The Trumpet Blew in Point Coupee!

By Aristide Oconostota Marshall

The author is introduced to his ancestors by his old aunt Lois. His ancestors are from different ethnic groups but share a bond of love and faith. The story is told as the author struggles with being an epidemiologist in the face of racism and classism. His aunt helps him celebrate each ancestor’s weaknesses, strengths, moral failures, and victories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664156098

Aristide Oconostota Marshall

Aristide Oconostota Marshall was a full-time pastor at Franklin Avenue East in New Orleans before Katrina. He is now a disease surveillance specialist for the state of Louisiana. Aristide and his wife Stephenie are the parents of one daughter Elaina Maria Marshall. They make their home in New Orleans, Louisiana. Aristide has a BS in biology and completed some graduate work at New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary and is also a registered sanitarian.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Aristide Oconostota Marshall.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 02/03/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

823767

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Descendants of Joseph Langlois

Chapter 1–3

Chapter 4–6

Chapter 7–10

Chapter 11–12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Pointe Coupee Parish, Louisiana

The Family Outline of Relatives, A–I

Bibliography

To my daughter Elaina Maria Marshall-Hayes,

my only begotten daughter and angel.

This above all; to thine own self be true. (William Shakespeare)

CHAPTER 1

Who are my ancestors? What pieces of them still exist in me? I needed an answer. I had a burning desire to answer the two questions. I had my cheek cells swabbed and tested to give me a concrete basis and foundation to conduct my genealogy research.

A few weeks later, the results arrived at my comfortable Algiers home. I just glanced at it. Then I looked at the numbers. The DNA test revealed that I am 45 percent African, 25 percent European, and 30 percent Native American. How could this be? I look like an average African American male.

These results will not change my culture. The one-drop rule screams of my blackness. I am a black male, but I am related to the global world. My DNA speaks to my other parts scientifically proven to be European and Native American. My blood type is O negative. Among black, white, Native, and Oriental-people type, O is the most common. This means at one time these diverse groups had a common ancestor.

The test revealed that out of 128 great-great-great-great-great-grandparents who lived around two centuries ago, fifty-seven were African, thirty-three were white, and thirty-eight were Native American. Aunt Lois said Adam and Eve in the Bible are our common ancestors. Adam was a European man; and his lady, Eve, was an African woman. The entire world is multicultural. These two individuals make up the entire basis for every nationality in the world. I listened but was not sure if I understood the point she was making.

The trumpet played a sweet song in three-part harmony. The trumpet blew this time in a place called Point Coupee. I wanted to know more about my family. My aunt Lois would help me. I was excited about meeting my ancestors, and I was tickled that my old aunt had agreed to do the introductions. I talked with my aunt Lois on the telephone. She sounded so much like my mama. She used funny Creole phrases. A few phrases stand out: a good cock crows in any henhouse, when the oxen lift their tails in the air, look out for bad weather, wait till the hare’s in the pot before you talk, and conversation is the food of ears.

Her voice was so comforting and soothing. The conversation just flowed so sweet and easy. The flow reminded me of the waters of the mighty Mississippi right after hurricane season had passed. The waves were so gentle as if the stormy season had never existed.

I set up a personal interview to record our genealogy and family stories. Aunt Lois was in her eighties, and her memory did not seem to work in chronological order but darted back and forth like a tennis ball. How would I keep up with her? I wrote as much as I could and then organize it afterward. I felt like I was swapping at flies.

I caught some, missed some, and with some, I had no clue.

The stories discussed on Christmas at Uncle Eddie’s house in Slidell, Thanksgiving at Aunt Myrtle’s mansion in Eastover, Father’s Day in Mama’s backyard in Gentilly Woods, New Year’s Eve in Los Angeles at Aunt Delores, and on Mother’s Day in the Seventh Ward at Great-Aunt Thelma’s house on Saint Bernard Avenue behind Walgreens were always told among family. Our guests were asked to leave the room. This was weird. A stern warning was given not to divulge too many family secrets. I was eighteen when Mama said I could sit with the adults. This meant that I had transitioned into adulthood.

