator had not come to this area, then.  I was about fifteen when I saw one for the first time.  The more prosperous people had ice boxes and would haul ice from the Springhill Ice Plant.  At that time we lived in the Walker Creek community.  From there, we moved out east of Taylor to the Forrest Grove community.  The big problem with hauling ice for our July 4th celebration was the fact that 100 lb. block was nearly all melted before we could get it home.  You just learned to live with the climate, hot or cold.  I had never even heard of an air conditioner until after World War II was over.

I was about fourteen when I heard my first radio.  Old Dr. Horn up at Taylor had bought a battery powered RCA radio.  He invited everyone in this area to come listen to the New Deal President, Franklin D. Roosevelt, speak.  It was exciting even though static was about all we could hear.

Your daddy was almost a year old before I saw a television set.  We did not purchase our first one until about 1956.  When we went shopping for it, your daddy, who was about six, asked the salesman if Porky Pig was in that one.  He had been watching cartoons at a friend’s house and really liked Porky.  One night later, he even had a nightmare: Porky Pig was about to get him, and was he scared!

The first airplane I ever remember seeing was at an airshow in a cow pasture out in the Welcome community.  This was the year I started school.  The planes were World War I, 2-wing type planes that looked like Snoopy’s Sopwith Camel.  That was the name of World War I fighter planes.

When I was twelve, our family moved to Coushatta, to live on a river bottom farm.  My daddy, Walter Lee Helms, Sr., with his wife, Frances Esther Toms Helms, would work as sharecroppers.  That year my daddy was killed in a tragic accident.  We did not have enough money to bring his body back here for burial.  He was laid to rest on a little hill in a country cemetery between East Point and Coushatta.  Daddy was forty-two years old at the time.

My mother, Fannie, as she was always called, never remarried.  She was able to keep us kids together.  My oldest brother, Cliff, was in the navy, and Gladys, my oldest sister, was married and living in East Texas.  Another brother, five years older than me was stricken with seizures when he was seventeen.  His name was Edwin Dee.  These circumstances caused me to feel responsible for the well being of my younger brother, Walter Jr., and two little sisters, Mary Alice and Virginia Sue, as well as my mother.

I began doing odd jobs for neighbors.  Helping to clear new ground, plowing, cutting wood, making fence posts, and helping build fences were a few things that I did.  Just anything anyone needed a helper for, I was willing and anxious to work.  I was thrust into a place of responsibility beyond my years but I gladly did my best, all because of the love in my heart for my family. 

We moved back to Springhill after my dad’s death.  Mama as I always called her, lived to be in her eighties.  She was buried next to my grandmother, Alice Pattillo Dees Caldwell Hardaway, as she had reserved a burial plot there.  My dear Uncle Emmitt is buried on the other side of Mama.  Throughout all the hard times in life, my Uncle Emmitt helped us out with his support and love.

One of my younger sisters is named after my two grandmothers: Mary Alice.

(Into the drawer went Papaw’s letter and forgotten.)

My Uncles

Growing up as an only child can be a very lonely experience.  My heart always yearned for a little brother or sister.  A baby added to our little family would have been wonderful.  My mother’s two younger brothers were placed in my life to fulfill, to some degree, the emptiness I felt.  When I was very young, they were in their teen years, and I loved them both dearly.

Mother told me of several incidences in their growing-up years that always intrigued me.  She was the oldest of four children and the way she could say their names enchanted me also.  My mother, Lena Belle, my aunt, Elizabeth Zelle (whose name was really Lizzie Zelle but promptly changed it to Elizabeth when she was a teenager), then there were my uncles: Rolland Wade and Lawson Dale.

Back in those days—the early 1900s—kinfolks would come visiting by the dozens, and stay for a week or so.  Mother said their cousins would make a chant out of their names, Lena Belle, Lizzie Zelle, Rolland Wade, and Lawson Dale, and have the biggest time doing it.  Life was simple then, and love abounded in families.

On very rare occasions, it became necessary for my grandmother to go into town with granddaddy.  Their little homestead was about seven miles out in the country from Waldo.  Their transportation being a mule-drawn wagon, it took time for the round trip, plus