It was scary and exciting simultaneously. The adults had lively conversations, and sometimes it stirred a big fight. Children could not get involved with adult conversation. My sister got slapped in the mouth for repeating to a neighbor a story my grandmother told to family only. The slap frightened me. Aunt Lois said, warning or not, the stories should be recorded.

The family was dying out; and if not recorded, they would be lost forever. The Langlois family had its origin in Normandy and held a family seat at Motteville and were members of the aristocracy.

In 1719, several Langlois men moved to Louisiana and fathered children with African, Native American, and Irish women.

The only people remaining from the union of Aristide and Hazel Langlois was my aunt Lois Martin in New Orleans, my aunt Delores Taylor in Los Angeles, my uncle Felton Langlois in Hammond, and my mother, Bernadine Marshall, in Alexandria. The other four siblings were deceased: Uncle Leroy Langlois, Uncle Aristide Langlois Jr., Uncle Eddie Langlois, and Aunt Myrtle Harold. Eddie, Leroy, and Aristide were buried in Louisiana; but Aunt Myrtle was buried in Decatur, Georgia.

My mother complained about her nieces and nephews’ decision to bury their mother so far away from her hometown. Aunt Lois said it was not our call. Some things are out of our control. My mother did not believe in things not being under her control. She fought with all her might to get her way. My father was the only person I knew that could challenge her. He was determined to have his way.

The two made World War I look like a sandbox fight among preschool children compared to their epic battles. The mystery was that, despite the battles, they loved each other dearly. The love just had lots of drama, fire, and passion.

Aunt Lois laughed when she talked of my parents. She called them the drama queen and drama king of New Orleans. Do not tell your parents, I said. I laughed out loud and found a new clean page in my notebook to record the history. Aunt Lois was nothing nice in her own rite. She was old but had a spicy mouth, perfect figure, and an outlandish imagination.

She had quite a few husbands in her day. She divorced some, buried some, remarried one, and loved some. The only issue was that she could not keep them.

I just enjoyed them while I had them, she said with a bright smile and tickle in her lovely greenish eyes.

The family called her the black Elizabeth Taylor. She hated the nickname. Aunt Lois’s first marriage was doomed from the start. She was too young and green. Her parents reluctantly permitted her to marry Jay Max Bond Jr. They married on December 1, 1938. Jay promised to buy a ring once he could afford it. Jay’s father was a professor at Dillard University.

Aunt Lois was fifteen years old, and her new husband was twenty. She gave birth to her first child, Charles Max Bond, on September 2, 1939. Her husband, feeling the pressure, filed for divorce in October. He just refused to work and live off his father and mother. The spoiled brat never became a man. He was just a boy and just wanted to play house. Aunt Lois said living in your in-laws’ basement is not ideal. The basement had no windows.

Aunt Lois moved back in with her parents and enrolled in a nursing program via Charity Hospital. She went to school while her parents took care of the baby. The classes were hard, but she was determined. The pace of school and motherhood took quite a toll, but she made time for some social events. Her mother said, You are still young. I insist that you have some fun.

Aunt Lois’s second marriage was on July 4, 1940. She went to a barbecue on Gayoso Street in the back of town, and standing at the party with a chicken leg in his hand was Amedee Fredericks. Aunt Lois said he was from a family of brick masons and concrete finishers. The pearl engagement ring was lovely, but old Aunt Thelma said it was bad luck. I asked her to explain. Pearls are shaped like that of a tear. This meant many days of crying in the marriage. I did not care what anybody said. I was in love.

He was beautiful. Aunt Lois said that his body was very muscular, his personality sweet, and his long hair hung in a ponytail. People thought he was Indian, but he proudly said, I am Creole. His family embraced her and her baby boy with open arms. Amedee even encouraged her to continue her studies in nursing school.

The marriage was great for the first two years until he drank heavily. The alcohol changed him into a very different man. He beat me every other week for three years. I made excuses for each beating. The stress of going home to Dr. Jekyll, a very kind man, or Mr. Hyde, an abuser, became overwhelming. It had to stop!

On May 8, 1945, Mother’s Day, a young woman about my age came into the hospital. Her husband beat her so badly that her face was disfigured. She died, and I saw myself headed in the same direction. The beatings had to stop. I told Amedee about the young woman who died at the hands of her husband, and he said with tears running down his face, ‘I will never hit you again.’ I loved him so much. I just hated the abuse. I believed him.

On May 20, 1945, Aunt Lois finished nursing school and got a better-paying job in the emergency room at Charity. On June 1, 1945, Amedee, in a drunken stupor, became enraged about a burnt piece of toast and punched her in the eye. Her black-and-blue eye forced her to call in sick. He went to the bedroom and fell asleep. This would be the last time she took a sick day because of his ass. Aunt Lois said enough was enough. She fought back.

Her eyes were filled with tears as she continued to tell her story. "I warmed the empty pan on the stove, and when it was nice and hot, I went to our bedroom where he was sleeping and beat his ass with the hot pan. He had burns all over his back and arms. I was gone when he returned from the hospital. The burns left permanent scars. His family did not defend him but said he was raised to be a man much better than he had become. His sisters said it served his ass right for hitting you. How could he raise his hands to the woman he loves?

"They tried to convince me to stay, but I could not do it. I love him, but I cannot live with him. The beatings had not only hurt me physically but also broke my heart and my spirit.

Unfortunately, I was still in love with Amedee even after the abuse. Aunt Lois filed for divorce, and she and her son, Charles, were back with her parents. It was so hard on Mama. She had just had your mother in November of 1944, and I was back again with all my baggage. Mama said no problem. It is just foolish to stay with an abuser.

Aunt Lois’s third marriage was very special. In 1946, Irvin Fleming, one of her patients, was terminally ill. He was older.

He’s a retired teacher from New York who lived in a big house on Cherokee Street in Niggertown, a large area near City Park. He looked white and had no living family. The doctors said he had only four months to live. Aunt Lois had taken great care of him in the hospital. He made a strange request. Pretty girl, he said, I am old and ill. I have lots of money and no heirs. I have seen you and the little boy. I want you to marry me.

Are you crazy? I do not know you or love you. It is just wrong.

Aunt Lois said the hospital released him into a hospice situation at his home. She was assigned to make visits with him. She gave him a bath and his daily medicine. Pretty girl, he said, will you marry me?

Aunt Lois said something deep inside of her could not deny him. She said, Only if you tell me your age.

He was eighty years old, but could easily pass for fifty. I have good genes in my family. Nobody ever looked their age.

Aunt Lois said the five-bedroom house with an upstairs den impressed her. His bank accounts were bursting at the seam. Her parents said it was unholy and wrong. They stopped talking with her, but her mind was made up. On April 1, 1947, she married Irvin Fleming.

Aunt Lois showed me the Victorian antique 14-karat solid rose gold and mine-cut diamond ring. It had belonged to Irvin’s mother, and I will never part with it. People were upset I had married such an old man. I told them to mind their business.

The doctors were amazed that he was still alive and equally shocked at the identity of his new wife. Lois Fleming became Mr. Fleming’s biggest advocate. Little Charles was now eight years old and went to Corpus Christi Catholic Elementary School. Her co-workers called her a gold digger, but she ignored them.

Irvin Fleming’s cancer went into remission. Aunt Lois said she was shocked. Pretty girl, he said, your love has healed me. He adopted little Charles. He was now Charles Fleming. Aunt Lois said a strange thing happened in 1948. Mr. Fleming had been too sick to consummate the marriage.

He was now eighty-three and had strength. She had always slept in the adjoining room next to his and had turned the upstairs den into an oversized bedroom for little Charles. One night, Mr. Fleming came to her room about midnight. Aunt Lois said she was alarmed. What’s wrong? Are you ill?

He smiled and said no. I have never been better. I have a request.

Aunt Lois said, What is your request?

Pretty girl I have never required much of you.

I know, Irvin. I am so blessed. You have given me whatever I wanted. I am grateful.

Do you love me?

Aunt Lois felt bad, but she could not lie to him. I care about you, but I do not love you.

It is fair. I had hoped that by now you loved me. I will not make my request.

Aunt Lois said, Please make your request.

Will you allow me to make love to you?

She took him to her bed and slowly caressed him. He, at eighty-three, was a fantastic lover. He was methodical but very tender.

Pretty girl, you add life and vitality. I appreciate you, he said.

I told him he had stabilized my life. All my needs were met and with the extra. I could go on shopping sprees with my sisters.

In 1949, without warning, while they sat together in mass, he slumped over. His last words were, Pretty girl, I love you. The ambulance came, and the paramedics did all that they could. He was gone.

Aunt Lois said she and little Charles screamed. The priest called the nuns and they said prayers. Mr. Fleming, at eighty-four, had died not from cancer but a heart attack. Aunt Lois said it was so sad because she had just got to a point where she actually loved him. The funeral felt like a dream. I was in a daze for much of it, Aunt Lois admitted.

In 1950, she rekindled the relationship with her parents. She married for a fourth time to a black doctor. His name was Dr. Richard Lombard. He was a tall dark man with an amazing insight into the human heart. A board-certified cardiologist from Nashville. Dr. Lombard’s hero was Dr. Daniel Williams who led a heroic operation to suture the pericardium of a stabbing victim on July 9, 1893. Dr. Williams, a Negro surgeon from Chicago, was working at the Chicago’s Provident Hospital on the very night that a twenty-four-year-old man with the stab wound to the chest was admitted.

The stab wound was slightly to the left of the sternum and right over the heart. The wound appeared to be superficial; but later on in the night, the patient had bleeding and pain and was going into shock. Dr. Williams opened the patient’s chest and quickly tied off an artery and vein that stopped the blood loss.

Then he noticed a hole in the pericardium and a puncture in the heart about one-tenth of an inch in length. He stitch closed the hole in the pericardium but allowed the body to heal the tear in the heart on its own. The patient made a full recovery.

I heard his story, and I knew what I wanted to be. Aunt Lois said, He told the story at least once a year, but it never got old. He lit up like a Christmas tree each time he retold it. ‘I told my parents I would fix hearts.’ Aunt Lois never met his parents. They were both deceased by his last semester in medical school. The Lombards were cleaning staff at the medical school that their son attended.

I walked the very floors that my mother and father mopped and waxed. I only wish they lived to see me become a doctor. They gave me love and every penny they could. It seemed so unfair that death took them from me before I could pay them back. The ironic thing was that both died from heart disease. The hard work, stress, and poor diet had ruined their hearts beyond repair.

‘I see my parents in every patient that I treat.’ This was one of his famous lines. Aunt Lois said the fire in his eyes just sucked you in like a vacuum cleaner. He had transformed charity’s ability to treat and handle conditions of the heart with his passion and quest to master and learn everything about the essential organ. Aunt Lois said he taught her so much, and she fell deeply in love with him. The man was so smart and sexy. He wanted a baby and I was determined to get him one, Aunt Lois added.

On March 2, 1951, she gave birth to Linda Ann Lombard. The following six months, the hospital promoted her to head nurse of the ER. The promotion came after an appeal and legal fight. Dr. Betsy McHale, assistant director of nursing at Charity, had groomed her daughter Susie McHale for the head nurse of ER position. Aunt Lois had attended classes with Susie. Susie was four feet eleven inches tall, redheaded, and self-absorbed. She was an average student but bragged that medicine was in her blood and that she had descended from a long line of doctors and nurses.

Aunt Lois was paired with her for her final clinical and projects. She did the work, but Susie took credit. The nursing teachers and professors, afraid of Susie’s family ties, made sure that she passed every course. The problem came with state boards. Aunt Lois and Susie studied together. The test in Baton Rouge was long. Aunt Lois recalled how difficult and demanding the test was; but after a silent prayer, she just dove in. I passed with a score of 90 the first time.

Susie failed her boards. Her family protested, but the test examiner told her to study for a retest. The test was only given three times a year in January, June, and October. Aunt Lois reluctantly tutored Susie. Susie passed the test in June with a score of 79. The next incident was still painful. Susie became cold and distant.

Aunt Lois asked what was wrong. Susie told her they were not friends and she was still superior because, after all, she was not a nigger. I do not understand how you got a 90 and I only made a 79. Time passed, and Aunt Lois just forgot about the matter.

They both worked at charity sometimes on the same floor, but Susie did not speak to her. The position of the head nurse of the ER was published. Aunt Lois would not apply, but her husband said, You go for it. The hospital said that it was a done deal.

Susie’s mother had stated that her daughter would be the head nurse in ER. The Lord has a way of intervening. A young woman was given a C-section to quickly deliver her premature baby girl. The baby had a rapidly dropping heartbeat. The delivery succeeded.

Aunt Lois and Susie were pulled from the ER to work the labor and delivery unit. The baby was fine, but the doctors put her on an IV of liquid nutrition. The young woman was put on an IV of morphine to help with the pain from the C-section.

Susie was assigned to this woman. She switched the IV fluids and gave the mother the liquid nutrition and the baby the morphine. The baby turned purple, her eyes rolled back, and she stopped breathing. Dr. Blischkes revived the baby and put her on a breathing machine. The baby tested positive for morphine, and everything was traced back to Susie.

Susie’s mother paid the young woman to settle for substantial money, and the hospital covered it up. The baby survived the scary ordeal. Dr. Blischkes was very angry, and he resigned immediately. This damn nurse could have killed this child and this hospital gives her a pat on the wrist just because of her mother. This is wrong, and I will have no part of it. The incident circled around the hospital.

People whispered about it around the water cooler, in the bathroom, and in dark hallways after the late shift. Aunt Lois recalled the day of the interview. "Two nurses had applied: Susie and me. The notice said that Dr. Singer would conduct the interviews. This was strange because most interviews had more than one person. The hospital said that Dr. McHale was the only other person qualified to do interviews, but with her daughter applying, she was not eligible.

Dr. Singer was highly regarded and respected at all levels in the charity system. Dr. Sarah Singer, another nursing assistant director and friend of Dr. Betsy McHale made a statement that shocked her. Lois, you are qualified for the position. There is only one problem. You are the wrong color and from the wrong culture. Thank you for applying. I appreciate what you do for our hospital, and I will see if I can get you a little raise. You are such an ambitious and pretty little black girl.

Aunt Lois left the interview and wrote to the chief of staff and the medical director. They ignored her letter for several weeks. Her co-workers said, Just forget about it. Then a strange thing took place. Dr. Blischkes returned as assistant chief of staff at Charity. They doubled his salary and enlarged his scope of influence. Dr. Blischkes got hold of Aunt Lois’s letter and called her to his office.

First, I want to apologize for the stupidity of Dr. Singer. I realize the distress this has caused you. I have been given the authority to right the wrongs in this place. Congratulations, Lois, you are the first black head nurse of ER at this hospital. Do not worry about anything. I have Betsy and her cronies in checkmate. I will also watch her dumbass daughter. She will work in triage taking blood pressure and weights and filling out charts. I pray she does not hurt any more patients.

Things were awesome. I enjoyed my new position. Dr. Blischkes became my mentor and friend. He kept me aware of what the staff nurses said and how the administration viewed my performance. Some administrators wanted no blacks in my position. My performance impressed them, but a few said it was just wrong to have me over whites.

Dr. Blischkes said if she is doing the job effectively, her color should not be a factor. He also asserted, With the number of colored patients, we served why not have a few people to match them demographically?

Things settled down and I was not celebrated but, as one administrator said, tolerated. Charity restricted the number of colored, nurses and the program became lily-white. Aunt Lois said not even one student was black, Indian, or Asian. This bothered her so much she went to black schools and colleges with a mission to recruit nurses. The local churches allowed her to speak with youth groups and Girl Scouts about nursing.

An anonymous letter arrived with no name or signature that threatened to kill her if she did not stop her efforts to admit black girls into the nursing field. Aunt Lois said the letter inspired her to go on. "I am from the lower nine and do not mind dying for the right cause. My husband was so afraid that he wanted to cancel his trips and medical conference engagements. I just refused to let him alter his life because of ignorance. I kissed him and sent him out the door. ‘I will be right here when you get back, my love.’ He kissed me like it was his last time. ‘Why did you kiss me like that?’ I asked. ‘Dear, Lois, I love you, and no one knows when their last day is coming. These words haunted me for many years.

"In 1952, coming back from a medical conference, my dear husband called me right before he left and said, ‘Lois, I love you.’ I said, ‘Sweetheart, I love you too.’ ‘I will see you when I get home.’ I stayed up most of the night. I felt a knot in my stomach. The next morning had come, and he was not home.

"I screamed when the police officer approached my front door. I was just out of my mind in grief. I just knew it. His car was struck by a truck on Interstate 10 between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. He died instantly. The impact had severed his head from the rest of his body.

"I was pleased with how the undertakers restored his body and had a short visitation period right before the funeral. He attached his head and with cosmetic makeup applied to his neck. The point of where it was cut was undetectable. The undertaker said his dark complexion made this difficult work so much easier. Grief hung over me like a dark cloud. I missed him so much I could not eat or sleep. I took a month off work, and my parents looked after my children.

Slowly, I returned not to a normal place but a functional place where I worked and took care of my duties as a mother and a nurse. I was no longer a wife. I had no husband to fill my arms and delight my heart. The lonely moments were so painful that I wanted to die. The cries of my children made suicide an impossible choice. It was not fair to leave them.

Aunt Lois said depression sat in. I got down to ninety-eight pounds, and my hair was a mess. I thanked God for my work and my family. They gave me many reasons to go on. The courts decided that the trucking company was at fault. My lawyer wanted me to hold out for more money. I explained that I wanted to put things behind me and move on. Nothing would bring back my husband. The settlement from the trucking company could not take away my despair. Some co-workers seeking to help her and to brighten her outlook brought her to a bar called the Funky Butt.

A caramel musician named Nathan Williams sang to her on May 8, 1952. The song was very unusual for the bar. Nathan stared into my eyes and said to the young woman in the blue dress. My friends screamed and clapped. The lyrics were unforgettable.

The evening breeze caressed the trees tenderly. The trembling trees embraced the breeze tenderly. Then you and I came wandering by and lost in a sigh were we. The shore was kissed by sea and mist tenderly. I can’t forget how two hearts met breathlessly. Your arms opened wide and closed me inside. You took my lips. You took my love so tenderly.

"I gave him my number, and we had a few dates. I seemed to spiral swiftly into his charms, and then I was in his arms. The romance was constant, creative, and caramel sweet. He proposed marriage, and I said yes. He slipped a ring on my finger. The pawnshop ring had a small diamond, but I did not care. J. W. was carved inside the band of the ring.

The cashier said it had once belonged to Joyce White. Who in the hell was Joyce White? I decided that it did not matter. Nathan had become a distraction from my grief and a strong shoulder to cry on. Three weeks later, I went to the Justice of the Peace and married him. The same friends who cheered now said I had gone crazy. ‘How could you marry a man you barely know?’ Love does not need an explanation, I asserted.

This fifth marriage held so much promise. Nathan was great to Charles and Linda. Nathan was an amazing lover. He had one big problem. He just did not care to work a traditional job.

He played gigs all over the city. He brought nothing home. Aunt Lois said it just bothered her. She would get up in the morning to go to work. He was just snoring and did not even wake up to kiss her goodbye. "People in the neighborhood said, ‘Why are you going to work every day and your man is still at home?’ The hairdresser on North Broad said, ‘Watch your husband. There is a rumor going around town he is doing some white woman from the garden district.’ I cursed her out and stormed out of her shop. She said, ‘Okay, baby, do not kill the messenger. I was only trying to wake your ass up, but go right along and stay asleep.’ She recommended another hairdresser on Claiborne and Washington Avenue. I refused to go and just did my own hair at home.

"Things settled down, and then I just observed my husband. His neck had marks I did not leave, and the expensive perfume scent and lipstick on his shirts and even near the crotch of his pants were a mystery. He always explained everything away with such a passion I just believed him. His silver tongue was amazing.

Nathan came home with a lovely guitar. The Gibson Les Paul guitar was a solid-body electric guitar designed by Ted McCarty in collaboration with popular guitarist Les Paul. I saw it but wondered where it came from. He avoided the question. The bank called. I had several accounts at Whitney on St. Charles. One of my savings accounts was empty. I marched to the bank. The banker said, ‘Your husband Nathan Williams has been withdrawing money for over a year.’ I remembered adding his name to the account, but he had said nothing. Aunt Lois told her mother to watch the children.

Nathan had a big gig at the Funky Butt. He would play his top-of-the-line guitar. She said she put on a red dress, curled her hair, and put on red high-heeled shoes. I was looking good. I sat at a table just waiting for his performance. I noticed him all hugged up with a white woman. They were kissing and carrying on like hot young lovers.

Aunt Lois said rage came over her. She saw his guitar on the stage just sitting there. She went up on the stage and smashed his guitar against the stage floor and beat it until it cracked with the heel of her red shoes. The people yelled, Remove the crazy woman from the bar. Who in the hell is she?

Nathan looked at her with wild eyes and said, Oh my god, it’s my wife.

Aunt Lois said she yelled, I was your wife! Come and get your clothes out of my house. Who is this? I asked as I pointed to the woman.

The white woman said, My name is Joyce White.

Ms. White in a yellow convertible brought him to get his stuff. I told him to give back her ring because I did not want it.

Lois, I am sorry. I wish things had turned out differently.

"He drove away, and I never saw his no-good ass again. Mama said that I should not marry again. I had a problem that marriage could not solve. I did not agree with Mama. I had the right to be loved. On January 1, 1953, I married for the sixth time. The Langlois family refused to attend any more of my weddings. Mama said it was just embarrassing. I understood, but I wished that they would change their minds. ‘Why are you getting married again?’ I cannot give up on love. I have a right to be loved.

"This peanut-butter-colored country boy from Iberville Parish was as fine as new wine. He spoke with a strange country accent with a French twist. James Bellamy made me laugh. He had such a joyous spirit. His family came in huge numbers for the wedding at the Masons Hall on Canal and Roman. James gave me a plain gold band, but it was all that I needed. He was so easy to please.

"Our second wedding reception was held in the summer. His mother had a huge house between a bayou and a strip of land filled with old oak trees. The Bellamys gave each of their children an official crayfish boil when they found their true love. They were not wealthy people but rich in love. It was the best reception I ever had. People came in simple clothes, and James wore blue jeans. I just sat with my mother-in-law, Izetta Bellamy, on a hand-made quilt and ate the little lobsters with sweet corn on the cob and baby red potatoes. She introduced me to every one of her kinfolk. My mother-in-law did not like New Orleans. The city is dangerous, she exclaimed. My father-in-law, Owen Bellamy, was a tall white-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair and smoky blue eyes. ‘New Orleans is no more dangerous than any other place,’ Mr. Bellamy explained. ‘Who was talking with you?’ Mrs. Bellamy shouted back. He laughed and said, ‘Izetta! You are just a mess.’ She continued in a long conversation to get me to move to the bayou.

"She desired that we pack up and live with her and the rest of the Bellamys on the bayou. I am not a bayou girl. I explained that I was a nurse and that my career was very important. I told Mrs. Izetta I wanted a career and a family. ‘Baby girl, my boy loves you. I have never seen him so happy. You make me one promise.’ ‘Yes, Mrs. Izetta, what is the promise?’ ‘You visit as often as you can. You are a Bellamy.’ ‘Yes, ma’am, I will visit often.’ She gave me a great big bear hug, and I almost smothered entrapped by her gigantic dark-chocolate breasts. Izetta was a big woman with a big heart, and I adored her.

"The next day, she made her famous fish head soup. I do not believe in waste, she smirked. Izetta took two large fish heads approximately two pounds. In a wok, she added oil and fried the heads until golden brown. She then placed the fried heads in boiling water. Then she added rice wine, ginger, green onions, and pickled greens. Izetta then transferred to a bigger pot and cooked gently for twenty minutes until the flesh of the heads fell off the bones and the broth turned a milky-white color. She skimmed the oil off the top with a shallow spoon.

"Izetta did a pot of fresh noodles and garnished